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eomayas · 7 months ago

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crawling back to you • ljh

pairing: producer!woozi x f!reader, exes2l

genre: smut 18+ MINORS DNI!!!! angst & fluff

synopsis: reader sees her ex boyfriend for the first time after avoiding him for months, and they realize just how much they miss each other

warnings: p in v, fingering, unprotected s*x (reader takes BC), praise, dirty talk, groveling, drinking, they’re at a club

a/n: eeeek sorry i’ve been MIA! i hope u like this. unedited. excuse any plot inconsistencies i started this weeks ago. will be finishing up reqs soon!!

music blares through the club speakers and bodies fill up what feels like every square inch of space available. your drink sloshes in your cup when a club-goer collides with your shoulder, a drunken “sorry” thrown your way as they stagger off. luckily, nothing spills on you and you got an apology.

walking up the stairs to the section your friends got, doubt and anxiety creep around the corners of your brain, the cage of butterflies in your stomach ready to be released. here’s the thing: your ex is up in this section, here because this night is partially about him and partially because your friends guilt tripped him into coming. otherwise, you know he wouldn’t be here. you also wouldn’t be here, if not for being tired of skipping out of fun activities just to avoid him. it’s tiring making up excuses as to why you can’t go to something whenever you catch wind of him being invited as well.

that’s really the problem with your breakup; you shared a group of friends. they all vowed to not get involved, staying true to their word on being impartial, though sometimes you wish they’d show favoritism and not invite him to things, just for your sake.

tonight, you’re here because you’re tired of being tired, tired of being afraid of running into him. you even stopped frequenting the places you used to go together because of the mere threat of possibly running into him. you’re tired of it.

also, you came because you knew he’d be here. not that that matters, or anything.

stepping into the section, you take a sip of your drink to calm yourself, before you’re spotted by soonyoung who waves at you enthusiastically. “y/n! you came!” he cries, jumping up from the couch and nearly tackling you in a hug. he hugs you around the shoulders and squeezes you tightly, and you can smell the alcohol wafting from his breath. “i’m so happy you’re here!” he slurs, and you wonder how many drinks he’s had.

when he releases you, you can’t help but return the toothy smile he gives you. “me too,” you say, though you’re not really sure yet. placing a hand on his cheek, you gently pat him. “youre drunk.” you declare, giggling when he smiles proudly.

out of all of the friends you shared with jihoon, you got the closest to soonyoung. probably because he was always around, but his personality is infectious and he’s just overall a good time. it sucked when you and jihoon broke up because you saw less of him until he reached out a few weeks after to reassure you that he wasn’t ‘picking sides’, but was trying to be there for his friend. you understood, but you needed a friend too.

you and soonyoung release each other, and he grabs your hand and begins to drag you over to where he’s sitting. knowing how close him and jihoon are, you relent and try to pull yourself back. “no, hosh, i don’t think it’s a good idea,” you start to panic, eyes frantically scanning the section for any sign of him.

“nooo, he’s not even sitting with me!” he pouts, rolling his eyes. you furrow your eyebrows at him, and he sighs, gnawing on his lip like you’re goin to hate what he’s about to say. clearing his throat, he says, “he’s made a friend.”

you ignore the pang in your chest and swallow down the lump in your throat. everything in you stops you from whipping your head around in search of him and this new found friend of his. shrugging your shoulders, you attempt to act nonchalant and like you don’t care, but soonyoung sees right through your facade. “good for him,” you say, but it comes out like fuck you.

“let’s drink.”

tipsy, not drunk. that’s your goal for tonight, and you’re dangerously on the verge of approaching drunk, the shot glass in front of you tempting. jeonghan raises his eyebrows at you from across the table, his shot glass hovering in the air. you eye the cup full of liquor, stomach roiling at the thought of taking even a sip. with resignation, you shake your head at last and lean back against the couch, a collective groan and pleading coming from your friends.

“cmonnnnnnn!” they say in unison, making you cover your face and shrink against the cushion.

“this is peer pressure, you know,” you say, pulling your hands from your face and looking at the shot glass. it’s practically calling your name (or maybe it’s seungcheol complaining at you), waiting for you to drink it. “nah, guys, i’m tapping out.” you declare.

“i’ll drink it,” wonwoo says, reaching across the table and grabbing your shot. he clinks both of the drinks in his hands against everybody else’s before downing one after the other. you watch in astonishment, feeling slightly nauseous for him, and a drink is placed in front of you on the table.

“water,” soonyoung says before you can question him, and sets a few more glasses down. somehow, despite his drunken state earlier, he’s managed to sober up as you drank more and more, despite it being his idea to keep on drinking.

you thank him and immediately grab the glass and begin chugging, not realizing how dehydrated you are.

“can i cut in?” you freeze, nearly choking on your water, and pray to the heavens that that voice doesn’t belong to who you are 101% sure it belongs to. you’ll never not know that voice, never not hear it ringing through your head when you watch a tv show you both liked or walk by your favorite restaurants. all the blood in your body rushes to your face, cheeks and neck burning red.

sliding your eyes from the table in front of you and up to the voice, it’s like your brain is wiped of every thought in your head and your senses are working over time. suddenly the music feels too loud, and the lights too bright, and your dress too tight. jihoon is looking down at you, chewing on his bottom lip nervously—a habit he’d never been able to shake.

you realize much too late that he’s waiting for an answer from you, being under his gaze after so long of even seeing him making your brain work extra hard to process anything. jihoon stands above you, looking sexier than ever in all black with hair pulled back, a few loose strands framing his face. you nod choppily, hands clutching your water glass so hard that it might break from the pressure.

everyone at the table magically disappears after that, soonyoung vanishing from your side the moment you tipped your chin up. the only sign of anyone else having been sat around you are the empty glasses littered across the table.

jihoon takes a seat next to you on the couch, not so subtly wiping his palms on his pants. “are you gonna throw that at me?” he says as a greeting, nodding down at the glass in your hands.

at that, your grip loosens and you set the drink on the table, wiping the condensation from the glass on your dress. “no,” you reply, meeting his eyes. jihoons face softens when you look at him, and you wish you didn’t notice it because you feel your heart break in your chest.

“hi,” he says.

“hi.”

there’s a gap of space between the two of you, wide enough for another person to sit. you want to scoot closer and simultaneously scoot away from him, but stay planted where you’re at. “how’ve you been? it’s good to see you, y/n,” his voice is sincere, and it makes you feel confused, and like you miss him. because you do—it’s why you’re here.

you nod, nervously sliding your hands underneath your legs. “good. it’s nice to see you too,” you reply, and you wonder if this is how the night is going to go; you agreeing with and repeating whatever he says. “how are you?”

jihoon mirrors your anxious over-nodding. “good! just been working.”

“sounds like you,” you offer, earning a smile from him that shoots straight to your chest, followed by a ripple of sadness. work. the one thing you couldn’t compete with, so you never tried. and because you never tried, you were always second. second to the music, second to the studio, second to everything you let him put above you.

sensing your discomfort at the mention of the thing that drove a wedge between the two of you, jihoon scrambles to change the subject. work is his fault, but music is something he could never give up. music is his passion, it’s his calling and his purpose in this life. he blames the hours, not the thing. “i’ve been meaning to call you, but i was trying to give you space,” he says.

you nearly scoff in his face because if anything, space was the last thing you needed or wanted from him. you wanted time, but certainly not space. he gave you enough of that while you were together. space is what you got when you allowed yourself to be second. you can only hum at his words, a proper response lost on you.

“i miss you.”

those three words echo through your skull and bounce around the corners before they land squarely in the front. i miss you. somebody had to say it first.

“you don’t show it,” you murmur, looking down at the floor. you’re acutely aware of how much space is between you when the gap lessens, his thighs centimeters from your own in an instant.

“hm? i couldn’t hear you,” his mouth is very near your ear, leaving you no space if you were to turn your head to look at him. you go to lean back against the couch to put some distance between the two of you, but collide with his arm that is strewn over the back of it.

a surge of nerves runs through your body. finding a new sense of boldness, you scoot away from him and turn towards him, looking him square in the eye. “i said, you don’t show it,” jihoon blinks at you, mulling over your words.

“i don’t show it?” he asks, leaning in. you shake your head, your eyes never leaving his. jihoon brings a hand up to rub his bottom lip. those lips. your eyes drag down to rest upon the soft, pink lips that adorn his face. you fight the urge to trace his bottom lip with your thumb, grateful for the darkness of the club because your face is on fire. “well, it’s true though. i miss you.”

in place of a response, you pick up your water glass and chug the rest. you can feel him watching you, his eyes burning right through you. it’s bad enough that you’ve been craving his presence ever since you called things off with him, but having him this close so soon wasn’t exactly as easy as you dreamed it to be. you’re hot under his gaze, and the water is doing nothing to cool you down.

“you don’t act like it. you didn’t even call,” and maybe it’s the alcohol talking, or you’re simply feeling extra bold but you can’t stop the words from tumbling out of your mouth.

jihoon works his jaw and pushes a few strands of hair out of his face. “i didn’t think you wanted to hear from me.”

“i’ll always want to hear from you.”

at your admission, jihoon leans back against the couch cushion, teeth running over his bottom lip. your gaze lingers on his lips for a brief moment, long enough for jihoon to catch. he shifts against the couch, and you let your thoughts get the best of you and rake your eyes over his figure, shamelessly eyeing his lap. his legs are outstretched in front of him, slightly bent at the knee and fallen open wide.

it’s been months since you’ve had sex, jihoon being your last. you’ve managed to take care of yourself, though you miss feeling full. jihoon watches you drink him in, hand curling around the back of the couch. “are you seeing anyone?” he asks, leaning forward slightly. you shake your head, looking at him pointedly. you don’t have the strength to ask him back, brain taking you back to what soonyoung said earlier. a friend. clearly, there’s something there.

he’s watching you again, and this time you don’t have anything to preoccupy yourself with under his gaze. “congratulations, by the way,” you blurt embarrassingly, trying to find something else to talk about. jihoon blinks a few times, like he’s trying to figure out why you’re congratulating him for anything. “on your music. tonight is for you, isn’t it?”

“oh. thanks. and no, it’s not for me. they just needed an excuse to go out,” he says, brushing the stray strand of hair out of his eyes. you follow the movement and let out a small sigh, hands holding onto your knees.

jihoon leans forward and rests his elbows atop his knees. his face is close to yours, mere inches away. if you leaned in towards him, your lips would brush, and you hate how aware of it you are. you should hate him, shouldn’t want to see him, and certainly shouldn’t be imagining kissing him right now. you left him. but he marked the end of your relationship.

a zing of heat spreads through your chest as you look him in the eye. the club feels too dark, too hot, too loud, and jihoon too close to you. “i need some air,” you rush, standing up on wobbly knees. you pull the hem of your dress down, making the mistake of looking down at jihoon. he stares up at you, his eyes wide as they drag up your legs. when his gaze settles on your face, his lips part and his to the darts out to lick the corner of his mouth.

you swallow the newly formed lump in your mouth and make your way towards the stairs and hobble down, hand gripping tightly to the railing. you manage to make it down the flight of stairs without embarrassing yourself and push past people to get to the exit, outside calling your name like a siren. “y/n!” or maybe it’s literally your ex calling out to you.

jihoon is right on your heels, looking a little stressed as you round the corner around the side of the club. you suck in some air and look over at him, a breeze blowing his hair out of place again. “what?”

he holds his arms out to the side for a brief moment before dropping them at his sides. “i don’t know. i don’t know what to say, i just…” he trails off with a light shake of his head, wiping around his mouth. you just stare at him, bottom lip tucked under your top lip. “i just want to talk to you, i guess. i don’t know. i miss you.” he says for the third time tonight.

you only hum, looking up at the inky black sky. you hear his shoes scuff against the pavement, and then he’s right at your side, shoving his hands into his pockets and rocking onto his heels. “i’d do it differently, if i could, you know? i fucked it all up.”

“what would you have done differently, jihoon? quit your job? stopped making music? i wasn’t going to have you resent me, jihoon,” tonight doesn’t feel like the night for this conversation, but maybe it is. maybe that’s why you came here knowingly, hoping that you’d run into him to make sense of the end of your relationship. “there’s nothing to really change, jihoon. you came home. you checked in. you did it all.” you don’t know why you’re trying to spare his feelings still, but something in you won’t let you dunk on him to his face like you did behind his back.

jihoon is listening, he hears you. but the only thing he can focus on is the way you keep saying his name, and just how much he really misses hearing you say it. blowing out a breath, he shrugs his shoulders up to his ears and drops them, eyes flicking up to you at you. your bottom lip is tucked underneath the top, your eyes already on him. your arms are crossed over your midsection, and a breeze blows a few strands of hair out of their place and jihoon has the urge to put them back, but he stops himself.

“so now what?” you ask, peering down at him. jihoon stares back at you with parted lips, eyes dropping to the ground before flicking back up to you.

“i don’t know. i just miss you, y/n,” he flicks his bangs out of his face and you purse your lips. it’s not like you don’t miss—you do, way too much, in your opinion—you just don’t necessarily know what to do with what he’s saying to you. is he expecting you to magically forget everything and take him back? should you take him back? should you even be talking to him? “you look really nice tonight.”

and he looks too good right now, too approachable, too take-back-able. he looks good enough to do something you might regret in the morning.

jihoon takes a half a step closer to you, the toe of his shoe touching your heel. you turn, interweaving your legs and pressing your abdomen against his and putting a hand on his shoulder. he swallows and ignores the thump thump thump of his heart, nerves skyrocketing the longer you look at him with your hand on him.

in an instant, you’re ducking down and pressing your lips to his. jihoon kisses you back urgently, one hand resting on your hip and the other cradling the side of your face. it’s rushed, messy, and feverish in seconds, jihoon trying his damndest to pull you impossibly closer.

he grows hard below you and the slightest brush of his erection on your leg makes you shiver and part your lips against his, allowing him to slip his tongue in your mouth. jihoon drops his hand from your cheek and places it over your ass, pulling your crotch against his own. “i drove here,” he pants against your lips when he gets a moment to pull away.

that’s all you need to hear to let him lead you to his car, your heels echoing off the pavement. jihoon helps you into the back and climbs in immediately after, pulling the door closed and caging you against the backseat and the side of the door.

jihoon settles one knee on the floor of the car and the other on the seat, hands bunching your dress up around your hips as he kisses you fervently. your hands work the buttons of his shirt open, mouths pulling apart for a brief moment when you get to the end of his shirt and fumble with the last button for too long. his shirt falls open and you push it off his shoulders, and wet your lips at the sight of his bare torso.

the air in the car is thick as he sits above you, chest heaving as you drink him in. you rake your nails over the toned body that you once used to get to touch just like this. jihoon nudges your nose with his own, gently pressing his lips to yours once you angle towards him. he holds onto the headrest to brace himself, quietly groaning when you start to work his belt open.

“i need you,” you whine when his belt is pulled free, already rushing to unbutton his pants.

“lemme stretch you out first. you can’t take me yet,” and he’s not trying to be cocky (he definitely is), but he doesn’t need to know if you’ve been fucking other people to know that you definitely aren’t ready for him.

you whine at the thought of having him inside of you, your core aching with need. he’s 100% right, but you want him so bad and feel like you can’t wait.

jihoon is already working his fingers inside of you, pulling your panties down to your knees and dragging his fingers up your folds to collect your slick. he doesn’t tease you like he otherwise would if you were still together, rather he dips two fingers into your sopping, warm hole and curls them upwards. you gasp and he bites his bottom lip, pumping his fingers in and out of you.

arching against the seat, you whimper when he presses against your clit with his thumb as he works his fingers inside of you, reaching that spongy part that makes your vision spot and harsh pants leave your lips. jihoon leans down and kisses on your neck, lips dragging under your jawbone and nearing your collarbones. “i missed this,” he groans into your neck, teeth lightly nipping at the soft skin there. you only buck your hips in response and bury a hand in his hair. “missed you and this perfect pussy.”

a soft grunt escapes you when he slips in a third finger. “you take my fingers so well, baby,” he adds, pulling back from your neck to look down at where you mold around his three fingers. you suck him in greedily, and it still doesn’t feel like enough.

“hoon, i want you,” you whimper, tugging on his hair. his eyes fall closed as he lets you pull on his hair, head falling back as you do it. “i can take it.” you add, pussy clenching around his fingers. you bring your other hand over to pull down his zipper, eagerly pushing at the waistband.

“you sure?” he asks, pressing a gentle kiss to your cheek, fingers still moving inside of you. you nod and lean up from the seat and press your chest into his, turning your head to connect your lips in a sloppy kiss.

jihoon pulls his fingers out of you and pull away from you to shove his pants down to his ankles, haphazardly wiping his hand on the fabric of his boxers. jihoon throws himself onto the seat next to you and tugs you onto his lap, one hand making use of unzipping the back of your dress and helping you out of it, followed by your bra and panties.

you’re left in just your heels and him in just his open shirt, his hard cock flat against his stomach. jihoon palms your breasts, letting out a breath when you rock against his lap. “fuck, i need you so bad,” you say, pressing an open mouthed kiss to his neck. reaching between the two of you, you take his thick shaft in your hand and slowly start pumping him, reveling in how he pants into your ear and grips onto your ass tightly.

“i wanna feel you, baby. ride me,” he rasps, biting his lip to hold in a whimper when you swipe your thumb over his tip. you raise your hips and position him at your entrance before slowly sinking down on him, gasping when the head of his cock presses into your hole and stretches you out. “fuckkkk.” he drawls, leaning his head back against the seat.

you hold onto his shoulders for support as you move lower and lower onto him, breathing quickening with each inch you take. his cock fills you up in a way that is so familiar yet so foreign after months of going without. it would be overwhelming if not for the way he rubs your lower back and kisses across your chest, mumbling at you to take your time. “you feel that?” jihoon groans, hands squeezing your hips.

you only whine pathetically and draw your bottom lip in between your teeth. you sink lower, finally bottoming out and shuddering at being stuffed. jihoon lets you sit on his lap and adjust, his ego swelling knowing that you even need the time. “shit,” you whisper, running a hand through your hair and tilting your head back. the stretch is bordering on painful, but you’re not about to quit now, not when your cunt has its own pulse that’s in sync with your heart.

a heavy hand falls on your neck and jihoon pulls you down to his lips, instantly slipping his tongue into your mouth. you moan against him and rock your hips back and forth, sucking in a breath each time you move forwards. you falter in the kiss, simply pressing against his mouth as you grind against him. “you’re so tight,” jihoon grunts, dropping his hand from your neck to toy with your clit. you clench around him and his breath hitches. “i missed this pussy, fuck. i’ve been thinking about you every night.” he admits, earning a whimper in response.

moving up onto your knees, you work up the strength to fuck yourself onto him and place a hand on the roof of the car to steady yourself. “f-fuck, jihoon,” you hiccup, mouth falling open.

“do you miss me too?” he rasps, pinching your clit , hips bucking when you let out a whimper that goes straight to his cock. “you think of me fucking you like this?”

“yes!” you cry out, a response to both of his questions. your thighs burn but you keep bouncing up and down, a familiar tightness forming at the base of your stomach. “missed this so much.” you squeak, dropping onto his lap and rolling your hips.

“yeah?” he pants out, lips ghosting over your neck. “cum for me and show me.” and you look down at him and swear you see a demon for a second, jaw falling to your chest when he rubs his thumb across your bundle of nerves.

putting both of his hands on your ass, he surprises you when he hoists you up before slamming you back down on his cock, careful to avoid knocking your head against the top of the car. you moan and encircle your arms around his neck and hunch down into him, crying out his name as he manually moves you up and down. “j-jihoon!” the air gets pushed from your lungs each time he pulls you down onto his cock, vision blurring.

your cunt clenches around him in a vice grip, making him stutter as he lets out a string of curses mixed with praise. “s-shit, feels so f-fucking g-good,” jihoon manages. he can feel his release creeping up on him, but he’s determined to have you cum first. he still knows all of your tells: heavy breathing, lack of talking back, the tight grip you have on him. “are you gonna cum for me?”

it only takes him fucking you onto his cock a few more times before youre sputtering out his name and your cunt is spasming around his cock. you gush onto his lap and shake against him, nails digging into his shoulder blades. feeling you against him spurs his own orgasm, and ropes of his cum shoot up into you. you want to blame the alcohol for your lack of concern for a condom, but you’re too far gone (and take birth control pills) to take up an issue with letting him fuck you raw.

you settle in his lap and tuck your face into his neck. jihoon rubs your back soothingly and makes no move to get you off of him, or to move. for a few minutes of you sitting on top of him, he lets himself pretend like you’re still together, and softly peppers kisses into your neck, all while his finger tips gently stroke up your spine. you love and hate the intimacy, wishing it were real and yours to hold onto. wishing that it meant something.

“jihoon,” you’re the first to break away after what feels like forever. you sit up and peel yourself off of him, involuntarily moaning when he slips out of you. you roll onto the seat next to him and shyly try your best to cover yourself. “did you really mean it?” you ask.

“mean what?”

“mean it when you said you’d do it all over again?”

he places a hand on your bare leg and looks over at you. “i did. i’d do anything, really, to get you back,” he admits. he doesn’t care if he sounds pathetic, he just wants you back.

you only hum. his bluntness puts butterflies in your stomach, and has you wondering if a second chance would really be that bad? or maybe it’s the fact that you can feel his cum leaking out of you and onto the seats.

“it’s not going to be this easy, jihoon,” you say, playing with the ends of your hair. his hand slides higher as he scoots closer to you, seemingly pulling you back into his lap. you wrap an arm around his neck and toy with his hair. “you’ve really got to try. show me that you care.” you add softly.

jihoon peers up at you with big, pleading eyes, and you feel yourself soften against him. he kisses the center of your chest and you let out a sigh, curling into his body. “i can do that. i just want you back, baby.”

and if he keeps calling you baby, it really might just be that easy.

#svt x you #svt angst #svt smut #svt scenarios #svt x reader #svt fluff #svt imagines #seventeen x you #seventeen x reader #seventeen angst #seventeen fluff #seventeen imagines #seventeen smut #woozi smut #woozi x reader #woozi x you #woozi angst #woozi fluff

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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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saltwaterburns · 16 days ago

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pairing: brian o'conner x fem!reader

warnings: 18+ SMUT - read at your own discretion

a/n: in honour of rewatching f&f i went through my drafts found this beauty. can't write endings for the life of me. hope u enjoy 😋

He's older, he's cocky, he looks so damn good and he knows it. BRIAN O'CONNER goes through girls like wildfire, leaving utter destruction and chaos behind. He knows what pleasure is, it's his second fucking name. Every girl he leaves behind, he makes sure to have fucked them so good that he's all they think about the next time they go to bed with someone, unable to cum unless it's his blonde, curly haired head they imagine between their legs. But by then, he's far away, having left when the sun was first peeking its rays over the horizon.

Then he meets you. You, who doesn't instantly fall for his pick up lines and sultry smirks and teasing touches and actually makes him work for it and he's enamoured. He doesn't know if the primal urge to be buried in you to the hilt originates from needing you because you're you and it seems that he's finally stumbled upon a girl who could be his everything, or because you're the only one who hasn't given yourself up to him (yet) or because he's trying to get Mia and the scent of her vanilla shampoo out of his head, but does it really matter? It's exhilarating to him either way.

So when somehow after weeks and weeks of trying to get you to cave, he finds himself balls deep in your soppy, weepy cunt, he doesn't know how he ever managed to go without feeling your tight walls squeezing, practically suffocating his cock like that. You're riding him, your head thrown back in pure erotic bliss, your tits on display for him with your gold cross laying flat on your sternum. He's looking at you through his half lidded eyes, desperate to burn the image of your perky tits with gold glinting between them to the deepest, darkest spots of his brain so when you find him gone the next morning, he has something to jerk himself off to when he's pulled over to the side of the road because of the tension in his back getting too much. His hands are warm and big compared to you, callouses slightly rough against the supple skin of your hips as he grips onto you, bruising your blemishless skin while guiding your body up and down on his cock. Every time you come down he meets you halfway there by his hips snapping up, fucking into you. An airy moan is torn from your slightly raw and marked up throat with every thrust and he feels his cock twitch inside you, his precum mixed with your wetness, coating both you and him with a white, sticky layer. It's so fucking hot and filthy that he feels like he could almost combust.

"M'getting close, Bri." You choke out, the pressure in your lower stomach starting to feel unbearable. Your mouth has fallen open, little ah! ah! ah!'s echoing around the bedroom, the corners of your mouth glinting with drool. He growls, his nails leaving little crescent moon shaped marks on the plush of your hips, his balls tightening. He's going to cum, he's going to cum inside you and it's going to be the best fucking nut of his entire life. His neck gives up and his head falls back against the mattress, his chest heaving up and down with the sharp breaths he's taking through his nose, his lips pressed together because god forbid a sound escapes him. He isn't like that, he isn't that kind of man that lets girls know how good their pretty pussy feels around their cock because that's what they thrive on, giving up more and more pieces of themselves for a single world of praise, until he leaves into the horizon and they realise he's taken their souls with him.

He comes inside you with a choked whimper, you following him closely because of the rough pad of his thumb doing tight circles on your clit. You still on his cock, shudders wrecking through your body. You squeeze your eyes shut in pain, the tension in your muscles making you feel like you've just taken a taser, and a cry leaves your lips when you finally collapse on top of his chest. He laughs and runs a hand through your hair, giving your ass a smack.

You let out a soft moan at that and push yourself up to your hands, caging him between them. You bite your lip and lean down, letting the tip of your nose brush against his. "Round two?"

He's taken off before you wake, because some things never change. But for once, Brian O'Conner can't get a girl out of his mind, and when he comes in his palm on the side of the road, your tits with flashes of gold between them stay burned behind his eyelids.

#brian o'conner #brian o'conner fic #brian o'conner x reader #brian o'conner x you #brian o'conner smut #brian o'conner drabble #fast & furious #fast and furious #paul walker #paul walker fic #fast and furious fic #fast and furious x reader

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arisumeii · 1 month ago

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[🎈🌟] Cyber Hunter Pegasus : F O U N D Y O U (cont.)

And that is all thank you for reading! This will probably be my last post for this AU until I get ideas again TT so sorry if someone is looking forward for the next one.

Some extra bits of info for this au:

- Tsukasa awakened when he was 16, and became the strongest 2 years after. He was 19 at that time. He was called the youngest ever to reach rank 1.

- Hunters have a leader board where they can see what rank they are and this is located at the hunter association. Hunter names get removed after the hunter is mia for years so that's why tsukasa I not in it currently and rui became no. 1.

- You can rise up the ranks when you ask for a fight with someone from a higher rank than you. This is done legally of course, and is done at arenas. A lot of people come to these events.

Will add to this if I have more ideas!

#project sekai #prsk fa #rui kamishiro #tsukasa tenma #ruikasa #artists on tumblr #fanart

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stargirllanaa · 2 months ago

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Death Grips. III - R.C

Dark!Frat!Rafe Cameron x f!reader

Warnings: Dv( physical abuse),NONCON, Mentions of Dv, Cheating, mentions of cheating, abusive relationship, gaslighting, manipulation, frat!rafe, blackmail, emotional abuse, underage drinking, he’s an asshole guys

Summary: inspired by ‘death grips’ by Etta Marcus/ After a messy break up with Rafe Cameron your freshman year of college, he can’t seem to leave you alone. Whether you’re awake or asleep

Series Masterlist

A/n: hey guys, I just got back from out of the country so this took me a little longer than I wanted it to but hope u enjoy and pls leave feedback and lmk how u like it whether it’s an anonymous ask, reblog or comment I do read all feedback and try to incorporate what you guys suggest!

Part: III

…….

The beach was alive with noise and chaos. Voices carried across the sand, blending with the pounding of the waves and the crackle of the bonfire. The night should have felt carefree and fun even, but as soon as you saw Rafe leaning against a log near the fire, his easy laugh cutting through the hum of the crowd, it was like every muscle in your body locked up.

You froze, but Mia nudged you forward, oblivious—or maybe just willfully blind. “Come on,” she said with a grin, already scanning the crowd for Topper. “He’s not going to do anything. Just stick with me.”

You didn’t respond. Your eyes stayed locked on Rafe as he glanced up and noticed you. His reaction was immediate—his laugh froze mid-sound, his blue eyes narrowing just slightly before he recovered. He raised his beer in a lazy toast, smirking in your direction.

Mia didn’t notice. “See? He’s being chill. You’re fine,” she said breezily, dragging you toward the fire.

But you didn’t feel fine.

At first, you stayed on the outskirts, keeping your distance and nursing the drink someone shoved into your hand. You told yourself you were just being paranoid, that Rafe wasn’t paying any attention to you. But it was impossible to shake the feeling of his eyes brushing over you whenever you moved too close to the firelight.

It wasn’t long before he was beside you.

“Hey,” he said, his voice casual, almost soft.

You didn’t look at him. “What do you want?”

“I’m not trying to bother you,” he said quickly, hands raised as if to show he meant no harm. “I just—look, I wanted to say I’m sorry. For everything.”

You stiffened. “What?”

“I mean it,” Rafe said, his voice dropping. “I know I messed up. I’ve been… I don’t know. Trying to figure my shit out.” He took a step closer, his gaze steady. “I just want us to be cool. That’s all.”

“Cool,” you repeated flatly. “Right. Sure.”

You wanted to walk away, to shut him down and make it clear he wasn’t welcome. But something in his tone—his softness, his willingness to admit fault made you hesitate. It wasn’t like him.

“I mean it,” he said again, holding your gaze. “You don’t have to forgive me, but I don’t want things to be like this. It doesn’t have to be so… heavy.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t trust him. He’d proven that over and over. But he didn’t press. He just lingered, staying close but not too close, offering you drinks every time your cup got low.

You didn’t realize how much you’d had to drink until you were laughing at something—God knows what—with a girl you barely knew. The firelight blurred, the edges of the world softening as the alcohol worked its way through your system.

Rafe wasn’t far, leaning against a log a few feet away, his eyes on you.

“You’re finally relaxing,” he said, his voice light as he moved closer.

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t make it weird.”

He smirked, holding his hands up in surrender. “Not trying to. Just saying it’s nice to see you like this. You’re always so tense around me.”

“Damn, I wonder why,” you shot back, though your words were starting to slur.

He laughed, low and warm. “Fair point.”

Before you could respond, he tilted his head toward the darker stretch of beach beyond the fire. “Let’s go for a walk. Too loud here.”

“No thanks,” you said immediately, shaking your head.

“Come on,” he pressed, his tone light but insistent. “I’m not gonna hurt you. I just want to talk. No bullshit, I promise.”

You hesitated. Part of you screamed to stay by the fire, to not let him pull you away from the safety of the crowd. But the alcohol muffled your thoughts, loosening your grip on the fear that always kept you guarded around him.

Against your better judgment, you nodded.

The sound of the party faded as you walked, the waves swallowing the noise until it was just the two of you under the moonlight. You stumbled slightly, the uneven sand throwing you off balance, but Rafe’s hand steadied you.

“Careful,” he murmured, his voice closer than you realized.

“I’m fine,” you muttered, shrugging off his hand.

He didn’t let go immediately, his fingers lingering on your arm for a moment too long before he finally stepped back.

When you stopped walking, he turned to face you, his expression unreadable.

“I miss you,” he said softly.

You blinked, the words not quite registering at first. “What?”

“I miss us,” he said, his voice low and almost vulnerable. “I know I screwed up. I know I hurt you. But I want to fix it.”

You stared at him, the alcohol dulling your initial burst of anger. “Are you serious?”

“I’m not asking you to forget everything,” he said quickly. “I just—I want another chance. I can be better. I know I can.”

You laughed, sharp and bitter. “Another chance? Are you insane?”

“I’m serious,” he said, stepping closer. “I’ve been working on myself. I’ve been trying—”

“You’re fucking delusional,” you snapped, cutting him off. The alcohol loosened the words, pulling them out of you before you could stop. “You cheated on me. You hit me. You made me feel like I was nothing. And now you want me to just… what? Forget all of that and give you another chance?”

Rafe flinched, the softness in his expression hardening into something sharper. “I was messed up back then. I didn’t know how to—”

“No,” you said, your voice shaking with anger. “You knew exactly what you were doing. You always knew. And you loved it.”

“Don’t act like you didn’t have a part in it,” he said, his voice rising. “You knew how to push my buttons. You knew how to make me lose my shit.”

You took a step back, your body trembling. “You’re disgusting.”

The silence between you stretched, heavy and suffocating. For a moment, you thought he might lash out, that he’d grab your arm or raise his voice. But instead, he smiled—cold and sharp, the boyish charm replaced by something cruel.

“You’re drunk,” he said simply, stepping closer. “I’ll give you a pass. But you’re not over me. You never will be.”

You turned and walked away, the sound of his laughter following you as you stumbled back toward the fire. You didn’t care if you looked unsteady or ridiculous; all you cared about was putting as much distance between you and him as possible.

When you reached the edge of the crowd, Mia was nowhere to be seen. Your stomach twisted, a fresh wave of anger rising as you realized she’d probably disappeared with Topper again, leaving you to fend for yourself.

Your hands shook as you grabbed your bag, your breaths coming in uneven gasps. You didn’t look back toward the dark stretch of beach where Rafe still stood, watching you.

~~~~~~

You slammed the door of your dorm shut, the sound echoing through the small space. Your clothes still smelled faintly of bonfire smoke, your hair damp from the salt air, but none of that mattered. The only thing you could focus on was the lingering sensation of Rafe’s smirk, his words still ringing in your ears.

“You’re not over me. You never will be.”

The audacity made your stomach churn, and as you tossed your bag onto your bed, you couldn’t stop your hands from trembling. You needed to talk to someone to make sense of everything that had happened at the beach. But when Mia walked through the door minutes later, her laughter bubbling over as she scrolled through her phone, something inside you snapped.

She looked up, startled. “Whoa. What’s with the death glare?”

“Where the hell were you?” you snapped, unable to hold it anymore.

The smile on her face faded instantly. “What?”

“At the beach,” you said, your voice shaking. “You said we’d stick together, that you wouldn’t leave me alone, and then you disappeared with Topper like it was nothing.”

Mia’s brow furrowed, her confusion quickly morphing into defensiveness. “Hold on, what happened? Did Rafe—”

“What do you think happened?” you snapped, cutting her off. “He cornered me, got me drunk, and then tried to tell me he wants me back. And you weren’t there, Mia. You left me alone with him.”

She blinked, clearly caught off guard. “Okay, but nothing actually happened, right? I mean, you’re here, you’re fine—”

“Fine?” The word came out sharp, almost bitter. “Are you kidding me? You know what he’s like, Mia. You know how much he’s put me through, and you still dragged me there like it didn’t matter. You’re literally fucking his best friend.”

Her mouth opened, then closed, like she wasn’t sure how to respond. “It’s not like that,” she said finally. “Topper’s not Rafe, and I thought—”

“You thought what?” you interrupted, your voice rising. “That I’d just magically be okay? That I’d be fine hanging out with my abusive ex at a party while you played house with his best friend?”

“Abusive?” she repeated, her eyes widening slightly.

You froze, realizing the word had slipped out before you could stop it. But there was no taking it back now. “Yeah,” you said, your voice quieter now. “He was abusive, Mia. And you still keep putting me in situations where I have to see him. Do you even care how that feels for me?”

Her expression shifted, guilt flickering across her face before she crossed her arms defensively. “Of course, I care,” she said. “But it’s not like I’m dragging you into this on purpose. I mean, what am I supposed to do? Ghost Topper because you and Rafe had a shitty relationship?”

The words hit you like a slap, your anger twisting into something deeper—something closer to hurt. “I’m not asking you to break things off with him,” you said, your voice trembling. “I’m asking you to have some fucking empathy. You’re supposed to be my friend, Mia.”

“I am your friend,” she shot back. “But maybe you need to stop blaming me for everything. I didn’t make you date him, and I didn’t make you stay with him when things got bad. That was your choice.”

You flinched, the accusation cutting deeper than you expected. For a second, you thought about yelling, about telling her to leave and never come back. But instead, you turned away, your chest tight with something between anger and sadness.

“Just… go, Mia,” you said quietly. “I can’t do this right now.”

She hesitated, her arms still crossed. “Fine,” she said after a moment, her voice tight. “But don’t expect me to keep putting up with this shit forever.”

The door clicked shut behind her, leaving you alone in the silence of the room.

~~~~~

You were sitting on your bed, the faint glow of your desk lamp casting long shadows across the walls. The air felt heavy, the silence broken only by the sound of Rafe pacing in front of you.

“Let me see your phone,” he said, his voice low and clipped.

You froze, clutching the device tighter. “Why?”

“Because,” he snapped, facing you with a sharp glare. “I saw Bella texting you earlier. What did she say?”

“Nothing important,” you said quickly, your stomach twisting.

He didn’t believe you. “Show me.”

You hesitated, your fingers trembling as you unlocked your phone and handed it over. He snatched it from your grasp, scrolling through your messages with a storm brewing in his eyes.

His jaw clenched as he stopped on Bella’s most recent text:

“r u ok? im rlly worried about u and rafe. u don’t have to stay with him yk. u deserve sm better. <3”

“Worried about us?” Rafe said, his voice dripping with mockery. “What’s she so worried about, huh? Did you tell her we had a fight? That’s cute.”

“I didn’t tell her anything,” you said quickly, your chest tightening. “She’s just… she’s just being a good friend.”

“She’s not your friend,” he said sharply, tossing the phone onto the bed. “She’s trying to break us up. You think I’m stupid? You think I don’t see what’s going on?”

“She’s not trying to break us up,” you insisted, your voice trembling. “She’s just—”

“Shut up,” he interrupted, his tone cold and final. “You’re done talking to her. Do you hear me? You’re going to block her, and you’re not going to say another word to her. She’s gone.”

“No,” you said quietly, your voice barely audible. “You’ve already made me cut off everyone else. Bella’s the only friend I have left.”

“You still have me... you have Mia,” Rafe said, stepping closer, his shadow looming over you. “That should be enough for you. You don’t need anyone else.”

Tears welled in your eyes, but you didn’t let them fall. “This isn’t protection, Rafe. This is fucking control-”

The words barely left your mouth before his hand slammed against the wall beside your head, making you flinch.

“What did you just say?” he demanded, his voice dangerously low.

You didn’t answer.

~~~~~~~~

You woke with a gasp, your heart pounding as you sat up in bed. The room was dark, the faint glow of your phone the only source of light. For a moment, you couldn’t breathe, the weight of the dream pressing down on your chest.

Even now, after everything, he still had a hold on you.

~~~~~~~~

It was late when you found yourself outside, the cool night air brushing against your skin. You hadn’t meant to leave the dorm, but sitting in that room, surrounded by memories and silence, felt unbearable.

You ended up at the campus library steps, the faint glow of streetlights casting long shadows across the pavement. It was quiet and peaceful in a way that almost felt foreign.

“Couldn’t sleep?”

You turned, startled, to see Cam leaning against the railing, a book in one hand and a thermos in the other. His smile was easy, and his presence grounding, making you feel like you could finally take a breath.

“Something like that,” you admitted, sitting down beside him.

He didn’t press or ask why your eyes were rimmed with exhaustion or why you were out so late. Instead, he offered you the thermos, the warmth of it seeping into your palms as you held it.

“I saw you at the beach,” he said after a moment, his tone careful.

You stiffened but didn’t look at him. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He hesitated. “You okay?”

You thought about lying, about brushing it off like you always did. But the words slipped out before you could stop them.

“No.”

He nodded like he’d expected that, his gaze steady as he looked at you. “If you ever want to talk…”

“I don’t,” you said quickly, cutting him off. Then, softer: “Not yet.”

“That’s fine,” he said easily, leaning back against the steps. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You didn’t respond, but for the first time in what felt like forever, the silence didn’t feel so heavy.

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

Enjoyed my fic? Leave feedback! Comment/reblog!

Wanna see more? Check out my fic ‘i don’t smoke’

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mamaspidershit · 7 months ago

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Natasha: Mia, remember how we were worried about Peter’s F-U-T-U-R-E? Peter: Oh mom, you don’t have to worry about my furniture! Maria: Oh God…

#source: boy meets world #peter parker #natasha romanoff #maria hill #spider man #black widow #mama spider #blackhill #incorrect peter parker #incorrect natasha romanoff #incorrect avengers #incorrect mama spider #incorrect spiderman quotes

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koiiiji · 10 months ago

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windbreaker characters as parents ༘⋆🌷🫧💭 ⋆˙

tw ; cuteness overload, contains character x character and character x reader

pairings ; min u x mia, shelly x jay jo, dom x reader, monster x reader, vinny x reader

౨ৎ let's start from min u and mia! proud parents of a girl and boy who are three years apart. girl is the older sister and goes along with her brother super well even through his puberty. mia is a great mother and her kids never hide anything from her as they know that they can trust her. mia and her daughter have their own "girls secrets" and side jokes, while min u and his son are super annoyed by it and tried to make their own side jokes, but girls always know its context. also, their grandad and auntie yuna spoil them so much!!! and also min u father are so proud of his son and he really likes mia. all in all 10/10 highly recommended to be born in this family.

౨ৎ shelly and jay. here things are more complicated because shelly parents insisted on them move in the UK during her pregnancy, but they decided to stay in Korea simply because shelly likes weather more and feel more comfortable there. life blessed them with a boy - a copy of his father. but he is a mummy's boy and he gets along with shelly more, even their son's first word was "mama!" when he happily squished shelly’s cheek with his small hands. with time, he builds more interests with jay’s hobbies, so till he hit his puberty he was such a sweet child. but when he turned 14? monster that going through "nobody understands me" era. sometimes jay wonders maybe he need to send his son to his mother so she will teach him some discipline, but then jay remembers that he doesn't want to give his child such trauma. by the way jay family calmed down the moment jay was accepted on the really well paid job and even his mother was proud that her son has international family. all in all 7/10 bc both jay and shelly parents would have a beef over who is better grandparents.

౨ৎ so i can imagine that dom would accept his father's business even tho he didn't insist. so you two were gifted with three daughters each with year apart. dom honestly wished his first would be a boy so he can grow up and protect his sisters, but fate had her own ideas. through your second pregnancy dom repeated that he would be happy for girl or boy, just healthy, strong child (he prayed for a boy), and you decided not to find out who you were going to have until the baby was born. and it was sweet, super calm girl. on third pregnancy dom really tried to have a boy (yes, he scrolled all that weird mums forums to find out in which pose you can conceive a boy). he has genuinely been surprised when doctor said you will have a girl. who was the happiest over the fact that he surrounded by girls? his father!! he loves all four of you, and dom suspect that his father loves you more than him. he definitely would call you daughter and generally he is super granddad and father-in-law. your daughters loves their granddad too!! imagine them cling to him from all sides, hanginig on his neck, arms and legs. generally girls goes along super good, but oldest and youngest are more close to their father as they share extrovert personality, while middle girl gets super along with you. dom are scared that they are growing up too fast and that in one day they will start dating b̴̨̢̰͖̂ͫͨ̒ͦͩơ̷̧̢̛̤̠̻͔̤̖̳͖̥̼̲̮̥̣̼̮̂̽̓ͮ͆̉ͩ͆ͣͧ̿ͫ́͋ͩ̏̚̕̚͜͞y̶̢͎̜̬͖̩̰̬̞̓͌̽͆̈́̉̑ͨ̂ͧ͌̌̇̅͗͌͘͜͟s̶̸̢͉͙͈̳̻̣̲͔̜̩ͮ̌̃̄̄̓̍̽͌̈́͑́͑ͩ͟͠͝ 💀☠️ all in all 9/10 dom vibes with his favourite girls but one one stingy male tear drops when he sees fathers play baseball with their sons (he was hitted in the nose with a ball from his youngest daughter)

౨ৎ when you and deokbong announced that you will have a child, people were... curious - how?? how you would be able to carry his child since you look so small in comparison to him. and you know what? it was twin boys... the birth was difficult but you did it and then you faced new challenge - both boys was copy of their father and they was heavy. you prayed for your back, seriously, but deokbong is super supportive husband and father so he was always there to help you. thankfully your boys were calm. like literally they always had serious faces, fists clenched and almost never cried. with time your younger one maintained your character and more of your features showed, like brows and nose form, cheeks, and face shape. all in all 10/10 you four would be happy simple sport family!!

౨ৎ vinny hong refuse to have children. end of headcanon.

but seriously, vinny had huge trauma from his father and from bulling in school, he will never be sure that he is enough as financially and emotionally for kids, so you two are proud parents of one big dog, maybe doberman or cane corso and lazy cat. all in all 7/10 just because there are too much wool at home and vinny refuse to go on a walk with dog in the early morning.

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tastefulstars · 1 year ago

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And I fell, I fell

Throw together a last minute cancellation, a helpful Robin and list of questions, and you've got yourself the romance of the century.

eddie munson x f!reader

c/w: 18+ only. MDNI. smut and fluff. so much fluff. mutual pining. eddie being a cutie. no y/n. protected sex. piv. oral (f receiving). not proof read.

a/n: eddie is a hopeless, gross romantic and u cant convince me otherwise and this is 7.6k of me proving myself correct.

masterlist

Your phone ringing startles you out of your daze, making you jump slightly in your chair. Reaching for it, you don't bother to look at the caller id.

"Oh you're alive, that's nice" Robin's voice cheerfully says, you blink rapidly at your computer screen.

"Why wouldn't I be alive, Robs?"

"I dunno! Maybe because you've been MIA for the past five days!"

You can hear the frustration and concern in her voice and you immediately feel guilty. You sigh softly and rub at your eyes.

"I'm sorry, Robbie" You murmur, "Work's been a lot."

"I worry about you" She confesses, "Like, have you even been eating? Sleeping? What's so important you've got to check out for nearly a week?"

You scrunch your face up because, she's right - you've been doing the bare minimum but you weren't going to admit that.

"I'm fine, really. Just been editing a few of the interviews I did last week and then this morning I had someone bail out at the last minute so I'm trying to find a replacement to do the interview at the end of the week."

Robin hums.

"I'm coming over"

She hangs up before you have a chance to respond and you shake your head. Standing, you groan as you stretch your arms over your head before you decide to just call it a day and have a shower.

The warm water feels heavenly on your stiff body, and you let yourself relax under the spray. You're just stepping out of the shower, steam filling the room and wrapping a towel around you, when there's persistent knocking at the door.

You debate for all of three seconds on whether to answer or get dressed, ultimately deciding to let Robin in first, knowing that she'd just knock harder and louder until you did.

She pushes her way in as soon as the doors cracked open an inch, she closes the door behind her and starts pushing at your shoulders.

"Get dressed, Jesus"

You roll your eyes and throw your hands up, muttering about bossy, annoying friends. You shuffle to your room though, pulling on soft jeans and a shirt and make your way back to Robin who's curled up on the couch and cradling a can of soda in her hands.

"Alright, sit" Robin says, patting the space beside her and you throw yourself heavily down next to her, resting your cheek against her shoulder.

"You okay?" She asks, pressing her cheek against the top of your head and you nod softly because yeah, you were fine, just busy and tired and overworked. She holds the can to you and you take it, sipping at the bubbly drink. An arm wraps around your shoulder and you feel yourself go boneless against her, relaxing for the first time in days.

"Work sucks at the moment" You admit, leaning on your friend, "I've got so much to do and now I'm gonna loose the venue for Friday because the person I was interviewing cancelled on me and like, I can't afford that you know? It's expensive and I just, I don't know what I'm gonna do Robbie"

"Anything I can help with?" She asks softly, "I can't really do much for editing videos and whatever but, yeah."

You feel a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

"You don't happen to want to be interviewed?" You tease, "Could start a new series where I interview my friends instead of like, famous people"

You're joking, knowing that Robin would kinda hate being in front of a camera while you ask her questions about herself but you could see it working - making it a silly little thing where you just have fun with it, rather than the serious interviews you've been stuck doing.

"God no" She laughs for a moment before pausing, "But, I could ask Eddie?"

"Hmm? What's Eddie got to do with this?"

"Eddie Munson, y'know Corroded Coffin?"

You scrunch your nose slightly, pulling back to look at her.

"You mean to tell me that your high school band friend Eddie is the same Eddie from that massively popular metal band? And don't they refuse to do interviews, like, all the time?"

"Yes and yes, it's something about wanting to focus on the music rather than them but he'd do it if I ask nicely."

You chew on your lip, considering it. It would be a massive help, having someone to actually interview and that someone being notorious for refusing to actually participate in interviews but at the same time, you don't want to put Robin out or Eddie.

"Look, I'll ask, the worst thing is he'll say no and if that's the case, I'll do the interview." She says and you feel a weight lifting off your chest, you lean back in to wrap yourself around her.

"Thanks, Robin" Your voice is muffled by her shoulder but she squeezes you back.

The two of you spent the rest of the afternoon watching shitty videos and snacking, and you feel more relaxed than you have in weeks. You murmur your thanks as you hug Robin goodbye and laugh softly at her stern warning of no more work today, her finger pointing at your face. You agree, considering ordering take out and having an early night.

You're wrapped up in a soft blanket on the couch, lights low and a movie you're not really watching when your phone buzzes.

Robin: Eddie's agreed to do the interview. send deets.

to Robin: You're an angel amongst men, Robin and I love you.

Robin: ur right, I am. love u 2.

You send her the address and times and thank her about five more times before you put your phone back down, and focus back on the movie and you're not too sure when your eyes slip closed and you're asleep.

The next couple of days fly by in a daze of editing and deciding the direction of the upcoming interview. You didn't want it to be stuffy, overly serious and god forbid, boring, so you pester Robin for little tidbits of information about Eddie and you find yourself racing around your apartment the morning of to get ready.

You've never really seen photos of Eddie from Band but you have seen photos and videos of Eddie from Corroded Coffin and you knew he's hot and while you didn't want to come across as unprofessional, you wanted to look good so you spend extra time styling your hair and making sure your outfit fit just right.

Loading your car up with your equipment and set-up took longer than you'd like and by the time you're pulling up to the building, you've only got thirty minutes before Eddie was due to arrive. You rush through set up and you wish you had an assistant for days like today.

A soft knock against the wall and your name being called startles you. You let out a quiet noise of surprise and whip around to see Eddie, smiling wide at your reaction, and your heart stutters. You knew he was handsome, you knew that, but the photos and videos didn't do him justice.

Tall and wrapped in black denim, cotton, silver chains and rings. His hair was curled to perfection, soft and silky, wide brown eyes and plump limps and you realize you're staring and not saying anything.

"Eddie, right?" You gesture to one of the chairs you'd set up, "Thank you so much for doing this, you and Robin have saved me a lot of grief"

He saunters over to you, smiling warmly before sitting in the chair. You almost get lost in watching him again but you force your eyes away, not wanting to be a creep.

"Ah, it's alright. Had nothing better to do today, to be honest."

And god his voice, you wanted to hear it all day. Wanted him to whisper nothings into your ear and you feel yourself flushing at the desire running through your veins.

You turn, scolding yourself for your reaction and get to work turning on the lights, camera and audio recorders.

"Still, I appreciate it. Will you be okay putting your mic on or would you like help?" You ask as you open the case, pulling out both sets of microphones.

"Hmm, might need some help"

You look over your shoulder and he's watching you intently, and you're really not sure how you're going to do this interview without coming across as desperate.

"Sure, here-" You step closer to him, holding out the microphone and wire, "This bit goes up under your shirt and clips onto your collar"

His fingers brush yours as he gently takes it from you, lifting his shirt slightly to feed the wire under it. You hold your breath and avert your eyes when you see a flash of pale skin before you do something stupid like telling him you'd like to lick him all over.

"Like this?" He asks, and you force yourself to bring your eyes down, nodding as he clips the little microphone to his shirt and smooths his hands down his chest.

"Yeah, um- I'll just clip this to your belt, if that's okay?"

He looks up at you from under his lashes and nods, smiling like he knows exactly what he's doing to you. You turn it on and see his jaw clenching in the corner of your eye as your fingers brush at his skin as you work.

"Alright. All set, I'll just finish getting ready - I'll just be a minute" You say in a rush, turning back to the table and putting your own mic on.

"No rush, honey"

And oh god, the pet name has your blood singing. Your hands shake slightly as you take a couple of deep breaths and scold yourself with a stern behave yourself, you're here for work not to hook up, he's doing you a favor so cut it out.

You shake your head slightly and move to turn on the camera. It's almost easier, looking at Eddie through the camera screen as you focus it and you suppress a shudder when you realize he's watching you closely.

You suck in a deep breath and pick up your notes, moving to sit beside him.

"Alright, you good to start?"

His smile returns and nods, shifting in his seat in order to face you. You do your intro, facing the camera and watching Eddie from your peripheral and then your turning, facing him and wanting to whine at how pretty he is. You let your work wash over you, focusing on the interview.

"Thanks for being here today, Mr. Munson. Tell me, how are you? What's been happening?"

"Eddie's fine" He says, laughing softly, "Mr. Munson is my uncle. I'm good, I'm good. Honestly? I should be working on some new songs but I'd rather not."

You nod, humming.

"Look that's fair - You used to play D&D, why?"

He looks a little surprised at your question, like he wasn't expecting anything else besides his music.

"Oh yeah I did. It was just fun, y'know? Like my friends and I got to go on epic adventures."

You try your hardest not to let the grin overtake your face but it's so, so hard.

"That's kinda nerdy but like what do I know? I make silly videos for a living. Do you still play or has that ship sailed?"

"Ah, I'd like to but I don't get as much free time these days and all my friends I play with are all over the place."

"Bummer. What's the best way to eat marshmallows?"

You keep the energy going, slinging more and more absurd questions at him without letting him gather his bearings but Eddie's grinning, enjoying the quick fire questions and your snide comments at his answers.

"Now. This is a serious question and I will judge you for your answer if it's incorrect."

He shifts, face serious and leans slightly towards you.

"Would you rather be eaten alive by a werewolf or have a vampire stick a straw in your neck and drain you like a capri-sun?"

Eddie breaks out into giggles and you feel your insides wobble and you school your features, biting your tongue and raise an eyebrow.

"Definitely being eaten alive" He wheezes between his laughter, "I might as well go all out if I'm gonna die."

You purse your slips, looking down at your notes primly.

"Correct."

Eddie laughs harder, eyes shining when you look back at him.

"Alright, last question - what's the plan for the rest of the day?"

He rubs the back of his neck, he looks at you and you think maybe there's something in his face, in his eyes as he glances at you.

"No real plans, might grab something to eat."

"Right on, free as a bird."

You close the video and slide out of your chair, turning off the camera and beginning the pack up. Your eyes flicker to Eddie and you smile softly, moving to him to help remove his mic.

"Thanks again for this, Eddie. I know you don't really do interviews much so I didn't want to make it awful for you"

His fingers find the soft skin of your wrist when he hands you the mic set, pressing against your skin.

"I had a lot of fun" His voice is low and rumbles and you feel your chest erupts with butterflies.

You shuffle back, throwing a smile over your shoulder and continue to pack away your equipment.

"Want a hand?" Eddie's says, right behind you and you can feel his warmth seeping into your back. You bite your lip.

"Nah, it's all good! It's not that much" You try to keep the tremble out of your voice, "I'll um, let you know when the video's up? It should be maybe a week or so."

You hear him inhale and then hum softly.

"Perfect."

You step around the table, putting a bit of distance between the two of you before you do something really really dumb and proposition him. Eddie shoots you a small smile, fiddling with his rings and you think he might be nervous.

"I'll, um, see you around then?" He asks, taking small steps backwards towards the door.

"Yeah, it was nice to meet you" You try to smile warmly as you say your goodbyes while all you'd like is to beg him to stay longer.

"You too, honey. I've heard a lot about you."

And then he's gone and you throw yourself down on one of the chairs, face in hands and you let out a whine.

"God damn it, Robin" You mutter before huffing and dragging yourself to load your car.

You're tired and sore when you finish unloading the car back at your apartment and you grunt as you throw yourself onto the couch, propping your feet on your coffee table.

Your phone buzzes.

Unknown Number: Hey honey, it's Eddie. I hope it's okay but I got your number from Robin.

Unknown Number: I just. I really had a good time today. I usually hate doing interviews but you made it a lot of fun.

You save his number and quickly respond, heart in your throat and fluttering in your stomach, hating how much you wanted his attention.

to Eddie: Eddie, hey! Yeah that's fine. I'm glad you had a nice time :)

Eddie: Very much so. Did you get everything packed and get home alright?

You start chewing on your lower lip as he responds almost instantly, not wanting to seem overly eager, you send a text to Robin instead.

to Robin: ROBIN what the FUCK????

Robin: ur welcome :)) he thinks ur hot btw and like ur both my friends so dont fuck it up.

to Robin: thanks!!!!! no pressure at all with that!!!!!!!!

Robin: :)

You start chewing on your thumbnail and open Eddie's messages again, responding with an affirmative and asking how his afternoon went before tossing your phone to the other side of the couch, kicking your feet.

You feel like a teenager, heart pounding and cheeks hot and chest feeling three sizes too big. You wander around your living room, shaking your hands and deciding to just go about your evening routine - making dinner and showering and watching a movie.

Your eyes drift to your phone every few minutes and you groan, giving in and picking it up.

Eddie: I ended up going straight home, been watching some of your interviews ;)

Eddie: What are you up to? Busy night?

to Eddie: Oh god, don't do that. They're all very boring.

Eddie: Ah but I get to watch a pretty lady tearing apart a bunch of dummies who don't realize they're being insulted.

Your face heats again and you place your face in your hands and let out a very embarrassing noise. You lift you head, staring at your phone and take a rough, deep breath. Eddie was going to kill you, you were sure of it.

You feel like a silly teen with a crush as you text with Eddie for the rest of the evening, his flirting making you want to screech out loud or melt or something.

You fall asleep with a smile on your face and butterflies in your stomach.

You're a little scared to check your phone the next morning, a whole bunch of what if's running through your mind, but a soft ding brings you out of your mind and you couldn't stop the lovesick smile if you tried.

Eddie: good morning, hope you have a good day

to Eddie: you too :)

You spend the rest of the day trying to focus on work, on finishing the editing of your previous interviews and starting on Eddies, but it's hard going when all you want to do is text the man. Taking a quick break, you lean over the bathroom sink and stare at yourself in the mirror. You frown at your reflection.

"Get your shit together" You snap at yourself, "You're not a teenager with a crush, you are a grown woman so act like it."

You sigh and pull yourself away, sitting back down at your desk.

"Alright. We've just got to finish these two interviews, we can totally do this. Totally, they're like ninety percent done already."

You nod at your pep talk and get back to work, newly found focus coasting you through the last few hours of editing for the day.

It's starting to grow dark by the time you save your work and shut down for the day. You feel lazily satisfied from finishing the task you set for yourself for the afternoon and more than ready to publish the videos and transcripts onto your social media sites. Stretching your arms above your head, you let out a soft groan as your back pops.

Picking up your phone, you bite your lip at the messages Eddie had sent you throughout the day.

Eddie: dont work too hard today but kick ass at work today

Eddie: im attempting to write new songs but i dont wanna y'know?

Eddie: i went to get groceries instead. saw a cat :)

Eddie: dont forget to eat lunch

Eddie: ok ok im gonna try to work wish me luck lol

Your stomach growls at you and you realize you did forget to eat lunch again, you groan and start dinner. Sitting on the couch with your plate, you send a message to Eddie.

to Eddie: Sorry, been pretty busy today but i managed to finish up a couple projects and im ready to start working on your interview tomorrow. Did you end up getting any writing done?

to Eddie: And what type of cat was it?

It doesn't take long before your phone is buzzing beside you.

Eddie: she lives! im glad you had a productive day, one of us needs 2 lol and u dont need to edit our interview its already perfect. I wrote like 4 lines of a song.

Eddie: i took a photo of the cat, i'll send it 2 u.

You laugh softly at his messages, his writing getting lazier the more you two talk, not that you mind. The photo comes through and you coo, the cat was incredibly fluffy and stretched out over a brick fence, fast asleep.

Your eyes burn as you look at your phone, a result from staring at a computer screen all day, so you take a deep breath and press call.

"Hey honey!" Eddie's voice filters softly through your phone, "Didn't expect a call to be honest, it was the cat right?"

You laugh and let your eyes slip closed, laying down on the couch and placing the call on speaker phone.

"Absolutely," You hum, "It has nothing to do with my eyes hurting-"

"Aw, you okay? Need anything?"

You can hear the concern in his voice and something inside you swells.

"Nah, I'm good. It's just from being on the computer all day, y'know?" You rub your eyes, "Anyway, what are you up to?"

There's a slight pause before he answers but then he's telling you that he's trying to decide on dinner, weighing up pros and cons of cooking verses ordering in and then he's launching into a tangent on life skills and capitalism.

You let his voice wash over you and you find yourself relaxing until you're almost asleep, drifting in the in-between.

"Still with me baby?" Eddie asks softly, his words not really registering but you hum at the sound of his voice, making him chuckle quietly.

"Go to bed, honey." He croons at you, "We'll talk tomorrow, alright? Dream sweet."

You sleep on the couch that night, dreaming of soft curls and warm brown eyes.

The next week passes in a blur of work, texts, calls and longing. You want to see him again, want to have his deep honey eyes on you, want to hear his voice without the filter of a phone.

You whine about it to Robin a lot, much to her amusement and annoyance.

"Just tell him you like him" She says one night as you recount the latest texting session you and Eddie had the previous day.

"Dude! No! I can't just tell him that" You feel your heart starting to race at the idea, Robin snorts.

"Why not?"

"Because!"

"That's not an answer" She fires back and you groan.

"Because, what if he only wants to be my friend? What if he's like this with everyone? I don't want to make a fool of myself and just because he talks to me doesn't mean he likes me, and there's also the fact that he's like, famous!"

Your words come out in a panicked rush and you breathe heavily while Robin contemplates.

"Y'know, I've been his friend for a while. I don't think I've ever seen him like this about someone, he really does like you. A lot. It's kinda gross."

Her voice is soft and kind and you feel your cheeks heat at her words.

"I don't know what you did to him at the interview but he's like, super gone for you. Pretty sure he's panicking about the same things you are, hun. Trust me when I say that Eddie's not the type of person who'd string you around like that."

"Alright, okay" You sigh, feeling better with her reassurance.

You sit on her advice for a few days, weighing up your decision, when ultimately, Eddie makes it for you.

to Eddie: Eds, I'm posting the interview video and transcripts today. Want me to tag the band's @?

Eddie: Yes, please! You're incredible.

Eddie: Would you like to go out with me? Dinner tonight?

Your heart leaps into your throat and you can't stop the childish giggles as you respond with an enthusiastic yes, yes please I would like that very much.

You don't remember doing much work, too excited about that night to focus properly but you do manage to get the video and transcript online, making sure to tag the band's socials as well as Eddies.

to Eddie: Alright, it's up. What's the dress code for tonight?

Eddie: I just saw and casual, whatever you're comfy in :)

Eddie: What's your address? I'll pick you up at 6?

You give him your address and start getting ready, wanting to look good but not wanting to look like you're trying. A very hard line to walk but you were determined to do so.

A few minutes before six, the doorbell rings and your stomach fills with butterflies. Opening the door for Eddie, your heart stops inside your chest.

He's got his hair tied up in a bun at the back of his head, a few loose curls framing his face. Black jeans and combat boots with chains hanging from the belt, and a faded, well-worn Dio shirt.

His entire face lights up when he sees you, a beaming smile gracing his lips and you're almost ready to fall to your knees and begin proclaiming your everlasting love and devotion to him.

"You look beautiful" He says in lieu of a greeting, eyes roaming your body. You bite your lip softly and his eyes darken, tracing your movement.

"Thanks" You feel almost shy, "Should we go?"

He holds his arm out for you to take and you laugh softly, pulling your door shut behind you and slipping your hand into the crook of his elbow.

He leads you to his car, opening the door for you and closing it after you. Sliding into the drivers seat, his fingers drum against the wheel as he starts the car.

"Where are you takin' me tonight?" You ask softly, turning to look at him as he drives.

"We, my dear, are going to the park"

He glances at you as he says it, the tips of his ears going pink when he realizes you're already watching him.

"The park?" You ask, surprise colouring your voice, "Thought you were taking me out to dinner."

He laughs softy and you feel like you've just won a competition, a prize.

"We're havin' dinner at the park" He beams, "I was going to take you to a restaurant but Steve said not to do that and Robin said you'd like something more personal anyway."

You honestly feel as if you could float, you scrunch your nose at the feeling.

"You talk about me to your friends, huh?" You settle for teasing, enjoying the way Eddie's ears and cheeks bloom with a blush.

"Of course I do" He admits, "I really like you"

You feel your own face heat at his admission and you inhale sharply.

“I- um. I like you, too” You stumble over your words, face flaming and chest tight.

You steadfastly look out the windscreen and miss the look Eddie throws you, like you just handed him the moon. You bite your lip when you feel fingers brush against the side of your hand and shudder when you shift, letting your fingers spread and tangle with his, your palms pressed together.

“I’m glad” He murmurs, giving your hand a soft squeeze before he huffs a laugh, “Would’a made all this kinda awkward if you didn’t.”

You glance over at him and he’s already looking at you, warm smile on his face. He winks, focuses back on the road and lets go of your hand to turn. It doesn’t take much longer for the car to slow to a stop, a comfortable silence settling over you both.

Eddie’s a whirlwind as he rushes out of the car, tripping over his feet as he races to your door before you’ve even finished undoing your seat belt. Laughter bubbles up your throat and you’re chuckling by the time he’s pulling open the door, his cheeks blushing sweetly and eyes warm.

“You’re a dork” You laugh, taking his hand as he holds it out for you, he just smiles wider.

“Y’know, I have been told that” He murmurs as he pulls you closer to him, your breath hitches, “Now. Stand there and look pretty for me while I get our picnic ready.”

You bite your lip and lean against the hood of the car, watching him as he takes out a cooler, basket, blankets and pillows out of the car and rushing back and forth to a nearby tree. It’s tall and old and he sets up the picnic between gnarled roots. Once it’s laid out to his satisfaction he moves to stand in front of you, his fingers reach out and brush against your forearm.

“Good to go?” You ask, voice barely a whisper. He nods, eyes flicking over your face and he gently takes your hand in his, leading you to the blanket.

It’s kind of perfect, honestly. Too many pillows and blankets and Eddie’s brought so much food and there’s soft drinks (I didn’t know what kind you like and I didn’t want to bring booze because I’m driving and like I didn’t want you to think - Eddie breathe).

It’s a lot perfect.

You ask each other questions, you learn anything you can (his favourite colour is, surprisingly, lavender - “it was my mom’s, she used to have this knitted cardigan with little lavender flowers all over it.”)

You talk and talk and talk and the sun slips past the horizon and washes you both in soft golden oranges and reds. You shift closer to Eddie as the night air begins to cool your skin, Eddie notices your shiver because of course he does - he wraps one of the many blankets around your shoulders, presses his body against your side.

"Eddie?" You murmur, resting your cheek onto his shoulder, the soft fabric of his shirt rubs against your cheek.

"Yeah, honey?" He's just as quiet as you, nose brushing along your hairline. Something inside you shudders and trembles before settling into a soft glowing warmth.

"Thank you" Your face turns, forehead pressing against his cheek, "This has been easily the best date I've been on."

He cups your cheek and raises your face to his, your noses brush and he holds you against him.

"Baby, I'm the one who should be thanking you," His voice is rough and sincere, his eyes boring into yours, "For even giving me a chance. For letting me text you all day, every day. For making our interview so fun."

Baby, baby, baby, the word rattles around in your brain and you think you could cry. You're not sure how you've ended up here but you are and you are so, so grateful.

"Remind me to thank Robin for suggesting I interview you." Your words brush against his lips and you're leaning in, pressing your lips against his.

Eddie doesn't hesitate, kissing you back softly, sweetly. It's perfect. The date, the kiss, him. You kiss and kiss and kiss. He keeps it soft and sweet, innocent almost, and you want and want.

You sit together, wrapped up in each other and blankets, trading little kisses until your eyes begin to droop and you're yawning more than you are kissing Eddie. He rubs his palms up and down your arms.

"C'mon, I'll take you home, sweetheart."

You let him help you up, let him guide you to the car, let him assist you into your seat. You watch as he quickly packs up the picnic and loads the car.

You watch, head turned to rest against the seat as he starts the car. You watch as his gaze drifts from the road to you every few minutes and watch his hands as they hold the wheel and you watch as he parks the car in front of your building.

He turns and watches you, watching him.

"You're really sweet, Eddie." You say softly, limbs tingling as his lips curl softly at your words, your smile turns into something more teasing, "Knew you were hot shit but sweet too? Talk about a whole package here."

Eddie's cheeks are bright red and he's pressing his lips together tightly, he shakes his head fondly.

"Bed time for you, I think," and then he's walking you to your door, warm hands holding your face and a kiss being pressed against your lips, "Goodnight baby, dream sweet."

You murmur a soft goodnight, get home safe, please let me know when you're home safe, and then you're in bed, clutching your phone and waiting for that I'm home text.

You fall asleep between one breath and the next.

You don't get to see Eddie for a while after that, but you speak everyday - all day if you can. Good morning texts and random anecdotes about your days, soft words and sweeter wishes, I miss yous and goodnights.

You're swamped with work, fielding emails because apparently you're super popular now - Eddie's video went viral and now everyone's trying to book you for interviews and the comments on every one of your social media's. It's exhausting, honestly.

You call Eddie to complain, and he coos at you, teasing you and taking your mind off the sudden explosion of work.

"That's not nice, you're mean," You pout, phone pressed against your cheek, heart fluttering at Eddie's smooth laughter.

"Thought I was sweet, baby" He teases, recalling your sleepy words on your date. You can picture his wide smile as he teases you, and you just want.

"Are you busy?" You ask on a sigh, expecting the answer to be yes - Eddie's been telling you that he's on a roll with new songs and music, said he's been inspired. "Wanna see you, like, a lot. I know it's only been a couple weeks but-"

"For you? I'm free as a bird" He sounds like an absolute angel, "Want me to come over?"

And, well. That sounds perfect.

"Please. I'll cook us dinner, if you like."

"Heaven sent, you." Eddie groans, softly. "I'll be there in like twenty minutes, baby."

It feels more like five before you're letting him into your apartment. You've barely got the door shut before his arms are wrapped around you, pulling you close to his chest and holding you.

"Missed you too, baby." Eddie says into your hair, arms squeezing you softly.

You go boneless against him, stress melting away in the safe circle of Eddie's arms. Eddie presses quick kisses to your hair, forehead, temples, wherever he can reach without pulling away.

You lean back, press your lips against his and you loose yourself in the sensation of being held close and kissed by Eddie Munson.

It's nothing like the sweet kisses you shared during your date. It's a little more. More intense, more burning and has you feeling weak in the knees.

Eddie's tongue brushes against your lower lip, and your insides light up like fireworks. Your lips part on a sigh and Eddie dips his tongue inside your mouth teasingly before he pulls away. Pecking you softly and smiling at you.

"Hey"

"Hey, gorgeous girl." His eyes go soft, warm, "No stressin' about work, alright?"

You nod, step back, tug at his hand, lead him to your couch and pull him down with you. You curl into him and Eddie wraps his arms around you again.

A kiss is pressed to the top of your head.

"What do you feel like for dinner?" You ask, cheek pressed firmly against his chest. Your stomach flutters at the feel of solid muscle beneath your skin, the warmth of him, the steady rise of his breathing, the beat of his heart.

His grip on you tightens and he's pulling you down as he lays, forcing you between him and the back of the couch. One of his hands grips your waist tight and the other is gently cradling your head to his chest.

"Anything. You could make me burnt toast and I'd be the happiest person alive," You snort and he tilts your face up slightly, "I'm serious. You're amazing, you really are. And I'm not just saying that because I like you so much, well, I mean, I guess I kinda am but you know what I mean. You're so, so smart, and funny and talented and passionate and caring, charming and so beautiful."

You're shifting so you're hovering over him slightly, face inches away from his as he talks. You've never been one to associate those things about yourself but as Eddie says it, you think you believe it. Your chest feels like it's going to burst and you slide your hand up from his side, resting against his own racing heart while he continues,

"Like, I was so gone for you even before we met. Is that weird? That's weird but I would see the photos Robin would take of you when the two of you hung out and like, sure I thought you were the prettiest person I've ever seen but then she would start telling us stories about you and oh man, you were my dream girl. Absolutely. And then Robin's calling me, asking me to do you a favor? I said yes so fast she laughed at me and hung up."

You're grinning now as he talks, it's a little embarrassing but you feel happy, adored.

"And then, then I was there with you and you were even prettier in person and so goddamn funny? My heart just about gave out and -"

You cut him off by kissing him.

You both melt into it. Eddie's fingers tangling into your hair, keeping you close. You press against his chest and slide your body over his, covering him completely as you slowly run out of air. You pull away, take a deep breath and press right back in. Eddie makes a small sound at the back of his throat and the hand that's not holding your head, slides down to the small of your back, pressing and keeping you firmly against him, like you'd want to be anywhere else.

The kiss quickly heats, gets messier, desire and fire and something a whole lot like love thrum through your veins and you want and need.

You shift slightly, rocking your hips gently down and oh, oh.

Eddie groans, his hand splayed over your lower back moves, grips your ass and pulls you down to him. He rocks against you and you feel him getting hard beneath you and you're moving. Slipping off him, getting to your feet as you fist at his shirt, tugging him up with you and then you're both stumbling to your room while trying to not break the kiss and feel as much of each other as you can.

Your arm slams into the door frame and your whine is lost in Eddie's lips, his hand gently rubs at your shoulder to soothe, and then you're on your bed, Eddie on top of you and pressing you into the mattress. His hair falls around your face, curtaining you both from the outside world and making you feel like there's no one else - time slows and stops and then its you and Eddie, the last two people on the planet.

His lips travel, moving from yours and down your jaw, your neck. He leans over and presses a few quick kisses to your shoulder where you banged it before he's at your throat again, doing his best to cover you in his marks, whether it's from his lips or teeth.

You hold him close and squirm, breathing heavy through parted, kiss swollen lips. His hand slips under your shirt, fingertips gently brushing along your side and coming to rest at your waist. You whine out his name and struggle to free your legs from under him, Eddie lifts slightly and you quickly wrap your legs around his hips, locking you together.

"Eds" You breathe out as he nips at your neck, he trembles and stops, lifting his head and looking at you like you were responsible for lighting the sun and hanging the stars in the sky.

"Eds," You sigh, fingers caressing his face, "Want you."

You see his expression shudder with desire and he surges up, kissing you.

"You've got me," He says, voice rough and deep, "You got me. Wanna make you feel good, baby, can I?"

You nod and press a soft yes Eddie, yes into his lips and then you're both pulling at clothes. Slowly revealing yourselves to each other, it's slow and lazy as you both touch and look your fill with each new bit of skin shown.

Desire is under your skin, but it's simmering, a slow burn that lets you focus on sharing yourself with Eddie rather than a desperate need to be filled.

He kisses and mouths at every inch of your skin, hands touching and caressing anywhere and everywhere. You've never felt so wanted as you do right now with Eddie pressing kisses along your chest and down your torso, with his hands gently keeping you from falling apart.

He kisses his way down until he's reached the waistband of your pants, eyes flicking up to yours. You hold his face, smile, give a small nod, watch as Eddie's eyes slip closed and he presses his lips to your fingertips, you burn.

Eddie slowly shimmies you out of your pants, then his own, and you're both naked together. He sighs quietly as he kneels in between your legs, fingers skating up your calf and thigh. His eyes are darting around like he's trying to drink you in and keep you, how you are right now, burned in his memory.

You do the same.

He's lean, pale skin stretched over wiry muscles. Years of lugging heavy equipment has toned his arms, shoulders, chest. You trace one of his tattoos on his thigh, the closest you can reach without moving - there's so many more than you thought and you want to catalogue every single one, with your fingers and lips and eyes.

"You're so beautiful." He whispers.

The moment feels delicate, gentle, and loud words don't feel right. You wrap your fingers around his wrist, gently pull.

"Eddie"

You're just as quiet, his name leaving your lips on a soft breath. He leans down and softly kisses you before he's moving again, settling down between your legs and your legs shake as you feel the first press of his lips against you.

He's slow about it, running his tongue along your folds like he's got nowhere else to be. It's gentle and soft and has you quaking. You bury your fingers in his hair and Eddie's gripping your thighs, bringing you impossibly closer. He moans so quietly you would have missed it if it weren't for the vibration shooting through you and stoking the fire building under your skin.

"Eddie," You moan, tugging on his hair, "Eddie"

You chance a look at him, and your eyes almost roll back at the sight. He looks blissed out, eyes almost closed and face slack as he eats you out like you're the best damn thing he's ever tasted.

It doesn't escape your notice that he's rocking his hips down, grinding onto the mattress, and that's oh, oh that's enough.

You yank hard enough on his hair that he pulls away, his lips swollen and red, his chin and jaw covered in your slick. You twist and reach for your bedside drawer, praying you didn't forget to replace your expired condoms. You almost cheer out loud when your fingers brush one.

You kiss him as you tear it open, fingers finding Eddie's cock and rolling it on, he whines as you touch him.

Eddie guides you into laying back on the bed, settling between your legs. He's covering you completely, arms and hair surrounding you and caging you in, and he looks at you, eyes finding yours.

"Eddie"

He brushes his nose along yours. His lips gently caress your skin. He hums, and soft words are breathed into your cheek - I've got you baby, you're perfect, so perfect.

Then he's pressing inside you.

He moves slowly as he fills you, trembling moans falling from both your lips. Your eyes burn, tears stinging and you struggle to breathe. You've never felt so full, so wanted, so complete.

"Shh, darling"

He rolls his hips against yours and you cling to him, fingers digging into his arms and back.

"Eddie"

He whispers your name and begins to gently thrust into you. It's heaven. It's rapture. You've never felt so connected to another and you're sure you're seeing your death, your life. Time slips away, it's just you and him, him and you, together.

Eddie keeps the pace slow, gentle, it makes you feel wanted and adored. Desired. You rock your hips up in time with him and he groans, presses his forehead against yours.

"Baby, baby. Look at me."

He's pleading, almost begging you. Your fingers grip him tightly and put your eyes open, find his. Something ignites and you feel yourself hurtling towards your climax.

"With me," Eddie moans, hips rolling faster, "Baby. Baby. With me."

"Yeah, yeah. Eddie."

Your fingers dig harder into his back and you tremble, keeping your eyes locked on his. Fireworks explode in your nerves and you're shaking apart, whining loudly as you drown in bliss.

Eddie's hips stutter and he groans until he's stilling, panting and boneless. He's still buried inside you and he settles his weight a little more firmly on you as you share oxygen, pressed so close that you can't be sure you haven't become one - melded together and fused.

You don't burn it, but you end up having toast for dinner.

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