#on the other hand i dont like the way youre phrasing this

[mxwhore]

hey as a trans person… i am really all for body positivity, but your martin art feels flat out fetishizing. it makes me really uncomfortable seeing you rave about his boobs and hyperfeminize him in general emphasizing how soft and sweet and caring he is, how he cares for jon even tho hes a monster… like this is hyperfeminizing a man and fetishizing his body. its weird. maybe just re-examine how youre drawing and portraying him

lately ive been mostly raving about his ass but sure, ill take it

[todayisafridaynight]

INCREDIBLY FUNNY that I refused to settle for just saying "bread" but yes it was those! So in that sense, the lavish bread physics are integral to conveying how important the little things were in getting him through prison. Still, for the sake of the drip…...... perhaps sacrifices are needed...

But yeah, I'm thrilled you noticed those things about the evolution of Jo's design, too! It's super interesting to think about in terms of storytelling, I don't think you're inarticulate in saying that at all. Speaking of, I also just look up "holder" to find prev asks at this point lol

Jo and Ichi's dynamic is also a major topic of interest for me (as we've seen). I think a lot of what's going on with them is definitely some variation of "old habits die hard." That's natural when you form that kind of uneasy coexistence. But like you mentioned, it's also telling that Jo picked up the nickname in the first place, because I went back through the entire script, and it really is the case that only Arakawa, Masato, Jo, and the people who raised Ichi call him that. It's reserved for his family.

I think this line about Aoki (that I completely forgot about before looking at the script again lol) may also shed some light: "A long time ago, I knew him as the young master. He knew me as Ichi." Because they all do that, don't they? Ichi still says Captain, Boss, and Young Master, Jo still says Boss, Ichi, and Young Master, Aoki still says Dad and Ichi.

Even though on paper these relationships should've dissolved with Ichi being expelled, Masato becoming Aoki, and Jo taking over as second patriarch, to one another, they're all still who they used to be. And as an aspect of how they communicate, the "learned language" that forms in families, it stands out when they're all on the same page with the terms they choose to use.

This line from Ichi also stood out to me: "But my aniki taught me different. He said whoever makes the first move is the victor. The guy with steel balls wins." Like, that's clearly Jo, right? For one thing, the "flavor" of aniki is different from Captain, of course--one is directly an appointed post, and one is more open to interpretation--but it also clearly shows that Jo's imparted his "philosophy" to Ichi in some ways.

I think, to a degree, it's one of those holdovers from RGGO that wasn't fully implemented. Because they're more or less the same in RGGO in this regard, but RGGJo does outright say it makes him weirdly happy that Ichi still calls him Captain, so that's a clearer indicator and makes the idea feel more "complete."

With what I said before about their "learned language," too, the Arakawa Family has this way of saying goodbye that's specific to them, and I really miss it in Y7. It is referenced briefly, but it's not a "thing" like it was in RGGO. It's kinda like how The Gang in It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia greet each other with "Hey-ohhh!" LMAO idk but. I Enjoy. But that's also why it stood out to me that LaD8Jo greets Ichi the same way as Y7Jo and RGGJo.

ALSO that is so sick the author of Soliloquy saw your art…… incredible……….. + as an aside since I was reminded, it's very true that sometimes people seem to "fill in the blanks" with tropes, and my favorite is honestly when it's both funny and offensive. There was this whole "phase" (and to everyone's credit it was short-lived) of playing Mine up like this Huge Misogynist because he's not attracted to women, and it's WILD to recognize that he's gay but still pull up homophobic tropes for funsies.

Like I was mad at the time mostly on account of the mischaracterization (because come on, even if you've only seen Y3, he is still uncharacteristically soft with Katase��� not that he wasn't INSANE for The Slap, but it also wasn't at all rooted in the same things as say, Nishiki slapping Reina might've been.) But it was funny. Perhaps not in the way it was intended to be, but it was funny. And, you know, that's why I'm happy to stay in my own little corner as well.

You coulda just said bread it's ok 😭 I WAS right though it WAS a carb......

On the subject of language though, it's def something I picked up on (if my last ask wasn't any indication lmao)! It's a real neat detail and something I think helps push that 'family' theme Y7 has going on (or at the very least demonstrates how despite the times changing, they still have those bonds with each other whether they acknowledge it or not), it definitely being a case of picking up a habit/term from family.

About tropes in fan works though, I can't act like I'm guiltless of it LMAO so I don't have too strong of a leg to stand on when it comes to criticizing it (and I can't lie, sometimes I do find playing into the trope funny if it's at least based on something from the text and it's just exaggerated For The Bit yeah). However I do think the strangest thing was linking misogyny and Mine (I made a post rambling about it but deleted it like. .3 seconds later) because nothing he does in either Y3 nor RGGO is explicitly misogynistic? In the slightest? And as we talked about before he's considerably pretty respectful towards women? Again, he surely did slap a little girl, but it wasn't because she was a girl you know (still cringe to do but if we're gonna talk about it let's do it right please and thank you). As you say though, pushing that trope onto Mine just feels like perpetuating the harmful stereotype that gay men hate women, and in cases like that then I can't really take the piss out of it without having a weird taste in my mouth.

[soggyriceee]

strawberry | Konig nsfw

| this one is a smut, but also angst. basically, Konig gets you to use your safe word for the very first time after being gone for a year in the German base. so, I hope you all enjoy :) |

warnings: rough sex, crying (not good kind) angst, aggressive konig, not edited, will be edited in the morning

╰┈➤

Konig was always gentle during sex. and it a hundred percent had to do with the fact he was literally twice your height and then some. yes he left hickeys, small small bruises on your hips from his grasp, left your legs a bit wobbly. but those were normal considering his size. and even when you reassured him you liked that, he would always apologize profusely, getting you anything you need for hours and hours after.

but tonight, he was a whole other man. he wasn't the same kind and giving Konig. and to an extent you liked the new dominance, the new aggression. it was hot.

until it wasn't.

Konig had been between your legs, fingering and eating you out for about an hour. he was hungry, and not for edible food. he was hungry for you. that sweet pussy of yours, your tight cunt gripping his fingers or dick. he missed it while he was back in Germany for some mission he had given you little information about. all you knew was he was in the middle of Germany, killing potential threats.

already you had came 4 times (that he allowed). he was so pussy drunk, he hadn't realized the tears that brimmed those pretty eyes. in fact, his eyes were closed, his lower half grinding into the bed. you were sure he had already came in his pants at least twice at this point. he would occasionally whimper into you pussy, his hips moving faster against the bed. " fuck ive missed this pussy maus.. you dont even understand." he said into your drenched cunt. a mix of saliva and cum ran down your legs, a big puddle underneath the both of you.

"k-konig can we.. take a break please." you cried from above, your legs shaking despite his mouth simply on your thighs, leaving more and more marks. he nipped at the soft flesh of yours after those words came out, a low growl leaving his lips. " how dare you ask such a question?" he rose, pulling his pants down. and you were right.

his dick was layered in his cum, more of it dripping out from the tip. he was so agonizingly hard, he couldnt bare to fuck into the bed anymore. he needed what he dreamt of every night since leaving. and he needed it now. "imma fuck my babies into you liebling.. make you swollen with them." he said, almost to himself, as he grabbed the base of him, looking down at your pussy.

as much as you wanted him to rearrange your guts, you were drained. he had made you so overstimulated, you could barely form thoughts. it was hard trying to even raise your head from the pillow. but he didnt care. he hadn't realized it before, but as much as he does want to cherish your body like its a rare piece of art from olden times, worth millions of dollars, he loved seeing you fucked out just as much. he loved seeing how he had complete control over your body and there was nothing you could do. it sparked a whole new person in him, one that you were quickly growing scared of.

before you could process his tip sliding slowly into you with ease, his hips were already slamming into yours, his balls hitting your cum soaked ass with so much force, the sound filled the room. your hands clutched onto his shoulders for dear life, your eyes squeezing shut. " you look so fucking pretty maus.. so fucking pretty. all fucked out like this.. shit~" he groaned, his eyes watching your face twist in what he believed was pleasure.

and for a bit it was. until he raised your leg all the way up, leaving the other down. your leg fell over his shoulder and your arms flopped to your side. he was hitting directly at your cervix and it hurt. but he was in so much pleasure. his head fell back as his eyes rolled to the back of his head, his lips spitting out dirty phrases in both English and German.

and of course, being away from sex for a year, Konig was beyond sensitive. he came for the first time within the first few thrusts, his head falling into your bruised breasts, whimpering out how good it feels. but that didnt stop him. he kept going.

his hand found its way to your throat, gripping it unintentionally hard. with the mix of tears and now the shortness of breath, it was all a lot on your body physically. Konig had gotten to carried away inside your pussy, the way it sucked him back in. "fuck maus.. your s-so wet.. im close again~" he whimpered, his lips latching to your breasts to find space to mark it yet again.

at this point you were literally going in and out of vision. his grip on you grew tighter as he released yet another load into you. you too felt your pussy leaking, unaware of the knot that was in your stomach. you were feeling too many things at once that you ended up going completely numb. you whimpered below him, trying to find anything to get him to realize that you needed a break. but the tears that fell from your eyes only made him wanna fuck you more.

he slid out, watching the mixture of cum literally pour out of you. your thighs were soaked and red from the constant biting and nibbling a few moments ago. your face was red as well from the lack of oxygen. he let go of your neck, licking his lips as if he was deciding what to do with you next. all he knew, was that he wanted to keep fucking you.

he grabbed your legs and pressed them together and into your chest. immediately you felt his dick slide right in, going at his fast pace yet again. "k-konig please- I-i cant" you managed to choke out, your head hitting the bed frame with each thrust he gave you. this was when the fun for you ended. it only made him more and more horny, seeing you tap out so soon after he began to fuck you.

the look in his eyes was not the same look when he came home, a huge bouquet of flowers in his hand as he ran up to you, lifting you off the ground and placing kisses all over your face. no. this look was dangerous. it was almost like it was the same look he had on the battle field.

his hand went back to your throat, his head tilting to the side slightly. "shut up a-and fucking.. take it. I know.. you missed this a-as much as me." he growled, moving his hips only faster and deeper. but you couldnt take it. you truly couldnt take it.

by the time you felt your 6th orgasm approaching, you began to see white light in the corners of your eyes, and you knew you were truly at your limit. "s-strawberry" you tried to say as loud as you could. but the sounds of your cunt and konigs whimpers, he couldnt hear you. his thrusts kept going until you felt him release inside you again, his grip on your throat enough to snap your throat. and at that same time, what you though was impossible happened. you had the most painful orgasm ever, your body feeling like it was going to shut down entirely. it was like you had nothing else to give.

""fuck libeling.. gimme one more.. be a good girl." he whispered breathlessly, his hips beginning to once again, move. this time slower but still deep. but you physically couldn't take it.

once you felt yourself begin to doze off from the lack of oxygen and overstimulation, you were finally able to coherently and loudly say, 'strawberry'.

╰┈➤

you woke up about a half hour later, your throat sore and body just as sore. you tried to turn but your legs gave you a painful sign to stay put. thats when it all came back what had happened. of course, it made tears well up in your eyes. you'd just seen a side of Konig you never thought you'd see. a side of him he kept hidden from you.

you stayed completely still, looking into nothing until you heard sniffles coming from the floor behind you. of course, you tried to move but it hurt. but eventually you were able to turn to your side, a few pained moans leaving you every now and then. thats when your eyes landed on Konig sitting on the floor, head in his hands as tears seeped through his fingers.

"Konig?" you said, wincing right after. but he didnt look up. he kept his head in his hands, his chest rising and falling quick. and you knew what this was. you'd been with him for so long, you knew exactly what he was going through based off his body. but as much as you wanted to help him, you genuinely couldnt feel your legs. "please come here.. I cant get up. let me hold you." you said, reaching your hand out. but still, nothing.

you felt a pain in your chest watching him like this, unable to do anything. you wanted to help him, reassure him that everything is okay. but words only do so much for him, he needed you to physically show him everything was okay. "Konig please I-" "I h-hurt you. im s-so s-sorry." he spoke out, hyperventilating throughout all. he began to rock on the floor, crying harder into his hands.

hearing him cry, it made you want to cry with him. especially since, you couldnt do anything but try and talk to him. "Konig please." you tried reasoning with him. but he couldnt get himself off the floor. thats when you decided to drag yourself off the bed, no matter how much pain you felt. you knew that yes you needed help too, but you weren't gonna get any if your help was having a panic attack.

once you got to the end of the bed, you crawled off of it slowly, your hands hitting the ground first, legs second. you groaned at the light impact, but still dragged yourself over to Konig. he was shaking when you got to him, his cries not stopping, even when you rested your hand on his foot. "Konig please stop crying.. look im okay. im alive." "but you almost weren't." he was looking up now. seeing his red puffy eyes broke your heart. and seeing you, looking lifeless and not responding to him made him even more worried for you than you were for him. the only thing that kept him going was your pulse, and barely that.

"I-i almost k..killed-" he couldnt finish his sentence before sobbing into his hands again, shaking his head. your head dropped, you didnt know what to say. you'd never experienced this issue with Konig, with anyone before. you'd never had to use your safe word and you never expected to. "Konig.. can you look at me?" you finally spoke, your voice stern.

he looked up at you, wiping his eyes. " it was an experience, okay? yes it was scary and yes it could've gone wrong. but it was a could've situation, not a did happen situation. as much as I want to help you feel better, I cant do that if I cant see you, and talk to you like I am now." your hand took his, squeezing gently. he sniffled and nodded, looking straight into you. " right now, I need help too. so lets help each other feel better." you said, smiling softly at him.

he looked down at your neck, some of the hickies leaving behind dried blood or bite marks. some even both. his heart dropped as he ran his eyes down your body again, the thsirt he put on you the second he realized you had passed out, barely covering the similar marks on your thighs. "im.. im so sorry maus.." he whispered, shaking his head.

you smiled and grabbed his face, leaning in as slow as you could as to not hurt yourself, leaving small kisses on his cheek. " I love you Konig, okay? you got a bit carried away. you've been gone a year. its normal. unexpected, but I understand. just please, next time-" "ill treat you like your made of glass libeling." he finished, grabbing your face.

Konig knew deep down, he'd never forgive himself for this. for putting you in danger like that, for turning into the man he was on the battlefield. he'd never forgive himself, no matter how many times you told him it was okay. it wasn't. and he felt worse about being the one on the floor crying instead of showering you in love.

he stood, grabbing you with such ease into his arms, flipping you bridal style. you clung to his neck, smiling at him. "lets go give you a bath, ill order your favorite food. or I can cook. then we can watch that show you've been watching. we can do anything you want maus.. I love you." he said, walking towards the connected bathroom.

and you both did just that. the rest of the night you stayed in, cuddling and watching your favorite shows. as bedtime grew closer for you both, he began to clean the marks along your body, kissing each one and apologizing after them all. he felt so bad, and he was willing to go above and beyond, and even then some, to make you feel like the beautiful princess you were.

[cocoakrispis-blog]

SCENT

pairing ~ ellie williams x fem! reader

summary ~ you try and take your girlfriend out to pick out a new perfume but she claims that she likes the way that you naturally smell more what could that possibly mean?

warnings ~ smut written by a minor, nsfw, porn with some plot, ellie is a MUNCH, idk she’s kinda nasty in this one but in a really hot way, oral (r! receiving), lots of foreplay, making out, light nipple play, its kind of straight filth ngl, spitting, licking, biting, spitting, hair pulling, panty sniffing, cursing , lmk if i missed anything!!

wc ~ 1.8k words

“what about this one ellie?” you rose your arm so that you or wrist could be placed directly under your girlfriends nose.

“uhhh like probably like maybe vanilla?” ellie gave you a hopelessly confused look.

you sighed at elile’s extremly halfassed answer and roughly pulled you wrist away from her.

“you’re not even paying attention dude.” you roll your eyes before waking away to go investigate another bottle of perfume.

today you had decided to drag ellie to your local bath and body works to hoepfully find a new scent for the fall since it was fast approaching. while also escaping your unairconditioned shared apartment. however what was supposed to be a cute outing/escape from the heat for you and your girlfriend turned into what felt like dragging around a whiny toddler.

“this was supposed to be fun ellie you always tell me you love how i smell so i thought you would love this.” a defeated sigh leaves your lips.

ellie frowns at your obviously upset tone and shifts awkwardly at your statement. “i-i do love how you smell but whenever i say that i’m not talking about the perfume.

you raise a curious eyebrow at what ellie says and silently urge her to continue.

“i mean l-like i love your natural scent.” ellie mumbles out, very clearly emabrassed.

she groans when she sees you’re not understanding her and roughly places her red face into her sweating hands.

“can we just go home so i can show you what i mean.” ellie gives you those puppy eyes she knows you can’t resist.

“wha- but ellie we haven’t even bought anything i dont even understand what’s going on.” your hands wave in frustration at the confusing predicament.

very gently ellie grabs your hands and squeezes them tightly with yours.

“please?”

a large groan leaves your lips before you curse and comply with your girlfriend’s pleas. luckily the store was walking distance from your shared home so you didn’t have to worry about waiting in traffic or at long drawn out red lights. the only downside to this was that it was the middle of the summer and at this time of day the sun was at its peak. in other words it was hot. as hell.

still cursing to yourself at how easily you folded for your girlfriend you unlock the door with a huff before ushering her and yourself inside before slamming the door. you frowned once again once you fully entered your apartment that was barely cooler than outside.

“alright ellie fess up and tell me what you mean by my natrual scent” you make sure to put air quotes on the phrase natural scent to show her just how ridiculous you really though she was being.

without any explanation ellie grabbed you by the waist and pulled you into a hot and heavy kiss. the kiss caught you by surprise and you gasped into the kiss in shock. ellie used this to her advantage and stuck her wet tongue inside of your warm mouth to deepen the kiss.

you moaned as soon as you felt her skilled tongue against her own you whined into her mouth unconsciously. the intensity of the kiss almost made you forget what this was all about so before she could make you loose yourself anymore you reluctantly pulled away from the intimate makeout session.

“ellie woah slow down you still haven’t explained anything and you’re sure as hell not gonna kiss your way out of it.” you give her flushed face a stern look.

“it’s embarrassing though.” she whines while playing with the waistband to your shorts.

“eyes up here sweetheart.” you grab ellie’s chin to force her to make eye contact with you.

ellie attempts to move in for another kiss but you quickly dodge her and tighten your grip on her chin.

“explain.”

once ellie sees that you’re obviously not going to give this up she sighs before dragging you into your shared bedroom and gently lying you down. you wait patiently before she warily climbs on top of you and stuffs her face into your neck.

“i’m sweaty baby get off.” you softly try to shove her off of you.

“no you wanted me to show you what i meant so here we are now.” ellie responds back sassily before latching her lips onto your sweaty neck.

you softly moan when you feel her suck on that sensitive spot on your neck and immediately move to grip onto her auburn locs. ellie continues to kiss around your neck and suck softly on your skin before finally deciding to speak up.

“this is what i mean.” ellie sighs between kisses to your neck. “smell so damn good like this.”

you whine softly at her words and mumble out an excuse. “but i’m sweaty and gross.”

“no you smell so good like this smells like one hundred percent you it’s addictive.” a soft gasp leaves your lips when you feel ellie straight up lick you.

“taste good too.” ellie gives you a smirk before gently easing your tank top off of you so she could see your exposed breasts.

“fuckkk baby no bra.” ellie bites her lip at the sight before wasting no time to latch onto one of your perky nipples.

“was too hot for one.” you throw your head back at the euphoric feeling or ellie sucking on your nipple.

to maximize our pleasure ellie takes her other hand to grab and pinch at your neglected nipple. your moans rise in pitch at the feeling and your grip on ellie’s hair tightens which makes her let out a groan around your nipple. ellie pulls away with a pop before moving to the other one to make it even.

once ellie finishes she licks a stripe up in between the valley of your breasts for good measure.

“you’re nasty baby.” you sigh at her, to which she only gives you a grin back in response.

ellie quickly switches gears and rips off your shorts to reveal your half-soaked through panties.

“this all for me?” ellie gently runs her hands across your thighs while making embarasedly intense eye contact with the wet spot that was steadily growing on our underwear.

“all for you ellie.” you smile down at her.

without shame ellie engulfs her head right into your cunt and deeply inhales your most intimate parts scent.

you shakily exhale at how hot the sight off your girlfriend was from in between your thighs but gently push her head away to ask her a question.

“what are doing down there baby?” you softly rush your fingers through your lovers hair.

“just doing what you asked me to do, and showing you how good you smell.” ellie looks up at our through her lashes with her big hazel eyes making you bite your lip softly at the sight and nod.

once ellie doesn’t sense any objections she stuffs her face back in between your legs and gives your cunt another sniff, almost like your scent was the air that she needed to breathe.

soon after ellie slyly slips her tongue out off her mouth to begin to lap at your cunt which was still covered with your panties. in response you whine softly at the feeling and tug harder against her hair which makes her moan. “stop teasing ellie and do it properly.”

ellie ignores your plea and continues to eat you out through your panties which just make you feel more and more needy. she makes sure to bring up a finger to press against your covered cllit and continue to lick your dripping hole.

“ellie!” you cry out even louder.

at your second request ellie finally decides to comply and gradually tugs your panties down with her teeth.

without wasting another second she latches onto your clit and moans loudly at the taste, providing even more stimulation. due to the fact that she had been playing with you over your panties now everything felt ten times more intense.

your moans increasing volume as ellie grips at your thighs tighter and pushes her own head further into your pussy to keep eating. she was eating you out like a woman starved and wasn’t loosing any steam.

some subtle movements catch your eye and you let out a groan when you see that ellie is grinding against the covers just from your taste.

ellie briefly takes her mouth off of your clit to spit on it before immediately stuffing her face back in. your eyes roll back into your head at just how filthy the whole thing was and you start to feel your orgasm approaching.

you start chanting ellie’s name like a prayer which makes her realize that you’re being close. once she notices she doubles down on her actions and starts sucking at your clit even harder.

“oh my f-fucking god ellie gonna make me cum so h-hard baby.” you’re barely able to get out in between moans and gasps.

you feel ellie smile against you pussy, when ellie lightly brushes her teeth against your clit you see white and immediately feel yourself fall over the edge.

a scream rips from your throat at the pure intensity of the orgasm and your thighs lock around ellie’s head in response.

your vision slowly starts to come back and you whine in overstimulation when you feel ellie still lapping at the cum that was slowly dripping out of your hole.

“enough ellie.” you weakly push at the auburn girls head to release yourself from her mouth.

ellie give your now twitching and swollen clit a kiss before finally removing her head from in between your thighs.

once ellie is up she temporarily leaves the room to grab you a cold wet washcloth and water bottle. after she come backs she very gently cleans you up and opens the water bottle up from you so that you can access it when you’re ready.

“holy shit ellie that was a lot.” you sigh into your girlfriends chest blissfully. “i can’t even remember how we got here.”

“cause you wanted to know what i meant by natural scent duh.” ellie jokingly rolls her eyes while rubbing soft circles on your back.

“yeah yeah i totally get it now you’re a freak who like it when im sweaty and sniffing my pus pus.” you laugh at your own statement.

ellie groans at your words and tries to further explain yourself. “that’s use when and where you smell the most authentically you it’s comforting.”

you smile at her soft words and squeeze her into a tight hug.

“i’m just joking silly i know what you mean and i think it’s adorable.”

ellie smiles at your response and nuzzles her head into your hair.

“you’re still going shopping with me to get a new perfume though.”

ellie cries out dramatically and then proceeds to beg you not to force her to go through that nostril prison again.

a/n: idk yall im kind of actually proud of this one i feel pretty good about it and didn’t cringe that much reading over it. watched a lot of lesbian movies today maybe that helped. i was also listening to really freaky music so that also assisted me. i really wish tumblr had an autosave feature i deleted half of this and had to rewrite it but whatevs. anyways i hope you guys enjoyed love yall!!

[biribaa]

I saw you were taking requests for The Amazing Digital Circus, so if you want can you please write Headcannons for Kinger, Caine, and a character of your choice x a reader who’s abstracting in front of them

Also remember to drink lots of water and to take breaks!

-🧪Anon

Kinger, Caine and Ragatha x reader who's abstracting in front of them

I appreciate your kindness but I'm a computer, I think water is one of the things I need to "drink" less and prevent more.

TW/CW: AHH... Spoilers, also angst. Reader does get abstracted in all scenarios cuz we still dont rlly know if someone can be saved from getting abstracted

Kinger

Imagine lost your partners TWICE. Lolololol loser/J

Everything seems to occur in slow motion from Kinger's point of view, a heart he once had is somehow beating against his body. He prays to any god on this earth, be it real or not, or even Caine maybe, that this nightmare isn't happening again to him. Please, everyone, but not you.

Kinger tries to do everything so his lover don't reach the great peak of their insanity, even though he's not very good at it, knowing his personality. But trust me when I said, he tried. Who cares if he will get all glitched for touching your form, he needs you.

He never thought he would live another nightmare inside a nightmare. And in seconds that felt like painful hours to Kinger, here "you" are, a noisy form covered in eyes that flash in different colors. Your skin (if we can call it skin) moves abruptly as if it were a bag full of enraged cats. And, god, how he wished it was him instead.

Things are resolved by the talking human jaw, and yet the silence in Kinger's little pillow fort is no longer comforting as it once was. Silence now makes the small chess piece itch in agony. Silence that could be enjoyed with your presence, with holding your hand or dancing with you, and chat about random stuff he and you knows. The feeling of missing someone is familiar to him, and yet, it hits him in ways that his years in this circus haven't hit him.

Caine

While Kinger tries to do everything, Caine actually does anything to try saving your corrupted mind, and the lack of power in this situation leaves the digital being in panic. A simple snap of the fingers is not enough, and this information makes him tremble in ways he never thought he would tremble before for a simple human.

You aren't just any character, you are his favorite, the lil' buddy he spoils every hour and that always push a giggle from him. You were his very own star. The show could continue the same without you, Caine was sure of it, but could he? Without a character as entertaining as you in action?

"Of course I can fix them, I am Caine!" It's a phrase that was repeated several times in the presenter's programming, But with every grunt coming from the thing that once was you, it's just a reminder to Caine that he did a horrible job trying to take care of you. There were other characters that were abstracted of course, but... You were special to him. His favorite star. His star.

Caine even feels hesitant to put you in the hole of other characters who were abstract before. He preferred to keep you in a cage away from other people's contact, with no one hurting you and no one hurting you.

He knows, he knows the painful truth that you cannot be considered a sapient being, but even though you are a trace of what you once were, Caine doesn't have the courage to lose you forever.

With the other characters, Caine will act normally, with his loud and lively personality. Only if they analyze Caine close enough, the characters would notice something wrong with him.

And then, sometimes, he just stares at you in the cage. Caine ponders if he should admit the lost of his favorite star, it would be easier, but the pride in his chest screams that there must be some way that he could actually save you from...this.

Ragatha

Somehow, the scene is all silent for her. Ragatha stares at you as if the impossible itself is happening in front of her.

Ragatha holds your hands about to disappear, she caressed what was left from your shoulders, she hurriedly whispers words that would normally calm you down, but nothing can save you from the fate of your sanity, just leaving her with the pain of being glitched.

Of course, she had her other friends like Pomni, but lost you?!

Ragatha thinks she saw everything during her new experience in the digital circus, but something common like losing someone so important was the end of the line for her. You were her darling, her sunshine and her little everything even.

Everything she did sounded slightly more boring and boring without your presence, and Ragatha could do nothing about it. She continues (at least tries) to remain strong after that, still trying to complete the little adventures that Caine gives to the participants. But Ragatha's slow pace and lack of smiles was very noticeable.

The weight on Ragatha's chest is too much, losing someone so sweet and perfect for her in such a horrible way is too much. And the worst part is that Ragatha believes that she could have done something to save you, she could have been with you more often so that your mind didn't fall apart like this. But now, she can do nothing but mourn.

[atley01]

Tips for all of my alternative & Chronically ill/ disabled friends!

A big thing that's helped me feel more comfortable accommodating my disability is finding accessibility tools that reflect my personality / interests.

I should put a disclaimer that making disability "aesthetic" should not be the most important thing about your health! I do this where I can to help me accept my disability.

Here are some alt accessibility tools I've found / made & utilized for myself!

1. If you're prone to nausea:

Anti-nausea meds work, but I also find that peppermints work just as well! I always have mints on me. At home, I've stored them in this coffin container!

I do keep a few of these mints in my bag, as well as ginger hard candies (they taste very strong, but are VERY efficient). I got the peppermints at Dollar tree, and they've genuinely been a life saver.

Alternatively, I've found this adorable ouija board altoids container that has mints in it!

The mints are even fun-shaped! I also saw other horror-movie themed altoid containers in-store as well. Since they're tiny, they dont work well for severe nausea, but they are still helpful!

2. If you struggle with temperature-regulation:

For me, my hands and feet are always FREEZING, but my core will be super warm. What has helped me a lot has been gloves and fuzzy socks!

I have a lot of spooky gloves like this, but I prefer the fingerless ones because I can still use my phone and be warm at the same time! I've also heard my friends who are wheelchair users say gloves can help protect your hands if you use a manual wheelchair. Another added bonus is that certain gloves can help limit mobility for those of you who struggle with hypermobility in your hands.

3. Do you have noise-canceling headphones? Decorate them!

I decorated my N/C headphones in shark stickers because sharks are my special interest!

These are Soundcore Life Q30's. I have gotten compliments on the stickers many times! You could put halloween stickers on yours or decorate your headphones in other ways! I've seen people crochet horns onto the headband portion of their headphones.

4. I would recommend any chronically ill person carry a cup around to stay hydrated:

ESPECIALLY If you need electrolytes. You can either have a drink like propel or powerade in your cup (or any drink of your choice, and you could put electrolyte packets in there).

This specific cup isn't the best at keeping my drink cold, but it holds a decent amount of liquid! And it's spooky. If you're someone who struggles to drink enough water, I've found that getting a fun cup helps me a lot!

5. Make communication bracelets!

If I'm having a difficult time voicing my needs, or I'm in a verbal shutdown, these bracelets can come in handy for me.

I'll either wear them on my wrist when needed or present them to my friends so they can read the bracelet and understand what I need. I keep them on a keychain that way I dont lose them and can transport them easily. An example of some of the phrases I've turned into bracelets is; "No spoons," "spoon debt," "verbal shutdown," and "flashbacks," (for when I'm having a PTSD episode.) You could make a bracelet with the medical condition you have as a DIY medical-alert bracelet. I added tiny spoon charms to some of my bracelets because I thought it was funny.

5. Mobility aids!

Decorate your mobility aids with things like stickers, kandi, lights, etc! Pinterest, instagram, and tiktok have a lot of good ideas. You can easily customize your mobility aids to look spooky or look however you want them to!

6. Bags!

I know that for me, I NEED to carry a bag around whenever I go out because it has important medical items that I need, but it also keeps all my important items like keys, id, ect, in one spot so that I dont forget / lose them. SOME spooky bags are expensive, but you could find a plain black bag at a thrift store or walmart and accessorize it with patches, keychains, and pins! I've seen people paint designs onto their bags before as well.

• You dont have to spend a lot of money on your accessibility tools!

Find ways to DIY them, or get them secondhand! You could even try working with household items you already have! A lot of these items, or items very similar to it, can be found at the dollar tree - even the materials needed to make the beaded bracelets! (Outside of the spoon charms)

Thats all!

If I think of more, you'll see me again! Be spooky, and be kind to yourself!

[leclsrc]

like you should ✴︎ cl16

genre: just. Like. sexual tension…, reader is max’s gf, no explicit smut but heavy innuendos so just beware, everyone is Morally Bankrupt so turn away if u dont fancy that

word count: 11.3k  

If you don’t learn from history, it’ll stick around and find a way to repeat itself – even if the history is with your boyfriend’s rival, and its repetition happens behind his back.

auds here… hi hi hi!!! not proofread sry; i wanted to write something like this for a while haha, i had a bunch of reqs from january(!!!) that served as the basis for it. title from this it was this fic's inspo savior. full disclosure this is fiction n doesn’t at all reflect how i view max/charles :) love love love u all sorry for being mia so constantly & enjoy this jumble of sexual tension haha. happy june friends!!!

Monaco is always an affair in itself. Humid, music blaring, and full of celebrities, you pose for a few paddock pictures, exchanging no words with Max. He’s idle beside you, cap drawn over his dirty blond hair, hand on your waist, the other scrolling through emails and Instagram. Your dad’s somewhere here, too, if you remember right—he texted you about being with Christian, at a meeting somewhere about Checo or something. You can’t be arsed to remember. You flew in two hours ago after a days-long inner turmoil, trying to decide if you wanted to come at all.

Max didn’t sound too eager for you to arrive, either, but you theorize it’s because you’ve both been tired with work lately. He’s leagues above everyone else now, but the demand of work snatches what little quality time you could’ve spent with him. You suck it up, lacing your fingers together and hoping this is a dry spell—physical and emotional—that just needs to be waited out.

How’s the weather? You ask casually when you’re inside his room, burying your face into his shoulder. He presses an absentminded kiss to your head. “Should be fine.”

“Anything you’re worried about?” You make yourself busy rifling through his closet. It’s more of the same. Polos proudly showcasing the logo of the team that’s brought him to the top. He usually keeps three spare ones, but there’s an extra smaller one that you unfold and dangle in front of you. “Whose is this?”

He glances. Kelly’s. When you gesture for elaboration—Nelson Piquet’s daughter? Christian asked me to give her one. You don’t pay attention to it, folding it neatly and placing it inside again. He pipes up to answer your earlier question, voice light as it is solemn. It’s Charles’ home race.

“So?” It comes out sharper than you intend, considering Max is more a friend than his rival. You turn to try and soften your hostile phrasing. “I mean. It’s… you’ve been dominating the leaderboard.” No way you’ll show him you’re worried for Charles, too. “Their car is horseshit.” It is and it worries you.

“Yeah, yeah. I think I’ll talk to him for a bit. You’ll be okay alone?” He’s getting up already.

“Wait—” You pause when he’s kissing your cheek as a goodbye. “I thought we were getting lunch.”

“Make it dinner, then.”

“No,” you protest weakly. “I’m going to be with my dad.”

“Drinks.” He leaves no room for argument and leaves with the door shutting softly behind him. You exhale loud through your nostrils and shut the closet door, leaving to explore the paddock. It’s familiar grounds for you, not just because of Max but because of your dad, who began insisting you attend races again a few years ago. You should know Red Bull, he’d said then. The team I’m sponsoring. The team I give millions to.

Purely to appease him, you gave in and attended a race for the first time in a long stretch, just a few years ago. You’ve attended almost every race since then, and those have often blurred into one homogenous memory (sitting, watching, cheering, hugging, drinking), but the first race remains clear as the day your driver dropped you off at the entrance to the paddock, a VIP lanyard slung over your neck and sunglasses perched on your nose.

You stare at the just-closed door, his bag still abandoned on the bed, his dismissive tone, the polo you’ve just folded up. Max is hiding something—you just can’t put your finger on it.

—

Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Monza 2019! The host goes, a reporter-esque smile greeting the crowds on the big screens. Monza is intimidating. You’re being guided around the ups and downs of the paddock by somebody whose name you’ve forgotten and remembered and forgotten again, short in stature with a posh English accent. Your dad is somewhere, in a meeting perhaps, which means your re-introduction to the world of racing is up to this man alone.

“Christian!” Someone says behind you, and oh right his name is Christian. Christian—Hormut, or something. You’ve blurred his last name from memory, too. Christian ends up having to excuse himself to attend to a pressing practice problem, and he leaves you with one of his drivers.

Max is his name. He’s funny, charming, and vulgar in the way all Europeans are (you’re not at all surprised when he tells you he’s Dutch), and handsome, moreso when the topic gets to racing and he starts talking quick and with passion. It’s something you admire.

“You don’t know what quali is?” He asks when he hands you a vodka soda.

You laugh. “My dad was always insanely busy with work as a kid, so I liked not knowing anything about it.” You always wanted to remove yourself from the racing and just be your dad’s daughter. “I’ve only been to a handful of races, and even then I was way younger.”

“You’ll like this one.”

You squint onto the paddock and recall the motif that’s been teeming around you all day long—red. Red, red, and more red. There are fans whose faces are painted red, bold and shiny against the unrelenting sunny weather. Internally, your curiosity is piqued. Red Bull, perhaps? “Are those your fans?” 

Max follows your gaze curiously. “Oh,” he says when he sees the crowd of red. He sips his beer. “No, that’s for Ferrari. They always attract a proper crowd in Monza.”

You hum, the name more than familiar to you. “Red sea.” You spot a few signs in Italian, a few fans taking pictures, and finally your interest wanes, eyes gravitating back to Max. “You nervous?

“Rarely am.” He smiles. “Will you be watching?”

“Probably,” you respond, momentarily searching the surrounding area for your dad. “I’ll be with my dad someplace.”

“You owe me a congratulations,” says Max as he gets up, his name being called from somewhere behind you. “Okay?”

“Sure,” you giggle. “I’ll save it.”

You’d spaced out mid-race and watched from a flatscreen TV inside instead, but lost the plot at some point, so you ask around for who the winner is. The winner ends up not being Max, you’re told by one of your dad’s assistants, Ben, when you emerge from his office after the flag is waved.

Everybody, however, is talking in a secondary racing jargon—they say things like P1 and front wing and strategist, failing to dumb things down for you. You piece things together and realize the winner is a Ferrari driver—but, if your memory serves you right, there are two drivers. You don’t know which one it is. Then again, you don’t know the drivers themselves, either.

You reunite with your dad and Christian Harper (you think) in the garage, where Ben hands you a pair of giant headphones that transmit scratchy, loud radio audio; you remove them and ask him a million questions instead. Nearby, the Ferrari garage is exploding with screams, but they don’t come close to the roars of the red crowd, which almost seems to breathe collectively, scream collectively, celebrate as one. You’re almost transfixed with how loud they are, how passionate they are, with their winner. Their golden guy. Your dad’s mouth is set in a straight line.

“Who won?” You ask, voice raised to try and become audible despite the cheering.

Ben points, squinting under his eyeglasses. You follow the direction of his finger to the finish line. There, parked beside the first place sign, is somebody standing atop his car. He’s wearing red. Showered in red. Surrounded by red. It’s tantalizing, the way his win has commanded the entire area. Your mouth is half-open, lips parted in soft shock.

You tap Ben again. “Yeah, who is he?”

“Leclerc,” he says, pinching his nosebridge. “Ferrari’s new guy. A friend of Max’s, but a rival, too.” He sighs lowly. “Your dad’s biggest problem.”

Christian Harris makes a quip about you having to go find and comfort Max, but you space out, still staring at the winner. Leclerc. You’ve got no face to his name, just the opaque visor of his helmet and the two proud fists in the air, inciting even louder cheers from the crowd. You focus harder, as if that would somehow reveal his face to you.

But he’s faceless, a winner of mystery for now—and for the rest of the evening as you’re ushered back to Red Bull alongside your dad. 

—

“Do you want to come to an afterparty?” Ben asks, tapping away on his phone. Emails and texts crowd his notifications. “We need to know if you’ll need a car tonight.” He follows you around, exasperated with your quick pace that even he can’t keep up with. “And if so, which car.”

“No, no car.” You respond, walking. “Which afterparty?”

“Any, really. There’s, uh… a Red Bull one, a few yacht ones, Max mentioned dropping by APM Monaco’s and—”

“No afterparty,” you say with tense finality once you hear the option. “All the drivers do is drink and get sleazy.”

“O-kay,” he taps. “I didn’t realize you had such a… vendetta against the drivers?”

You laugh a little, peering over the lens of your sunglasses to try and spot familiar faces. Actors, models, drivers’ relatives—the place is packed, and the weather is hot. “When did I say that?” You ask, looking around at hyper speed. 

“It was implied.” Ben pauses and eyes you, curious but already on the brink of suspicious. Your gaze is darting everywhere, clearly trying to find something to catch on. “What are you looking for?”

Caught red-handed, you slow down the speed at which your eyes scan over the paddock and settle them on your watch, pursing your lips. You clear your throat and raise an eyebrow, turning the questioning back to Ben. “I’m not looking for anyo—”

“Hey,” comes a voice from right behind you, a hand coming up to tap against your shoulder. You don’t have time to turn and identify the culprit because he moves to stand in front of you, effectively stopping you in your tracks with a teasing smirk. “Max did not tell me you would be here.” He crosses his arms. “Excited? I know I am. Home race and all.”

You swallow but your throat is dry. “I’m excited to cheer for my boyfriend.”

Charles smiles, satisfied that he managed to get on your nerves. With curiosity and anticipation, Ben keeps to himself and watches the exchange unfold, arms crossed. Charles presses on. “Are you coming to the party later?”

“I might,” you say, mind changed.

“Alright, see you.” With the sun weakening the tint of his sunglasses, and his hair raked back by his backwards cap, you have a clear view of the way his left eye drops into a smug wink. He smiles again, boyish, before he’s turning to leave you with Ben, who turns to you.

“You’re friends?”

The most decent answer leaves your lips dismissively. “Acquainted.”

—

You lose all sense of inhibition (and navigation) as soon as you step a heeled foot into the club, but it’s nothing you haven’t experienced before. Years of clubbing and fake IDs have prepared you for the tactics used to snake your way through the crowd of people, eventually finding yourself at the VIP area of the Monza afterparty, where one look at your face is enough to let the bouncer let you through wordlessly. 

“The team’s finest!” Christian greets jokingly with a smile. Why he’s here, you’ve no idea—you had an impression he had a family to go home to. “A drink?”

“I’ll explore for a bit,” you say warmly, smiling as he brings you in for a friendly hug. You peer at faces and over shoulders, taking shots off trays and flutes of champagne off tables to feel less stiff and out of place. You’re looking for Max.

But you catch somebody else’s eye, one who seems to beckon you over with a look. He’s laughing at something, decently tipsy, and—when you near him—he introduces himself as Charles. “Leclerc,” he adds, and suddenly everything clicks. The face you’ve finally matched to the name is handsome, chiseled and devilish and charming, with a warm smile that doesn’t match the dark in his eyes. He’s in the same kind of getup everyone is wearing—a tight black tee, blue jeans. But he makes it look insufferably attractive, unfortunately.

“You’re the winner,” you state, not lifting your tone to sound like a question. He is the winner. The champion of today’s race.

“Right I am.” He nods once, matter-of-factly. “You’re Red Bull’s princess, aren’t you?”

“I wouldn’t call myself that,” you say, blushing inwardly. Your face is warm and you feel flustered, but you play it cool, feigning a casual laugh. “Congratulations, by the way.”

“Thanks.” He takes a gulp from his drink, dark and potent looking. “Max mentioned you earlier.”

“Oh.” You’d completely forgotten you were looking for him. “Is he here?”

“Around. Hey, listen,” he says, turning to collect the makings of a shot, “I’m the winner, and I make the rules. Take a shot with me.”

Your eyes close in a laugh, nodding along. You’re already tipsy, anyway—what’s another shot? You take a wedge of lemon in between two fingers and a pinch of salt, smearing it along your hand as you grip a shot glass of something. You’ll know once you taste it, you suppose; no time for questions.

“You got the last lemon slice!” complains Charles across you, and you laugh, shrugging as if to say deal with it. Your glasses clink, and you throw back the liquid; it’s ten times stronger than you anticipated and for a moment you lose control over your motor skills, squeezing the lemon wedge a tad too strong so it dribbles down your chin, through your throat and the last of it trickles through your cleavage. You manage to get some, licking the salt off before the taste becomes nauseating.

Your grimace is ever so obvious, as is Charles’ inability to take his eyes off you. Fuck, he thinks. You’re exactly his type. Pretty, eyes twinkling and half-lidded with the alcohol. Your lips are bitten, caught between your lips—it’s a habit, he guesses from how puffy they are. He might have to kiss you now.

“Still need lemon?” You ask, leaning in. “I’ve got some on me.” It’s a joke but your tone suggests otherwise, eyes lingering on his parted lips for any sign of assent. Your breath smells of citrus and wildly expensive tequila. He could kiss you now. He would. He will. He has to.

You tip your head backwards, smiling and dancing lightly to the music, your hands wraped loose around his wrists, dragging him, coercing him closer. So he does, allows himself to give into it and smiles into the skin of your neck, licking over the remnants of lemon that remain. He kisses a lovebite onto the side of your throat, one dark enough that he knows—he just knows—at least one person will ask you about it tomorrow morning. 

When he parts, smiling, he asks, “Wanna smoke?” He produces a cart and waves it in between you, taking a hit and blowing grassy smoke into the air. You nod, encouraging him to take another and blow the smoke into your parted lips. All the while, he notices, your hand is rubbing over the lovebite, the soft, sore skin there.

He thinks of what you might say. The flustered explaining, the hand coming up to cover it or the sponge dabbing concealer over it. He thinks of you lying. Oh, just a guy. No, a Ferrari driver. And you’re all his, if just for tonight. And he’d be right. You were somewhat his—just for that night. The day next, Max took you to breakfast, didn’t notice the blotch of concealer, and all settled into a messy pattern of history.

—

The race is about to begin, preparations in the garage reaching their stunning crescendo. “Good luck,” you say as a sendoff, pressing a kiss to Max’s lips. He smiles appreciatively, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. You wonder absently what’s been going so wrong, but you suppose it’s a two-person job. 

You watch him board the car, your dad coming up beside you. “I still can’t believe how lucky it is that you ended up with one of my drivers.”

“Dad,” you say, warningly. 

“Just saying, honey.” He smiles. “Can you imagine anything else?”

—

“I am sure I cannot be up here.” Charles’ voice is amused, deep and echoing in the empty space of your dad’s vast office. It’s dimly-lit because he’s not here—yacht dinners have become the new venues for business deals, leaving big offices like these ones woefully empty. And yours for the taking, you’d told Charles over text when he asked what you were up to tonight.

You hum teasingly, turning. “You won today, so consider this your prize. Provided generously by a friend.” The term embeds itself into the atmosphere of the empty office and you clear your throat, turning your back to him again and walking to the window. 

The awkward air between you had, for some time, dissipated, giving way to a series of texts and calls that, for the sake of clarity and concision, you don’t tell Max about. Plus, you’re not even dating Max, you tell yourself. It’s just a fling right now, no commitment, no crazy heavy labels. You met only, what, three races ago. And to be fair, you’re not even dating Charles—you’re just friends.

“It’s crazy to think this office can be folded up and shipped halfway across the world,” you say honestly, eyes zeroing in on the city. “I mean, all this.” 

“It is just four walls,” he simplifies, nearing you, staring at the way your hair falls over your back. He’s scared to explore around and touch things—touch you—so he settles on nervous looking. “I don’t understand how this is a prize. I’m in an opposing team’s high-level donor’s office with his daughter.”

“It’s not just four walls,” you say when you turn, ignoring his second statement. “It’s a couch.” You lay both hands on the leather sofa, pointing to the two matching loveseats beside it. “It’s… a desk.” You walk over to it and prop yourself up against it, your feet tiptoeing with the height of the surface. Charles, amused, watches your long-drawn out rebuttal and takes a seat on the couch.

“It’s a lamp. A carpet. A display of Seb’s old race suit.” You point at each. “It’s a drawer.” You pull it open. “…Filled with Red Bull porn.” An assortment of hats and tees meet your eyes, all displaying the same emblem. You tug out a team polo, the same one Christian and Max and Daniil wear—and you whirl around, unfolding it in the air so Charles sees what you’re holding.

An idea enters your head. “Try it on,” you suggest, a teasing lilt in your voice. He shakes his head, laughing. Still insistent, you near him, leaning over where he sits and pressing the polo to his figure, aligning it to the best of your ability to his shoulder and chest so it looks like he’s wearing it. “Looks nice.”

He makes a noise of dismissal. “Never happening.”

“Can’t a girl dream?” You inch yourself forward so your faces are flush of each other’s. When his gaze switches to your lips, smiling and bitten, it no longer leaves. You think of how he’d look all donned up in one of these polos, these suits. The dark of the suit. He could use a break from all that red. You could give that to him.

“Okay,” he says, but it’s soft and distracted. His hand comes up to wrap around your wrist, craving for a form of your touch.

“We’d better go,” you respond, your voice decimated to a whisper. “Before my dad comes.”

“Come on, then.”

Your lips just barely ghost over his before you heave yourself back up, smiling teasingly. “Alright. Let’s go, then.”

—

You watch the Monaco race like a hawk. Ben doesn’t ask why, but internally he rumbles with questions. Why are you so invested in this one race? He chalks it up to the prestige of Monaco as a whole, and settles for that. But still—you’re interested. You watch from the garage, almost with an unrelenting stare, unwavering. Surely you shouldn’t be worried, he thinks. Max has won before. 

And Max wins again, raising the totem like it’s a crucifix. The camera focuses on your wide, proud smile and shows it to the world—there, it seems to say, there she is, the one Max goes home to! Max wins the Monaco Grand Prix—but what will become of the native hero?

You watch Max win with a proud smile, and accompanied by a nasty feeling that lines the pit of your stomach, you find yourself wishing somebody else had taken his place.

—

You never did like dabbling in racing. Your dad often encouraged you to try karting, driving, even something like PR or marketing—he’d fund it all, he promised—but you grew to almost hate the career that robbed your dad of so much time. Perhaps if you thought about it, there was one upside, and it’s sitting down across you to eat lunch.

“What brings you to the paddock?” Seb smiles. “Rare occurrence.”

“It’s part of my bid to get you back to Red Bull in 2023.” You beam back, observing his Aston Martin-green getup. “I’ve got signs and speakers loaded up in my car.”

“You always were advocating for my return.”

“You’re my favorite,” you joke. But it’s an honest quip. “My favorite Aston driver, and back then, my favorite Ferrari driver.”

It’s a statement you regret as soon as it escapes, because it gives Seb leeway to start intense interrogation. He’s always known. He’s always been observing, picking up quirks and details until he forms his own crude recreation of the big picture.

“Not Leclerc, then?”

You chew slowly, eyes narrowed. “Seriously?”

He says your name solemnly, and you pause. Sigh. “What?”

Sensing your irritation, he tries a different tactic. “How are you and Max?”

Seb’s ability to almost always see through you is unrivaled. He’d been one of your closest companions back when your dad would force you to attend races and hail Seb as one of the team’s greatest. Kind as he was, he was a stellar driver, which came with the fortunate gift (and unfortunate burden) of observing everything, and being right about almost all of his hypotheses.

It’s bullshit, and you know it. He doesn’t want to know about you and Max. He might as well could’ve asked how is the weather in Wales? It’s just that farfetched—a question so unlike what usually occupies your conversations with him.

He doesn’t want to know about Max. He wants to know about you—your feelings, your turmoil, your decisions. He wants to know what’s going on with you and Max’s rival-friend-then-rival-again-then-friend. “We’re okay.”

“All good?”

“Amazing, actually.” You smile, tight-lipped.

“I met with him last night.” Yeah, you heard, you say—a party with a few notable figures. “Yeah. Him and Charles.” Jesus, Seb always finds a way to get the topic right where he needs it to be. You prepare yourself for some serious advice-giving.

He inhales, exhales. “Charles asks about you. Are you two close at all?”

No, you tell him. We know each other and that’s all.

“Well”—he says, shrugging—“I just. I don’t want you to betray anyone, not even yourself.”

It’s despicable. All you need are two couches and you’re in free Formula One therapy. They should do this to the Ferrari fans, you think. “Do you hear yourself, Seb?” Your mouth is set into a straight line.

“I’m just saying that there’s a difference—there is always a difference—between what you think you want and what you really want. Now, I can’t tell you either. Neither can your dad, or Max, or anybody. It’s all in you. You’ll know you have what you want when it’s right there.” He jabs a gentle finger onto your open palm, laid on the table. “In your hands.”

“I have what I want,” you say. 

“Do you feel it?”

Seb is met with silence.

—

“Dad?” You call, voice loud to try and capture his attention. Outside, the Monaco festivities carry on. “Simon’s just brought the car around. Are we still on for dinner, or—?” You freeze when you fully enter the office, seeing your dad on the couch pouring a bottle of Scotch. Your blood runs cold almost, and your stomach could’ve dropped right beside your sandals right then.

“Hi, honey. I was just having a drink with Mr. P6.”

Charles smiles charmingly from his seat. “Hi. You’re his daughter, yes?”

You open your mouth but nothing comes out, so you shut it and nod instead. “Good race,” you say dryly, hiding your disdain under a façade of politeness as you move closer to your dad. Then, in a lower tone to him only, will you be long?

“We were just finishing,” he says with a professional smile. “Was telling Charles here that luck just wasn’t on his side today.”

“Sure,” you say, clipped. “We should go if we want to make dinner. Max wants me to visit the afterparty later, so.” You make sure to look at Charles after you say it, so you don’t miss his sudden eyebrow raise and clenched jaw. He downs the Scotch and, with a smile as warm as it is fake, excuses himself for the evening.

“Well, you two should get acquainted. Who knows what his future in Formula One holds? Once that contract’s over, it’s a bidding war.” He claps Charles on the back. “One I might like to win, eh?”

Your dad makes a signal for you to shake his hand, which you do. Like always, the touches between you, however small and indetectible, are electric; you try your best not to look at him when his hand wraps securely around yours, giving it a brief shake. You feel he’s burned you. Everything burns. “We’ve met before,” you say with a polite smile.

“Lovely to see you,” he says bluntly, acting like you haven’t had him lick salt off your neck before.

“You too.” You reply. He’s departing now, collecting his phone and keys.

He turns and smiles. “Hope I meet you again soon.”

“Nice fella, isn’t he?” Your dad asks when it’s just the both of you.

“Yeah. Nice.”

—

The APM Monaco party is the only one you end up attending. Max drives you both there and gets valet to take care of his Ferrari, leading you both inside. It’s not long before you split into separate directions—you’re looking for a friend, and Max is looking for his team, who have showed up to get drunk, too. You heard Kelly was around, if that mattered. Lets leave @ 2, you suggest. Good? You both discussed it en route, and neither of you wanted to stay late. A thumbs up and heart emoji greets you back.

It’s the same text you stare at at 2:45, antsily waiting for Max at the basement parking. The lobby parking—the main entrance to the place—is swarming with people; influencers, residents, YouTubers, anyone and everyone trying to gain access and catch sight of the lucratively famous drivers.

Thumbs up. Heart. Received 1:08. 

See you at parking? Sent 1:55.

Video FaceTime Call. Missed 2:02.

WHERE ARE YOU? Sent 2:15.

Voicemail, voicemail, and more voicemail. The exit swings open and you’re 100% expecting it to be Max, profusely apologizing for forgetting your mutually-set curfew. Instead you’re faced with, as your father called him, Mr. P6.

He is, of course, smiling. Charming as ever. “I heard from my assistant that you wouldn’t be showing up to any parties. Then I hear Max wanted you to come and cheer for him,” says Charles, his usually jubilant voice low and only a little teasing. His accent is stronger here. It’s less of the English-French-Something he usually uses when speaking English and thick, more natural. “You are one good girlfriend.”

You look up from your phone and the unanswered texts—Maxie where are u? Are u bringing the car? Answer me—and narrow your eyes, mouth coming up into a frown. “What is your problem?”

“Problem?” He laughs. “I don’t have any.” He’s leaning against his car, content to watch you. Another car passes by without pausing to pick you up, leaving through the basement exit instantly. Not Max.

“Okay, then get back inside. You have a whole crowd of fans to appease.”

“I prefer it here.” He looks around the stale garage. “So peaceful.”

“It smells like gas and sweat,” you shoot back with a grimace.

He presses. “You should be happier. Your boyfriend got first place at a prestigious race.” For a moment, you pulse with empathy—you recall the beaten down look on his face when his car and his team failed him again and again and again. But you blink and swallow it.

“Yeah,” you say pointedly. “He always wins. Can you imagine if he got sixth place?”

A flash of something—something hurt, something shocked—surges in his green eyes. But like you, he blinks and it’s gone, replaced with a smile. 

“Can you imagine if he didn’t go home at night?” He teases coolly.

“Right, right,” you say, letting him win that round. “And what’s all of Twitter saying about how all your flings look ‘exactly like Max’s girlfriend’?” You raise two delicate air quotes.

He gaze hardens, then flits down to your phone, open to the unanswered exchange. You quickly shut it off but it’s incentive enough for a continued conversation. “He’s okay?”

“Getting the car.” And like divine timing,  a text from one of Max’s strategists dings in your inbox—a picture of your boyfriend, passed out on the floor of someone’s (you presume his) car. Should be fine by morning we’re about 5 min from his flat. But you don’t have a key to that flat, you realize, because Max suggested you both stay at a hotel for some “much needed relaxation” (you are anything, anything but). 

Can you leave the key? You type, then stare. Max’s girlfriend for almost four years and you have no key. To his home. Embarrassed, you try rephrasing the text but nothing works. You’ll just sleep at the hotel, you think.

You delete the text and press a hand over your face. Fuck’s sake. You’re going to have to ring your driver—thus alerting your dad—at three in the morning for a car because your boyfriend is piss drunk.

“I’ll bring you home.” You look up, almost forgetting Charles was there. He pats the front of his car. “Hotel or Max’s flat?”

“Hot—hotel,” you say, breath catching from stress and embarrassment. “Hotel. Sorry.” You’re embarrassed. You’d gotten that dig on him for being P6 less than two minutes ago, but now you’re climbing into his car, meek and with small, unassuming movements. You almost want to apologize, but that might worsen the awkwardness of it, so you purse your lips and stay relatively quiet.

He doesn’t gloat, like you expect him to, like you maybe would if you were in his position. He does, however, sport a insufferably self-satisfied smirk, like he knows he won tonight somehow even if he didn’t even snag fifth. You grumble quietly from the leather passenger seat, opting to admire the lit-up nightlife of Monaco, alive as ever even as the night wears on.

“Is Max home safe?” He asks, stifling an even bigger smile.

“Oh, go fuck yourself.” You scroll through your many notifications, and find no text from your drunk boyfriend. You look up, finding you’ve turned away from the city centre and into the darker, less populated area. “Where are we?”

“A shortcut.” He revs faster.

“Yeah. Okay. Like, where, specifically?” Your eyes analyze your unfamiliar surroundings. You’re not familiar with Monte Carlo at all to begin with, so the lack of buildings is setting off every internal alarm bell.

“Well,” he chuckles, sensing your apprehension, “it’s a shortcut. Cuts six minutes out of the drive to your hotel.”

“I thought everything was close together here,” you quip, relaxing a little. 

“Not to a native. I know places.”

“Sure.” Your voice wavers. “Charles, I’m going to jump out of the car window if you’re shitting me, I sw—”

Charles throws his head back to laugh, like he can’t even believe you just suggested that. As if deep in thought, he sticks his tongue into his cheek and laughs a little, with exasperation almost. This girl, he seems to think. You stare, transfixed with all the little flexes his face makes.

You break contact when his eyes flicker to your figure, looking at the console first then the window, as if caught stealing a cookie from the jar. “Sue me for being concerned,” you add, for an extra layer of defense.

“You are like your dad.”

Your face warps into one of disdain. “Never say that to me again.”

“Just in the way that”—he waves his hand around to get his point across, laughing as he focuses on the road ahead—“you two are always serious, always working. I mean, you never attended races, even before.”

“You don’t know shit.”

“I like to think you and I know more about each other than we let on.”

He’s right, but you won’t say it. You two have a connection so unlike what two acquaintances, friends, share. It’s undeniable and thick and impossible to uproot, an easy and intense dynamic at the same time. You know so much about him. You know how to make him laugh, hurt his feelings, get his eyes to flutter all pretty. But he knows those things about you, too.

“You only attend races for Max, yes?” He adds.

The utterance of Max’s name gives you mild whiplash—it reminds you you’re on the way to your hotel, to check if your boyfriend’s okay, and not on some drunken joyride with his friend-rival. You clear your throat and try to segue out of the topic. “I just—I take work seriously. I take everything seriously.”

“You shouldn’t.” His eyes flit over to you again, up and down, the low cut of your dress, the way your crossed arms are effortlessly pushing your tits togeth—

“You should loosen up,” he says with a cough, looking back up.

“Thanks for the tip, Leclerc.” You smile phonily, eyes still out the window. “I’ll be sure to put it to good use.”

“Okay.” He says lowly. Then, as if to set a challenge—“Put it to good use now.”

“Now?” How? You almost add, parting your lips to let the question slip past. You stop yourself before you can, though, letting your still hazy mind run through your own fabricated answers. How do I loosen up? Then, to yourself again, for you?

It’s dark outside, and even windier when you roll down the window of his car. He drives fast, steadily but scarily fast—with the kind of control he’s built over a career around a car. You peek out, facing the dark hilly terrain, spotting the city lights in the far distance. Your hair flies over your face when you turn, finding more empty road. Everyone’s in the city. In the thick of the partying.

You dip out of the window more, letting yourself feel the breeze—it whips at your face, cold and smelling of the coast. In the car, you maneuver your legs to keep yourself upright properly, and more of your leg shows as a result, the material riding up on your thighs.

Charles maintains composure, his pace slowing so your hair brushes against your face more gently. Still, a soft, high-pitched yelp of excitement and nerves escapes your bitten lips. He wishes he could watch—he wants nothing more—but he has to focus on the road. He does allow himself fleeting, hot glances at you—your legs, your lithe hands on the window’s base keeping yourself upright, the way your dress hugs your waist. He might die.

“Careful,” he says, raising his voice firmly. He is genuinely concerned for you when he spots one of your hands lifting to rake the hem of your already short dress further down. It’s cold, you’re thinking, but you let your flimsy grip tell him the same story.

Still focusing on his next turn, he drives one-handed, reaching his other one over to help you out. Out of his immediate sight, you shut your eyes and allow yourself to shiver from the feeling of his hand, warm and calloused and big, on your knee, inching higher and higher upward and eventually wrapping loosely around your leg just above your knee, holding you steady.

A shaky breath leaves you, and you’ll say it was because of the wind, but you’ll know you’re wrong. Your hand moves down, to meet his, to let your fingertips skate over the expanse of his hand until your fingers are wound tightly around his. It’s dark. It’s intimate. It’s all you’ve ever wanted.

Your mind is buzzing, red hot and clouded, when you begin to lead him upward, higher, until your interlocked hands are just under the hem of your dress, dangerously close to where you need him most. An invitation. 

But when you crack your eyes open again you see you’re near the city, abandoning the safety and darkness of the shortcut, and the illusion is shattered.

“Get back in,” you hear, and when you feel the tension of his hand pulling yours, you let him tug you back inside. Your hair settles by your face, and you almost reach up to comb it neat before realizing your hand’s still caught in his. Slowly, your gaze meets his—his eyes bore into you, dark as the night outside. They don’t flicker when you hastily pull your hand from his grip, sighing shakily.

The next turn brings you back into the city, structures gaining a semblance of familiarity. The window, still open, is chilly against you, your cheeks cold with it, your shoulders inflicted by a mild wash of goosebumps. “Have fun?”

You clear your throat. “Not much,” you lie through your teeth, chewing on your lip. 

“We are near the hotel.” The hotel, the party, the grand prix, Max. Reminders of what you’re supposed to be paying attention to ripple through your head as the car snakes through the city. It’s one of his other cars, so it’s not distinct enough that people are peeking inside; still, he rolls up the window for your sake.

He drops you off at the basement parking, not at the lobby. Privacy reasons, he says. He’s sick of parking outside. You bite back a quip about his nasty parking and stay still, heart beating quick.

“Thanks,” you say softly. “For driving me.”

“You’re welcome.” A hand rests on your thigh and you don't feel the resolve to jerk it, instead relishing in its warmth there. “Get there safe.”

“Safe? It’s one elevator ride,” you say tersely, rolling your eyes. He squeezes, his touch feather light, and your breath hitches. You need—

“I hope Max is okay.”

You blink and then move your thigh so his hand slides off; he doesn’t put up a fight, and you don’t encourage him to. “So do I.” It’s right as you’re closing the door when Charles says see you? You meet his eyes, eyebrows furrowed, and shut the door fully.

—

“Yeah,” you say after a period of silence. “I feel it.”

Across you, hair raked back by a headband, Seb maintains lack of conviction. You’re not telling him the truth.

“How’s it feel then?”

“Just… good. Like thrilling.” Like danger, in a good way, peaceful and calm and patient and not complicated. You know what you want. You want the ring-clad hand wound around yours, on your thigh, stubble against your jaw. You want that. You know you want that.

But do you have it?

—

Max’s agenda in Barcelona starts on the eve of quali day. He arrives at your hotel and is greeted with music—it flows from the bathroom, where, upon his inspection, he finds you, swiping a dark line of eyeliner on in the mirror. You meet his eyes briefly, but you say nothing before continuing, humming softly to the Drake song that plays from your phone. He can tell instantly: you’re pissed.

“I’m leaving,” is all you say, dismissive and standoffish. You provide no follow-up.

Still, he tries to apologize. “The meeting ran late.” Silence. “Your dad discussed budgetary stuff.” Silence. “I’m optimistic for pole tomorrow.” And again, silence. “Come on, babe. I’m sorry. Really.”

“Okay.” You pause. “What was Kelly doing there?”

His mouth opens and then closes. “Wh—”

“Ben told me.” You wave a wand of mascara around.

“She was listening.”

“What’s her business?”

“Listening,” he emphasizes.

“Bullshit.” You’re on—he guesses—eyeshadow now. “Every time the topic gets to her, you get all skittish. As fuck. You think I don’t notice?”

“Babe,” he says, defensive, “it’s only because I couldn’t even stomach the idea of being with someone else.” And it’s cheesy and corny, but it must work, because your eyes flicker with something. Love, perhaps—clarity. Realization that you’re being irrational (are you?)

“I think I’m just,” you croak. “Just. Missing you. We never spend time together anymore—and after the stunt you pulled in Monte Carlo—” You press two delicate fingers on either side of your nosebridge to emulate your disappointment. “Do you have any idea how worried I was? You were in someone’s car, blacked out. And no apology. Nothing. Just invited me to lunch the next day with your dad.” A topic you hate and a man you detest spending time with.

“I know. I’m sorry, baby.” He comes in to hug you from behind and thanks the gods that you let him, your hands encircling his wrists. “I was being stupid. Won’t happen again.”

You just nod along, still annoyed but enough that it’s beginning to melt off. Max is sated. But even then, he should’ve known that the flicker of something in your eyes wasn’t love or clarity, the flicker he catches again in the mirror when he presses a kiss to your cheek.

It’s neither. It’s guilt.

—

Quali is relatively uneventful—Max gets pole, and Charles gets something something. A good place, front row you think, but you fail to remember. Ben told you the standings, but you weren’t focused; you’ve been spacey, distracted, mind irreversibly stuck on something else during the session. Max can tell, and offers to take you out to dinner, but you decline so he leaves you by yourself nursing a Tylenol. The night is almost over, and you’re collecting your car keys and slinging your bag over your shoulder—but the evening is punctuated by a familiar English accent.

“Come on,” goads Lando, voice petulant and whiny as he tugs on your wrists. “Max said he’d be busy so he needs a proxy. He sucks at the game, anyway, you’re not filling big shoes or anything.”

The tradition (you use the term loosely) of drivers’ poker, started by Lando’s desire to master the game, is apparently so important it demands your attendance. You’ve had your run-ins with poker before, so you feel assured, but none with a volatile group of competitive guys like this one, so it’s on the fence.

“Where?” You suppose, though, that your mind could use a little clearing. A game, a win of sorts.

“My hotel room. I’ve just”—he types rapidly on his phone and presents your text exchange with him—“sent you the number.”

“Who’s playing?” You walk to your car and he follows, still insistent.

“The yoozsh,” he says, shortening usual the way a prepubescent boy might. “Alex, me, Charles, Carlos, Lance. We play a good game. The stakes can get pretty high. And I’ve won a couple times, so beware.”

You laugh a little, raising your brows skeptically. “Sure.”

“I’m dead serious, mate.” He says solemnly as he waves goodbye, standing idly and watching you start your car through the half-rolled window. “See ya. I am going to kick your ass.”

—

“Is this the part where you kick my ass?” You laugh, everyone peering at Lando’s shit hand that he’s presented to the table. “Out!” The game’s since been decimated to just you, Charles, a pool of money, and a thick atmosphere of slow, deliberate silence.

The rest of the players watch you and Charles, conveniently seated across each other, entranced by the easy back and forth that swings between the both of you. You peer down at your cards, then half-lidded, back up at him. His eyes bore into you, challenging, amused.

Tense, you hear faintly. Lando’s unsolicited commentary. In between you both is a scattered pile of creased bills of varying currencies, chips, a condom thrown in by Lance, and a few spare coins. It’s a huge pool despite how random it is, and even if it doesn’t cost much to anybody in the room considering how much you all earn, the prestige of calling yourself a winner still takes precedence.

Underneath the table, your foot brushes against his, the tip of your heel to the side of his sneaker. You poke your tongue into your cheek to conceal a smile, refusing to meet his eyes again.

“You seem nervous,” he says, trying his best to elicit a reaction out of you.

“Could say the same to you,” you quip, tracing the hem of his jeans with your foot. His breath hitches and you take it as a win, smiling to yourself.

“I’ve had a four game winning streak.” He fans his cards out. “Nothing to lose.”

“Oh?” Your legs continue to intertwine out of sight of everybody else, the friction of your bare calf to the denim of his jeans a warm addition to your already intense match. “Say bye to five.” Lando deals the final cards and the tension hangs heavy, palpable in the air as you both calculate your next moves. Carlos eyes the two of you, sensing something else is at stake here. The air is just too heavy.

“We’ll see,” he whistles, revealing his cards. The group seems to hold one collective, bated breath, waiting for you to take your turn. You do so with a self-satisfied smile, your foot still intertwined with his calf as you begin laying your cards down on the table. You slowly reveal a stunning winning hand, and Lando is the first to get up and cheer loudly. 

Charles shrugs and hands you your victory with a handshake, pushing the pool of winnings in your direction. “Congratulations.”

“When you’re with a winner,” you tease lowly, just in Charles’ earshot, “you are a winner.”

He snorts. “Whatever you say.”

You both miss Carlos and Alex exchanging a glance first with you and Charles, smiling teasingly at each other—and the way his eyes go from yours, to your lips, and back to your eyes—then with each other, eyes half-wide and half-puzzled.

—

The race is intense, and Max suffers damage in the middle of it. It’s a rare occasion, but it costs him place after place until he’s vying not for P1, but P4. He doesn’t win today. You watch Charles cross the checkered flag yourself, watch the footage of him throwing his fists up in the air.

You’re there to watch the Red Bull engineers grumble, mutter dissent, wish themselves luck for the next weekend. You’re there when your dad says Charles is the team’s biggest liability. Imagine if we had him, he’d said. You imagine Charles in a Red Bull suit, but the image is cut short by your boyfriend’s arrival to the garage.

The video feedback on your father’s TV, of Charles spraying champagne all over everywhere, his green eyes meeting the camera with a brilliant charm, is abruptly cut off and you turn to find Max entering. His demeanor is stormy.

“P6,” you say immediately, sensing the pending grumbling. “Not so ba—”

“It’s a shitshow,” he retorts, disgruntled. But he’s at the top of the standings, leagues above the rest; he has nothing to worry about. Driving-wise, at least. “Fucking shitshow.”

“Max,” you comfort. “You did well. The damage was out of your control.”

But he’s pissed, and in the thick of his emotion, he pays your sentiments no mind. To him. it’s all the same regurgitated bullshit. Eventually, though he calms down, finds you in the motorhome and wraps you in a loose hug. “Love you.”

“Yeah, yeah.” You smile. “Love you, too.”

He leaves early for a meeting—so many meetings, these days—and promises to meet you for dinner, requesting you text him. You watch him leave, slip into his car and drive off, and then call yourself a car to the hotel. You figure it’s high time you spend quality time with Max, what with all the instances you’ve been fighting or ignoring each other.

You leave at six, taking the elevator to the basement to get to your own car, parked there. You’re optimistic. A dinner. A date. Finally, some time with him. This is what you want. The coil in your belly, though, and the congratulatory text left unsent, tell you a different story. It’s one you choose to ignore.

The elevator has a bar slotted across the back wall that you lean on, typing updates to Ben and Max. The drive shouldn’t be long, you hope. You can’t navigate the new city fast enough. The door dings open and you make a move to exit, but you’re stopped by a figure across you.

Charles, in his Armani tee, arms crossed and eyes flashing with recognition when the doors reveal you. He’s still fussed up from the race, probably forced to stick around for promo pictures and interviews. His hair’s damp still. You notice the imprint of his balaclava is only just starting to soften and fade.

Your words tangle in your throat. “Congratulations,” is all you can muster when you see him. You don’t inch close. He, too, remains stagnant, standing perfectly still. Not even a smile. Like the tension between you forms a barrier as physical as it is emotional. “You drove great.” Your hand tightens around your phone, where you’ve just texted Max that you’re leaving the hotel.

“We should really stop meeting in parking garages.” He says lowly, with a small smile. 

You step forward twice. “I was just leaving anyw—”

“Wait.” For a second, his voice breaks and he sounds—desperate, almost. “Remember Monaco? Last week. You told me you liked winners.” Somehow you find yourself allowing him to near you, stepping backwards for every step he takes closer, even if you realize you’re hogging the elevator, and that people might be waiting to arrive to this floor. “You told me… imagine if he got sixth.”

He steps into the elevator with you, and the doors automatically close behind him; it remains still, but he presses the stop button for good measure. He’s right in front of you, tired eyes and stubble and tall, broad, big. He sees right through you. He knows you. Your buttons, your quirks, everything.

“It was a joke,” you say, attempting to establish composure as you pocket your phone. You fail. You always fail. It’s him. Still, you try, hard enough that he thinks you don’t want him to come even closer, to cage you against the back wall of the tiny basement elevator. “I apologized.”

“Nevermind that.” A hand on the bar of the elevator, just by your waist. His grip is tight. He needs to channel all this want somewhere. “What do winners get?”

“Charles.” Your voice comes out shaky.

“Just this once,” he says. He needs it so bad. You’re so pretty today, eyes looking right up at him, lips bitten the way they always are. He’s taller, he’s bigger, he’s got the upper hand physically—what, with the way you’re crowded up against the wall, nearly having to go on your tiptoes if you want to maintain distance. Your eyes flutter. Just this once. Four years. Just this once. Break a rule. But this isn’t a rule, you remind yourself woefully—it’s all the rules. “I care for you, you know.”

Your silence grants elaboration.

“You’re too serious. But everyone around you is, too.” Closer. “Max, your dad, your coworkers. You just need someone who can calm you down. Help you get peace of mind. No complications, you know.” Closer, even closer. “Someone who’s patient. Calm.”

You stare up at him, your hands unmoving until they’re slowly coming up to press against his abdomen, the hard surface there. You could push him away. You should, in fact, push and forget and walk away and apologize for the delay. But they remain planted there, eyes still meeting his. They’re so green, green and staring right into you, his parted lips just a little chapped, his stubble uneven and getting longer. You want to feel it rubbing your chin raw. Your inner thighs. 

He steps closer and now you’re on your tiptoes, legs spreading a little to accommodate him. His hands are still on the bar. Yours, on his abdomen. You miss the way he squeezes the bar, so strong and with so, so much pent up feelings you’d think he bent it out of shape. He wants so badly for you to be his. And more than that—if that were even possible—for him to be yours. 

Lightly, you bunch up the material of his tee, cotton wound in-between your fingers. Push him, you tell yourself. Push him away. Let go. You’ve had your resolve tested before. But you know better. You know that it’s never come to this. Again, he steps forward, and this time a hand leaves the bar and rests, gentle as it is firm, on your waist, just below it—his thumb presses against your hip. Your breath hitches.

Push him.

He comes closer and you’re fully pressed against the wall, half-seated on the bar, half held up by him—your skirt’s ridden up, legs spread and dangling on either side of his figure. Silence. Your breathing. Your eyes, big and anticipatory, staring into his, dark and desperate. 

Push him.

“It can be—”

You adjust your grip around his tee, ready to loosen it and let go and—and for a second you feel the solid plane of his abs—

“—my prize.”

Push him. You tighten your grip, and pull him in to slot your mouths together. 

His lips are warm, and soft, and he has another hand on your jaw now, but it’s so big it’s at your neck too. You part your lips to let his tongue slip in, and the kiss is nothing if not desperate. He’s wanted this for so long, to feel you like this, have your lips pressed against his. And you’d be dishonest if you said you disagreed. You don’t want to part for air. You feel like this could satiate you enough, just the movement of his lips, the scent of his cologne.

He needs to be closer to you—so he places two hands on your waist and naturally, it lets your legs wrap around him. You can feel how hard he is, and the reminder is dizzying. He wants you. But there is no upper hand here. If he lets his hands wander, he’d feel the damp of your panties and realize you’re just as bad as he is.

But for now it’s a kiss, messy and hot—passionate and just one big breath of finally. Your hands go from his abdomen to his face, cupping him on either side. It’s romantic, fuck—but you’ve craved this for so long, you cherish every second. His stubble rubs your chin raw. You trace patterns on his face, find indents of moles with your eyes closed. The kisses are searing. 

Even if you both want it, and even if this creaky elevator grants you a semblance of the privacy, you both know this won’t be leading to sex. Just this—just this. It’s all he’s ever wanted. Your hands on his jaw, his shoulders, the nape of his neck. His, on your waist, your throat, your hips. Your gasps mingling with his. 

The kiss takes and takes and takes, and it’s long, but you take and give four years’ worth of want and tension and frustration. You part, forehead pressed against his, and the absence leaves you empty—you inch forward and kiss him again, let it consume you, before you part again.

His eyes won’t stop staring. In the way they always look at you. With want. With something. A glint.

“First and last,” you say, lifted against the wall of the elevator, your hands around his face. Your thumbs roam over his face. He sets you down, breath heavy, and still his hands are on your waist and yours on his face. It was your cue to leave. But you can’t. Not yet.

Your thumbs go over his eyebrows, his eyelashes so his eyes flutter; the mark of his balaclava, the indent there; his nose, his cheeks, wiping the sweat there, then lower, finally to his lips. One thumb rests softly in the centre. Just seconds ago those lips had been pressed to yours, bringing a type of clarity you never knew existed. Everything, for just those moments, made perfect sense.

“You lie.” He repeats.

You tiptoe to kiss him again and he can’t seem to get enough, his eyebrows furrowed—so much he almost looks angry, anguished—when you kiss. “First and last,” you say breathlessly when you pull away.

He shakes his head. “You’re going to come right back to me,” he says, with so much finality and conviction it’s almost a fact. “You always will, you always do.” His eyes are shut even when you don’t kiss, relishing in your proximity. 

And when you part, he watches you leave, with something between desperation and anguish. You don’t realize, he thinks, just how deep he is in his attraction. His connection to you. It consumes him, burns him alive, and it’s leaving him for someone else.

You ring the elevator open again, wiping your lips. He lets it close, leaning against the wall himself. And you both realize, with a heavy breath as you climb into your car and he disembarks the elevator: there is no way either of you will resist it anymore. That was the first, yes. But to say it was the last would be stark, stark lying.

—

You’re still licking syrup off the corner of your lip when you walk out of the hotel breakfast buffet, letting Max explain the fundamentals of a race to you. He’d apologized earlier, for not meeting you at the Monza afterparty last night—he’d gotten caught in something or other. But he’s kind, and inserts a few jokes here and there to get a laugh out of you, your eyes crinkling under the heavy lens of your sunglasses, sandals clicking against the outdoor garden cement floor. 

He’s talking, and then trails off. Oh, he says, this is a mate of mine. You look up to make small talk and smile politely, but your face falls faster than you can pick it up. Tall and in sunglasses, too, is Charles Leclerc. You thought they were colleagues, not friends—this is chaos. You reach out to shake his hand, your free hand coming up to press against the splotch of concealer. Just in case.

The handshake is stiff and it reminds you of tequila and lemon, salt and teeth and kitten licks down your throat and right to the crest of your cleavage. But you blink and shake once, up and down. Firm.

“Nice to meet you.” He says, smiling. Then, to Max: “Girlfriend?”

“Hope so,” jokes Max, eyeing you. You laugh.

Charles smiles to himself, smug. He eyes you through his sunglasses with something caught in longing and want. “I hope so, too.”

—

Dinner is short and, despite your best efforts to make it a good one, boring. The food is good and sufficiently expensive, the way all European restaurants are. But nothing flows, ebbs. You talk of the same things: Red Bull, Red Bull, and if you have time, Red Bull. You ask about work, but it’s nothing you haven’t already heard. Max doesn’t ask about work, so the conversation descends into a limbo of silence and sips of rosé. “I’m pretty sure the next race is going to be great.”

“Charles drove great today,” says Max. “Didn’t he?”

You pause, then nod. “Yeah. Yeah, I mean, objectively so.”

“I was going to congratulate him… lost him on the paddock though.” He sips, drawing it out. “You seen him?”

“No,” you say, pithy. “Haven’t.”

“Okay.” He waves his hand upward to signal the bill. “I’ll drop you off and head out for the night. Helmut stuff.” 

You’re torn between feeling suspicious and recalling the events of the elevator, so you nod tersely instead and make the necessary small talk from the table to the car. His hand on your waist, the same place Charles’ was just hours ago. It sends you into a cloudy mental spiral. Just thinking about it—about the way he’d gasped your name in between kisses, like he’d die if you didn’t kiss him again.

“I’m sorry,” Max says when he pulls up at the hotel entrance. “For all the work stuff. And for inviting you to lunch with my dad.” A weak laugh escapes you and you find his hand to squeeze it. It’s okay, you convey, and hope it’s enough that he lets the topic quell for now.

Your silence is permissive, so he continues. “I’ll make it up to you, okay?” Leans over and presses a sure kiss to your cheek. “As soon as I can.”

You nod and climb out, praying he didn’t see you shudder. The trek to the elevator, eyes skittish and searching for a sign of Charles, is tiring, and you find reprieve only when you’re pushing the door to the penthouse suite open, toeing your sandals off and dropping your bag just by the entryway. You freeze when you hear a glass clink from the living area. You’d gotten this suite for you and Max, and definitely nobody else.

Brandishing a bunch of keys in-between your fingers, you tiptoe into the area and find, to your confusion and shock, your dad. He’s seated on the couch toying with a glass of whiskey, eyes lighting up when he sees you, even if you look like a psycho with claws.

“Hi, honey.”

“Dad.” You drop your keys on the coffee table as you near him, and exchange a kiss and hug. “Wh—did you get a key from…?”

“Ben.” He smiles. “I thought I would surprise you.”

“Yeah, you more scared me.” You quip, laughing. Then you recall a detail and follow-up on it. “Max—um, he said you had a meeting?”

“Meeting? None scheduled tonight,” he says, frowning and opening his Calendar app. Nothing.

A dry quiet creeps up into the room and settles.

You pour yourself a glass and seat yourself beside him, drinking. You share a conversation for the duration of two glasses and then he’s leaving. The kiss he stamps on your forehead, you notice, is more meaningful, conveys a deeper message, lasts longer. He knows what you know now.

The usual sleepiness that comes with alcohol doesn’t arrive and you fall into an uneasy sleep; it doesn’t help that Max calls in past two, saying he’s crashing at the hotel room he bought for his dad instead of your hotel. You listen to the slurred voicemail, eyes shut and nose buried in the pillow. Eventually you lull yourself to sleep, awaiting the promise of morning and clarity.

—

Morning brings a day off. A break. But your mind does not cease to be cloudy, instead becoming even more muddled with questions and pivots and forks in the road. It helps, you suppose, that Max isn’t home. It might’ve worsened everything. You wrestle your way through a glass of water and a cup of tea, try out yoga, and even attempt going back to sleep. But it’s no use; you’re antsy.

So instead of suppressing the thoughts, you theorize, it’s better to lean into them. Succumb to them, the tempt and guilt of them. It might help you navigate the confusion of everything. So you do—you think of your years-long history with Charles, your relationship with Max. The hiding, the suppression, the pretending. Fleeting touches.

You think of how well Charles knows you, inside and out, of how good he kissed you even if he hadn’t ever kissed you before. His hands, the way he said your name, the hitch in his breath when your hands dared to venture just a little lower. The want, the pure want—the want so unadulterated even one kiss was enough. Images of close calls fill your head. All the times you were high, giggly and leaning into him, on the edge of flirty in some dark corner of a club. Your connection has always been, and will always be, completely and absolutely undeniable. No matter how hard you try.

Guilt fills you at the same time. And with the guilt—confusion. Where is Max? He wasn’t at a meeting last night, and you suspect you know exactly where he is. Who he’s with. Can you really be angry, though? Is it a feedback loop of the same thing, the same morally grey actions? Is this all your relationship has been reduced to? Questions, questions, and more questions flood the corners of your head.

Thoughts are put to a standstill when the door shakes with two knocks. 

You rake your hair back and climb out of bed, into the main room, still in your lace pajamas. It might be the complimentary hotel breakfast or Max arriving, you guess. Maybe your dad—he’s apparently in the business of keying himself into your hotel rooms.

So you don’t bother looking through the peephole, undoing the latch with haste and dexterity before you’re hauling the heavy door open and staring breathlessly at the other side.

—

Abu Dhabi greets Max and you with fanfare, with a plethora of paddock paparazzi and even a few gossip rags asking questions. Some journalists drop a check-in, cameras zeroing in on your intertwined hands and your shared smiles. She’s the World Champ’s! seems to be the pervasive headline lately, and your pictures from today will no doubt exacerbate it.

He squeezes your hand when you finally gain semi-privacy, entering the motorhome. Your dad sees you, sees Max, offers a wave that you both return. Your eyes go from wide and smiling to a little blank and dismissive, a change minute but noticeable. “You okay?” He calls after you when you enter his room.

You drop your Kelly—the bag—on the seat by the door and gather your hair to rest on one side. “Fine. You nervous?”

 “The planned strategy was horseshit.” Max is right and for the sake of your dad, it worries you.

“Yeah, yeah. I think I’ll talk to Dad for a bit. You’ll be okay alone?” You’re getting up already.

“Wait—” He pauses when you’re kissing his cheek as a goodbye. “I thought we were getting lunch.”

“Oh.” You pause to think. “We can get dinner, then.”

“No,” he says. “I’m going to be with Jos.”

“Drinks.” You leave no room for argument and leave with the door shutting softly behind you.

He stares at the just-closed door, your bag slung over the chair, the way you keep pressing against a certain spot on your neck. You are hiding something—Max just can’t put his finger on it.

[syxilla]

Ken sato x !nurse reader (part 1)

cw: ken sato x femreader, suggestive!, nursereader, reader is a simp and perv, slight manipulation!

-"are you uncomfortable?"

in which ken sato touches you in ways that simply dont scream platonic, while asking you with the sweetest dough like eyes if hes making you nervous.

authors note: sorry for not uploading sooner! got a lil bored with writing- also i didnt proof read it completely so like, yuh

working with Ken sato was relatively easy. you just applied ointment onto his bruises, did daily checkups to make sure his injuries were never too severe to the point he couldn't play. and each time you finished one of your checkups, ruffling his hair and giving him a lollipop (because hes quite litteralyy a man child) hed always grab you by the waist spin you around and grin a thank you, a grin thatd make you fold almost instantly. you, being flustered by this sudden act of affection, tend to stammer a 'you're welcome'.

when you did, hed set you down on a seat, bending down and place his hand on your knees. he'd lean on one, and look up at you with the sweetest eyes ever. and he'd whisper, "am i making you uncomfortable?" and you, being oh so desperate, youd stutter out "no no! its okay! im not uncomfortable, im just a little shy!" kenji would laugh seeing you frantically waving your hands around.

it wasnt like this was uncommon. not the situation (that was also common), but the phrase.

when theyd sit beside each other on the bus, traveling to another arena, hed place a hand on your thigh, rubbing it gently, and slowly, as the ride comes to its conclusion, hed slowly shift it higher, and higher and higher. and just when hed give you the pleasure you oh so wanted? the bus would stop. youd feel your cheeks get warmer as the bus feels hotter than it was the start of the ride. "sorry about that, are you uncomfortable?" kenji would ask sweetly, eyes filled with remorse and slight regret. which would lead you to stammer out once again; "no, im just fine! its just, hot in here?" you'd say, more trying to convince yourself more than him. hed laugh, and pat your thigh and get up to leave the bus.

that phrase. that cursed phrase he'd repeat as a mantra with those apologetic eyes, paired along with gestures that simply felt too intimate for their kind of relationship, was a deadly mix.

when his hand lingered on your waist for too long when yyoure sitting beside each other, when youd hug, when youd walk side by side. hed always look and ask. "are you uncomfortable?"

Kenji, stroking your calf with his foot underneath the table when hed offer to take you out for lunch. that cursed word appeared again. "sorry, im being a bit handsy, did i make you uncomfortable?"

when kenji would hug your waist and bury himself into your tummy while you checked his head for any injuries. his arms wrapped around you tightly, slightly massaging your love handles.

when his lips would be mere inches away from you, when hed hug you from behind and bury his face into the crook of your neck as you restock on medical supplies.

when he cages you inbetween his arms to help you cook a meal for his other teammates.

when youd catch him staring at your breasts for too long when you were fixing your uniform. when he'd zone out while sucking on his lollipop in your direction conviently. looking at you in the eyes as he licks it, not breaking contact for a minute. and when you'd call him out, you'd hear that damned phrase again.

gosh, you didn't know how much more you could handle! so much attention from a famous baseball player would surely have anyones heart fluttering like the wings of a butterfly! and it wasnt like he was unnatractive either...

kenji was pretty muscular, you could feel each time he hugged you, and you could see them aswell. but thats just an observation! same with noticing how defined his jawline is, and how you wanted to run your finger over it, tracing all of its edges and curves and feeling his smooth skin on our fingertips. just another observation! and how thick his thighs were, just another regular observation! its not like you were trying to see how his lips shimmered under any ounce of light, making them look soft and delectable. observation.

you felt like a pervert, which, to be fair you most likely were. which is why you always hesitated each time hes intimate. were you being a pervert again? or was he flirting with you? what makes it harder is his little pout, that stupid pout he does when he doesnt feel reassured by your answer, backing away from you in concern.

which all leads to why you were doubtful when kenji asked you to visit him at his meet and greet (or something of the sort except instead of fans its reporters) by yourself, you were apprehensive. what if your perveted thoughts messed things up again and made him feel bad? and yet, there you were. standing in the back rooms where he asked you to eet him, hand clutching onto your puse for dear life.

"there you are!" he beamed, jogging towards you. "you were amazing out there kenji!" you smiled, opening your arms as though youre preparing to embrace him. and hed hug you back. hed do his regular spin, face in the crook of your neck, breath sending chills down your spine. hed pull back, hands still on your waist. "did you truly think i was amazing?" he smiled like a kid. you ruffle his hair, as usual. "of course i do! you're always amazing!" you hummed, turning your attention towards your purse to grab a lollipop that you brought for him. a reward, if you will. during this time, you didnt notice how he pulled you in closer, grip on your waist more firm (as if you could escape when he's barely trying regardless).

"here you g-" you halt, his face mere inches away from yours, but thats just the norm! hes always so... oh so close to you! one of his hands leave your waist to grab your hand (the one with the lollipop) and placed on the back of his neck while the other slide lower, closer to the back pocket on your jeans.

"kenji?" you asked hesitantly. this was a case of you being a pervert again, right? it cant be, right? he leaned down to your ear, and barely grazed it before whispering. "are you uncomfortable?" that phrase. that stupid phrase that was practically apart of his daily routine, being muttered again. except instead of an apology, it sounded more like a tease. and you, being you, the predictable respond that hes gotten so used to hearing.

"no."

---

a/n: idk how i feel about the way i wrote the ending but whatever, enjoy!

(part 2 is more detail about the bus scene 2 make up for it)

[neoplatinum]

eyes | aeri 'giselle' uchinaga

summary: giselle doesn't like how close yunjin has been with you recently...

pairing: aeri x 5th member!reader

themes: slight angst (not really lol), huh yunjin in the house!, fluff at the end, overall just giselle not being subtle, brief mention of kazuha

wc: 1.1k

giselle likes the idea of watching people’s eyes, she especially likes watching your eyes. she’s spent practically every second of her trainee days analyzing what each change of your eyes means. she knows what they mean when they stare back at giselle’s, the slight raise in the eyebrow and the warm cheeks, you like giselle. with this newfound information, giselle was more confident thinking of a plan to confess to you.

but recently, giselle is finding it harder to trust the meaning behind your eyes, despite seeing the love and joy spill from your gaze, she sees something different in them, a new contendor, namely yunjin.

yunjin had been an old trainee with you and the rest of aespa. a rare foreign trainee from america, you were immediately intrigued, often asking yunjin new phrases in english, or what the culture is like in america. giselle remembers you explaining that your older sister had moved to america when you were younger, leaving an amazing impression of the country. when yunjin returned to korea and debuted in le sserafim, you were overjoyed to spend time with her again.

currently, giselle watches with stern eyes as yunjin shares photo of the states with you. she watches the hand that is wrapped around your chair as you lean into yunjin to get a better view of her phone. giselle also eyes the way yunjin’s eye flits between her phone and your eyes. a gaze she doesn’t enjoy.

giselle rolls her eyes and walks away from the aespa green room to cool off her mind from the sight of you and yunjin. winter gives karina a knowing look and both of them laugh while you’re confused why giselle walked out of the room.

“well i have to go back to the girls, but dont be a stranger, ill see you later cutie!” yunjin gave you a tight hug and waved to the other girls and left. after yunjin left, karina and winter burst into even louder laughter.

“what? what’s so funny?” you look between the two girls, winter doubles over and jimin continues laughing and pointing at winter. ningning on the other hand looks at you with an amused smile.

“you should go find giselle, these two are just being foolish.” ningning points to the door, she sighs and tries offering a hand to winter while you stare at all three of them in confusion.

walking out of the green room into the long hallways of inkigayo makes you more nervous, theres so many people it would be hard to spot giselle. you try and stand on your tippy toes multiple times walking around to find giselle at the vending machine.

“hey, you okay?” you stand next to giselle.

she continues looking at the drinks. not lifting her eyes. “yes.”

“are you sure? you left the room suddenly, is your stomach okay?” you offer, giselle looks even more upset.

“im fine, why don’t you ask yunjin if she’s okay?” giselle bites out, now she stares into your eyes with an unexpected intensity.

“yunjin? why would i ask her if she’s okay?” giselle rolls her eyes and walks away from you, away from the aespa waiting room.

“hey wait! giselle!” she grabs your hands and pulls you into the girls bathroom.

“why can’t you see that yunjin is into you?” giselle puts one hand on her hip and another on the sink. you’re thrown off but clearly nervous because giselles never acted like this before.

“she’s not into me! shes just showing me pictures of her trip to new york.” you try to explain but giselle is nodding her head no.

“that girl keeps trying to put her arm around your waist and you don’t even bat an eye!” giselle is exasperated and frustrated.

“i didn’t notice that, but i don’t understand why you’re upset at me?” you’re trying to figure out where you went wrong.

“you dummy, i know you’re into me, you shouldn’t entertain other people.” she hardens her tone, meanwhile you’re speechless.

“how did you even find out?” you let out while running your hands through your hair. you try and quickly think of all the signs that you might have dropped on accident. you thought you were subtle enough that no one would notice.

“you absolute idiot, of course i noticed, im into you too dummy.” she explains as if it's common knowledge. by now you're even more taken aback, giselle never showed interest in you, which is why you never even confessed to her.

“wait, you like me back? like you’re not joking?” you try to wrap your head around the conversation, but you're too stunned by all the new information.

giselle groans and stomps her foot, going silent and starting to walk out of the bathroom, you grab her hand and keep her from walking away.

“giselle, do you mean it? you like me back?” you grow more confident and stare into her eyes, you watch them become more vulnerable.

“yes, i really do. will you please stop letting yunjin flirt with you?” she pleads with a quiet voice.

“of course. come here.” you hug her tightly and wrap your arms around her waist. she tucks her head into your chest, and you smile and kiss her on the cheek.

“i know why you’re so upset.” you say in a teasing tone, she tenses up and attempts to push herself away from you, you instead hold her tighter against you.

“yeah, why do you think im upset?” giselle rolls her eyes at your knowing smile.

“you’re jealous of yunjin aren’t you?” you even poke at her cheek and giggle when she tries swatting your hand away,

“shut up, dummy.” she groans.

“i knew it!” you laugh loudly and she starts pinching your cheeks. “ow ow ow! giselle!”

“stop laughing, its not funny.”

“it is funny because you have nothing to be jealous about, i only want you aeri.” she smiles widely and grows embarrassed. “plus im pretty sure she’s in love with kazuha” giselle nods as you explain yunjin's dynamic with kazuha. “it’s always: zuha would love this! i should get zuha this! do u think zuha likes this shirt?”

“sounds like she needs to grow a pair and confess.” giselle laughs at that.

“what do you think ive been trying to help her with lately….” you let out a groan just thinking about the amount of times yunjin has spammed your phone about her infatuation with kazuha.

“yunjin will figure it out she’s a smart girl….let’s go back to the waiting room.” giselle grabs hold of your hand and you stand straight as a rod.

“yes ma'am!” you smile at giselle, and salute her. all she can see is the beautiful warm eyes that stare back at her, even if you are the siliest person she's met.

--

a/n: this is my first ever piece that i am posting yay! hope u enjoy <3

[floylia]

# MESSAGE IN A BOTTLE ⋆｡ ﾟ☁︎｡ ⋆｡ ﾟ☾

04. I’m so wet tonight 💌

Destiny and fate are liken to strings you can’t untangle with ease. Two simple words with inexplainable concepts. A belief split into millions of definition.

But this might be fate—a doomed fate.

Cerulean eyes meet yours upon striding inside the store. The contact lasts longer than necessary. But within those few seconds, recognition is acknowledged on both sides.

That fateful day when a guy embarrassed himself and you watched it unfold.

You thought that was the last of it. Perhaps not.

You scan the small dairy isle, searching for an energy drink and a bucket of ice cream, while ignoring the pleads in the back of your head—constantly screeching about the humiliating past.

But who are you to feel embarrassed for him?

Why do you feel shame in the first place?

“Cash or card?”

“Cash.” You pass him the total amount, grabbing the wrinkled change you had in your wallet.

He takes it hesitantly, “By the way, about last time...”

Here we go.

“There was a rat in the locker room so I ran out like that. As for what I said… I don’t remember why I did that. But I promise, I’m not… a pervert,” The last phrase was faint as he whispers it in a breath.

You chuckle, “It made me laugh, don’t worry.”

One moment ago he was a grey cutout, now colors are back in his face as a grin reaches the wrinkles of his eyes, “So we’re cool?”

He looks like a dog wagging his tail after seeing a treat.

You nod, “Was that bothering you for a while?”

He breathes a sigh of relief—staring at you as if he had been derived of oxygen, “Yes! I was tossing my body back and forth that night, because my head refused to stop replaying the scene every time I closed my eyes. Can you imagine yourself doing that? Here I thought I was being mysterious.”

Not a single bone in his body was mysterious.

“People remember their own embarrassing moments more than other people’s, don’t stress about it.”

He shows his paper white teeth, “You have a way with words.”

“And you don’t,” You blurt out, recalling that moment.

Laughter engulfs the tense atmosphere.

“Fair enough. Fair enough. I’ll never live that down. My friends tease me enough already,” he hands you your change and the plastic bag worth of snacks.

The pit-a-patter outside makes your head swerve towards the window. Rain droplets fall from the heavens, gearing up as you spend minutes inside the establishment.

Checking the weather today slipped your mind, otherwise you would have brought an umbrella. Even though your dorm is nearby, running through the heavy downpour is not something you enjoy doing on a school night.

Navia would jerk her head in disapproval.

The ginger must have realized your conundrum.

“Here,” He offers you a small black umbrella, “You can use this.”

“No, no it’s alright. You might need to use that later.”

He shakes his head, “The store owns it. We have extra. Just borrow it for tonight. Then you can come back and return it. Think of this as an apology.”

“Thank you. I didn’t want to be drenched today. I’ll return this, I promise!”

A gentle smile pervades his face as he waves a goodbye. He observes you, crossing the street from the foggy window until your silhouette fades with the night sky.

In truth, the store didn’t own the umbrella. They don’t have an extra. It was his — but that is his little secret.

No harm done with a white lie.

NOTES:

kinda rushed (wrote the written parts in one night, i dont usually finish fics in one sitting)

ig he gained aura points?

was gonna post this later but fuck it 🤷‍♀️

SYNOPSIS: There’s a line Childe knows he shouldn’t cross; A line built on years of friendship; A line that happens to cross you, his best friend’s younger sister, grieving her first love; A line where he plays savior, wears a halo, then feign ignorance, because love is a game for fools—and he happens to be the biggest idiot when it comes to love.

When a new stranger invades your life and an old poet writes back.

CHILDE x FEM!READER

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[jackrabbit-fandom]

Boothill backstory spoilers, so if you dont wanna be spoiled scroll on

This is mostly comfort/fluff mabye tiny angst due to his backstory

Yes, it will include some relationship bits cause of course

Boothill, where his daughter survives, which, yes, i understand, would probably mean he doesn't become 'boothill', but let's pretend he does for the sake of the story. Also im goin with the name cherry for her cause i think its pretty cute

These kinda imply that it's been a few years between boothills' story and penacony

Mabye he was able to save her, and in the process, his body got damaged bad enough that he had to replace it. In this situation, it would be more so because he was hurt so badly he nearly died but didn't wanna leave his daughter.

He'd likely want to keep her as safe as possible but still ended up becoming a space ranger anyway due to sharing the ideologies, but for the first few years of her life, he likely ether stays out of trouble as much as possible or has a safe house for her when he absolutely can not take her with him. On the missions where he does carry her along when she's fairly young, he's just got her attached to a baby sling on his chest. Though i dont see that being extremely common, he doesn't want to risk even a 0.0000000001% chance of her getting hurt

Imagine being intimidated by this cyborg man with a baby sling....anyway

Once she gets older, she's more steady with her walking, she's talking in full sentences, and finally, tall enough to reach his hip, hed likely start teaching her to use a gun.

It's a very serious moment due to how important he thinks it is for her to be able to defend herself when he can't be around. Hed likely has a target set up as he knelt behind her, helping her hold it and aim.

'Keep your breathing steady, don't close both eyes it puts your aim off, keep your elbows loose, respect the gun but don't fear it'

He knows he's going to have to get to work getting his revenge for the rest of his family, so he can't keep coddling her so teaching her to use a gun, or disarm someone and fight hand to hand becomes his top priority. That's not to say he over works her or forces her when she's tired, that's still his little girl, so when she's tired from training he makes sure she gets plenty of rest.

As much as being prepared is important, being well rested and happy is too.

On to more domestic and sweet ones, i donno if he'd have his own ship or just have some safe house on some random planet, but either way coming home to seeing his little girl happy healthy and alive is probably his favorite part of the day, the big bad gunslinger persona immediately melts away and he goes straight into silly annoying dad mode.

This means he has a million dad jokes to make poor cherrys eyes roll out of her head. Though I'd imagine she'd end up just like him, funny phrases, stupid jokes, and a bit of an attitude.

Once she's plenty old enough, say around 16 or so, and wants to go out on more dangerous missions with her dad, i think she would follow the path of abundance. Shed likely wants to protect others like her dad does, plus it's pretty helpful when your father is a cowboy who runs around getting into trouble. It does help put boothill at ease as well, seeing as she can heal herself if she gets hurt....as if he'd ever let that happen.

I'd think that for a while, he's more focused on his daughter rather than finding a partner, however were he to meet you at some point when cherry was fairly young one thing that would likely make him interested is you acting kindly towards her and cooing over her. Showing positive interest in his daughter is a pretty good way to get on his good side. Doesn't quite mean he'll trust you just yet. it just means you're on good terms with him.

I feel like he'd have to trust you pretty well before he lets you watch his daughter. She is his pride and joy, and his one most important person in his life. he almost lost her, and he won't risk someone trying to take her from him again.

However, once cherry is older and can, for the most part, care for herself without her papa watching over her, then hed show more interest. If you were there sense she was young and helped him care for her, he likely already started liking you early on but just didn't make a mood due to focusing on her. Due to you being closer to her in this situation, i can imagine her calling you her mom/dad/parent, too. Extra brownie points!

I imagine cherry being, like i said, like her dad. A bit goofy at times with weird phrases and a slight attitude, and growing up with his censor shed likely copy that too, yelling out "fudge!" When she stubs her toe. I can see her having an interest towards guns sense it was something her papa introduced her to it but also music. Hed likely have taught her guitar by this point so shed probably make up her own little songs and sing them to him (and you once you join the little family) and no matter if their bad or good hes always just happy to hear her sing with the biggest smile on his face, and you best be too.

Oh, and of course, shed get her own cowboy hat, but choose to keep stealing his anyway.

Overall, if she had survived, i imagine him being mostly the same, just with a little girl following him around.

If you liked the fic, feel free to give me requests around this au. I just need this motherfudger to be happy, please.

Edit: @legalize-arson gave me the name idea. I do not like not crediting

[cactuslester]

Your tags about Phil being Dan’s baby 🥹🥹 Not something I’ve thought about before but you’re so right

yeahhh he's dan's baby, his tudor princess! like the way dan is so gentle with him and indulges him all the time

like obviously all the card games where they pick the winner (imo, phil does more often have the funniest card, but there are some cases where i think dan shouldve definitely gotten it, but phil just bats his eyelashes and dan gives it to him), and like during the poppy playtime series where dan was doing most of the controlling but he would hand the controller to phil for fun things he knew phil would like like the big red button and the wind up race car. and i'm sure there are a lot of moments we dont see, like i sure this has always been a part of their dynamic, but i wouldnt be surprised if it has been Heightened since phil's health scares of the recent years

like us and phil himself has said before, he definitely has younger brother energy that contributes a lot to it

there's this phrase and concept in mandarin, 撒嬌 sājiāo, which is when like u do a lil pout and bat ur eyelashes and ask pretty please to get smth from a loved one, and they know what you're doing but indulge you anyways. it's commonly used to describe like young children asking for smth from their grandparents or like (bc of gender roles) girlfriends asking their boyfriends for something, but obvs it applies to way more than that, and to me, phil is the king of 撒嬌

but yeah it's rly sweet seeing all the different ways they love each other and this is definitely one that makes me so 🥺🥺🥺

[babybadger]

Charles takes you to Monaco for the first time and youre scared because you dont fit that lifestyle

The flight to Madre

When you met Charles as an intern at Ferrari, you never would have imagined that 2 years later you would be at the airport waiting on his private plane to go meet his entire family. This was stuff of fairytales- of fan fiction. He had spent the whole morning trying to comfort and reassure you that everything would be fine with his family and the trip but you still weren’t convinced.

You were both cosied up on a couch on your phones waiting on the announcement that your plane was ready when you suddenly locked your phone and stared at the door infront of you. “Whats got your brain rattled behind those pretty little eyes?” Charles questions as you continue to stare at one of the blank walls in the private lounge. “Does your mum have a favourite colour?” Charles looks slightly taken aback. He removes his arm from round your shoulders and leans slightly away from you to get a full view of your face. His eyebrows crease as he looks at you confused. “Okay out with it, what’s really going on? Why are you asking such a question?”

“I just realised I haven’t packed much red stuff. I don’t know I just wear it so much at ferrari and all my long gowns are red for ferrari events so i don’t really buy summer stuff in red cause red in like my work colour but then i saw a tiktok saying meet your mother in law in her favourite colour so she has a good first impression. But you’ve never told me her favourite colour so what if it’s red and I don’t have any clothes that are-” “Mon amour, calme-toi, tu penses trop à ça. She’ll love you, you’ve met arthur and enzo. You have nothing to worry about I promise.”

You giggle through the worry, “Cha you know i have no idea what you’re saying in French. My A in my exam when I was 16 in school means very little in a conversation with- oh my god does your mum know i don’t speak French? You need to teach me French on the plane!”Charles giggles in return as he looks in front of you to see the airlines crew member coming towards you telling you the plane was ready. You both stand up, Charles picking up both of your backpacks in one hand and using the other to wrap round your waist and pull you into him as you walk.

“Well I can’t teach you the whole language in one flight my love, but I can teach you some phrases to impress mi madre. That’s mum by the way.” Charles laughs as you roll your eyes. “I know that my love, I just don’t want your mum to ask me questions and I look stupid because I have no idea.” Taking your seat in front of him on the plane you sigh. “Y/N baby, she’s so excited to meet you. When she facetimed yesterday she asked what she should cook because she wanted to make sure you liked her cooking. You two are as bad as each other, stop being so stress babe.” You smile and lean over the table “It’s stressed babe, stop being so stressed.” He mimicked you leaning his elbows on the table, his face centimetres from yours. “See no one can be perfect, especially in a second language.” A smile spreads your face and you close the gap creating a very gentle kiss.

[emeline2020]

I Understand - D.DIXON

DESC : You and Daryl have a final conversation before his departure to search for Rick and Michonne.

CONTAINS : angst, so much angst i’m in tears istg. maybe some fluff i have no idea

MOST LIKELY WILL REWRITE THIS BC I JUST DONT THINK I WROTE IT TO THE BEST OF MY ABILITY!!!

SEASON 11

You felt like a kid, hiding out behind the brick wall of you and Daryl’s-.. you stopped yourself. It was your apartment now. Because Daryl wouldn’t be returning for god knows how long. The only thing left of Daryl in the apartment were his belongings he decided he wouldn’t need for this trip.

You sat in the grass against the brick wall, head back, staring up at the sky. You were afraid to look anywhere other than up, incase the buildup of tears managed to break through down your cheeks.

You felt dumb. Your mind searched for other ways to phrase your emotions, but the only word that formulated was ‘dumb’.

You should’ve known. You should’ve pieced it together after Daryl left for 6 years when Rick went missing. The life he had with you didn’t matter, because he wanted more than you. He wanted his family. And it made sense. But just because it made sense didn’t mean it hurt any less.

You and Daryl had never officially labeled what you had. The others in the Commonwealth referred to you as a couple. Hell, for a while there, you had even thought maybe he would propose, or something like that. Make what you two had official to yourselves, and not just to the others in town.

But now you questioned if you even had anything at all. You questioned if he even loved you the way you thought he did.

The crunches of dead grass beneath heavy boots pushed you from your thoughts. You dragged a hand over your red, glossy eyes. You didn’t look at him, but his figure appeared in your peripheral vision. You didn’t want to look at him. You were nervous that it would trigger the waterworks.

He let out a scratchy sigh. Not an annoyed sigh, more of a knowing sigh. Knowing exactly what you were feeling. Knowing he caused it.

He slowly lowered himself to the grass next to you, mocking your sitting position with your knees up. His hands rested loosely on his knees while you clutched your legs to your chest.

You could hear him take a breath, about to say something. You rushed to speak first.

“It’s not your fault.” You murmured, your tone soft. Shaky. “Me being upset.”

He didn’t say anything. His expression was stiff, his blue eyes locked onto the ground. You looked up at the blue sky, holding in your tears.

“It’s mine. I should’ve known.” You elaborate your words, swallowing thickly. It took everything inside of you to not start balling tears.

“Known? Known what?” He sounded confused, but he still didn’t turn to face you.

“That this wouldn’t work. Not until you sorted out the things that are more important to you.” You sniffled a bit, taking to your nose with your sleeve.

“Nah. That ain’t-“ Daryl spoke firmly with a shake of his head, but you interrupted him.

“That is it, Daryl. But it’s okay. I understand.” You whispered, finally lowering your head to allow the stinging tears freedom.

Deep down, Daryl knew you were right. That was exactly it. He was almost ashamed that you figured you were less important to him than Rick was, because that wasn’t the case at all.

You weren’t less important. You were just as important, but Daryl couldn’t live happily with you knowing his brother was out there. Because Daryl wanted Rick to be around just as much as he wanted you to be around.

And that was the problem with you and Daryl. That was why you wouldn’t work. You and Daryl would never last. Not until Rick and Michonne came home.

“There ain’t a single word in the ‘ntire language to tell ya how sorry I am.” He sighed again, but this sigh was filled with shame.

“As long as we’re still something, you don’t need to be sorry.” You breathed, finally glancing at him. He kept his eyes on the blades of yellow-ish grass. His brown hair hid most of his face, and you could see the skull tattoo inked on his hand.

“‘Course we’re somethin’. Always will be.” He said, reaching over to place his hand on top of yours. But he still wouldn’t look at you. You weren’t sure you even wanted him to see your expression. It would probably just make him feel more guilty.

You didn’t mind, though. Even though his hand only clutched yours for a few seconds before he drew back, and even though he refused to meet your eyes, as long as you were something.

Something was better than nothing. And you didn’t want to push him, because you were teetering on the edge of something, about to fall from the cliff into nothing.

He squeezed your hand one last time, before pushing himself to his feet and leaving you behind the brick wall. His eyes hadn’t met yours once.

And then he was gone.

[angy-grrr]

btw, im not waiting a whole week just to see izu///ocha confession, and tbh I dont think hori would spend that energy in it -he didnt before after all. I just think a platonic interpretation opens up the possibilities for closing more arcs -for example, the whole control your heart, the future of heroes and villains, etc.

Doing a confession would actually be too abrupt in my opinion, considering she is here crying over Himiko, this isnt about him and loving him.

EDIT:

btw this doesnt mean im dropping bnha. Im just saying I dont think it makes sense to wait two weeks for a confession of a ship that has not that much development in the first place -and this isnt about time spent with them. Its about emotional investment. Ochako and Himiko dont have the spotlight that much when thinking about all the manga chapters and arcs, however it got a loyal fanbase because the times they are together they are impactful. We didnt even know she was this invested in Toga in those ways, like the lovely smile and liking it ever since she saw it for the first time, until she said it. After only two chapters, they felt like a very beautiful and tragic ship because they care for the other in ways incomparable with others, and their dynamic feels extremely romantic. In another hand, izu//ocha doesnt have that feeling at all even if they have more panels together -there were many ways to connect them in a relevant way, but their moments arent as emotionally charged.

When Ochako jumped to defend Izuku for example; it could have been like that but instead we have her thinking about who saves heroes when focusing on him -this isnt emotional for them together-, and when she talks about smiles, her mind jumps to Himiko crying -this is personal and emotional at the same time. If we had her thinking "who will save villains" for Himiko, it would come out as way less romantic for canon; and if we had her thinking randomly about Izuku like she did at the beginning, with drawings of her face with an embarrassing expression or starting accepting it, it would be more romantic*

Its not that they have nothing in common, or dont care about each other in a meaningful way, its just that Hori decided to focus on other relationships instead of them together. The togachako confrontation in comparison shows us how he can focus on mainly the pair without forgetting about other important characters or feelings -she thought about him, and confessed she fell in love with him, yet it hit me way harder when she remembered her sad smile.

They just are... casual? It doesnt get me invested in them because none of their moments are intimate, I think (I mean Himiko and Ochako feel way closer than Izuku and Ochako even when they share goals and have cute moments, maybe bc some of the themes that hori seemed to introduce in the beginning for them got dropped after Katsuki was chosen to remain as a supportive pillar for Izuku. I hope the phrasing comes out as I intended!)

*I guess the closer to this would be her wishing him to give his best when she was at the helicopter, but personally I dont count it as random because everyone was feeling the same -and Iida is the link to this, narratively speaking. It wasn't her in the helicopter in a different scene with nobody else discussing these topics, neither it was Izuku thinking of this aspect of her on his own. So it doesnt come off as impactful.

[rvzcvx]

HEYYY i dont really fanfictions but idk,I really liked one of your fanfictions ,is it possible to have a FanFiction with bill x m!reader Or reader non gender ?🎀 With 2005 bill cause he's my favorite Era,I want something cute and fluff cause he was 16..I just had the idea that bill and reader don't really understand it because like bill speak.german and he doesn't understand english and reader doesn't understand german😭!Afterwards for the rest I leave you free ideas! because I trust you

Love you🫶

THE LANGUAGE OF LOVE

pairing: 2005 bill x male reader

warnings: nothing, just fluff

a/n: im sorry for not posting for so long but i had to focus on school. i promise that i will try to post more often!! and btw i love you too, i hope youre gonna like what i wrote

I still couldn't believe it, I was sitting in the living room of Bill Kaulitz, my boyfriend, from my favorite band. It felt surreal, like a dream I never wanted to wake up from.

The room was filled with posters, CDs, and personal items that gave it a cozy vibe. Bill was in the kitchen, making us some tea. I could hear him humming softly, his voice always managing to soothe my nerves.

We met a few months ago after one of his concerts. I had been a fan for years, and the opportunity to see him perform live was a dream come true. I never imagined that I would actually meet him, let alone start a relationship with him. It was hard at first, with him speaking mainly German and me only knowing English, but we found ways to communicate.

Bill walked back into the room, holding two steaming cups of tea. He smiled warmly and handed me one. "Hier, für dich." he said, his accent making the words sound even more special.

"Danke." I replied, one of the few German words I had mastered. I smiled back at him, feeling a warmth spread through me.

We sat in comfortable silence for a few moments, sipping our tea. Bill looked at me, his eyes full of affection and something else I couldn't quite place.

"You... like the tea?" he asked, his English slow but deliberate. "Yes" I nodded, "It's perfect, just like everything you do."

Bill blushed, a soft pink tint coloring his cheeks. "Danke, mein liebling." he said, reaching out to take my hand. His touch was gentle and reassuring, a silent promise that everything was going to be okay.

We had learned to bridge the gap between our languages with gestures, smiles, and a lot of patience. Bill would teach me simple German phrases, and I would help him with his English. It was a process, but one that brought us even closer.

Bill set his cup down and moved closer to me on the couch. He pulled me into a warm embrace, and I rested my head on his shoulder, feeling the rise and fall of his breath. We stayed like that for a while, just holding each other, letting the unspoken words fill the space between us. His arms around me were my safe haven, a place where I felt completely at home.

After a while, Bill pulled back slightly, just enough to look into my eyes. "You... make me very happy." he said, his English improving day by day.

"You make me happy too, Bill." I replied, my voice barely above a whisper. "More than you'll ever know."

Bill's smile widened, and he leaned in for a kiss. Our lips met in a soft, lingering kiss that spoke of all the things we couldn't yet say in words. When we finally pulled apart, we were both breathless, but content.

He wrapped his arms around me again, pulling me close. "Ich liebe dich." he whispered into my ear. I had learned that phrase early on. "I love you too, Bill" I replied.

As the evening turned into night, we continued to talk, laugh, and simply enjoy each other's company. It didn't matter that we spoke different languages; what mattered was the love we shared and the bond that grew stronger every day.

By the time we decided to call it a night, I felt more connected to Bill than ever. We climbed into bed, cuddling close under the warm blankets. Bill held me tight, his presence a comforting weight next to me.

"Gute nacht , mein Liebling." he murmured sleepily. "Goodnight, Billy." I replied, feeling my eyes grow heavy.

As I drifted off to sleep, I knew that whatever challenges we faced, we would face them together. Our love was stronger than any language barrier, and that was all that mattered. In Bill's arms, I felt at home, loved, and understood. And that was a feeling that needed no translation.