#the edge of metamorphosis | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pucksandpower · 4 months ago

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Metamorphosis

Charles Leclerc x ex!Reader

Summary: Charles makes the worst mistake of his life, leaving him to watch from the sidelines as you move on to bigger and better things (and people)

Warnings: cheating, only one of you gets a happy ending (hint: it’s not Charles)

Based on this request

Charles enters the bedroom he shares with you, his heart pounding in his chest. He knows he has to finally come clean about his infidelity. The guilt has been eating away at him for weeks.

You’re sitting up in bed, reading a book. You look up with a warm smile as Charles approaches. “Hey, you’re home early.”

Charles takes a deep breath. “Yeah … we need to talk.” His voice is heavy with regret.

You mark your page and set the book aside, giving him your full attention. “What’s going on?”

Charles sits down on the edge of the bed, unable to meet your trusting gaze. “I ...” The words get caught in his throat. How can he tell you? How can he shatter the life you’ve built together?

After a long pause, you prompt gently, “Charles? You’re worrying me ...”

He forces himself to look at you. Your beautiful face, your eyes full of love and concern for him. It breaks his heart anew.

“I’ve done something unforgivable,” he confesses in a pained murmur. “I … I cheated on you.”

For a moment, the room is silent. You stare at him, eyes widening in shock and hurt. Then, almost robotically, you slide out of bed and walk over to the closet. You pull out a suitcase and start methodically packing clothes.

“What? No, please, don’t do that!” Charles jumps up, panic and desperation gripping him. “I’m so sorry, it was a mistake! It meant nothing to me, I swear!”

You don’t respond, continuing to pack with eerie calm.

“Aren’t you going to yell at me? Throw things? Please, just … show some emotion!”

You pause and look at him impassively. “Why should I waste my energy? You’ve clearly checked out of our relationship already.”

Charles feels like he’s been slapped. “No! No, that’s not true at all! I love you, I want to make this work!”

Shoving the last shirt into the suitcase, you move over to the vanity and begin unclasping your jewelry — pieces he gave you on holidays or your anniversary or just because. You stack the earrings, necklaces, and bracelets on the surface, finally pulling off your engagement ring and adding it to the pile with a soft clink.

“Please ...” Charles begs, tears filling his eyes. “Please don’t leave me. We can get through this, I promise!”

You zip up the suitcase and turn to him, your expression unreadable. “Let me go, Charles.” You roll the suitcase toward the door.

Charles follows you through the apartment, desperation clawing at his insides. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m so, so sorry. Please, just give me another chance!”

You stop at the front door, finally meeting his gaze. Your eyes are dry, but there is a deep sadness etched onto your features. “Why should I give you another chance when you didn’t give me or our relationship a second thought?”

“No, wait!” He rushes after you, grabbing your arm. You shrug him off easily, pausing with your hand on the knob to look back at him one last time.

“I used to think you were my soulmate,” you say quietly. “But you’ve shown me who you really are. I can’t keep loving a lie.”

“Don’t do this!” he pleads, desperation clawing at his throat. “Don’t just give up on us, on everything we had!”

You pause at the front door, finally turning to face him fully. “You gave up first, Charles. Not me.”

He opens his mouth, but no words come out. Because you’re right — he’s the one who destroyed this, who sacrificed your life together for one selfish moment.

Your jaw tightens slightly, the first flicker of emotion he’s seen. “Goodbye, Charles.”

You turn and walk out the door, pulling it shut behind you with a final click.

Charles is left staring at the closed door, the deafening silence around him. He’s not sure how long he stands there, frozen, replaying your parting words in his mind. Goodbye, you’d said, without any anger or tears.

Just … goodbye.

***

Months later, Charles is seated in the front row at Milan Fashion Week, watching the Ferrari Style runway show with a tight smile plastered on his face. He’s here for publicity, to keep up appearances, even though the last thing he wants is to be thrust into the spotlight tonight.

Not when you are walking in the show.

He tries not to hold his breath as each new model struts down the sleek crimson catwalk. He’s successful at keeping his cool, nodding occasionally at a particularly striking outfit, until suddenly … there you are.

You emerge from the backstage wings, a vision in deep Ferrari red from head to toe. But it’s not just a dress or evening gown. No, the Spanish flag and bold 55 displayed proudly on the front of the outfit leave no doubt — you’re wearing a feminine version of his teammate’s race suit.

Charles’ jaw goes slack as you move with confidence, head held high, every inch the picture of poise and strength. Of a woman who has moved on, left him and their broken relationship in the rearview mirror.

His hands clench in his lap as you pivot at the end of the runway. Even from here, he can see that characteristic glint in your eyes, the spark that had drawn him to you in the first place. The same spark that had been extinguished in those final moments at your shared apartment.

As the show wraps up and the other models join you, Charles rises shakily. He knows he shouldn’t, knows he has no right. But the masochistic urge to see you up close, to try and speak to you for the first time in months, is overpowering.

He makes his way backstage, flashing his credentials to bypass security. A deafening mix of cheers and laughter guides him towards the dressing area, where he finds a cluster of models still in their runway looks, giddily celebrating.

And there you are in the center, radiant and alive in a way he hasn’t seen in so long. A tall, broad-shouldered man he doesn’t recognize moves towards you, a massive bouquet of red roses in his hand.

Something dark and ugly rears up in Charles’ chest as the man leans down, offering you the flowers with a brilliant smile. Your returning grin is equally bright as you accept them, lifting the vibrant blooms to inhale their sweet scent.

Of course you have suitors lining up, Charles thinks bitterly. Look at you — confident, successful, leaving him and your painful history together far behind. Who wouldn’t want to give their entire heart to someone like you?

The irrational flare of jealousy is like acid in his veins as you turn to the man, mouth opening to undoubtedly offer your gratitude. But then, shockingly, the man simply pivots towards a nearby male model, gripping his lapels and pulling him into a searing kiss.

Charles blinks dumbly as the pair continue their heated embrace, seemingly oblivious to the raucous cheers and whoops from the other models, you included.

Even as the tight knot of jealousy in Charles’ chest loosens, it’s replaced by something worse — a sinking feeling of regret as he watches you from his hidden vantage point.

You look … happy.

Vibrant.

Surrounded by friends and uplifted by your success, without him holding you back with his selfish mistakes.

Why did he ever think confronting you backstage was a good idea? You’ve clearly moved on to an exciting new chapter, one he has no place in. Not after how much he broke you, shattered the loving core you’d shared.

You throw your head back in a full-bellied laugh at something one of the other models says. Even from here, even with the distance he forced between you, the uninhibited joy on your face in that moment cuts straight to Charles’ heart.

“Hey, you lost back here?” A rough voice breaks into his thoughts. Charles turns to find a burly security guard eyeing him suspiciously.

“I … no. No, I was just leaving.” Charles forces his feet into motion, turning on his heel to all but flee from the scene of your happiness.

As painful as it is seeing how beautifully you’re thriving without him, he has no one to blame but himself. He’s the one who threw away the greatest thing he ever had. You owe him nothing, certainly not delaying your healing by dredging up the past.

Even if watching you move on cuts deeper than any physical wound.

***

The salty Sardinian breeze ruffles Charles’ hair as he leans back on the plush deck lounger, soaking in the warm August sun. For the first few days of their annual family yacht trip, he’d felt the knots of tension slowly unraveling from his shoulders as the clear blue waters and simple routines of life at sea worked their magic.

His mother’s gentle humming as she read nearby, the sounds of his brothers horsing around and doing cannonballs off the stern, the nights spent under a blanket of stars — it had almost been enough to fully distract him from thoughts of you.

Almost.

But of course, nothing can ever be that simple.

“What the hell is that!” Arthur’s annoyed shout breaks the tranquil silence.

Charles squints against the glare over the water to see what his brother is griping about. At first, it’s just a speck on the horizon. But as it draws nearer, he can make out the sleek, gleaming white lines of another yacht — one nearly triple the size of his own comparatively modest vessel.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Charles mutters under his breath as the ostentatious floating palace drops anchor mere yards from their private little cove. So much for the serenity they’d been enjoying.

He rises, moving to the railing with narrowed eyes as the other yacht’s passengers begin to emerge on the decks above them, raucous cheers and laughter cutting through the previously still air. The sound is abrasive, grating on Charles’ very last nerve.

Until a very specific, very familiar laugh rings out.

It can’t be … can it?

Charles freezes, his heart jackrabbiting as your unmistakable voice and bright, bubbling giggle reach him across the waters. He watches, feeling like he’s been doused in ice water, as you come into view alongside a group of equally vibrant, beautiful people.

Of course it’s you. Who else could it possibly be, here to upend his few days of hard-won peace?

You lean over the railing, your sunglasses sliding down your nose as you peer down at the crystal clear waters. Even from here, even with the distance separating you, Charles is struck by your radiant, carefree smile. When was the last time he saw you look so … effortlessly happy?

Before he can spiral too far down that winding road, you whip off your sunglasses and straighten, pulling the flowing fabric of your cover-up over your head in one smooth motion. You toss it aside carelessly, revealing the deep navy string bikini underneath as you take a few steps back from the railing.

Charles’ mouth goes dry as he tracks the sway of your hips, the confident, easy way you carry yourself in just that tiny scrap of swimwear. And then, with a bright peal of laughter, you’re sprinting forward and sailing over the railing, tucking into a flawless backflip before slicing into the glittering waves below.

A chorus of cheers and whoops erupts from your friends as they follow your graceful leap, one by one pelting into the water in your wake like a stream of sleek dolphin dancers. Charles watches, his earlier frustration morphing into something darker and much more complicated, as your head breaks the surface, tendrils of your soaked hair clinging to the graceful curves of your neck and shoulders.

You toss your head back, slicking the dripping strands away from your face as you tread water easily, that brilliant, freed smile never slipping. How long has it been since Charles saw you look so radiant, so at peace, so … alive?

“Mon ami, close your mouth before you start drooling all over the deck.”

Joris’ voice startles Charles from his reverie. He blinks, only then realizing his hands are clenched tightly around the cool metal railing, knuckles straining white. His best friend arches an expectant brow as Charles quickly averts his eyes, flushing hotly.

“I wasn’t ...” he starts weakly, but Joris simply scoffs.

“Yeah, okay mate. Keep telling yourself that.” Joris settles in beside him, bare feet kicked up on the railing as his eyes track over to your group, now engaged in an intense game of chicken fight among the gentle waves. “She looks good, doesn’t she?”

The resentful scowl that tugs at Charles’ mouth is automatic, instinctive. “I couldn’t care less how she looks,” he lies through gritted teeth.

Even to his own ears, the petulant deflection sounds pathetic. Joris raises an unimpressed brow. “Could’ve fooled me, with how you were eye-fucking her from over here just now.”

Charles’ flush deepens as your bright, delighted laughter rings out again, echoing across the waters. “It’s not like that,” he insists, even as his gaze traitorously tracks after the source of that sound. “I was just … surprised to see her here, that’s all.”

“Sure, yeah. And I’m the Prince of Monaco.” Joris snorts, shaking his head. “Listen, man, I get it-”

“You don’t get anything,” Charles bites out, rounding on his friend as frustration boils over. “You have no idea what it’s like seeing her like … like that, after everything. She’s just moved on like our entire relationship meant nothing!”

The ugly admission hangs between them in the still air, Charles panting slightly from the force of the outburst. Joris watches him cautiously for a long moment before speaking. “That’s not fair, Charles. You’re the one who-”

“I know!” Charles cuts him off sharply, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I know what I did, alright? You don’t have to remind me.”

He sinks back against the railing, suddenly exhausted down to his very bones. Out across the waves, you’re perched atop one of your friend’s shoulders, engaged in an epic battle against another pair that’s quickly devolving into a fit of violent splashing.

“I know I screwed everything up. I have to live with that every single day.” Charles’ throat feels tight, watched. “I just … I never thought I’d have to watch her being so happy without me too.”

The fight seems to leave Joris as he takes in Charles’ miserable, broken expression. The other man sighs, squeezing Charles’ shoulder comfortingly. “I’m sorry. That’s … that’s got to be tough as hell to see. But you can’t blame her for moving on and being happy again, you know? What you did … well, you really broke her heart.”

Charles doesn’t respond, letting the words hang heavy between them as your melodic laugh continues to drift towards them. He knows Joris is right — he has no one to blame for this gut-wrenching situation but himself. But that doesn’t make watching your vibrant, beautiful soul shine so bright without him there any easier.

***

Charles guides his Ferrari up to the valet stand outside one of his favorite restaurants in Monaco, the engine purring like a contented cat. He throws the car into park and kills the ignition, savoring that last potent growl of the powerful motor.

There’s just something different about a Ferrari, something quintessentially Italian and bred for speed. He runs an appreciative hand along the sleek black curve of the door as he waits for the valet. This is a beast made for the racetrack, for pushing past limits. Not like those garish, overcompensating-

The loud rumble of another engine cuts into his thoughts. Charles looks up in disdain as a blinding yellow Lamborghini pulls up.

“Trying too hard, as always,” Charles mutters to himself as he watches the valet park the ostentatious machine. Could a car be any more desperate for attention? Absolutely zero class or restraint.

He climbs out, already half-dismissing it from his mind, when a familiar figure emerges from the restaurant entrance. The valet is hastening to assist, offering a hand as she descends the front steps in a form-fitting crimson dress. Even from here, even with the perfectly curled hair and smokey makeup, Charles would know the line of those shoulders, the elegant curve of her neck anywhere.

You.

His breath catches as you smile warmly at the young valet, sliding him what looks like a generous tip before slipping into the driver’s seat of the garish yellow Lamborghini and roaring off without a backwards glance.

Charles is still gaping after you, mouth slightly ajar, when the second valet appears at his side.

“Good evening, monsieur. Shall I park your car for you?”

He blinks dumbly for a moment before recovering. “Yes, please. Thank you.”

Sliding the young man his own tip, Charles pivots on his heel and strides into the elegant dining room, mind whirling. Of all the cars in the world, he never would have pegged you for a Lamborghini person.

Then again, he clearly doesn’t know you like he thought he did. Not the new you, the version free of him and his betrayals.

He takes his usual table in the back corner, ordering an expensive Chianti before he can even glance at the menu. Tonight calls for relying on old vices. As he swirls the deep burgundy liquid, he finds himself drifting back to your matching crimson dress, how it clung to your curves in such a delicious way.

Even when you were furious with him, you could never quite hide the passion that smoldered underneath. Charles had spent many blissful nights stoking those flames, coaxing them into an all-consuming wildfire of want and need. He misses the scorching heat of your desire, your clever hands and wicked mouth setting his body ablaze.

He closes his eyes, letting the memory of your bare skin flush against his wash over him. Those nights of tangled limbs and breathy gasps, when nothing else mattered but struggling to get impossibly closer, as if your very beings could meld into one.

With a frustrated groan, Charles slams back the rest of his wine. What is he doing, torturing himself with memories of your lovemaking? You’ve clearly moved on to new chapters, new … cars. New everything, really.

And yet he can’t quite extinguish the gnawing sense of dissonance. A Lamborghini? Something so utterly over-the-top and desperate for attention just doesn’t seem like your style. You were always more understated … more elegant.

Not that it matters, he reminds himself firmly. Whatever choices you make now are no longer any of his business. He systematically strips away the judgements, the fragile sense of still knowing you intimately. After what he did, he sacrificed that right completely.

The waiter reappears with a fresh glass of wine and Charles takes it gratefully. He’s determined to focus on learning to untangle you from his thoughts and simply enjoy his evening. He came here for the ambiance, the food, the escape.

But no matter how he tries, your image keeps invading his mind’s eye — sliding into that sunshine yellow machine, stunning in that slinky red number and your lips curved in a contented smile. Content without him still lingering in the shadowed corners of your life.

And then it hits him like a slap across the face — you in that screaming yellow Lamborghini wasn’t about attention at all. It was the opposite — a declaration of fierce independence. Of staking your own claim, making your own flagrantly joyful choices without a care for his opinions or approval. Free from his reputation, his expectations, his name.

The realization is like a punch to the gut, stealing his breath. You’ve remade yourself so thoroughly, forging a vibrant path that has absolutely nothing to do with him. While he’s been stuck in neutral, spinning his wheels and passively watching you soar out of reach.

A strange sense of loss washes over Charles. As badly as he’d wanted you to find your way again after his unforgivable betrayal, he can’t deny how disorienting it is to realize you’re not the same woman he fell in love with all those years ago.

You’re a new version, one he isn’t familiar with at all. One who makes choices and carries herself in a way he doubts he’ll ever fully understand, no matter how much he wishes he could go back and undo every selfish mistake that set these changes into motion.

Charles blinks against the unexpected sting in his eyes as he stares at the table. On some deeper level, he knows this remolding of your identity, this blossoming into someone both thrillingly unfamiliar yet unmistakably you, should be cause for celebration. It means you’re healing, leaving his mistakes in the past and coming into your own again in spite of his ugliest failures.

He just wishes he didn’t have to watch the entire metamorphosis from a distance.

***

Charles squints against the bright morning sunlight as he strides through the paddock towards his garage. A slight chill still clings to the air, promising another sweltering afternoon session once the sun reaches its peak. He adjusts his cap lower over his eyes, trying not to dwell too much on the practice times from yesterday. There’s still so much fine-tuning needed to find those crucial extra tenths of a second.

Passing by the Red Bull motorhome, a flash of familiar flowing hair catches his eye. Charles freezes mid-step, his heart stuttering. It couldn’t be … could it?

But then the figure moves fully into view and there’s no mistaking the delicate slope of your jaw and those cheekbones he knows as well as his own reflection. It’s definitely you, slipping inside the sleek facade of the Red Bull motorhome with an easy smile.

Charles blinks dumbly, certain his eyes must be playing tricks on him. Why in the world would you be going into the Red Bull motorhome? You never had any connection to their team or drivers before, back when ...

When you were still together.

Charles swallows hard, dragging his gaze away. He must have imagined it. Sometimes his subconscious still gets carried away, superimposing your presence into random moments or places like an echo of a life he can never return to. Seeing you here, intertwined with his racing world in some way, is just too improbable.

Shaking off the strange moment, he refocuses on the day ahead. But over the next two days, he can’t seem to avoid catching glimpses of you around the Red Bull garage and hospitality areas. There you are chatting with one of their engineers just outside their motorhome entrance. Then sharing a hushed conversation off to the side with their chief strategist.

Finally, on Sunday just before the race, he watches with raised eyebrows as you throw your head back laughing at something Max Verstappen says, the Red Bull driver’s own grin wide and appreciative.

Some sort of friendship surely couldn’t explain this level of access and familiarity could it? A sour knot of suspicion begins twisting in Charles’ gut. There’s no way … no way Max would ...

But he has to know.

As the Formula 1 circus begins packing up after the race, Charles spots you slipping away from the Red Bull group once more, clearly headed back to their closed-off sanctuary. He watches Max linger outside, fiddling idly with his cap as he waits.

It’s the perfect opportunity. Charles doesn’t even think, just lets his feet carry him across the crowded paddock until he’s standing across from his fellow driver.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” The accusation comes out half-snarl before he can stop himself.

Max turns, eyebrows shooting up. “... Charles? What are you on about?”

“Don’t play dumb.” Charles jabs a finger back towards the motorhome you disappeared into. “I’ve seen the way you’ve been with her all weekend. How you two can’t seem to get enough of each other’s company.”

Realization dawns and Max actually has the audacity to laugh. “Wait … is this about Y/N? You jealous she’s been hanging around our team?”

White-hot fury lances through Charles and he has to grit his teeth against the heated words that want to come spilling out. “You think this is funny? Cozying up to my ex-fianceé less than a year after I lost her? What, you couldn’t find someone else so you had to go after her?”

Max shakes his head slowly, clearly fighting to keep his expression neutral. “Damn … I didn’t realize the great Charles Leclerc makes the rules on who Y/N can associate with these days.”

The blatant dismissal in his tone is like a physical slap. Charles recoils slightly before squaring his shoulders. “Don’t turn this around on me. I know what I saw, how cozy you two were-”

“Easy there, tiger.” Max cuts him off, holding up one hand placatingly. “First of all, Y/N and I are just friends. I happen to have my own gorgeous girlfriend, but thanks for looking out.”

He pauses, letting the implication that Charles is being irrational and out-of-line sink in. When Charles doesn’t immediately retort, Max continues.

“Second … you seem to have conveniently forgotten that you’re the one who threw away your life with Y/N. The one who cheated and broke her heart. You don’t get to dictate a damn thing about who she spends time with or how she chooses to live her life now.”

The words slam into Charles with brutal force, knocking the breath from his lungs. Because Max is right — he has no claim here, no right to make assumptions or demands. Not after what he did.

Seeming to sense he’s scored a direct hit, Max shakes his head again. “Look, I get it’s probably hard watching her move on fully, start over without you. But that’s on you, not her. You’re going to have to learn to deal with the consequences of your own actions.”

The quiet truth in his voice is like a white-hot brand. Charles swallows hard, suddenly incapable of meeting Max’s level gaze.

“Then … then why has she been around your team so much?” It comes out sounding more petulant than he intended, a desperate scramble to regain some levity. “If she’s not … you know ...”

Max huffs out a soft laugh, stooping to retrieve his discarded cap. “That answer isn’t mine to give.” He slides it back on, fixing Charles with one last searching look. “But if I had to guess? She’s putting herself first now. Pursuing her own path, one that has nothing to do with you anymore.”

He turns towards the Red Bull motorhome, tossing his final phrase over his shoulder. “I’d get used to it, if I were you.”

Charles watches him disappear inside, leaving him rooted in place and feeling completely lost. The crowd continues to disperse around him, teams and personnel breaking down equipment and packing things away.

Yet Max’s words keep ricocheting through his mind on an endless loop.

She’s pursuing her own path now. One that has nothing to do with you anymore.

It makes perfect sense of course — the laughter, the camaraderie, the ease of her presence in Red Bull’s inner sanctum. The seamless way she navigated their ecosystem all weekend long while Charles remained oblivious.

Because you’ve fully remade your entire existence into one that no longer intersects with his whatsoever.

As the paddock slowly empties around him, Charles finally forces one foot in front of the other, his legs feeling like overcooked noodles. Part of him wants to stick around until you reemerge, to demand that you explain this bold new reality you’ve carved out.

But what would be the point? You don’t owe him any explanations, any part of your life now. Those days are over, gone forever thanks to his own bone-deep failings.

So he keeps walking, leaving you and your mystery behind. After all, hadn’t you made it crystal clear from the very beginning?

This was your path to reclaim now, a future that was yours and yours alone to chase.

***

Charles frowns down at the envelope in his hand as he pushes open the door to his apartment, his mind still half-focused on the looming Austrian Grand Prix. The return address is from some high-end clothing boutique in Paris, but it’s the name neatly printed below that makes his heart stutter.

Y/N Y/L/N.

For a long moment, he simply stands there in the entryway, turning the innocent envelope over and over in his hands. How did this slip through the cracks and wind up here, at what used to be your shared home before everything combusted?

He traces the graceful swoop of your name with one finger, memories flickering through his mind’s eye. Coming home from races to find you curled up on the sofa with the latest fashion magazines scattered around you, making notes in the margins. Or catching you in the huge walk-in closet the two of you designed together, carefully hanging up some new couture purchase with a reverent touch.

You always did have impeccable taste. Charles can’t even find it in himself to judge the fancy Parisian boutique’s stationary now clutched in his hands.

Making a split-second decision, he spins on his heel and heads right back out the door, letter in hand. If this innocuous slip of mail made its way here by some shipping error, it’s the perfect excuse to … what? See you again? Try to explain himself one more time?

He’s not sure, but either way, the pull to seek you out is utterly irresistible now that this connection has fallen into his lap. Charles makes it two blocks before realizing with a start that he has absolutely no idea where you’re living these days.

The logical side of his brain reminds him he could simply call or text to get your new address and make arrangements to pass the letter along. But the thought of such mundane formalities after all this time, after the way things were upended so brutally, is laughable.

So instead he lets his feet guide him towards the upscale apartment building you lived in before moving into his place. There’s a chance the leasing office might have a forwarding address on file he can use. A small voice whispers that this is almost certainly a futile quest, that you’ve no doubt successfully untangled every last thread of your life from his.

But he has to try.

The lobby is blessedly quiet, devoid of the usual bustle and foot traffic he remembers from past visits. Charles straightens his shoulders and approaches the front desk, where a youngish woman with a bright smile greets him.

“Good afternoon, sir. How can I help you?”

“Hi, yes, I’m actually trying to track down the new address for a former tenant — Y/N Y/L/N?” He carefully pencils in the last name, watching as the woman’s face scrunches in thought for a beat before her eyes widen in recognition.

“Of course, Mademoiselle Y/L/N. One moment.”

She taps efficiently at her computer, scanning whatever information has popped up on the screen. Just watching her work makes Charles’ heart kick up its rhythm in nervous anticipation.

“Ah, yes, here we are. It seems Mademoiselle Y/L/N moved out around three months ago. She actually left instructions for any further mail that slips through to be forwarded to ...”

She pauses, glancing up at Charles with newfound curiosity sparking in her eyes. “Are you a relative, sir? Mademoiselle Y/L/N requested her new address only be released to family.”

“I’m … an old friend,” he answers carefully, unsure if that bends the truth too far or not. “We used to be very close.”

The woman’s polite smile dims ever-so-slightly at his choice of words, like she can read the subtext loud and clear. Used to be very close … until he completely obliterated that closeness.

“I see,” she says neutrally. “Well, in that case, I’m afraid I can’t provide her new contact details without explicit permission. But the residents currently leasing her old unit have been directly forwarding any mail to her, if that would help?”

It’s not ideal, but a frustratingly belated realization stops Charles from arguing further — you clearly requested your whereabouts be kept private now, at least from him. Probably a wise decision, all things considered.

“Yes, that would be great. Thank you.”

She rattles off the apartment number and Charles commits it to memory with a polite nod before turning to leave. As he crosses the airy lobby once more, he can’t resist glancing up towards the corner unit he knows was yours, absently wondering if someone else’s belongings line those shelves now, if there are new photos or mementos dotting the surfaces where yours once stood.

He shakes off the melancholy pang — you’ve forged an entirely new existence somewhere far away. Of course your old place has been repopulated, just like all the love you breathed into it has dissipated like smoke.

The apartment door opens after the third solid knock, revealing a twenty-something woman with a confused furrow in her brow. “Can I help you?”

“Hi, I’m actually here about a piece of mail for the previous tenant? The front desk said to bring it here.” Charles quickly proffers the letter before she can raise further objections or shut the door in his face completely.

“Oh.” She accepts it hesitantly, turning it over in her hands just like Charles had done earlier. “Yeah, the last tenant did leave instructions for stuff like this, now that you mention it ...”

She trails off, eyes narrowing slightly as she studies him more intently. He knows that look, can pinpoint the exact moment realization blossoms.

“Wait … you’re not Charles Leclerc, are you?”

So much for anonymity. He opens his mouth, fully prepared to deny and deflect as the tension stretches between them-

“Oh my god, you are!” The young woman actually gasps, one hand flying up to cover her mouth as her eyes go saucer-wide. “I can’t believe I’m actually meeting you. I mean, sorry about … you know. That entire situation with Y/N. My boyfriend is such a fan of yours though, I can’t even-”

“It’s alright,” Charles cuts her off on pure instinct, the words rushing out in a bid to stem the conversational swerve that’s clearly brewing. “I actually stopped by to pass that letter along, but also see if there’s a current address where I could reach Y/N? Perhaps send her things directly from now on.”

His polite inquiry has the desired effect — the woman’s starry-eyed expression shutters again as she refocuses. “Ah, well, about that … Y/N asked for anything like this to be forwarded to an address in Austria once she moved there. Let me grab that for you.”

Charles waits in silence as she ducks back inside, busying herself with finding the details. Austria? Of all places, why would you have relocated to-

“Got it.” She reappears, a small slip of paper in her outstretched hand. “This is where you can send anything for Y/N. Though I obviously don’t know all the details about … you know. Your situation.”

He takes the slip without comment, just a curt nod of acknowledgement. The woman rocks back on her heels, worrying her lower lip slightly.

“For what it’s worth … I think it’s really cool you’ve tried to stay in contact, you know? Even after everything. That’s commitment.”

Her sincere tone grates against the ugly truth they’re both tap-dancing around — that he’s the one who torched your commitment beyond repair with his selfish actions.

“Thanks,” is all he can muster, already turning away and pocketing the slip of paper with your new Austrian address before she can say anything further.

As he retraces his steps to the ground floor, Charles finds himself clutching the envelope even tighter, knuckles going white. So you’ve fled all the way to Austria now, put an entire nation’s length between your old life and whatever rising present you’re building. No wonder you didn’t want your location breathed to just anyone, let alone the man who detonated your world.

Well, he got what he came for in more ways than one. He has your new address now, the roadmap to whatever path you’ve started down without him sketched out in his hands. Part of him longs to deviate from his own schedule and just … show up, uninvited, on your new doorstep. To try and explain himself, or at least attempt to understand what grander journey you’ve embarked on.

But the same voice that cautioned him earlier rings out once more — you’ve made it perfectly clear you want to sever any remaining ties or connections to him, no matter how tenuous. Perhaps out of necessity to fully heal or simply because you’re done having any part of Charles Leclerc tarnish your horizons any longer.

Either way, you’ve spoken through your silence and distance. Chasing you down now, while perhaps gratifying a selfish impulse of his own, would only disrespect the boundaries you’ve erected.

As Charles reaches his car and slides in behind the wheel, he can’t resist rereading the brief string of characters and numbers that make up your new address. He commits them to memory, sketching out a crude map in his mind’s eye of where exactly this secluded town lies in the looping alpine valleys and mountain peaks.

Part of him longs to program the coordinates into his GPS immediately, to seek you out while this connection still blazes hot and bright between you. But harsh realities keep crashing in — the Austrian Grand Prix is only days away, his own commitments and schedule unforgiving.

No, the wise choice would be to simply send the wayward letter on to its intended destination. To let you live in peace, unburdened by his disruptive presence any longer.

As Charles fires up the engine and eases out onto the main street, he catches one last glimpse of your old apartment building shrinking in the rearview mirror. He thinks of the wide-eyed woman’s parting comment about “commitment” and has to laugh bitterly.

Commitment is precisely what he failed to uphold, the whispered promises he shattered into pieces with his own calloused hands. You owe him no further explanations, no more fragments of yourself after he decimated the love you shared.

The seconds will stretch on towards the next race, the next city, the next routine of focused preparation. But part of Charles’ mind will linger in that small Austrian town, caught in the mystery of the new life you’ve built.

A life he has no right to reinsert himself into, not anymore. All he can do is wish you well from a distance and keep putting kilometers between you with every spin of his tires.

Kilometers and kilometers of regret.

***

Charles stares down at the navigation screen, his thumb hovering over the go button. This is ridiculous — completely irrational and just begging for disaster. He has no business showing up unannounced like this, disrupting whatever new life you’ve so carefully constructed.

And yet … the Austrian address you have been forwarding mail to is already programmed in, glowing softly with the swipe of his finger. He could be there in just over nine hours, barring any major delays on the route into Salzburg province.

His mind races, cycling through every logical argument for abandoning this reckless idea immediately. You’re entitled to your privacy, your fresh start far away from the wreckage he created. Anything more would be him selfishly barging back into your existence, the one place he swore to never intrude again.

Against his better judgement, Charles swipes the go button. Almost instantly, the robotic voice begins spouting turn-by-turn directions, the path to your doorstep stretching out in vivid digital detail.

What’s done is done. He’ll simply … take it one step at a time.

The winding Alpine roads are a marvel of feats in civil engineering, the roadways expertly carved into the towering rock faces in sweeping vistas. Even Charles, who has logged countless miles of serpentine racetracks and courses around the globe, can’t help admiring the impossible scenery whipping past.

Evergreen forests give way to snow-capped peaks reaching into the crisp blue sky. ancient castles and towering church spires alike keep popping into view around each new switchback turn. He can’t shake the nagging sense that this entire region is something ripped from the pages of a storybook, a landscape too perfectly picturesque to be real.

Which is perhaps why the sight of the enormous wrought-iron gates materializing up ahead doesn’t immediately faze him at all.

“You have arrived at your destination,” the GPS chirps pleasantly as Charles slows the Ferrari, trying to comprehend the sprawling estate now stretching out before him. This can’t possibly be right, can it?

Lush gardens and perfectly manicured shrubbery serpentine around the perimeter in intricate geometric patterns, eventually yielding to an emerald green meadow dotted with ancient growth trees. A gravel path splits the sweeping lawns up ahead, clearly carving a wide berth around … is that an actual lakehouse?

Charles blinks in stunned stupor, instinctively searching for some sort of address marker or sign as he creeps up the main drive towards the gates. Instead, his eyes are drawn to the imposing manor itself, all honey-colored stone and arched windows that wouldn’t look out of place in a Renaissance fresco. Turrets and spires spiral upwards towards the cloudless sky, practically winking in the summer sunshine.

This has to be some colossal mistake.

He’s fully prepared to simply turn around and peel back out of this fairytale estate when the crackle of a speaker breaks the silence.

“Hallo? This is a private residence. Please identify yourself and state your business.” The clipped, accented words carry an undeniable tone of authority.

Shit. Charles swallows hard against his suddenly dry throat, throwing the car into park as he leans towards the callbox mounted on the ivy-laced exterior wall.

“Ah, yes, hello … my name is Charles Leclerc. I’m actually here to-” He breaks off, fresh uncertainty bubbling up. He’s here to what, exactly? Catch a glimpse of the new life you’ve created? Throw himself at your feet and beg forgiveness once more?

“One moment, please,” the disembodied voice instructs crisply before the line goes dead silent once more.

Charles sits back, gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turn white. He should go, right now before this reaches the point of no return. He could simply turn around, act like this was all some misguided joke and leave you undisturbed. It’s the mature, sensible choice.

Instead, his pulse kicks up into a furious gallop as the massive front gates begin slowly grinding open with a metal groan, clear invitation to proceed. Charles doesn’t move for a long beat, waiting for the second half of the intercom to bark out a warning, for security to appear and politely hustle him off the premises.

But nothing. The gates yawn open further, revealing the full splendor of the estate lying in wait beyond.

Before he can think better of it, Charles eases the Ferrari forward. The crunch of the pale gravel beneath his tires seems to echo off the looming stone walls as he winds deeper into the property, the boundaries blurring between reality and a dreamscape more suited for the silver screen.

Finally, he rounds the last curve and the manor in its full glory stretches out before him. Every inch of the sprawling facade is a carved, architectural marvel — from the polished lintels to the intricate mouldings encircling each enormous window and doorway.

He kills the engine and simply sits there, once again grappling with unprecedented uncertainty. What was he thinking, assuming he could just brazenly roll up and … what? Vent months worth of grievances and miscommunications in a casual chat? As if the life you’ve so clearly cultivated here could ever intersect with his own beaten path again?

Charles climbs out of the car on legs that seem determined to wobble out from under him. He’s vaguely aware of the thunder of footsteps on stone before one of the massive oak front doors swings wide and a figure fills the entryway.

“Charles Leclerc, I presume?” The man’s sharp tone instantly catches Charles off guard. He’s younger than expected, perhaps mid-thirties, with an athletic build and carefully groomed dark hair. Despite the informal lounge pants and linen shirt, an unmistakable air of assurance rolls off him in waves.

“Er … yes. Hello.” Charles hears the uncertainty edging into his own greeting, quickly scrambling to fill the conversational pause. “I didn’t realize Y/N had … household staff now.”

The words are out before he can fully snatch them back. The man’s expression doesn’t so much as flicker, but there’s suddenly a tension charging the space between them that has Charles’ palms prickling with sweat.

“I’ll inform her you’ve arrived,” the man says at last, his intense gaze scanning over Charles slowly from head to toe.

Is that judgment blending into the appraisal? Regardless, Charles feels abruptly self-conscious — he hadn’t expected to be on the receiving end of such frank scrutiny today. But then again, he’s the one who inserted himself into unknown territory here.

“If you wouldn’t mind waiting in the receiving hall?” The open doorway and subtle tilt of the man’s head is clear invitation, one Charles has no choice but to mutely accept.

He climbs the three stairs to the arched entrance, pausing just before the threshold to turn back with furrowed brow. “I’m sorry, I don’t believe I caught your-”

“Mark.” The reply is clipped but courteous enough, at least. “Y/N should be down shortly.”

And with that, he turns on his heel and disappears through the foyer, leaving Charles to hover there alone for a beat too long before finally stepping across the threshold. Each footfall on the gleaming marble seems to ricochet off the domed ceiling above, bouncing back in mocking echoes.

As his gaze travels around the cavernous space, roving over the hanging art and intricate tilework, Charles can’t quite bite back the breathless huff of amazement.

Where in the actual hell are you living, Y/N?

***

Charles follows a step behind Mark as the other man leads them deeper into the estate. He can’t resist craning his neck, taking in every jaw-dropping detail — the soaring archways, the intricate brickwork, the Venetian plaster and artworks adorning the walls.

It’s the art itself that begins nagging at him first. Charles frowns slightly as they pass yet another larger-than-life canvas, this one emblazoned with the distinctive Red Bull logo and colors. Then a series of framed photographs, all seeming to depict different angles and events tied to the racing team.

“You must be quite a fan of Red Bull,” he finds himself commenting as they round a corner.

Mark half-turns, one eyebrow quirked. “You could say that.”

There’s an undercurrent to his tone that Charles can’t quite put his finger on. Before he can pry further, they emerge into some sort of sitting room or receiving area, the walls giving way to a bright, airy ambiance.

“Please, make yourself comfortable.” Mark gestures towards one of the plush sofas arranged in the center of the space. “I’ll have the staff inform Y/N you’re here.”

Charles nods, still trying to absorb the sheer opulence around him as he takes a seat. How in the world did you find yourself situated in a place like this? The nagging questions about Mark’s potential connection to the Red Bull team continue to swirl.

He’s pulled from his ruminations by the sound of your voice filtering down the hallway, breezing and melodic as ever.

“Babe? You down here?”

Charles stiffens instinctively at the endearment, his eyes snapping over to where Mark is casually lounging back against the opposite sofa. There’s no missing the tender smile playing across the other man’s lips.

“In the sitting room, liebling. We have a guest.”

The teasing lilt in his response has Charles’ skin prickling with something he can’t quite identify. He rises halfway as your footsteps grow nearer, not wanting to seem rude by remaining fully seated.

“Oh, a guest! Who-”

You sweep into the room still chattering away cheerfully, entirely oblivious until your gaze finally lands squarely on Charles. The breath punches out of you in a surprised rush, your entire body going rigid as the words die on your lips.

For an endless heartbeat, you simply stare at Charles, motionless but for the slight part of your lips. He watches as a faint flush blossoms high on your cheekbones, long lashes fluttering rapidly.

“... Charles? What are you doing here?”

He blinks dumbly at the sound of your voice, hushed with disbelief yet still so familiar after all this time. “I … you got a letter. From Paris, I think. It arrived at our — at my old place by mistake.”

Cursing his stammering, Charles reaches automatically for his inner jacket pocket, fumbling until he can produce the crumpled envelope bearing your name. “I didn’t know if other things might keep getting sent there, so I thought ...”

He trails off lamely, unable to properly articulate the impulse that propelled him all this way. To deliver one measly piece of mail? To re-establish some connection, no matter how fragile? He realizes with a start that you’ve moved closer, extending one hand to gently accept the letter from him.

“Thank you,” you murmur, eyes momentarily skittering away from his probing gaze. “That was very considerate.”

The moment stretches out, silence expanding in the cavernous space. Charles watches as your free hand flutters unconsciously upwards to fiddle with the collar of your shirt, struggling to find his voice once more.

“I didn’t realize you had, ah … you had a place like this now.” His attempt at nonchalance is so piss-poor he wants to cringe. “And … company, I suppose?”

A delicate snort from the other side of the room reminds Charles he’s not alone with you. His gaze snaps over to find Mark watching the exchange with an inquisitive smirk, arms crossed casually over his chest.

“Company?” He echoes the word airily, igniting a fresh bloom of color in your cheeks. “This must be terribly confusing for you.”

In one seamless motion, Mark unfolds himself from the sofa and crosses the short distance to your side, slipping one possessive arm around your waist. The intimacy of the gesture has Charles’ mouth going dry.

“Allow me to clarify — I’m Mark. Mark Mateschitz.” The subtle emphasis on the surname hits Charles like a bucket of ice water, comprehension crashing over him in waves.

“Mateschitz?” He hears himself repeating dumbly. “As in … Dietrich Mateschitz? The founder of Red Bull?”

Mark’s grin stretches into something wolfishly triumphant at Charles’ stunned expression. “The very same. My father.”

He lets the implication expand in the silence barreling down on them from all sides. Charles numbly finds the nearest armchair and sinks into it, struggling to fully process the revelation.

Of course. All the Red Bull imagery and iconography made so much more sense now. This sprawling, palatial estate clearly belonged to the family behind the team and brand, the multinational empire. Which meant … you weren’t simply a friendly acquaintance chumming around the Red Bull garages.

No, you were with the actual Mateschitz heir, the current co-owner of the goddamn company himself.

The sound of you softly clearing your throat breaks through his whirling thoughts. When Charles glances up, the vision that greets him is like a vise around his heart — you and Mark cuddled close together on the loveseat, his arm still looped possessively around your waist as you toy absently with the ends of his dark hair. Two people radiating intimacy and comfort, completely at home in one another’s embrace.

“We met during a Wings for Life charity run, actually,” you offer at last, almost as an olive branch. “We just … hit it off, I suppose. One thing led to another and … well, here we are.”

Mark’s fingers trail in a barely-there caress up and down your arm as you speak, his gaze locked adoringly on your profile. The look is so tender, so inescapably fond that it makes Charles’ chest constrict painfully.

“She’s a force of nature,” Mark says simply, the corners of his eyes crinkling with quiet mirth. “What else could I do but get caught up in her orbit?”

A flush blossoms high on your cheeks, but you don’t turn away, holding Mark’s fond gaze steadily. In that moment, the love you two share is almost a tangible force, shimmering and alive in the air between you. It’s beautiful and devastating all at once.

“I, uh, I should go.” The words leave Charles in a dazed mumble before he can reconsider. He rises abruptly, needing to create space between himself and the intimacies unfolding so easily in front of him.

As if snapping out of a reverie, you look up sharply. “Charles, wait-”

“No, really, it’s fine.” He tries valiantly to paste on a casual smile, shoving his hands in his pockets to keep from fidgeting. “Thank you again for … well, you know. I’m sure I can see myself out.”

Turning on his heel, Charles makes it no more than two strides before your voice stops him once more, tinged with gentle exasperation.

“That’s the library you’re heading for. Here, let me ...”

You gently disentangle yourself from Mark’s embrace and cross the room towards a different set of double doors. Charles watches in silence as you lead the way through winding hallway after hallway with an effortless grace. Of course you know the layout of this palatial mansion like the back of your hand — this is your home now, your life.

The thought churns bitterly in his gut even as you both finally reach the arched front entrance. You turn back to face him, mouth twisting in that familiar apologetic quirk he knows so well.

“Listen, I know this was … unexpected. And maybe not the easiest thing to process.” You huff out a soft laugh, tucking an errant strand of hair behind your ear almost shyly. “But I’m glad you stopped by, despite everything. It was … nice to see you again.”

He blinks dumbly, at a loss for words in the face of your warm sincerity. This entire interaction has been an avalanche of emotions — the shock of discovering your romantic entanglement with the Mateschitz heir, the painful pang of watching you two’s intimacy on display, and now the remnants of affection in your tone as you bid him farewell.

It’s simply … too much. Too many conflicting feelings to deal with when his heart still bears the scar tissue of your break up.

“You too,” is all he can manage in return, his voice sounding distant even to his own ears. “I, uh … I should get going if I want to make it to Spielberg before media day.”

You nod, seeming to understand his unspoken need to retreat and regroup. “Of course. Well, safe travels then.”

“We’ll see you at the Red Bull Ring,” Mark pipes up from behind you, his voice cutting through the tension with surprising joviality. “It is our home race this weekend, after all. We wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

The reminder that you’ll be perpetually woven into the fabric of his racing life from now on hits Charles with the force of a gut punch. He swallows hard, bobbing his head in acknowledgement as you open the front door for him.

“Looking forward to it,” he lies through his teeth before turning on his heel and all but fleeing down the front steps.

He’s vaguely aware of you calling out something about having someone escort him through the grounds and to the main gate. But Charles doesn’t pause, can’t stop until he’s directed the powerful Ferrari back out onto the main roads and open air.

Only then does he finally let out the shuddering breath he’d been holding, the sweet Alpine breezes sweeping over him. He floors the accelerator, putting as much distance between himself and that fairytale estate as possible.

But no matter how fast or far he drives, he can’t outrun the image searing into his mind’s eye — you nestled so contentedly in Mark’s arms, so visibly adored and cherished. Just as you’d once been cradled in Charles’ own embrace, before he burned everything to ashes.

Blinking hard against the hot sting in his eyes, Charles white-knuckles the steering wheel and lets the endless stretches of winding road unfurl before him. There’s only one direction now — forward.

Always forward.

No looking back, no wistful what-ifs allowed. You’ve found the life and love you deserve after he shattered your world.

All he can do is wish you nothing but joy from a distance, even as his own heart disintegrates inside his chest with every step further away from you.

***

The bass line thrums through Charles’ body like a living thing as he signals for another round at the club’s private VIP bar. He can barely make out the sound of his own thoughts over the pulsating music, but that’s rather the point tonight. To drown out the ceaseless reel of memories and fragmented realizations in a haze of liquor and pounding rhythms.

“You sure about that?” The bartender has to shout to be heard, one sculpted eyebrow arching upwards as she eyes the growing collection of empty glasses. “I think you’ve had quite enough, sir.”

“I’ll tell you when I’ve had enough,” Charles snaps back, the words slurring slightly as he slaps his platinum card down with more force than intended. “Just keep them coming.”

The woman’s dubious gaze flickers briefly to somewhere over his shoulder before she simply shrugs and moves to fill his latest order. Charles slumps forward with a harsh exhale, fingers digging into his sweat-dampened curls as the relentless bassline reverberates through his bones.

“Easy there, calamar.”

The familiar voice cuts through the noise as a firm hand clasps his shoulder. Pierre slides into the open stool beside him with a concerned furrow in his brow.

“I’m starting to think my invite for a fun night out may have been a mistake.” His eyes rove over the staggering collection of empty glasses and bottles before lifting to meet Charles’ glazed stare.

“Or more like a cry for help,” he mutters, pitching his voice to be heard clearly. “Want to talk about what’s got you in such a mood?”

Charles opens his mouth but all that comes out is a bitter bark of laughter. He reaches for his newly-arrived glass, downing half the amber liquid in one go as it burns all the way to his core.

“What’s there to talk about?” The words are thick and unwieldy on his tongue. “She’s gone. Moved on better than I ever could have with some … some rich prick who treats her like his personal princess.”

He waves a sloppy hand in the air, gesturing vaguely. “Guy is richer than God, probably spoils her rotten with jewels and furs and … and billion dollar villas overlooking the Alps.”

His voice cracks slightly on the last word and he has to blink rapidly against the unwelcome sting in his eyes. Pierre’s forehead creases further as he watches Charles raggedly drain the rest of his glass.

“I take it your little meeting with Y/N didn’t go well?” He pitches it as a careful question, one Charles shrugs listlessly at before reaching for the nearest full glass. Pierre’s hand shoots out, closing around Charles’ wrist to impede his progress.

“I think you’ve had quite enough of that for one night,” he declares firmly. “Unless you want security dragging your drunk ass out of here, that is.”

Charles tries feebly to tug his arm free but Pierre’s grip remains vise-like. His traitorous thoughts drift back to the image of Mark’s arm so casually looped around your waist, confident in his place at your side.

“What’s he got that I don’t?” The plaintive question slips out before he can bite it back. Charles swivels glassy eyes towards his friend and teammate. “Seriously, Pierre … what can Mateschitz offer her that I couldn’t?”

A heavy silence stretches out between them, punctuated only by the thunderous pulse of the music. Pierre holds his stare steadily, clearly weighing how much harsh truth Charles can handle in his current condition.

“Well … thirty-seven billion dollars is a decent start, I would guess.”

The matter-of-fact words hit like a sucker punch to the gut. Charles flinches as if physically struck, mouth falling open in a small ‘o’ of shock.

“Jesus, have some tact,” Pierre continues crisply. “Forget the money for a second — mate, he didn’t cheat on her. He has the basic decency to stay faithful. You know … the bare minimum requirement for a relationship?”

The dig bites deep, sparking a fresh flare of white-hot shame and regret in Charles’ core. He twists his captured wrist futilely once more before giving up and dropping his head to thunk dully against the bartop.

“I thought we were past rubbing salt in the wound,” he mumbles towards the gleaming wood surface.

Pierre sighs, his grip softening enough to pull his arm free at last. “We are, we are … mostly. But you can’t honestly expect me to sit here and help you feel sorry for yourself about another man treating Y/N right after you treated her so abysmally.”

Charles squeezes his eyes shut as your face swims into focus. The light in your eyes when Mark gazed at you, the simple intimacy you radiated together ...

“I miss her,” he whispers, each word carved from shards of anguish and loss. “I miss her so damn much. And now every time I have to see her at a race or schmoozing at an event, I’ll know exactly what I threw away for one night of selfishness.”

Fat tears leak from the corners of his screwed-shut eyes, tracing hot pathways down his cheeks as Pierre watches silently. After a long stretch, Charles finally cracks one eye open to peer blearily at his friend once more.

“I need to win her back,” he declares with as much conviction as he can muster through the alcoholic fog seeping into his brain. “I’m not over her, I’ll never be over her. There has to be a way to … to make things right again, don’t you think?”

Pierre regards him steadily, arms folded across his chest. “I think … you’re drunk off your ass and in no state to be making grand romantic gestures tonight.”

Charles waves a clumsy hand, nearly toppling his remaining drink in the process. “Not tonight. But … soon. Yeah, soon I’ll figure out what her new favorite flower is or some shit. Maybe a nice bottle of whatever top-shelf champagne she likes these days. Or … or I can dedicate a race win to her! Girls go gaga over that romantic shit, right?”

He watches Pierre’s expression morph into one of pure incredulity before his friend pinches the bridge of his nose hard, eyes screwing shut with a shake of his head.

“You’re not even hearing yourself right now, are you?” Pierre asks at last, infusing as much patience into his words as possible. “This isn’t about some flowers or a bottle of bubbly or delusionally thinking you have a chance to beat Red Bull this season. You completely decimated her trust in you and demolished the entire foundation of your relationship.”

Charles squirms uncomfortably at the brutal truth. Part of him wants to get up and stalk away in a final burst of tipsy petulance.

But the rest of him knows Pierre is simply being the voice of reason — the harsh reality check he so desperately needs right now, despite how it slices into his wounded pride.

“Look ...” Pierre seems to sense he’s veering into dangerous territory and softens his tone slightly. “I’m not trying to kick you while you’re down, I swear. But any chance of reconciling with Y/N will require so much more than a thoughtless grand gesture or gift.”

Slowly, Charles lifts his bleary gaze and locks eyes with his friend. Pierre holds the stare steadily, mouth set in a solemn line.

“It’ll take rebuilding the bedrock of your foundation — time, effort, and trust. Things you can’t buy or speed along, no matter how much you try.” A heavy pause settles between them before Pierre speaks again, more gently this time. “Maybe reconnecting with her is possible one day … or maybe not. But you owe it to her and yourself to give space for those open wounds to heal first.”

It’s not at all what Charles wants to hear right now. His instinct is still to barrel forward, to blaze a path of extravagant overtures until you melt back into his arms. But deep down, he knows Pierre is speaking the truth — he systematically torched something sacred and attempting to simply spackle over that devastation would be spitting in the face of your shared past.

Nodding slowly, Charles reaches up to swipe clumsily at the dampness on his cheeks. Pierre places a steadying hand on his shoulder, giving it an affectionate squeeze.

“Come on, idiot. Let’s get you home before you really embarrass yourself out here.”

Charles doesn’t protest as Pierre slips off his stool and hauls him upright, looping one arm securely around his waist for support. As they navigate the pulsing crowd, he steals one last glimpse over his shoulder at the bar now shrinking away in the distance.

Perhaps this part of his story with you might be over, the final embers snuffed out. But somehow, some way, Charles vows to rekindle that spark again — even if it takes immeasurable time and effort to nurture it back from the smoldering ashes of his own making.

One thing is certain, though — any path forward will require him to douse these wallowing flames of self-pity first.

The pounding bass fades into a dull throb as Pierre guides them out into the cool night air. Charles blinks rapidly, the city’s twinkling lights swimming dizzily before his bleary eyes as his friend bundles him into the backseat of a waiting car.

“Just let me sleep it off,” he slurs as the plush leather seats engulf him. “I’ll be good as new in the morning.”

Pierre huffs out a wry chuckle as he slides in beside Charles, rapping his knuckles on the privacy partition to signal the driver. “Yeah, we’ll see about that. Once you’re properly re-hydrated and that tequila has run its course.”

The motion of the town car pulling away from the curb has Charles’ head lolling back against the headrest. He cracks one eye open to peer at his friend through his disheveled curls.

“I really do love her, you know?” The confession emerges soft and subdued, loaded with naked yearning. “Like … the love of my entire whole damn life, probably. How fucking stupid is that?”

He’s not sure if the dampness blurring his vision is from a fresh wave of moisture or simply the alcohol still sloshing through his system. Either way, Pierre’s gaze softens imperceptibly as he reaches out to give Charles’ knee a reassuring squeeze.

“We’ve all been certifiably stupid in the name of love before, believe me. The key is learning from those mistakes before moving forward.” A beat passes before he adds, “And for the record — I know you did love Y/N with everything you had, even when you monumentally fucked things up.”

Charles lets his eyes slip shut once more with a slow nod. “Then you know why I can’t just … let her go completely. Why I need to find a way to get back to her, even if takes years of making things right first.”

The words hang heavy between them, a tangled thicket of resolution and remorse. Finally, Pierre exhales a soft sigh.

“I know. But that’s a bridge to cross another day, when you’re sober and can actually string two coherent thoughts together.” He gives Charles’ shoulder a light shove. “For now, focus on putting one foot in front of the other and staying hydrated, yeah?”

Despite himself, the corners of Charles’ lips quirk upwards at his friend’s gentle ribbing. He fumbles blindly for the window switch, lowering the glass to allow a blessed gust of fresh air to roll in and fill the cabin.

“Yeah, yeah, I hear you. Just … don’t hold your breath on me moving on anytime soon.” His eyes flicker open once more to meet Pierre’s steady gaze. “I’m kind of stubborn that way when it comes to the things I want most.”

Pierre holds his stare for a long beat before giving a slow shake of his head, a wry smile tugging at his own lips. “Believe me, mate — I’m well aware.”

They lapse into companionable silence for the remainder of the drive, the city’s twinkling skyline gliding past in a blur. Despite the copious amounts of alcohol still sloshing through his veins, a flicker of hope rekindles in Charles’ chest.

You might have slipped from his grasp, but that doesn’t necessarily mean your paths can’t someday and somehow intersect once more.

All it will take is the courage to keep inching forward, one stumbling step at a time.

No matter how many times the darkness tries to swallow him whole.

***

The roar of the crowd is deafening as Charles kills the engine, the high-pitched cheers swelling to near-riotous levels.

He tips his head back against the headrest for a beat, drawing in a deep, steadying breath. P2 at the Singapore Grand Prix isn’t cause for disappointment — he drove one hell of a race and pushed his machinery to its limits.

But the unbridled pandemonium echoing all around paints a stark reminder that second-place means precious little tonight.

As he cracks open his helmet visor, the screams seem to multiply tenfold. Charles squints against the blinding flash of a thousand camera flashes as the feverish celebration kicks into high gear. Of course the crowd is whipped into such a frenzy — a certain Dutchman has done it again.

Max Verstappen just secured his fourth consecutive World Drivers’ Championship.

Charles watches almost numbly as a swarm of bodies in dark blue coverings rushes the track. The Red Bull mechanics, crew members, and team management spill out in an ever expanding tide, swarming towards parc fermé. All desperate for their piece of history, to bask in the glory of their latest accomplishment.

Bracing one hand against the sweltering engine cover, Charles hauls himself up and out of the cockpit with as much energy as he can muster. He plants his feet wide on the sizzling asphalt, scanning the chaos overtaking the pit lane in search of … there.

You cut an unmistakable figure in understated elegance among the churning sea of navy. Even from here, Charles can make out the burgundy sheath dress clinging to your curves, the soft tendrils of hair escaping your chignon. You’re a vision wreathed in smiles as you follow closely behind Mark, the two of you buffeted but undeterred as you fight against the tide of bodies.

For a split second, Charles allows himself the simple indulgence of drinking in your radiance. Seeing the way your cheeks bloom with color from the heat and exhilaration. How your delighted laughter seems to sparkle in the humid night air, mingling seamlessly with the roars of jubilation.

You’re so clearly drunk on the evening’s euphoria, caught up in the intoxicating thrill of witnessing sheer greatness on display. Even standing halfway across the track, Charles can sense the infectious joy rolling off you in waves.

He’s always loved seeing you like this — passionate and alive in a way that sets his heart pounding. Though he knows now, with a ferocious ache, that particular spark isn’t for him anymore.

As if to underscore the point, Mark suddenly grinds to a halt right in the middle of the sea of revelers. You plow into his back with a breathless giggle, clearly caught off guard. That’s when Charles notices the obvious struggle as you try to regain your footing, wobbling precariously atop a set of wicked-looking stilettos.

Even from this distance, he can read the brief look of concern that pinches Mark’s brow as he turns towards you. The chaos of the celebration fades into background noise as Charles watches helplessly as Mark reaches for your arm to help steady you.

You wave him off with a warm smile, clearly unbothered as you simply shrug out of the towering heels completely. Mark lunges to catch the discarded shoes before they can get swallowed up by the crowd.

There’s a brief pause as the two of you seem to communicate wordlessly. Then, in one smooth motion, Mark pivots and crouches down in front of you, gesturing towards his broad back. Your laughter rings out bright and delighted as you clamber on, effortlessly looping your arms around his neck as he straightens with a grunt.

Just like that, you’re ensconced within the protective circle of Mark’s arms, held securely in place on his back as he continues walking through the celebrating crowd. From his vantage point, Charles can just make out the matching beams you both have plastered on as you sway happily with each step.

It looks so … easy. Natural and uncomplicated in a way Charles’ entire existence seems incapable of obtaining these days. He drinks in the vision of you nuzzling sweetly against Mark’s neck, leaving a feather-light kiss of pure affection on the hinge of his jaw before snuggling back down. Two people completely in sync and unabashedly in love.

Despite the sweltering humidity, an icy chill washes over Charles from somewhere deep within. He’s all too aware of precisely what he’s witnessing right in front of him.

You’ve exchanged his partnership — one defined by betrayal and brokenness — for something far greater.

Charles huffs out a dry, mirthless breath as he sinks back against the sweat-dampened chassis of his idle car, feeling painfully adrift despite the pulsing rush of people all around him. He catches one final glimpse of you and Mark before the crowd finally sweeps you up — the picture of contentment nestled so trustingly against your beloved’s back. Watching on as your dazzling smile lights up the night with each joyful step you draw nearer to the championship celebration

He knows with soul-cleaving certainty in that moment that you’ve likely never felt as cherished or prized in your entire life as Mark must make you feel every single day.

Meanwhile, Charles is perpetually exiled here on the outskirts, unable to do anything but bear witness to the other man’s spoils. So close to his own desires yet barred from ever seizing them for his own.

Always the usurped, forever second fiddle, constantly relegated to P2 in work and life.

With a jaw so tightly clenched it threatens to crack his molars, Charles wrenches his gaze away at last. He feels the first angry prick of heated moisture gathering in the corners of his eyes and hates himself for the painfully vulnerable reaction.

This is his self-manufactured hell, after all. He has no one to blame but his own selfish impulses and cowardly weakness for tossing that bond with you into the incinerator. For annihilating the relationship you had built over years of steadfast partnership in one careless night.

So he’ll swallow down the bitterness and lingering heartache as penance for his sins. Compartmentalize the image of you balanced so peacefully in another man’s embrace, so patently adored and worshiped as you deserve.

He at least owes you that mercy — to bear the whole of his consequences in dignified silence as you bask in the victor’s glow you were always meant for.

1K notes · View notes

heyiwrotesomethings · 4 months ago

Text

Metamorphosis

Shinobu Kochou x Trans She/Her Reader

A/N: Sorry for the insane wait! I’m gonna take a nap now! Hopefully the typos aren’t horrible. Warning: Misgendering both intentional and not, gender dysphoria, coming out, brief discussion of potential surgery and use of medication. If there is more I should mention, please let me know. Thank you for reading! Word Count: 5,518

Shinobu was a very busy woman, countless slayers passed through her doors, many of which she wouldn’t even see during their visit, taken care of by one of the other residents while she was on missions or furthering her research.

However, there were times when her intervention was crucial, or she simply took an interest in those who happened to cross her path and give a little more of her time and consideration where she could. Case and point, Tanjiro and company, but without the rambunctious quartet chasing each other around the mansion at this early morning hour, her attention was caught by another.

The slayer waiting for assistance in her infirmary today appeared perfectly healthy, though maybe a bit nervous and sleep deprived if the bags under each eye were anything to go by. Being nervous was common enough amongst patients, even if they were only there for a run-of-the-mill check-up. However, those check-ups usually weren’t at five in the morning. Shinobu could have left it to one of the other girls or a Kakushi to handle, but something told her to take on this patient herself.

“My, you’re here early, good morning!” She spoke pleasantly as she began her approach, startling the patient out of their thoughts. Shinobu noted that he seemed to become more agitated and on edge.

“Good morning, Kochou-sama.” The slayer spoke softly, then gave Shinobu an abrupt bow, his long ponytail nearly cracking like a whip from the force.

Shinobu hummed in amusement and took a seat beside the cot her patient had chosen as a tentative perch while waiting for assistance.

“Well, I will say you look perfectly healthy from where I’m sitting. If you’re here for a physical or something minor, we usually ask that you make an appointment, but as you can see it’s one of those rare, quiet mornings so I’ll let it slide just this once, okay?” She informed, throwing in a playful wink for good measure.

The patient seemed conflicted, and to Shinobu it seemed that he had something he really wanted to say, but he managed to swallow it down for better or for worse, looking down at his tightly clasped hands.

“I’m sorry, I should have thought about that.”

“No harm done.” Shinobu assured, gesturing with her hand towards her office, thinking a more private space would be appreciated, “Come along and we’ll see how everything is going, alright?”

The patient seemed to hesitate again, but eventually replied with a hoarse, “Alright.”

Shinobu led the slayer to her office and motioned for them to sit as she closed the door behind them. She then began to carry out the standard exam. She pulled out the slayer’s medical history file, saying the name aloud to make sure she had the right one. The patient seemed to tense, but nodded stiffly in confirmation. Shinobu had chalked it up to more nerves and continued on with the exam.

Well, as much as she could since he was stubbornly insistent on keeping his shirt on, but Shinobu worked around it. It was actually a bit refreshing considering most men that walked through her doors couldn’t wait to show off. Once she checked over all she could, Shinobu sat back in her seat.

“Well, Ln-san, everything here checks out. Nothing to worry about, you’re a perfectly healthy young man, congratulations.” Shinobu lightly joked and smiled reassuringly and put in a few finishing notes on the record. “You’re free to go.”

“O-kay.”

Shinobu’s pen froze mid-stroke upon hearing how the slayer’s voice cracked, she glanced up with a slightly startled look upon her face. Her patient seemed to be breathing heavier, his eyes shined with a wet film of held back tears, causing Shinobu to sit up straighter in her chair, more alert.

“Oh dear, is something the matter?” She asked innocently, unaware of just how heavy the answer to that question would be.

The slayer’s bottom lip trembled as he tried to put on a brave face. Shinobu noted how his shoulders shook, the inhales of air when he tried to speak were noisy and abrupt. Shinobu kept calm and attempted to coax him.

“I don’t know what to do, Kochou-sama…”

“About what?” She asked gently.

A sort of watery, abrupt guffaw left the slayer’s mouth, a shake of the head and a frustrated toss of the hands.

“See, I couldn’t sleep for months because it was all I could think about… I thought about what I would do and how to explain… but now that I’m here… I- it’s all slipped my mind! It’s been slowly eating away at me for years, and now that I’m finally trying to say it out loud to someone, I can’t do it!”

“For simply slipping your mind, you sure seem to be intimately aware of your troubles. You’re just dancing around the issue for whatever reason that may be, but not quite saying it.” Shinobu leaned forward in her chair. “As insurmountable as it may seem to you, I cannot help if I don’t know what is keeping you up at night. You need to take that step yourself. The words don’t have to be perfectly articulate from the get go. You can always refine it once you get something out.”

The slayer continued to be conflicted, earning a sigh and a firm stare from Shinobu. She could clearly see this was a sensitive issue, but she truly could not sit here all day even if she wanted to. She could send the slayer Aoi’s way and maybe check on the situation later, but for now…

“I apologize for rushing you, but I do have other engagements—“

“I’m a woman!” They blurted hastily, hands tightly pressed together.

“…O-Oh!” Shinobu blinked in surprise, then reached for the slayer’s file again. “I’m sorry… whoever drafted your papers must have made an error.”

“Yes! Well, no, but yes. Um, it was ‘right’, given how I was born, but as I got a little older and thought about it more, the more it felt like it didn’t fit.” The slayer swallowed thickly, “I’ve been raised male, but that never felt quite right and… I know what I want now, what feels right and, and makes me feel like I can breathe and makes everything feel a little less suffocating. I just… there are some things about my body and how people perceive me that make me uncomfortable on the good days and like I could just about die on the bad days and I don’t really know how to do anything about it and I need help, please.”

Now that the slayer had divulged her plight to Shinobu, the slayer felt a strange weightlessness, but also like she might throw up from the stress and uncertainty of how Shinobu would process this information. They were practically strangers, she was taking a huge risk confiding in her.

Shinobu wasn’t going to let that look of dread quickly growing in the slayer’s eyes continue, she laid the file flat on her desk and dipped a pen in ink. After pushing her sleeve up, she smudged out the gender and swiftly replaced it. The slayer focused on the motion, lips parting in surprise. Shinobu smiled reassuringly, tapping the paper.

“Anything else that needs to be edited?” Shinobu inquired warmly, “It looks a little messy now, but once the proper corrections are made, a new one can be drafted.”

The tears that had weld up in the slayer’s eyes for a myriad of reasons in the past twenty-four hours finally bubbled past the dam and streamed down her face. She hurriedly tried to wipe them away.

“Sorry.”

“It’s alright, take your time.” Shinobu offered a handkerchief that was graciously accepted. After a minute, she pulled herself together, still a little weepy, but able to better communicate her wishes.

“M-my name. Could you change that too?” She asked, hopefully.

“Easily.” Shinobu affirmed. “Do you already have something in mind already? If not, I’m sure I could come up with something good.” Shinobu’s mind was already turning through a list of possibilities, even recycling some of the unjustly rejected names she had chosen when they had taken Kanao in.

Unfortunately for Shinobu, but fortunately for the slayer, she had already thought about this extensively and had a name at the ready.

“Yn.” She had answered, Yn had said the name to herself before, whispered it under her breath some late nights when she could not sleep, along with others that stood out to her, finding this particular name to be her favorite. Saying it aloud to someone else, someone she hoped would continue to be as accepting as she seemed to be right now, it felt even better.

Shinobu hummed and nodded, striking out the discarded name and putting the proper one in its place.

“And so it shall be.”

***

Yn was nervous, so so so nervous, but also excited. After having her latest late night crisis that had brought her to the steps of the Butterfly Mansion a week ago, she was coming back with a proper appointment. Shinobu had told her she would need to do some research on the science-y end of things, which had surprised Yn a bit.

She didn’t really know what to expect when getting Shinobu involved, but knowing she was packing extra specialized research into her already busy schedule just for Yn really blew her away. She couldn’t have been more grateful, which was why she was bringing a basket of treats as a thank you.

She wasn’t really sure what Shinobu liked… so she made a little bit of everything. Worst came to worst, at least the other residents might enjoy it. Though she really hoped Shinobu would like at least one thing she baked to make sure the extra hours she spent late last night were not used in vein. Not that she would have been able to sleep anyway.

She weaved her way through the garden and left her shoes at the entrance, making her way through the winding halls until she made it back to Shinobu’s office. After a couple of deep breaths, she knocked on the door before she could lose her nerve.

“Come in.”

“Pardon the intrusion.” Yn slid the door open and took pause upon seeing the amount of books spread around the office. There had been plenty of books before, but they were all neatly tucked away in their proper shelves. Now the quantity had appeared to noticeably increase and was liberally spread across almost every surface.

Shinobu was in between two precarious stacks at her desk, hair a bit mussed and a somewhat irradiated look in her eyes as she skimmed the page she was hunched over. She didn’t look extremely disheveled at all, but from what Yn knew of Shinobu’s reputation, appearing even a little out of sorts seemed unusual.

Something about it was highly attractive though.

Yn shook her head of the thought and gently knocked on the doorframe to remind Shinobu of her presence because even though she had invited Yn in, she had yet to look up.

“Aoi, I expressed…“ Shinobu’s gaze flickered upward and she seemed to freeze momentarily before she tried to side-eye the clock she kept on her desk. Tried to, because it was somewhere behind a wall of books.

“Oh!” She cleared her throat and stood from her desk. “My, is it that time already? I was just getting ready for you. Pardon the mess.”

It was pretty clear to Yn, that Shinobu had not at all been ready to receive her, but it was unnecessarily cute by how much Shinobu was trying to downplay just how caught off guard she was.

“It’s no problem. I uh, I like to read too.” Yn twirled the basket in her hands as Shinobu started slinging books back into their proper place in the shelves. “…Can I help?”

“Don’t trouble yourself, have a seat and I’ll be with you shortly…” Shinobu inhaled, smelling a sugary scent that reminded her she had neglected to eat breakfast, and lunch for that matter. She shoved a couple more books into place, the sound overtaking the sudden grumble of her stomach. She glanced curiously at the basket on Yn’s lap. “What do you have there?”

“I made some things as a thank you.” Yn looked down at her basket, her cheeks feeling a bit warm. “I don’t know what you like, but I wanted to bring something.”

Shinobu strode back, glancing over Yn’s shoulder into the basket. She blinked in surprise.

“You made all of this? For me?”

“Yes, please take it.” She offered Shinobu the basket. “If you aren’t a fan, please share them with the girls. I’d ask if you could please tell me your preferences so I can try to thank you again properly.”

Shinobu was so hungry at this point, she would eat a slice of stale bread if it was available, but this basket of treats was nothing less than immaculate. She graciously accepted.

“No, this is a lovely gift, thank you.” Shinobu said, graciously. “I can’t say I feel like I deserve such an opulent assortment just yet, but I will give you my best.” Her stomach reminded her of its existence yet again. “Would you find it terribly rude of me to indulge as we speak?”

“Absolutely not, go ahead.”

“Thank you.” Shinobu eased herself into her chair and retrieved a sweet bread roll that was calling her name. “Please help yourself as well if you’d like.”

“That’s alright, I’ve had my fair share.” Yn laughed, sheepishly.

Shinobu bit into the roll and felt better the instant she swallowed the first bite. She really needed that. On the second bite, she actually took the time to taste and she mourned the quick departure of the first.

“This is very good, Ln-san.” She praised. “You are really quite skilled.”

Yn felt a weight lift off of her shoulders, so much so she might float away from the praise. “Thank you so much! I’m so glad you like it!”

Shinobu finished the roll in a couple more bites and resisted the urge to pick through the basket for something else to sample. There were important matters to attend to after all and she had already been more frazzled than she would have ever liked to be in polite company.

She still had a couple books of her desk, certain pages book marked and ready to be referenced. Aggravatingly brief and scarce pages, to be precise. Better than absolutely nothing, she supposed.

“Let’s get the ball rolling then, shall we?”

Yn felt the nerves and excitement bubble within her once more. She couldn’t believe she was actually here, talking to someone. Not just someone, but a person who had the means and know-how to… to do what exactly, Yn wasn’t sure, but she was ready to hear her options.

“Alright,” Shinobu exhales, “what you’ve disclosed to me, it’s not unheard of. Unfortunately, my collection is lacking on in depth information. I do apologize for that, but I am getting my hands on a few works dedicated to the topic, it’ll just take some time for them to arrive.”

“It’s already beyond my expectations that I’m talking to anyone about this at all. I really can’t thank you enough for going through all this trouble for me.” Yn tried to put as much gratitude into her voice as she could.

“You’ve done more than enough thanking for one day and probably for the duration of however long it takes you to get to a more comfortable place in your presentation.” Shinobu assured with a kind smile, sliding a book over to Yn. “Let’s see what we know so far…”

***

So far so good… Yn couldn’t complain, she just wished she could feel a difference with the little pills she had each morning. Shinobu said they could possibly up the dosages later, but she wanted to start small and monitor for any negative side effects.

Her other option, though a quicker result, would be a highly experimental surgical procedure. Just listening to Shinobu explain how she might accomplish such a thing made Yn feel more than a little faint. Shinobu assured she would study the logistics of such a procedure before attempting it herself, but Yn wasn’t in a hurry to go under the knife so she could live with her little cocktail of estrogen pills and testosterone blockers that Shinobu and Aoi cobbled together.

Okay, that was unfair choice of words, Shinobu had worked tirelessly researching hormones and how to stimulate and stagnate them. It only took her about two months before she had something she was confident enough in to prescribe to Yn and she couldn’t have been more grateful, truly, again, she just really wished she could notice even the slightest change.

She sighed and put the pill bottle down, noticing a very light clinking sound as she did so. Curiously, she picks up another one of the bottles and gives it a little shake. She would have to get those refilled…

A warmth buzzed in her chest, an excuse to go back to the Butterfly Estate! Shinobu had said she could stop by anytime… but it never felt right to invite herself over, especially when Shinobu was always so busy. There wasn’t a guarantee that she would even be there at all.

However, her medication running low was the perfect excuse to test her luck and find out if Shinobu was around. If nothing else, it was always nice to see the others and seeing the younger ones smile when she came bearing treats was always a delight. So, she packed up some dango she had made yesterday and set off.

She was greeted as soon as she made it to the gates, Sumi, Kiyo and Naho running over from the garden. They tried not to look too hopeful about the contents of Yn’s bag, but Yn could plainly see how eager they were for a treat and she was happy to oblige.

“You’re going to spoil them, you know.” Aoi said, coming out of the mansion with a basket of laundry. She set the basket down and brushed her hands down her front. “We were wondering when you might make an appearance. Shinobu-sama was getting antsy, you shouldn’t wait until you’re down to the wire on your medication before coming in for a refill. You never know what might come up.”

“Sorry,” Yn rubbed the back of her neck, “I didn’t think about that.”

Aoi sighed and shook her head. “No harm done. Come with me and I’ll refill your prescription. After that, Shinobu-sama will want to check you over. It’s a little unfortunate that she’s in the middle of entertaining right now.”

“Entertaining?”

Before Aoi could elaborate, Shinobu happened to turn the corner, chatting with the Love Hashira beside her. Shinobu looked up and smiled warmly, making Yn’s heart flutter.

“Hello there, Ln-san, I was starting to worry about you.” Shinobu scolded jokingly.

“I’m sorry, Kochou-sama, I didn’t realize I was being missed.” Yn smiled sheepishly.

“Shinobu-chan!” Mitsuri, the Love Hashira, tugged on Shinobu’s haori, “Introduce me, will you? Who is this? A friend?”

“Yes,” Shinobu held out a hand in Yn’s direction, “This is Ln Yn, she’s also a patient of mine.”

Shinobu was sure Mitsuri would be endlessly supportive and kind as always if she had explained the situation, but it wasn’t her place to do so, it was Yn’s, if she saw fit.

“Oh!” Mitsuri pressed forward, hands clasped in front of her chest. So close that Yn instinctively took a step back from the sudden proximity. “You aren’t terribly sick, are you? That would be just awful! You know what always makes me feel better when I’m sick? Soup! Soup and dumplings and roasted vegetables and fish and—“

“Kanroji-san,” Shinobu put a hand on her back, “Ln-san will be just fine. It’s mostly just consultation.”

“Ah—“ Mitsuri blushed, a couple beads of sweat gathering oil on her brow, “That’s… that’s good! Very good!” She clapped her hands on Yn’s shoulders, making the other slayers almost wince at the overuse of force. “Stay healthy, Ln-san!”

“I- I will do my best, Kanroji-sama.” Yn promised, rubbing one of her poor shoulders.

“Mm! Mm!” Mitsuri nodded, her arms crossed. She opened her mouth to speak again, but instead a low rumble was heard from her stomach, renewing the intensity of her blush. “Ah! So embarrassing!”

“We were about to make lunch.” Shinobu shared, “You should join us.”

“I wouldn’t want to impose…”

“The more the merrier!” Mitsuri insisted. “Aoi-chan, you too!”

“I already ate.” Aoi refused, but then gave Yn the side-eye, “I wouldn’t mind a bit of dessert before it’s gone, however.”

“Oh! Yes, here you go, Aoi-san. Here is Kanao-san’s share too.” Yn presented Aoi with a few wrapped dango.

“Thank you, I’ll make sure she gets it.”

Yn felt an intense stare as Aoi walked away and slowly turned her head to see Mitsuri staring at her with big, hopeful eyes. Not very unlike how Kiyo, Sumi and Naho looked at her upon her arrival, actually.

“Is that… dango? It smells so good.” Mitsuri sighed wistfully.

“You can have some too if you want, I made a lot.” Yn offered, the sweetheart that she was.

“You made it yourself? Homemade is always the best!” Mitsuri danced foot to foot, “I can have some? Really?”

“Of course—“

Yn found herself in a crushing embrace, a few of her lumbar vertebrae made a dull cracking sound.

“That’s so nice! Thank you!”

“Kanroji-san, Ln-san isn’t used to your hugs be careful with her.” Shinobu gently reminded.

Mitsuri drew back, concerned and sheepish, “Sorry…”

“I’m okay.” Yn wheezed, handing a couple wrapped dango over to Mitsuri. “Here you go.”

Mitsuri exclaimed in excitement, accepting the offering. “Thank you!” She eagerly dug in, humming happily,

“You saved enough for me too, right, Ln-san?” Shinobu creeped up beside her, a sly smile on her face, “I would feel so left out if everyone got to enjoy a treat besides myself…”

“I have more!” Yn assured, a bit too panicked, making Shinobu chuckle.

“It’s alright, please breathe easy.”

“You’re so mean, Shinobu-chan.” Mitsuri whined, her mouth full of dango.

“Sorry, sorry~” Shinobu waved her hand, not looking very sorry at all. “Lunch will make up for it, I promise. Kanroji-san has a new recipe from the west we’re going to try.”

“Yes!” Mitsuri clapped, dango already devoured.

“Then I can give you a quick check-up and make sure everything is good to go.” Shinobu promised, already guiding Yn towards the kitchen.

***

It hadn’t taken long for Mitsuri to worm her way into Yn’s heart and earn her trust. Having Mitsuri to confide in was huge. A friend, a confidant and a sister, giving her all sorts of tips and tricks about makeup, clothes and even how to carry herself. There were even things she would ask Mitsuri about that she felt too embarrassed to ask Shinobu about, something that the Insect Hashira noticed and felt a bit jelous about… not that she would ever admit it.

She did, however, interrogate when she felt it necessary, which is how she found herself heading to one of her least favorite places on the planet.

“O-oh, Kochou-sama,” Maeda wrung his hands nervously, sweating in the Hashira’s presence, “what a… pleasant surprise. Do you have a uniform that requires mending?”

“I’m not here for me.” She spoke curtly, making Maeda flinch.

“I- I see… then Tsuyuri-sama, or Kanzaki-san…?”

“No. Shinobu drew closer like a lion circling prey, “I’m here for Ln Yn, she asked for a uniform alteration and I was informed that you turned her away. Is that correct?”

“Ln-san…” Maeda swallowed thickly, “his request was ridiculous, a- a joke I’m sure…”

Shinobu’s eyes flashed, giving Maeda a quick taste of the fury nestled just below her skin, “Masao-san,” she spoke, in an overly sweet tone, “you amaze me, truly.”

“I, I do?” The poor fool almost looked hopeful, but Shinobu quickly shut that down.

“Just when I think you can’t go any lower, you find yourself a shovel.”

Maeda cowered, had he been born a turtle, he would have retreated into his shell as Shinobu proceeded to rip him a new one.

“You know how I loathe your designs… a uniform that’s supposed to protect one from the slashes of the lowest levels of demons, yet you purposefully leave some of the most vital spots bare. Do you know how many women in the corps have been injured, killed, because they were too polite to reject your perversions?” She asked heatedly, not giving him time to answer,

“I loathe it… however, I respect those who feel empowered showing a little skin, if that is truly what they desire. Imagine my surprise when you had not leapt at the chance to give Ln-san a skirt.”

“Kochou-sama, please understand it’s because h—“

“She.” Shinobu cut him off. “You will make her a skirt, about knee length, as she desires or we can guess how long it will take for me to set your base of operations ablaze. It was a little tricky burning that trash you tried to pawn off on me those few short years ago, but I’m confident I still remember how I did it…”

“K-Kochou-sama, please! I don’t even have the measurements!”

Shinobu presented a piece of parchment from her breast pocket, nearly shoving it in his face.

“I took the liberty of getting them myself. I know you already have uniforms on standby, it shouldn’t take long to fix one up to the proper perimeters I’ve set for you. Finish within the hour please, it’s quite chilly today and who is to say what I might do to ensure I stay warm.” She warned, a chilling smile upon her lips.

Safe to say she had a lovely skirt in her hands half an hour later. The unrestrained hug of gratitude Yn had provided upon her return made dealing with the unpleasant tailor all the more worth it. Not to mention… the skirt did look quite good on her and that was only the beginning of Yn’s new wardrobe.

***

Entering the boutique with Shinobu and Mitsuri, Yn felt almost giddy. A girls outing, Mitsuri had suggested excitedly when they had all found themselves together with some rare free time. Well, Shinobu never truly had free time, but she’d be damned if she missed out on seeing Yn try on some cute clothes.

They did run into a little trouble early on, a small group of gossiping women following them around the store, causing Yn grief with their scrutiny. Shinobu wouldn’t let that last for long. To this day Yn still didn’t know what Shinobu had said to those women when she approached them, but she’d never forget how they paled and quickly left the shop in a flurry, getting tangled up in the entryway as one tried to make her hasty exit before the other.

“What did you say to them, Shinobu-chan?” Mitsuri had been the one to ask, while rubbing Yn’s back comfortingly.

Shinobu only smiled, raising a finger to her lips, making Mitsuri and Yn chuckle nervously. She then held out her hand to Yn for her to take and pulled her towards the fabrics for more formal occasions.

“Let’s continue to enjoy our outing, shall we? Kanroji-san, help her pick something nice, my treat.”

Mitsuri wasted no time pushing Yn through the rows of kimono. Shinobu smiled fondly, waiting for their return. She wanted to be surprised, and surprised she was upon their return.

“What do you think?” Yn asked shyly, doing a little spin when Mitsuri enthusiastically prompted her to.

Shinobu’s eyes greedily took in every detail and she sighed inwardly. Of course Mitsuri just had to put her in purple. She had to wonder if Mitsuri could read her mind and was trying to force Shinobu’s hand to finally make a move… Shinobu shook off that idea rather quickly, she had done well to hide her attraction and Mitsuri wasn’t that perceptive. It was a very good unintentional attempt, however. Her instincts managed a direct hit on Shinobu’s heart and now she had to attempt to be casual in her approval instead of foaming at the mouth.

“You look lovely. It really suits you.” Shinobu allowed her eyes to wander under the guise of appraising the outfit and nothing more, soon finding an excuse to get a bit more hands-on because she just couldn’t seem to help herself.

“Just have to straighten out the obi a little.”

“Thank you.” Yn murmured, feeling a little tingly from the gentle tugs and smoothing of fabric. “Are you sure it isn’t… too much?”

“Not at all, I can easily afford this.” Shinobu assured.

“No, I mean, does it really suit me?”

“Ln-san,” Shinobu gripped her bicep, squeezing it in warning, “do you think Kanroji-san or I, would lie to you?”

“No!” Yn squawked.

“Do you think Kanroji-san and I don’t know what looks good?” She pressed.

“No!” Yn rapidly shook her head. “I- I don’t think that at all!”

“Excellent. Pay no mind to what a couple of uninspired, uneducated women who can’t tell you if water is wet without asking their husbands have to say about what you can or can’t wear. Understand me? You’re beautiful.”

Yn felt herself tear up a bit. Shinobu was just too kind. How could someone so amazing exist at the same time as her, let alone be in such close proximity, comforting her? As lovely as the kimono was, she was starting to feel a little too warm with Shinobu staring at her so intently, her fingers still curled around the edge of her obi.

Then Mitsuri scooped her up in an all encompassing hug that made it nearly impossible to breathe.

“Shinobu-chan is right you know! So forget them and let’s have a good time. I know a thing or two about people like that, and it’s really for the best to not acknowledge them at all.”

“Or you could put something unpleasant in their tea.” Shinobu smiled ominously.

“Shinobu-chan!” Mitsuri gasped, hiding a giggle behind her hands.

Yn looked between the two giggling women and couldn’t help but join along, she couldn’t believe what a difference six months could make.

Mitsuri had been called off to a mission just as they were wrapping up dinner in the city, leaving Yn and Shinobu on their own.

“You should stay in the Butterfly Mansion tonight, it’s getting late.” Shinobu spoke up when they came upon the crossroads where they would have to part ways normally.

“That’s alright, Kochou-sama, I—“

“It’s not imposing if I’m actively inviting you over, Ln-san.” She interrupted. “Besides, you look so pretty in your new kimono that I couldn’t possibly leave you on your own to fend off any unwanted advances.”

Yn felt her face heat up, only getting warmer when Shinobu took her hand and pulled her in the direction of the mansion.

“And I have something I’ve been meaning to give you anyway.” She added softly.

***

Upon arriving at the mansion’s gates, Shinobu prompted Yn to wait at the garden’s edge, the sunset provided the kind of ambiance she was hoping for.

Yn rocked from her heels to her toes, waiting anxiously for Shinobu’s return. To be honest, she had something she wanted to tell her. She wasn’t expecting much, she just hoped at the very least, it wouldn’t change their relationship in a negative way.

“Boo.”

Yn jumped as high as the sunflower stalks when Shinobu snuck up behind her, poking her between the shoulder blades.

“Kochou-san! Don’t do that!” She whined, making the Hashira giggle.

“I’m sorry, you just make it too easy sometimes. Anyway,” she presented a thin box to Yn, “for you, it actually matches your new kimono.” She smiled, waiting for Yn to open the box.

“Thank you.” Yn murmured, gasping softly when a butterfly hair ornament, not too dissimilar from Shinobu’s own was revealed to her as soon as she opened the box. “Kochou-sama, this is really for me?”

“Who else would it be for, silly?” She grinned. “Let me help you put it on.”

Yn let Shinobu guide her to a nearby bench and fix the clip into her hair.

“Beautiful.”

“Like a chivalrous knight…” Yn spoke aloud softly, gently bringing her hand up to touch the butterfly’s wings.

“What was that?” Shinobu chuckled, a bit of pink gathering in her cheeks.

Yn yelped, bringing her hands to her mouth.

“D-did I say that out loud? I- I just meant, well, you are kind of like a knight. Helping me, protecting me… I really appreciate everything you do.” She babbled, freezing up when Shinobu hugged her from behind.

“If I’m the knight, then you’re the princess.” She spoke near Yn’s ear, making her shiver. Shinobu chuckled and squeezed her a little tighter.

Safe to say, what Yn wanted to tell her would be very well received.

#shinobu kocho x reader #shinobu kochou x reader #shinobu x reader #kny x reader #demon slayer x reader #requests #anonymous

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