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hazelfoureyes · 9 months ago

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Someone nice, Somewhere safe

Angel x Virgin Female Reader

જ⁀➴ Angel x Virgin Male Reader - Someone nice, somewhere safe*

*same story, just your bits and bobbles are changed

You let it slip to the group you were a virgin, and instead of laughing, Angel grabs you before bed to offer a friendly hand.

.<Warnings/Promises: Angel Dust x Virgin Female!Reader, smut, fingering, lubed to the gods, Angel uses four arms, Valentino is a blind bag of smashed assholes, creampie, oral, the gentlest sex I’ve ever written (probably), an alarming towel>

listen here virgins, if I could craft a perfect first time for you, this is it. Minus the lack of condoms because—it’s hell? Sex workers are tested bi-weekly?? This is still a fantasy??? Just if anything, please take from this the importance of a safe and trusting environment at all times 🙏

minor dni (shoo! get outta here! Go on, git! 🧹)

You thought everyone would laugh when you said you were a virgin. The group awe’d and said it was cute, which was definitely better than the response you’d gotten in the overworld. But when you said you’d never actually orgasmed before, everyone just looked… sad? The conversation was quickly derailed by Angel launching into a list of wildest orgasm faces he’s seen, Charlie leaving the room entirely.

Continuing with the evening’s theme of surprise, you hadn’t expected Angel to catch up to you when everyone was filing off to bed. His hand gently reached for your wrist, “Hey ya got a sec?”

For Angel, the epitome of smiling through the pain, you’d give him the remainder of your time in hell if he just asked. Every second, his.“Always!”

“So uh”, he rubbed the back of his neck, “about bein’ a virgin and all that.” Your stomach dropped, was the famous porn star about to embarrass you into a second death?“I think it’s real important that like— knowin’ yourself, and what makes you feel good is like super healthy. I dunno if you are interested in that kinda stuff but,” he was wildly moving his hands round, nervously stumbling over his words, “I’d be happy to help ya out.”

All of the blood rushed to your face.

“Oh fuck!” Angel grabbed your head and tipped it forward, “I would have accepted a simple no, jesus!” With one hand pinching your nose, he led you into his room just down the hall.

What— what was happening, exactly? At all? In general? With your entire existence?

He kicked the door closed behind him and grabbed a handful of tissues, “Keep your head forward. Everyone who says tilt it back is an idiot.”

His hand was red when he drew it from your face, using his other hand to now hold tissues between his fingers as he pinched your nose shut.

“Is- is my nose bleeding??” Your voice cracked.

“Does that happen often?”

“Never.”

“Well I got to help you with at least one first, right?” Angel laughed, moving his hands away as you took over the task.

Oh, right. The offer. You glanced around the room, small but lived-in. Everything was pink and purple and soft.

“Angel, do you think because you’re a sex worker, you have to help me?” The room fell silent. Angel completely still beside you. You would love someone you could trust to take your virginity, but you would never want to use Angel like so many other people did on a daily basis.

“Ya know— a lot of people get real confused about this.” He sighed, chest heavy with the many misconceptions others had, “What I do for work, what I gotta do to get through the day, has nothin’ to do with who I am as a person.” You turned to look at him, “Why should I limit my experiences because of what other people have done to me?” The words hit you like a truck. You had unintentionally boxed him into his job, in turn into his trauma, summing him up as a warm body and incapable of any depth past that. Just a sex worker.

“No, no I didn’t mean anything like that. I just, I don’t want to ever,” you grabbed two of his hands, “ever take advantage of your kindness.” You squeezed, “or any part of you.”

His frown turned up, “We’re dead, yea, but you still exist. If you want to, you should enjoy every part of your afterlife. And I’d hate you to meet some asshole who’s too rough or doesn’t get ya warmed up first. A bad first time can be really traumatizin’.”

You nodded without actually thinking. Your brain wasn’t really processing meaning, his words were just soft and kind and your nose still stuffed full of tissue.

“Do you wanna?”

You nodded more vigorously, “Did my nose start bleeding again?”

Angel took the tissue away, giving a second to see, “Nope.”

Taking a deep breath, you said, “Okay. Yeah, I want that. Someone nice, somewhere safe.”

“It ain’t quite nice but-,” Angel looked around his room.

“It’s perfect, Angel.”

“Aw fuck, I should clean up,” he hurriedly carried trash from his nightstand, flattening out the comforter and adjusting his pillows. He placed fat nuggets on the floor with a little pat on the head.

Finally, he stood in front of you, two hands on his hips, two gesturing to you.

“Alright baby! Let’s pop some cherries! Undress~” he elongated the word, shimmying his hips a little, “-to your comfort level.” He began to unbutton his blazer, “Bare minimum, take off your pants and underwear, please and thank you. Though I have fucked through underwear…” He was momentarily lost in a memory.

You hadn’t anticipated getting naked in front of a friend tonight. But Angel so effortlessly shed his clothes, peeling off his gloves. Pulling off your pants, you paused.

“Is it weird if I keep my shirt on? Like— do you know who Winnie the Pooh is?”

“Nothin’ weird about bein’ comfortable, pookie.” He pinched your cheek, “I’d offer a modesty blanket but I kinda need to see what I’m doing.” His eyes flitted to the left, “No, wanna. I wanna see.” Angel’s laugh relaxed you, the idea of anyone wanting to see you made you feel a little less—-naked. Still, your hands seemed frozen on your underwear’s edge.

With a hum, he disappeared into the bathroom and returned with a towel. “Go on, lie down. I’ll help ya relax. This is already feeling too medical-like.”

Were you going to need a towel? Were you going to need a towel?? Were you going to need a towel!?

You sat back on his bed, and when he crawled up to meet you, all legs and arms and Angel Dust, you buried your face in your hands.

“Oh hey—,” his voice was so soft, lacking its usual sass, “Wanna just, cuddle and watch stupid shit on my phone?” You groaned, face sinking further down. This would be easier if he wasn’t so sweet. You could at least take a backseat, then.

You shook your head, and felt his hand on your ankle. It snaked up your calf, slipped down your knee and thigh, finding the waistband of your underwear. When you looked up from your hiding place, Angel was a foot from your face. His features lit only by the purple neon signs hanging beside his bed and near the door. He lifted his brows, a question he didn’t need to vocalize. You sank back into the purple and pink pillows, different sizes, different textures, gently enveloping you.

With two hands now, he slide off your underwear. You might die, again. Your heart would give out any second, incapable of handling the moment. You were manually breathing.

He lifted your hips with two hands, a third sliding the towel beneath you before setting you back down.

“Do ya-,” he was rummaging now inside the nightstand drawer, “not play with yourself? Ever?”

“Not really. Not like, there.”

“Whaddya do with all your free time?” His short but enthusiastic laughter forced a smile to your cheeks. Angel slid the drawer shut and came to rest in front of your tightly shut thighs and knees. You heard a cap pop, and found the courage to sit up and see what he was doing.

“What?” He squeezed a clear, thick lubricant onto his right hand, “Nerves can make holes dry like nothin’ else. No fun for no one, trust me. Could start a fuckin’ fire—- and spit ain’t lube!” Angel said it like he spoke from a personal experience.

Ah, the towel. That made sense now.

“Should I do something?”

“Just lie back, baby~,” he opened your knees and followed your face as you settled back down, “Do you like kissin’?”

You’d kiss a trashcan if Angel said it got him hot, so, “Yeah.”

“Good,” One hand touched your cheek, sliding to your chin as he brought your lips to his. You thought you’d melt, his hands so soft on you, lips confident and sure. He used his thumb on your chin to pull down your bottom lip and ask you for entrance. When you opened up to him, his tongue slid into yours as his sticky wet hand finally came into contact between your legs. Two fingers rubbing the lube up and a down your pussy.

You nearly inhaled him with your shock, he giggled into it, “You’re so cute.” You twitched under his hand, “Ooh, and reactive! Daddy likes.”

Stop. Stop talking. I’m going to black out.

His mouth returned to yours, tongue over your tongue, as his fingers just massaged your entrance. No attempt at entering, no prodding, just gentle up and down motions. Slowly, your felt your skin heating beneath his hand, the lubricant somewhat melting with your warmth.

At work, Angel was never the lead. Never the top, and never afforded time to ease anyone open. He had no issues with sleeping with women, it was just usually for money or a shoot. Not his preferred flavor, but he could still get it up. Watching you sigh and twitch under him felt like a treat. Such a sweet response to what so many people made unnecessarily dirty at work. He wasn’t shocked to find his cock twitching, swelling as your breathing hitched with every stroke of his hand. When was the last time he could just… slow down? Be the one in control? Not control like Val, control like—- can I get you a pillow? Is the pacing good? Let’s soften these lights. Hold my hand, sweetheart.

His head felt a little dizzy. His middle finger pressed now, and with a slow but constant motion entered you. ‘Uncomfortable’ was the best word. Your body tensed around him, but he gently pressed passed your virgin walls. He hummed, “First one down! Atleast,” he paused, “two more to go.”

“Atleast??” You shook your head.

“It’s sex math, trust the professional in the room.” He withdrew the finger and slid it back in, starting a slow pace of long drags from knuckle to fingertip.

It didn’t hurt, to his credit. The excitement of having Angel touching you so intimately made the finger easier to relax into. Angel must have noticed, his finger leaving you. He popped the top again of his lube and pressed in two fingers. This was harder. You whined, his fingertips pushing past the tight entrance of your cunt and settling into the wet warmth behind.

Lying on your back, you stared at the now upside-down photos behind his bed. He looked so happy. Could you join that wall? Was this wall worthy?

“You still good?” He leaned over you, fingers moving.

You nodded, “Can I have another kiss?”

Ah, you might as well have punched him in the chest. “Of course, darlin’~ Ask and you shall receive.” You liked kissing, genuinely, but were always scared you’d kiss someone too long and end up in an awkward situation having to explain you weren’t wanting sex. But that fear was all gone, you’d broken the code. Get naked first, then kiss.

You smiled into his mouth, and he smiled back, “Whatcha thinkin’ about?”

“I like kissing you.” You leaned up, pressing your lips to his chin. His fingers quickened, and you moaned without warning. You felt your self grip his finger, nervousness slinking away and finally letting you feel aroused.

“Ooh, now we’re gettin’ somewhere,” he leaned back, repeating the same steps and trying to press a third finger into you. His abundance of hands were a blessing, one at your entrance, one on your knee to keep your shaking legs open, and two roaming down the sides of your body. When three fingers finally entered, you could feel the burning stretch of your skin around them. He pushed in, and the skin followed. He pulled out, your sensitive hole pulling too. The hand on your knee came to your crotch, his palm pressing lightly down on your clit. You glanced up to him, his eyes focused as he watched his fingers slowly drag in and out of you. It burned still, but just past that burning was a slippery sensation that made your lap warm with the rush of blood.

He let his fingers sink in entirely, before bending and feeling inside you. Your knee jumped when he hit something.

“Bingo! Say hello to your g-spot.” He beamed down at you, gold tooth shining, “Not everyone needs it to cum but oooh boooy does it maximize pleasure,” it sounded so pornographic when he said it.

You weakly copied, “B-bingo.”

“Three fingers means I can do this now~” he replaced his palm with his fingers, sticky with lube. His long digits were fast and practiced as he rubbed your clit. “Sex math. Dont need your virgin pussy locking up on me.” He said quietly to himself, fingers in and out of you picking up speed. Your head was pressing into the pillows as your neck strained, you’d never masturbated while someone, something, penetrated you. Every stroke of his fingers made your body spasm, the feeling of something hard and unforgiving pushing back against your quivering walls made a pleasure you couldn’t describe.

“Feelin’ good yet?” The way he said it, he knew damn well how you were feeling.

You whimpered into one of the pillows, “Yeah, it’s starting to feel good.” A weak nod.

Angel’s grin bordered on wicked, hand slowing. He leaned down and placed a kiss on your clit. Then another. His tongue flattened against his bottom lip as he dragged it over your sensitive bud of nerves.

You moaned, a half spoken-half cried, “Oh fuck, Angel-.” Hips bucking up, his fingers kept their place and followed. You humped up against his tongue, ground down into his fingers; up, down. Soft tongue, rigid fingers.

“Like that? Watch this,” He cupped his mouth over your clit and began strumming it with his tongue. Fat and flat, then thin and sharp. His fingers slowed, now just bending to hit your soft g-spot again and again.

One hand held tightly to the pillow, the other coming to Angel’s hair. Your body kept jumping away from overstimulation but you fought against it every time and tried to grind against his face.

He lifted his mouth off you with a deliberate pop, “Feelin’ good?” You nodded, eyes closed. “Ready for the real thing?”

“Yeah. I want to feel more, Angel.” It came out as more of a whine than you meant.

His hand came to his erection, red and leaking. Stroking himself, he returned to massaging at your entrance, fingers dipping in then out.

“You comfortable with getting on your knees? This position ain’t so conducive for what I’m tryin’ to do.”

Somehow, ass up sounded better than face to face, “You’re the expert.” You rolled onto your stomach, hips up, face resting into the sea of pillows. You paused, lifted off your now sweaty shirt, and got back into position.

“Sexpert, but thank you!” The lid popped open again, cold and viscous lube being dripped directly onto pussy, “Finally some recognition around here.” He coated himself with what was still on his hands, and raised your hips to line himself up.

“Deep breaths, okay?” He leaned over your back, kisses falling down your skin. Two hands held your hips, one guided himself into you. You tensed when his head began to push in, “Relaaax, just like the fingers.”

A muffled, “okay” from your place in the pile. Your heart was suddenly racing, the tight coil of pleasure his mouth summoned now gone. He wiped his dick up and down your folds, swiping past your entrance. Lining up, he pushed in, getting his head firmly sunk into you.

“Breath, baby,” he moaned into your shoulder. You took a deep breath in, your body tight still. But, it didn’t hurt like you’d thought. It burned, but there was no sting, no tearing. Angel’s hands ran up and down your sides, along you ass and thighs. He gently touched everywhere he could reach, until he felt you soften, “Ready to keep going?”

“Yes please”, you turned your head to look at him.

He pulled out slightly to collect more lube on his shaft, before slowly sinking into you until he bottomed out.

You were gasping, your brain misfiring. You couldn’t feel anything but him, your body just a formless thought with Angel’s warm, solid cock reaching deeper into than you thought possible. One roaming hand reached for your shoulder, “Can I move?”

“Slow,” your hand searched for a loose fold of comforter to grip, but it was soon encased and intertwined by one of his.

He pulled out, and slowly thrust back in. A saccharine moan fell from his mouth, and it made you whimper.

You were so soft around him, yet gripping him so snuggly he felt like he was melting into your walls. His breath was unsteady, “You feel so good on my cock, baby.” A burning blush took over your face, a rush of pleasure electrifying your clit.

“How ya doin’?” Angel sounded nervous, timid.

You had to collect saliva to get any words out, mouth running dry from panting, “S’good.” You tried again, “So good.” Your fingers tightened around his.

He adjusted his hips, watching you closely. When your eyes closed and your hand nearly broke his, he grinned down, “Bingo~,” his speed began to pick up.

“Right there,” you whimpered, “please don’t stop, right there Angel.” You dragged out the last syllable of his name. You could feel a pressure building in your lower stomach.

Angel took languid thrusts out to the tip and pushing back past your still resisting entrance. Every time he pulled out and slipped in felt better than before. The sensations of him opening you around his cock again and again had your stomach and thighs tensing. You brought your hand up to press at your clit, finger frantically moving. You felt something building, you were desperate to reach its climax.

Angel’s hand came down and pushed yours aside, his fingers strong and not shaking with your impending orgasm.

“Almost- Angel pleeeease! Don’t stop- keep—” You squeezed his hand tighter, his thrusts becoming faster and shallower. His repeated pressing of your g-spot pushed you over the edge, hand slowing only slightly.

"You can do it, baby. Come on. Almost there~" His words fell apart in his mouth, his own moans getting louder, your cunt tightening in spasms as your first orgasm tore through you. Your body was so inviting, warm walls sucking his head deeper. He rarely got to feel this sensation, barely ever chosen as the one doing the fucking, let alone fucking a woman. His head rested against your back, hands running along the curve of your hips as he melted into your sweet heat.

He picked up speed, only drawing out an inch or so now with each thrust. The lube made a pop and squelch every time his skin pulled from yours, the sound making his legs weak.

“Where can I cum?” His breath was raspy, messy with the pleasure of your soft insides rubbing along his shaft. You gripped the blanket, orgasm still rolling from the feeling of Angel chasing his release with your body. You could hear the strain in his voice, “Gonna need an answer real fast, babe.” You hid your face in the pillow mountain again, embarrassed to answer.

“Inside,” you tried to say it loudly enough for him to hear.

He whimpered a, “Fuuuuck” down your spine, “Such a dirty little virgin.” His hips stuttered before he sunk into you with such force your legs gave out. Your body came down flush onto the bed. Angel was pressed into you, chest against your back as his breathing calmed. You could feel his heart through your ribs, his chest fluff silky on your skin. Your body was warm, his hot cum filling you.

Small, lazy kisses on your back, then up your neck, he leaned to kiss your cheek. He slid out of you delicately, but you didn’t move. His weight left the bed, then returned as a warm, wet cloth wiped you clean. After a couple of minutes of gentle cleaning, you felt the throw blanket cover your back. Angel plopped down on his back beside you, pulling the blanket over his legs and unlocking his phone, “Wanna see this fuckin’ hilarious video of my boss runnin’ into a glass wall?”

You chuckled, “More than anything.” He side eyed you, “Well, not anything.”

“Right answer, toots,” One of his hands came down and settled on your hair, he leaned in to your head and as you watched Valentino collide head first into a wall, he said softly, “Let me know if you need anything. I got a bitchin’ tub in there.”

You hummed, reaching a shakey hand up and pressing ‘replay’ on his phone. Angel’s laughter echoed off the walls, and you decided you had no plans on leaving bed anytime soon.

༻Masterlist༺

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leclsrc · 2 years ago

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it’s never over ✴︎ cl16

genre: childhood friends to friends with benefits to lovers (a mouthful), smut, humor, Fluffff!!!!, several references to 70’s music,

word count: 12.9k

You must have lost the plot along the way, because pretending to date your childhood best friend was not on your 2023 bingo card. (Neither was the fact that things are looking a lot more real as time passes.)

nsfw warnings under the cut!

18+ because... handjob (f receiving), penetrative sex, semi public sex, praise central, size kink

auds here… hi hi hi!!! you’ve no idea how much i missed writing posting and interacting w u guys. thank u for all the love & follows i’ve gotten in my periods of mia. more things soon i promise ty for ur patience love love love u allll 🌟🤎🤠💋 this is my love letter to fic tropes. i feared if it was too long i’d lose the plot somehow so i had to condense it. i truly hope u all like it :) will try & reopen reqs sometime soon to get inspo kicking

It’s later than late. The lights are strobing purple and blue, the “let’s get you even drunker than you are” headache inducing kind. The floor is crowded, swelling with teenagers who are probably too young to get in, drunk off cheap aperol and watered-down tequila shots. You’re balancing yourself on a barstool, one hand busy wrapped around a slim glass, the other clawing your miniskirt lower because the air bites at your legs.

“Another voddy Red Bull!” You’re slurring, mind spinning almost as fast as your vision. You almost drop your empty glass in your rush to look for another one—but right as it slips clumsily out of your fingers, it’s caught.

Charles, your cocktail’s knight in armor and yours just as well, is eighteen. His hair is light brown and long, but not draping over his eyes like before. You know before because you’ve never not known before—Charles has been your best friend since you were five.

Snoopy, he says, voice steady and calm in your ear. His frame is still lanky but he’s tall and his grip on your shoulders is enough to quell the yelling. You pout. Get me another voddy red, you plead. Charlie, it’s my birthday. He smiles to himself, knowing your vision’s too cloudy to see him and your mind’s too bogged to remember any of this. You’d already slipped up and told two bouncers you were seventeen and not eighteen, like your poorly-Photoshopped ID suggested; Charles had to keep you in check, lest you or your friends end up kicked out of the club.

A song booms in through the speakers and your eyes widen with recognition. Charles doesn’t anticipate your reaction fast enough, affording only a stumble backwards when you attempt to leave the barstool to dance. He swears under his breath, mind recounting the five previous dance sessions that left you exhausted and out of breath earlier.

I’ll get you a vodka Red Bull if you sit down, he tells you. He enunciates because, twelve years later, you still can’t wrap your mind around his thick European accent. Sit down.

Alriiiight! You hoot, throwing two fists up in the air. Customary for many bartenders on nights as busy as this one, a free shot is thrust into your vacant hand and you cheer loudly, much to Charles’ chagrin. With whatever malice the eighteen-year-old can muster, he casts the bartender a dirty look before turning to face you again, worried. He places a hand on your shoulder and watches, half-anxious and half-endeared, you take the shot and visibly grimace at the raw taste. Fuck. It’s gin I think, you sputter. Charles presses: You okay?

More than, you holler, smiling. I am officially seventeeee—

The bartender’s eyebrows furrow, the thirty-something businessman in the adjacent stool turns to look—so Charles has no choice but to shut you up, leaning in and pressing his lips to yours before you can seal your fate.

Your eyes widen briefly, and when Charles feels the passed seconds are sufficient, he pulls away. You stare, eyes hazy, at the pretty boy you’ve had feelings for since you turned fourteen, and lean in to kiss him again.

—

Pascale is hosting her weekly Sunday brunch at the Leclerc residence, all French windows and wide kitchens and bowls of fruit. As always, your place is at the kitchen island picking at plates to taste test them. Bonjour, Arthur drawls when he walks in. He turns to Pascale. Mum. Then you. Snoopy.

You halt biting into your forkful of arugula and turn toward the younger Leclerc, eyebrows raised. “What’d you just call me?”

“Snoopy,” he says simply. He’s beside Pascale, one arm wrapped around her affectionately. “Or, Snoops, if you like that. Yes?”

“Who told you about that nickname?”

“Lorenzo.”

“Hasn’t been in use since your voice was cracking every sentence.”

“Tête de noeud.” Pascale swats his arm and he yelps, so you resume your arugula with satisfaction.

Charles is late for reasons he did not disclose, but everyone is used to it. The open kitchen door stretches into the front yard, where the table is set up and Lorenzo is setting the places. You know that although you usually expect a few more relatives, today’s just for the family—and you, but you’re basically family.

“How is Paris?” Arthur asks, licking hummus off a spoon opposite you. Your position is reminiscent of how you spent afternoons after school with Charles before, and the memory strikes a chord in you. Strange nostalgia, fondness.

“It’s fine.”

“Oh really?” He laughs in-between nibbles of carrot.

“I got an offer for a higher position,” you relent. Pascale calls you both, and you get up and walk toward the yard to sit down. “If you must know.”

“Oh? Let me know how that goes.” He follows you, carrot slice in hand, chewing. The conversation is cut short by the smooth noise of Charles’ decidedly un-smooth parking outside.

You’re seated at your usual spot—in-between Charles and Lorenzo, across Arthur—when the former finally walks into the yard. He looks tired, moreso than usual, bags under his eyes deep and hair a bit more disheveled.

He sits beside you. “I need to talk to you.” Then, quieter, “Private.”

You hum confusedly, eyes flitting across the three other people at the table to gauge their reactions. They’re equally aloof. “Wh—now?” He nods.

You end up talking in the kitchen. He’s sighing the whole fifteen steps there, rubbing the bridge of his nose, exhaling, inhaling. Ever observant, and of someone as close to you as he is, you pick up on the tiny actions, behaviors. Charles is wringing his hands. He’s tried to pop the same knuckle twice. He isn’t frantic—he’s scared. You lean against the counter, waiting, eyes looking him up and down to identify his exact emotions.

“Tell me,” you press. “Whatever it is, I won’t judge.”

“The—my—the iCloud of my phone has been leaked. The press found out.”

When you were eight and he was nine, you and Charles summered in Villefranche with your mum and dad. The weather then was the kind you could write love letters to and about—blue skies, salty wind, soft sand. The current was calm enough that you could ride the gentle waves without fear of going under or straying far from the shore, where your parents sunbathed blissfully.

Don’t drown, he’d warned you, ever protective. You wore pink floaties over your arms, so it was already difficult to.

You dove under with great effort, fighting against the buoyancy, and poked his bare knee, surfacing to watch his reaction. He grimaced. Slowpoke, you teased, swimming away. You wondered then what it might feel to drown. Maybe not in the blue water of Villefranche, but anywhere else.

You think it hurts to drown? You blubbered, bobbing above the wave. Charles swam in front of you and wiped water off your face gently. I hope you never find out, he said, smiling.

But this is you finding out. This is it now, the drowning. Your fingers flex over the edge of the counter and you gulp, eyes fluttering with nerves. “Shit?” It comes out like a question from how nervous you are. “Um, sorry. What are we—” But your question is cut short by Pascale’s voice, cutting through the tension like it’s wet cardboard. The agreement is silent and mutual: save this discussion for later.

—

Charles can’t wake up fast enough. There are calls, texts, voicemails from every officer on his team, which isn’t that surprising given he’s up two hours late. But the amount—the sheer amount of notifications is dizzying. Overwhelmed, he finds it in himself to pull up his search engine app and let his fingers possess themselves.

All he types is his last name, and then The Sun article is splashed onto his face like a pot of scalding coffee: “F1 DRIVER ICLOUD LEAKED, PERSONAL PHOTOS ALL OVER INTERNET.” Daily Mail is next, of course, watering down the situation to seem more dirty and scandalous: “Naughty Driver? Charles Leclerc’s iCloud Hacked, Reveals Mystery Girl.” And then of course Page Six, who doesn’t miss a beat—

Wait. He blinks and presses the back arrow to return to the previous webpage. He reads over it again, slower this time. Mystery Girl? Shit—no. No way. It’s almost (it should be) silly, the way he’s reading vigorously over the reports like he’s a fan, but he’s anxious. He scrolls, because if any tabloid is daft enough to publish the leaked photos, it’s got to be the Daily Mail.

He pauses his quick swiping when his eyes harden with recognition, and staring back at him, on his phone’s full brightness, is a picture of you on his lap at Christmas. It’s the one Lance took while attempting to guess Charles’ password, one of you wine drunk with his head buried in your neck.

It’s unmistakably him, at his own house in Monaco where the drivers had a holiday get-together. It’s unmistakably you, hair draped over your face, three gold rings on your fingers. You had just given him a Strokes vinyl, he recalls. That’s why you were hugging.

There’s another one of you playing Scrabble in his bed—he’s not in the frame, but he remembers taking it. This, he could deny. He’s not in it, and he’s pretty sure the fans don’t know his house this well. Already his brain’s doing manual damage control, dread filling his veins at the thought of reading through his team’s frantic messages.

Another message stands out, pinned on top of all the others—from his mum, reminding him about brunch. He gets ready half-focused, half-lucid. Fully worried. He worries about the PR crisis this may cause, about his iCloud security, about the reactions online. Above all, though, he worries about you. About what he should tell the press. About how “actually, we’re not dating, we just fuck constantly” might hold up for the fans.

—

You’re twelve and Charles thirteen, both of you seated across Hervé and Pascale. Behind them stand your own parents, and they all look stern. What this is, Pascale says gently, is a family meeting. Okay?

Okay. It leaves your high voices in shaky unison. You both know what you’re doing here—you snuck out of school to catch a movie earlier, the teacher naturally caught wind of the misdeed, and now you’re in a meeting for it.

Snoops, Charles whispers, trying to ease your nerves with lighthearted commentary. This is the worst.

No, you want to tell preteen Charles—this is. You’re older now, yet still subjected to similar questioning, though today it’s Pascale going solo. It’s been three days since the fated day where the press leaked the pictures of you and Charles in compromising positions, and like any boomer, she’s used Facebook to her advantage and gotten ahold of the compromising pictures, too.

“How long?” Her voice is enunciated in hard syllables.

“Mum—”

“Answer the question.” She looks back and forth, moving into territory of intense questions. “Both of you.”

“Um.”

“Because… I’ve been…”

You notice it immediately, given your observant track record: her shoulders relax and her lips smile just slightly. You sit still, and wait for the next words out of her mouth. “…waiting for this all my life!”

You and Charles watch in mild horror as Pascale’s face goes from firm to absolutely elated. Her eyes soften and a smile spreads over her face, illuminating her with pure joy. Do you even know how many bets I made with your papa, Charles? She claps her hands together several times.

Charles opens his mouth to verbalize dissent, but she doesn’t take it—she’s already droning on and on about how long she’s waited for this to finally happen. Your eyes glide over to the doorway of the dining area, where Lorenzo and Arthur watch with smug looks on their faces. Little shits won’t help you. You don’t even try to protest, and at some point Charles gives up, too. You don’t know how it’ll come across, anyway.

Ninety minutes later, you’re in Arthur’s bedroom rifling through his desk and praying you don’t find anything too gross. He’s on his bed throwing a bouncy ball up in the air, conversing with Charles about your gameplan with their mum.

The sky outside is in limbo between afternoon and night. It’s cloudy, so the sunset is a pale yellow instead of angry orange. “Why not just tell her the truth?”

You’d also thought that was the easiest option, escape route, exit path. But that would involve breaking Pascale’s heart, and that was out of the question for you, let alone Charles, certified mommy’s boy.

“I can’t, Arthur.” Charles’ voice is steady and unwavering.

“You can.”

“No.”

“Fine. Next best thing then.”

You fiddle with a Rubik’s cube, then turn in the seat. “What?”

“Pretend you’re dating.”

“Arthur,” you say seriously. “Shut up.” But he doesn’t join you, and you realize neither does Charles. You stare blankly at both of them, unwilling to believe they’d actually bank on this as an actual plan.

“You guys realize this kind of thing never works? Zero percent success rate.”

“It’s just paddock appearences. You’re not pretending for millions of people,” Arthur says, shrugging. He catches the ball and throws it to you—you catch it one-handed. “You’re pretending for Mum.”

“Sure. And by extension, millions of people. Are you dense, or do you think the paddock appearances will just breeze by everyone who saw the leaks?”

“Ughhh. You’re acting like it’s impossible.” Arthur holds his breath before he utters the next sentence. “Like you two aren’t fucking every other w—”

“—oh, my God!” Shocked, you get up, and so does Charles. “Wh—I’m—language, Arthur!”

Charles balks. “How did you even—”

“I didn’t. But merci mille fois for confirming my theory,” Arthur quips faux-sweetly, smiling dopily. “I mean, I was going to find out! Your pictures are so… intimate. So just pretend to date and throw Maman off your scent.”

You protest briefly, wrestling with the option, and reconvene on the bed, you cross-legged and leaning on Charles’ shoulder and Arthur in front of the both of you. He’s always had a knack for schemes—he never got caught sneaking out, which destroyed your and Charles’ record of being caught twelve times by either of your parents. It’s a bit childish, but he gets the job done.

“Do it for… let’s say a month. Tell Mum you’ve been dating a while—Christmas isn’t that long ago, and that was the least recent picture. D’accord?”

You both nod, hyperfocused.

“During race weekends, be all over each other—shouldn’t be hard—especially in front of Mum. People might catch you doing it, but I wouldn’t worry.”

“No, wait—I mean.” You shrug. “People—tifosi—they know I’m Charles’ friend. They’re going to be all over the fact that we’re apparently dating.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll use palatable density,” Charles says, nodding.

You pause. Arthur does, too, sensing something off.

“You mean plausible deniability.” Your deadpan voice is tinged with amusement, muffled into his shoulder.

“Right, ouais, that.” He smiles, chuckling a bit; his shoulder shakes with it and your head nearly slips off. He brings a hand to cup over your jaw and hold you steady. “Sorry.”

“S’fine.” You sigh. “I’m totally okay with this. Just worried it’s going to have unintended consequences.”

Arthur quells you with rushed explanations about how it’ll be over and you two can say something like we decided we’re better off as friends to really sell the thing. At the seven-minute mark of your and Charles’ intense interrogation, he promptly kicks you out to figure out if you’re willing to do it yourselves.

You wedge yourself into Charles’ front seat, knowing you were headed to his place anyway. You massage your temples with one hand and fiddle with the hem of your shorts with the other. Nervous. Antsy. “Did Fred say anything?”

“Got the IT team to fortify my account.”

“You think this thing’s going to be okay from a professional standpoint?” You look up and toward him; he’s already gazing at you, eyes soft. “I’m worried. Plus, with my job offer thing in London and New Y—”

“Don’t be.” He starts the car and maneuvers out of the driveway, into the dips of Monaco streets and the familiar route back to his place. “Bitter with the sweet. The only thing you need to worry about”—he takes your hand in the centre console, laces your fingers together loosely—“is your acting skills.”

“God, you’re right.” You sigh, looking out the window. “How am I going to pretend I can stand you?” Then, for good measure, you squeeze his hand wrapped in yours.

—

You visit Monaco from uni in London over spring, and for the first time in months, your schedule aligns with Charles’—though you learn this indirectly when you visit the Leclerc home. Pascale, of course, is the one who tells you his new flat’s address before she presses a kiss to your cheek and then leaves to run errands in the city. Alone, and in a burst of excitement, you make the drive there, take the elevator upstairs and shove the door open without knocking. He’s there. Your Charles. You can tell because the music he plays is loud—The Kooks—like his ears are still fourteen and not twenty-one, like he’s still in middle school and not in Formula One.

“Save your eardrums,” you say, before beelining toward the couch and leaping onto him for a hug. He sits up to match your energy, arms wrapping around you, sitting up straighter to keep you from totally falling atop him.

“How’s uni?”

“Shit,” you say into his hair. It smells like his shampoo and his favorite cologne. Clean, soapy. “Obviously. How’s the Ferrari?”

“Amazing.” He smiles. “Obviously. How’d you know I was in? Mum told you?”

“Ouais. She’s running errands. Listen, can we drink tonight?” You sigh, parting from the hug and sitting across him.

Yeah, sure. His voice is concerned, thick with worry. You shake your head—it’s not that deep, you tell him. It’s just—I had a bad date before I left and it’s put me in the worst mood.

Oh? He leans back, clasping two hands behind his head as he goes.What happened? He laughs.

You tense visibly, rolling your eyes despite yourself. “He was just weird. Nothing.”

He wiggles his eyebrows. “You shy, Snoops?”

Ha-ha. You roll your eyes, but your face is flushed and your gaze avoids him. You reach up to tuck the loose strands of hair by your ears behind them, face warm. You’d never talked with Charles about boys or flings before—maybe several times, but never in full detail. It was always vague umbrella statements, like Ryan is boring or Greg is such a prick, but never anything beyond that. Come to think of it, you don’t know why, either.

“You can tell me.”

“The—when we—I had to fake,” you say cuttingly. “You know.”

He purses his lips and smiles, eyebrows furrowing. I don’t, actually. Something unnamed trills through you—through your stomach and into your fingertips. Your first time talking to your best friend in real life after months of uni and racing and this is the topic? It’s, if anything, a sign of your growing up, you guess.

Charles lets up on the teasing and you end up rejecting the club in lieu of sharing a bottle of vodka, throwing it back raw and without any type of chaser (to really prove nothing at all; you don’t even know why any sane human would do this). You do a Just Dance party on his TV, even try out drunk sim racing and FIFA, but by the end you’re well exhausted and retired to the couch again.

His voice is wavy and tipsy when he speaks. “You really had to fake it?”

“Yeah.” You pout. “Can never—um, finish, I dunno.” Your inhibition’s gone, shame loosened and untied by the vodka. You shift in your position on the couch.

“Maybe because it was too casual.” His voice hardens.

“So you’re saying I should…” You swallow dryly, eyes fluttering. “Sleep with somebody I know?” You’ve dropped the implication and it floats up, hangs above.

His eyes flick over to your legs, folded on the couch. The hem of your shorts. Your fingers playing with your empty shot glass. He didn’t mean anything by that. He’s half-sure you didn’t.

“I am just saying that a good friend would do that for you.”

“You’re a good friend,” you say, volume low.

Five minutes later you’ve properly crashed into each other, him pinning you down against the couch, licking fire up your throat. His lips trail across your jaw.

He dips a hand into your shorts, presses against your clothed core. He’s smiling. So wet for me. He’s got his mouth pressed messily up to your jaw, when he sinks one finger all the way in, slow and stretching; and you’re clenching around him—

Come on, he’s saying. Insisting. You’re trembling, yanking desperately at his hair as he pumps his finger slowly in and out of you, aching to be full of him, to take him deeper.

He slips another one in, and you feel the cold of his ring pressed against your entrance, then he’s fucking them into you and you’re leaking around them.

Yes, yeah, Charles—you’re gasping, airy breaths tapering into whimpers that sound sinful, desperate. He knows you so well already. Presses his fingers against your sweet spot, watches your eyes flutter.

So needy, and you’re chanting his name under your breath as he quickens his pace, craving the stretch of him desperately. I know you want to cum, baby. He’s calling you baby and you’re closer, so much closer. Come on, for me, yeah?

You melt, crashing and crumpling into him and shuddering as you release all over his fingers. He presses his forehead to yours and lets you take a beat. You feel giddy and dizzy and warm, which is weird because you don’t feel drunk at all anymore. This dizziness is something different. It’s Charles.

“Are we going to do that again?” You ask meekly, hand still in his hair.

“Only if you want. Whatever you want,” he says. He’d do anything for you. He’d do whatever you wanted.

“I do, I do want.” And Charles, the good friend he is, helps you out.

—

Imola is humid, warm, and the racetrack is absolutely teeming with people. But you’re not there—clad in linen shorts and a fresh tank top, you’re walking around the vicinity of the track, cup of gelato in hand, sunglasses over your eyes. The restaurant near you is playing music out loud. Beside you, singing along and drafting a list of wedding appetizers, is Lorenzo.

“Lamb chops?” You suggest, licking amaretto off the plastic spoon. The weather is pleasant enough that people are crowding the streets without it being too unbearably hot. Stevie Wonder flows from the speakers, permeates the entire block.

“I was thinking more seafood.”

“Tuna? Make ‘em little tacos.”

“Good idea. Think I’ll go for those. Hey, are you sure you’re on board with fake-dating my brother?”

You turn sharply toward him, taken aback. He hadn’t brought it up in the week and a half this plan had been in the works—he’d been privy to it the entire time, too, which makes it weirder that he’s asking so suddenly.

“I meaaan…” You slow your pace, contemplative. A shy smile plays at your lips, brows knitted together. “It’s only going to be for a month. Ish. So, yeah. Are you—do you—sorry. Is it alright with you? Sorry.”

“It is not not okay.”

“So it’s…” You pause. “Okay.”

“It’s—yes, but I worry, is all. How sure are you that this won’t hurt anyone?”

“I don’t know, it’s… bitter with the sweet. And who’s getting hurt… like the fans?” You laugh a little. “They’ll live, won’t they?”

“Like you.” He pauses. “Like Charles.”

—

Pierre is running a comb through his hair, staring at himself in the mirror; his Narcissus moment is interrupted by a banana to the back of his head. Bonjour, he says, monotone and already knowing the culprit.

“We need to talk.”

“Could this possibly be about the news of your brand new ‘girlfriend’ over last week? Where is she, by the way?”

“With Lorenzo. Listen, here’s the thing. Mum thinks we’re dating, and I don’t know how to tell her we’re not—so I won’t.”

“Lie to your mum, go ahead.” Pierre crosses his arms and hums.

“Tais-toi. It’s for her own good.”

“So you’re going to pretend to date.”

“Ouais.”

“Should be easy. You guys are hooking up and making out or whatever all the time.”

Charles pauses and lets the silence speak for itself. When Pierre makes a noise of confusion, he gives. We don’t kiss, he says finally. She thinks it is too intimate, and we ‘are not dating,’ so sex is the only thing we do. Sex, and if you still have leftover antsy energy, you pull on his shirt and sit up against the headboard to finish a crossword puzzle. Sometimes he helps you, but most of the time he’s just there to press lazy kisses to your hair and temple, cheekbone and jaw—never your lips.

“You don’t kiss?” Pierre’s genuinely shocked. “Putain, you’re a hero. How does that even work?”

“We just do not kiss. We fuck, but no kissing.” He shrugs. “It’s always been that way.”

“So how about her birthday?”

“She doesn’t…” Charlex exhales tightly. “Remember.”

“Charles,” you suddenly say, head appearing into the doorway. “Oh, hey. Fred said you might be here. What are you guys talking about?”

“Sprint racing,” Pierre says, an easy lie.

Charles, though, is never good at the lying bit. “International tariffs.”

—

Your only memories of your seventeenth birthday are applying lip gloss and mascara, wearing your shortest skirt and tightest top, and reciting your supposed date of birth in line like a mantra. Anything after that’s been sprayed off by the ultra-clutch strength of vodka. Which, you’ve been told, was your drink of choice.

“Headache’s better,” you moan over the phone, face squashed onto your pillow. “Mum gave me an Advil but I was so sick all morning.”

“Did you snog anyone?” Charles is always teasing.

“God, I wish.” You shut your eyes and try to remember if your drunken stupor had somehow managed to get you successful in lip-locked matters. Nothing comes up and you wipe a dry hand over your face, heaving a sigh. “I really wanted to kiss Matthew but I think he left before you and I did.”

A pause. Then Charles clears his throat. “You mean you and me and the police car that escorted us home?” He snorts.

“You’re such a prick!” You scream into your pillow, laughing. “I already thanked you for being my literal savior last night.”

He smiles to himself. “You’re welcome.”

“Did you have fun?” You flop onto your back and stare at the stick-on stars on your ceiling. You make a mental note to try and remove them.

“Bit boring because I vowed not to drink at all, but I got to dance. Bitter with the sweet, right?”

—

“Nervous?”

“I mean, fuck, yeah.” You fix the hem of your dress, speaking to Giada through the phone. “Pascale’s waiting for us on the paddock. And so are, like, a hundred photographers.” You wince. “Can you even imagine Charles and me? It’s just—I dunno—it’s weird.”

“It isn’t,” she says, laughing. “Not really. It makes sense. Plus, aren’t you on the whole arrangement?” You envision her air quotes.

“Yeah, but”—you slip your sandals on—“it’s on and off, and that’s not dating. It’s sex. Two different things.”

“Is it really, though? Considering how close you are outside of bed, aren’t y—”

“Okay, input no longer needed,” you laugh. “Bye, Gi. I’ll text you later.”

You reunite with Charles just by the paddock entrance. The throng of fans holding cutouts and posters notice you two before anyone else does, inciting a collective bout of yells around the both of you. He notices your blue silk dress first, eyes unmoving. “You look like the sky.”

“Thanks, man.” A beat, and you squint through your sunglasses. “That’s a compliment, right?”

“Sure.”

“Prick.” You peek over them and to the fans, who wave more aggressively when they notice you’re looking. Nervously, you raise a hand and wave back, and the noise heightens. “I think I’m going to be replacing you.”

“Dream on. On y va?”

You turn back to him, smiling, and you both enter at the same time. His hand wraps around your waist, dips a bit lower to rest at the small of your back as you walk—the fans clearly dig it, because everyone’s yelling in a frenzy as you depart. What are you doing, you ask through your smiling teeth.

“Did you forget we’re supposed to be dating?” He maintains an equally pleasant (totally duplicitous) façade, smiling.

“I didn’t think,” you say, still smiling falsely, “that you’d put your hands on me five minutes into the whole agreement.”

“Smile, honey,” he teases. “I see at least five cameras at us right now.”

“It’s seven,” you beam. “Dumbass.”

“Again with the competitive streak.” memory

“I totally deserved to win last week’s game. You’re just a sore loser.”

“No you’re just a—hi, hi, hello!”

Your walk to the motorhome is interrupted by running into a friend of Charles’—someone from McLaren, one of the executives there. While Lando has been informed of your stunt, nobody else on that team has.

They handshake and he waves at you politely. “Whole paddock’s buzzing with news of you dating,” he says, smiling. “It’s a tad crazy! I remember seeing you as Charles’ plus one back when he was in Formula Two. And now you two are dating. How did—well, if you don’t mind me asking, where’d it all happen?”

“Oh,” you say, laughing. “Yeah, Monaco.”

“Texas,” Charles says at the same time.

Alarm bells go off in your head at the totally random, unwarranted statement out of Charles’ mouth. Texas? Neither of you have even ever been at the same time. “He means”—you say, coughing and nodding—“we went on this, um. Wild West themed, um, restaurant in Monaco, and that’s where he asked me out.” You make a face that you hope conveys you get it, and it seems to work.

“Definitely not what I had in mind, but if it worked, it worked, eh?” He grins. “I guess I always knew you two would end up together. Alright, ciao!”

You’re smiling and waving after him as he leaves, and then you’re (semi) alone again, or at least within your own space on the incredibly crowded paddock.

You turn to him, unable to hide your confusion. “Um? Texas?! What’s up with the backstories?”

“It slipped out! Sorry. But nice save.”

“You’re so f—” You try to scold him, but can’t, bursting into laughter and leaning forward to laugh into his chest. “Texas, really?”

“Sorry,” he says. You feel the vibration of his own laugh through his chest and it’s warm and nice. You peel yourself off lest you look too clingy, and resume your walk to the motorhome.

Ferrari is crowded, filled with people and strategists and guests. You’re given a bottle of water and then hounded with questions from the team who haven’t been informed of the situation at hand. David, one of the engineers close to Charles who you’d previously spoken to in one of the earlier races, asks to borrow him.

“Ciao, ciao.” They speak in one of the outdoor patio areas. “Is everything okay?”

“The car is fine. I just wanted to ask about the girl.” David punches his arm, playful. “You finally got her!”

“Oh.”

“It’s just… I remember all the times she would show up and you’d tell me about how much you liked her… I don’t know, it’s perfect for things to end up like this, no? Bravo!”

“Oh, si. I’ve just been, you know…” He looks through the glass sliding door and into the hospitality, where you’re talking to Isa and Carlos, sunglasses over your hair. Your hands are moving quickly, and you’re smiling while talking. He wonders what you’re so passionate about. When you’re caught in fits of happiness and passion, you’re extra animated. Your eyes are lively, and your lips can’t stop curling into a slight beaming smile. Now, maybe it’s France, maybe it’s crossword puzzles, slim chance it’s your job—whatever it is, he could watch you talk like this for hours. He thinks it’s beautiful, the way you transform, the way you smile, when you talk of things you absolutely love.

“… crazy about her forever.”

—

There are banners, Italian flags, and Charles’ face on every other wall. He’s done his first hat-trick of the season (of several more, you’re hoping). You’ve foregone the usual clubbing for dinner with a smaller group of people, but only because you’ve been told the nightlife is bleak and you’d rather save that energy for the next race.

Lando picked out the restaurant—he’s “on a massive Yelp high” trying to get the best restaurants in every city they get to. He’s tried two over the weekend, and is hoping this guns for first place. The restaurant’s name is long and so very Italian, to the point where your semi-fluency fails you. The food is amazing, though, and so is the wine—a whole other level of grape-flavored bliss.

You’re in-between Joris and Charles, nursing your fourth glass while Charles downs a bottle of beer. Light conversation flows through the table, but your sleepiness only allows you to hear some of it. You’re content with the white noise.

Lando is getting a new cat, Lewis bought a new pair of shoes—oh, no, shares in the company that makes the shoes—Joris bought the shoes, Lorenzo will now buy the shoes, why isn’t anyone paying attention to Lando’s cat. It’s funny, entertaining, and the perfect nightcap to your immensely exhausting day of acting.

Wine tipsy makes you loopy and snoozy. By default, your head lolls onto Charles’ body; he immediately wraps a sweater-clad arm around your frame, leans back, pulls you closer. Doesn’t miss a beat. In fact, while doing so, he’s even able to get a dig in against Lando’s affinity for cats.

“No more wine, m’kay?” He whispers quietly, angling his head to yours.

“Oh, but it was so good, though.” You mope, but nod in agreement. “I could seriously drink wine out of a keg here.”

“Sure did that a lot with beer.” You laugh, punching his bicep with what little space you’re given. “You sleepy?”

“Yeah. But I’m fine,” you respond, smiling. “Now shut up. I need to know what happened to Lando’s cat.”

Lewis leaves first, claiming he’s into this whole “sleeping at 9PM” thing, and Lorenzo follows to get ahead of an early flight tomorrow. It’s you, Joris, Charles, and Lando now, and you’re good as dead, eyes half-shut and fluttering, head slipping off his shoulder.

How was it? Lando asks, lowering his volume to keep from being too jarring. Day 1, fake dating? I actually read something like this in one of those, um, fanfiction stuff the fans do. Joris and Charles cast him a half-weirded out, half-amused pair of looks, but Lando defends himself. They’re actually pretty good, guys. I read one where I ended up with my rival or summat.

“Sorry to burst your bubble, Lando,” you croak, voice raspy with sleepiness and a day of bubbling laughter, “but Charles and I probably didn’t do your fanfiction kink justice.”

“Ignoring the emasculation.” He says, turning beet red. “What’d you do, then? Wasn’t it hard?”

“It was hard, but it’s like that.” Charles likes to substitute the phrase it is what it is to it’s like that, a result likely stemming from his trilingual childhood. “We just. Pretended. Oi, we held hands in front of the cameras.”

“Yeah, you can get a good wank in if that does it for you,” you joke. Lando hurls a cube of parmigiano at your face; it lands squarely and you flip him off, the table erupting with peals of laughter.

“In all seriousness, though—how are you two okay with this? I know I’d be second guessing my feelings every second.”

You shift, trying to hide your obvious lack of answer. It’s quiet for a few seconds, and then Charles says, “We’re both comfortable with each other, I think.”

“Yeah, comfortable enough that we can, you know, be honest.” You’re looking at Lando when you say that. You don’t know how well you could repeat the sentence if you were looking straight into Charles’ eyes.

You leave the restaurant with a generous tip, and Charles helps you pull your coat on when you’re out the door, back into the chilly night air. It’s then that all four of you catch news via text, of a club invite somewhere in the city.

“It’ll be fun, guys.” Joris and Lando stand in front of you and Charles, bumbling with excitement. “I heard Lil Tjay is going to be there.”

“It sounds very fun,” you say, smiling, “but I might pass out if I drink anything other than water, and I have zero energy. You three go ahead.”

“Wh—no, I’m not going, either.” You raise an eyebrow at Charles. “Serious! I wasn’t in the mood much, anyway. Joris, take Lando’s car and we’ll take mine.”

“Alright,” Lando whistles. “Suit yourselves, agoraphobes.”

“Joke’s on you”—Charles smiles, smug—“I don’t know what that means.”

“Not the dig you think it is, Charles,” you say, rolling your eyes. “Night, Joris, Lando. See you guys tomorrow. Use protection!”

“Should be saying that to you guys,” quips Joris with an evil grin that he closes the car door on.

The climb into the car feels like a chore in itself with how tipsy and sleepy you’ve become. Charles likes to bring his Ferrari to race weekends, but you convinced him to use a different car for this one, because you honest-to-God can’t stand the low seats anymore.

“You want dessert?” He asks when he’s rounded the car and settled into his seat. “Gelato, a cone, biscotti…”

“No, no,” you say, voice thin. A palm covers your shutting eyes; blindly, you reach for his hand. It’s easy because he sees you searching and takes your hand to cut it short. “I’m good. So sleepy. Can I sleep at your hotel room?”

“Sure.” He starts the car, waves to the wait staff idle by the entrance, and drives off. “How was the day as my fake girlfriend? Anyone ask about me?” He wiggles his eyebrows, flickering his gaze to your figure beside him. “Wasn’t too tough, I hope.”

Imola whizzes by, trees and city, and a poorly stifled yawn escapes your lips, wine stained. You laugh sleepily. “It was a bit awkward, but bitter with the sweet, right?” He smiles, nodding, and you continue. “Yeah, few strategists, some people who knew you from Prema. I was talking to Isa and Carlos, too, earlier. Even if they know it’s fake.”

He recalls seeing you talk to them through the glass. “About?”

“You.”

—

The sun is merciless on the clay courts, and so are your shoes, shuddering against the surface in your continuing attempt to beat the opposing team. Charles cowers behind you—he’s scored less than half of your points thus far—but you’re on a mission, like your competitive self always is when you’re put in a position to be able to win.

You’re two points down now, and the noontime is becoming increasingly itchy and unforgiving; across you both, Giada and Joris call a mutual time out. “That’s not allowed!” You say, petulant.

“This is a practice session,” Charles says gently, nearing you. “Mate, none of us are actual players.”

You wipe sweat off your forehead. “Right. Désolée. I’m just—I’m in the zone.”

“Ouais, I get it. Relax, m’kay? We got this.”

You shake yourself off and hop a few times, skirt bobbing by your waist as you go. Your braid bounces on your shoulder and you nod, turning your racquet over in your grip.

Charles pings the ball hard and it soars over to land just shy of the line, seemingly scoring a point for you two and securing your win. Giada and Joris chime in with protests, claiming that the ball’s out. You throw your hands up in question.

“Okay, what? That was clearly a point!”

“Snoops, I think they might be right. The ball looked out to me,” Charles says, wrapping a sweaty arm around your red shoulders.

“What are you talking about, Charlie? That ball was in! I saw it!” You elbow yourself out of his grip, aghast.

“How about…” He suggests quietly. “We let them win? You did win the last”—he pauses to count—“five sets. Come on, Snoops. They need this. Bitter with the—”

You take a deep breath, staring into his eyes. “Fucking sweet, right, okay. Fine, fine.”

Charles thinks he’s in the clear and he’s managed to extinguish your flames of frustration—that is, until you walk into the Leclerc household for lunch an hour later and, after greeting Pascale and Hervé, you point squarely to the jar on the kitchen counter. “Five euros.”

He splutters. “Five? Wh—non, non! I was trying to calm you down.”

“You were blind and gave Giada and Joris a fake win,” you say playfully.

“Saluuut,” Lorenzo greets, sitting at the stool beside yours. “Quoi de neuf?”

“Charles has five euros for the jar.” The jar, the infamous jar, sometimes dubbed the Dumbass Jar when Pascale’s out of earshot. It was Lorenzo who first made it up after three straight instances of Charles pulling a push door (three different establishments).

Arthur’s joined in at this point, but its biggest indirect donors are definitely Lorenzo and Hervé, who view it as just about the funniest thing in the world. Out of pity, you don’t call dumbass too often, but the tennis loss is bruising enough that you warrant the usage.

“You heard Snoopy. Five euros. We’ll be able to get milkshakes with this money after next week.” You high five. “At this rate, Charles, you could open a restaurant in Paris.”

“He’s going to race,” you correct. You both watch a begrudged Charles junk a bill into the nearly-full jar. “What race driver is going to open a restaurant?”

—

You meet Yuki Tsunoda on a flight to Nice. You’ve seen him several times before, not too frequently but enough that his name and face are familiar on your mind. Also a personality trait that Pierre would bring up in fond conversations with you and/or Charles: he loves food, apparently.

“Yuki’s volunteering AlphaTauri to be your hideout,” Pierre tells you and Charles, across him.

Turns out, the hardest part (insofar) of this whole schtick: the officially appointed paddock photographers are being extra sneaky with it, finding the best vantage points to snap pictures of an unwitting you and Charles.

They’re like hawks, watching for even the slightest glimpse so they can post the photos on Instagram and get clicks.

So, just a few hours earlier, Charles asked if there was a place you and him could talk if needed where photographers wouldn’t be awaiting you already, and this was the answer.

“If it’s too much trouble, feel no need to… you know.”

“Nonsense.” Pierre smiles goofily and Yuki pokes him to stop, pausing his session of eating a quesadilla (where he’d even acquired it, you’re clueless). “Yukino would be happy to.”

The flight lands and the drive to Monaco is infected with notoriously slow traffic; you pop an Advil to try and alleviate the motion sickness. Pierre and Yuki, it seems, have joined you even outside of the flight. They’re in the backseat offering bits of conversation.

“Oh, mate, we should totally play tennis while we’re here.” Pierre sighs. “Didn’t you guys play before?”

“Mmm, yeah,” you mumble with a lilt of amusement at the memories from basically a decade ago. “At the country club. Doubles always, otherwise I’d knock Charles out of the park.”

“Hey, I won a couple times!” He protests weakly. “Like… twice.”

You laugh out loud. “Anyway, Pierre, do not bring me into tennis. I get all competitive and develop anger issues.”

“I had to calm her down twice a set,” Charles says; you swat him lightly to silence him. “Still do.”

“You know, if the Dumbass Jar still existed,” you say cuttingly, “I swear I’d be able to buy off Ferrari with that money.”

—

Monaco is swelterinly hot today. You know this because you know the weather here, you know the curves and ups and downs of it—this is your home. And today is hot. Every few minutes a breeze filters through the air and you can hear journalists or PAs sigh a collective breath of relief before they’re all subjected to the inane, high-degree weather again.

It’s also, according to Arthur, a good day to kiss in front of the cameras. He says it easily over a plate of sliced kiwi, with a devious smile, because he assumes your friends-with-benefits arrangement equates to constant kissing. But the truth is you’ve never kissed Charles, and it intimidates you.

“Do we have to kiss?” You play with his bracelets, sitting beside him on the sofa. The talk of kissing entertains the thought of sex and you can’t help but mentally complain at the remembrance that you haven’t gotten laid in weeks.

“If you don’t want to—”

“I do.” You splutter, eyes going wide, face warm. “No! I mean I don’t mind. If it sells the thing.”

“D’accord, then we will.” He smiles. “That okay?”

“Sure. First kiss,” you say. Your voice feels as clammy as your hands.

“First.” He looks away.

You take your woes off the kiss by playing a friendly round of tennis with your favourite opponents, Giada and Joris. They bemoan your competitive nature (that, to be fair, allots you and Charles three straight wins), and Giada incites a protest for a girls versus boys round.

You both embarrass Charles and Joris, heckling them as you win another two straight games. Charles runs over to you when you throw up the L sign on your hand, lifting you up and making you squeal.

“Put me down, loser!”

Giada and Joris exchange a look. Amused, knowing. “Charles! You’re such a cunt.” You kick hard, and manage to snag his abdomen, so he gently places you onto the clay again. He laughs and paces back over to his side, and you play with the tail of your braid as you watch.

You play set after set, but the kiss comes anyway. When you know photographers can see you—by the entrance—and it happens faster than your mind can muster. He’s leaning in, you’re reaching up, and your mouths slot together. It’s—and it feels crazy to say it, but—

It’s perfect. It’s lovely. You smile against his lips like they belong there and like they’re familiar and yours and like maybe this is all you’ve ever wanted, and like they deserve the smile, because they do. You feel your need to pull away before you can’t help but keep him tethered to you always. It’s strange and it’s not platonic—you’re mature enough to admit that, but not enough to label exactly what it is.

You spend the day with your fingers pressed to your lips, like you’re sealing the memory. Hours later, Charles wins. There’s massive uproar and you’re in the crowd when it happens, in the sea of strategists going to congratulate him on winning Monaco, which—that’s—it’s winning Monaco. Your ears ring by the end of it and your throat’s dry from your own cheering. Carlos comes in second, and the outlook for their team is going much better than it’d been at the start of the year, so there’s a lot to celebrate.

And celebrate you do. It starts with being pinned up against the door, hungry kisses along your jaw and neck. One kiss, it seems, has broken the dam from the few years you’ve spent abstaining from the kissing. He’s just finished interviews. He’s only just changed into his polo, and now he’s tugging it off again, feverish.

This is rushed and dirty, down low and dark. Only one light’s been switched on and he’s hiking your dress up, panties down with one hand to tug his cock out with the other. He’s kissing you—kissing you stupid, almost. Like he’s waited forever to taste your lips and now he’ll starve if he’s away for just a moment. He needs you. So have me, you want to say, all of me, push me up against the wall again and cover my mouth with your palm. Or don’t, don’t—so everyone knows I’m yours.

He presses your chest against the wall so your back’s turned to him, thrusts in with a breathless, throaty grunt.

“S’ big,” you’re saying, clawing at words the pleasure bars you from finding.

“Barely even in,” he whispers. “Slow down, baby, come on, take it.”

Your toes curl. You’re high on the win, on the kissing, on Charles, on the slow delicious stretch of his cock. “I’m taking it, I’m taking it,” you say, shaky. He thrusts, slow and deep and dirty, until he’s bottomed out and you’re tiptoeing from the overwhelm.

“I feel you,” you’re whimpering, moans and gasps leaving your mouth. You blindly search for his hand, find it against your hip, drag it to your abdomen, under your dress that he hasn’t even fully removed. “I feel you there,” you say, an edge of teasing to your voice.

His cock’s bulging, almost, out of your stomach, and it’s getting you both all lightheaded. He thrusts harder, a devious smile felt against your neck.

I need it, Charles, you plead, please, please fuck me harder. You feel it coming, the familiar pleasure intensifying so quickly—you don’t usually cum so early, he’s always making you wait for it—pussy squeezing around him.

Jesus, already? He’s groaning but a laugh escapes, breathy and amused and taunting. He’s fucking you harder, faster. It’s so good, each hit getting you closer. Taking me so well, you’re bruised all over now, baby. You hate how well he knows what turns you on; memories of mornings post-sex spent inspecting the purple marks on your hips flash through your head and you’re even closer now, shaking, whimpering, begging.

You’re half-sure someone can hear, but it doesn’t even phase you. Harder, deeper— and you’re collapsing, legs spasming uncontrollably, orgasm so intense it’s on the brink of totally hurting. Tears roll down your sweaty face and he kisses them away, cumming onto your back to wipe off in a few minutes.

“I never even”—you pant, tired—“got to say congratulations.”

“That was more than enough.”

—

Charles is elated when you tell him his family has thrown a party for him the day next. He’s boyish in that way, optimistic and kiddy, the kind of person who’s up at five-thirty to announce their own birthday.

He drives you both to his childhood home, a route so familiar he could drive with his eyes closed. (“I hope you’re not driving closed-eyed,” you’d warned.)

Even if he could, anyway, he’d rather not. The scenery of Monaco is stunning, ever-changing, and he never tires of it—the buildings, the skies, the trees and shrubbery, stores lining the streets, clean entrances.

And you—in the passenger seat, humming softly to a song of his choosing. Drives are always better when you’re in the passenger seat.

The turnout is generous: extended family, and several friends from school. There’s bowls of fruit, salad, plates of salmon and racks of lamb, knobs of butter with warm bread. Pascale commands the kitchen—visible in how she leaves it cluttered with bowls, ingredients, whisks still dripping with syrup or batter, spoons licked for tasting. The good kind of clutter.

Lorenzo has also taken reign of the AUX, because it’s 70’s music playing, which is what he’s fond of for family gatherings like these. It’s My Cherie Amour now, Stevie Wonder mellowing across the lawn and into the house.

Charles knows you love the kitchen as much as his mum does, so when you get to the house, he’s not surprised to see you leave him in favor of checking out what damage has been done to your favorite marble countertops. He watches Pascale turn from the gas range, her eyes lit when she sees you, inviting you into an embrace.

You look like the song playing, pretty and lovely, breeze in the summer. He almost loses himself in thought before his great-aunt Eden places two bony hands on his arms and greets him in feeble Italian.

He flits his eyes away from you, if just briefly, and faces the woman with a smile on his face. “Ciao, zia,” he says, voice buoyant, happy. “You came here to see me, no?”

All five-foot-one of her shakes in disagreement. She wags a finger for extra measure. “No,” she says. “Sono venuto a vedere la tua ragazza.”

His eyes widen. “She’s—” He pauses. He debates telling Eden you’re not actually his girlfriend, that this was a setup to appease Pascale and, by extension, tifosi. But he backtracks.

He shouldn’t, but he gives in, lives out his dreams for a bit. “Ah, she’s over there, zia. Con mamma.” He points to the open door, and to you on the far end of the room inside, holding a spoon. “Beautiful, yes?”

“Molto,” she says proudly. “You marry her?”

Fact: his great-aunt has the worst memory. She forgot Charles’ name twenty times, let alone niche facts like this one. Another fact: she rarely shows up to family events. Maybe now, because it’s a racing thing; but baby showers and funerals, she’s at home. So he indulges a bit more.

“Si, we’re engaged. But—it’s a secret, zia.” He grins. “Non dire a nessuno. Okay?”

“Sei fidanzato?!” She claps once, excited. “Ay, Charles. I waited my whole life for this moment, si?” And she’s wobbling away, still muttering under her breath.

—

“How is my son?” Pascale’s voice is teasing. She sighs happily. “For years I wondered if this would happen. And it really is.”

“Oui, sure is,” you sing-song, laughing a bit awkwardly. “We’re—he’s okay. We’re great. In love.”

“Oh, in love,” she swoons. She leaves you, after fifteen more minutes of detailed discussion, with half a spoonful of vinaigrette to taste-test, departing to check on the guests for a few minutes. In her place arrives Lorenzo, already bearing a shit-eating grin. “Saluuut.”

“Mmm, good to see you, too.” You taste the liquid and add lemon to the bowl. “How’s wedding planning?”

“Think we’ll throw a shower. Is that pretentious?”

“No,” you say, mulling over it. “Sure, a bit. But just don’t make it a whole thing, you’re golden.”

“I see.” He sighs fondly. “You know, many a conversation we’ve had right here at this counter. About anything.”

—

You loosen your school tie, slicing an apple like you so often do, waiting for Charles’ karting practice to end. Pascale had fixed you a bowl of something, Hervé a glass of orange juice. And somebody else would always, without fail, steal your food. A hand swipes two slices form your chopping board and your head whips up.

“Lorenzo!” You stomp your foot. “Stop stealing! That is my apple.”

“You mean the Leclercs’ apple.” He laughs, pops another slice into his mouth, smiling.

You roll your eyes, shaking your head. The braid beside your head shakes with it as you continue slicing it into perfect quarters. He pipes up again: “How was school?”

“Shit, as usual.” You lower your voice and smile, leaning in. “Pascale scolded me earlier, for saying that word.”

“Did Papa?”

“Obviously not. He fist bumped me.” You share a laugh, both chewing on apple slices now. “Anyway, I aced a math test, had aubergine for lunch… got driven here by Charlotte’s mum.”

“Charlotte?” Lorenzo hums conspiratorially, making a mmmm sound. You look up from the yellow chopping board, furrowing your eyebrows. He persists: “Mmm. Cha-r-lotte.”

“What’s up with Charlotte?” Bit impolitely, you ask, in-between chews.

“I think she likes Charles, a little.” You nod slowly, trying to follow. Charlotte liking Charles. Your Charles. Wait, no. Not your—or nobody’s, really. Just Charles. Yeah.

“What? Bull!” You narrow your eyes. “Says who?”

“Why do you care?”

“Wh—I don’t!” You squeak, caught. “Just… I think I’d know, Lorenzo.” You make a tch noise, crossing your sweater-clad arms. “So—says who?”

“I saw her leering at him during his birthday party.”

“You’re wrong,” you say, but you don’t really know who you’re convincing. He reaches over for an apple slice, and you move the chopping board out of the way sharply.

“Mon dieu, you’re snappy. Fine, fine. I might be wrong,” he relents, shrugging. He gets up and slides beside you to be able to acquire more slices. “I talked to her during the party, too.”

“Weirdo,” you tease, allowing him to take a few more. “About Charles, yes?

“No, about her brand new dress.”

“You’re the funniest Leclerc brother, I assure you.”

“She told me…” He says, louder this time, shushing you effectively. “She told me she ‘finds Charles cute.’” Air quotes, shrug. “But that they ‘probably won’t’ date.”

“Huh. Did, um. Did she say why?” You play with the tail of your braid, shuffling back and forth on your flats. You don’t know why you’re so fidgety—you aren’t nervous, you don’t think.

“Because…” he says, chewing to allow for a pause. “She said every time she looks for Charles to try and ask for time alone, or on a date, or something, he’s already following you around like some puppy.”

—

You comb your hair into a bun and venture into the patio, having avoided a good chunk of the noon heat. You greet some relatives politely along the way, and receive a hand squeeze from great-aunt Eden. At one of the tables is Charles, beside Joris and another friend, and Giada and Charlotte across them, an empty seat beside the latter.

You seat yourself in it and Giada kisses your cheek. “Hey. Ça va?”

“Fine,” you say, smiling. Then you lower your voice to a whisper. “Do you remember when I told you about my crush on Charlie? For the first time?”

“Yeah,” she whispers back. “Around… 2013.”

“Ouais. And… and it disappeared after that,” you say. “Right?”

“You said it did,” she says. “A year later. When we were sixteen.”

“Right.” You think. Seventeen onwards—you’d never formed a full-fledged crush on Charles. “Okay. It’s nothing. Just a memory. I was just. Yeah, oui.”

“Oui, let’s eat.” The memory fades and so does your running mind. Charles’ eyes meet yours across the table, and suddenly you feel a little less like your thoughts have ripped you open.

—

When you and Charles were younger, you adopted the adage “bitter with the sweet.” Charles will have people believe it was made by the both of you, with philosophical minds stretched so far beyond their years. Well, revisionist history. The truth lay in the Carole King song of the same name you’d heard on the stereo.

Those are the exact words Charles tells Ted when he’s interviewing for the Spain Grand Prix. It’s a hot day and you’re especially doubled down on by the fact that he’s finished ninth.

You’d been fake-dating for the cameras all weekend. At all costs, you try and avoid interviews, but the damned Drive to Survive producers insist on a soundbite and start following the two of you around everywhere (only to find your conversations sound very weird and niche, and not scandalous or sexy).

Pascale also called—Charles first, and when he didn’t check his phone, you. You spent an hour on the phone just talking about the race. About the penalties and the nasty headlines that followed, and just everything.

“I’m glad you’re there,” she says. “God knows he needs you.”

You end up biking to try and relieve the stress, posing with fans for pictures.

“I’m such a big fan. I stalk Charles’ Insta like, all the time, and it’s crazy how you guys are dating.” A teenaged girl laughs nervously. “Where’d it happen?”

“Texas!” He, again, tries out the bit to appease the fans but you have to extinguish the flames of his blatant lies.

“He’s kidding,” you interject. “It’s just—it just happened, really.”

How does something just happen? Someone told you once, in a Paris bar, that love is like an echo. It’s always there, in the underbelly, underneath it all, and then one day it echoes, like a bass drum or a cymbal. And the echo—the echo is you feeling it. You feel the echo, the all-encompassing echo, even if the love itself’s been there all along.

With Charles, it’s out of the question. You love him. He’s your best friend. You trusted him before you even learned what trust meant, for Chrissake.

How could you not love him? That seemed impossible. The love was there. The love’s always been there and it’ll never go away.

It echoes at half-past-two in Barcelona, when he whips past you on his bike and says on your left. The breeze pulls your hair to the left, covers your face, and when you rake it away he’s stopped to check if he accidentally bumped you in his rush to look cool.

You’re creepily observant; you’ve been told this many times before. What people don’t know is with the observance comes even more questions. Ifs, whys, wheres, whens, hows, God the hows. The questions keep coming because there’s never an answer.

“Are you okay?” He asks. Green eyes glittering like a lake. Smile like the sun. Hair curly at the ends. “Did I hurt you?”

Then you realize. In the matters of love, every question—every single question. Every single one. The answer is Charles.

“Of course not,” you say. And you smile.

—

You almost drop your book in your rush to scurry past the paparazzi. They’re still busy on the two figures (Alex and Lily, you think) on another end of the paddock, which allows you only a few moments to try and evade them.

Others are stationed near the Ferrari hospitality, which means you’re going to need your hideout. Yuki had texted Pierre who had texted Charles who had told you that it was all clear to go there for a few minutes while waiting for the photographers to clear out.

Hurry, Charles is saying. Laughing. His hand’s gentle in yours. You want them there forever. You want to drag the tip of your nail over the barely-perceptible grooves of his fingerprints so he knows how much you need him.

The days post-Spain were spent biking, watching shows, listening to music, eating food. The travel to Canada—long, cold, compression socks. Pascale had called mid-flight to check on her “favorite pair”—you maneuvered yourselves into a much more cuddly position to appease her, and her giddy smile was incentive enough to stay that way for ninety minutes.

You’d been in a weird mental state trying to grapple with your rapidly returning and intensifying feelings for him, which have dawned on you all at once.

But he makes it better. You’re still laughing when you wedge yourselves in, eyes meeting.

And then you’re quiet.

The gaze you share is intense, but almost unsure, like you’re supposed to be looking away anytime now. You step backward shakily, and his hand moves from your waist to the small of your back to keep you from stumbling any further. You’re closer now. But this shouldn’t feel as strange as it does when you two have been in much more scandalous positions before—what’s different?

He’s so close, so so close, his green eyes looking right through you. You lean closer, ready to kiss him like you have before, ready to feel his mouth slot softly over yours, comforting and safe and Charles.

Funnily enough, it’s then that the illusion breaks, his grip loosening and the distance between you increasing. He coughs twice, awkwardly.

“Shit—sorry,” you say profusely, clearly having read the moment wrong. Embarrassment wells up in your system, warming your face. You laugh to diffuse the tension but it barely does anything.

“No, don’t—” He exhales, squeezes the bridge of his nose, trying to find words. “It’s not that I don’t want to kiss you. I do.”

“So kiss me,” you suggest simply, looking around for anything that might stop him. The embarrassment ebbs away, replaced quickly by confusion.

“I don’t want to kiss you in an AlphaTauri stock room,” he mopes, burying his head in his hands in clear frustration. “An AlphaTauri stock room.” He repeats it in a hushed whisper, disbelief etched all over his pretty face.

“Charles,” you begin, smiling already, the quaint way that makes his knees go weak every time. “You’re acting like you and I haven’t kissed before.”

“This is different.” He says firmly, looking away lest he lean in involuntarily. He interjects with conviction, not realizing what he’s implying until the implication’s hanging in the air. The longing kills him softly, and he feels if he looks at you a second longer he’ll kiss you anyway.

It’s a wonderfully confusing feeling. You open your mouth to respond but you can’t; your brain tacks itself onto his sentence, the division created between the kisses before now and the kiss that might happen anytime soon.

“H…” you trail off, throat drying. Blinking, you try again, “How different?”

He looks up, eyes conveying all the things his lips never will. This is different. You know it. I love you this time.

The answer is exchanged and accepted wordlessly. You slip out of the room when Pierre tells you it’s okay to, and it’s only then—only then—that Charles’ hand leaves your body. You seem to burn alive with its absence.

It’s a Ferrari 1-2. You snap a thousand pictures with Isa and Carlos holding Carlos’ trophy while Charles is doing interviews, and they invite you to join them for the break. You’re open to it—the win, the good standings, they definitely warrant a celebration for the few weeks’ break. So your original itinerary is Portugal—beaches, coasts, food—but the jet re-charts a route and the flight is cut much shorter because you’re in New York City.

—

Somewhere in Manhattan, a wedding shower is thrown on an outdoor rooftop. “This is one hell of a wedding shower,” you squeal excitedly when you spot him, bringing Lorenzo in for a hug. Your yellow dress flows in the wind. “I thought you guys were going to throw it in Monaco?”

“Yeah, well… why not here, right? It’s beautiful.” He gestures to the skyline, smiling. “Plus, Charles, Arthur, and Mum were already near the country for work, so we got ahead of it. Everyone was happy to fly out.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, I love it.” You beam. “I can’t believe it, either. When’s the final date?”

He opens his mouth to reply, but the wind is knocked out of him by Charles barreling into his arms for a hug. You roll your eyes at the latter’s childish behavior, smiling despite yourself. They part and Charles finds his place beside you, arm snaking around your shoulders. “What a wedding shower!”

“Don’t flatter me, dipshit,” Lorenzo jokes.

“It’s a lovely one.” Lorenzo thanks him. “An amazing shower. You know, it’s a total golden shower!”

You purse your lips. “Charles—”

“A golden shower, mate. Absolutely.”

That garners at least three odd looks and you calmly place a hand on his chest to whisper don’t ever fucking say that again it means something completely different please don’t embarrass me or your brother.

For all your embarrassment, you make up for it in having the literal time of your life. The food is good, the city view is amazing, the weather is fair and the music—Desafinado now—is amazing. “I could see myself here,” you say offhandedly to Charles, who nods back with a faint smile. He’s half-distracted.

“You look beautiful, by the way,” he says, squinting from the sun in his eyes. “Very.”

You part ways at some point—Pascale whisks him off, no doubt for another long round of questioning about your relationship, and you meander around with a glass of champagne.

You’re halfway through swiping a mini quiche when a hand wraps around your wrist and squeezes to get your attention—Charles’ great-aunt Eden. She speaks only intermittent English, and your Italian fails to carry you through well enough, but you smile and greet her. “Ciao, Eden!”

“Ciao, bella.” She smiles. “Flight was long.”

“Oh, yeah. New York’s far. I might work here someday. I’ll hear results in around two weeks, but I’m hoping for London instead.” You slow your speech.

“When will you two wed?”

“Wed?” Your face warms and you stutter through a giggly mess of a sentence. “Oh, Eden—zia—no, no! We’re just friends.”

“My Charles told me you two are to be married.” You both crane your heads to the right, where Charles is leaning against the terrace railing talking to one of your friends, Matthew, animatedly. He meets your eyes, sees Eden beside you, and seems to connect the dots.

Jokingly, perhaps, he raises his hand and wiggles his empty ring finger. You can’t help but smile as you turn back to the old woman. “Oh, did he, zia?”

“Si, he did.”

“Well, we’re just going to let it happen, then. You’re invited. Front row.” You kiss her cheek and she smiles, wobbling off to drink more wine before any of the adults can stop her.

It’s announced then that the dance floor is open, and many of Pascale’s friends filter through to show off their moves to the 70’s music. You watch, amused, at the display of dexterity to Frankie Valli and Aretha Franklin. You cheer them on, content to watch them against the backdrop of the New York sunset.

When Ain’t No Mountain High Enough plays, the dance floor grows, because nobody can resist the song—not even Charles, apparently, who takes your hand without preamble and takes you, squealing, to the centre.

You sing each of the parts, like you always do when the song comes on. It’s semi-tradition at this point: you take Marvin Gaye’s, Charles takes Tammi Terrell’s. You both exaggerate your dance moves and pretend you’re performing.

His hand’s in yours, winding you around and pulling you close. At some point he starts robot dancing to entertain you. It works—you laugh out loud, your eyes half-shut and faced to the stars above. He could write a poem about this. Or a song.

The song ends and you lean onto his shoulder to take a breather—then the photographer swoops in and takes a picture. “That’s going into the RSVPs!” He says, accent unmistakably American.

“Does he know we’re not the couple here?” You ask.

Do we know we’re not the couple? Charles asks himself.

The night escalates as the “oldies” leave, and Matthew, Joris, and Giada join you both for one last round of drinks again. You’re all standing at the exit making conversation; Lorenzo attends to his friends at the other end of the terrace.

“I feel young again,” Matthew says, liberated by Tito’s vodka. He takes another swig and pulls his coat on.

“You’re twenty-five, calm down,” you joke. “Dodged that bullet.” You’re poking fun at the semi-massive crush you had on Matthew in secondary school, and a laugh passes through the four of you. “Anyway, you three be careful. No driving.”

“Jesus, but really—I haven’t been this drunk since you”—he points at you, laughing—“turned seventeen at that club, Amber? No?”

“Oh, God. Y’know, same.” You fail to notice Charles and Giada share a look. “I remember nothing from that night! Or, like, the first two hours at least.”

“I remember drinking my body weight because of heartbreak,” he jeers.

“Heartbreak? Were you—were you with anyone?” You ask, confused.

It happens before anyone can stop it. “No, when Charles kissed you. And you kissed him after. Alright, night mates! Lorenzo—merci!”

Oh, fuck, you hear in the back of your now-muddled brain. Giada’s voice.

You open and close your mouth. “Ch—wait, he—what?”

“I—let’s talk here,” Charles flounders, dragging you to a more secluded spot and facing you. The three of your friends exit; Giada waves, apologetic. “When… we were at Amber… and you were absolutely hammered, we kissed. It was twice—just twice. And you didn’t, um. Remember a thing.”

You’re unsure. “In Amber?” You blink, confused. “What do you mean?”

“We… I don’t—I mean, I understand why you don’t remember. We kissed that night.”

“So that’s… Charles… You didn’t tell me.” Your voice quivers, like a wire flicked. “Why didn’t you say it at the time?”

He doesn’t give you an answer. He just looks at the counter, imagines the way your eyebrows furrow, your lips move, eyes glitter. He can’t give you one. He doesn’t want to hurt, disappoint, sadden you. He wants to get on his knees and root you here, so he’ll have all the time in the world to come up with an answer.

“Charles.” But he loves you, and he can at the very least be honest for you. “Look at me.”

“I was scared.” His eyes gravitate to yours.

“Of?”

“It felt stupid, is all. That you didn’t remember, and maybe you did but you were pretending you weren’t. I didn’t—it didn’t—sorry.” He laughs, stutters. “I convinced myself it didn’t mean anything because we didn’t have feelings for each other.” He pauses. “Then.”

“Well,” you say, slow. Eyes stuck to his. “How about now?”

“Now?”

“I love you, now. I mean, isn’t that all this is? Loving? Even if? De—despite of?”

And this—God. This is how it feels. He’s looking at you and you’re telling him you love him because you do, and finally he’s been over with reassurance.

You love him, too. That way. He trembles with it. His hands are shaky when they lace into yours, like you’re a shrine, a prayer, and he feels like maybe these are the emotions that swirl through the human body when one wins the lottery and gets struck by angry lightning at the same time.

This is it, he thinks. Profound and lovely and an echo of sweet memories. He’s yours. Here in a city unfamiliar to both of you, yet to be conquered, your fingers lace lightly and you smile, smile, smile at each other, as if you’re the last two people on Earth. He’s yours, so foolishly in love with you.

Even far from home, you’re both filled with warmth, with longing. Extended stares, pits of your stomachs welling up with something lovely in between homesickness and nostalgia. Here again, you again, us again—it’ll always be us again, your heart seems to say, surrounded by the same love the same hurt the same sad the same everything, you and me, all the love in the world, all the confusion, we’re here. It’s never over.

Across the terrace, Lorenzo watches. Two figures, laughing, emanating happiness, gentle unkowing love. You two have finally made it here, after what felt like a thousand trials and dreams and stories.

So even if you’re taller, in high heels and a yellow dress—and Charles is broader, in a suit and tie—Lorenzo thinks he can blink and see the two little kids who hosted a tea party in the backyard. He can blink again and see you hugging, eyes shut, his lips pressed to your forehead to convey the intimacy nothing else will do as well.

“So what now?” You ask. Again with the questions. In your defense—it begs so many follow-up questions. A love so many years in the making—layer after layer after layer—of course it begs all the questions, almost to the point of overwhelming capacity. What’ll we tell Pascale? The fans? The family? Everyone?!

But one look and he makes it better. His green eyes, bright against the deep black of the skyline. You’ve grown. You’ve done it. You’re here. “We’ll figure it out.” He smiles. “We deserve this kind of ending, don’t you think?”

—

“He has my name.” A tubby finger points to the boy on the greeting card. “That one.”

“And who’s the dog?” Asks the girl beside him, hair wound into a plait. She likes this boy. He’s cute. She plays with the end of her braid and stares, eyes flickering in-between him and the card they’re staring at.

“The name’s right there. They’re best friends.”

“Okay, that’ll be me.”

“So that’s us.”

“Oui.” She smiles. “Charlie and Snoopy.”

–

read an omitted scene here :)

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

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beachbabe000 · 4 months ago

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Scary Movies // Matt Sturniolo

Summary: Matt comes over unannounced as you're watching a scary movie.

Content Warning: Masturbation, language, Penetration, matt x reader

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I pulled the blanket up higher on my body, the tv casting the only light in the room. I decided to take a night to myself away from work, friends etc. I decided on laying in bed pretty much all day reading and watching tv, a good time of resting.

By this point it was around 9 am and I was finally getting bored. I had a thought out of nowhere. It’s been a while since I’ve gotten off and I could feel the frustration building over that amount of time.

I reached over and opened my nightstand drawer, pulling out my favorite purple vibrator. I threw my blanket off and pulled my shorts down. Lightly grazing my fingertips down my stomach, I reached my clit. I started rubbing small gentle circles at first. Once I felt myself getting wet, I turned on my vibrator and placed it over my clit.

I started to feel tension build in my abdomen. The tv still on in the background making noise that I couldn’t even make out anymore. The room started to go black as my release was coming over me.

“Oh shit.” I heard a whisper causing me to stop in a sudden motion. I’m surprised I heard even that with the state I was in. I’m lightheaded and still processing what just happened. Looking over into the doorway of my bedroom I see Matt standing there.

Me and Matt are good friends. Have been for about a year. It got to the point I even gave him a key to my house. But he’s never come over unannounced before until now. Perfect timing for that.

“Matt. What are you doing? Why didn’t you call?” He just looked at me in a daze. His eyes hooded and his lips parted. He licked his lips to wet them after his breath had dried them out when he realized I was talking to him. How long had he been standing there? “I did.” he said barely above a whisper. “You didn’t answer. Now I see why.” He looked from my face to my bare body and back to my face again. I then remembered I was naked. In front of Matt.

I pulled the blanket over me in haste. “Let’s just not talk about this, okay? Pretend it didn’t happen?”

The blanket now covering my body allowed him to give me his full attention. He shook his head and rubbed his forehead, his eyes closed. “Yeah, sorry y/n. I didn’t mean to intrude. Um, yeah let’s just do that. So, what are we watching?” He drops his bag on the floor that had been sloppily hanging from his shoulder the entire time. Looks like he was planning to stay the night, which isn’t unusual. We’ve had many sleepovers before.

He plopped himself down on my bed on the side I don’t usually sleep on. “Uh, um, it’s a horror movie.” I sunk down back into the bed trying to get comfortable, but it just wasn’t happening.

“I like horror movies.” He also looked uncomfortable. Though the attempt to relax was there for him as well.

We were a bit through the movie before we both started to finally relax. His arm naturally found its way slung over the back of the pillows and I was cuddled on my side towards him. My head facing the tv. We normally have never had a problem touching. Me laying my head on his arm or something small like that.

There was one part of the movie that made me jump practically out of my skin, pulling a laugh from Matt. This also caused me to laugh. It was probably the most comfortable we’ve been with each other all night.

He looked down at me. “You scared?” He was smiling in a teasing way. “No! I never get scared.” I huffed looking to and away from him. He chuckled, “Yeah. Okay.”

His hand found its way from the back of the pillows to my shoulder, trailing his fingers up and down. It was extremely comforting and something he normally does. He knows I like physical touch and it was his attempt to calm me down from fearing the movie.

My body naturally moved towards his and I laid my head on his chest. He responded by wrapping his arm around me. We were almost to the end of the movie when there was another jump scare that got me again. He laughed. “Wimp.” I hit his chest. “Shut up.”

He looked down at me and rubbed circles on my shoulder. “You know, those sounds you were making when I got here were pretty cute.” My body froze. I didn’t expect him to say anything like that. Or even acknowledge the incident anymore. I looked up at him with a face of shock.

He was smiling down at me, “I’d really like to hear them again.” His smirk made me melt; his words made me shiver. I opened my mouth to speak but nothing was coming out. He took this opportunity to lean down and capture my open mouth in his, sliding his tongue in before I could lock my lips fully onto his. A moan from the surprise escaped my lips. I could feel the spot between my legs start to pulsate as it grew wet.

His hand tightened on my shoulder as the other one found my hip and turned me towards him. We shared many heated kisses before my arms wrapped around his neck and pulled him on top of me. His legs tangled in mine as his hands pulled my hips up into his. He grinded into me causing me to make a small whimper. He broke the kiss to look at me, “You okay to go further?” All I could do in my starstruck state was nod.

He reached for the bottom of my shirt and pulled it up and over my head, discarding it to the floor. “God you’re beautiful.” He took in the sight of my naked torso before connecting his lips with mine again. His hand snaked its way up to my breast giving it a gentle squeeze. I bucked my hips into his. He groaned into my mouth and gripped my breast harder.

He reached down and unbuttoned my pants, starting to pull them down and over my feet. Discarding his own shirt and pants afterwards. He kissed me again and rubbed his hand down my stomach to my now soaked pussy. “Fuck. You’re so wet.” He looked down at his hand while sticking a finger inside of me. I moaned moving my hands to his shoulders. He looked back up at me. “This feel good?” He breathed, his nose grazing mine.

I nodded in response, unable to form words anymore. He added another finger looking for my reactions. One of my hands found the sheet by my body and gripped it in my fingers. My eyes squeezed shut as I leaned my head back into the pillow with a low moan. He swooped down and started leaving sloppy wet kisses on my neck.

He took his fingers out of me and moved his hand to his member, stroking it with my juices. He moaned, throwing his head back. “I’m gunna fuck you so hard. Those noises you were making are nothing compared to the ones I’m going to bring out of you.”

With that statement he then rubbed his tip against my wet folds, and before I knew it, he was inside me. He thrusted himself into me so roughly my entire body moved. “Oh my god!” A loud moan came out of me as my hands threw up to grab his shoulders, keeping myself in place.

He started pumping in and out of me, not even taking time to let me get used to him. The sudden constant contact brought loud moans and whimpers from my throat. Leaning down to nip my neck, he was definitely leaving marks.

Then somehow, he thrusted even harder and faster. I was basically screaming at this point. His name coming out of my mouth as if it were my last words I’d ever speak. He was groaning and moaning so loud, and looked down at me to make eye contact when he could. His eyes were full of lust and adoration of the effect he was having on me.

“Fuck Matt I’m going to come. Please don’t stop!” He grabbed my hips tighter and moved them with his own, gaining deeper access. This caused my orgasm to come faster than I thought it would. I clenched around his dick, and he could feel my release coat him. “That’s right baby, come all over me. Fuck!” His last groan came with his own release. His eyes rolled to the back of his head. His grip on me so tight that I’d have bruises in the morning.

I could feel him pulse inside of me before pulling out. His hands moved from my hips to the sides of my head as he fell over me. We tried to catch our breaths while still feeling the effects of our high. Once we recovered, he got up to grab something to clean me and himself up, then landed back on the bed next to me. He wrapped his arms around my waist and pulled me into him, creating a new warmth between us. “Told you I’d make those sounds louder.” He breathed in my ear, still a little out of breath. He kissed my cheek, and I looked back at him. “Wanna watch another scary movie?” He chuckled, “Only if you jump in my arms again. Maybe we can go for round two and this time you could jump onto something else.” He smirked down at me wiggling his eyebrows. I just chuckled slapping his arm and grabbed the remote.

#matt sturniolo #sturniolo triplets #imagine #smut #sturniolo smut #fanfic #matt and chris #matt x reader #matt sturniolo x reader #matt sturniolo smut #matt sturniolo fanfic

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six-eyed-samurai · 6 months ago

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SUMMARY: Romeo and Juliet but shark merman!Genya x mermaid!Reader. A/N: I too have no idea how it spiraled into angst but it is what it is so enjoy! I realized it was gonna get too long so expect Part II soon (I swear it'll get better). WARNINGS: none

“Where the bloody hell are you off to at this time of the bleeping night?”

Ironic, Genya thought wryly, that sailors on the seas were Sanemi’s sworn enemies but his language was just as filthy as theirs, albeit he was sober (mostly, at any rate; when Obanai came around it was another story). He exhaled sharply, before plastering an innocent expression that failed terribly when he caught the suspicious look on his elder brother’s face as he turned around.

Sanemi glared at him from the entrance of their family home, evidently having woken up when Genya sneaked out. Violet eyes crankily clouded by sleep and his white hair even wilder than usual, Sanemi looked as forgiving as the fishermen that would catch them in their nets and sell them off for their fins. He prayed his brother hadn’t alerted their mother of his night time wanderings and that Sanemi would think this was the first time he was doing this.

“For a swim, I can’t sleep.” Genya’s eye twitched but he blinked to disguise it. He hated lying to his older brother, hell, anyone really, but he had no choice.

He didn’t mind if Sanemi was going to drag him back in screaming bloody murder by his ear fins and threaten to add a few more scars to the ones already criss-crossing both their bodies and chop off his fins to make soup with for disobeying their mother’s curfew rule, although now that he thought about it…it was a little scary.

But it was fine!

As long as she was safe from the numerous wraths that would be incurred if anyone found out what Genya really had been doing at night, he’d have his long, dark purple tail chopped off for all he cared.

Seconds ticked by. If Genya were human sweat would be rolling off him in buckets. He tugged at his piranha-tooth necklace instead. Sanemi continued to glower menacingly.

Then his brother rolled his eyes before drifting back in. “Work on your lying skills if you’re going to go see your little princess.”

Woah, he wasn’t expecting that. Since when was Sanemi so forgiving? He brightened in relief, not realizing how panicked he had been to have Sanemi catch him in such an incriminating move - wait a minute -

“SHE’S NOT MY PRINCESS!”

Presumably his brother had returned to the pod, but he heard a grunt as he hovered around the entrance, face as red as coral and throat struggling to both shout at Sanemi and not wake his siblings. “Whatever you say.”

“We’re just - we’re -” Then another thought struck him. “HOLD UP - HOW LONG - HOW DID YOU KNOW?”

This time Sanemi really poked his head back in with a gritted jaw and twitching eye. “Go find your bleeping precious pearl and LET ME SLEEP ALREADY!”

Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, so Genya took the opportunity to flee, flushed and flustered at however in the world had Sanemi discovered his nickname for her?

***

“Ara ara, what do we have here, a little princess running away?”

“Eh, no, no, Kocho-san!” She frantically turned around, eyes widened to the size of the largest, prettiest pearls Genya always liked to compare her to.

The Hashira’s resident healer leaned closer with her customary smile that never wavered, unlike her midnight blue and dark purple tendrils in the still waters. “Really now? Whatever are you doing then? Himejima would be very worried if I were to tell him you were sneaking out at night - not very sneakily, actually, seeing as I’ve seen you do this three times already, little princess.”

She glanced away but the pink blush was still painted on her face for all the ocean to see. Kocho had known all this time? That was very, very bad news…but if she hadn’t confronted her until now it much mean something, right?

Besides, Kocho didn’t sound like the other snitches of other mermaids who’d gotten her into trouble too many times to count by reporting her to her strict father in order to get into his good books: sly, accusing and reprimanding. No, she only sounded as if she were to know why she’d leave it at that. Mere curiosity.

Mere curiosity, she lied to herself reassuringly.

“I haven’t been sleeping well,” she said aloud. “I wanted to go out and work off the restlessness.”

“Why haven’t you come to me or Kanae then, dear?” Shinobu hummed, then inclined her head to the rows of undersea herbs and concoctions the two sister healers spent their days mixing up for the kingdom’s army. She crossed her arms. “Or is there something else…?”

Jellyfish were hypnotizing to look at; Kocho was hypnotizing to listen to and the truth burst out before she could stop herself.

“I’m - I’m just going to see someone. Please don’t tell Gyomei-san!” She begged, not liking the idea of the giant stone crab-hybrid getting into trouble on her account. Trusted family friend or not her father would definitely have words with her caretaker for letting her run off, especially if he found out that today Gyomei had to leave her with the Kocho sisters to deal with some more troublesome members of the Corps.

“Who is this someone?” Kocho’s smile widened but turned a little more real, more genuine. “Don’t worry, I have no plans to rat you out.”

She cast her eyes down and mumbled a name Shinobu didn’t exactly remember (oddly familiar though, hmmm….), but there was only one reason she would be running off to see someone at this time of the night…her father, the Undersea King Ubuyashiki’s loyal, old-fashioned second in command must not have approved of…

“It's a boy?” Shinobu prodded, not unkindly. “I'd have thought your father would be happy you found a suitor.”

“You know - you know how he is!” She hid her face. Certainly a boy then, but…

Her father was infamous for his beliefs that different species of mercreatures - dolphin with dolphin, fish with fish, octopi with octopi - shouldn't be mixing…one particular species in particular.

Well there was only one shark mercreature that Shinobu was well acquainted with, and if her memory served her right Shinazugawa had a younger brother.

“I would've thought you'd have gone for someone of a more calmer nature.” Shinobu turned away to hide the genuine smirk on her face, her indigo tentacles propelling her back inside. “Don't take too long and tell Genya-kun I said he better not break your heart.”

She knew an olive branch when she saw one, and so blushing furiously she quickly swam away with half formed, stammering questions and protests.

***

“H - hey -oof!”

Genya swore she was more beautiful with every time he saw her, smooth hair drifting in a silky cloud behind her, stars stolen from the above and taken to their new home in her eyes, moonlight highlighting that perfect skin and scales, but she never did believe him (would he? Not when he stuttered and struggled to convey his worship of her eloquently anyway) so he tried to show it in ways she couldn’t deny.

Not to say he didn’t love it when she showered him with affection that nearly gave him a premature death by cardiac arrest either.

Like right now. He prayed to all the Undersea Gods they could stay like this forever, him awkward as ever wrapping his scarred arms around her frail little body, her head tucked into his neck and his buried into her hair, tails intertwined.

Just them. No one else. No one judging them just because he was some shark delinquent boy and she was the closest thing to a princess. Not a thing in the world to rip them apart.

He'd tell her about his training, internally wondering what good karma had he done to earn someone as patient as her sitting through his terrible spluttering and have her tell him it was cute instead. She’d tell him about whatever it was someone as upper class her did on a daily basis, royal gossip and the doings of the Hashira, the Corps’ strongest mercreature soldiers. He laughed, she teased, he blushed, she shyly pecked his cheek; but mostly they just held each other, savor the feeling of fragile content.

Today was a little special - Genya had been planning to gift her something for a while. Himejima-san had no idea, obviously, of who he was seeing (some things were easier to keep from a blind man than others, Genya guiltily thought) but knew enough to know the girl, whoever she was, must be very special to have his apprentice shout and bluster like crazy when he asked. With a quirked smile he had quietly handed Genya a string of pearls the other day and when the oblivious, confused Shinazugawa had asked what for:

“I’m sure your little pearl will enjoy it.”

(The stone crab mercreature had quite the laugh to himself that day watching Genya poorly justify and defend himself. Let’s be honest, everyone knew Genya was chasing after someone.)

He prayed she’d like it. In retrospect it was such a stupid idea. She was nearest thing to Undersea royalty, she could have any jewel the seat offered if she so much as implied it. Such a stupid idea he nearly backed out of it, but the sneaky mermaid had distracted him so well with those glassy eyes and pouting lips that Genya didn’t even realize when she took them out of his grasp.

“Genya-kun, this is so pretty!”

“Har? No, it’s nothing really - just some seed pearls - besides I know you have better ones -”

“But they’re not from you! Help me put it on?”

“…fine, but only because you said so,” he muttered, embarrassed that she could have him wrapped around her finger so well.

“See, I’m matching with you now!” She tapped the driftwood-carved bracelets on his own arms with a bright giggle.

Perfect. Her, everything. Just perfect.

It was for but a moment anyway; something or somebody would always come along to remind them of the invisible glass wall that separated them forever like the poor captured mercreatures stuck in aquariums.

“Right this way, sir…”

“Shit.” Genya muttered some more obscenities and hurriedly untangled himself from her, grabbing her hand with the panicked intention of hopefully swimming off fast enough to - no idea, but anywhere before they were caught.

“Genya - stop - they’re coming this way -” Her warning, worried whisper came far too late.

There really was nothing more awkward than running right into the very person they were trying to run away from, and judging by Tomioka Giyuu’s slack jawed, wide eyed expression he had not been expecting this at all.

“Tomioka?”

Undersea Gods damn this day, why did it have to be HIS voice approaching?

A very awkward pause ensued; the calm before the storm.

“What are you doing with my daughter? This is the fifth time already.”

“Father -”

“Come over here.”

She squeezed his hand weakly before swimming over to her father’s side. Genya lowered his head in fearful respect under her father’s commanding gaze and cold venom in his tone. Tomioka looked on almost apologetically from the side.

“When you prove you’re no less violent and lowly as the two legs above only then are you worthy of even being in her company, shark.”

You’re not good enough for her, he meant.

You’ll never be good enough.

You’re no good.

“Wait!” Her outstretched hand was blocked by her father’s.

Genya swam away as fast as he could, ears burning not from flustered adoration but shame. Predators like him weren’t supposed to be part of her paradise.

Something about being told that constantly was really starting to chip away at him.

***

“Shinazugawa-san gave Tomioka quite the scolding today.” Muichiro peeled himself away from the rock he had been sitting on to chase after Genya, who was listlessly drifting off, turquoise tentacles the same color as the ends of his long hair wavering in the water. His blue eyes were alight with mischief. “I suspect if Oyakata-sama had not been there he would’ve beaten up Tomioka for accidentally leading her father to you both. Tomioka was already lucky to be able to avoid him for three days; but of course the meeting was impossible to miss.”

“Aniki wouldn’t actually do that,” Genya replied distractedly. Lies, Sanemi absolutely would, what with his intense hatred for the poor merman, but right now Genya had a lot more to think about than to ponder on what havoc Sanemi was capable of wrecking.

“What happened after that though?” Muichiro was the only one Genya had explicitly told about his not so secret infatuation with her, being his close friend - and also because the sly octopus and his twin had stalked him one day. “Are you still meeting up with her?”

Genya scowled at the ground. “No, Himejima-san has been told to not let her out of his sight now. Haven’t seen her since then.”

Are you okay? Genya silently asked. Did you get punished? Are you still sure you want me even with all this we have to avoid?

“Come on, surely there’s a way for you to, you know, court her without having her prick of a dad interfering. So what if you’re a shark? You’re not that scary.”

“I’ll show you scary when I pull off all your tentacles,” Genya growled half-heartedly.

“Shiver me timbers. Is there really nothing you can do to get his approval?”

“…maybe it’s for the best he did it.”

Maybe we’re not meant for each other, he realized.

Put aside their difference in status and species, shark mercreatures were known for their aggressiveness and hot tempers - no wonder her father didn’t trust him around someone as delicate and precious as her. Sometimes Genya himself was afraid of what he could accidentally do to you. Not only that, but as much as Genya hated to admit it, he was afraid he’d turn out like Kyogo - everyone knew about the Shinazugawa’s abusive patriarch. Maybe her father wasn’t afraid of him, but what he could do or become.

She was a blooming flower.

He was the hand that was going to snap her stem and break her apart.

He finally understood now.

“Hey, hey, why are you saying that? Both of you are so in love it actually made me want to throw up, you can’t give up just because some old racist bigot - Genya-kun! Where are you going? Are you even listening? Don’t give up on her, that’s just stupid.”

Genya turned away, blinking away whatever was in his eyes. Definitely not tears. “It’s for the best.”

***

“Hey! There you are!”

She looked up from the seaweed she was absently pulling out. “Oh, hi, Mitsuri-chan.”

The pink and green haired mermaid swam closer, looking as bubbly as ever. Even though she was a Hashira, it was still amazing how there wasn’t a visible sign of injury save for her bandaged head after her recent clash with a group humans some time ago.

“What are you doing in the Stone Estate?” She asked. Himejima-san had gone out for a while, so if Mitsuri was here to see him she was a little too late. “Oh, you can sit down.”

“Thank you! To answer your question I think I left something of mine here when I last visited. Iguro-san said he could get me a new one, but I’m really upset I lost it. Have you seen an emerald bracelet?”

She shook her head. “I’ll look for it, but I don’t think it’s here. I would’ve seen it.”

“Oh well, maybe it’s at Kocho’s,” Mitsuri hums. “I heard what happened the other day.”

There wasn’t really an use in pretending not to know what she was talking about. Pretty much all the Hashira did after the one-sided screaming match between Shinazugawa and Tomioka. She’s managed to hide away successfully from interacting with any of them other than Himejima-san so far though.

“Mmm.”

“Have you spoken to him since?”

She didn’t mind telling Mitsuri, at least not much. The Love Pillar was almost like an older sister to her. “No. My father won’t let me out of sight and if we don’t really purposely go find each other it’s really hard to run into one another.”

“He hasn’t bothered to find you?” Mitsuri frowned. “That doesn’t sound like him.”

“Maybe he’s busy,” she replied unconvincingly, but Mitsuri figured it out quickly.

“He’s avoiding you?”

She didn’t mean to burst into tears, but she did anyway, sobbing her broken heart out onto a comforting Mitsuri’s shoulder. So what if they came from different worlds? It shouldn’t matter. Right? Hadn’t he told her that all this time? Then why did he seem to care about that now?

“I’m sure he doesn’t mean to! I think he’s just scared of your father - I know I am!” Mitsuri’s joke was enough to get a hiccupping laugh from her. “Why don’t you go find him tonight? He can’t avoid you forever. It’s all silly reasons to keep you apart! You both just have to work it through together! Lots of people support you - not just me and you remember that, alright? I’ll make Shinazugawa drag Genya there himself if I have to.”

Mitsuri’s pep talk caused her to brighten almost immediately. “You really think so?”

“I’d be such an idiot if I didn’t! Now, you better go find him by today!”

Her face cracked into a shy, elated smile for the first time in a while as she tackled the older mermaid in a fierce hug. “Thank you so much, Mitsuri-chan! I hope you and Iguro-san get together soon!”

“Eh? No, no, he doesn’t like me that way!!!”

***

“Genya! Don’t ignore me, I know you know I’m here.”

She swam closer to the Shinazugawa home impatiently, rapidly getting fed up with the way Genya kept turning away with a red face. Exasperated she grabbed his shoulders to turn him around and face her, using one hand to force his head to face her.

“Stop ignoring me already! I just want to talk,” she huffed.

“You really shouldn’t be here.”

“Since when have you ever said something like that?” The space between her brow creased. “Genya, what’s wrong? You don’t have to be bothered about what my father says. I really don’t care and neither should you!”

“…it’s better if we did.”

He said it aloud to tell her, but more than half of him still hopelessly prayed she wouldn’t catch his whisper. The hurt and shattered look on her face proved otherwise and another part of his heart died a little more.

“Why? After everything? Did I do something wrong?” He promised to never make her cry, didn’t he? He said he’d catch all her tears, didn’t he? Why was he making her cry right now?

Liar.

“You deserve someone so much better than me, alright? Someone your equal. Someone who won’t fxxking be a danger to you. I should’ve listened to your father. I told you I’d give you the best things in the world - if that’s not me so be it. I’m not supposed to be part of it.”

“What’s the point of the world if you’re not in it? You don’t have the right to decide what I deserve or not!”

“We’re over.”

She swam away too quickly, too caught up in her misery and grief, to see the tears as glossy as the pearls she had dumped into his hand forming in his eyes, but not quick enough for him to not see the half-formed words on her lips: I don’t care, I still love you, I need you.

He brushed his fingers over the bracelet. For the best. If she hated him but could move on, he’d done his job. Sharks were predators - she’d be prey if he hadn’t done this.

I’m not supposed to be part of your world, he repeated.

#genya x reader #genya x y/n #genya x you #genya shinazugawa x reader #genya shinazugawa x y/n #genya shinazugawa x you #genya x reader au #mermaid au #kny x reader #kny x reader au #Sunny's Works

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inkdrinkerworld · 8 months ago

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Dad!Remus buying matching mommy daughter clothing because he can’t get enough of it. He LOVES to see his girls matching and if you both have a second daughter? It’s all over. Spoils the hell out of them while teaching them to be thankful and giving as well :,)

Omg omg!!! Pregnant!reader and dad!Remus who loves spoiling his three girls.

“Dovey? We’re back,” Remus doesn’t shout for you, he knows you can’t be far or more than two places- the kitchen where he hopes you aren’t and the bedroom where he hopes you are.

The doctor had been very specific, bed rest for the last month just to be safe. There’s been many a falling out between you and Remus over the fact that you refuse to stay in bed, but he gets it. So he lets you get away with little things.

“I’m here Rem, can you come help me with something in the kitchen baby?” He shakes his head as he sets down the bags and sends Charlie to the living room.

“I’m coming dove,” he finds you trying to reach into the pantry, a couple sandwiches open on the cutting board. Without asking, Remus gets the pepper sauce and the mustard you’d been reaching for.

“Thanks Remmy, how was shopping?” You’re breathless and Remus takes over.

“Go sit with Charlie. I’ll be two minutes.”

By the time Remus is in the living room, Charlie is helping you get comfy- moving cushions this way and that and rubbing your belly the way she’s seen Remus do it.

“Bekah, stop kicking mummy. It makes her chest ache.” At five she’s still as thoughtful as she’d ever been but her words have gotten clearer and it breaks your heart.

“Here you go dovey,” Remus hands you half a sandwich and then hands the other to Charlie. “Eat up Charlie girl, we had a long day.”

Remus reaches for the bags. “We got some stuff for Rebekah too,” Remus pulls out lounge wear for you, blue and purple and super soft. Then he tugs one out in Charlotte’s size in the same colour and a final one but tinier.

“Remus! That’s the cutest thing ever.”

Charlie grins, a tiny hand pointing to another bag. “We got other things too mummy! Daddy and I picked out a little lamb for Bekah like I’ve got and more matching things.”

She helps Remus reveal the clothes and toys and by the time they’re done you’ve tears in your eyes. “You’re so sweet, Rem.”

There’s a pink flush in his neck as he leans forward to kiss you. “Got to be sweet on my girls, you all outnumber me.” You slap his chest as you giggle wetly and Charlie frowns.

“Does that make you sad daddy? Only having girls?”

Remus shakes his head and pulls her to his lap. “Not even a little. I love you more than anything. More than I love chocolates.”

She gasps, hands covering her mouth as her eyebrows sky rocket to her hairline. “But you love your chocolates.” She looks at you like Remus has gone mad and you smile.

“And I love you more. You and mummy and baby Bekah, I love you all more than chocolates.”

“We love daddy just as much don’t we, Lottie?” She nods, kissing all over his face.

Remus can’t wait for his second daughter to come so he can see all his girls in the same outfit.

#remuslupin #remus lupin #remus lupin fanfiction #remus lupin one shot #remus lupin imagine #remus lupin drabble #remus lupin fluff #remus lupin blurb #remus lupin fic #remus lupin x black!reader #remus lupin x black reader #remus lupin x you #remus lupin x yn #remus lupin x y/n #remus lupin x reader #dad!remus #dad!remus lupin

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theyhavetakenovermylife · 8 months ago

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He’s Back (Angst/Fluff)

BTTS!Turtles x reader

A/N: I’ve been toying with this small idea for some time, and decided that today was the day to write it down, finally adding Back To The Sewers to my list! Takes place around the time the turtles return from the future to their own time💚🐢

Warnings: Spelling💚

He had been gone for a year now. Your turtle boyfriend had been gone for a year. And every single day of that year, had been painful for you, as you had no idea where he had gone. Or any of his family members for that matter. It was as if all five of them had just vanished into thin air that day a year ago. And every single day throughout that year, you and your boyfriend’s friends looked for him and his family everyday. You, April and Casey had overturned every single stone in New York City in your search. But no matter where you looked, none of you could find them. It went too far that you and April stayed in New York, and looked the city through three more times, while Casey traveled to Japan to look for them there. He even got into contact with the Ancient one, and asked Usagi to look through the Battle Nexus. But nothing. The turtles were gone. And you had no idea where your boyfriend was.

You, April and Casey never gave up your search for the turtles and Master Splinter. But after having looked through every possible place the three of you could think of, all three of you opted to stay closely around the lair, making sure that it was ready for the day they might come back. You and April looked out for their stuff, and made sure it was clean, while Casey would do runs every now again, beating up and questioning any Purple Dragons he met on his way. But they knew nothing. No one knew anything. It was truly as if the turtles had just upped and left. And you were left confused and scared, fearing what had happened to the man you loved.

But it wasn’t long before you and your friends would get closure and answers to your many questions.

You had just gotten home from a late night shift, almost collapsing on your couch, still in your work uniform. You were so tired that you didn’t even turn on the light to your apartment. Instead you curled up on your couch, pulling out your phone, and opening your photo album. With a heavy heart, you scrolled through the pictures of you and your boyfriend. Your happy times together, kisses, hugs and all sorts of goofy pictures. Your heart ached, remembering each story behind every picture. His laugh and all the fun you had. Oh, how you missed him. What you wouldn’t do to get him back. To know that he was safe and to have him in your arms again. You missed him so much.

As you sat there, looking through all those happy pictures you had saved in your camera roll, you got a call from April. You looked at her name on your screen in confusion. It wasn’t typical for April to call you at this time of the night. So with a puzzled expression, you answered the call, asking April what was going on.

“Someone has entered the lair”, April said. “The alert Donnie installed on my phone just started blaring. Me and Casey are on our way down there”.

“I’m coming too”, you said, hurrying up from the couch, suddenly feeling very awake. “Don’t wait for me”, you said, as you started to put your shoes back on with one hand. “See what’s going on down there, and I’ll be right behind you”.

As you hurried out of the door, still putting on your jacket, your heart beating as fast as your running feet, carrying you down the street and directly towards the nearest subway station. During your train ride, you could not help but wonder what had entered the lair and triggered the alert. You hoped, with all of your soul, that it was something that could help you find your boyfriend, or at least let you know when you could see him again.

At your station, you ran from the train, out the station, headed directly towards Central Park. There, you made your way to the sewer that led directly down to the entrance of the lair. You lifted the manhole cover out of the way, before making your way down the metal ladder, closing off the hole behind you. Once at the bottom, your feet carried you through the tunnel, the sound of your feet echoing against the rounded walls, until you finally made it to the entrance of your boyfriend and his family's home. But then you heard something that made your heart halt momentarily, keeping you frozen in place. You heard Casey and April talking to someone. Calmly. Happily. And then you heard familiar voices. His voice…

You bolted into the lair, almost slipping on the floor when you entered the room. There you found April and Casey, talking with the turtles and Master Splinter, learning about where they had been for the past year. And there your eyes quickly landed on your boyfriend, resting on the couch between his brothers.

Your boyfriend stood the moment he saw you, everybody staying silent from the moment you bursted into the lair. For a moment the two of you just stood there, unable to believe your own eyes. But then, suddenly, both of you sprung into action, running to each other, throwing your arms around each other in a tight hug. A loud sup escaped you, the moment you felt him in your arms, burying your face against his strong shoulder, as he held you close, burying his beak against your hair, fighting to hold his own tears from falling.

He’s back. Your boyfriend is finally back in your arms, holding you as tightly as he did the night before he disappeared. He’s back, with many stories to tell after having missed you for a year, just like you had missed him.

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inbabylontheywept · 1 year ago

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That isn't a ship, it's a cannon with FTL

Aggral Thrawn’s gut was a grotesque thing to behold: Soft and distended, covered with a coarse layering of fur, a fat purple worm of a scar crossing over it’s almost spherical circumference. So vicious was the scar that even gazing upon it brought unwanted imagery of the fat ape-like creature screaming in pain, both arms working as a dam to keep the tidal wave of bloody guts from spilling out of its three-fingered fists

Yet, for all its grotesque horror, he trusted it. That same gut that had almost gotten him killed so many years before had worked hard to save him again and again after. It was what had brought him from mere gangpress, to quartermaster, all the way to the captain of his own pirate vessel.

And right now, it was telling him to call off the attack. The readings he was getting from the craft ahead made no sense. The crew space was too small, the energy readings were off the charts, and there was something almost military about it. Yet, as he looked over the hull, he couldn’t spot a single weapon. Nothing about it made sense.

The crew had enough in the larders to pass on a ship this sturdy. Even as ships on either side of him pulled forward, eager to be the first to raid the craft, he aborted the ram sequence to watch from a distance.

The crew was disappointed. It’d been too long since they’d had a good, solid fight, but they knew better than to second guess Aggral’s gut. It had earned its place as the ship’s oracle by rite of blood, and was to be respected accordingly.

---

There were only four crew aboard the USSN PMAC: Dalton Dial, in charge of weapon systems, Elizabeth Harris, in charge of navigation, and the Pratchett siblings, who worked together to keep the fifth generation fusion reactor that powered the whole abomination within some semblance of working order.

The Pratchett siblings’ love of the reactor (which they had affectionately named “Sun-Son”) was rivaled only by their hatred of the rest of the craft. Elizabeth and Dalton had more mixed feelings on the matter. Elizabeth considered the ship “Perhaps a little ridiculous on paper, but a work of military genius,” while Dalton lauded the idea as “Literally the coming of the Messiah, the only thing I prayed for my whole adulthood, and the answer to that prayer manifest, just for me, to bring me back to the flock.”

Their mixed feelings could be explained away just by describing the craft concept:

The PMAC was not a ship. It was the largest possible gun that could still be attached to an Alcubierre drive, with just enough manpower to steer, aim, and maintain the thing for long term patrols.

The prototype MAC that the life-support, thrusters, and reactor had been constructed around hadn’t even been built with space in mind. It was originally designed as a ground-to-orbit defense weapon. If it wasn’t for the capacitor bank the ship would’ve needed almost a minute between each shot to get enough power, even with the fifth generation reactor. Luckily, it could start out each battle with enough charge to fire off a salvo of four before needing to begin recharging for its next launch.

It had just such a salvo prepared for the pirate ambush that their military grade scanners had picked up minutes earlier.

Dalton was not taking the delay very well.

“With all due respect mam, I’ve had a lock on all three for almost a minute now. I could just fire and claim that I sneezed. The Pratchetts would back me up on this. Right guys?”

Emily Pratchett snorted.

“Why is it that when the weaponsmaster says ‘with all due respect’ he always means ‘fuck you for giving my stupidly giant gun blue balls?”

Thom Pratchett shrugged.

“Maybe he’d say it less if you weren’t so eager to translate it to the navigator for him.”

Elizabeth was slightly amused by the conversation. It was hard to keep things particularly formal while on a crew this small. Still, she was waiting for something. She’d gotten permission from the brass to take a new approach to fighting with the ship.

They’d proven it could win battles. Now, it was time to establish shock and awe. And as it currently stood, dead men told no tales.

Thus, they needed more living ones. And as she watched two pirate ships pull forward, with one hanging back, she knew just who’d live to pass on this particular legend. ---

Aggral watched the ships advance on his HUD, the blips crossing the thousands of kilometers between them and the strange ship in seconds. For a moment he felt regret. Was he making a mistake? Was this going to be what led to some upstart in the crew thinking they could do things better than him?

Then, the world went mad.

The power readings on the strange ship spiked. Hard. He’d thought that the baseline levels were outrageous, but they must’ve had some sort of absurd capacitor bank to expel that much energy that fast. The twin prongs that made up most of the length of the ship gave off some sort of EMP that fried the electronics of the Viscera, his sister ship, cutting off their radio traffic. His crew scrambled to find some way to regain contact when Gods of the Dead, forgive me my sins, and and forget me my debts, the actual weapon went off. The EMP hadn’t even been the attack, it had just been a side effect.

He hadn’t seen a weapon because he’d been looking for one on the hull, some kind of guardian laser, or a missile pod. He hadn’t even conceived that the whole goddamn vehicle could be the weapon. But what kind of weapon would charge up like that? A laser would just fire over a sustained period. What would need a burst like-

He stopped midthought as it hit him: A railgun.

He stopped again as it hit them: The kinetic charge would have to have been moving at almost 0.8c for it to just ignore the evasive maneuvers like that. The ferroslug itself wasn’t detected by any of their defense measures aboard, but the thermal readings of the Viscera made every infared sensor aboard scream in horror. Contact with whatever slug had hit it must’ve reduced the whole thing to plasma. It was almost inconceivable.

He was already screaming out the full retreat call when the ship fired twice in rapid succession at the Rictus, which was still recovering from what had just happened to its partner. The first shot was dead through the center. The second hit some target a few dozen meters off to the side.

A direct hit on an escape pod. Apparently, the captain had tried to save himself. Even in the mortal terror that he felt at that moment, Aggral could take a grim satisfaction at that second shot. To leave all the men that followed you to their deaths was a cowardice that he could not bear to consider. He would rather die.

And now, he was going to. Jump was fifteen seconds away, and the console was telling him that the ship was pinged. They knew where he was, they had him in their crosshairs, and they were going to pull the trigger.

He traced a finger over the purple scar absentmindedly. This was it. He’d been living on borrowed time since that first wound, and now he was to meet his ancestors.

He was ready.

---

Dalton was wincing, even as he maintained his ping on the ship. He knew that Elizabeth was just doing her job, but even by his admittedly bloodthirsty standards, there was something fucked up about keeping a ship in ping like this. It was like forcing someone to look you in the eyes before you slit their throat. Way too personal for his tastes.

Elizabeth was keeping an eye on the craft, making sure that no escape pods were jettisoning. Part of her was hoping that some would, but whatever other faults these pirates had, they were loyal to each other at least. As the ultraviolet scanners gave the telltale flair of redshift, she told Dalton to turn off the ping.

To say he was relieved was an understatement. In the middle of a firefight, he couldn’t question Elizabeth’s orders, but for the first time in a long time, he’d been afraid to pull the trigger. Now he didn’t have to.

He almost slid out of his chair as he asked the question that had been on his mind since the engagement began.

“Mam, what the hell was that?”

Elizabeth smiled warmly at her very surprised crew even as her words came out, cold as ice.

“A message.”

---

Thanks for reading this far! I'm moving my previous works from reddit to here. If you follow me, more will come. If you're impatient, you can skip to the source and read things at https://www.reddit.com/user/InBabylonTheyWept/

#humanity fuck yeah #hfy #humans are space orcs #scifi #humans are space oddities #this was the first story I wrote for the HFY subreddit #I am terrible at writing names so I just steal them #space pirates #bfg #Big Fucking Gun #science fiction #Babylon-HFY #Babylon-TopPick

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kamatha · 1 year ago

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I love the idea of leafling scars!! Such a cool idea but I’ve never seen anyone draw anything life that! Maybe I’m biased because I like Bernard.

Had this idea brewing since the game came out and there are SO many ways it could be applied to imply extra stories for Bernard and the castaways! I have no idea when else I'll be able to talk about this in length so thank you for sending this I can finally ramble!!!

To summarize:

Cured castaways are left with vine stitches that protect and keep together any internal or external injuries (may or may not disappear once the injury is fully healed)

The pikmin parasite potencially focuses on the head to control the host

The longer they're a leafling the more vibrant the hue left on the skin is. (I wasn't sure how much of a tomato Olimar would be)

Flowers can bloom in their leafy coats

Despite being brought into the same Onion they have different types of leaves/vines/flowers

I left it ambiguous whether or not castaways are still being healed after they've been turned into leaflings

Other info and ideas I didn't include:

A lot of times the plant grown will be poisonous ie. a yellow leafling grows buttercups. This is to protect them from predators.

Marks resembiling their leafling eyes might be visible on their corneas

Drinking nectar gives them a similar effect to the pikmin; blooming flower, faster speed (maybe strength? forgot if that's boosted), they also get "extra lives" but their pain receptors are more sensitive than the pikmin so they get temporarilly incapacitated for longer

Keeping it ambiguous if castaways are straight up revived from the dead or need to be brought in while they're still hanging on (there's so much story potential if theres a time limit tho!)

They might be able to use the vines as a second limb (I accidentally drew Olimar's vine too low so he probably has a vine tail now)

Dunno if I did Yonny's speech pattern justice here (still experimenting) but-

I REALLY wished we could've gotten notes from Yonny about this since he got to see them up close. And dang it I'm really curious about how the leaflings work, I get that they're all dandori n stuff but what if the pink ones can fly or the purple ones are stronger. Maybe all of them except blue leaflings get hurt by water.

So many questions and no answers, and so much design and story potential!!!

I cut the image in case tumblr's compression kicks me.

This was a pretty fun way to start drawing the castaways too. Now I'm really tempted to draw everyone's leafling forms (I may have already picked flowers for the rescue corps team based on their symbolism)

#pikmin 4 #pikmin 4 spoilers #yonny pikmin #bernard pikmin #fan art #captain olimar #leafling #castaway #kamatha answers

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somewhere-south-of-neutral · 3 months ago

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This is a post that I’ve been planning on making for well over a year, but have been putting off repeatedly. Tomorrow, I start my final semester of undergraduate education, however, and I want to go into it as the most myself me I can be. So, to quote the great Rav Hillel, “If I am not for myself, who is for me? [...] If not now, when?”. But first, some backstory.

When I was like two or three, I saw my sister and mother painting their nails and, naturally, I wanted to join them. Apparently, I asked for my polish to be purple, still my favorite color, and my mom is genuinely still proud of the fact that I painted my own toes, apparently very well, at the tender age of not-quite-three. The next day, I went into preschool, and when my preschool teacher saw my toes, she asked me who painted them. I, of course, proudly exclaimed that I had done it myself.

She then proceeded to gruffly explain to me that I was not allowed to have painted toes, because little boys aren't allowed to paint their nails, and I was a little boy. When I got home, I asked my mom why she let me paint my nails even though I was a little boy and therefore not allowed.

My mom, who I imagine was as close to genuinely desiring that preschool teacher’s death as she ever has been of anyone’s, before calling the school to ask “what the hell?”, did her best to explain to me that the teacher was wrong. She tried to explain that nail polish, and other nice things in that category, are for EVERYONE, boy or girl. But it was too late, the damage was done.

In the over twenty years since, I never wore nail polish, even when asked if I wanted to join. My parents were successful in instilling in me a deep suspicion of the general idea that some things are “for girls” and others are “for boys”, but I could never apply that suspicion to myself. Sometimes, when you are queer and neurodivergent and learning to mask, you get your wires crossed. Over time, despite my disregard for gender conformity in others, I became deeply uncomfortable with the idea of myself not conforming to a certain degree of gender presentation.

Boys don’t paint their nails, so mine remained bare.

Boys don’t wear bright colors and patterns, so I am most comfortable wearing grays and blacks and monotone clothing.

Boys don’t show strong emotion, so I maintain an air of stoicism.

Boys don’t cry, so, to this day, even alone, I have trouble letting myself just cry.

The fact that, despite living in a house where all of these stereotypes were actively discouraged, I internalized them all says something about how pervasive they are in our society.

In second grade, I was very close friends with several of the girls in my class, until the whispers developed into a new internal Rule that (straight) Boys don’t hang out with girls unless they have a Crush. I didn’t have a Crush, so I stopped hanging out with them, because that was the Rule.

I didn’t have many friends in elementary and middle school.

By high school, I had somewhat gotten over that rule. Most of my small friend group was female. That said, I still made sure not to show undue affection, lest anyone think, God forbid, that I was experiencing and/or acting on physical attraction, like some sort of CREEP.

Then, like two or three years ago (I honestly have zero sense of time at this point) I learned about, realized that I was, and came out as aromantic and asexual. It unlocked something in me. I started saying "I love you" to and hugging my friends (male and female). Realizing that I wasn’t straight let me let go of some of the internalized rules about things that I felt I had to conform to as a straight man, because it turns out I wasn’t. It also let me start thinking about gender.

I increasingly realized that I didn’t feel super connected to my masculinity. It was just sort of… there. Finally, (reading The Murderbot Diaries helped) it finally cracked and I decided that I didn’t actually need a gender anyway… and then I didn’t do anything about it for an entire year. But now I’m ready to say it:

Hi! I’m agender. I use any pronouns. I am not a boy, and that means I’m allowed to do things that boys don’t do.

Do you like my nails?

#for those who know me IRL I am not changing my name #It's supposed to be the agender flag but I forgot that hands don't have seven fingers #feel free to reblog if you want #coming out #agender #queer #long post

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wen-kexing-apologist · 4 months ago

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Bengiyo's Queer Cinema Syllabus

For those of you who don’t know, I decided to run the gauntlet of @bengiyo’s queer cinema syllabus, which is comprised of 9 units. I have completed four of the units (here is my queer cinema syllabus round up post with all the films I’ve watched and written about so far). It is time for me to make my way through Unit 5- Lesbians, which includes the following films: The Incredibly True Adventure of Two Girls in Love (1995), Bound (1996), Water Lilies (2007), Saving Face (2004), D.E.B.S. (2004), Set It Off (1996), The Handmaiden (2016), Carol (2015), Imagine Me and You (2005), Two of Us (2019), Rafiki (2018), and The Color Purple (1985).

Today I will be talking about

The Incredibly True Adventure of Two Girls in Love (1995) dir. Maria Maggenti

[Runtime: 1:34 , Watched on: Netflix, Language: English]

Summary: Randy cuts class to run her aunt’s gas station. Evie’s the popular girl at school. When the two meet, they discover love, trouble- and themselves.

Cast: - Laurel Holloman as Randy Dean - Nicole Ari Parker as Evie Roy

Well, the Lesbians unit is already off to a great start with this film. Watching this movie was oh so very much fun and I am very happy that we were getting movies with this many sapphics in it, it’s a rare treat, at least on my end.

It was a very interesting piece of media to start with after Heartbreak Alley because nothing too terrible happens in the movie itself, but the film is not a bubble type of film where homophobia and the consequences of being queer don’t exist. Randy and her family were especially impacted by it, we are just tuning in to a time in their life where they’ve come out the other end of the truly terrible life moments.

So when Evie shows up, wealthy, sheltered (at least from the consequences of being queer), and initially unaware of her own sexuality we get to see all the ways in which Evie can be brave because she doesn’t know any better and Randy can be brave because she does know what can happen and tries anyway. It’s taking me back through the Race, Class, and Disability unit a little bit in the way the movie shows all the freedoms and restraints that come with Evie and Randy’s respective positionalities in the world.

Evie isn’t scared of holding Randy’s hand at the diner because she doesn’t believe that someone would beat them up for it. Randy has just gotten over the initial fear of holding hands with a girl she likes in public when the waitress comes over and interrupts the moment and Evie has to be the one to make the second attempt at holding hands in public at the diner.

I love the little nods towards that line, the way that Randy wears her Act Up shirts to school and people are able to clock her, but she still tells Evie that she was seeing a married woman, and Randy sees that as coming out to someone (which it is) and Randy tells her aunts that she came out to someone at school and is congratulated for it because you never really stop coming out and it can be a big deal or a small one every single time.

Randy’s only friend is Frank, another queer kid at school, and Evie’s got three friends we see her with most of the time who are all straight women generally uncomfortable with Randy as a person and especially grossed out by the thought of Evie and Randy hanging out, much less dating/being in love with each other. I was definitely worried initially when Evie’s friends started talking about Randy that she would get quiet, or relent, or play along with her friend group. I have to say that was probably one of my most favorite parts of the film, that Evie didn’t do that. Evie spoke up against her friends, she defended Randy time and time again, and maybe it’s the sheltered aspects of her life that allow her to just come right out and tell her friends, after they were already being so homophobic, that she was in love with Randy and they could simply stop being friends with her if they had a problem with that.

And in fact, Evie’s friends do walk away, and Evie is left alone in a diner because she told her friends she loved a woman. And she’s allowed to be upset about that, and Randy is also allowed to be like “yeah, I could have told you that” about it because, again, she knows all that there is to lose by being out and clockable.

You can see it in the way she handles conflict, that Ari presses her against the wall, and grabs her by the scruff of her shirt, and threatens to kill her for seeing his wife, and while it is hilarious that Regina is just standing there unfazed, hitting him with a fly swatter until he lets go, Randy just standing there with her neck red from being assaulted, holds popsicles to her neck and immediately lies to Evie about what she just experienced. In fact, if I recall correctly, Randy never once breathes a word of that encounter to Evie, even though they are a couple, and Evie cares about Randy. But why would you tell the freshly minted queer you were preoccupied with being threatened for your entanglement with another man’s wife?

There were lots of little things that I loved about this movie, especially as they related to the home. That Evie is there in a big house, with just her mother, refusing to talk about her feelings around her father in a relatively silent house cutting straight to the cramped, overcrowded kitchen with four lesbians wriggling around each other trying to get dinner on the table. I love the camera work around Lena when the camera pans slowly down her entire body, when the only thing in frame is essentially just Lena’s tits bouncing around as she does boxing moves. And my absolute favorite, the tops of heads we see passing back and forth and back and forth while Randy and Evie stand perfectly still, holding hands, and talking to Randy’s family the first time that Evie meets them.

gif by @roseillith

I love that they let Randy’s aunts argue about a very present concern (their differing feelings about having Lena in their house) and that that argument is not the be-all-end-all of their relationship. I love that Randy’s biggest issue is not that she is queer, but that she likely will not be able to graduate highschool. I love that Evie’s biggest issue is also not that she is queer, she does not struggle at all with her queer awakening, and that the biggest problem her mother seems to be having is that she left the house a mess when unsupervised for a few days. Which is not to say that her mother will not struggle with the sexuality aspect of it, but that I don’t get a sense that Evie will be kicked out of the house or need to flee it the way that Randy absolutely did when she came to live with her aunt.

Their issues feel very high school, and their romance, and all the drama around it feels very high school, and I think the movie did a good job conveying the messy, shitty, dramatic bullshit we put our families through as teenagers.

Favorite Moment

My absolute favorite moment, hands down, by miles in the film is the fight between Randy’s aunts. And this may end up resulting in essentially two favorite quotes being put down in this post, but I just have to talk about the conversation that Rebecca and Vicky have over an ex-girlfriend that has been staying with them after breaking up with her boyfriend.

I love that this fight has a number of layers to it: one, that Lena is an ex-girlfriend of one part of the lesbian couple and that can definitely wear down some patience from the current partner; two, that they are raising a child that isn’t their own and are adding an additional stressor on top; three, that they do not have the money to really swing another long-term guest; and four, the difference in their life history as queer people is majorly informing the perception of how this is going.

We don’t have only messy lesbians, we have a long-term, established relationship between two people who are doing the thing where they make continuous and active choices to stay together and are talking about the things that are causing tension in their household to try to reach some level of compromise. They are allowed to fight without me having to worry that they are going to try to throw some break up between the adults in Randy’s life into the mix.

This film came out before gay marriage was legal in the United States, but I love that we can understand the depth of the commitment Rebecca and Vicky made to one another, in whatever version of a partnership they have created for themselves with one of the most incredible lines of the film:

Rebecca: “I made a vow that my house would always be open to the people I love. You and I both took that vow when we moved in together. I needed it when I was young. Randy needed it when she moved in with us. Even you needed that once.” Vicky: “No I didn’t.” Rebecca: “No, I guess you didn’t.”

I love the quote because it does speak to the queer experience, my housemate and I are both queer, and we have tried our hardest to make sure that our other queer friends know that our door is open if they need it. We know Randy has been disowned by her mother, we know her aunt must have been raised in some level of similar environment, and it is understandable from Rebecca’s point of view that she and Vicky remain a support and safe haven for wayward queers forever. And how that viewpoint builds on Vicky’s problems with Lena staying with them instead of Lena going home to her mother to get over the break-up. Because if Vicky never had the experiences that Rebecca and Randy had of having nowhere else to go, then I can totally see how it might be harder for her to understand why Lena is staying with them and has been staying for so long.

And I like that Lena is still there at the end of the movie, which indicates to me that Rebecca won that argument and Vicky is at least continuing to tolerate the newest addition to their little queer family.

Favorite Quote

“I don’t want to shock you or anything but I really wanna hold your hand right now. I’ve wanted to hold your hand all day.” // “I’ve held hands with a girl before.” // “Girls like me?” // “I guess not. But what could happen?” // “We’d get the shit beat out of us, that’s all.” // “Just for holding hands? I don’t believe that.” // “God Evie, you are so sheltered.” // “Unshelter me.”

I like that Evie can be brave in this moment expressly because she does not understand what she is putting on the line by being queer in public. But she is turning 18 soon, and she is heading off to college, and she cannot be protected forever, especially not if she wants to be herself, and if she understands her queerness and wants that to be an active part of her life that she doesn’t have to hide, she will learn eventually. And she does, she tells her friends if they have a problem with her being in love with Randy that they can leave. And they do. And if you ask me there is a part of Evie that is saying that only because she doesn’t think they actually will, and that she is surprised when they actually do get up and go. But she pays the price and she is sad about it, but not remorseful. Never remorseful about being open with the people that she cares about and losing them as a result.

Score

8/10. I was not a huge fan of the acting in a lot of this, and the script was not the strongest. But there were some really great moments that felt so true to form and I am endlessly glad that this film exists.

#bengiyo queer cinema syllabus #queer cinema syllabus #the incredibly true adventure of two girls in love #the incredibly true adventure of two girls in love (1995)#unit 5: lesbians

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brittle-doughie · 2 years ago

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Downstream: Part 1 (Affogato Cookie)

Here it is lads. I actually had a bunch of ideas from my own and from asks that I’ve wanted to implement, but didn’t want to keep you folks waiting, so I’ll split it into two parts. Thanks a lot for 570+ followers, lads. That’s a lot of peeps following me!

WHAM!

A cookie had struck a bandit in the back with their staff, causing them to yell out in pain before they tumbled into the snow, too battered to get up and fight again, joining the other members of the gang who had also been laying in the snow, too exhausted and hurt to get up either. The cookie with the staff chuckled to themself as they adjusted the scarf covering their face.

Hehe, I should’ve expected cookies who go after defenseless villagers to barely put up a fight, I barely worked up a sweat! Even the sparring matches back at the kingdom offered more of a challenge than this! Anyways, that will teach you to pick on innocent cookies again, just remember me the next time you do.

A bandit rose weakly from the snow behind the cookie, a blade clutched in their hand. Angry at your prideful boasting, they quietly moved in, readying their weapon. Once close enough, they made a sprint towards you, ready to jab you through the chest.

But then…the bandit stopped and began to cough harshly. The air around them now decorated with a purple tint as they fell to their knees.

“Ah ah ah, not so fast.”

A smooth voice called out as the bandit fell into the snow and into unconsciousness. The cookie with the staff turning around to see the knocked out bandit and the cookie responsible for it.

Affogato Cookie, having my back like always.

“You’d think I’d let anyone lay a hand on my savior?”

Just make sure you aren’t actually crumbling the guy, will you?

“At your command.”

Affogato lifted the poisonous curse from the now shivering bandit, who takes the opportunity to flee along with their brethren who had also quickly gotten up and ran in terror.

And don’t come back now, you hear me! Or I’m going to have to go all serious on you! Hehe.

“Is it wise to let them run? I wouldn’t want them to start more trouble for you, Y/N Cookie.”

If I don’t get to them first, it would be the Dark Cacao Kingdom that does.

Affogato and Y/N Cookie chuckle with each other, but that did leave Affogato with a question.

Now that…Dark Cacao Cookie retook the throne…did he plan on tracking down Y/N Cookie?

If so….how long would it be until Affogato would have to tell Y/N Cookie on what really happened back there?

That he was indirectly responsible for Y/N’s banishment?

That he was the one to betray Dark Cacao Cookie and claim the throne?

Affogato knew Y/N Cookie still held a level of respect for Dark Cacao Cookie, what would you say if you found out about this?

Would Y/N hate him? Would they throw him out into the snow to freeze? Would they personally crumble him for his crimes against the kingdom?

Would you still like him despite all of that?

A voice interrupted his thoughts, it was one of the villagers approaching the duo.

“Our village would like to thank you both for your help, those bandits would’ve certainly stolen all of what we had if it hadn't been for you two. For that, we thank you, Cookie of the Ridge, and your loyal companion, Affogato Cookie.”

Of course, it’s your duty to protect those who cannot protect themselves. You couldn’t stand by and allow miscreants to go about as they please and take from innocents. Too many tribes and their villages have fallen, you didn’t want to see another to suffer the same fates.

“Y-yes, it’s a pleasure to help those in need. If there’s no more problems, we must get going.”

“No no, we insist on rewarding you kind cookies. Care to join us for a feast? It would be an honor to host two brave warriors that helped save our village.”

Oh come on, Affogato. One feast shouldn’t hurt, besides fighting those bandits did work up your appetite.

“Please, right this way, honorable cookies.”

Affogato could only sigh in acceptance as he followed after Y/N Cookie.

Crumbs, those thoughts in his head before made him paranoid now. The last thing he wanted were Cacao warriors stumbling across this village and finding them there.

Now that Dark Cacao Cookie was back on the throne, it won’t be long before he sends out patrols to nearby villages and knowing your reputation, he’ll snap at any chance of finding you.

Especially one loathsome cookie in particular, the obsessive pest of the Dark Cacao Kingdom, Caramel Arrow Cookie.

She’d never let go once she’s gotten to you, Affogato will not allow this and the Kingdom to get in the way between Y/N Cookie and himself.

—————————————————————————————————————

The sounds of the throne doors open as Caramel Arrow Cookie hurried in, looking upon Dark Cacao Cookie sitting on his throne another status report at the ready. She saluted him.

“First Watcher, report.”

“With the improving conditions on the Wall, we’re able to send out Watchers to the nearby villages for support. Try as they might, but the roving bandit groups are no match for the might of the Dark Cacao warriors!”

“Good. Has there…been any leads on the search?”

“Yes, my King! The villagers have mentioned the Cookie of the Ridge coming to their aid in the past, which means Y/N Cookie is still out there somewhere! Not only that, we’ve collected hidden traps located in the woods, we can only hope this will lead us right to them.”

“Continue this lead. Do not let up, this may be our only chance of finding them!”

“At once, my King! When I return, it’s going to be me and Y/N Cookie coming through the gates, I promise!”

Caramel Arrow Cookie hurried out the doors and through the gates as she ventured into the snowy wilderness.

Dark Cacao sighed as he gazed down to the floor, pondering. He remembered the time when you first joined the Dark Cacao Kingdom, Y/N Cookie was a lonesome wanderer who had a semblance of skill in combat. His Watchers would vouch for their combat ability when they witnessed them help fend off a horde of licorice monsters.

He saw their potential and took them back to the kingdom. There were bumps in the road like Y/N’s lighthearted and kind nature contrasting his more serious one, but even he started to appreciate those flaws now. He knew a cookie that definitely grew attached to your demeanor and that was the First Watcher!

Ever since the first training session with bows, you two had been attached to each other ever since. When those two weren’t separated by their duties, Y/N and Caramel would often be seen together, talking about tactics and weapons.

Dark Cacao chuckled to himself a little when he remembered how Caramel was so excited when you finally reached the title of the Eighth Watcher.

Caramel Arrow couldn’t have been happier since that day, hugging them tightly as they were honored with the title. Dark Cacao will admit that he smiled a little at the display, how close the two of them were.

It only made sense that she was extremely hurt when he banished Y/N Cookie, Caramel couldn’t focus for days on end, preferred to work alone, and would return to Y/N’s quarters instead of her own. It took a long time before she was able to return to any form of normal, even then, she still has her moments of sorrow.

So the possibility of Y/N Cookie remaining in the wilderness gave Caramel hope, she won’t stop looking until she finds them. It makes Dark Cacao think to himself.

He will admit that he was quick to banish them in the first place, as he did with Caramel as well. Y/N Cookie would never do anything to betray the kingdom, it didn’t seem like them to do that. But the poisonous words of that worm and his disciples, he shouldn’t have listened to them. He should’ve trusted his own judgment, he should’ve told Y/N Cookie to stay.

And yet, he told them to leave. He watched them go….the Watchers saw them go. He saw the devastated Caramel Arrow at the gate, she watched them go.

Not anymore.

He won’t allow these mistakes to linger any longer. And it started with getting Caramel Arrow back into the castle. Then it was getting the Wall under control. Once he was sure construction was underway, then the plan to locate Y/N Cookie was to be underway. The Watchers couldn’t be more eager to get out there and find them, helping the villages as well, with Caramel leading the way.

It was only a matter of time before they could locate them.

And when they do, they’re taking Y/N Cookie back with them. To become the Eighth Watcher again, just like before.

So the kingdom and Y/N Cookie can be together again…

#cookie run x reader #cookie run x you #cr x reader #crk x reader #cookie run kingdom x reader #cookie run #cookie run kingdom #fanfic #cr kingdom #affogato disciple #affogato cookie x reader #affogato cookie #caramel arrow cookie #cookie run kingdom fanfic #crk fanfic #male x reader #dark cacao crk #dark cacao cookie

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hazelfoureyes · 9 months ago

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Someone nice, Somewhere safe

Angel x Virgin Male Reader

જ⁀➴ Angel x Virgin Female Reader - Someone nice, Somewhere safe*

*same story, just your bits and bobbles are changed

You let it slip to the group you were a virgin, and instead of laughing, Angel grabs you before bed to offer a friendly hand.

minor dni (shoo! get outta here! Go on, git! 🧹)

You thought everyone would laugh when you said you were a virgin. The group awe’d and said it was cute, which was definitely better than the response you’d gotten in the overworld. But when Angel made a joke that your toys must be worn to the base, you felt the need to clarify. Total virgin, never used toys or your hands for, you cringed, penetration. Everyone just looked… sad? The conversation was quickly derailed by Angel launching into a list of wildest orgasm faces he’s seen, Charlie leaving the room entirely.