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pinkandgoldensoul · 6 months ago

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Heyo!

Since I'm definitely a fan of your writings and this tinkling feeling of requesting you something has been irking me, can I request something like an arranged marriage with Pierre?

Angsty and maybe a happy ending. That's upto you.

Love your works. Hoping for more great pieces.❤️

Happy New Year 🎊

(At the end of the fic I'll leave a note about this request ❤️)

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pairing: pierre gasly x female!reader (feat. esteban ocon x female!reader and charles leclerc as reader's bestfriend) genre: arranged marriage, angst, fluff and comfort !tw!: swearing, mention of s*x (not graphic), cheating, violence word count: 18.6k plot: you loved him, he loved you, and neither knew. Will an arranged marriage, an old love triangle and a special friend be enough to finally make you confess your true feelings?

Walking down the aisle, a bouquet clumsily held by trembling fingers, your whole chest was filled with quick butterflies batting wings, desperate to spread free. He was perfect. An astonishingly crafted smirk plastered on his face, ready for the flashes of the cameras to be captured, the suit slid on his athletic body without creases. You reckoned yourself inadequate in that white, plain dress: feeling pins pulling your hair left and right after hours of work by the hairdresser, the steady arm of your dad was the only anchor to the present moment. He never strayed his stare away from you, removing your veil in a slow, tantalizing motion. There were no vows to be exchanged and get mistaken in anxiety, no rings to be put through the wrong finger: you were and had always been his since forever, without he even had to ask. You peeked behind Pierre’s shoulder and saw Charles showing you an encouraging smile, which you tried to reciprocate despite sweating cold. You remembered his huge grin when Pierre had handed him the invitation: dimples on full display, Charles had flicked his eyes between the two of you and had been stoked ever since he was told he’d be best man. He’d been happier than Pierre himself had been about the news of the engagement with you and, consequently, about the wedding.

>>♥<<

«Okay, cool.» That had been his answer to you two fathers’ decision. They had grown best friends over the years, and they both didn’t like Pierre’s womanizer lifestyle, which was quite detrimental to his reputation. So your dad had decided to offer his own daughter to the Gasly’s like a sacrificial victim, knowing you had always had sympathy for the youngster and sure he would simply love you back with time. Of course, you were painfully aware of Pierre’s usual behavior around girls and, even though befriending him in teenage had made you helplessly fall in love with him, getting married felt like the cruelest assault to your dignity. For sure you would love him. And for sure he would not. Sitting on a couch right in front of each other, your parents discussing a couple of meters away, he simply bore his eyes into yours while drinking a glass of juice, legs spread out. «We’re going to have fun the first night together or…?» Your eyes threw a dagger to him, hit in your pride for the insensitive comment; Pierre wasn’t known for being delicate and considerate, when you used to hang out in group with him. After all, his humor was one of the things that had you capitulate before his feet. «Okay, I see. No jokes.» You squeezed your fingers into fists, uptight, dissatisfaction cursing through your blood. «Not on such things, Pierre.» «Like what? Sex?» he raised a brow. «My wedding.» you sighed. «Our wedding, you mean.» «Doesn’t seem as pivoting to you. Nothing will really change for you.» «We’re both going to wear a ring, y/n. Never seen a marriage without the groom or the bride.» He downed the last sip of the juice and placed the glass on the coffee table. You knew from the start it wouldn’t be a fairytale.

>>♥<<

«Don’t think a bride should stand on her own and look so sad.» Charles’ words whispered in your ear made you roll eyes and brought an immediate smile to your face. «Don’t think a best man should bother the bride with stupid remarks.» «Do you think it’s stupid?» he asked, raising his brow to insinuate doubt. «Pierre is having a blast and you… well, you’re here listening to the stupid remarks of the best man.» The small stem glass of champagne you still held had dried out of bubbles, but seemed interesting enough to draw your eyes down; Charles, genuinely sorry to witness your let down expression, wetted his lips and briefly glanced back at Pierre, laughing and dancing with the other guests. «Let’s go dance.» Caught by surprise, you tilted your head back up, wide eyes. «C’mon, don’t pretend you didn’t hear!» Charles chuckled, holding both your hands. «We’re going to make fools of ourselves…» «But that’s what we do the best when we’re together!» You let yourself be dragged in the middle of the dance floor set up under an outdoor gazebo: Charles’ ridiculous moves made a visceral laugh emerge from the depths of your fears, as he tried to involve you in his bubbly fun, despite the dress not helping the flow of your groove. «Geez, I feel so awkward!» you let out, head leaning backwards, invested by a childish happiness. «Just dance it out, we’re doing amazing!»

The sun setting down at the horizon threw an orange gold ray cut through the air, hitting Charles’ profile, getting both enlightened and obscured in two poetic halves which danced relentless and made you twirl around without a single thought. Out of notice, the guests had gathered around the two of you, enjoying the show you had put up; and when the music faded out to a slower tune, catching your breath in Charles’ arms, hands resting on his heaving chest, your sight found Pierre’s blue eyes, filled with an unreadable expression. As slower notes filled the air, he walked over to you, confident in each firm step, putting Charles’ luminous smile in defeat: when Pierre was around, there was no chance for you to look at any other person. He simply took your hands, implicitly warning Charles to move away and make room for him, tenderly joining the swinging fabric of your dress. Too affected by his presence and by racing thoughts about the future you would share with him from that moment on, you placed your burning cheek upon his chest, right above his heart. «Why didn’t you ask me to dance?» His question breached your overthinking silence. «You were too busy entertaining the guests.» You didn’t mean for your words to sound as veiled of sadness and resigned as they did, but you felt somehow content in letting Pierre know how you felt about the whole situation. He had you wrapped around his finger; his ring one. You were engraved in the inner circle of gold touching his skin, kissing it tenderly, vowing love to him any second. «I thought I’d make you uncomfortable giving you all my attention. You dropped a glass during lunch because of it, and I don’t want you to get hurt.» His smirk disseminated deep, red shame on your cheeks; why did you put blush on earlier that morning if Pierre was managing to do all the work by himself?

An unerasable pang of hurt chained your feet to the ground, unable to sink deeper into Pierre’s gentle hands holding you throughout the dance: you told yourself it wouldn’t shatter you completely if you thought he didn’t mean any of the things he did, he said. Holding you closer, cheek resting on his white, unbuttoned shirt, he left an unexpected and unseen peck on the top of your head, as you both still lulled to the beat. He then leaned on a side, dropping whispered words into your ear. «Want to see a smile on my wife’s face. It’s our wedding, after all, not our funeral.» As much as you wanted to feel hatred, you let Pierre’s jokingly voice sink, unconsciously obliging to his request right away. You felt young, drunk, foolish. You’d enjoy every bit of attention he’d spare you. Every single scramble.

>>♥<<

Pierre had insisted on picking you up before entering your newly bought apartment, to stick to the tradition; between giggles and laughs, you had admired you two’s mothers astonishing work of petals and candles signaling the way over to the bedroom. The dim lights enchanted your sight, as you stood speechless before the bed. Pierre’s hands caressing your forearms and slowly making their way up to your shoulders awoke you and froze you at once. The tip of his nose brushing your neck, you didn’t dare move nor speak as Pierre pressed soft kisses all over. Were you ready? Pierre encircled your waist with his arm, both relieving and accentuating the knot forming in your stomach. Would you ever be ready? You hadn’t talked about that moment, you hadn’t considered there’d be the need to. You thought he wouldn’t even touch you, once everybody’s eyes would be out of sight. So why was he taking all his time carefully unbuttoning the back of your dress, leaving open mouthed kisses on the bare skin he had available? «Pierre…» You soon realized your moan had been an incentive to Pierre when an airy chérie was whispered upon your shivering skin. «Pierre, I don’t know if we should…» «It’s our first night married, y/n. This is exactly what we should do.» His voice was warm, slightly raspy, perfectly calm and collected, concealing a burning desire underneath. Pierre tucked a lock of your neat hair behind your ear, leaving your neck shivering at the touch. «I know this probably isn’t how you hoped your wedding to be… But now I’m your husband, and I’m willing to do everything I’m supposed to. I’m not backing down.» «Will you ever love me?» you asked, suspended. Pierre tucked another strand of hair in the same spot. «I can’t promise that.» Of course, how would he? «But I’m always going to respect you, no matter what. I swore it and I’ll stand by it.» You slowly turned around to face him, picking up the gown of your dress and pressing a hand to your chest so that it wouldn’t slip off due to the strings being loosened. «Please, don’t… Please, promise you won’t hurt me, Pierre.» The pleading tone of your voice unexpectedly pulled a string inside Pierre’s chest. «Do you really think I’d do that on purpose? Y/n, we’ve been… we’ve known each other for so many years.» «That’s what scares me.» You diverted your gaze, staring at your own reflection on the window: you were now gripping at Pierre’s shirt, the bodice dangerously threatening to slip down, eyes brimming with tears. How could you be more miserable than asking your husband not to hurt you? «Y/n, I’m not a teen anymore. And I’m kind of offended that you think I’m what other people say and what the media want to make everybody believe.» «I wouldn’t have agreed to the wedding, if I believed all the things they said about you.» you whispered. «Then trust the words I said at the altar.» Pierre delicately cupped your cheek, leaving a slow, tender kiss on the opposite temple. «For better and for worse…» he said, boring his eyes into yours. «For richer and for poorer…» he carried on, swiftly freeing your arms from the dress’ sleeves. «In sickness and in health…» Pierre breathed upon your lips, grabbing the dress fallen down to your hips. «Until death do us part.» Gripping tight Pierre’s arms, you let him take your breath away with his sloppy kiss, shivering, despite your face feeling warm and flushed in heat. «I will love you, y/n.» Pierre tucked yet another strand of hair behind your ear. «Maybe not like a charming prince, but I will love you as much as I can.»

His fingers pressed on your shoulders, silently asking you to sit on the edge of the bed, to which you obliged without even thinking twice. The air was thick in pleasant tension: Pierre had let his jacket shuffling its way to the floor, staring at you as he unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirt; on your side, you had joined his intentions fidgeting with the buttons crossing his chest and abs, fully focusing on the slow, tantalizing task, instead of searching the force to bear his magnetic eyes. The golden shade casted over your cheeks, blending with the natural reddish shade of feelings spreading over your skin, left Pierre with an unexplainable tug inside the chest, pushing him to bend down and trap you on the mattress with yet another kiss, suddenly impatient. His shirt long forgotten on the floor upon the jacket and his tie, Pierre’s roaming hands dragged your dress down, making sure you’d slip completely out of it, so that you’d be bare for him to avidly see, touch and savor. Senses overwhelmed by his presence, helplessly amazed at how he could enchant your limbs and make them so reactive and sensitive to his touch, your fingers searched for relief on his body, between his brownish locks of hair, on his muscled neck and upper arms. Anything, to release the growing yearning he was masterfully building and lighting up inside of you. Pierre stopped all of the sudden, one elbow keeping him up, eyes lost in focus, as the fingers of his free hand traced an imaginary line from your sternum, down your chest. Before you could swallow hard at the gesture, he placed a lewd kiss right where his pointer finger had stopped. Again, uncontrolled, a soft moan escaped your already opened lips, tugging at his hair as to both pull him away and push him deeper into your soul. He raised his eyes to look at you hungrily, lips still stained with your skin. «I will honor you all the days of my life, y/n.» Pierre read the soft stare you gave him and the lovingly caress of your hand on his head as an invitation to drag his mouth upon your tender breast, finally free from the white cloth he had wished to tear apart since he had seen you walking down the aisle, swearing to himself he’d not be satisfied until he’d heard you scream his name from the top of your lungs, with his own hands, eyes and heart full of you.

The wedding being held in Italy at the beginning of September, right after Monza’s race weekend, you both had spent only a couple of days in the new house in Milan, in the attempt of building the sense of affectionate routine you would inevitably lose after taking the flight for Azerbaijan, following Pierre in the double-header awaiting him. The media had called it “racing-moon”. It was no ordinary honeymoon, travelling across the globe to support your husband, watching him with a pair of headphones and staring at him from a screen inside Alpine’s box, shying away from paparazzi’s cameras ready to capture glimpses of intimacy you didn’t even know how to spark yourself. A night of love wasn’t enough to erase the helpless feeling of distance and separation around Pierre: you were friends, sure, but your heavy crush on him had always prevented the relationship from growing further as it had happened with Charles. Daydreaming about him laying down your bed, earphones plugged, you had known every single detail about the things he liked while being in your early teens; now, looking at him packing his suitcase, standing at the doorframe you realized you either had never known him before or you had forgotten anything at the altar once he had kissed you alive.

«Do you need help?» you asked, closing and releasing your fingers from a fist, feeling useless. «Oh, didn’t notice you were there.» he quickly peeked at you. «No, thanks! I don’t know how, but it took half the time.» You raised a brow, leaning against the frame with arms crossed. «Maybe… it was the perfectly organized wardrobe I spent two days filling up with all your clothes?» «Mmh, I’m not really sure… Maybe I’ve just got quick with packing, since I’ve been doing it every other week for years now.» His smirk triggered an eye roll in you, so noticeable that Pierre turned to you, taking the suitcase off the bed and letting it roll on the floor. Not kind of expecting him to get that close to you after only stopping by the room, suddenly aware of how his stare could get your whole body drawn to him, succumbed to him, enchanted and gravitating around his brightness, you let yourself be courted by Pierre’s teasing fingers running up your arms. «I’m done now, so…» he said. «So?» «The bed is clear.» Throwing him an amused glance, about to laugh at how lewd his voice had sounded while hinting at the endless list of things you could do there, you pretended not to get his point. «Well, good job! We have somewhere to sleep tonight then.» «There’s no way, right?» Pierre squinted his eyes, hands still warming your skin caressed by the hot Italian wind blowing from the window. «Way to do what?» you asked, faking innocence once again. «I think you perfectly know.»

September’s heat had paired up with the warmth creeping up your ears while Pierre encircled your waist and inched over, causing butterflies inside your chest to awake your heart, moving past your thoughts to put them to sleep, as an overwhelming flow of love made you crave that heavenly attention and touch every second more. Pierre seemed to stop in his relentless chase of a kiss: he stood still, enjoying the closeness, the intimacy of the moment, with your arms enclosed around his neck. There was no rush. The house was hollow and silent; only your breaths could be heard, mixed with the distant chatter coming from the street. Maybe that was the happiest and most peaceful corner of life he would ever know. Maybe holding your waist knowing that you were his wife, that he had settled his forever home, maybe spending his life with you was happiness. He struggled forming deep rooted love feelings towards you, yet could picture the two of you having kids so easily, travelling together, filling that empty house with memories. Maybe it was the fondest look in your eyes making every fantasy so incredibly near and easy. There was something, though, that Pierre didn’t find hard to spark at all. «Changed your mind?» you whispered, teasingly but soft. Attraction. Pierre was so desperately enamored with your body; to be fair, he had always quite been. Untouched by innocence, back at the time you would hang out in group, he would see you utterly oblivious to how other guys glanced at you and wonder if you had ever had sex before. The night of your first time together – the wedding’s – he had both been unfazed and surprised about noticing you weren’t a virgin: it totally made sense for someone as beautiful as you to have been with a guy, but at the same time he had no clue of who you had appointed as the one, and it was weird, because you used to hang out with the same people. He had always thought you had been in his universe, like a satellite, and had always taken your presence for granted, without ever considering he could be the planet on the margin of a totally different galaxy you shined in. Pierre was so intimately envious of a past you didn’t allow him in, and his only way to cope was making sure he could be your only future. «Not at all.» The fastest flicker of his eyes down to your lips was the warning, which you took in with delight: and Pierre was all over you, dragging you into his lighthearted desires and plans, igniting a shy flattering shade beneath your cheeks.

Pierre had insisted on entering the paddock hand in hand; in return, you had insisted on giving your right hand, standing on his left side. He had frowned just enough for you to capture it, not able to understand your request. «As you wish.» But you knew why: and your thumb gently stroking his wedding ring knew as well. Unexplainable excitement was the first feeling which had insinuated in you as you put foot past the turnstiles: Pierre had reminded you quite a few cameras would be following you in a bee line right around you. You were too happy to care, in your first outing as a married woman. As a married couple.

«Oh, hello to the royal couple!» You couldn’t stop yourself from eye-rolling at Charles’ comment, drinking Pierre’s laugh like a shot of bliss. «What, are you jealous?» They laughed and joked around, giving friendly pats to each other, while you watched them with a grin plastered on your face, enjoying the luck of spending time with people you loved. So many things had changed, but it still felt like you were still sixteen, walking without destination in group, young and careless, emptying your pockets full of dreams and using them as currency of exchange between each other. «Catch up with you later, I’ve got a meeting now!» «See you later!» you waved at Charles, as Pierre greeted him.

Entering Alpine’s hospitality you squeezed Pierre’s hand in fright: out of the blue, a deafening clapping concert made your heart fly across the room, as mechanics, engineers and other people from the staff celebrated you two. Pierre looked down at you, curious to see your reaction, still infected by the serene and uplifted atmosphere, swimming in delight as soon as your eyes clicked with his and saw you flattered. There was a bit of pride in showing you off like a trophy, proving everybody wrong with the assumption he’d never settle down and never find the one. Well, he didn’t really choose you out of love. But nobody was meant to know that.

«Congratulations, mate.» The voice reaching from behind your back made you turn, despite it being directed at Pierre. Your eyes flew high to Esteban’s face, enlarging in surprise: he wasn’t looking down at you, caught in the weirdly friendly interaction with your husband. But as soon as Pierre was dragged into pats and hugs by team members, you were left with a whole bag of memories and discarded feelings coming back to the surface, standing still next to someone you once knew. «It’s like the old times, isn’t it?» he casually said, as you both stared at the packed room, side by side. «No, Esteban. Everything changed.» Bittersweetly shoving your left hand before his face to make a definite statement, he carefully grabbed it and brushed your ring with the thumb, taking a close look. «I don’t believe so.» he let go of your hand, smiling politely. «What are you talking about?» you asked, kind of annoyed. «You still think you have Pierre all to yourself when we know nobody does.» «Don’t… don’t you dare talk crap about him in my presence. You know nothing.» Staring into the void, you tried to stay calm and collected, swallowing the phantoms of the past. «I respect that. But I just wanted to remind you of when you were the one talking crap about him in my presence.» «That was years ag-» «And I was there to listen to you.» You dropped the accusatory finger you had brought dangerously near his chest, mind invaded by guilt and yellowed pages of life. «I’ll still be here for you when Pierre messes up again.» «He won’t, Este.» «We’ll see.» he shrugged, glancing back at the room. «But I’ve spent more time with him in the last year than you have, and I know he is no easy character.» «I’m not going to change my mind, if that’s what you’re trying to do.» you raised a brow, skeptical. «I simply wanted to wish you good luck.» Esteban’s impassive tone left you with the urge of replying: as much as you were filled with doubts and fears, you somehow trusted Pierre and his promises and wouldn’t bear anyone implying stuff. Especially Esteban. Because, to a degree, he knew the situation better than any other. His eyes, that despicable spark of mischief, anger and regret inside of them told you things you didn’t want to hear. «The staff would like to get to know my wife if only my teammate would let her be.» Pierre’s amused interruption startled you, almost feeling caught red-handed with the most terrible crime: talking to a guy he trusted and had grown to hate over time. «Sorry, Pierre! My fault. I was… keeping up with the Gasly’s.» The awkwardness and the tension of the moment didn’t go unnoticed to any of you, and you mentally thanked Pierre’s hand resting on your waist, slowly guiding you away from Esteban, who still stared at you with a small courtesy smile. «We’ll have to bear his presence, I know. Trust me, if I could, I’d rather have him on the other side of the planet.» Pierre sighed defeated while whispering those apologies laced with hatred in your ear and a pang of nostalgia, guilt, sorrow pushed you a little closer to him. «He’s not a problem, Pierre. We know how to be civil.» He looked at you, faking amazement at your reply, nodding his head with raised brows. «You’re more mature than I thought.» «More mature than you are? For sure.» You expected him to laugh; instead, he grinned in silence, a strange sparkle wobbling in his irises. A part of you clung onto it, wishing it was a veil of tenderness, affection, or anything like it towards you. For a moment, you held the hope in your hands, and you carefully caressed it, cherished it, making room in your heart to plant it and nurture it there, as if that single twinkle could ever be the seed of love.

>>♥<<

Baku’s street didn’t seem as bumpy to Pierre, now that he was walking on it with a small group of engineers; the main straight heading to the finishing line seemed unnecessarily long, especially since he had just travelled the entire track and had the pitlane as destination. Left with nothing else to discuss with his team, he enjoyed the sun setting and painting the city gold, taking it easy and slow. «Pierre!» The Frenchman turned around and immediately grinned wide, waving to Charles jogging to him. «Track walk? Thought I’d see you speeding riding a bike.» Charles chuckled, adjusting his jingling bracelets. «I wanted to enjoy the atmosphere better.» «Yeah, me too.» They strolled pensive, no rush to be drowned by the buzzing life of the paddock. «I can’t believe it.» Pierre looked at his friend, who had a pleased grin painted and hung by his dimples. «What?» «This is your first race weekend married. And I was your best man. Isn’t it crazy?» «Time flies, Charles.» Pierre scoffed with a smile. «I saw you celebrated in the hospitality, earlier.»

As Pierre narrated the small party the team had organized to Charles’ ecstatic eyes, his thoughts lingered on you, on the myriads of unexpected congratulations he had received for choosing such a kind and fine woman and making her his. Though, there were moments he felt like he was just above an acquaintance to you. Pierre sighed. «What was that?» Charles asked. «Sometimes I think I don’t really know y/n. Not as much as I should, I mean.» «You do know her, though. You’ve been hanging out together since high school.» «Charles, I don’t even know who her first boyfriend was.» Pierre’s pinch of helplessness caught Charles by surprise, reciprocating his sudden stare with bewilderment. «Did- I didn’t even know she’s had a boyfriend.» the Monegasque stuttered. Pierre looked down at the asphalt. «Hoped you did. But you see? We don’t really know her.» «Well… You’re married now. You have all your life to get to know her.» Charles put his arm around Pierre’s shoulders, giving him an encouraging look. «Yep. That’s my best man right there!» Pierre reciprocated the grab and smiled as the two of them walked down into the pitlane, serving friendly smiles and beautiful shots to the photographers buzzing around the garages.

>>♥<<

«Hello?» «Uhm, am I disturbing you?» «Yes, absolutely. But I’m going to be the nicest just for you.» «Thanks for the usual teasing, Charles.» «What’s up?» «I… I’m deeply embarrassed, but I think I’m lost. I can’t find the way to the track.» «Never heard of Google Maps?» «I’ve tried, but I ended up exactly back at the hotel.» «Ooof. There’s actually someone out there who’s worse than me then.» «Ah, I wouldn’t have called you if Pierre wasn’t busy.» «Can’t I be busy as well?» «Cha’…» «I’m just joking. Are you at the hotel?» «Yep.» «’M on my way.»

The bubbly air of that Saturday morning brushed your bare arms, anticipating the warmth falling onto the grey asphalt, as you walked quickly alongside Charles, trying not to get stopped by fans too many times. «Why didn’t you come to the track with him?» «I think he tried to wake me up, but I… uhm… fell asleep.» «It’s incurable, right?» You both chuckled, still marching towards the paddock. «How is it going?» «Uh?» «With Pierre.» A horn startled you, while Charles waved towards the Tifosi on the other side of the street and smiled under his Rayban’s. «Good! I mean, way better than I thought.» Charles studied your expression, letting your own statement sink in. «You know, I talked with him yesterday. He asked me if I knew who your first boyfriend was.» «Did you tell him?!» you gasped. «Of course not, I’m not that mad.» he looked straight ahead. «But he seemed somehow disappointed. He really wants to know you on a deeper level.» «And tell him about my hookups as he did with us? No, thanks.» «Not necessarily about past relationships. There are so many things you could rediscover now as a couple, and he’d like to. He… he cares. Pierre isn’t the asshole you believe him to be.» «You know my reasons, Charles.» «I do, y/n. But I also know Pierre, and I’ve never seen him as determined and serious in any other relationship before.» A doubtful glance at him turned into an amused snort, as you saw Charles’ dimples already exposed for you to admire. «I should give him a chance, uh?» you joked, kicking a pebble. «Yeah, you definitely should.» «I hate you.» «What’s that for?» Charles chuckled. «You’re too convincing.» «Maybe you only wanted to hear someone else’s confirmation.» You took a moment to reflect, still looking at his green eyes, letting the sentence resonate inside of you. Perhaps you had only been waiting for a sensible reasoning to justify the senseless, self-destructive and visceral need of trying to build a stronger relationship with Pierre.

>>♥<<

Crossing the room, hands intertwined with yours, Pierre felt alert, almost knowing something about bringing you along to that small reception organized for commercial reasons only was intrinsically wrong. Until he spotted a pair of brown eyes lingering way too long on the fine straps grazing your shoulders’ skin. Esteban’s. Despite the years, despite trying, despite the countless shots he had given to their relationship, Pierre couldn’t let go of hatred: the memories of the three of you in the same couple of meters, in the same suffocating room were still a fresh wound which had reopened once more. Unaware of anything, you reciprocated with a reassuring smile Pierre’s tighter hold on your hand, an enquiring look on your face. He expected you to stiffen at Ocon’s mere sight; instead, you stood like a fragile yet flexible flower against the blowing wind, only caring about being… as marvellous as you were. Pierre had been learning it to his disadvantage each day a tiny bit more, trying not to read too much into your rosy cheeks and your fond, unmistakable stares. The delicacy and the grace you would use with others any time you got the chance to talk with people from the team, the paddock, the entire world, really, hit him in an unknown spot of the soul. Probably as hard as Ocon approaching the two of you with a champagne glass in hand did on his nerves. «Didn’t expect to see you here.» Esteban said, only addressing you. Chewing a lump of awkwardness, you threw the quickest glance over to Pierre to check his reaction after being deliberately ignored by his teammate. «Here I am.» you whispered, pressing your lips together with an embarrassed smile. «Wasn’t I clear enough when I told you to stay away from her?» A lightning struck the room. The bitterness in Pierre’s tone triggered a light-hearted laugh from Esteban, theatrically opening the arm and letting the small wave of champagne wash the resentments of the past away. «Come on, Pierre! How many years passed? We aren’t teenagers anymore.» His fingers grabbed your hand tighter, restraining himself from spitting words of fire against his former teammate once again: the bottled-up anger, though, had resurfaced much to Pierre’s surprise, and to yours as well, pressing the button “play” on the reruns of the day their entire relationship crumbled.

No matter what you could’ve done to avoid it, Pierre and Esteban were born to disagree. Nobody could stop that tickling bomb hiding in both their chests as soon as they would spend enough time together to let it explode. Even without you, they would’ve nurtured antipathy for each other; that was how it was supposed to be, and they both knew it. Nestling against Pierre’s loving arms draping you all, you stared at an indefinite point of the packed, but still empty, room. «Do you think it’s my fault?» Pierre placed his chin on your shoulder to listen to your whispered rumbling, joining you in the contemplation of the void. «No, I don’t. He was a douchebag even before treating you the way he did.» It didn’t seem like he was lying, to be fair. You knew very little about the stormy past between the two, since you had met Esteban way later than you had befriended Pierre; he had never told you a thing about a terrible kid who grew up with like a brother and then discarded him due to insane competitiveness. Esteban was dead to him. A Mr. Nobody existing without any string to his life but hate and resentment’s. Unspoken truth, they both liked you and cared for you in very different ways, so it was only natural for them to notice each other’s evident preference for you and clash because of it; that was how it was supposed to be, and they both knew it, deep deep down. «Can we please forget about him?» The careful urge of the sentence was paired with a swift brush of his hands taking yours, silently asking you to dance to the music now blasting through some speakers in the room. Maybe lightness was all you both needed to be happy.

Singapore’s humidity clung onto your lungs like a suffocating net, twirled around your trachea, squeezing it tight. With an invisible layer of sweat all over your skin, heat as well as worries and doubts made you melt before the evidence, before reality. Two weeks and you had already become a ghost. Imprisoned in the highest tower of the lies’ castle, your honeymoon had turned into a tour around the globe inside a golden cage: everybody saw you as the “trophy-wife”, a peculiar and exotic animal stupid enough to bear Pierre’s company, showed left and right, avidly and superficially looked at, never considered as a real person.

Any time Pierre would come home from unbelievably long training sessions and meetings of all sorts, you didn’t even have the strength to start an argument and cry your loneliness out. He’d absent-mindedly kiss your cheek, go take a shower and leave you to your unfinished essay draft sitting in the dust of your laptop’s memory. Eating some take-out he’d leave you choosing in religious silence, punctuated with brief chat, you’d often watch a movie on the couch: staring blankly at the screen, you’d focus on how foreign the touch of his arm around your shoulder would feel. An afterthought, quick enough to disturb the turbulence of your headspace. I simply wanted to wish you good luck. Luck. It would’ve never been out of love, but out of pure chance. As if Pierre could never learn to love anyone. Still, admitting to yourself Esteban was right would’ve been an unnecessary added humiliation. «We’re too slow in the middle sector, I’m understeering everywhere…» It was a secret you wanted to keep buried in your chest. «But you gain in the last sector, you see? Our top speed is good.» Not being reciprocated. An ineffable hurt. You miserably looked at your husband debriefing intensely with his performance engineer, standing at the back of the garage so that you wouldn’t be in the way of the many mechanics working around the car. Envious, you fixed your gaze upon the fan Pierre held in his hand, still busy talking and pointing at data on the screen. The air felt too thick to be breathed in, too dense to slide down your lungs and swoop your dark thoughts away. You had agreed to be his wife, due to the endless love you had. But what if he let that love slowly wither and die? What if you could grow out of love? What if finally having him was enough for you to become indifferent? What if neither of you could remain loyal to the promises you vowed?

Swallowing hard, you shut your eyes shooing the sudden dizziness away; and at the very same time, you felt a gentle weight lingering on your right shoulder, asking quietly for permission. You opened your eyes, obliged to wide them as soon as you saw it was Esteban. «Here, drink this.» A water bottle was handed to you, still struck by the soft eyes and the attention being addressed to you. «It’s electrolytes. With this weather I always make sure to keep hydrated, since it’s easy to lose liquids and mineral salts as well.» A thousand questions ran through your mind, to the point Esteban could almost see them being scattered from one pupil to the other. He invited you to drink once again, poking pride sitting in his chest as he had noticed you being in discomfort first. First than… him. The quick glance Pierre gave the two of you was enough to stir up even stronger satisfaction, a lovely victory in the endless mind-war they fought. «Thank you.» It came out stifled, high-pitched, a bit squeaky, but somehow filled with unexpected sadness. Pierre crossed the garage in a couple of strides, wearing a mask of concern you couldn’t read the authenticity of, shielding you with his body from the unwanted attention Esteban had provided you with. «Are you okay? You could’ve told me you were thirsty.» «Pierre, I’m fine.» you told him off, almost whispering. He darted a glance at his teammate once again as soon as his hand reached yours to grab the water bottle back, willing to take off the hideous smile he wore on his face. Lots of eyes inside the garage had observed the scene in silence, still glancing over you, as Pierre’s attentions and barely noticeable physical touch felt all too much to bear at once. You would’ve died for it, only a couple of months earlier. If only the wedding weren’t a well-thought plan, a pact between family friends, a tie nobody but you craved intimately and deeply because of the loving, totally disregarding the real practical reasons behind it. Ocon’s silhouette being drowned in his side of the garage made your mind slip back into the past, unboxing a metallic box of memories you had buried six feet underground.

Disappointed. The disapproval you had read in Pierre’s face right as you showed up to the club next to the “new friend” you wanted to be joining your historical trio had your heart shattering like a glass of wine from a polished tablecloth, painting the floor in red diamonds. Pierre had dragged you in the middle of the dancing crowd, leaving Esteban hanging at the entrance before a confused Charles. «Why did you bring him here?!» «He’s… I wanted to introduce him to you and Cha’!» you yelled, in order to be heard amidst the chaos. «I know him already, and he’s an asshole. Now tell him to leave! I don’t want him anywhere near me!» «You can’t force anyone to leave a public place! And… And I want to spend time with all of you.» He bored his eyes into yours, letting the blasting music take over your thoughts. «I’m not hanging out with you if you buzz around him.» It was definitive. «Call me when you’re done wasting time with that piece of shit.» Giving you his back, you saw him dive into the sea of people, to find and rapidly grab the waist of the brunette who had accompanied him to the party; he didn’t even bother to be far enough so that you wouldn’t see him shove his tongue down her throat, a tangle of hands messily roaming, touching, squeezing yearning skin. Este’s hand softly intertwining yours guided you towards a quiet table, to which Charles sat waiting, with drinks for the three of you; and as much as you would’ve liked to be grateful for Charles’ delighted stare, for Esteban’s soothing words, your heart still drowned in bubbles at the bottom of your cocktail. He’s my boyfriend. Those were the words you were about to say at the door of the club, to Pierre. You had already anticipated the sweetness of the moment, the satisfaction in proving you weren’t his little puppy, a slave rebelled to the master showing him the jingling keys which had freed him. The mere need to prove him anything was the undeniable sign of slavery. You’d never be free.

>>☆<<

«Are you sure?» «Yeah…» «Here? Don’t you want to go-» You shut Esteban up pressing your lips on his, carrying on the messy make out session you had started in the club’s bathroom. «Y/n, are you really sure?» The kiss was interrupted once again, leaving you with an unbearable, unsatisfied yearn making your heart swell and explode in ashes of frustration. «Don’t you love me, Este?» you whined, your fingertip dragging his bottom lip down in the drunken attempt to seduce him even further. Of course he loved you. He had agreed to take your virginity away as you leaned your back onto a bathroom’s door, during the most boring and miserable of nights out, accepting to be humiliated by Pierre in front of you, his own girlfriend, and dancing awkwardly in the crowd before you dragged him there to pour out the unexplainable need of getting your brain fucked out. Esteban loved you purely, too purely, to be fair: he felt like a noob and inexpert, an amateur he was not, while listening to your heavenly choir of whimpers and profanities, with his fingers gripping tight your hips, as not to lose you. Deep down he knew he should’ve been satisfied and content, he should’ve enjoyed that piece of pleasure and love – but was it love to you? Esteban wasn’t quite sure – because he had managed to snatch you away from Pierre’s clutch, he had laid his hand onto someone he hadn’t had already: he had won where Pierre had lost. Still, thrusting into you as waves of pleasure rocked your body and transfigured your expression, Esteban only felt like he had lost you, indeed, like he had never truly had you, not even physically. And when your warm hand caressed his cheek, he got the confirmation: you pitied him, because no matter how bold the “boyfriend” tag could be, your heart could only crave, think of and wish Pierre.

The break-up was, nonetheless, harmful. After damning yourself, considering how nice and kind Esteban was to you, how sweet some of the moments you had spent together had been, you had come to the conclusion that no other feeling in the world could replace or overshadow the consuming love you felt for Pierre. You didn’t need it to be easy and satisfying; as hurtful as it could be, you only needed him. And to his own dismay, Esteban knew it.

«Can you drop me off at that bar over there?» you pointed at the end of the street. «Why?» «I simply need to hand this to Pie-» «Oh, no, just save it. I should’ve known.» You frowned, looking at his tensed arms. «Is there something wrong?» He scoffed, gripping the steering wheel ‘til his knuckles turned white. «Absolutely not! My girlfriend only runs after another guy who also happens to be a moron and doesn’t give a shit about her while I’m being the third wheeler to my own relationship!» Esteban harshly braked in front of the bar. «Y/n, we’re done.» «What?» you gaped, still stunned by the whole conversation. «I don’t want to be with you anymore. Now get out of the car.» Beyond bewildered, you searched for sincerity and honesty in the brown chocolate eyes you had often lost yourself into, stung by hurt as you found them. «Are you seriously breaking up with me for this? I just need to return this hoodie to him!» Esteban’s eyes bore yours outraged, almost incredulous to your words. «Can’t you see the problem? Can’t you notice how you’re chasing after him and are not willing to treat me nearly the same as you treat him? You share clothes with him and you’ve never even asked once for my hoodies!» «Did you want me to?» «That’s not the point, y/n! The fact is it seems like I never cross your mind, whereas Pierre is always in your thoughts. Sorry, but I can’t bear to see you love him more than you love me. I can’t do this anymore.» Gasping for air and for words, you found none: you witnessed helpless as Esteban got out of his seat and reached to your side to open the car door and invite you once again to get out. «Y/n, don’t force me to be drastic. Come on.» «You’re being nonsense! Este, please, you can’t do this!»

Watching your first relationship crumble under the weight of painful lies, you desperately held onto the car door, despite Esteban’s hand trapping your wrist, firm. «Y/n, I told you to get out.» As you pleaded him, whispering “sorry”s like prayers, few tears pricked your eyes, which seemed to sort the opposite effect of what you had hoped for. Esteban, blinded by hurt and rejection, pulled your wrist towards him in an attempt to drag you out the car, and as an unconditional reflex you cried out to him, a tear cutting through your cheek. «Este, please… Please, don’t do this to me!» «You didn’t care about hurting me, why should I care about hurting you?» As he spitted out these words, scornful, he managed to pull you out the car with a jerk, eliciting a chain of heavy tears to reach the ground, which blurred your vision. Esteban was still talking to you, wrist aching to be freed underneath his hold of steel, but your mind refused to make sense of any of the insults directed at you, as much as your eyes couldn’t clearly distinguish his angry face. You had stopped fighting him, though, surrendered to the sad truth he had unveiled despite you trying to cover it up. A truth made of lies. Exposed to your own blade, humiliated and full of regret, you stood still, frozen, incapable to react. And it was then that you saw Esteban’s body being crashed violently onto the chassis of his car with a loud thud. Your wrist was suddenly snatched from the grab, and you swiped some tears to witness clearly the scene unfolding before you. Pierre holding Esteban by the collar. Pierre was shouting onto his face, unleashing his fury, barking his disgust and hatred; and though you and him both expected some sort of reaction from Esteban, you both watched him stay silent at the accusations. «Don’t ever touch her again! Don’t you even try to show up again, understood? Go fuck yourself and stay away from us!» Pierre shouted, putting a protective arm around your neck and bringing you close. But he couldn’t protect you from those brown eyes, which swallowed down the secrets you weren’t ready to share with Pierre. Esteban judged you in the harshest way possible: leaving you to your own conscience. «It’s okay, now. You don’t have to cry anymore.» Pierre wiped your face off, pulling your head to him for his chin to rest upon, rubbing your back with his hand, as you watched Esteban get back in the car and disappear in a cloud of smoke. «He won’t bother us anymore, I promise. You’re safe, with me.» What a paradox: safe in your captor’s arms.

You let yourself be cradled by Pierre’s honey-laced reassurances, trying to digest the shock of the whole situation bit by bit, failing not to feel sorry for having deceived Esteban and yourself. You had believed you loved him; which wasn’t and could never be true. And the awareness weighed on your chest even heavier while being held in Pierre’s arms.

HOT NEWS: Alpine’s driver Pierre Gasly is told to had been seen very intimately close to another woman during a formal gathering with top sponsors of the team. Has the recent marriage with y/n cracked already?

𝚆𝚑𝚘 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝙿𝚒𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚠𝚘 𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚔𝚜 𝚊𝚐𝚘 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚎𝚠𝚜? 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝! 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙵𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚑 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚜, 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚙 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚢/𝚗, 𝚠𝚑𝚘𝚖 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚂𝚎𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛.

>> 𝐒𝐞𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭: 𝐏𝐢𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐞 𝐆𝐚𝐬𝐥𝐲’𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐞𝐱𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐯𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐨𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐬

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚞𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚙𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝙶𝚊𝚜𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚗 “𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚐 𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕”. 𝙻𝚎𝚝’𝚜 𝚋𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕... N𝚘 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚘𝚞𝚋𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚒𝚎𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚓𝚞𝚒𝚌𝚢 𝚒𝚗𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚑 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚝𝚑 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚙𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝙶𝚊𝚜𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚖’𝚜 𝚟𝚒𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚜… 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙵𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚑𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚜𝚗’𝚝 𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚝𝚘 𝚓𝚞𝚖𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚙 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛; 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎, 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚒��𝚎, 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚛𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚎𝚕, 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚏𝚎. 𝙸𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐? 𝚄𝚙𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚎: 𝙵𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚊 𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚍: 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚊 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚐𝚗𝚒𝚣𝚎 𝙿𝚒𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚎’𝚜 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚞𝚗𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎 𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚖, 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚖𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝙰𝚕𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚎’𝚜 𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚊𝚗. 𝙸𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚊 𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚝 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝙶𝚊𝚜𝚕𝚢? 𝙸𝚗 𝚜𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚎, 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚖𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚞𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚗𝚘𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚏𝚎’𝚜.

Paralyzed on the spot, you let the phone gently thud against the kitchen counter. It was nothing you didn’t expect to happen to you; you had lived through it even before whispering with soft eyes “I do” at the altar, when you used to scroll his Instagram picture-perfect shots with his girlfriends, but the timing he had chosen was way off your forecast. The thunderstorm had darkened your sky too early. You hadn’t seen it coming, you hadn’t heard a single roar of the wind in the distance. Nothing. Pierre had given you nothing either to hate or to love. Somehow, a small part of you felt sickly relief in knowing you could finally turn your eternal suspicion into hatred: you wished you could mold it in shape, form sentences to dagger him with, cries to let out your throat with violence. Nothing came. Nothing.

You stood by the counter as you let the bloody red liquid boil into the pan; staring at it, you absentmindedly kept stirring the sauce, not able to do anything else. Your ringtone blasted through the empty kitchen and it pierced your ears unexpected, instilling in your nerves a hit of anxiety which caused your hand to hit the pan; it dropped inevitably off the stove, collapsed to the ground, poured its vermilion content on the luminous tiles. Dodging quickly enough not to have the pan falling on your feet, still hearing your phone ringing, your chest benched inward with a deep, exasperated sob, sharply taking in air to fill your shaky body with. Waves of tears ran down your eyes, arms still half-hanging in the void, as if you waited for someone to pick you up and nail you to a cross, to cease your unsubduable sense of betrayal. It all crushed down on you, eyes closed, stilling liquid sadness, which ricocheted between the walls of the emptiest and loneliest flat in the world. The phone stopped ringing. It seemed to calm you down at first; the silence left you with curiosity to see if the nightmare was over, opening your eyes back to the disastrous sauce on the floor, which was supposed to be ready for dinner. With caution, your trembling fingers grabbed the phone from the marble counter, and you jumped on your feet as it started buzzing and ringing against your skin once again. A name appeared, impressed on your retina. You couldn’t help but suffocate a sob: the grab on the phone tightened together with the clench wrenching your heart, making it as small as a crumble.

>>♥<<

«Charles…» He didn’t hesitate to take in your wandering hands, flinging towards him and holding onto his shirt. Right as he had read the news, he had reached out to you: for he had witnessed you breaking down because of Pierre too many times not to know you would, eventually, need a leaning shoulder. He wore the friend’s armor with the usual embarrassment of being both friend to you and to Pierre; he was used to balancing between two sides, trying not to pick one, working as a bridge to keep you walking in the same direction. Charles always felt helpless before your broken heart: he knew Pierre and how he would’ve never done anything to hurt you, but still, he had, undoubtedly, and there was no defense Charles himself could put up. Especially if he had you weeping and sobbing in his arms, so painfully close to his heart. «I can’t do this anymore, Charles.» «I know, y/n. I know.» He swallowed hard, caressing your hair, searching for comforting words even though he was damn aware there were none. «W-why? Where did I go wrong?» Charles’s heart panged at your words: he immediately took your face in his hands, wiped tears off it with both thumbs and silently hoped to find an answer. The truth is he hadn’t a single one of them. Glancing at you, Charles wished he hadn’t been excited and bubbly about the marriage as he had been; he had nurtured so much joy, watching the relationship timidly sail the month before the wedding. He had pictured you and Pierre being the couple everyone would envy, perhaps even building a family together. He had got enamored with the way your wedding dress fitted you, how the golden ring adorning your hand had lit up your smile and your complexion even more, how every piece seemed to be finally falling into place.

In a few weeks’ time, he had witnessed the cast away of hopes. Charles wanted to tell you Pierre would’ve never done anything like it, he would’ve sworn it, if only facts didn’t force him to question everything he presumed to be sure of. «I know you’ll hate me for it, but…» he tucked a strand of your hair behind an ear, «…we should know exactly what happened before judging him so harshly.» «Charles! Do you think I really want to know the details?» your chin twitched. «I don’t need to know where… how… and since when they started fucking.» Shaking your head while picturing the atrocious scenes in your head, you put a hand on your forehead, face dropping down, incapable of tolerating Charles’ eyes boring into yours with an awful mixture of pity and sorrow. «It disgusts me.» you said, even feeling your stomach upset. Charles watched you spit out hatred as he rubbed a hand on your upper arm, slightly squeezing it in reassurance. He was friend with both of you and wasn’t keen on the idea of losing either, nor choosing where to stand. Somehow, he couldn’t pick a side. «Don’t I deserve better? Don’t I deserve to be loved?» Charles looked at you sternly, almost scolding you for such a question. «No doubts you do.» he said, definitive. «But Pierre knows that too. Before being his wife, you’re his friend.» He placed his firm hands on both your arms, searching for eye contact as he kept addressing you with a gentle tone. «He’s always loved you and respected you, even if it might have been hard to notice.» «He’s never going to love me… He never will.»

You both stood in the hall of Charles’ suite: the silence wrapping the luxury furniture was punctuated by your quiet sobs, your shaking breath, the strenuous beating of your heart. The air was warm; it flushed your cheeks and Charles’ as well. After a more attentive look, his green eyes seemed dull and tired. The night was already projecting its dark shadow onto the sky, and it was the sign which put your soul into a state of guilt: right after Charles had called you, you had run to him without a single worry of disturbing him. You had left a mess in the kitchen. You hadn’t prepared the dinner Pierre had asked you for, like the perfect lovely wife you had been up until that moment would request you to. As much as you could try to hate him, a solid and unbreakable part of you held onto the hopeless love of him, never ending source of suffering, yet inevitable. At the thought of your condemnation, you sobbed and cried a little louder, pulling Charles’s shirt near you, defeated, exhausted, distraught.

>>♥<<

The quiet sound of clinking metal timidly reached you and awoke you; you stirred, onto the couch, feeling a bit sore from sleeping all night in the same position, cranked. The sun filtered through the curtains, lighting your cheek right as you got seated. The room seemed to wheel ‘round you, on and on: thoughts started racing the new circuit of your mind, lap after lap, causing you to shut your eyes and block the incessant flow which was making you dizzy. Putting memories in order, you recalled the events. You had spent the night at Charles’ place: he had offered you to sleep in his bed, but you had decided not to profit of his generosity. In the quiet darkness of the suite, you had thrown your phone on the carpet, nestling against the squared pillow, shying away any thought concerning Pierre. But you had failed and wondered, haunted, if he might have been searched for you. After all, you weren’t home, when he clearly expected you to be there. He might have noticed. Or maybe not. Perhaps he had been taken care of by that daddy’s girl; maybe he had left you a text saying he wasn’t coming home either, leaving you wasted and rotten together with your nicely cooked dinner. If only there was a dinner to see rotting ; the red liquid crusting on the kitchen tiles printed on your mind like a crime scene you wanted to forget. The idea of your house being empty crashed your insides and twisted them in helpless disappointment. Still sitting, you eyed the phone, lying backwards on the floor, turned off since last night. What was the point of switching it back only to be flooded with more rumors you would never be ready to face?

You then finally stood up in the middle of the living area, looking around you like a stranger, and followed the noise coming from the small kitchen. There you found Charles, jogging around the counters, attempting to cook. You checked the time on the clock hung up on the wall: Monday, 1:12 p.m. «Oh, finally! Good morning!» Charles chirped, interrupting the trance status you had swamped into. «Good morning. Are you cooking lunch?» you asked, getting closer to the stove. «Yep! Some pasta with pesto for lunch!» You gulped at the mention of food. «I just woke up, Charles… I don’t know if I want to eat so much for breakfast.» «I’m sure you’re going to be hungry as soon as you see my delicious plate.» he chuckled, right before quickly removing the lid to the pan which was about to overflow in white bubbles. Done with stirring up the water, he turned towards you, who were already seated at the table, and leaned his palms onto the marble behind him. «How do you feel?» he asked. You rubbed your temple. «Tired.» Charles sighed. «You should’ve slept in my bed and let me take the couch as I-» «I’m not tired physically, Cha’. I slept quite good.» He nodded to himself in silence, looking down. «I see.» You drowned in the white noise of the pan boiling and the kitchen fan filling the otherwise dead silence, mentally visualizing the blurry picture you had been shocked by. The dizziness grew stronger and a large, deep pit in your stomach opened like a black hole swallowing your feelings. «I’ll talk to him about it as soon as I see him.» You heard Charles’ voice, but didn’t listen, as the cooking water roaring against the steel was the sound you had tuned into, and it grew louder and louder, almost unbearable to your focused hearing. With a quick glance, you saw the white foam resurfacing behind Charle’s silhouette. «Charles, the pan!» you urged. «Oh, fuck!»

>>♥<<

You stared at the plate, keeping it at a distance ahead of you with your fingertips, listening to Charles’ chewing, which never seemed that loud. The chewing stopped, together with his fork clinking against the ceramic, and you felt his eyes fixed upon you. «You need to eat something, y/n.» «Sorry, Charles, I have a messed-up stomach… After all the things I read…» «I know, but please, just have a few bites.» Charles gently pushed the plate back near you. «I can’t see you like this.» It was meant to be an unheard thought, just above a whisper, but the kitchen was so silent you could listen to his breathing. The shining fork on the tablecloth, a small piece of penne pierced; half a bite. Eyes closed, and Pierre was still there. Maybe he hadn’t even texted you: he hadn’t wondered about you at all, but left without warning, completely indifferent to your absence. The invisible wall built brick after brick in the last two weeks suddenly turned gray and heavy, painfully present. Pierre would never love you. The fork crashed against the plate, hand covering your mouth; Charles raised his eyes and stopped his every movement to observe you once again. He saw you hesitantly get up from the chair, quite unsure about what was going on, until the air punched your stomach and caused it to fling upwards, together with all its content. With no time to reach the bathroom, panic building in your chest, you abruptly turned towards the sink behind you, fingers unable to stop the wave climbing up your throat.

Charles got up, as you intended hearing his chair screeching. Not quite sure about what was happening, he first let his arms raise up a bit only to be lowered back down, helpless, indecisive, confused; then he got near you, pulling your hair out of the way, trying not to feel grossed out by the scene. «’m sorry…» you mumbled, breathing through your nausea, hoping the worst had passed. «Are you okay?» he rushed. You shook your head in denial. «Y/n, what’s up?» Your marriage was in shambles after a couple of weeks only and an insufferable urge of hiding from the entire world pulsed like a drill in your head. «I don’t know, but I’ve kind of been feeling sick the last couple of days.» «Are you ill?» Charles sighed, sorry. To think he was lying in somebody’s arms, cuddling in someone else’s warm touch, careless enough to forget about your existence and your feelings, your ego so easily, paired up with the sudden shock and horror of throwing up in front of Charles, put you in the worst state of anxiety and despair. Then, the realization. A sly thought, slithering tantalizingly amidst your scattered mind. What if…? You gripped the counter so hard your knuckles turned pale, washed out, eyes wide opened and bewildered, in fright and disbelief. Your heart ran wild, as your thoughts did, while a sigh of hysteria and awareness triggered your cry.

Charles, who had opened the tap in the meantime and had handed you a piece of paper towel to clean yourself up, slowly put down his hand and frowned, disturbed by how exasperated you sounded. «Please, please, it cannot be… It can’t be true.» you chanted low and quick, but slow and high enough in tone for Charles to understand your words. «What can’t be?» Charles asked, searching for your attention and your eyes through your erratic movements: you rinsed your mouth with water, closed the tap and swiftly dried your face with the piece of paper he was still holding. You stared at him intensely, as much as he did: he immediately read the fear overwhelming you, but still failed to see the reason, which you hoped to be able to communicate without giving it form with words. A couple of seconds were shared in that exchange of terrified glances; and before he was able to say anything else, Charles looked at you pacing quickly to the couch, raising all the pillows in search of something. «Where’s my purse?» you asked, frenzy. «I- I don’t know!» «Did you see my wallet at least?!» You picked up your phone from the ground and pressed in hurry the switching on button, cursing as it took an insufferable amount of time to turn on. Charles stepped right behind you, glancing left and right, pondering your request quickly. «What do you need money for?» Charles shouted, set in panic by your erratic behaviour. With a swift turn, you stared at him once more, eaten alive by anxiety. «A pregnancy test.» You could hear his soundless breath of surprise as he left his mouth ajar, as well as his brain’s gears in motion, getting a grip of the situation. «You… You two…» You gave Charles a regretful and desperate stare, pleading him with your eyes not to judge you harshly for falling into Pierre’s trap, chin twitching, tears pricking your eyes. «It was our wedding night. I just… I just wanted to be happy.»

You broke down in tears before you could end the sentence, covering the face and the shame it displayed with your hands. Charles froze, trying to clear his mind and think of the next step he should take; your cries, though, only distracted him from doing so. «Y/n, hey, come here.» He carefully engulfed you in a hug, shushing you, in an attempt to calm you down. «I’m going to buy a test now, okay? Stay here, sit on the couch and relax. I’ll come back in a second.» The lightweight kiss he pressed onto your head as you plopped down onto the sofa, spent, felt distant and muffled, as much as the door closing shut behind his hurried figure. You stared into the void, replaying the night of the forbidden love over and over again, in search of any possible mistake you two made, to no avail: you had been so enchanted by Pierre and buzzed in bliss that the rerun became fader and fader, the memory even more distant, as if it were a mere fruit of imagination, as if you and Pierre had never been happy together. Before you could realize it, Charles was already flinging the door back open, pouring the content of the whitish plastic bag onto the table, unwrapping the test and placing it in your hand, closing your fingers shut around it.

«Okay, so… It says to hold the stick downwards, so maybe it’s better if we use a cup or something.» Charles opened a cabinet of the bathroom and took out a plastic cup, which he handed to you. «"If testing early, use first urine of the day"… Well, that’s perfect, because you’ve just woken up! “Don’t drink lots of liquid”, done as well… I think we’re good to go.» Sniffing, you stared at Charles, in wait. «W-why are you looking at me like that?» he nervously chuckled. «I need to pee.» «Right!» He immediately rushed out of the bathroom, pressing his lips together in embarrassment.

He leaned against the door, impatiently waiting for you to signal to him to enter back again, which you didn’t. After a couple of minutes, Charles knocked, not able to bear any more silence. «Y/n? Can I come in now?» No answer. Charles put his ear against the varnished wood, trying to capture any sound, knocking once again. He got startled by a sudden yelp echoing from inside the bathroom. «Y/n?» Charles was about to put his hand on the knob, when he heard the lock being sealed under his helplessly slow fingers, which vainly tested the knob in a rush, too late. «Y/n? Please, open the door!» As if it weren’t enough, his phone started ringing and buzzing in his pocket: moving a couple of steps away from the door with a loud sigh, he was struck by the caller. «Pierre?» His name pierced your ears like the tick of a bomb: the pregnancy test in your trembling fingers, you bore your stare into the bright lines signalling the positivity of it. A child. Pierre had just cheated on you and, of all the moments, the pregnancy news had sprung at the most inconvenient time. «Have you heard from y/n? Do you know where she is? I’ve been trying to reach out to her, but she doesn’t answer.» «Yes, she is…» Charles swallowed hard and glanced at the wooden door, still perfectly closed and sealed. «She’s here with me, at my place.» «Oh, thank God. How is she?» «What?» Charles almost choked at Pierre’s enquiry. The thought of your benching figure throwing up in his sink was still vivid and his shirt was somehow slightly damp and stretched. Pierre sighed. «She trusted the news, I suppose…» Charles’ end fell silent for seconds, in which he stared at the door opening and showing your silhouette marked with tears, emotionless, holding the pregnancy test upwards so that he saw the result right as you stepped close to him. «I’m coming over. Don’t let her go, okay? See you soon.» Pierre concluded, impatient. «Bye.» You both stood in silence, thoughts taking over the room. «How can I raise a baby without a father?» The sudden question melted Charles’ heart. «Y/n, it’s going to have a father: Pierre would never leave you alone, even if you two weren’t married and the child weren’t his.» «But I don’t need him as an uncle, I need him as a father and a husband who’s present and loves us both!» To that, Charles couldn’t answer anything: he couldn’t swear Pierre’s love for you, it wasn’t in his power, though he would’ve liked to reassure you in any way possible. He hugged you for the umpteenth time, cradling your never-ending weeping self, mentally uncovering the weight of tragedy: not only you might be hurt by Pierre refusing your affection, but preferring someone else’s physical, carnal company. Discarded, thrown away like a valueless thing, having to face one of the biggest challenges of a woman’s life without the certainty of support from the man you loved.

Charles noticed a swelling point near his heart, tormented by the whole situation, which soon turned into utter panic as you twisted abruptly into his arms, startled by a loud knocking on the door. «Who’s that?» you asked, holding the pregnancy test to your chest and looking around, trembling and confused. Some other knocks thundering through the suite. «Charles! Open the door!» You daggered your eyes to the Monegasque, torn between utter terror and betrayal: why had he made him come over when he was supposed to keep you safe from the whole world, especially from Pierre’s cruelty? Charles stared at you, motionless, waiting for you to make the first move and implicitly give him the consent to unlock the door. «He cannot know.» you stated, attempting to sound firm, and failing to conceal panic. «But-» «You owe me this, for allowing him to come here in the first place. Don’t you dare to say a word about it.» Charles shook his head, eyes full of disapproval yet showing pity; then, without adding any other word, he watched you fiddle with the pregnancy test to hide it beneath your shirt and approached the door to let Pierre in. «Where is she?» Pierre urged, hurried. Your sitting silhouette towered on the couch right in front of him: your profile contrasted the long curtains of the living room and the pale, greyish tones of the weather outside casted on your skin a livid, gloomy shadow. He knelt down before you, trying to get your eyes to look at his, but he was met with the deadliest still stare he had ever seen: your glossy irises worked as a push for his hand to reach and stroke your cheek, but you shied away his touch. «Can you leave us alone for a few minutes, Charles?» The Monegasque mumbled a “Sure” under his breath, drained by the whole situation.

Pierre never stopped observing you with attention, which cost you a lot of effort into not locking gaze with him; and when you finally did, a clench of rage shut your jaw, annoyed by his behaviour. «Aren’t you tired?» «Tired of what?» you spitted out. «Of consuming yourself after a false accusation.» You reluctantly strayed away your eyes from him once again, unluckily charmed by his proximity. «But you’re not consumed, right? You expected it from me, you were waiting for me to make a mistake, weren’t you?» he sarcastically added. «You swore you would love me and trust me until the end of your life, but you didn’t hesitate to buy into whatever lie someone spread to ruin my reputation once again!» «Your reputation! Always your fucking reputation first! And what about mine? Don’t you care about how people will think of me from now on?» «I’m not saying I don’t care, I want to point out the fact that some bastard sold the news on purpose to damage me!» «I don’t give a shit about who did that, you cheated on me!» «I DID NOT! For fuck’s sake, this is what I’m trying to tell you! Someone took an out-of-context picture at a dinner where photographers weren’t allowed to try to ruin me and our relationship as well! Are you so stupid to fall for it too?»

At this point, you were crying without containing anymore; after the heated altercation, you stopped and felt your chest sting with hurt pride and feelings. «I’m stupid for having fallen in love with you since the day I met you.» Your words seemed to stun Pierre: his lips had parted in surprise at your confession, as much as his eyelids had uncovered completely the majestic blue eyes now bored into yours. The silence which followed your unwanted declaration made you curl into a ball, sobbing loudly to yourself. As soon as you felt a pair of arms embracing you, you fought back to avoid them with little whines and cries, only to be defeated by its comforting warmth: you let Pierre seal your bubble of despair, like a shield. «I’ll prove to you I did nothing, y/n, I promise. Nobody should’ve dared to write about us the way they did.» What Pierre reckoned to be soothing words weren’t reassuring to your ears at all: the missed reaction to your hopeless love for him fuelled your fears concerning the buried, but growing life in your womb. How could a child live without love? How could you? A sudden wave of nausea made you break the embrace Pierre had engulfed you in, bringing a hand over your mouth yet another time, eyes shut. «Don’t you feel good? What’s wrong?» he unconsciously put his hand on your thigh, affectionately squeezing it, as he asked. «I cooked some pasta and it tasted awful. My fault.» You quickly glanced at Charles, who had rejoined the room, getting near the couch. His stare on you was stern and tender at the same time, communicating both his blame and his will to help you cover up the pregnancy, for the moment, at least. «You’ll never learn how to cook, right?» Pierre snorted. «Probably not.» Charles huffed a smile, happy to have brightened the mood of the room a tiny bit. «I’m a bit hungry, though. Got anything in the pantries?» Pierre asked. «I’ll go check!»

While Charles walked away and left you alone once more, you sniffed and dried your cheeks, gazing down, looking away from Pierre’s burning and suddenly careful stare. «I called you a thousand times yesterday.» he spoke low, as not to be heard. You shook your head, smally. «I think you know why my phone was switched off.» «I came back home and I saw the mess in the kitchen.» he ignored your words. «What? Were you disappointed about not having dinner served?» Pierre pressed his lips together, holding back the quick answer rolling off his tongue. And then he decided to let it out. «I was worried about you.» No, he wasn’t, you told yourself. He’s trying to fool me. Still, the heartfelt tone he used to deliver the sentence rose a commotion deep in your soul: the gentle chords of golden love vibrating for him only were put in restless motion at the sound of the confession. It was just so small, but your entire feelings could feast with it for months, for years, after bearing starvation for as long. «I’ve already talked with my lawyer to sue the journalists and the source of the rumour for defamation.» he caressed your cheek, slowly, as not to startle you with the touch. «I won’t let anyone come between us. Soon it’ll be again just you and me, only us.»

As much as you would’ve liked to trust his whispered words, soft as you had never heard him talk ever before, your choked lie laid untold and yet high like a wall in the room. Pierre leaned his forehead against yours, closing his eyes, fingers still lingering over your face. Flushing your eyelids down, you recalled the same tenderness being offered to you on other occasions, too short to your liking, too faintly impressed in the memory’s film, too brutally in contrast with the bittersweet tumult raging inside of you. «I need you by my side.» Maybe you had imagined it, as it left Pierre’s lips lighter than a whisper; or, maybe, it was the first time you had witnessed some kind of fragility and sweetness in him, just so that you could fall for him even deeper and harder.

The following days, the tension you anticipated to lay between you and Pierre was replaced by a layer of anguish and plainness, wrapping you like a wet, cold cover: the pregnancy test you had hidden carefully haunted your thoughts throughout the day, making you insensitive to Pierre’s attempts at building back again a sense of familiarity, and kept you awake at night, gripping the sheets tight, shaking away the loneliness of the present and of the future.

You knew you didn’t have much time before being forced to tell Pierre: but you had never been as scared to lose him as you were, walking side by side into the paddock, sitting on a stool in the garage, avoiding your husband’s stare while he kissed your cheek, gentle. The weight of your mind drew your gaze down, to the floor. «It’s so cold in here, isn’t it?» You peeked upward at Esteban entering the garage, rubbing his arms as to shake them up from coldness; to be fair, Texas’ air was far from cold, and you struggled interpreting his sardonic smile. Pierre turned around to throw an annoyed look at him, as he gathered the upper part of the suit higher to zip it up. Having gained both of your attention, Esteban fixed his eyes on you, in mischief. «It’s so sad to see a couple being so distant and cold to each other…» You frowned, surprised by the unusual tone of his voice and the sparkle of malice shimmering on his features. Esteban tilted his head, still looking at you, his expression now turning to an unbearable shade of pity, masked by a sinister grin. «Poor y/n… I had told you Pierre would mess up.» «It’s none of your business, you don’t know a fuck!» Pierre shouted, crossing the garage to face him directly. «And stop addressing her like you’ve known her forever.» he added in a lower tone, threatening. Esteban glanced at you back again, letting out an amused scoff. «Didn’t you ever tell him?» «Stop talking to her! Take it out on me and leave her out of this!» The increasing tone of Pierre’s voice, as well as Esteban’s cornering words, made you stand up from the seat and left your mouth dry like the desert, no chance to reply. «Pierre, she can decide on her own if she wants to talk with me or not, you don’t control her. Is he always acting like that with people getting close to you?» Pierre, of course, anticipated your reactionless self. «No, only with dickheads like you! Fuck yourself and don’t get near to her!» «Isn’t it a bit pretentious for someone who cheated on his wife?» The sentence sorted the effect Esteban clearly was expecting: Pierre’s fingers gripped his suit tight, pushing him a few steps backwards due to the threatening force he used. «IT WAS YOU! You made the picture, you were there!» «Pierre, please…» your voice, shaky and feeble, made Esteban laugh. «Stop fucking laughing! Who gave you the right to ruin both our lives?!» «Oh, trust me, Pierre, if I wanted to ruin her, I had a far more interesting story… Which I think you should hear.» With one, fierce shrug, he got rid of Pierre’s tight grab, pointing his eyes back at you. «I was her boyfriend, back in high school, when you used to hang all out together with Charles.» You stood lifeless, dreading the moment Pierre would turn to give you a disappointed or maybe even mad look; but he didn’t. Esteban kept going. «You’ve always had her on your tail, but you never noticed she was in love with you… I’ve never seen anyone more pathetic.» he let out a snort. «She had so little self-respect to let me take her virginity away in a club’s bathroom… She used me like a fuck-toy and then discarded me. This is the girl you married.»

The whole garage fell silent, since nobody dared to interrupt the helpless flow of words. An involuntary yell escaped your lips as Pierre ferociously crashed Esteban’s back onto the back wall, finally getting a reaction from the mechanics and engineers, trying to get in between the two to separate them. Pierre was screaming in French, at the top of his lungs, defending you – unbeknownst to you; Esteban simply stood without reacting much, as he had done years earlier at the same physical attack he had experienced, but this time his revenge was consumed. He knew he had won after hearing Pierre shouting it was over; seeing him approaching you with big strides and hugging you, leaving the box without uttering any other word. Reading your expression on the verge of crying, a sick pleasure overtook him. He had won the war.

«Cheers, les gars!» «Cheers!» Amongst the choir of glasses jingling, toasting in delight, you raised yours without being able to reach everyone’s cup, then obliged to set your eyes on the non-alcoholic beverage you had ordered. You had received numerous side-eyed glances and mocking exclamations for even daring to ask for a banal juice on the celebration night of Pierre’s new contract with Aston Martin, which came after the unexpected departure of Lance. «Someone will have to drive us home tonight, and I don’t think Pierre is going to spare himself…» you half-joked, as an excuse. Everyone bought it with a loud chuckle, except for Charles, who didn’t miss any of your movements, bearing the incommensurable weight of truth on his chest.

He had been texting you quite a lot in the last few days: you had informed him of the explosive moments lived inside Alpine’s garage, ultimately leading to Pierre signing with Aston for next year; he had asked you, in turn, how things were now going with Pierre, if you trusted his version of the story. A few nights earlier, while reading Charles’ texts, you had looked down at Pierre, who was peacefully heaving against your chest. You couldn’t tell whether he had fallen asleep to the soothing head scratches you had been giving him since you had snuggled on the bed, as silence and quietness lingered in the air. “Did you tell him?” Pierre’s arm encircled your waist, radiating warmth all throughout your core: it served as another subtle reminder of the news yet to be shared. Though, you had never felt more terrified: it was the first time in years that you perceived Pierre’s affection being that close. Announcing the pregnancy might have taken away the precious blossom of his love, which you now couldn’t live without. Charles knew your fear, he could read it well between the lines, and he hoped you would soon rely on Pierre to get the support you’d need.

Drinking plain juice didn’t prevent you from joining friends on the dance floor, gripping handfuls of hair and shaking it to the thick, hot air of the club. Standing still at the edge of the crowd, sipping on a cocktail with eyes fixed on the group – on you, mainly – Charles and Pierre talked, undisturbed. «What are you looking at?» the Monegasque asked with a smirk. Pierre didn’t answer, he didn’t stray his irises from your dancing silhouette, drowning and resurfacing in the crowd. «She’s beautiful.» «As if you haven’t been telling me this for the past ten years, Pierre.» Charles chuckled, taking a sip from his own drink. «It’s different, now.» «How so?» Pierre hesitated before answering, gathering the right words to express his muted feelings. «Last Monday, when I came back home and I couldn’t find her, I freaked out as I’ve never done before. I called her twenty-five times, left a fucking voicemail – who does that anymore? I just didn’t know what to do, I was panicking. I slept on the couch thinking she’d wake me up after coming back at night.» «I should’ve warned you she was with me, sorry.» Pierre lightly shook his head. «No, I think I deserved that, for all the times I treated her bad.» After a small pause, Charles, frowning, prompted another question. «So what’s changed?» «I… I’m falling in love with her.» he breathed out in realization, enchanted by your vision, watching you move like a fairy amongst the large group of his friends enjoying the blasting music. Charles couldn’t stop himself from snorting and laughing. «What?» «That’s a lie.» Pierre looked at him puzzled; Charles took another sip, smiling in delight and amusement. «You’ve always loved her; but you didn’t know what love was yet.» «Said the philosopher!» Their laughter was so bright and loud that you turned your head towards the two of them patting each other friendly. Pierre’s features were painted in deep, rich warm tones, under the dim lights of the club; the sudden need to refuge in his arms and rest your lips on his draw your eyes to him like an undefeatable magnet, whose force he seemed to feel as well. «I think I know now.» Pierre said, gaze turned back again on you.

>>♥<<

Exiting the bathroom, you saw Charles waiting right near the door frame, arms crossed, distressed expression, wetting his dry lips as soon as you got near him. «Is it all good?» he asked. «Jeez, Charles! Can’t I just go to the bathroom now?» «You ran away at the speed of light! Pierre was confused and I had to stop him from following you.» Sighing, you quickly rubbed your temples. «Listen… I don’t like lying to Pierre. You need to tell him, y/n, he has to know.» His pleading voice twisted your stomach in a pang of regret and fear. «I want to see a doctor first… And I need to come back home for that.» «Why don’t you try with a clinic here?» You darted your eyes at Charles, half in disbelief, half surprised at the idea. «I can help you find one, I’ve got some contacts. Plus, I think you should check as soon as possible if everything’s okay with…» «With me, yes.» you breathed out, feeling Pierre’s heavy stare on you both. Before you knew it, he was making his way amidst the crowd with a frown, seeing you and Charles confabulate away from indiscreet ears. «He’s coming.» you whispered. Charles, visibly frustrated and failing to hide it, huffed and waited for the storm to run over both of you. And it came. Pierre’s body was burning a few centimeters away from you, igniting shame and terror, knowing you were putting the newfound trust on the line, like a fool. But it isn’t your fault, a part of you said. «Why did you stop? I want to hear about the State affair too.» Not willing to test Charles’ trust for the umpteenth time, you jumped in before he could add anything to his deadly stare directed towards Pierre. «I was telling him I’m tired and I’d like to go home, but he thinks we should stay here a bit more since we’re celebrating you.» A soft caress of his palm was enough to melt the hurried tension entangling your muscles, sure he had bought into the lie after seeing a veil of fondness cover his blue eyes. «Oh, don’t worry, I was thinking of calling it a day too. We can always party more than once, after all.»

>>♥<<

The shirts had slipped away swiftly in a matter of seconds, as your shivering skin warned your senses. You kissed in passion, somehow already accustomed to each other’s pace, yet so new and undiscovered beneath the physical layer of quickened breaths, intense heartbeats and roaming hands. Pierre dragged your head up with his long lasting, tantalizing kiss, trapping both your wrists with a smirk which spread further blush on your cheeks. «So that piece of douchebag was your first time?» He didn’t seem to wait for an answer, as he leaned down to your neck, tasting your skin open-mouthed. You simply moaned, incapable of uttering a word. It was the first time he enquired you about the awful talk you had had in the garage with Esteban and, noticing the unexpected silence on the topic for days, you had simply guessed he would never tackle it again. Still, getting drunk had probably loosen him up more than he would ever admit. «Pierre…» «What? I’m just curious.» «I don’t want to be reminded of that day.» you whined, already out of breath. Mischief gleamed in Pierre’s blue irises, pupils enlarged to take in as much of you as they could. You were able to interpret his intentions a few seconds after his stare: he buried his face behind your earlobe, teasing your skin with his teeth, just enough to gather a shot of blood cursing pleasure and electricity with its flow right where he was leaving kisses. «Is it because you don’t feel… proud of yourself?» he murmured against your neck. Guilt tangled in the middle of your chest, words and acts painfully reminding you of the infamous night. Only after years, you could realize how despicable and poor your choice had been; though, you couldn’t bring yourself to blame it. After all, it had led you to embracing Pierre as close as you would’ve never even imagined in your wildest fantasies. «Is it because you think you acted selfishly?» A sweet yet poisonous bite was left just above your collarbone, another soft breath escaping your control. «Because you hurt people around you?» Now Pierre looked hungrily at you, halting just a few centimeters from your parted lips, letting your focus drift towards his quick hands unbuttoning your jeans, as if they didn’t know any better. The stormy meaning hidden behind those words seemed senseless to you, impossible: and still his irises showed turmoil… Hurt. You were almost about to mouth a question, something along the lines of “What do you mean?”, maybe you even did; but you couldn’t tell, because Pierre thrusted his body upon yours all of a sudden, diluting your thoughts in a stain of useless reasoning, moans and whimpers the only incoherent reactions. «Is it because… you wished you were with someone else?» The floodgate of your heart crushed open: it rocked your body in such an intense wave that you had to hold onto Pierre, gripping his shoulders tight, while he kissed down on your neck once again, lavishly, anywhere he could print his love on you.

Overwhelm of senses almost ended up in a gracious state of numbness, in which Pierre seemed to be the only actor: he handled you with ease and carefulness, though intoxicated by the physical contact, and before you had realized, the night was consumed, the abatjour casting a gentle warm shade on your bare, entangled bodies. Drunk in love, you chuckled in silence, warmed by Pierre’s touch. «What’s that?» he asked. «I… When I’m with you, I feel both anxious and so happy I could die.» «Why is it funny?» «Because it’s childish. I’m still crushing on you like a kid, I only know extremes.» He hummed, pausing for a few seconds. «Why do I make you nervous?» he then enquired, again. «Because I’m scared to lose you.» It sounded so fragile that Pierre involuntarily tightened his arms around you, drawing you nearer. And deep in thought, he stared at the void. «I think I know how you feel.» «What?» you turned your head around to look at him, as if you hadn’t paid attention to his words. «I’ve felt this way too, since… forever.»

>>♥<<

The faint sound of fingers typing filled the kitchen, otherwise silent. You had woken up early, after rolling in the sheets for hours, not sleeping much; you had had a little bit of breakfast – as much as your upset stomach would allow you to – while you scrolled the online page of one of the clinics Charles had suggested you, searching for a cell phone number. You stopped, engraving the digits in your mind. If you had dialed, a spiral of appointments’ calls, check-ups and exams would follow, and you wouldn’t have been able to stop it from tumbling and assaulting you. Pierre would know soon. The mere thought scared you to death. As you saw Pierre's ruffled hair and creased eyes peeked out inside the kitchen area only to direct the slow and unsteady steps towards the bathroom, you bolted as fast as a lighting. «No, the bathroom is mine!» You stomped the door in front of his face, preventing him from stealing the precious space and time to clean yourself.

Pierre quickly eyed the laptop on the marble counter, figuring out you must've been up for quite a while; a stained mug and tiny crumbles were other signals of your silent presence, lingering around his numbed senses through the waking. He had missed the warmth of your body, the securing hold of his arms around your waist, the sweet scent cursing through him while resting his head close to yours, near enough to perceive the undeniable pull drawing him like a magnet. «You're lucky I love you!» he yelled, in order for you to drink in his amused tone. You wished you didn't. That only sentence made your guts twist and horribly enhanced the dizziness, obliging you to grip the sink tight. You had waited so many years for those words to have a meaning and now you might have it. Still, you found yourself to dread them. You were about to ruin everything.

He had not intended to; he had tried, vainly, to stop himself from looking at the screen of your laptop, but the gaze dropped involuntarily, fast, the quickest glance, while placing the mug on the counter. And the first words he read only invited him to linger on the page further. A clinic. A phone number written in bold cyphers. «Y/n?» Resurfacing from the trance status you had fallen into while lazily brushing your teeth, you answered with a whine. «Can you come here for a sec?» You deeply inhaled in annoyance, sure it was either to pull a prank on you or to get some help with the absurdly expensive coffee machine Pierre had asked for in the suite - and didn't quite know how to use yet. The puzzled look on his face told you right away all you needed, as much as his fingers brushing the laptop’s pointer pad. «Why were you searching-» «Why are you going through my stuff!?» You flung yourself onto the pc, pulling it away from his touch and his sight, hoping that could be enough to erase the content from his thoughts. As you imagined, it didn't. «What's that for? You left it spread open, how was I supposed not to see it?» Pierre followed your gushing figure placing the laptop back in the bedroom, closing the door after you two. «Can you please stop a second and explain to me what's going on?» Your body seemed to slip under Pierre's touch, then ultimately gave in, anxiety paralyzing all movements but trembling. Immediately noticing your distress, he stroked your hair in reassurance, trying to calm himself down as well through the action. «Y/n, I'm not asking again. What's the clinic for?» You avoided his stare as much as answering. «Did something happen? I need to know, y/n.» he wetted his lips, visibly frustrated. «It isn't just you, now. It's both of us. We're in this together.» After minutes spent crafting the most realistic lie, painfully witnessing Pierre being tender and caring only to be fooled by you, you were finally ready to utter a word. «I had booked a routine appointment with a gynecologist before I knew about the trip, but we aren't getting home soon, and I didn't want to miss it.» Pierre's forehead distended like a folded sheet laid spread and fresh onto the mattress, irises still concealing a hint of doubt. «Why didn't you tell me?» «I thought it'd be embarrassing… for both.» «It isn't to me.» he said, softly. «And you can talk to me about anything, you know that.» You rested your cheek upon his palm, enjoying the caress with eyes closed, quietly accepting the lie still holding up the invisible wall of miscommunication you purposely built. «Especially when the topic is dear to me.» Pierre's smug tone lifted a stone from your shoulders, as well as dropping it in your chest, heart swimming in a lake of mixed emotions. You would’ve liked to cast a spell and stop the flow of time, because bittersweet guilt and happiness were the telltale signs a fairytale was possible, after all, almost within reach. And you had ruined it.

>>♥<<

A thought had been flying around his mind all day: jogging lightly before free practice, revising the track with his performance engineer, laughing and joking around with other drivers ahead of media duties. It hadn't bothered him, it hadn't shown; not even when he came back to the hotel and didn't find you there as he expected. It slipped from his consciousness even while drifting into sleep, your scent dazzling and lulling him. It harboured beneath the surface, though, and its stealth presence made itself evident - yet misunderstood - on Saturday morning. «Where's my shirt?» Pierre asked abruptly, entering the bedroom in a hurry. Despite him trying to get you to get up multiple times as he got ready, you were still lying in bed, sick to the core, unwilling to admit it, exhausted already by the day. «Y/n, c'mon, we need to go!» Pierre huffed, poorly concealing the annoyance. You whined, weakly raising the duvet in order to get seated. Before Pierre could snort again and feel even more dissatisfied with the sudden lack of energy you showed, he hesitated on your dark eyebags, on the slow movement you dragged your limbs with, on the aura of fatigue encircling you. He stepped closer, taking your arms and lifting you up, guiding you to the kitchen steadily, but still rather quickly. As you took a seat, he placed before you an amount of food – for breakfast – which you would've always considered sufficient and that now seemed exaggerated. «If you're not hungry, drink at least. You need to keep hydrated.» Pierre's demanding voice partially saved you from the impasse of refusing food, so you obligingly sipped the cup of coffee he had pushed towards you without adding a word.

From that moment onwards, Pierre eyed you with a carefulness unknown before. He only realized now how sluggish and overall low-key you had been behaving: though, the restless rhythm of flights, hotel check-ins, suits packing and racing sessions were draining enough to present themselves as valid reasons for your lack of verve. Taking your purse underarm in a hurry, you crossed eyes with Pierre’s. «I’m ready, let’s go.» Dumbfounded by his sudden aplomb, you stood in silence, hair barely brushed, shirt carelessly half untucked in your jeans; you didn’t stray your stare from Pierre’s while he slowly took your hands in his, a strange thoughtfulness guiding the movement. The silence said more than you two were capable of. It seemed to be thrown back in time to those longing, perusing stares you studied each other with, always analyzing expressions and reactions, never sure of getting it right yet desperately needy of the other. You both swam comfortably in that tacit conversation, exchanging fears, doubts, loving care; but Pierre knew it was time to go – it had been for a while, already – and couldn’t restrain himself from clearing his throat. «Yep, I told you. Let’s go.» you whispered.

>>♥<<

It had been Charles' idea, to have a brunch all together inside the paddock: he had found a small sort of restaurant, right in front of Pirelli's backdoor, unfrequented by VIPs and paparazzi. If you didn't know Charles well enough, you would've guessed he simply wanted to check on you; but him craving some good old company and wanting to shy away from the crowd of the track was the most likely scenario. Hanging out together, the three of you, felt like a fever dream, every single time: the memories would merge, the jokes and the laughs would crack on their own with such a flow and an ease unexplainable to anybody else. Sitting next to the most important people of your life was a luck you would never take for granted. «…should buy one. What do you think?» «I think that’s awesome, really.» You became self-conscious of the wedding ring pressing Pierre’s name onto your skin as an endless kiss, recalling the ebbing moments of the day you became one. «Y/n?» Again. The wave knocking at the pit of your stomach, the sudden harmony of smells emanated by your dishes was quick to stir your quiescent sickness. «Y/n? Did you hear the question?» Charles’ voice obliged you to answer. «Uh? Yeah, yes, I did.» you composed yourself as quickly as you could. «I think it’s a beautiful opportunity for you.» «We’ll help you, if we can do anything for it. Like, if you need taste testers, we’re more than happy!» Pierre chuckled. You forced a smile too, in order not to contrast your husband’s bright expression. However, it all spiraled when a pile of used tires – the F3 free practice had finished less than a half an hour earlier, you reasoned – was dragged in a small interstice near Pirelli's building, leaving an unbearable smell of burned rubber. You felt yet again nauseous, making it blatantly obvious clasping your mouth and nose, focusing on your breathing, eyes closed. Pierre and Charles' stares laid on you in a single motion, both catching on what was happening (with different awareness, clearly). Pierre couldn't let the memory of your missed breakfast fade into nothing, and his racing mind quickly figured you must be ill; he trapped your free hand in a grab which you immediately complied, he got up and kneeled next to you, seeing you didn't give any signs of the clench in your stomach loosening.

In the meantime, Charles quietly and politely asked you if you needed a glass of water, if you'd want to go to the restroom, to which your silence only fueled his helplessness and sly embarrassment. «I'm okay, guys.» you breathed out, finally removing your fingers from your lips, but still too scared to open your eyelids and be attacked by their sharp stares. «No, you're not, y/n. You've been sick for at least a week.» Pierre's statement worked as a tymbal clang to both you and Charles, so that you looked at each other briefly but intensely, wondering whether the ticking bomb laying untold amongst you three had just exploded without you noticing. “Tell him” was painted in capital letters, bold, inside Charles' green irises.

Internalizing the truth impossible to fool, you let Pierre's fingertips gently move your chin towards him, since you had enchanted in reflection on Charles. Suddenly confronting your husband's – yes, because he was your husband – unexplainable beauty like it was the first time you really saw him, the news seemed to brim out your lips, overflowing with contrasting emotions you weren't able to conciliate. Gathering all your courage despite the trembling of your chin, you reciprocated the hold of Pierre's hands: it was building up, from your chest up to the throat, bypassing the rationality check. «I need to tell you something.» It was nothing but a whisper; Charles, unknowing to either you or Pierre, slowly got up from his chair, standing near you and placing his hand on your shoulder, squeezing it for comfort. Pierre waited in silence for your words, pupils scattered all around your features trying to get the smallest hint of which nature the news was. The tears pricked your eyes as soon as the thought hit your synapsis. «I'm pregnant, Pierre.» Releasing the pent-up distress, finally relieved by the burden of secrecy, you cried freely, ready to face the consequences of the news.

A part of you expected an endless chain of angry sentences and despair, complaints, immaturity. And the part of you who didn't expect such a reaction, or at least hoped for a better outcome without much conviction, still managed to astonish before the taken aback but sweet curve of Pierre's eyebrows, unbelievably moved by your words. «Really? Are you sure?» His mistrust annoyed you slightly and made you scoff through tears. But before you could answer with a snappy remark, he was all over you, hugging your sadness away, melting in an embrace that swiped bad omens, that dissolved the clouds of doubt in a sparkling, bubbly dust of relief. Pierre left a long peck on your forehead, which only freed tears from running ceaselessly. «I can't believe it…» he whispered out of an uncontainable smile. Your body and soul, both in shock from experiencing the most releasing happiness, trembled like leaves under the wind of Pierre's affection. He glanced at Charles, looking for confirmation, which he found expressed through the dimples of his best friend; then focused back again on you, whose reaction Pierre couldn't quite make out. «You're happy, right?» he asked, almost fearful of the answer. Sobbing a laugh, you leaned against his hand cupping your cheek and enveloped it with yours, fond. «Of course I am.» He paused, taking a full look at you in excitement and amazement, letting the thought settle in his heart. «When did you find out?» he asked, cupping your cheek as a fragile corolla of petals. Your mouth dried out, your throat was still knotted; thankfully Charles beat you on time in answering. «Almost two weeks ago.» You waited for it, you anticipated the hatred and the – righteous – disappointment in getting to know that his best friend had witnessed and received the news first. Fear invested you once again, through sobs and hiccups. «Y/n… Look at me.» It all seemed to down on you at once: sat in your weakness, you had disclosed all your cards and were now the most vulnerable you’d ever been with him. Not even when you had promised in front of your families to love him for the rest of your life, not even lying in his embrace and cuddling with him after breathing out affection and pleasure on top of each other’s skin; no rejection could hurt you more than now, while carrying two lives inside of one body, two souls, doubling the sorrow. His serious demeanour only spiked up your anxiety, as you realized you weren’t ready at all, neither emotionally nor mentally, to face him yet.

He shut his eyes closed, he prepared himself to talk; you braced yourself for the impact of the cruel reality. It had been fun, until it had lasted. This is no fairytale, you chanted to yourself, lulling your crying soul. «I love you.» You looked at him dumbfounded, waiting for the answer to be completed with a "like a friend", or something of the sort which would've stabbed your heart with pain as he would always do; but a peaceful silence followed his words, and the longer you stared at each other, the deeper the realization would set in your heart. The promise you had been waiting for since the day you had met Pierre, which you expected to hear at the altar, was now vowed to you, him still kneeled down. «When…?» you involuntarily voiced your reasoning, not able to make sense of it, caught by total surprise. «Since forever. It just took me a while to realize…», he then glanced at Charles. «… and the help of a friend.» Spontaneously, you flung your arms around him, heart aching in joy and bliss. You watered and creased Pierre’s shirt, feeling life flourish just by listening to his words; to seal them, he plastered a kiss on your reddish, smooth lips, and heaven reached earth. «A baby, uh?» Pierre said almost to himself, placing his spread hands on your belly. You couldn’t help but have eyes brimming with emotion, gently brushing with your fingers his: was there anything which could make you happier and more strongly bonded together? «Charles… I think we’ll need plenty of your ice-cream in the near future.» «Hey!» you patted Pierre’s shoulder, amusingly offended. «Oh, for sure. I’ll make you a discount, since you’ll buy it in large quantity.» «Guys!» you laughed, trying to stop their endless flow of jokes. With your left hand still pressed onto Pierre’s, you gazed down at your wedding ring, shining and glimmering under the sunlight. Maybe, no matter how unhoped and unplanned, yours was truly a fairytale.

to @gaslysainz: Thanks again for the request! I really hope you’ll like it…I’m not fully satisfied with how it turned out, but I couldn’t work on it any further 😂 I’d be glad to know what you think 🥹❤️

AND TO ALL OF YOU, THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING AND FOR BEING PATIENT! I’D REALLY APPRECIATE IT IF YOU LEFT A NOTE FOR FEEDBACK, SO THANKS IF YOU DO! HOPE YOU HAVE A NICE DAY! . · ˚✧

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#f1 fic #f1 fanfiction #f1 fanfic #pierre gasly x reader #pierre gasly x y/n #pierre gasly x you #pierre gasly fic #esteban ocon x reader #esteban ocon x y/n #esteban ocon x you #f1 x reader #f1 fluff #f1 angst #formula 1 x reader #golden post

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madhatterbri · 6 months ago

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Wither | Lord Debling

Summary: Y/N knows how to make Lord Debling wither.

Author's Note: He lives in my head rent-free.

Find my masterlist here.

Find my Lord Debling masterlist here.

Taglist: @plentyoffandoms @theworldofotps

Lord Debling noticed the scent coming from Y/N as soon as she stepped into the study. His breath hitched in his throat as his mind wandered to another place. Her bedroom, more specifically. She wore it whenever they conducted their marital acts. He simply thought it was a coincidence until he saw a smirk plastered on her pretty face. The little minx knew the game she was playing and winning.

"Are you ready, my Lord? Shall I notify Charles of our departure?" She asked, referencing the carriage driver. She leaned over the desk and placed a hand on his forehead. He turned to look at her. A playful look in his eyes. His light eyes looked down at her chest. It was as if he was hypnotized.

"No need, my dear. Just simply caught off guard by the perfume you chose to wear tonight," he answered and cleared his throat. He went back to rummaging on his desk, accidentally knocking over some papers on the floor.

She smiled and dropped to her knees. Y/N started to collect some of the fallen papers. "If I am not mistaken, I believe you bought it for me on one of your travels,"

"My wife's memory is impeccable as always," he complimented and leaned down to pick up some of his work. "Yet I am curious as to why you chose this evening to wear it and not when you normally do,"

Y/N leaned in close to his ear. Her hot breath was felt on his neck and ear. Lord Debling shuddered. His eyes fluttered close and he inhaled sharply. This was always a sensitive area for him.

"I must assure you my actions have no malicious intent," she whispered. Her free hand ran over the whiskers on his face. "Although, if you so choose, we can skip tonight's ball and perform how we do when I wear this perfume,"

The noble Lord inhaled deeply. His thoughts ran away from him again. His Lady Debling on her knees before him. The ball did seem pointless to attend. They were newlyweds, after all. An heir was expected from them.

A knock on the door quickly brought the Lord and Lady to their senses. Lord Debling grabbed the papers and threw them on the desk. She stood up and sat on the couch nearby. Her hand on the arm of the couch while her head placed on her hand. Charles walked into the room.

"The carriage is ready for departure, my Lord," Charles told him. Lord Debling had to think of something fast to get out of his engagement.

"I am afraid the Lady has fallen ill. We will be staying in tonight. Please ensure that no one disturbs us in here," Lord Debling ordered. Lady Debling looked down to hide her smile.

"Yes, sir. Shall I fetch the doctor for Lady Debling or-"

Lord Debling cut him off. "That won't be necessary. I will see to it myself that she gets the proper care she deserves. Take the night off, Charles,"

"Thank you, my Lord. Good night," Charles bid his farewell. He closed the door behind him. The newlyweds were left alone. Y/N could feel her husband staring at the back of her head.

"Is my wife pleased? She gets me all to herself," he spoke. Lady Debling blushed. His chair scooted away from his desk. The ruffling of clothes could be heard behind her. Within moments, he stood before her only in his breeches.

"What new wife wouldn't want their husband to themselves?" She asked back. He smiled at her answer. The woman had a certain charm to her. "On the couch, my Lord,"

He followed her simple orders by sitting comfortably on the couch. His back rested towards the back as both feet sat firmly on the ground. Still new to her calling the shots, he couldn't say he hated it. On the contrary, Lord Debling enjoyed coming home to a wife who wanted to make him wither.

Lady Debling straddled his hips. Her hands rubbed up and down his chest. He inhaled deeply as her fingers brushed against his hairy chest. She kissed down to his neck. The hitch in his breathing helped her find his spot. His wife made sure to pepper it with kisses and nips.

Alfred squirmed and grabbed her hips. He moved himself between her legs. His clothed hard on brushing between her folds. The rough fabric hitting a spot that made her squirm. She elevated herself on her knees. A few shaky breaths while she calmed her nerves.

"Be patient, my Alfred. Be patient," she ordered. Once he nodded, Y/N lowered herself to the floor. He leaned down to kiss her lips. Her fingers mingled in his hair. Her kisses went south to his neck, chest, and finally, his stomach. Lady Debling started to remove his pants.

Alfred lifted his hips up to assist her. His pants fell to his ankles. Pre-cum rested at the tip of his length. She rested her arms on his parted legs. Her head brought closer to his waiting dick.

Her hand grabbed him around the head and slowly worked its way down. Alfred gasped and shifted again. It was hard to control himself. He licked his lips.

"Do I have to tie you down, Alfred?" She teased and leaned in. The tip of her tongue started at the base of his shaft. Slowly, she worked her tongue up to the head. Only pausing briefly to circle her tongue around his head.

The noises that came from her head made her smile. Lady Debling repeated the same actions several times. Licking different sides of his penis and paying special attention to the head.

She grabbed the base once more. Their eyes locked. She kissed the tip of his length before slowly taking him in her mouth. His mouth dropped open as he watched himself disappear in her mouth. Lord Debling bit his lip and moaned.

"My lady," Lord Debling moaned. He bucked his hips slightly. Her pace picked up as Alfred's pleasure built up. He felt his orgasm coming. "I'm... I'm going to,"

Lady Debling pulled away. He whined at the loss of pleasure. Maybe another time he could finish down her throat. His chest rose and fell as his lungs tried to catch their breath.

"When we have an heir," she told him as if she could read his mind. Y/N stood up and removed her dress. She left it on the floor. He admired her beauty as the moonlight shined on her body. A natural beauty.

Lady Debling straddled his lap once more. She wrapped her arms around his neck. Alfred grabbed one of her breasts. His tongue worked her nipple causing it to pucker. His other hand worked her other breast. His thumb swirled around her sensitive nipple.

While teasing her, she didn't notice his hand sliding down between her legs. Y/N called his name the moment he started to tease her clit. She gasped and moaned. Her hips slid her over his fingers. When she was wet, he started to tease her entrance.

They built her up to take him. One finger at a time until she was able to take three of him comfortably. His fingers curled inside of her. Each curl withdrew a moan from her.

"Take me, please. I can't take anymore," he begged and removed his fingers from her sex. Between the teasing and her sounds, Alfred had enough. Y/N barely registered the words that fell from his lips.

Their lips locked as she slid down on him. Alfred pulled her bottom lip with his teeth. His hands slid down to her waist. Their pleasure picked up the moment she started to grind on him.

"Oh, Alfred," she moaned. He thrusted his hips up towards her as she came down. His hand slapped her bottom softly, causing them both to gasp. She clenched around him. He swore he felt heaven.

"Oh, Y/N," he groaned. Her pace started to pick up. His thrusts became stronger. With a few more pleasured sounds, he came inside of her. His body spasmed slightly. She came after him. He leaned back on the couch. The high of his orgasm coming in waves.

She remained in his arms. Her head rested on his shoulder. Alfred kissed her forehead softly. He cupped her cheek. His thumb caressed her cheek.

"My initial analysis of your character served true. You can make me wither,"

#fanfiction #bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton fandom #bridgerton fanfic #lord debling x f/reader #lord debling x reader #lord debling #alfred debling x y/n #alfred debling

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loveisanimaginarydagger3000 · 1 year ago

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The Babysitter (33)

Talk To Me

MILF Wanda Maximoff X Reader 18+

Summary: In need of money and a way to escape the problems at home, you get a job babysitting two lovely boys named Billy and Tommy Maximoff. What happens when you start to feel things you shouldn't for their mother? Will it bloom into love or leave you heartbroken?

A/N- I would just like to say that there will be some sensitive issues in this story such as alcoholism, homophobia, anxiety as well as more mature content such as smut so, if you continue to read this, please consider this warning.

The Babysitter Master list | General Master List

Chapter 33- W/c 4k

Tag list- @natsluttt @cerberus-spectre @dorabledewdroop @bibliophilicbi @hopelesslyfallenninlove @simpform1lfs @get-the-fuck-outta-here @natashaswife4125 @marvelwomen-simp @supercorpstan97 @aliherreraaa @aru-son @the-ox-fan20

Talk To Me

If Wanda had to describe your current state in one word it would have to be irritated. She watched with furrowed brows as you remained silent in the car as well as in the hospital, not uttering a word for most of the day, simply letting the older woman's fingers play with yours whenever she wanted, your body language screaming your annoyance with something. Wanda's concern only grew when you shut the car door with a little more force than necessary, sighing in defeat as you trudged up her parent's drive to retreat back to the house after another day of waiting in the hospital for any more news on Natalya's recovery, the doctor's tests taking a while for the results to come in. She followed you into the house, nothing but worry entering her mind as you went straight upstairs, muttering that you were going to go for a shower, not even waiting for the older woman's reply before grabbing some clothes and shutting the door.

While Wanda brewed in anxiety your mind drowned in irritation and annoyance mixed along with sadness and grief, your mind unable to stop the negative thoughts that flickered through your mind. You were angry. Angry at the world, yourself, just fucking everything. The day started off as amazing as it could, yourself and Wanda getting ready to spend the day in the hospital but as the day dragged on, your apprehension of being in the hospital grew bit by bit, eventually gnawing away at your mind and causing you to take a small walk which only made things worse.

You didn't know it was possible to feel the pain you did when you stumbled across another emergency room, a family rushing in with distress written across their faces as doctors ushered a man on a stretcher through, the words 'car crash' and 'drunk driver' triggering a wave of emotions to wash through you as the only thing you could think about was your dad. All you could possibly think about was the fact that he died alone, how you weren't there to see him go, how you were too late. He was gone and you didn't get to say goodbye.

The words your mother screamed at you in the hospital rang around your head as you slowly made your way back to Natalya's room, plastering a fake smile on your face as you sat in silence for the rest of the day, losing the battle to your depressing thoughts as you simmered in despondency and agitation. You hated the fact that all you could think about was how you never got to do this, how you never got to sit with your dad, waiting for the doctors to come back with results saying he was alright to leave soon but it never happened. These thoughts then caused you to become annoyed with yourself, almost ashamed at where your thoughts went because you were here for Natalya and Wanda, not yourself. You were making this all about you and being selfish but you couldn't help it.

The discomfort of being in a hospital eventually reached its tipping point and the early accident with the stranger just seemed to cause all of these emotions to pile onto you at once, along with the guilt and shame of becoming a problem for Wanda, your mind berating you for making her worry about something else when her mother was clearly stressing her out still.

Your head lolled against the tiled wall in the shower as your mind was relentless with these pestering doubts and concerns, the emotions overwhelming as you just tried to keep it together for Wanda's sake, able to hear her faint footsteps outside the door, the way she seemed to pace a little before retreating away from the door. A tired sigh left you as you turned the shower off, quickly getting changed into some pyjamas as it was rather late, eventually opening the bathroom door to see Wanda laying on the bed, smiling fondly at her phone as Natasha had called her with the twins to say goodnight.

Her green softened at the sight of you, brows furrowing a little as she could practically see the conflicted emotions clouding around you, her telling the boys that you were still in the bathroom and unable to say goodnight before chatting a little more, letting you quietly wander around the room for what you needed until she hung up, her attention completely focussed on you now.

"Detka?" she softly calls, watching as you continue to distract yourself a little, confusion flowing through her as you had been perfectly alright the last few days. "Come to bed, it's late," the older woman suggests, her green fixated on yours as you hesitate on her words, eventually giving in and climbing into the bed, your body naturally gravitating towards hers, just not as close as normal. "What's wrong?" she whispers, letting her hand slide over your abdomen as you laid on your back in the small bed next to her, your eyes not meeting hers as you stared up at the ceiling.

"Nothing's wrong, I'm fine," you whisper, trying your best to make your voice sound convincing but Wanda knew you, something was clearly wrong.

"Detka-"

"Can we just go to sleep?" You interrupt, clearly not wanting to talk, sighing a little as your eyes flutter close, Wanda's hand stilling against you as her head tilts to look at you properly.

"Not until you tell me what's wrong," you can hear the concern in her voice but it only makes you feel more ashamed of your behaviour, especially after having promised Natalya that you'd always care for her as you were now the reason for her worry. Her hand gently cupped your cheek, turning your head to meet her enticing green, her eyes searching yours for some sort of answer as you just lose yourself in hers, another sigh escaping you.

"Nothing," you say, Wanda's brows furrowing at the tone of your voice, not appreciating the exasperated sigh that followed your word, unaware that you were more angry with yourself than the woman's attempts of comforting you.

"Don't use that tone with me," she warns and you mirror her actions, brows furrowing at the sudden switch in her tone before it changes back to a more gentle tone, "And don't lie to me. Talk to me." The back of her fingers brush against your cheek, the actions so tender and caring you could feel tears prick in your eyes as she didn't deserve to be the punching bag for all your bottled up emotions, your hands lifting to cover your face.

"I'm sorry," you whisper and Wanda can hear the genuine pain and apologetic tone behind your words, "I- I did't want you to worry, I didn't, I just..." you trail off with your words, trying to form a sentence that would actually make sense, "You have enough to worry about, I don't want to add to that." Wanda's hands gently pull yours away from your face, moving hers to cradle your face as you gaze into the green you love so much, guilt having replaced the irritation she saw early.

"Detka," she coos as you hate how she's having to take care of you once again when you were supposed to be the one taking care of her right now. "I told you, you'll never be a burden to me, never," her voice emphasises her words, "Tell me what's wrong." You move your body to lay on your side, facing her as she mirrors your position, being patient with you as you figure out what you want to say.

All you can think about is how perfect she is to you, how she deserves the world and everything more, the reminder of the ring sparking something within you as Natalya clearly thinks you can give her that, encouraging you to get your act together for her.

"I hate the hospital," you whisper a little vaguely, her features softening as a tear falls from your eyes, her mind quickly remembering that moment when you waited outside of the room when the doctors informed her about her mother, the uneasy look in your eyes as you stared back at her before it flickered to a gentle gaze. "I can't stop thinking about my dad and... And how I didn't get to see him wake up," you confess, squeezing your eyes shut, Wanda's hands returning to cup your cheek and gently caress the skin there. "I just wanted to be there for you, but I'm making this about me when it shouldn't be-" A finger against your lips silences you, Wanda's expression almost in disbelief at what you were saying.

"Detka, you're feelings are always valid, just because I need you doesn't mean you can't need me too," she whispers, saddened by the fact you must have been hurt at the constant reminder of your father, her words aiming to comfort you as well as her, reassuring the both of you that you were always going to be there for one another. "I'll always be there for you, just as you're always there for me," her tone a soft murmur while you process the deeper meaning to her words, leaning up slowly to connect your lips intimately, conveying your love for her in the tender display of affection.

"I'm sorry for being so distant," you whisper against her lips after a brief period of silence, speaking once again as you could tell she was about to protest, "I just..."

"I know Detka," she whispers back, claiming your lips softly once more, "Just promise me you won't bottle everything up again, talk to me if something's bothering you."

"I promise," you sigh out, moving to hide your face at the crook of her neck, basking in the warmth and security there as the days whirlwind of emotions and stress gradually fades away, the older woman's presence soothing you. Her hands glide up and down your back, her body relaxing once she knew you felt lighter after getting your worries off of your chest, her fingers moving to scratch your scalp softly as your body snuggled further against her.

"I love you," your tone is barely above a whisper as you remind the woman of your feelings, that soft smile you adored tugging at her lips as her eyes fluttered close.

"I love you too Detka, I always will."

***

Stretching your body after the car ride, your back cracked in a satisfying manner as you looked over at your home, a sense of relief filling you at being back after the few days spent away at the hospital, your mind replaying the day as Wanda grabbed her stuff.

Wanda had assured you that you didn't need to come with her this morning to the hospital, especially after last night but you told her that you wanted to, feeling like you two had somehow gotten even closer after that conversation, but in retrospect the conversation seemed futile as you weren't there for long anyway.

The doctors reports came in the morning and declared Natalya fit enough to return home with appropriate measures taking place, the older woman ushering you and her daughter to go back home to the twins, not wanting any more fuss as she had grown fed up of having everyone faff about with her. You two couldn't even get in a word to protest before the older woman simply tilted her head at the two of you, her glare unwavering and signalling her adamance on you two returning home, leaving you no choice but to listen to her.

Soon enough, you were parked in the drive of the house, the sounds of children playing in the garden piquing both of your interests.

"Do you think Melina has killed anyone yet?" you chuckle out, Wanda's head snapping over to you at your words, not as aware of the dynamic between the Romanoff's as you were, "I mean, I uh," you stammer out, her sighing out in relief once she picked up on the fact your words were an attempt at humour, her lips stretching into a small smile as she shook her head gently at you in amusement, motioning for you to follow her back home.

Unlocking the door, Wanda looked ahead and noticed the older woman she knew sitting on the sofa reading, her lips tugging into a relieved smile at the arrival of you two. You watched as the two engaged in a brief hug, Melina stealing Wanda away as your girlfriend told you to check on the boys and relieve your friends of their babysitting duties.

You found it ironic how you were once the boys' babysitter and now you were the one who was coming home to them, but you didn't say anything as you simply made your way outside, searching for the four bundles of chaos.

"Y/n!" The twins cheered, running over to hug you until they were stopped as Natasha crashed into your arms first, hugging you in relief as you were finally home.

"Never leave me with all three of them again," she pleaded, your smile widening as you wrapped your arms around your best friend in gratitude, truly unable to think of a way to thank her for what she had done for you.

"I won't," you chuckled out as two smaller bodies joined in on the hug, "I can't make any promises about Yelena though, she is your sister," you teased, the redhead rolling her eyes at your remark as her sister walked over with Fanny, the dog sitting by your side and staring up at you with her big brown eyes and tongue hanging out of her mouth, the sight adorable.

After another squeeze from Nat, you all eventually parted from the hug, the twins wanting their own separate ones, your hand ruffling Tommy's hair while your fingers gently fixed Billy's, both of them smiling at the endearing actions.

You didn't notice how Wanda watched from the backdoor with Melina, her heart melting in her chest at the sight of you with the boys, a warmth replacing the slight dread that was there, her legs taking her over to where you were to join you.

"Mom!" the boys both greet in elated tones, hugging her tightly, your face softening at the sight of the twins welcoming their mother before your eyes flicker up to look at Wanda's face, noticing the slight indecipherable glint in her eyes, your brows briefly furrowing. Tommy soon grabs your hand and drags you into the hug, making you and their mother laugh softly as they hug you both as tight as possible.

You can hear the teasing remarks from Yelena and Nat but Melina quickly shuts them up, your lips pulling up into a smirk at their sudden quietness, Natasha unable to stop the chuckle escaping her at your grin when you part from the family hug, leaving Wanda to have a moment with her children.

Natasha tells you all about the last couple days with the twins, informing you of how much of a bad influence Yelena was and how she kept causing mischief with Tommy. Billy was his usual shy self and you laughed a little at how he seemed to still be intimidated by Melina, his little body timid as he moved past her towards you again, instantly melting into your body for another hug as you propped your head on his from the seat you were in, letting him stay with you as Natasha continued to tell you all about the activities they did. You couldn't get rid of the smile that was etched onto your face as Billy took over from the redhead, telling you his experience of the film they watched, your tone humouring him as he recalled the dramatic events.

While listening to the boy in your arms, you grew increasingly aware of the lack of his brother's presence, your head lifting off his to search for Tommy until a scream escapes you when he snuck up behind you, wrapping his arms around you from behind and shouting 'boo'. His laughter was so contagious, you all ended up chuckling in the garden at your reaction, the older women who returned from inside looking baffled at the sight of all of you giggling together.

A smile naturally took over their faces as they walked over to you, your fingers wiping away the tears of laughter that had escaped you, your gaze focussing on Wanda as she approached you. To say you were in awe of her was an understatement, you were utterly amazed by her beauty every time you saw her, your look conveying your admiration of the woman as she sat with you, wrapping her arm around your waist as she listened to her boys attempt to tell her why everyone was laughing, the two of them breaking into laughter every time.

Wanda's smile only grew at her children's constant laughter, your gaze unable to break away from her smile as she simply savoured the moment, her lips briefly pressing against your forehead in an affectionate manner.

Time seemed to pass by effortlessly as you all sat out in the garden chairs, Melina and her daughters deciding to tell as many embarrassing stories about you as possible, your eyes flickering over from the redhead you were glaring at to Wanda, noticing how she seemed to be a little distant, her smile still present though as she laughed along with what was being said, her gradual shift in mood being noticed by you.

As the sun started to set, casting a gentle warm glow in the garden, the Romanoff's decided it was time to leave, Fanny a little reluctant as the twins were giving her as many cuddles as possible, Melina telling her daughters to get their stuff to let the twins play with their new friend a little longer.

"Thank you," you whisper to Natasha as you follow her in to grab the stuff she had brought, Yelena also with the two of you, "Both of you, it honestly means so much to me." Your tone is honest and sincere, the sisters smiling at your gentle tone, both of them noticing the grateful glint in your eyes.

You were surprised when Yelena came over and hugged you, your arms wrapping around her as she let you embrace her, Natasha watching with a fond smile.

"You're welcome," the blonde whispers in a soft tone before her words turn more teasing, never having enjoyed serious conversations or tones, "Aunty Yelena is their new favourite person so it's ok." You can't help but chuckle at her words, shaking your head as you just know she's milked that nickname, having used it at any opportunity.

"You better not be stealing my spot as number one," you warn, making them both laugh as you help collect the last of their things.

"I've already stolen it," she snickers back, you staring at the blonde, trying to hide your smile.

"Cyka," you mutter in their native language, her sticking her tongue out at you before Natasha mutters something else in Russian to her, most likely teasing you further judging by the look on Yelena's face. Rolling your eyes, you throw Nat's bag to her, making her catch it before following you back down the stairs where their mother was waiting for them, ready to go back home.

***

After the Romanoffs had left, Wanda wanted a nice family night together, cuddling up with both of the twins on the sofa as you watched a random film, the woman's smile not quite reaching her ears, before eating junk food for dinner as neither of you feel like cooking, the time once again passing effortlessly by until it was bedtime, Billy asking a question that made yourself and Wanda pause.

"Where did you two go?" he asked innocently, his curiosity having gotten the better of him as Wanda's hand smoothed over the duvet she just tucked him in with. Her smile faltered at his words, that same indecipherable glint in her eyes returning as she sat on the bed with him, her teeth biting down on her lip as tears seemed to build in her eyes, your hand resting on her knee as you sat on Tommy's bed, offering her a reassuring smile and squeeze.

"We had to go and visit Grandma," she says, voice wavering slightly. "She was in the hospital," she explains, both of the twins' faces morphing into concern and worry.

"What happened?" Tommy asks, voice evidently filled with anxiety for his grandma's health.

"She was very ill, but the doctors helped her as best as they could, so now she's going to be able to get better," Wanda explains, not wanting to go too much into detail with them, "But it will take a while, so we have to be supportive of Grandma, ok?" Both boys nod their heads, relief taking over them but still a small sense of worry lingering in the room.

"Can we go and see her?" Billy asks in a quiet voice, your face sympathetic as Wanda's hands busy themselves with his duvet as a distraction.

"Not yet Dorogoy," she whispers, knowing that she'd have to recover a bit more before the twins could see her. "But soon," she assures them, part of her a little scared she was giving them false hope despite the doctor's confidence in her recovery. "Now come on, it's time for bed Dorogie," her tone becomes softer and more motherly, her eyes flickering between her two children as they get comfy in their bed, her lips delicately pressing to both of their foreheads before she stands to leave with you, turning off the light after murmuring goodnight.

As soon as their door shuts, you wrap your arms around her, your heart breaking as she grasps onto the back of your shirt, her body melting into yours. Slowly, you guide her to the bedroom to make sure the twins didn't hear, your hands soothingly gliding up and down her back as she lets out all the emotions that had been brewing all day, her cries filling the room.

"Hey," you coo as her odd behaviour clicks, understanding her emotional state as it was hard to pretend that everything was alright for the boys, especially when the conversation could have taken a different route. "Talk to me," you whisper, copying her words from last night to let her know you were here for her too, just like she said. You would always be there for her.

She sniffles against your shirt, wiping her tears away with her hand before looking into your eyes, seeing the concern and love swirling in them. Unable to stop herself, more cries are torn out of her as she just can't stop thinking about what could have happened.

"I've got you," you murmur, holding her as close as possible as you give her the time to calm down, your lips pressing to the top of her head as her sobs soon quieten.

"I thought I was going to have to tell them that she..." she interrupts herself with another small, pained noise, not even wanting to say the words as she dreaded the worst. "I wouldn't have been able to tell them, I- She can't go, I can't lose her," she sighs out, closing her eyes as she rests her head against your chest as you lay down on the bed with her, her hands still tightly clutching at the hem of your shirt to ground her, "I can't."

"I know," you murmur, unsure of what to say to help comfort her, settling on letting your touch help calm her down, your fingers slipping under her shirt and repeating the soothing motion up and down the skin of her bare back. You knew the pain of losing a parent, the way the grief would consume you and you desperately didn't want her to go through it, to go through it alone like you did.

"Whatever happens, we'll go through it together, Wanda. I'm here for you, I always will be," your voice is a mere whisper as the older woman listens to your words, remaining silent afterwards after letting your words sink. While basking in the safety of your arms, the older woman sighs against you, focussing on the steady beating of your heart, noticing how the heavy weight in her chest seemed to become that little bit lighter because of you.

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legendary-69420 · 1 month ago

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Chapter 5: Rivalries and Resilience

(Racing Hearts: VOLUME 1)

The sun blazed down on the racetrack as the teams prepared for the next Grand Prix. Mark Spencer could feel the tension crackling in the air, an energy charged with hostility. As a newcomer in the F1 world, he had quickly become a target, not just for the media but for the other drivers who were all too eager to assert their dominance. "Look at the rookie, thinking he can hang with us," one driver sneered, loud enough for Mark to hear as he passed. The disdain in the voice was palpable, and it made Mark's stomach twist. He plastered a confident grin on his face, trying to shake off the negative energy. "Just here to have some fun!" he called back, though inside, he felt anything but carefree. The weight of their scorn hung over him like a dark cloud. --- Qualifying was even more intense. The pressure to perform was suffocating, and as Mark suited up, he couldn't shake the feeling that every eye on the grid was watching him, waiting for him to falter. He glanced at Max Verstappen, who was laughing with his team, an air of arrogance radiating off him. "Let's see how long you can keep up today, rookie!" Max taunted as they took their positions, his voice dripping with mockery. Mark clenched his jaw, determined not to show weakness. "I'm not going anywhere," he shot back, though the words felt feeble in the face of Max's confidence. As the lights went out, Mark launched forward, adrenaline surging through him. He navigated the twists and turns of the track, focusing on the race ahead. But every corner felt like a battle—not just against the clock but against the other drivers who were all too eager to remind him of his place. --- When the checkered flag waved, Mark finished a respectable fifth, but the achievement felt hollow amidst the rising tension. As he climbed out of his car, he was met with a chorus of jeers from his fellow competitors. "Nice try, Spencer. Maybe next time you'll actually compete!" another driver shouted, laughter following in their wake. Mark forced a smile, but inside, the sting of their words cut deep. He navigated through the crowd of reporters, answering questions mechanically. "I did my best, and I'll keep improving," he repeated, though the sincerity felt lacking. The atmosphere in the paddock was charged with negativity. It was clear that Mark was seen as an outsider, someone who didn't belong among the seasoned racers. The lack of support from Charles added to his frustration; they were teammates, yet Charles seemed distant, focused on his own battles. --- In the Ferrari motorhome, Mark sat alone, replaying the race in his mind. He could hear the laughter and camaraderie among the other drivers outside, but it felt like a world away. The pressure was suffocating, and he could feel the weight of expectations bearing down on him. "Hey, you alright?" Charles finally asked, leaning against the doorframe, his expression unreadable. "Yeah, just peachy," Mark replied, his tone sharper than he intended. He wanted to brush it off, but the isolation was overwhelming. "You know they're just trying to get a rise out of you, right?" Charles said, crossing his arms.

"Easy for you to say," Mark snapped, frustration boiling over. "You're not the one dealing with this. I'm out here alone, and it feels like everyone's waiting for me to fail." Charles shifted uncomfortably, and for a moment, Mark thought he saw a flicker of empathy in his eyes. But instead of offering support, Charles simply said, "You need to focus on your driving." Mark's heart sank. "Thanks for the pep talk." He felt abandoned, adrift in a sea of competition without the anchor of his teammate's support. --- As the season continued, the atmosphere only grew more hostile. Mark found himself the target of scorn from every direction, not just Max. The disdain was palpable, and every race felt like a trial. He was an easy target, and every driver seemed eager to remind him of it. The media had picked up on the rivalry, and each race weekend felt like a stage for their hostility. Mark tried to push through, focusing on his performance, but the constant jeering and sneering chipped away at his confidence. Back in the garage before the next race, Mark could feel the weight of it all. He was fighting not just for his place on the grid but for his identity as a driver. He took a deep breath, steeling himself for what lay ahead. "I'm just here for the ride until Carlos comes back," he muttered under his breath, the words feeling heavy with an unspoken truth. --- As the race weekend approached, Mark stood beside his car, feeling more alone than ever. The cheers from the fans felt distant, overshadowed by the animosity from his competitors. Even without Charles' support, he couldn't let it consume him. He needed to push through, to show them he was more than just a replacement. But as he prepared for the race, he couldn't shake the feeling of vulnerability beneath his bravado. He was determined to prove himself, to rise above the hate, but the road ahead was daunting. Each lap would be a testament to his resilience, and as the engines roared to life, he felt a flicker of determination ignite within him. This was his chance, and he refused to let the negativity define him. He would fight for his place, not just as a driver, but as someone who belonged in the world of Formula 1. ---

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mikolovesracing · 4 months ago

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you know what i call that?

((::or in this case lando and oscar are too scared to confess their feelings so they do it in their thoughts looking at each other from across the club and charles leclerc is an instigating bitch::))

————————————————————

i can’t even look in his direction, it’s giving me a migraine

lando was internalizing again, he had this horrid habit of simply letting things simmer, but in the strobe and colour of the monaco club that he had found himself in, he couldn’t take his eyes off the one boy who looked perfect in every scenario. sure he was at least fifteen or so feet away, dancing incredibly close to alex and george and watching him made lando spiral even further. he had this rhythm, this flow, that worked so perfectly as he rolled his body against the two, hands in the air and smile plastered across his face. lando desperately prayed that he could tear his gaze away and for gods sake STOP staring at the part of him where his shirt would ride up slightly exposing his pale skin when he stretched out even a little bit. he sipped at his drink.

just try ignore him, you’ve done a great job of distancing yourself, just keep it together lando, keep it together…but damn does that boy have some fine abs and a lovely smile and small moles that could be traced like constellations across his skin. he’s perfect.

lando huffed and stood up, tossing the rest of his drink back and deciding that he wasn’t drunk enough yet. he was too conscious to actually listen to the thoughts in his head at the moment and needed to just stop feeling for even five measly minutes. he approached the bar where charles was throwing back two shots and ordered one for himself as well.

“jesus charles, end of the world coming?”

“ah! lando! it’s summer break, i am drunk, here a shot mon ami, drink!”

lando found himself with two shots of who knows what top shelf liquor in front of him, contemplating his choices. he didn’t want to be too badly incapacitated, he wasn’t sure how he would get home after this and should probably formulate a plan before getting incredibly fucked up. charles noticed his apprehension and pat him on the back.

“lando what troubles you?” charles asked, the brit huffed.

“oscar fucking piastri actually.”

“pardon? oscar? he’s like the nicest person i have ever met, what has he done?”

“nothing, nothing intentionally that is, he just-“

“oh my god you like him!” charles cut him off, lando gripped his hand firmly around the shot glass.

“shut up! don’t say it so loud charles!”

“over the music? mon ami, he’s not going to hear. why are you sitting here with me and not dance with him, you know you could be looking at him up close, no?”

“no i know, i just can’t be that close to him.”

he drives me crazy.

“but you like him. so be with him!”

“i can’t do that for several reasons, charles, it would fuck up our friendship, ruin our team dynamic, what if he doesn’t feel the same way, fucks sake i don’t know if he’s even gay!”

“you don’t know if he’s gay? oh lando please.”

“no, i’m sure an incredibly talented, well rounded, polite, smart young man like oscar isn’t gonna fancy his racing team mate.”

“well, i hate to freak you out or anything, but, he’s totally staring directly at us.”

shot.

———

stop STARING AT HIM OSCAR! you’re gonna freak him out or something look anywhere but at him.

oscar quite literally could not peel his eyes away from the older mclaren driver sat at the bar with charles leclerc, if he looked away, he feared it would be the last time he’d ever see him. even though stupid perfect lando and his stupid perfect hazel green eyes were constantly in the back of oscar’s mind, eating away at his thoughts and sanity. he had gone to dance with george and alex, hoping that it might take his mind off of lando and how he looked somewhat miserable at the bar. he soon realized that the two taller men were more invested in one another than they were with oscar who felt like he was alone in the club. almost everyone had a partner there with them or were dancing with some girl who sweet talked her way into the private room where the annual summer break kick off was happening. oscar noticed in that second that charles was smirking, not at lando but directly at him and this was enough for him to spin on his heel and hightail it for a booth. he sat alone, drinking, smelling some kind of substance that no one should have and thinking of lando fucking norris like it was a full time gig.

assume he’s not gay oscar. just assume he’s not gay so he can’t possibly even be into you. but do keep in mind that hot crochet button down he’s wearing would look much better on the floor.

oscar shuddered and tossed down more of his drink, standing up again to go get another when another body pressed itself against his. he turned to see charles who was still smirking and holding two shots. this can’t be good.

“oscarrrrrr piastrriiiiii, comment vas-tu?” he slurred as he set the shots down on the table, sliding one towards oscar whose face was paler and redder, knowing that the person who caught him staring was confronting him about it first hand.

“uh, great yeah, thanks charles, yourself?”

“very drunk, mon ami, very drunk, have you spoken to lando tonight?”

oscar felt even more pale and his cheeks were burning red. did charles know? how would he know?

just play it cool.

“no, erm, he seemed like he was pretty invested with you, so i just kind of gave him space, besides he’s probably annoyed of me because he’s constantly forced to be around me.”

that shot is looking like a mighty potent truth serum, mate, careful how you play this out. charles is on a mission.

“i wouldn’t say annoyed at all mon ami, in fact you should go talk to him.” charles is pushing the shot closer and smirking deeper, oscar wasn’t necessarily uncomfortable but couldn’t read what this could be about.

“i dunno charles, i don’t want to bother him.”

no i reckon you should mate.

shut up. oscar slides his fingers around the shot glass. whatever liquid is in it will either give him courage, or make him far dizzier and stupider than he already feels.

“what’s the harm? come on, i’ll take you over.”

“no! charles, i really have reservations about this mate. what if like, he doesn’t…”

“oscar. why would i have stumbled my sexy ass over here if i didn’t know for sure?”

“mate, i dunno, i really don’t think lando fancies me like that.”

“well then go hang out with your teammate, come, lets dance.”

before oscar even has time to think, he tosses the shot back, shaking his head at the fiery liquid and is pulled out of the booth. right as the dj plays smooth operator, carlos sainz from somewhere in the room shouts an angry fuck while laughter erupts around him. his vision is slightly blurred as he is pulled through the crowd, he sees george and alex entangled with one another, pierre and kika snogging and daniel, max, yuki and zhou egging on lance and logan who were shotgunning beers.

madness. this is utter chaos, what the fuck why are we literal children-lando!

lando is leaned against the bar, smiling at the shot gun race when oscar is pulled to his side. oscar looks down and away from lando, attempting to hide the red blush on his face and casually shoving his hands in his pockets.

“fancy seeing you here.” lando says over the music.

“yeah, fancy indeed.” oscar replies.

just talk to him, lando!

oscar, quite literally say anything!

god he looks so nervous.

god he’s so perfect, i can’t tell him, he won’t, what if he doesn’t I CAN’T MESS THINGS UP!

“sorry if i’m reading this wrong but, are you okay?” lando says, trying to look for oscar’s eyes which are anywhere but locked on his. oscar turns flashes a smile and looks down again.

“yeah, just, uh, it’s really loud in here and i think there was malicious intent towards carlos, you know, smooth operator.” oscar chuckles, glancing slightly more towards lando, “and i’ve had a lot to drink. a lot. i did shots with george and lewis earlier.”

you’re drunk oscar, good luck rest is on you mate.

DANCE WITH HIM!

lando leans himself against oscar a bit and links his pinky with the younger driver’s. oscar freezes at the touch, scared of letting himself melt into it. lando leans closer. every part of oscar is telling him this isn’t real and that he’s just super fucked up, he’s had a lot to drink and there was definitely weed somewhere in the room leaving a cloudy haze about them. oscar desperately wanted to let himself relax into lando’s touch, why was he struggling this badly even when intoxicated beyond consciousness, he was still anxious to his core about this being a mirage.

lando was barely in control of his own, maybe it was due to the amount of time he had spent internalizing his feelings for oscar and the general want to be near him that drove him, but maybe it was the fact that charles (even when piss drunk) had a keen sense of instinct, hell he had set up george and alex who had been pining after each other for years, maybe that was similar to what was happening here.

“you boys enjoy yourselves!” charles said as he waltzed away, smiling like an idiot and blowing a kiss back to them. the mclaren drivers laugh and for the first time that night, meet eye to eye.

“i assume he pumped you full of whatever liquor he gave me?” lando asked expectantly to a slightly swaying oscar. oscar nodded a bit rougher than he meant to, fuck he was drunk. “you alright, piastri? you would have a long fall to the floor if you fell.”

“just, hold me up then.” oscar breathed deep, “what did he tell you?”

“you were staring, oscar.”

“oh, i’m sorry, you’re just very gorgeous in the lighting and i like looking at pretty things.”

“what did charles tell you?”

“that you might fancy me, that you might not, i’m not great with words, sorry.”

“do you fancy me, oscar?”

oscar bit his lip, afraid of saying the wrong thing, but letting the liquid courage do the talking for him. he nodded his head instead, feeling very heavy. lando moved closer and placed a stabilizing hand on oscar’s slightly exposed hip, the aussie melted into the touch, gently placing a hand on lando’s shoulder. lando put his other hand on his other hip and pulled him closer. oscsr relaxed.

“oscar, i’ve felt the same way for a long while now. i just didn’t know how to tell you.” lando sighed, close enough that he could smell oscar’s cologne which was somewhere between palo santo and cedarwood as well as the faint hint of alcohol on his breath. oscar was locked on lando, holding onto his shoulders for stability and still nibbling on his bottom lip. he was sure his brain was processing this all wrong, or lando was just as drunk as he was and talking out of his ass, but the twinkle in lando’s eye had honesty and vulnerability written all over them, a safe space hidden behind the rough, stoic exterior of being an f1 driver. this was a side of lando that oscar had only seen a handful of times, a softer, yet wilder side of his personality which screamed him more than his media face. the aussie moved his hands from lando’s shoulders to his face and traded his lip bite for a smile.

“i’m gonna kiss you, lando.” oscar stated, leaning in and pressing his lips on lando’s. lando felt his heart leap out of his chest as he held oscar closer, letting the fact that all of his friends are watching them drift away with the only focus being how soft oscar’s lips were against his. there were a few cheeky whoops which in turn made lando stick up a middle finger and smile against oscar. as soon as they parted, fucking leclerc was there again, a shoulder on each man’s shoulder and smiling the most shit eating grin they’d ever seen.

“do you know what i call that boys? smoooooooth operatorrrrrrrr.”

#charles leclerc #landoscar #lando norris #formula 1 #f1 fanfic #f1 #f1 imagine #oscar piastri #mclaren

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dreamysletters · 5 months ago

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f1 drivers as texts, pt. 2

#formula 1 #max verstappen #charles leclerc #lestappen #lando norris #oscar piastri #pierre gasly #esteban ocon #daniel ricciardo #yuki tsunoda #landoscar #piarles #f1 rpf #f1 incorrect quotes #incorrect quotes #credit to whoever these texts belong to #i simply plastered the drivers' faces here #ruyakasun's f1 bs

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libraryledge · 1 month ago

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Have a Heart (A Thrilling Tale) Pt 1

A/N: It's almost Halloween, so here's a short story to set the mood. The only question is whether this piece is a thriller? A Romance? Horror? I'll leave that up for interpretation. ;) Feel free to share your thoughts in the comments below. I hope you enjoy it!

I almost killed him, but his presence almost became the death of me. Like most experiences that one can never forget, our encounter happened in the middle of the night. I'd been terrified to drive alone in the dark, seeing as I'd received my license only a month ago. The coming of age films always depicted driving as a rate of passage and freedom, but for me it was quite the opposite. I always feared the uneasiness of having the power to severely injure or kill someone with the vehicle that supposedly was meant to bring me liberty.

That's why I thought I would go into cardiac arrest when I saw his slim figure crossing the road. I slammed my brakes so fast that I thought I'd run him over. My heart was pounding in my ears, and I thought I was going to be sick. That was until I saw my supposed victim grinning devilishly at me through the glass.

“Don't you know the rules of the road? Look both ways before you pass," said the young man, slowly moving away from the shadow and towards my window. Rather than look like a terrified deer in headlights after almost losing his life, he looked rather amused at the entire situation.

“Gosh!” I said, clutching my heart, feeling as if it was about to leap out of my chest.

With an obnoxious grin plastered on his face, the man pointed to a sign behind him that read: “Pedestrian Crossing”.

“I think I'm very much in my right to be here. It's you perhaps that should be more careful. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you're running from something,” he replied slyly.

I glanced over at the sign. As much as I hated to admit it, he was right. I failed to notice the warning.

“Ugh! I’m sorry,” I said with a sigh. “I'm a new driver. Traveling at night isn't my strong suit. Sometimes, I drive a little quicker when I'm nervous."

“Glad to know you're not running from the cops,” the man said. The amusement in his voice was unsettling.

My eyes widened at his words, “No! Do I look like a criminal to you?”

The man leaned in closer, and his green eyes squinted as he studied me, which made my heart rate quicken.

“I don't know. it's hard to tell what's truly inside a person's heart,” he said in a tone that made it difficult to discern if he was serious or joking.

Then he laughed, “But it's even harder to determine when you have such unusual passengers in your front seat,” he said, motioning to the spot on my right.

I couldn't help but let out a nervous chuckle. I had a box of baby dolls in the seat next to me, which were admittedly very creepy. In the commotion, some of them had been flung out of the container and onto the seat and floor.

“They're my younger sister's dolls. I'm supposed to meet up with her this weekend, so I gathered up all the toys she left at my house to bring them back to her,” I responded. I wasn’t sure what led me to open up to this intriguing stranger so easily.

“Mmmm. I see,” he said with a nod. As he did so, droplets of water landed upon my window. That's when I noticed that his dark brown hair was wet, despite the obvious lack of rain in the near vicinity.

Taken aback, I asked him, "Why are you soaking wet?”

He shrugged nonchalantly and replied, "I went for a swim.”

“In the middle of the night?” I asked, flabbergasted.

“Why not? It's the quietest time of day, " he replied, as if it were the most obvious thing ever.

“Everyone avoids the local pond at night simply because it's dark outside. It's still the same pond. It's not like nightfall is suddenly going to transform it into a completely new location,” he said matter of factly, as if he'd rehearsed this response in his head so many times. I didn't doubt that he had because I was certain that many people were quick to judge his unusual behavior.

“I guess, " I said, still not entirely convinced. “Aren't you scared of drowning?”

“Frankly I don't believe death by drowning is my greatest concern at the moment, " he replied, eyeing my car with mirth.

Despite the cool weather, I felt my face grow warm, as he was obviously alluding to his recent brush with death at my hands

“Where were you headed in such a hurry?” he asked as the stupid smirk grew upon his face.

I sighed and replied, "There's a local Japanese market around the corner that is open pretty late. Like I mentioned, I'm seeing my sister in a few days and wanted to buy her some mochi, but by now, the shop is probably closed.”

I laid my head down on the steering wheel in frustration.

“Gosh! Today just isn't my day is it?” I said in exasperation.

“It probably wouldn't help to point out that it's still technically night time is it?” the guy said cheekily, clearly attempting to lighten the mood.

I gave him a side eye. “Shut up or I'm going to regret not running you over with this car,” I said, attempting to sound annoyed, but it was evident that his smart remarks succeeded in making me laugh.

He chuckled and looked boldly at me in the eye. “How about this? You owe me for almost killing me. I live about five minutes from here. If you give me a ride home, I have something you can give to your sister to make up for it, " he replied.

"What?” I asked in confusion. “How do I know I can trust you? No offense, but you were swimming at the pond in the middle of the night. If that's not psychopathic behavior, I don't know what is.”

“Says the woman with the creepy baby dolls in her front seat,” he replied, almost flirtatiously. If I was anyone else, his charm might have worked, but I was always wary of opening my heart up to strangers.

“Hey, now! I told you they weren't mine!” I said, indignantly.

“I know. I know,” he exclaimed putting his hands up defensively. “They belong to your sister, which is why you should give me a ride home. I can help you with your predicament. I swear I'm not going to eat you alive."

He shrugged with a smile, "I would have already done so if that were the case. Besides, I can whip up a better meal than that. I'm somewhat of a culinary master.”

“Really?” I said, raising my eyebrows in surprise. “I never would have guessed.”

“Do you wear your entire personality on your sleeve? Not everything about a person is what meets the eye after all," he said, with a wink.

I sighed, “You got me there.”

I pointed to the back seat. “Fine! I'll give you a ride. I guess I do owe you one, but if you show any sign of funny business, I'm kicking you out,” I said, giving him a stern look.

The man smirked for what seemed to be the tenth time that night. “Oh, so you do have a heart,” he said, as his eyes twinkled.

I rolled my eyes good naturedly and unlocked the back door of my car. He sat directly behind me, and I could see his chocolate colored locks through my peripheral vision. Once he told me the directions to his house and secured his seatbelt, I started the engine and began to drive, much more cautiously this time.

As his mysterious green eyes made contact with my brown ones through the rearview mirror, I felt my heart race increase. Instantly, I knew that despite the short distance, this was going to be a long drive.

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deceptive-daydreams · 1 year ago

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Control

Eddie x fem reader, 18+ ONLY

3K Words

Warnings - smut, bondage, slight dom/sub, kinda in public not really tho?, daddy kink (it’s mentioned like one time), edging, I think that’s it

A/N - this is filthy and it’s been living in my mind the last few days so here. I didn’t edit it or anything, I just went for it 🥴 also wrote this while kinda zooted so I hope it makes sense

Masterlist

You were seeking relief to put it simply. It was that time in your cycle just after your period where you would get huffy and needy, constantly needing to get off otherwise the sexual frustration would build up and put you in a bad mood. You needed to be fucked senseless but there was no time. Eddie was getting ready in to your shared apartment bathroom as the two of you were soon heading over to Steve’s for a barbecue where you would catch up with the gang and just have a night to not think. All dolled up and ready to go, you sat on the edge of the bed, sensitive as ever, the slightest rub of your panties against your clit almost had you mewling.

Eddie would probably be another fifteen minutes or so, you could still hear the shower running. Now was as good a time as ever to blow some steam so you reached for your nightstand drawer and pulled out the trusty rose toy, the second best thing next to Eddie himself. Leaning back against the pillows, you threw one of the decorative blankets over yourself and started getting to work. The toy was shoved into your pants and underneath your panties to latch onto your swollen clit. Relief was already felt as you rolled your hips and grinded into the toy, little moans escaping you. The pleasure built up, up, up as you desperately chased release. Hips wiggling in anticipation, you tilted your head back the closer you got. Burning hot pleasure coursed through your veins, every nerve ending of your body on fire while you encouraged your own orgasm. Your breathing got heavier, almost on the verge of cumming when—“What do we have here?”

Your eyes flutter open and Eddie is standing at the end of the bed, a cocky grin plastered to his face. Quickly, you shut the toy off and sit up, feeling robbed of release. Sometimes you and Eddie played this game where if he caught you playing with yourself he would tease you for what felt like hours and remind you that only he could make you feel this way. And you only hoped he would initiate this little game right now although there wasn’t a lot of hope seeing as you were now supposed to be heading to Steve’s. Clenching your thighs, you pull the toy out and toss it back into the drawer before shutting it. “Playing with yourself again are we, baby?” Eddie says lowly, hunger in his eyes. You were like his prey being dangled in front of him. Thighs clenching even harder, you sheepishly nod while looking up at him. All he does is look you up and down, eyes snaking down your body before returning to his normal demeanor completely. “We should get going, Steve was mad we were late last time.” He shows off his dimples while reaching his hand out to assist you in getting up. Almost like he didn’t catch you in the act.

Disappointed, you oblige and take his hand, him leading you to the front door before stopping abruptly. “I forgot something, here—go start the van and I’ll be right there.” He pats his back pockets as if he’s searching for something as he hands you the keys. Shrugging it off as Eddie being Eddie, you make your way to the passenger side of the van and start it up. Shortly after, Eddie jogs out and plops down in the driver's seat and you're off to Steve’s.

Or so you thought. Around five minutes into the drive he pulls off to the side where there’s nothing but forest, not a soul around as he parks the van behind some trees. “Eddie, what are we doing? Are you trying to get me to hotbox the van with you again-cause last time—“ he interrupts you by tsking, his eyes currently focused ahead of him out of the front windshield. Raising a brow at him, you push further. “Eds, what are we doing?!” You demand. Eddie turns his head to look at you, eyes burning into yours as he crosses his arms. “You have no idea what you do to me when you play with yourself like that.” His tone is devoid of emotion, making it difficult to predict what direction he would take this.

Sighing, you start to explain. “Ed, I’ve been so pent up, I just needed something.” He can see the way you shuffle in your seat and he can guarantee that there is a wet spot seeping through your pants. “So why didn’t you come to me?” He asks nonchalantly, still keeping his stare on you, he looked like he was about to pounce but was holding himself back. Shuffling around some more, rubbing your thighs in frustration, you search for an answer but find it hard in your flustered state. “I-I um, you were—you were getting ready a-and I just, I dunno…” you trail off unable to come up with anything, you just wanted him to touch you already, give you what you wanted—what you needed.

“Were you going to cum without my permission?” He questions, his hand now grazing your knee in the slightest way possible, the touch making you shutter. You’re silent, eyes averting his gaze as his hand as slowly as possible travels up from your knee to your inner thigh, rings trailing along a coolness with them. You’re throbbing, you swear any movement you make that would cause any friction would make you whine out in desire. Biting your lip, you finally look at him and nod shyly.

He shifts his body toward you a little more, hand stopping in its place on your inner thigh. “Baby, you know better than that.” He coos, now bringing his hand up to trail his knuckles along your cheekbone and then down to your neck to brush a strand of hair away, the cold rings against your neck causing you to shiver. You involuntarily tilt your head back at the sensation. “Don’t you?” He demands softly, grabbing your chin and forcing you to look at him, the pad of his thumb running along your bottom lip.

“Mmhmm.” You whimper back helplessly, pressing your lips to his thumb in a feather light kiss. “I think…” he begins while trailing his thumb from your lip to your jaw. “…You need to be taught a lesson.” There’s a devilish grin on his face. This is what you had been waiting for, for Eddie to give into your desire and just ruin you. “Please.” You whisper, sounding a little more desperate than you’d like.

Patting his lap, he whispers a ‘come here’ as he assists you in grabbing your thighs and helps you straddle him. From the moment you’re on top of him you’re grinding your clothed head into his bulge, the friction of his jeans and your pants making you hum in satisfaction. Large hands grab at the back of your thighs, halting any movements. He grabs your chin yet again in his hand, cradling your jaw. “Not so fast, angel. Wouldn’t be a lesson if I just made you come right away would it?” A small kiss is pressed to the corner of your mouth as he moves to shove your pants down your legs and off into the passenger seat.

You let out a whine as he cups your heat, finger sliding delicately along your slit over the fabric, wetness pooling in your panties. Stroking over and over again, he teases you and brushes his finger just barely over your clit, applying no pressure as he just barely passes over it each time, leaving you squirming in his lap. “That feel good, angel? Just like that, huh?” He mocks while your hips stutter, searching for more pressure, more friction. “M-more, Eddie, please more.” You beg, running your hands down his chest over his tshirt. “No touching, baby. Wanna see how well you can do for me, make sure you learn your lesson, yeah?” You remove your hands from him, propping them on the steering wheel behind you as he continues his torture on you. “Good girl.” He praises, not once applying any pressure, ghosting his finger over you.

You’re holding your own while he looks up at you with lust filled irises. Until he brings his other hand up and under your shirt, sneaking under your bra and toying with your pebbled nipple, the sensation causing you to grip at his shoulders as you moan. He looks at you sternly, still rolling your nipple between his fingers while his other hand still teases you over your panties. “Keep ‘em to yourself.” He whispers, removing his hand from your breast, he plants a kiss to your knuckles on each hand. Nodding, you continue gripping the steering wheel behind you tightly.

Eddie’s lips begin sloppily kissing at your neck, fingers once again working on your sensitive nipple. This time your hand fly into his curls, gripping them in want. You begin pulling away but it’s too late, he’s looking at you with that dark stare, eyes almost black as he drinks you in. “Take this off, love.” He speaks quietly but dominant, tugging at the hem of your shirt. So you do, working the fabric over your head and into the passenger's seat, now only in your bra and panties. It’s like a wet dream come true, you in his lap, panting pathetically at the slightest touches. “And this.” He thumbs at the strap of your bra, letting it snap back into place gently. You scramble to unclasp the back, finally succeeding and tossing it aside, breasts now on full display for him. “Atta girl.” He gives your ass a brief spank, causing you to run your hands down his chest, fingers gripping the cotton fabric tightly before you realize your second mistake, you’ve touched him again.

His lips move to graze across your collarbone, hands smoothing their way up your torso and onto your shoulders, fingers lightly making their way down your arms before grabbing your wrists in his larger palms behind your back. “You okay?” He asks, eyes now sincere as he checks in with you. You give him a nod but it’s not enough. “Use your words, baby.” He requests while planting a kiss right where your shoulder and your neck meet. “Yes, please keep going.” You say breathily, leaning your forehead against his, attempting to give his lips a peck but he holds you away from him, wrists still gathered in his strong hands behind you, his lips parted just inches from yours in a taunt. He looks from your eyes to your lips and back and he knows what he’s doing, his pouty pink lips on full display with no intention of letting you kiss them. A whimper escapes you and he just smirks.

In seconds he’s pulling his bandana from his back pocket, using it to secure your wrists to the steering wheel behind you, double knotting it for good measure. Your lip juts out as you struggle against the cloth, knowing you wouldn’t get anywhere but trying anyway. He mocks your pout and taps your nose with his finger. “Darling, you’ve got yourself all tangled up don’t you?” His words have a meanness to them, the kind you love, the kind that gets you all riled up. All you do is squirm, trying to grind your clothed heat against his denim covered thigh but failing as he holds your hips in place. “You see, I wouldn’t have to get all mean with you but you’re just so stubborn.” He uses his hand to travel from over your soaking wet panties, up your torso with his fingertips, stopping to pinch at one of your nipples and then moving up your chest and along your neck and then back down over your mound, cupping it. Your breathing is quick and your hips are twitching at his touch. “Eddie!” You whine while rolling your hips forward into nothing.

“What’s the matter, honey? You all worked up for me?” He teases, finally using his middle finger to move your panties to the side and feel how wet you are. You can only let out a high pitch moan at his words while his finger collects your slick. “All this for me? Baby, you shouldn’t have.” He rasps out. His face is in front of yours again, letting his lips just barely graze yours but never letting them fully touch. “E-eddie please—please I’ll be good!” Your tone is pathetic as you plead with him, wrists straining against his bandana.

His thumb comes back up to your bottom lip before sinking into your mouth, you gladly sucking it, rolling it onto your tongue before releasing it with a pop. “You wanna cum? That what you want?” He asks meanly. You’re on the brink of tears, the good kind. “Y-yes—yes, please Eddie, please m-make me cum!” You beg. “Are you my pathetic little slut?” He asks, nose nudging yours, awaiting an answer. “Yes, yes!” You breathe out, nodding vigorously.

Before you can register it, he’s clicking a button and pressing your rose toy to your clit, the suction causing your knees to buckle as you straddle him. You don’t know how he managed to hide it when he came back out of the house earlier but he was sneaky and it was to your benefit. A surprise gasp leaves your mouth as you throw your head back. You begin to grind against it as he holds it against you only to be stopped by him delivering a smack to your ass with his other hand. “Hold still.” He demands, scolding you. You whine at this, he was so cruel and so hot.

“Maybe you’ll think twice next time you wanna come so bad while I’m in the next room.” He mocks you, fingers pinching at your nipple again. He tuts at you as you mewl in delight. “Such a brat.” The rose is pushed further into your clit, the pressure becoming so unbearable you think you’ll cum any second only for that reward to be ripped from your grasp as Eddie pulls the toy away from your dripping core, looking up at you like the devil himself. “Making us late…all because you couldn’t keep your hands away from your pretty little pussy.” He reprimands you before holding the toy over your throbbing bud again. “Please.” You whimper in defeat.

You can feel it, you're just on the brink of overwhelming pleasure but you can’t get too excited cause he could very well deny you all over again. Your vision goes white as you chase your release, nothing else matters at the moment, you just need to cum. “Does my pretty baby wanna cum? Wanna make a mess all over my thigh like the spoiled brat you are?” His words only spur you on, pushing you just that much closer to tipping over the edge. “Daddy, please!” You whine. “Don’t you dare.” He grips your jaw tightly. “Not until I say so.” He reminds you, breath fanning over your face. You can’t hold it much longer, it’s like a tidal wave in the distance about to pull you under.

Eddie adds more pressure, your poor clit being abused more and more. “Might not even let you cum at all.” He says casually. At this you sob, the thought of being so wound up, so wet and throbbing only for him to take it away and make you spend the rest of the evening a huffy and sensitive mess. You’re tugging at your restrained wrists, each time secretly hoping it comes undone but deep down you know Eddie is a master at knots and you’d never be able to get free no matter how hard you tried. “Poor baby.” He coos, smoothing his hand over the top of your hair to catch any flyaways that appeared while you endured his torture. “Why don’t you cum for me now, doll?” He gives you permission to let go. And you do, you let yourself grind into the toy, the friction never felt better as that tidal wave washes over you. You’re choking out moans while your body convulses on Eddie’s lap. His thumb brushes along your cheek lovingly as he smugly talks you through your orgasm. “I know, baby, I know, so needy. You just need to be put in your place.” His words only add to the pleasure, your hips stuttering as your walls contract, leaking against Eddie’s thigh. “That’s my girl, cum all over me. Let everyone know who makes you feel this good.” He finally presses a soft kiss to your parted lips, waiting for you to come back to earth as you come down from your high. You lazily kiss him, lips pouting in the process as your chest heaves. He clicks the toy off, removing it from you, eliciting a little whine from you, your clit sensitive and overstimulated.

“That was hot.” He whispers against your jaw, looking up at you fondly. “Doing okay, angel? You still with me?” He checks in, untying the bandana and throwing it into the cup holder, freeing your wrists and gently holding them in his hands as he presses kisses to them, his lips gentle on your skin. You nod your head, pressing your forehead against his as you catch your breath. “Words, baby.” He reminds you softly, his eyes all big and puppy dog like, unlike how they were seconds ago, intense and dominating. “Yeah, I’m okay.” You whisper against his cheek, the light dusting of stubble poking against your skin. “There’s my girl.” He smiles, dimples on full display. “Let’s get you to Steve’s so I can feed you, make sure you don’t faint from being all cum drunk.” He jokes while kissing your cheek. You can only hum in response because you were in fact cum drunk.

And who knows, maybe later that night you give Eddie a taste of his own medicine…use his own handcuffs against him, maybe tease him until he’s a whimpering mess. Edge him until his back is arching off the bed and he begs you to let him cum. Grind against him while forcing him to stay still as you wear his favorite lingerie set. The possibilities were endless.

~end~

Masterlist

#Eddie Munson smut #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson #eddie munson x fem reader #eddie munson x female reader #Eddie x you #eddie x reader #eddie x fem reader #eddie x female reader #vics blurbs #eddie munson fic

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askthechronoverse · 7 months ago

Text

Last Chapter •||• Next Chapter

Kit couldn't help but look back. RJ was flanked by the five infantrymen and led by the Chief into the darkness. Bad Cop met her gaze and frowned sympathetically, falling out of rank to convey his nonverbal condolences. Kit had to be yanked through the front door to a ship that looked a little like a sailing ship with glimmering sails. Bellamy tapped the phone to keep it awake as she piled both herself and Kit into the ship.

"Take us here." Bellamy showed the mini doll driver the note on the phone, then tossed it to Kit, who somehow caught it. The human girl looked for the photo app and found a picture of herself, RJ, and Richard. RJ's grin burned through her mind, locking her into fond memories and present pain until she could feel the taxi stop. Bellamy picked her up and threw her over their shoulder. She looked around and saw she was on a plain looking street bathed in the light of a soft sunset. Before them was a yellow house with a blue roof, the only one of its kind in the cul de sac. The door swung open to reveal a woman in an overall dress and combat boots and a boy wearing a sweater that had sleeves so long, his hands were safely hidden. They both had brown hair, though the boy's held a frame of red and orange. They stared at each other and then at Kit, who dropped her dad's phone in her bag.

"Kit?" The boy's soft voice cut through the awkward silence. "What are you doing here?"

"Dad… dad told me to come here, Vito." Kit could barely get the words out. Her dad was probably halfway to Awntawp by now, she imagined. Her mind's eye could see his potential fear.

"I'll tell Mom you're here." The woman disappeared into the house and returned with an older woman with pink and blue hair. She wore a jacket that matched this color scheme and came out of the house screaming.

"Rex! What have I told you about coming to the house unannounced? You have my number. Tex-!" She paused when she saw that the man she was shouting to wasn't there. "You two. Get in this house. I need to know where RJ is and why he would let you go on your own to an unfamiliar city." As the five headed further into the house, a television started to play an urgent jingle. This jingle and everything that came after gave the woman pause.

"Breaking news today from the lunar spaceport. Rex Dangervest, the villain responsible for the Battle for Syspocalystar and Armommageddon over 20 years ago, has been taken into custody. This capture was orchestrated as part of Chief Starhawk's initiative to ensure that all villains of high notoriety that were unaccounted for prior to the founding of Unitron are brought to justice." The even toned reporting got an eye roll from the woman with the colorful hair. She muted the TV and turned to the two newcomers.

"Kit, I wasn't expecting you today. I'm sorry for yelling." Her eyes wandered to the TV where RJ's tired face was plastered on the screen, shocked that a police photo was already sent to the press. He held the tablet that showed his name and processing number with uncertainty despite the sureness in his eyes. His usual cheeky grin was replaced with a soft frown and a worried brow. Under the photo within the news ticker was a proclamation that this photo was the first time the notorious villain’s face was revealed to the public.

"It's alright, Aunt Lucy." Kit noticed how much older her father looked in that photo. Every line on his face showed itself to her and the look he gave the camera made her feel like someone simply took her father's face and was just pretending to be the carefree man she knew so well. "I wasn't expecting to come over."

"OK. Someone's gotta tell me who Chief Starhawk is and why he took Kit's dad." Bellamy glanced at the TV screen.

"So, Chief Blaise Starhawk is the current chief of Unitron. They're the law out in space. He got the idea in his head to round up every space outlaw from before Unitron's founding and try them for their crimes. Kit's father was the highest on his list." Lucy looked away from the TV. "There is room in the house for both of you. I'm sure Emmet is on his way to meet RJ at Watevra's castle or wherever Starhawk is sending him. Dinner is at 8. Curfew is at 10. Give me your phone so I can put my number in it." Kit fished out RJ's phone and passed it to Lucy.

"This is all I have. Dad was supposed to get me a phone, but…" She looked down as Lucy took the phone. Lucy saw the lockscreen and handed it back.

"Your father has my number on that phone. If you need help, call me or Emmet." Lucy headed for her kitchen.

"Mom, how long is Dad going to be out?" Vito asked, attempting to roll up his sleeves as he followed his mother.

"Uncle RJ's trial is going to be lengthy. It could take months." Lucy shook her head, her tone becoming exasperated. "Can we not talk about this right now? I need to figure out what I'm going to get for dinner. Kit. Kit's friend. Are you okay with fried chicken?" The two nodded. "Good. I'm going to get Club Cluckers. Charmy. You're in charge." She pointed to the young woman and headed out the door. Silence fell on the four younger beings until Vito turned to Kit.

"Why did your dad send you here, Kit?" The question hung heavily as Kit silently attempted to process what was going on.

"Something attacked Dad's raptors. He wasn't sure what, but I overheard him telling your dad something about a portal. Normally, nothing scares him but I've never seen him so scared." Kit looked down at her dad's phone and looked at the lockscreen. The wallpaper was of her and Richard sitting at a table. It was a candid photo, taken during a time when Richard was helping her with her homework when she was still in lower school. With a tap, the phone splashed a pin pad and requested a passcode. She shoved the phone in her bag, only just noticing that Charmy had spoken the whole time.

"Kit. Are you listening?" Kit shook her head. "You really are part of the family, huh. I was trying to say that it's super weird that your dad was so high on Chief Starhawk's checklist. The Unikingdom government has been protecting him for decades because he's a war hero. Get this: I remember they approached former President Business when this whole thing started, but they just backed away like he didn't do anything. A lot of people just think he bought them off." This knowledge was imparted with a conspiratorial whisper.

"Oh come on, Char. Don't fill our cousin's head with that nonsense." Vito rolled his eyes.

"Think about it: what has President Business done for Syspocalypstar since he was given a second chance? Absolutely nothing. He mostly stays in the background and makes money. If anybody is not repentant and deserving of a trial, it's him. At least Uncle RJ has been working to do something with the second chance he was given."

"Uncle RJ still did terrible things that he's never apologized for. I love our uncle, but Unitron going after him first makes a lot more sense." Vito spoke carefully, but he could see Kit's face turn dark.

"How long had Unitron been looking for Dad?" Kit spoke softly.

"Since the beginning. He was a big part of the chief's first speech-" Vito quickly interrupted his sister.

"And why he was hired for the position, they say. He said that, in order to start from scratch with Unitron, he needed to fix past mistakes."

"And Dad was a past mistake." Kit's words hung heavy in the air.

"To Unitron and most of Syspocalypstar, yes." Vito glanced to Kit with some sympathy, but Kit looked away. "I know it's hard to hear, but he still ended the world. That was something he was capable of and he probably still is capable of."

"I know he can be really strong and gets really angry sometimes, but that's not what he's like." Kit leaned against the kitchen doorframe for a second before moving deeper into the living room.

"Let's stop talkin' about this." Bellamy's words filled Kit with relief. "Do ya get the martial arts channel out here? 'Basics with Chopper" is on soon. I think." They reached for the remote for the muted TV, but it was gone from the spot where Lucy had left it.

"We don't have intergalactic satellite. Mom says it's too expensive." Charmy shrugged. "It's just the news right now and I know what they absolutely will be talking about right now." A soft burst of static made the three look over to the TV.

"... Bring you to Awntawp Correctional Center, where we will hear from Chief Blaise Starhawk about the recent events of the evening." The TV transitioned from a photo of a stark and stern set of gray buildings on a dusty planet to a podium with the man from the spaceport who took RJ away. Instead of wearing a spacesuit, he wore a full suit that reminded Kit of the suit her father wore during fancy Unikingdom parties. His helmet was also off and she saw that everything about him was angles and harshness, save for a small swirl of dusty blonde hair in the center of his forehead. His hair was neat and short, his face clean shaven. His expression was stern, the lines on his face relaying that he never entertained the idea of smiling a day in his life. Somehow, however, his eyes glinted with pride and joy.

"Thank you for tuning in tonight. Today marks a great day in the history of Unitron. One of our most wanted criminals, the man who orchestrated the destruction of our world over 20 years ago, is finally having his day in court. This moment has been a true test of everything our organization can do in order to hunt a criminal, which does include a lack of cooperation from the planet harboring said criminal. This should also be an embarrassing day for Meraki. The royal family of the Unikingdom has been letting Rex Dangervest run rampant in their kingdom for decades. The people of said kingdom have already expressed concern that we have captured someone they seem to call a her-" the TV was turned off as quickly as it was turned on.

"It's like this jerk has never cracked open a history book." The three standing turned to a double decker couch, where Kit was sitting on the bottom couch with the remote in one hand and gripping her bag strap with the other, knuckles white.

"Why would Meraki call your dad a hero? I know you guys are from there and Charmy keeps saying he was a war hero, but we don't really learn Merakian history at school." Vito sat next to his cousin, hoping that discussing her father in a positive light would calm things down.

"My dad helped save the planet a few times. He never asked for anything in return, just did it because he felt he needed to. I'm still coming to terms with him wanting to destroy everything at some point in his life, but he loves the Unikingdom. I couldn't see living anywhere else and neither could he." Kit watched the other two teens head over and sit on the top couch. "I don't want to turn on the TV again in case that… jerk is still talking nonsense about Dad, but is there a movie we can watch or something?"

"Not until after dinner." Lucy's voice cut through the hallway. "Can either of my children help me bring our food to the table? I bought a lot just in case your father comes back." Charmy hopped down from the top couch and helped her mother get the kitchen table ready for dinner.

"Come on. Maybe some food in you will calm your nerves." Bellamy jumped from their perch and led Kit to the kitchen. They looked at the large bucket and laughed heartily. "Is that bucket for me? What are the rest of ya gonna eat?"

"Bellamy! We're probably all sharing. So you're going to have to not eat the whole bucket this time." Kit chuckled as she sat between Bellamy and Vito.

Things largely settled down after the five started to eat. Conversation was light and pleasant, focusing mostly on talking about school and plans for summer vacation now that the four teenagers were let out for the summer.

After conversation had died down and dinner had been finished, Lucy took Bellamy and Kit to a spare bedroom, where their suitcases were waiting despite no one remembering anyone bringing them up. It was a basically decorated room that only really could fit the small bed and air mattress that were provided. Soon enough, sleep fell over the house and the small house was still.

#⌈the ashes of disaster drift to you⌋ ⋆❈⋆ ⌈days of oblivion⌋#⌈the newspaper isn't antiquated⌋ ⋆❈⋆ ⌈writings⌋

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wizardofarles · 1 year ago

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Lord, You Keep Me Crawling

Chapter Four: Am I My Brother’s Keeper?

“Are you sure about this?” Auguste asked for the fiftieth time since morning mass. “We can still bail.”

Uncle made a small impatient sound from the front seat as the rumble of the engine died.

“We’re here, Auguste,” Laurent snapped. “They’ve seen the car already.” The words came out sharper than he’d intended. That had been happening a lot lately.

“We could just drive away. They’d understand.”

Instead of answering, Laurent opened his car door and stepped out onto the driveway. The sun was setting behind the western treeline; orange fire bleeding out of the sky and a wave of indigo creeping in cautiously in its wake, as though the night were asking for permission to fall.

They were almost thirty minutes late. Uncle had blamed Laurent for taking so long to get ready that they hadn’t left in time to beat the rush hour traffic—which was completely unfair, because it wasn’t his fault that there was traffic or that he’d had nothing suitable to wear in his entire closet. In the end he’d settled on a midnight blue silk dress shirt with a subtle black floral brocade, his hair moussed and swept back out of his face, and a gold crucifix around his neck. He had put in and taken out his sapphire earring a dozen times over the course of getting dressed, but in the end he had decided against it, tucking it away in the jewelry box that he kept hidden under his bed.

He walked around the front of the car toward the cobbled walkway and heard the car doors open and close again as Uncle and Auguste followed. Juerre stayed in the car, waiting behind the wheel to take them home. The getaway driver, Laurent thought mockingly.

Daylilies flanked the walkway in rows of orange and yellow. As he walked up the path to the front door, he remembered a thousand other trips up that walkway—under sunshine and rain and indigo skies like tonight’s—skipping or running or dragging his feet over the cobblestones. Laurent had walked this path so many times he had carved it into his muscle memory like a river carving a canyon. He couldn’t escape it now if he tried. His legs carried him to the door.

Warm light poured out from the window. Laurent found to his surprise that he was tall enough to see in now, if he stood on his tiptoes. Immediately he noticed that the crystal chandelier in the foyer was not the same one that had hung there when the Fortaines lived here. He stepped back from the door, disoriented. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, centering himself on the pine and floral smell of the evening breeze. A chorus of peepers chirped a tuneless serenade from their hiding places among the low vegetation. He felt Auguste and Uncle step up on either side of him.

“Laurent?” Auguste asked warily.

Laurent opened his eyes and rolled back his shoulders. “Let’s get this over with.”

With one arm cradling a bottle of wine, Uncle used his free hand to ring the bell. Laurent realized that he had never touched that doorbell before in his life. He’d never needed to. Loyse used to leave the door unlocked for him.

As they waited, Uncle spoke with his eyes on the door, “I want you both to be on your best behavior tonight.” He didn’t seem to be waiting for a response from either of them. It wasn’t a request, but a simple statement from a man who expected nothing less than total obedience. A spark of anger alighted in Laurent’s chest. Auguste shot him a sidelong glance, and Laurent saw the same feeling reflected in his brother’s eyes.

The door swung open, and suddenly Uncle’s face was plastered with a smile—the humble and magnanimous one that Laurent called his saint smile.

“Hello!” Hypermenestra burst into view. “Come in, come in!” She beckoned them through the doorway with a manicured hand. Uncle presented her with the wine. “Oh, how sweet,” she cooed, “you shouldn’t have!”

Uncle bowed his head, gracefully deflecting the praise. “I simply couldn’t show up empty handed. It’s a vintage from Ravenel, a very good year.”

“I’ll have it set out to breathe.” She summoned someone from the kitchen and handed off the bottle.

“I’m sorry we’re late,” Uncle said as the doorman took his coat, “the traffic was terrible.”

“No, don’t worry about it, Father. Stavos tells me that dinner is running a bit late as it is, and Damen hasn’t even come down yet.” She grinned at Auguste and Laurent. “Don’t you boys look handsome?”

Auguste certainly did, towering in his burgundy shirt and trim black blazer, with his easy smile and strong jaw. He looked like the very picture of manly splendor and dash. Beside him, Laurent felt like a kid playing dress up. He let Auguste and Uncle carry the conversation from there as Kastor, Jokaste, and Theomedes spilled into the foyer and made their greetings.

“I suppose you don’t need a tour,” Hypermenestra said with an awkward smile.

“We know the house better than you do,” Uncle laughed. Laurent was no longer sure that was true.

He had imagined that stepping into the house would be like falling backwards through time, but he couldn’t have been more wrong. If anything, it thrust him roughly out into the present and locked the door behind him—forcing him to acknowledge that the home he had kept alive in his memory these past few years was truly dead and buried.

He had known that the decor would not be the same, but knowing was not believing, and his brain kept insisting that what his eyes were telling him he saw was wrong. The hardwood floor was bare, the silk Patran runner that Laurent was used to having under his feet was gone. From where he stood in the foyer, he could see that the furnishings in the den and the dining room were now of a more open and simplistic, more traditionally Akielon design. Gone were the old Veretian antiques that Loyse had been so fond of. The whole place felt awkward and warped. Stretched out and shrunken at the same time.

Even the air inside felt different. It smelled different. The aromas wafting from the kitchen were distinctly Akielon herbs and spices, and a new-paint smell clung to the walls. Even the furniture carried its own smell—the wood and leather and the smell of the rugs not quite matching the ones that used to be here. It wasn’t something Laurent thought he would notice if he hadn’t been expecting the old familiar smell of the Fortaine household. It wasn’t something he could even put into words; it was just them. And now it was gone, scraped from the house along with every other trace of them, and replaced by the alien scent of a new family.

Despite all that, the floorboards still creaked at the bottom of the stairs when Laurent walked there, as though they remembered him. The new chandelier hummed the same subtle electric note as its predecessor. Whispers and echoes of the past still endured within the carcass of the house, and Laurent saw ghosts in every corner.

He laid a hand on the round top of the post at the bottom of the balustrade, feeling the familiar, almost sticky smoothness of the varnish under his palm. He closed his eyes, and it was then—without all the visual distraction—that the past closed in around him.

It began with laughter. The sound of two young boys’ breathless joy bubbling through the stairwell, accompanied by their percussive footsteps racing to the top. Laurent, nine years old and already nursing a fierce competitive streak, shoved Aimeric bodily into the wall and streamed past, winning the race while the other boy cursed and recovered his balance. Nearly six months his younger but just as competitive, Aimeric proposed another game. They took turns leaping down from the top stair, adding one more to their jump each time, until Aimeric landed heavily on his feet, just barely sticking his landing after hurtling down eight stairs. He grinned triumphantly, assuming that to be the end of it, but Laurent hated to lose. He lept, and aimed for nine.

Laurent didn’t remember the fall, but he’d twisted his ankle and tumbled the rest of the way down the hardwood stairs, breaking his right arm somewhere along the way. After, Aimeric had drawn the neck of a violin on the back of his cast in permanent marker, complete with all four strings, so that Laurent could still practice his fingerings while his arm healed. He ghosted his fingers along his forearm and remembered it now with a smile.

Auguste’s hand on his shoulder pulled him out of his reverie. He opened his eyes to see that he and Auguste stood alone in the foyer as the others drifted away through the arched doorway into the den. Auguste offered him a reassuring smile, and Laurent returned it before catching up with the group in the den where they lounged on white couches and picked at a charcuterie board.

Where a portrait of Loyse, Guion, and their four sons had hung above the mantle, now sat a white orchid growing in a ceramic pot. Laurent caught a glimpse of his own face on the wall, solemn and pale. He suffered a moment’s confusion, until he blinked and the face blinked back. It was only his reflection, framed alone in a mirror behind the flowers.

Hypermenestra tapped Kastor on the shoulder. “Would you go tell your brother that our guests are here? I don’t know what’s taking him so long.”

A few minutes later, Damianos thundered down the stairs after Kastor, apologizing for his tardiness. He wore a brilliant smile and a blood-red sweater that fit him well and complimented his warm skin tone, his curls gently tousled atop his head. He looked effortlessly perfect.

Laurent wanted nothing more than to wipe the smile off his face with one of several scathing remarks that had formed in his head, but Uncle’s watchful eye was on him, and Laurent had nothing against Damianos’s parents as of yet. It was for their sakes, and for the sake of his own reputation among them, that he granted Damianos a tepid greeting.

A man in a white apron appeared in the doorway. He cleared his throat. “Excuse me, everyone. Dinner is ready to be served.”

“Thank you Stavos,” Theomedes said. When the man had gone, he turned to the room. “It’s about time. I’m famished,” he said, patting his bulging stomach. “Let’s eat.”

When everyone was seated at the table and the first course of salad and bread with olive oil was placed before them, Uncle led them in saying Grace. Laurent noted with a stab of annoyance that there was a glass of wine in front of everyone’s place but his and Damianos’s. Auguste was toying with his glass already, an impatient twist to his mouth. Laurent watched him, frowning.

Uncle finished Grace, and Theomedes lifted his glass. “To peace,” he toasted in his sonorous voice, “and to new friends.”

“To peace and new friends,” echoed around the room as glasses clinked together.

Auguste tapped his glass against Laurent’s glass of water with an enthusiastic “cheers”, then lifted his glass to his lips and took a long, eager drink of wine. Damianos reached across the table to toast Laurent next. He felt rather ridiculous tapping their two glasses of water together; like they were children playing at being grown up.

Last, from his left, came Uncle’s glass. He leaned his head down toward Laurent’s, making the moment between them intimate. Amusement twinkled in his cool blue gaze when he saw Laurent eyeing his wine. As he lifted his glass to drink, he tapped Laurent’s chin affectionately with the knuckle of his forefinger. Laurent felt himself blush, and took a long drink of his water.

“That was a lovely mass you held this morning, Father,” Hypermenestra said as they started on their salads. “Applying the concept of ‘love thy neighbor’ to our two neighboring countries was very pertinent, I thought.”

Laurent found it difficult to focus on the conversation because Kastor had been staring at him strangely since the toast. He was grateful when Kastor’s attention was diverted by Jokaste.

“Kastor and I still think you should go back to the original sage green paint in the den,” she was saying to Hypermenestra. “It looked so beautiful in the pictures you sent us.”

“It doesn’t go with our furniture,” she protested. Meanwhile, Theomedes had struck up a lively conversation about football with Auguste and Damianos.

Laurent tuned them all out purposefully this time, poking absently at his salad with his fork. The sky was darkening, transforming the windows into mirrors that threw the dining room back at him when he tried to look outside. Each bright bulb on the chandelier and the orange flame of every candle on the long table burned double, their spectral twins floating out in the blue-black night.

His fork screeched against his plate when he heard his name. “I’m sorry,” he said politely, “could you repeat that?”

“Will you be at the homecoming game?” Theomedes boomed, as though the problem had been Laurent’s ears and not his wandering mind. “It’s Damen’s first game with the team. His new coach was so impressed with him, he’s putting him in as the starting quarterback. He’s a devil on the field, my son. Bound for the big league.”

Damianos grinned sheepishly. Laurent thought he saw a dark look pass over Kastor’s face, but it was gone in an instant.

“Not one you’ll want to miss,” Theomedes went on. “Bring your date to the game before the dance, if you really want to give her a night to remember.”

Laurent stretched his lips into a smile. He said, “I’m afraid I don’t know the first thing about football,” meaning it as a conversation-ender, but much to his chagrin, Theomedes took it as a request to learn. He spent the next ten minutes explaining the rules and nuances of football to Laurent in excruciating detail. Laurent made polite sounds to show he was listening, but in his mind he was attempting to unlock some latent power of telekinesis to make Theomedes’s head explode like a grape in the microwave.

He made eye contact with Auguste, who was hiding his laughter behind his knuckles. He glared when he was sure that no one else was looking, widening his eyes at his brother in silent communication of, save me, you asshole.

“Speaking of interceptions,” Auguste swooped in, “did you guys see that incredible catch by Orlant during the third quarter of the Arles-Aquitart game last week?”

“Ah, that was a thing of beauty!” Theomedes proclaimed. “Now there’s a man who would go far playing for Ios.”

Then Auguste dropped the bomb. “He’s a friend of mine, actually. We went to school together.”

“No way,” Damianos’s eyes had gone as round as the plates. Laurent was quickly forgotten as Theomedes and Damianos practically tripped over their tongues to interrogate Auguste about Orlant. Auguste glanced back at him, grinning. Laurent mouthed, thank you, and his brother tossed him a wink.

As the servers were clearing up the first course and preparing to bring out the second, Jokaste put down her silverware and looked up brightly. “So, I have a confession,” she said to the room with a twinkle in her eyes.

“You’ve come to the right man,” Uncle joked, earning laughter.

Jokaste aimed a conspiratorial smile at Laurent. “All week, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I recognized you from somewhere, Laurent. So, last night, I googled you.” His stomach fell; he knew where this was going. Jokaste turned to address the whole table again. “He’s the kid who won the Menuhin competition three years ago,” she finished triumphantly.

“The very same,” Auguste said, beaming with pride. He reached over and squeezed Laurent’s shoulder with a warm hand. Laurent smiled tightly and put down his fork, his appetite gone.

Across the table, Damianos’s face lit up from the light of his phone screen as he typed rapidly. His eyebrows shot up. “Holy shit,” he muttered.

“Damen,” Hypermenestra snapped.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, turning his phone sideways as music began to play quietly from the speakers. Laurent recognized his own violin by the first note, playing Tchaikovsky’s violin concerto in D. It was possibly his best performance ever, and that one that had won him the Menuhin.

He could still feel the moment in the middle of the first movement when his fierce concentration had turned to exhilaration as he surrendered himself to the music in a way he never had before; how it had all become so natural from there on, and the piece had seemed to come alive and take over control, guiding Laurent through the movements to the climactic finish.

He could still see his mother’s and brother’s beaming smiles in the crowd, and beside them Loyse’s eyes shining as she watched her star student bathe in the spotlight and the applause, while at that very moment her son, and his best friend since they both could toddle, left alone in a dark house, walked to the bathroom and grabbed his father’s razor blade—

“Turn it off,” Laurent said with a deadly edge to his voice. Damianos stared at him, startled. The music died, and he tucked his phone back into his pocket.

“What’s the Menuhin?” Kastor looked lost.

Jokaste sighed. “It’s an international competition for young violinists. Don’t you ever listen to me?”

“Her mother won second place in 1981,” Damianos said, “and now she conducts the Ios Symphony Orchestra. Ringing any bells?” Kastor shrugged defensively.

Laurent nearly dropped his glass of water. “Kalliope Agrippina is your mother?”

Now it was Jokaste’s turn for pride. “The very same,” she flashed a grin at Auguste when she echoed his words.

“She’s a legend,” Laurent said, his distress temporarily forgotten in his excitement. “I must have listened to hundreds of her recordings. She’s absurdly talented.”

Jokaste’s smile was warm. “So are you,” she said. “I spent all night watching clips of your performances. I sent some to my mother, and she demanded that I introduce you to her. She says she’d love to work with you someday.”

Laurent found himself at a loss for words. It was a dream come true, but it came too late. Two years ago, he would have taken up the offer with a singing heart and a golden future unfolding before him. But now … He tried to string together an appropriate response. “I’m flattered … Thank you, and please thank your mother for me. That’s a very generous offer.”

“But Laurent doesn’t play anymore,” Uncle added lightly, like he was talking about the weather. Laurent froze.

“What?” Jokaste and Auguste burst out in unison. It was hard to tell which of them sounded more dismayed. Uncle sipped his wine calmly, like he hadn’t just shattered Laurent’s whole world. Laurent stared at his plate. A lock of blonde hair fell down in front of his eyes, but he didn’t push it back. He stayed statue-still, tension singing in every muscle, afraid that if he moved he would tremble.

“But … you won the Menuhin.” Jokaste’s voice was raw with disbelief. But it was Auguste that Laurent was watching out of his periphery. His face was a study in pure shock. His mouth hung open, his lips forming and unforming the start of words he did not speak as a thousand tangible thoughts flashed behind his eyes in an instant.

“Since when?” he finally asked. “Since …?” He didn’t need to finish the question. Laurent knew what he was asking, and his face must have given away his answer. “You promised me you would pick it up again. Before I left, you promised.”

“You left,” was all Laurent could say, the words leaving his lips almost involuntarily.

Auguste went on like he hadn’t heard him, digging himself out of his shock and deeper into his anger with every word. “And on the phone—you must have told me a hundred times that you were practicing … It was all lies?” Auguste’s voice was rough. He whirled on their uncle. “You knew about this, and you didn’t tell me?”

Uncle’s voice dripped with pity, “Auguste, you didn’t really believe him, did you?”

Auguste worked his jaw, grinding his teeth. “So, you two keep secrets from me now? Thick as thieves, huh? And I guess I’m just the poor fool you conned.”

Laurent swallowed thickly. “Auguste …”

“No, that’s—” Auguste broke off with a mirthless laugh. “Fucking unbelievable. Two years.” The dishes clattered as Auguste slammed his palms down on the table and pushed up briskly. He looked down at Laurent, and for a moment his anger receded, and his deep blue eyes were brimming with pain. His voice went terribly quiet. “I don’t even know who you are anymore.” A muscle in his jaw twitched and the rage swept back in like the tide returning. He threw down his napkin and stormed out of the dining room.

Kastor blew out a long breath, his eyebrows reaching for his hairline. He had watched the whole exchange with bright eyed amusement, popping cherry tomatoes into his mouth like popcorn. “Brutal,” he said, and crunched another tomato. Jokaste smacked him on the arm.

Laurent started to get up to follow Auguste, but Uncle placed a hand on his elbow and guided him back down to his seat. “Let him go,” he said. “The three of us will talk when he cools off.” To the DiAkieloses, he said, “I apologize for my nephew’s behavior. He has always been on the hot-headed side, prone to outbursts. He gets that from his father, I’m afraid.”

The front door slammed hard enough that Laurent felt the vibration of the impact through the floor.

Jokaste craned her long neck to peek into the hall. “Did he just leave?”

Laurent looked over at his brother’s abandoned place at the table beside him. There, lying face down next to his plate was Auguste’s phone. A cold fist closed around his heart. “Uncle …” He held up the phone and the room fell silent as a crypt.

It was Damianos who broke the silence. “Didn’t you guys all come in one car? How is he going to get home?”

Uncle dabbed at the corner of his mouth with his napkin, unperturbed. “I imagine he will walk.”

“We should send someone after him,” Hypermenestra said and started to rise. “We can have a car follow him.”

Uncle waved her down. “Let us not worry, a bit of walking is good for the soul, and God goes with him.”

After a period of uneasy silence broken only by the hesitant clattering of silverware, Uncle and Theomedes got to talking politics, and then no one else could get a word in until the servers brought out dessert. The table was piled with dishes of tiramisu and pistachio baklava, gelato in four flavors, and steaming cups of espresso for the adults.

Laurent had only picked at his pasta—much to Hypermenestra’s distress—but even while his nerves still danced in his stomach, he could not resist the chocolate gelato. He took small bites in silence, the hurt on his brother’s face never leaving his mind.

The conversation shifted from politics to Theomedes’s business, Angelico, and soon erupted into a heated exchange between him and Kastor.

“It’s hard to work with him breathing down my neck all day,” Kastor complained, “and frankly, he’s not great at his job. His methods are stale, he shoots down all my good ideas—he’s stuck in the past, operating on decades old strategies.”

Theomedes raised an eyebrow. “He has experience and wisdom, both of which you lack. Your job is to learn from him.”

“I don’t need a babysitter, Dad! I’m your heir apparent. Aren’t I? The optics on this are—”

“Optics?” Theomedes barked, “I piss on the optics.” His wife tsked.

“That’s great, Dad,” Kastor deadpanned. “Great business strategy.”

Theomedes dabbed at his beard with his napkin, then leaned back in his chair and leveled his son with a hard stare. “Makedon has worked for this company for nearly thirty years. He's a member of the board, for Christ’s sake, I’m not going to fire him.”

“I’m not saying you should fire him, just maybe don’t bring him to Arles. Leave him in Akielos.”

“These are delicate times, son. I need loyal people around me. Makedon is loyal. He’s coming to Arles. End of discussion,” he punctuated by slicing his hand through the air, palm down.

Hypermenestra smiled wanly. “That’s enough of that, you two. It’s not polite to talk business at the dinner table.”

“So, Jokaste,” Uncle said, changing the subject. “Are you a musician like your mother?”

Jokaste laughed lightly, “No, unfortunately I didn’t inherit her gift. I’m just a journalist.”

“Ah, yes,” Uncle nodded, “now I recall. You’ll be writing for the Arles Times, correct?”

“Yes, I start tomorrow. Before this I worked for the Ios Globe.”

Hypermenestra grinned. “Jokaste was their prodigy, their young star reporter. Last year she won a Pulitzer for her article about—ah …” She broke off suddenly. Tucking a dark lock of hair behind her ear, she threw a nervous glance at Jokaste as though asking for help.

“Oh,” Uncle swooped in, “you must be referring to that terrible business with the Ios archdiocese. I read about it. I can’t even imagine …” He trailed off, shaking his head gravely. “Uncovering that was your work?”

Jokaste said, “I was on the team, yes.”

“What terrible business?” Laurent asked. He had heard nothing about it.

A hush fell over the dining room, and the air stood still like everyone had stopped breathing. Laurent searched their faces. Theomedes and Hypermenestra appeared to be having a silent conversation with their eyes, both wearing faces full of consternation. Damianos stared at his plate, for once guarding his emotions, while Kastor leaned back from the table, slumped low in his chair, looking anywhere but at anyone else. Jokaste was staring at Uncle, her expression as indecipherable as the Mona Lisa.

Uncle sipped his espresso and set the porcelain cup down with a light clink that seemed to echo. Finally, in a mild voice, he said, “I’m afraid it’s not a story for young ears.”

Jokaste tilted her head to one side, her cool blue eyes never leaving Uncle’s face. “I disagree,” she intoned breezily. “I actually think it’s especially important for young people to hear these kinds of stories. Not the gritty details, of course, but having some knowledge of the dangers they may face can help kids protect themselves.”

Kastor threw his head back and groaned, “God, please don’t start with this again. I’ve heard nothing but this sordid shit for over a year. The investigation, the cover-ups, the trials—can we just let it go?”

“Quit being a jerk, Kastor,” Damianos said with a frown.

“Boys, language, please!” Hypermenestra threw up her hands, exasperated.

Jokaste leaned in toward Kastor, “Can we please not do this in front of our guests?”

Kastor snapped, “That’s what I’m asking. Can we not?”

Hypermenestra shook her head. “I just still can’t believe Father Antony was involved in all that. Of all people, I never would have suspected him.” Kastor sighed heavily.

Theomedes grunted. “Was he the fag?”

Laurent’s heart flipped in his chest.

“Theomedes. That is no way to talk in front of a child and a holy man,” Hypermenestra hissed.

“Apologies, Father.” Uncle waved his hand in dismissal of the offense. Theomedes’s beard hid most of his sly smile. “But … wasn’t he?”

Hypermenestra clicked her tongue. “You’re thinking of Father Leandros, who was a homosexual. Father Antony was the priest at Saint Sebastian’s, where Kastor and I went before you and I got back together. A very nice man. He was always so kind to us, wasn’t he, Kastor? I just can’t understand it.”

Kastor said with a dry smirk, “Sure, super nice. He touched a lot of souls. I recall that he was especially fond of touching children’s souls.”

Suddenly there was iron in Hypermenestra’s voice. “I’ll have none of that talk at the dinner table, young man.”

“You’re the one who keeps bringing it up, Ma!”

“Watch it,” Theomedes roared, jabbing a thick finger at his son’s face.

Jokaste placed a hand on her fiancé’s arm. “Kastor,” she soothed, “don’t.”

Kastor shrugged her off and hiked his voice up to a falsetto impression of his mother, “‘What a kind man Father Antony was, what a good priest.’ I swear to God, if I have to hear one more word of that shit I’m going to throw myself off the Arles River Bridge.”

Hypermenestra was stunned into silence, blinking rapidly. Kastor grimaced, dropping his eyes to his plate where he began to smush up his tiramisu with the back of his fork. Uncle’s head had perked up like a hound that had caught the scent of blood. Laurent felt hopelessly out of the loop. He made a mental note to look up Jokaste’s article later.

“Son,” Theomedes said the word like an accusation, his face carved from stone as he stared Kastor down, “what the fuck is wrong with you?”

Hypermenestra snapped out of her stupor. “Theo! Listen to yourself! A fine example you set for your sons.”

Rage darkened Theomedes face. “You’re going to blame me for him?”

With a chuckle of bitter exasperation, Kastor pulled himself up from the table.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Hypermenestra called after him as he fled the dining room. She got no response.

Kastor’s footsteps retreated up the stairs, and the echo of a slamming door reverberated through the house.

Theomedes turned to Uncle. “Well, Father, now we’re even. One outburst on each side.” He stabbed his tiramisu angrily with his fork.

When dessert was cleared away, the adults moved to the sitting room to have “adult conversation”, which Laurent knew just meant normal conversation over hard liquor. He and Damianos scattered; Damianos went off to the bathroom or something, and Laurent wandered toward the stairs.

During dinner, Laurent had been so focused on the people that he’d nearly forgotten where he was. It was impossible to forget now, with the stairwell looming before him like the gaping maw of some great beast. The stairs climbed up into shadow, the top stairs completely swallowed by the dark. Laurent climbed into the beast’s mouth, letting the shadow swallow him too as he ascended. He didn’t need the light. He could walk this path in his sleep.

Upstairs, the only light came from a thin strip of gold beneath the door at the end of the hall. Laurent followed the light, and opened the door to Aimeric’s old bedroom.

Kastor looked up from his desk where he was bent over a laptop, startled. When he saw that it was Laurent in the doorway, he grew irritated. “What do you want?”

“This is your room?”

Kastor eyed him warily. “Temporarily,” he said slowly. “Jokaste and I are hunting for a place of our own.”

Laurent stepped over the threshold and entered the bedroom. Kastor slammed his laptop shut and swiveled around in his chair so that his back was never to Laurent as he drifted through the room. Laurent trailed his fingers along the wall as he walked. The paint was cool against his skin—eggshell white now, where before it had been a deep blue. “The walls are different,” he said stupidly.

Aimeric’s presence—or perhaps it was his absence—felt closer here. Laurent carefully avoided looking at the bathroom door, but even from his periphery it seemed to call to him. It seemed to scream. He hardened his grief and his fear into a cold stone and buried it deep within his chest, and he did not look.

Kastor stood and cleared his throat. “Hey, um, I actually wanted to talk to you,” he said, “about what happened at the airport? I really did think you were a girl, at first. I’m not, you know … that way. You must get that all the time, though. You’re very pretty for a boy.”

Laurent stopped walking. He turned to look at the young soldier-turned-businessman and cocked his head to one side. “What is this, Kastor?”

“I just wanted to—I’m trying to say … I’m sorry for scaring you,” he forced out, looking constipated. “I was just dicking around.”

“In the future, you might want to apply the concept of ‘dicking around’ a bit less literally,” Laurent said.

Kastor huffed out a laugh. “Yeah. I walked into that.”

“And you didn’t scare me.”

“Right. Well, what I’m saying is …” Kastor stepped closer, leaning down to his level. His breath was a warm cloud tinged with the sour tang of the wine that Laurent had not been allowed to drink. This close, he could taste it. He forced himself not to step back. Kastor spoke low and collusively, “It was all just a misunderstanding, yeah? Nobody got hurt, so, really, it’s like it never happened. Nobody else needs to get involved. Water under the bridge, right?”

Laurent put on a smile. “Water under the bridge.”

He touched the wall again, a plan solidifying in his mind. “Jokaste mentioned that your mother sent you pictures of this house before the walls were repainted. Are they on your phone?”

Kastor hesitated, no doubt sniffing for a trap. “Yes.”

“Were there any pictures of this room?”

“A few, I think. There were all these little doodles along the baseboards in permanent marker.”

“I want the pictures,” Laurent said. “I left my phone downstairs. Give me yours. I’ll send them to myself.”

After another moment of hesitation, Kastor relented, as Laurent had known he would. Really, he couldn’t refuse Laurent anything now that he held a secret over him. That was the beauty of it.

Laurent took the proffered phone, and found the pictures right away. He quickly selected the ones he wanted—three photos of Aimeric’s blue walls, and the drawings of animals, cartoon characters, and superheroes lining the baseboards—and sent them to his own phone, regretting the fact that he had to leave Kastor with his number. A necessary sacrifice, he told himself.

He did not hand back the phone when he was finished, nor did he reveal any indication that he had accomplished his task. This was where his plan got a little risky. Laurent began to snoop.

He found nothing damning in Kastor’s text messages besides some truly horrific sexting exchanges with Jokaste that left Laurent wanting to rinse his eyes with bleach, and nothing suspicious jumped out at him from his emails.

“So,” Kastor said, hovering anxiously, “just to be clear … you haven’t told anyone? About our little … thing?”

“No, I haven’t told anyone,” Laurent replied without looking up from the phone. Kastor’s calendar was a wall of business meetings and corporate events. Only the morning of Friday, October 6th stood starkly empty. That was the same day as the homecoming game and dance at school. Laurent wondered if there was a connection.

“Good. Yeah, that’s for the best, I think.” Kastor was still talking. “Because that’s not me. I’m not—I don’t do things like that.”

Laurent, only half listening, hummed noncommittally. Scrolling through Kastor’s outgoing calls revealed something interesting. Kastor had called Guion Fortaine just this morning, and that call had lasted over an hour. Laurent didn’t jump to any conclusions yet; the DiAkielos family had obviously been in touch with Guion about the house at some point. It was not until he saw yesterday’s call to Vannes, and one to Audin shortly before that, that Laurent allowed himself to theorize.

The only connection that Laurent could think of between the three of them was that they were all members of the board of directors at the company that was now Angelico. There was nothing strange about Kastor speaking with his board members in preparation for a meeting. But no … Laurent didn’t recall seeing any board meetings coming up on Kastor’s calendar. And surely there would have been corresponding emails … unless it was unscheduled. Unless there was something afoot that Kastor needed to keep off the record. Laurent went back to the calendar, the empty morning of October 6th singing to him like a bird.

A burst of triumph rushed through Laurent’s blood. I see you, he thought with an inward grin.

“What’s going on here?”

Laurent stilled. The voice came from the doorway behind him, and it belonged to Damianos.

Laurent quickly closed all the apps and handed the phone back to Kastor before acknowledging Damianos. He turned slowly, crossing his arms, and watched Damianos stalk into the bedroom. He circled around Laurent to place himself within arms reach of both him and Kastor.

Laurent pierced him with a cold glare. “I was just sucking your brother’s dick in my dead friend’s old bedroom. The proximity to the bathtub where he slowly bled to death really sets the mood.”

Damianos’s mouth fell open, disgust warring with shock and then pity on his face. All that passed his lips was a breathless whisper, “… Jesus, Laurent.”

“The kid died in my bathroom?” Kastor croaked. Both Laurent and Damianos ignored him.

“It’s what you were thinking, isn’t it?” Laurent accused. “Is that not why you followed me up here?”

“I wasn’t … I didn’t know that about your friend. I’m sorry,” Damianos said, infuriatingly gentle.

“He’s lying, by the way, about the … sucking.” Kastor grimaced at his own words. “If anyone cares to hear my side of things.”

Damianos’s tone hardened. “No, Kastor, not particularly. I need to talk to Laurent. Alone.”

“Yeah, sure. At your own peril,” Kastor said, and with that, he was gone.

When the sound of his footsteps had dissipated down the stairs, Damianos said, “I’ll make sure he deletes your number.”

Laurent held himself perfectly still. “If it makes you feel better.”

“Listen, Laurent,” Damianos began. He ran a hand through his brown curls, tousling them to the point of messiness. The flyaways glowed in warm hues of gold and red where they caught the light. “I know you don’t like me, and frankly, I’m not crazy about you either. But putting that aside, I just want you to know that if you decide you want to tell someone about Kastor … about what he did at the airport—or if you already have told someone—I’ll back you up.”

Laurent blinked. That was not what he’d expected to hear. “Am I supposed to be moved by your readiness to betray your own brother?”

“It’s not a betrayal to tell the truth,” Damianos said in a voice as hard as steel. “He betrayed me when he asked me to lie for him.”

That did not sound right to Laurent. He fought to keep his confusion off his face, but he couldn’t quite stop the slight scrunching of the muscles around his eyes. As soon as he felt it, though, he smoothed it out and faced the Akielon as a statue. “He trusts you to protect him,” he countered.

“Why are you defending him?” Damianos flared.

“I’m not, I’m—” defending myself, Laurent had been about to say, but he could think of no way to explain it so that Damianos would understand. Frustrated, he turned away and walked to the window. He wondered where Auguste had gone, and if he was safe. Part of him had hoped to see his brother out the window, down in the driveway or in the yard, but it was fully dark outside now. All Laurent could see in the glass was his own pale reflection; a ghost made of light. It was a foolish hope, anyway. Auguste was long gone by now. Rather than stare at his own sullen face, Laurent picked at the thick paint on the window frame, carving off small white chips with his nail.

He heard Damianos sigh behind him. “It’s just a matter of principles, Laurent. Right and wrong. Yes, Kastor’s my brother. I love him, I always will. But I saw what I saw. What he did was wrong. I’ll help you make it right, if I can.”

Laurent dug his nail deep into the paint and twisted. “And if I asked you to continue the lie?”

“Why?” Damianos sounded so profoundly baffled that Laurent found himself wanting to explain; wanting to be understood.

He turned from the window to look Damianos in the eye. “I’m not a child,” he said. Judging by the furrowing of Damianos’s brow, that had clarified nothing for him. Laurent tried again. “I’m not helpless. I can handle Kastor.”

“I don’t think you’re helpless,” Damianos said gently, “but I’m offering you help anyway, because it’s the right thing to do.”

Laurent couldn’t bear the pity in the Akielon’s eyes. He looked away. He mistakenly glanced to his left, and caught sight of the bathroom door, hanging slightly ajar like an invitation. A bitter taste filled his mouth. He looked again at Damianos, in his sweater as red as blood. “You think you know everything, don’t you?” His voice was like ice, and it burned his throat. “You think you have the whole world figured out, with your ‘right and wrong’. Some things aren’t right or wrong, they’re just things that happen.”

“You don’t think what Kastor did to you was wrong?” Damianos asked, seeming genuinely confused.

“He didn’t do anything to me,” Laurent said.

“Laurent, I saw—”

“It was provoked.”

“Provoked?” Outrage flashed openly in Damianos’s dark eyes. “Nothing could provoke—”

“Stop trying to rescue me,” Laurent snapped, every word the crack of a whip. “I don’t need rescuing. So you can take your hero complex and go fuck yourself with it.”

“I don’t have—”

“You do,” Laurent made sure that his tone brokered no argument. “I’m done talking about this, understand? Let. It. Go.”

It was Damianos’s turn to brood. The furrow in his brow deepened as the silence stretched on, until finally he shook his head and started for the door. Something stopped him before he’d passed through the doorway, and he turned. “Just tell me one thing. Why did you give him your number?” he asked. Laurent had been wondering when he’d get around to that.

“He had something I wanted.”

“Aren’t you worried about what he wants?”

“I know what Kastor wants,” Laurent said with a light smirk. “I’m not the one who needs to worry.”

Damianos blinked. “What does that mean?”

“My poor dear brute,” Laurent said playfully, “have you truly so little mind for deception that you can’t see it right under your nose?” He sauntered to the doorway. Damianos did not move aside, so Laurent made to slip past him.

He was suddenly acutely aware of Damianos’s sheer size—this close to him, it was hard to be aware of anything else. Laurent’s eyes only came up to his chest, and for a moment his whole world was filled with the red of Damianos’s sweater and the dark smell of his cologne. He had to crane his neck to look up at his face. He wasn’t quite as tall as Auguste, but he was broader. He was like a mountain with wide brown eyes, staring down at Laurent with his lips slightly parted, as though his voice had been snatched from his throat. Goosebumps prickled to life along Laurent’s arms.

“I should get back downstairs before my uncle misses me too terribly,” Laurent murmured as he squeezed by. He could feel the heat of Damianos’s body everywhere, but he managed to make it past without touching him.

As Laurent fled down the hallway, Damianos found his voice again. “Wait—Laurent! What does that mean?” Laurent descended the stairs two at a time and rejoined the party.

Later, as the car pulled out of the driveway, Laurent looked back and watched the house fall away out the rear windshield, until it was no more than a spec of light in the dark. Uncle sat beside him in the back seat, as silent and cold as a winter night in Vask. Laurent rationalized that maybe Uncle had used up all his warmth on the DiAkielos family tonight, and had none left for him. But a small voice inside insisted that it was more than that; that his uncle was angry with him. Laurent ran through the whole evening in his head, trying to figure out what he had done wrong, but couldn’t think of anything to warrant this reaction from Uncle.

Laurent frowned, defeated. He stared out his window with a sinking feeling in his gut, searching for a glimpse of golden hair on the sidewalks and at every street crossing, but saw none.

#lykmc #captive prince #laurent of vere #my writing #damen of akielos #auguste of vere #capri fanfic #captive prince fanfic #lamen

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