#this is such a long answer sry but I LOVE questions like this!!

[bongoishisnameo]

The new chapter was heart wrenching!! I teared up during the scene of Nat dying in Lotties arms, and Lotties freak out over hallucinating. You really got me I was so sure Lottie would believe her!! But the light heartedness of the chapter was brilliant - it was such a roller coaster!! Thank you for writing :))

What were your thoughts while writing the chapter? Anything you really hoped came across to the readers?

glad u liked it!! main thought was fuck them kids, quite honestly. but no rly it was escalating dread and failure—like the idea of having infinite chances and still being a fuckup is so at odds with itself, especially cuz life is already kinda /like that./second chances are literally borne of fuckups, so u can’t have one without the other but damn it feels bad!!

violence is also SUCH an important theme and a constant source of tension btwn nat and other people, a lot of this is true of my roller derby fic as well but I rly believe that violence between women, especially young women, is a whole different beast.

something I hoped to have come across was nat’s guilt/death complex and her relationship w her parents. the weird sort of debt ppl feel for their parents, whether they’re good or not, and the sort of debt that’s created by having a parent in such violent or intense conflict w the other, especially as an only child/a child that directly interferes. that sort of debt shapes people, and it also means the relationship between a kid and their parents gets rly fucking complicated! obviously her parents suck but there is real love there, at least at some point, and a sense of obligation on nat’s part which we see in the show as well.

idk. love is fucking hard, and often inconvenient. owing someone feels similar in its connective intensity, and ppl sometimes confuse one for the other

[jam-packed]

thank god im not a journalist cus the amount of eye contact would kill me

[cyeayt]

being autistic in the mormon church

being autistic in the mormon church was, for me at least, a weird experience. because i wasn't excluded or mocked very often, just smothered in that strange warm beige obligation. because they could tell, they knew i was different just like i did. so they held my hand, told the other children to be nice to me, to make sure i felt included. and my peers did, cause they didn't have a choice, raised to be polite and kind no matter what just like i was. so i was included and invited places, always as an afterthought or a checked box but invited nonetheless, injected into conversations and games by adults that my peers wouldn't dare contradict. 'well meaning' adults who ask me if im okay or if i want to join the group, talking down in the sweetest tones. every christmas and on every birthday they still track me down to give me a card about how much they miss my 'unique perspective', even though i always tried my hardest to fit in and say the normal things.

"Look at that one. it's different and broken, but you must be kind to it. help it stay in the light of god, because god is the only way to save it. we're good, and righteous, and its so lucky to be in the church because we're the only ones who'll ever tolerate it, because that's what god wants."

and i miss it sometimes. standing on the edge of people who i desperately want to be friends with, flitting around in the back of stores and staring at concert posters indecisively until the date has passed. never finding the right spot in a conversation to talk, never working up the courage to ask if i can come too, i miss the people who had to be nice. who had me on a little list in their mind of what they need to get to heaven.

but im never going back. because even i could feel that it was fake. i felt watched and judged and pitied at all times, by peers who would ask me if i was coming then talk amongst themselves about jokes i didnt get and shared friends i didnt know. and i may be lonely now, but id rather do the work and be awkward and sick with nerves and find people and spaces that i actually want to be in who actually want me to be there, even if it seems impossible now. id rather that than go back to that warm suffocating place, familiar like the worst kind of family.

also telling that all the adults im talking about are either women/afab people or members of the bishopric, people whose 'job' it is to be welcoming and nurturing, though these experiences are mostly from young womens so that would also be it, but even women who arent involved in the yw leadership are raised and taught and obligated to do this and i dont blame any of them but its always made me wildly uncomfortable. never as much as random men who would sit down next to me and just start talking like we knew each other tho so eh

[rezwrites]

Since we are in October… is there any chance you could write a Vampire!Agatha x reader?  Agatha finding the most delicious blood of her entire long life (Reader’s blood) and getting excited/horny when she drinks Reader’s blood

love your writing

thank you sm!!

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, TW needles/blood/phlebotomy/venipuncture, blood kink, violence, allusion to kidnapping, non consensual thigh riding, unconsciousness

a/n: sry for going overboard with this, but vampire!hematologist!Agatha was so fun to write, I had to make a moodboard! <3

Waiting in the hematologists office you wring your fingers with nervousness, simultaneously regretting not bringing a light jacket to combat the chill of the air conditioner. You’ve heard nothing but good things about this doctor, hoping for some form of a miracle after cycling through many specialists only to come up empty-handed. It’s worth the out-of-city drive if you get some answers this time.

The nurse calls your name, taking you back to an examination room. As the nurse takes your temperature and vitals, you explain what’s been going on, going through routine questions. After jotting everything down, she orders a quick blood test to test your levels. Leaving to retrieve her equipment you lied down as she instructed.

Turning your head you refused to see what was happening as she tied the tourniquet around your upper arm, the strong sting of the alcohol wipe wafting through your nose. Wincing at the poke of the needle entering your vein, you exhale deeply. The nurse patches you up, gathering the vials. You thank the nurse after she lets you know the doctor will be in soon, leaving the room.

Anxiety rises up again as you await the results, trying your best to keep your breathing steady. Running your eyes over the walls, you read the various degrees and accolades framed. It blew your mind that this woman has fifteen years of school under her belt, being a doctor is definitely not for the faint of heart. A sudden rapping on the door brings you out of your thoughts.

“Hello, I’m Dr. Harkness.” She steps into the room, casting a soft, comforting smile. Her wavy, brunette hair tied in a bun, some loose stands falling over her white coat. Closing the door, she sat on her chair.

“Well, your blood pressure was a little lower than it should be. Lab results showed that you have a decreased amount of red blood cells causing Anemia. Now, if it’s a sudden loss of blood somewhere or an underlying illness, we don’t know yet. It honestly astounds me how those other doctors failed to see this for so long.”

“From time to time I’ll wake up with a sore neck or wrist. And my problems will arise after that.” You added. She looks at you intently, cerulean eyes full of concern. Turning to her computer she started typing everything you had said into her system.

“Mhm and when was the last time you woke up like that?” She questioned.

“A few days ago.”

“And you said you noticed all this happening after you gave blood at a blood drive a few months ago.” She asked.

“Yes,” you confirmed. Finally, some form of an answer and one step closer to a treatment plan. It all hit you at once, there was no way to stop the floodgates.

She turned away from her computer, closing your chart, “I’d like to keep you overnight to observe your condition.”

Her face turned in worry and the sight of your tears, “Oh dear, I understand it’s scary.” She grabbed some tissues off the counter offering them to you.

Taking them you shook your head, drying your eyes, “I’m more relieved to have more or less an answer.”

She pulls some documents from the drawer, explaining that’s it’s a consent to overnight admittance form, “Don’t worry, I’ll give you a note for work if you need one, but it is imperative we get to the bottom of this as soon as possible.”

You nod, signing the paperwork before she put a patient wristband on you. Directing you to follow her she leads you deeper into the building, the atmosphere becoming more homey and welcoming, “This is where I keep my overnight patients, it’s more relaxed and calming than a hospital.”

Opening a wooden door there was a single bed with a television mounted on the wall. A small restroom in the corner and a medical cabinet next to the hallway door. She pulled a medical gown from the cabinet, instructing you to change, then lie down on the bed before exiting to give you privacy.

Re-entering the room she placed an IV bag on the counter moving towards the bed, “I’ll just hook you up to the monitor. I’ll also put you on an IV drip for the night as well, so you can get the vitamins you’ve been missing.” She clips the pulse oximeter to your finger, walking over to the cabinet against the wall grabbing everything she needs.

Once Agatha turned around with the needle in her hand, you turned your head away holding out your arm. Prepping and cleaning the crook of your arm, she warns you, “Small pinch.”

“Good girl.” Agatha praises slipping the cannula into your arm, securing it with tape connecting you to the cannula hanging the bag on the IV hook behind the bed, “here’s the remote for the television, press the call button if you need anything. I’ll be back soon to check on you.”

Dr. Harkness checked on you multiple times throughout the afternoon, making sure you were comfortable and not in any pain. She took another blood sample telling you she just wanted to see if your red blood cell count has increased. You’re truly thankful for her thoroughness and thoughtfulness. The warmth of the evening sun seeping through the small window of your room was causing you to grow drowsy, despite your earnest to stay awake in case anything came up. Unable to keep your eyes open any longer you texted your family, updating them before dozing off.

A soft knock on the door pulls you back into consciousness. Turning on the lamp you called out allowing the person on the other side to come in. Dr. Harkness steps through the door apologizing for the intrusion so late. Her hair loose, coat gone; a different air around her.

“So, good news I know exactly what’s wrong with you.” Agatha starts explaining, striding to the end of the bed, hands in her pants pockets. You listen close to what she has to say.

“Bad news is I’m not exactly going to help you.” She states matter of factly. You blanched at her words, heartbeat quickening. Eyebrows pulled together as you sat up, pressing your back deeper into the pillows.

“I mean, of course, I want you to be as healthy as possible don’t get me wrong, but I found the perfect snack in you at that blood drive.” Fear gripping you as Agatha stepped closer to the bed, her sinister smile showing her fangs, “I settled for rationing twice a month on you, but now that you’re here, I’d be a fool to let you get away this time.”

The room was now energized with malevolence. This woman, monster, was the cause of your problems. Why you can’t get out and enjoy your life anymore because you’re so dizzy and tired to do anything. Balling your fist, fingernails digging into your palms; knuckles turning white, “And when the police come? People know I’m here, if I don’t come home they’ll-”

“Easy. You went out the back where no cameras are, it’s easier to get to the parking lot that way than circling the whole building again. What happened after that nobody would have a clue.” Agatha countered, her smile was sickening, your stomach flipping.

“Even if, small if by the way, you managed to escape and get help who would believe that the good Dr. Harkness, was a vampire.” She started laughing in disbelief.

You eyes shifted between her and the door. Throwing the blanket off you you attempt to jump out of the bed, but Agatha was on you in a second wrestling you back down to the bed. Managing to get an arm free you landed a solid punch to her jaw, the pulse oximeter flying off your finger. Paralyzed with terror when her smile grew, completely unfazed by your punch, her eyes maniacal., “It’s just us here, feel free to scream all you want.”

As much as you wanted to, you couldn’t. Not a sound would come out. Pinning both your wrists in one hand, her other hand sliding off her slacks.

“I believe I got your neck last time,” her knees pushing up your gown as she shuffled up your body. Letting out a pleased sigh Agatha settled herself on your thigh.

Bringing one wrist to her mouth she didn’t waste any time sinking her fangs into you. The sharp, piercing pain elicited a cry from you, tears falling down your face. Agatha’s cold hand held your wrist tightly as she sucked roughly, hips rocking frantically.

“Absolutely divine.” Agatha growled out her ruby eyes holding yours as blood ran down your arm and her chin. She licks the blood running down your arm, her thighs tightening around yours. Tossing her head back as she shudders on top of you moan loudly, “Always so delicious.”

Your breaths grow shallow, everything is cold as you stare at the gray ceiling. A small whine escapes you, vision blurring as you teeter on the brink of consciousness.

“That’s it. Rest easy now.” Agatha voice is fading, “you’re going to need it.”

[leclsrc]

like you should ✴︎ cl16

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

word count: 11.3k  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Make it dinner, then.”

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

“You’ll like this one.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sure,” you giggle. “I’ll save it.”

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

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

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

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

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

You tap Ben again. “Yeah, who is he?”

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I might,” you say, mind changed.

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

“You’re friends?”

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

“Dad,” you say, warningly. 

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Come on, then.”

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

—

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

“You always were advocating for my return.”

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

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

“Not Leclerc, then?”

You chew slowly, eyes narrowed. “Seriously?”

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

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

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

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

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

“All good?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I have what I want,” you say. 

“Do you feel it?”

Seb is met with silence.

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah. Nice.”

—

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

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

Thumbs up. Heart. Received 1:08. 

See you at parking? Sent 1:55.

Video FaceTime Call. Missed 2:02.

WHERE ARE YOU? Sent 2:15.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A shortcut.” He revs faster.

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

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

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

“Not to a native. I know places.”

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

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

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

“You are like your dad.”

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

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

“You don’t know shit.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I hope Max is okay.”

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

—

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

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

“How’s it feel then?”

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

But do you have it?

—

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

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

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

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

His mouth opens and then closes. “Wh—”

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

“She was listening.”

“What’s her business?”

“Listening,” he emphasizes.

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

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

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

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

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

It’s neither. It’s guilt.

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He snorts. “Whatever you say.”

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Charles.” Your voice comes out shaky.

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

Your silence grants elaboration.

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

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

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

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

Push him.

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

Push him.

“It can be—”

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

“—my prize.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You lie.” He repeats.

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

“No,” you say, pithy. “Haven’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hi, honey.”

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

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

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

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

A dry quiet creeps up into the room and settles.

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[darkpetal16]

Hey "would you love me if i was a worm?" anon here, sry it took so long to sepcify i didn't see that you answered and thought tumblr ate it. But for the specific skelebros, maybe fell and mafia? Maybe swap too

Underfell!Sans (Red): “am i worm too? no? i think a reset would be best, when was the last time yeh felt determined? aw don’t gimme that look sweetheart, it’ll be like ol’ times again hahahahaha.”

Underfell!Papyrus (Edge): “SILLY HUMAN! OUR BOND TRANSCENDS THE NEED FOR LIMBS.”

Underfell!Wingding (Fell): “Ha, ha, ha, ha.” / “You want a serious answer? If you magically turned into a worm, I would magically turn into a worm with you. We are SOULMATES, where you go I will follow.”

Mafiafell!Sans (Hit): Squints at you to judge how serious this question is. “Course I would, doll.”

Mafiafell!Papyrus (Boss): “WHAT AN ABSURD QUESTION. I LOVE YOU, REGARDLESS OF YOUR PHYSICAL FORM.”

Mafiafell!Wingding (Don): “No.”

[dackychansworldofhoshinos]

About this blog and story 🌟

Ello im Yuri he/him (idc)

Dacky is my artist name call me by one of those names 😌(Rain my Internet persona name)

minorr!!

Want to know more about me? check out my second blog were I post fanart or answer more personal questions that aren't related to my story (⁠・⁠∀⁠・) Down here 🔽

@areyoucooolorjustrain

Rules for This blog !!

I only answer questions about my story s or characters on this blog.

No wierd/ inappropriate interactions or comments

Be cool😎

I respond to comments but no wired ones

No Nsfw

Anything that isn't strictly about my story will be talked about on my second Ac

Do Not Steal 👊

Sry not personal anymore

If u want to use my art ask and tag/mention me

Fanart is appreciated 💖

And I'm open for ideas or tips with my oc world meaning:

if you have an ideas for characters that fit into my world tell me :D

if you have polite and constructive criticism tell me

If you want to tell me something about my character that could be changed tell me

:) please remember be nice

Now my world Hoshino🌟

Hoshino 🌟

In this world select few have abilities. called Hoshi. Those energy powers are energized by light and dark souls depending on your soul type, wich range from mind dark light time growth heat liquid spirit and some more rare types like love song or electrical

if you pry to the stars that apear once a year on a special day called: death star day. A soul with does power's is born. That person can access those powers with a special necklace that stores most of it✨ The necklace is able to take energy from other objects or sorces like Hoshi a creature made purley from that power. people may also use Hoshi powers without a necklace resulting in bigger access to energy but a higher risk of losing ot to.😗

the legend explains how this happend🌸

the main character is named ponia and she and her friends go to fight against many dangerous people or creatures in this world and meet other people 🌸🚶

these are the more important people

the evil team against ponia is called:

the fallen angels. they want to bring back the legends and ponia is a big part of that💀

she also has a twin called nagisa that i made with a friend of mine and changed to fit into the story. the twin plot is apart of the legend

im going to post more of the story laiter in form of manga or animatics. maybe also essays or stories

heres a quik comic i made a bout the day before the story starts with ponia still having long messey hair 😄

ahhhh so cringe

Here are all the characters that are in this universe :

[yeehawbvby]

Hello! While I was doing the classes and Salvatore (the language teacher) gives you words in other languages and asks what they mean. He did this with 'I love you' and that gave an idea. What if reader and Arven are both in that class and Salvatore notices Arven's crush on reader (I feel like Arven's the type to stare at his crush and then get caught and get all shy about it) and tries to encourage him to confess. Sry this was a bit long. Hope you have a wonderful day/night!

WAIT STOP this is so frickin’ cute wtf 😭😭😭 Don’t be sorry at all for the long prompt!! The more details regarding what you’re looking for, the better :D

I hope you don’t mind that I went with a gendered reader – it just kinda naturally flowed out of me this way ;;w;; Enjoy! x

Love Languages | Arven x F!Reader

Rating: Teen+ | WC: 1,744

I have a crush on my best bud. I can’t help it. It happens, it’s not a big deal, and she definitely doesn’t need to know. But, I’m unfortunately far from subtle in my affections.

She’s just… so damn pretty. The way her hair shines no matter the lighting, the glimmer in her eyes when she’s excited, the blush on her little cheeks when she’s praised. With her brains, strength, and kindness on top of all that, it’s hard not to be totally enamored. 

Enamored enough to, y’know… check her out, every once in a while. I guess.

One time, Salvatore caught me in the act. She was answering a question of his during one of his lectures, and my eyes remained on her just barely too long. When he finished addressing her, our teacher looked at me, and his eyes widened. He glimpsed at her again, then back at me, and he winked. 

Now, I know Salvatore’s a good guy. He’s friendly, he often has his students’ and Pokémons’ best interests in mind, and he’s lackadaisical when it comes to grading and due dates… But I’d be lying if I said he wasn’t a little shit.

Whether I’m peeking at my buddy in class or grabbing lunch with her in the cafeteria, if Salvatore sees it, he gives me a look. Like, one of those “I see, I see…” sort of looks. It’s terrible. I could only ever hope to Arceus that her steel trap brain is oblivious to it.

Today, little buddy and I talked a bit before class – easy enough, with her sitting diagonally in front of me – and eventually Salvatore mosied on in, with his typical greeting. “My dear friends!” and so on. My bud turned around towards her desk, I got out my notebook and stuff, and everything went how it usually does, at least at first.

“Now, mes amis – my friends, that is! I’ve decided to change up our typical lesson format a bit.” 

Oh? 

“In le cours d’ajourd’hui – today’s class – we will learn about a very special phrase that you can put to use when the time is juuust right!” 

Salvatore smiles and scans the room as usual, searching for a reaction. But this time, before continuing, his eyes linger on me. 

“Ai shiteiru! Je t’aime! Te amo! Ich liebe dich! Does anyone know what these phrases mean?”

After a few quiet moments, little buddy raises her hand, and I notice what seems like a small blush on the side of her cheek. Salvatore calls on her to answer, and it comes out… timid?

“T-they mean, um… ‘I love you.’”

Hearing those words from her mouth makes my heart pound in my chest. 

“Très bien!” My eyes feel like they’re gonna pop right out of my skull as Salvatore turns to me. “It’s so very important to express your feelings about things to others, you know!” 

…He’s scheming.

Salvatore slowly walks across the class, inspecting us all. “So, mes merveilleux élèves – my wonderful students – I’m going to be setting you up into pairs.”

No.

When he reaches my row, he stops. He’s watching me. “I want you to practice amongst each other!” 

Nope!

“I’ll supply you with worksheets, made by yours truly,” he saunters over to the podium and grabs a stack of papers, “so that you all have prompts to work with! That way none of you will find yourselves ​​à une perte pour les mots – at a loss for words, that is!”

No thank you!

Whispers erupt amongst my peers. “Is he serious?” “This is so humiliating…” “What if I get paired with… you know?!” My eyes wide, I look around, studying everyone’s expressions and eavesdropping on their reactions to today’s lesson. At least I’m not the only one who’s worried. 

My gaze lands on my buddy, and she’s staring down at her desk. The same flush that coated her cheeks when she answered his question is still there – if anything, it looks a bit darker now.

“Oh my!” Salvatore laughs, interrupting the chatter. “Have I embarrassed you all, my friends?” 

No shit, man.

My brain turns to oatmeal as I zone out on my notebook. Salvatore continues instructing, and he’s probably trying to give me some kind of “wink wink, nudge nudge” of sorts, but it’s falling on blind eyes and deaf ears.  

He wouldn’t pair me up with her… would he? It would make the most sense for him to just pair us as we’re paired in our desks, right? Right?!

Two by two, the other students begin to shuffle around. And eventually, Salvatore calls my buddy’s name… followed by mine.

“Come get your assignments, you two!”

I hate him. 

I pack up my things, as does little buddy, and we both make our slow trek up to the front of the class. 

As Salvatore gives us our work for the day, he says, “Bonne chance – good luck!”

Fuck off.

Sighing, I stare down at the paper in my hand while we make our way to one of the last sets of empty desks available. My bud’s uncharacteristically quiet as we settle in, grabbing our pens and reading over the worksheets in front of us.

“So…” I prompt, wanting to get this over with. I can’t even look at her right now. “Y-you ready?”

When I don’t hear a verbal response, I look to my side, and she nods. Her face is still rosy, and she won’t look at me, either. Nerves getting the best of me, I do the only thing I really know how to do in a situation like this: I ramble. 

“Er, the first part here is to just match up the phrases with what languages they are. Easy enough…” 

“Mhm,” my friend hums quietly. 

“Alright, number one…” I can’t even bring myself to say the words out loud. Why is this so embarrassing?! At the end of it all, this is nothing more than an assignment, right? “...is Johtoan.” I peer up, and while writing down her answer, my bud nods. 

This continues until we complete the first section of our work. Maybe this won’t be so bad… as long as we don’t talk much, we’ll avoid any embarrassment, right?

“How are we doing, vous petits tourtereaux?” Salvatore asks. I don’t know what that last part meant, but little buddy seems to. Her eyes widen and she tenses up, her cheeks flushing. 

I squint at him. A look that says “You suck, and this feels like betrayal.” While doing so though, I verbally answer, “N-nous c’est bien…?” 

“Nous sommes bons, but I appreciate the attempt, Master Arven!” Salvatore winks, before suggesting, “You know, practice makes perfect.” Yeah, and? “Why don’t you two discuss the lesson amongst yourselves?” No. “You won’t improve without expérience de vie réelle – real life experience – after all!” 

“Er, we’re alri–”

“O-okay.” 

My head whips towards my buddy. When I look back up at Salvatore, he has a menacing grin on his face. He mutters something in Kalosian before moving onto another pair of students. I turn to my left again, and watch as my friend places down her pen, before shyly peering up at me to her right.

Are her pupils always so big? 

It’s probably just the lighting. Or I’m just seeing shit. Whatever.

“So…” she mutters. She looks down at her paper and fidgets with the corner. “We can just… go down the list here, I guess?”

“Yeah, sounds good.” That accidentally came out as a whisper, but she heard it well enough to begin. 

My buddy clears her throat, then mutters, “Um…” she pauses briefly, shifting herself to sit facing towards me. I do the same. “J-je t’aime.” 

Her eyes almost look hopeful as they flicker up to mine, then back down at her worksheet. Oh Arceus this is gonna be harder than I thought. 

“...Wǒ ài nǐ.”

More silence. Swallowing a lump in her throat, my buddy furrows her brows, then looks me in the eye. It’s like she’s hyping herself up… so cute. “Te amo…!”

Oh.

T-that had more of an effect than I expected. 

My eyes widen, and hers follow suit. She looks down promptly, while my cheeks redden to match hers. I quietly keep the flow going. “Ai shiteiru.”

“T-ti amo.”

“Didn’t you just say that one?” I softly tease. I’m relieved to see her shoulders relax a little, and her beautiful lips curve into one of her beautiful smiles, as I make light of what’s going on. 

She shakes her head. “Different languages.” 

Mirroring her grin, I keep up the antics. “Bullshit.” 

“It’s true! Ask Salvatore.” 

I glimpse over at him, and having heard his name, he’s already looking at us. I shake my head at him and turn my attention back to my friend. “N-no, it’s alright.”

We fall into another silence, so I go again. “Salanghaeyo.” 

Gnawing the cap of her pen, little buddy meets my eye again. “I-ich liebe dich.” 

Fuck. 

In a trance, we both seem to not want to pull our irises away from one another… so we keep going, just rambling based off of the word banks in our brains.

“Mahal kita.”

“Ya tebe lyublyu.”

“Se agapó.”

“Volim te.”

“I love you.”

Both sets of eyes widen. 

I… wasn’t supposed to use our own language. 

See, I could easily pass this off as an easy mistake now, but something is stopping me. I take in a deep breath, my eyes scanning my friend’s face. Somehow, her eyes focus even harder on me. Like she’s having some sort of revelation. Like… like she wants me to say more. 

I wonder if…?

“...I love you,” I repeat, adding her name to the end. Trying to look more serious, in spontaneous hopes that she knows I’m serious.

Taken aback, she squeaks. Her mouth opens and shuts a few times. “I…” she pauses, looks down, then looks at me again. “I love you… Arven…”

…!

“You…? Wait, a-actually?”

Fidgeting with her pen in her hands – focusing hard on the way she’s twirling it between her fingers – she nods. She grins to herself, too shy to meet my eyes.

“I… oh my god, I love you!”

I look towards Salvatore. My mouth’s agape. I silently mouth the words, “IT WORKED,” in his direction. He beams, and a broad smile forms across his features.

…Salvatore, you sly motherfucker. 

You actually did it.

[slytherinshua]

DEATH OF A BROKEN HEART

genre. angst. soulmate au. warnings. heartbreak and major character death. pairing. leehan x fem!reader. wc. 524. request. requested by @hyunhanie: could you pleaseee do an angsty fic with Leehan?? Like idk about what in particular,but please something dramatic!! a/n. sry for this being so late but i hope you like it!! ik its not very long-- originally i was going to write a leehan hanahaki au but that kind of got forgotten in my drafts for a bit :( i just whipped this up cause i had angsty ideas from the trailer film that i still can't stop rewatching skdjks lol. original gif by @/foamofyouth and i just put the text over <3

Donghyun let a string of curses leave his mouth when he heard the robotic tone of the voice message rejecting his call for the 10th time that night. He wasn’t sure what else to do. Cry, shout, scream? All those options had already been expended. And so he let foul words slip from his pretty lips into the cool air of the bathroom; words he would never ever have imagined being directed towards you.

You were so precious to him. Or, at least, you had been.

72 hours. 28 missed calls. 2 broken promises. 1 burning soul mark.

Donghyun had been lied to by the whole world. He sunk to the floor as the weight of it all hit him, the sting on his wrist getting more extreme the farther you were from him. He pressed down on it with one hand, dropping his phone as he curled into a tighter ball from the pain. No amount of pressure would ever relieve it. There was no medication he could take. He just had to wait.

If you were his soulmate then how did it go wrong? It wasn’t supposed to be able to go wrong. Soulmates were supposed to be perfect for each other. 

But you had switched faster than Donghyun could blink. 4 days ago you had been planning your future together, and now here he was abandoned by the only person he had ever trusted.

You were running away from him, he knew that much. There was no other explanation for why it burned so much. Soul marks only hurt when your soulmate left you for good. It was a pain that you were only supposed to feel when they died.

You weren’t dead.

You weren’t supposed to leave.

Donghyun knew that he would never get the answers to his millions of questions. He had no way to reach you, no way to demand an explanation from your lips. Not that he would last 1 second in your presence again. He broke so easily, wrapped tightly around your finger even when you had left his heart broken and bleeding on the cold tile floor. 

He would never get you back, and by virtue of it, he would never love again. No one would love someone abandoned by their own soulmate, especially when he had no defense.

Donghyun let his eyes flutter closed, breathing a few soft breaths of fresh air as he let his mind wander over memories one last time. The grips of death fingered at his clothes, creeping ever closer, trying to grab hold of his heart. 

And he let it.

There was no reason to resist anymore; no motive for prolonging the inevitable. 

A shaky breath left his soft lips, and one final tear formed on his lash line. It wasn’t out of anger or hatred for you and your actions, but full of regret and longing for one more chance. If he could restart time and do it all over again, he would in a heartbeat. 

That was his weakness. That was what made him all the more vulnerable to the soulmate phenomenon; death of a broken heart.

↳ boynextdoor taglist: @rizzshimura,, @captivq,, @icyminghao,, @eternalgyu,, @metalchick529,, @schmocolateschmchip,, @kpoprhia,, @candewlsy,, @weird-bookworm,, @cyberpunksunwoo,, @kangtaehyunzzz,, @snowflakemoon3,, @lovialy,, @lecheugo,, @okshu,, @wccycc,, @seunghancore

[battlemaiden13]

hii I just got random question and idk if it was answering but in the fic HND how about a MC whose english was a second language and her mother tongue was slovak language? ( they need more love) and then MC is very frustrated or angry and she's just cussing in her original language (bonus if MC speaks even more languages than these 2)

sry for a long ask :') here have a cookie 🍪🍪🍪

Yay cookies!!!

Sans -He readily just accepts that this is a thing now. He likes it but it doesn’t really come up often. Occasionally he might ask you questions about it but he doesn’t really bring it up unless you do first. 

Papyrus -Is super impressed and once you stop yelling he will instantly start gushing about how amazing that was before asking several questions about the language. He is amazed that you can speak more than one language and will shower you with compliments. 

Red -He honestly thinks it’s kind of hot and would love it if you spoke dirty to him in the language. Heck he’d enjoy it if you yelled at him in the language too but it probably wouldn’t have the effect you wanted. 

Edge -He seems unfazed by your outburst and doesn’t really mention it. It isn’t till months later when it happens again and he responds in the same tongue that you realize he’s been learning the language to rant with you. 

Blue -It doesn’t register to him that you are mad as he is just amazed that you're fluently speaking in a different language. As soon as there's a beat he jumps in with praise and amazement and about a million questions for you. 

Orange -He backs you up, in english. He has no idea what your saying but is fully supporting you to the best of his ability, yelling back up for your rant and seeming to be just as upset as you are. 

Berry -It doesn’t register that it’s a different language, he just assumes you are talking gibberish or he is having a stroke. You’d have to explicitly tell him it’s another language or catch him in work mode for him to really register that you can speak more than one. 

Syrup -He knew your mother spoke a different language but he wasn’t aware you were also fluent until you lost your cool. He instantly thought it was the most beautiful language he had ever heard. From that moment on he’ll be learning the language in secret, just so he can surprise you with it one day. 

[glitteryapricotranchbiscuit]

♡ Imagine Thoma absolutely adores you... a little too much ♡

!● Warnings: starts soft, worshipping, smut, no real plot (sry), nsfw, NO MINOR ❌ or I'll eat u alive, calling u princess/love, face sitting, female recieving, fem!reader

Note: I would eat up Thoma, he's so perfect 😭💞 I mean look at him, just a perfect man.

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"Thoma?"

Your voice echoed through the apartment where you and him lived now for some time. It was crazy how you guys end up being together and now sharing one apartment together. Sometimes it makes your heart fill with so much warmth knowing Thoma is always there for you. You heard steps inside the kitchen and some rumbles before Thoma said back: "Here, my love!"

Before you could enter the kitchen his head pooped out the door frame and greeted you with the biggest and warmest smile. The more you saw his body, the more you saw him using tools for baking. You still leaned forwards and wanted to give him a kiss. Thoma noticed it quickly and gave you a soft kiss. You could melt right away how soft as a kisser he is. The kiss could go longer in your opinion but Thoma itself backed up a bit.

"I'm almost finished with the pastry for the cookies. I bet my princess can wait for me, right?~"

You pouted at his question but didn't make any protest to not listen to him and just sat down the kitchen table. "Great~" Another kiss on the head this time while Thoma finishes his work. Your day wasn't that bad at all especially if you could watch your boyfriend bake. For some reason Thoma started to bake faster than before. "Hehe, you know I missed you while you were away~" You listen to him while resting your head on the table. You answer him: "I did miss you too. Can we cuddle when you are done?~" Thoma excitedly agreed to the cuddle session.

Finally both of you were now under the blanket inside the bed. Thoma held you from behind, perfect to wrap his arms around your body while his face was on your shoulder, giving here and there some kisses. Your body automatically squeezed towards Thoma's warm body. A little whine came out of Thoma. "Ha... babe we just wanted to cuddle right?" He wasn't expecting more than that neither was it your intention but somehow you could feel him hardening under your friction. "Sorry~ I can stop if you want to" You tried to look at him but it was hard in that position so you could only hear him whisper into your ear. "No... please continue..." Heat rising inside him made his face flush in a beautiful red colour. You couldn't see his expression but his little whimpers near your ear was enough to rile you up. "I missed you...", he whispered.

Of course you didn't stopped grinding your ass on his clothed length. You could feel with every grind how needy Thoma is getting as well as you but this time you didn't wanted to give up. It would be a little challenge to make him just cum like this. "Fuck" He couldn't take this position anymore and let go of the embrace. For a split second you shivered from the sudden cold since he also got rid of the blanket and now turning you around. Seeing him with a painful huge bulge in his pants and a face of lust, you know both of you will have a long night ahead.

"You make me crazy, (y/n). Even a little touch wants me eat you." With a warm smile you spread your legs for him and rubbed on your clothed pussy. For some reason you heard an aww moan from him before you could feel him undressing you, so he could burry his face between your tights. His tounge meeting right away the right spots. Thoma started playing with one hand carefully inside your pussy while he couldn't get enough of sucking your cilt. Your moans and breaths getting harder and louder with more friction he did. Holding tight on the bedsheets beside you. "I am close, Thoma~" So was he too. While eating you out he rubbed his clothed length against the bed. With his moaning and vibrating voice against your pussy you soon enough came over his face. His tounge searching for every drip you gave him. For some reason he stopped eating you out and panting against your tights, still rutting himself against the bed. "Sit on me... (y/n)... please, I need you.", he begged for you. Even tho you just came seeing him breathing against your hot pussy it made you blush hard. You nod and let him take your position. He was underneath you while you sink down on Thoma who was eagerly opening his mouth to meet your pussy again. As his tounge meet again your folds you let out a sigh and shiver from the overwhelming feeling. Looking behind you while Thoma sucked and moaning against your pussy you noticed how painfully his bulge looked. "T-thoma~" His sudden action on putting his tounge inside of you made you jump. You tried to balance yourself not too much on him but Thoma gripped your ass cheeks harder and pushed you down even more. "W-wait!" His tounge now angrily playing with you you felt your second orgasm building up. You started rubbing on his mouth to meet his tounge play before cumming on his face again. WIthout you noticing he came inside his pants. He lifted you a bit up so he could breath a bit before kissing your tights. "I love you so much, (y/n)" You looked down on him. He looked so messy with all your nectar around his mouth and on his face. It made you blush in embarrassment. "I l-love you too Thoma." You lay down beside him and hugged him tight. You licked his cheek and got a giggle out of him. "Ah don't worry about cleaning me, love. I want to be laying a bit here with you~" And with that you saw into his dimmed and with lust filled eyes knowing well this wasn't your last orgasm for this night.

[ca-suffit]

I have a kind of dumb disorganized question. Do you think we’ll revisit the reasoning for the San Francisco memory alteration in season 3? I might be just missing something but I don’t think there’s actually an established reason for Armand altering Louis memory? I tend to think we’re all in alignment that Armand made the edit for both Louis and Daniel, (again showcasing how the power dynamics in Loumand are kind of deceptive - Armand is just much more powerful than Louis both socially in the world and as a vampire) but I’m just not sure what the reasoning is?

I saw a kind of interesting post out in the wild proposing that Louis actually did ask Armand to alter that memory and while I think that’s interesting in the abstract, I can’t divorce the race/power dynamics angles that would call into question (delegitimizating what Louis has been through). Which brings me back to, for a number of reasons I do think the intended read is Armand erased the memory from Louis’ mind without his knowledge. But I’m back to the question of why? It kind of seems like Loumand is in the same spot before and after the mind wipe to me, is there another layer here I missed?

I think we'll learn more about it somewhere in the show as it progresses, yes, cuz it's too big of a mystery to leave unanswered.

this is sort of an aside before I get into it, but I keep thinking of the extent of these powers. we don't know a lot about it still. armand seems aware that recollection is possible, bcuz he's not ttly surprised when he sees that daniel and louis have remembered stuff. so I think it's interesting why he chose that moment and not others and I'm still piecing together thoughts about it as a whole.

anyway tho. this is potentially a headcanon as my answer, so remember that bcuz I'm def not trying to say this is "the" answer. I have no idea fr.

armand's "explanation" in 2x6 could be a whole post itself but that's sort of ot so I'm just going with what the "truth" was otherwise for so long. let's look at the phrasing of it.

armand doesn't forget that louis thought daniel was "fascinating." he also didn't forget what louis said it meant for their relationship that he stay alive. if we consider that armand has awareness that memories might partially or fully return, placing himself as responsible for seeing the "fascinating" qualities in daniel first and "saving" him from louis makes him look better than what rly happened. without the actual audio from that time period, neither of them prbly would have remembered the rly "bad" parts. I'm gonna guess armand knows this too as he's shown unwinding tapes (I know they're not *the* tapes but still, the visual is there for a reason....alongside editing claudia's diaries too) and obviously this part of the interview was *not* kept to the og version anyone had access to that he was aware of.

assad said in an interview (sry I forget which one rn) that armand is thrown off when he speaks to louis about turning madeleine. when louis kisses him and then walks away, like he could walk away at any moment from the whole relationship and be fine without it. armand in the show says he'd be "nothing" without louis. I'm not sure when it starts exactly but there is a point where armand puts himself in the position of always knowing what's "best" for louis. it's a subtle manipulation and not what louis was used to from lestat. it gives the illusion of being cared for by someone who loves u instead of being controlled. armand knows that louis thinks he's boring so he has to do something to create a world where he isn't....or at least where louis thinks highly of him for *something.*

I always saw a lot of daniel paralleling jonah in this. both of them live to old age even tho their existence is painful to some of the most powerful vampires who could have killed them in a second. killing either of them would drive the wedge between them (lestat and armand) and louis even further tho, and they both know that. it also won't fix the issue. ya ok so jonah *did* have more of a history with louis before that moment than daniel did but it's still the same thing of "why do u feel this for someone else and not me? what is wrong with *me* that we don't have this?" especially cuz both points of interest are humans compared to vampire partners. lestat prbly kept tabs on jonah his whole life too.

so that's as much as I've had thoughts on this anyway. idk if it helps.

oh also ia and I don't think louis would ask to erase anything either. this is a man who keeps pebbles in his ankles to remember claudia's death. louis is so full of catholic guilt that there's no way that man would ask to forget *anything* that hurts him.

[runawayonryo]

ppl stop writing for Heisenberg... how about our magnetto man with a punk/alternative SO??

OUHHHH yessssss!

pairing: Karl Heisenberg x GN!reader

{{note: I generally write REVillage fics Post-canon/alternate universe, assuming Ethan and rose, Mia etc. never existed sry XD}}

Warnings: swearing, brief mention of gore, very mild sexual themes

Ohoho where do I begin?

Karl when he first spots you is... intrigued to say the least.

You weren't like the others, you dressed differently, acted differently, and most importantly... you weren't like the other villagers, blindly following and worshipping Miranda!

Now, Karl being Karl... he thought about pulling his usual BS about "I'm a metal lord, fear me!" but quickly decided against it; not wanting to scare you off or anything. Especially since you didn't seem local, therefore not knowing who the fuck he is.

{and pshhh don't tell anyone i told you this, but despite his huge ego... he might not actually want you to know who he really is at first. So he'll try his best to act "normal" and as human as possible}

After he finally approached you and engaged in a regular conversation, he quickly finds himself craving more.

Long story short, he seeks you out in the village again the next day, inviting you over to his factory because... he didn't really have a house. Anyway, he wouldn't show you what he actually does in there... you two will be in his office on the first floor, he ain't taking you down into the actual factory until he is sure you won't freak out.

This "friend meeting" (totally not a date ͡ ° ͜ʖ ͡ °) goes smoothly surprisingly. He'll ask you about your tattoos and/or piercings, scars etc. {if you have any}.

After a long-ass conversation about all kinds of shit, he'll just ask the question we've all been waiting for.

"So buttercup, you... eh... one of those emos?"

Time for the explanation between emo, goth, punk, rock. Two minutes into this, Karl stops listening... he got his answer.

You listen to heavy music.

And so does he.

Start talking about Metallica, Slipknot, I prevail, Rob Zombie, ACDC, black sabbath, Iron Maiden, Avenged Sevenfold, hell.... even SOME my chemical romance and Seether- and i promise, you'll get his attention piqued!

Especially if we're talking german bands such as "Rammstein" or "Die Toten Hosen" and he'll just... scream internally?

Like first of all... there's someone who also hates mother miranda besides him, they are funny, hot AND love german bands?!

SIGN HIM TF UP!

Needless to say, you two started a relationship quickly.

Despite needing to make his huge ass metal army, he takes a day off to make a bigass stereo...

{and then later that day Lady Dimitrescu complains about the loud ass music coming from his factory that even SHE and her three girls can hear from her castle. lol. Heisenberg tells her to shut the fuck up}

His huge goal is obviously to kill miranda... and then after escaping this shit village together with you. When the day comes, you two will celebrate with flipping off Lady supersized bitch and rolling off to a concert

{which likely isn't a good idea... imagine Karl wanting the microphone from the singer or something. You be chillin and there's just... a floating microphone... you be like... "Karl? what are YOU DOING?!" meanwhile Karl just has a shit eating grin as the crowd screams}

But let's not jump to far into the future...

Right now, you two are stuck under Miranda's disgusting-ass thumb.

Dark times man. It's shit, but whenever you waddle into his office whilst he's working... just y'know... get your phone out and play one of his favorite songs!

This man will {depending on his mood} shoo you away, or most-likely drop what he's doing and just... *grab* you and start juming around the room like monkies in a moshpit.

Once the song finishes, his hand will move from cupping your cheek, to cupping CHEEKS. Just him seeing you rock out to his favorite songs... is enough for Karl to get all hot 'n bothered. So expect some bending over the Work-bench and nice grindin' whilst 'Closer' by nine inch nails plays ;)

EXTRA:

if you like steampunk

this

man

will

just...

Scramble to collect little gears and screws... making little earrings, rings, necklaces etc.

also

stud bracelets.

OH

and if you like wearing chokers

be careful

that awakens a beast within him

"oh ho ho buttercup! What do we have here? Want me to attach a leash and make you *my pet*?

[lokisbiiiitch1993]

Hello, thank you for answering my question about Jotun Loki. If you feel like it, I have another question and I apologize for any mistakes. Here's my question What kind of father would Jotun Loki be, and would he like to have children, and most importantly, could he and SO have children, I can't imagine. Ps. I'm sorry that this is such a boring question and that I was asking about Jotun Loki again. I wish you a good day/good night

Thanks for the ask 🥰 I love writing about him 😊

What if Frost Giant Loki as a Father

I think he would be the Fun Cool Dad

Loves Playing and fooling around with his little ones

But that doesn't mean he can't be strict when needed

I think he would like to have many Kids

Spends a lot time with them

Enjoys traveling around and show them the world

He would make learning an enjoyable experience - doesn't scream

..........................................................................................

But like you said I don't think a Frost Giant and a Midgardian Mortal can have Kids together 🥲

At first he would probably tell you he doesn't need to have kids but it's always on his mind

One Day he suddenly broke up with you - without an explanation

Just a sorry - we don't work anymore

six months later you saw him again with a pregnant Frost Giant Woman - petting her Stomach

💔💔💔

Sry but I haven't written angst in a long time lol

Masterlist

[weirdly-specific-but-ok]

Hi!! I'm sry if this is a weird question or just not one you know how to answer, but I was hoping you could give me advice (or you could share the ask and ppl in the replies could give some advice). I'm Indian, and recently I've started to question my gender and I'm pretty sure that I'm non-binary, I prefer they/them pronouns. I have some friends that would accept me and use the right pronouns, but the problem is my name. I grew up in the U.S. and I've always felt very disconnected from my culture and extended family. One of the only connections I have is my name, which is important to me because its significant to my culture and family. I've never had any problem with it and I don't want to change it. But it is an inherently feminine name, and I feel like if I don't change my name I won't rly feel non-binary, or other people might not accept me as non-binary. So do I change my name to something more gender-neutral to fit my gender, or do I keep it and just change my pronouns?

Hi anon! Sorry I've taken a long time to answer (life has been... well, you know how life can be) but I'm going to now

First off, take anything I say carefully, take what is helpful for you and discard the rest, as with any advice :)

Secondly... I think your answer is in the fact that you said you don't want to change your name. That's all, that's what is important. You can define what that name means to you as a nonbinary person, and anyone who genuinely cares about you and respects you will do the same. The name may be usually feminine, but it's also simply a sound that is important to you because of its culture and history and the fact that it's yours.

It's your name. It's the same as clothes. Any clothes a boy has are boy's clothes, just as any name a boy has is a boy's name. Any clothes you have are gender neutral clothes, and any name you have is a gender neutral name, if you are nonbinary and want it to be that way.

But remember also that this feeling may change, and that's okay. You may want to change your name later. You may not. I used to not want to change my name, and now I'm in the process of my legal name change (YAY) because that's what feels right to me, and that's who I am.

Things may change because your relationship with the name changes, or with your gender and the euphoria a new name brings, or the dysphoria or even just wrongness the old name brings, or anything at all. There are a million ways it could change.

But it may also stay the same.

One thing you could do is try out other names for a while, while still using your current name. A person can have many names ( @falling-raine first showed me this, ily mad). And maybe that's you! Maybe you still retain your old name and have others. Or maybe you'll find that a new name fits you better (or many) and you want to leave behind your old name. Or maybe you'll discover that your old name is who you really are and you don't want to change it, and you'll come out of the experience with a better relationship with that name.

Try it out :) Only when and for as long as you feel comfortable, you can stop anytime. Maybe ask a couple of trusted friends, either IRL or online, to use other names occasionally. See how it feels.

And whatever you feel, that's valid and okay. Whether it changes eventually or whether it doesn't. And if you do decide to change your name, you can look for something that also makes you feel connected with your family and your culture, and there are other ways to feel that way, too.

Again, take only what is helpful from this and leave the rest behind. And if anyone has any other advice for anon or disagrees with any of the things i said or just has their own experiences, please share it! :") I'm happy to hear it.

Sending all the love to you during this journey, anon, because that's what it is. Not a one time decision or an ultimatum, but a journey.

Love,

Asmi

[thehermitsaltar]

Carmen Berzatto x Single dad Male!reader

Gif by @heardchef

A/N: had this idea, thought it was cute:) also using mobile and I hate it.

"Richie what the fuck-" Carmy mumbles to himself as he paces around the restaurant frantically.

"Still no Richie?" Syd's voice pierced through the air with the million dollar question on everybody's mind this morning.

Instead of an answer, Carmy threw his phone into the office and took a deep breath. Doors opened in 10 minutes and his star front of houser was no where in sight and not answering his phone. He ran a hand through his messy hair and took post at expo, addressing his staff.

"Ebra, meats- and I mean all fucking meats, you are glued to that stove until I say stop. Syd expo and floating, help Tina finish prep and Marcus- finish the cakes right now or I swear to God. I'll be upfront, running register. Heard?"

Nods followed Carmys rambled speech and a chorus of 'Heard' rang out. With a short nod he moved swiftly to open the front of house. It felt like seconds before customers were already walking through the door, shouting their orders at him.

The anxiety of having to focus on everyone's orders and the pressure to keep up casual conversation was getting to him, his blood pounded in his ears and his mind unfocused. His chest began to ache with that familiar feeling. Running back and forth between front and kitchen felt like a triathlon as sweat steadily dripped down his back.

Once there was some semblance of peace, carmy grabbed his discarded phone and read the messages.

'spending the day with the kid. sry cuz.'

Carmy plopped down into his office chair and put his head in his hands. Today's stress weighed down on him like a ton of bricks and he was exhausted already. The few moments he spent wallowing were interrupted by the familiar 'ding' from the bell above the door.

Once he stood back up, he could feel the ache in his back and knees. Trudging to the register, he began his spiel.

"Welcome to The Beef, what can I get started for ya?"

His eyes naturally stayed on the ground until the silence from his customer caught his attention. When he picked his head up and looked at the man in front of him, his breath hitched in his throat. Hitched in a way he hadn't felt it do in a very long time.

The man in front of carmy was stunning, truly stunning. Carmy was so captivated by the man in front of him that he didn't notice the toddler on his hip until said toddler started gurgling with excitement. The sweet noise made something in his soul warm. The same warmth he felt when he tried a new recipe and nailed it.

The man in front of him had a hand on his chin and was inspecting the menu above Carmys head.

"Haven't been here in a while, what do you like?" The man finally made eye contact with Carmy and that's what did him in. Carmen's face flushed and his childhood stutter made a guest appearance.

"W-well, t-the beef is good- I prefer it h-hot and-" Carmy let out a deep sigh, focusing on the way his chest filled and expanded to ground himself. "Sorry." He cleared his throat and flushed harder, but this time with embarrassment.

"Hey don't worry about it." The man smiled and adjusted the child on his hip.

Something about the man's voice made Carmy relax, his shoulders slouched and his anxious grip on the counter loosened.

"Can I get an Italian hot, dipped?"

Carmy nodded and began ringing up the order. "Anything else?"

"Yeah, I heard you guys have cake now right? This little dude was so brave for his shots so I think he deserves a treat." He finished his sentence by ruffling the little boy's hair and blowing a raspberry into his cheek. The child squealed and giggled.

A small smile crept onto Carmys face, showing off his dimples and bright blue eyes.

"We do have cake, best in Chicago if I say so myself."

"Yeah? Does that sound good buddy?" He turned to the boy in his arms and got an enthusiastic nod in return. "We'd love some."

"Ice cream?"

"Well of course."

"Of course, of course."

Carmy actually felt himself giggle. A sweet little noise drawn from his lips. The man smiled wider at the sudden noise, his heart fluttering in his chest at this floppy haired chef.

"I'll get this right out for ya."

"Thank you..?"

"Carmy."

"Y/n, and this is my son Sammy."

Carmy bit his lip as he finished ringing up the order, stepping away into the kitchen. He made a b-line for Marcus and looked over his station with that same smile on his face.

"Slice of cake, chef." His voice was relaxed and sickly sweet, almost worryingly so.

Marcus turned to him with a quirked up brow, Carmen's demeanor was completely foreign to the crew.

"You alright chef?" Syd spoke carefully.

"I'm good, chef. I'm good."