#ty for all ur patience friends

[leclsrc]

it’s never over ✴︎ cl16

genre: childhood friends to friends with benefits to lovers (a mouthful), smut, humor, Fluffff!!!!, several references to 70’s music, 

word count: 12.9k  

You must have lost the plot along the way, because pretending to date your childhood best friend was not on your 2023 bingo card. (Neither was the fact that things are looking a lot more real as time passes.)

nsfw warnings under the cut!

18+ because... handjob (f receiving), penetrative sex, semi public sex, praise central, size kink

auds here… hi hi hi!!! you’ve no idea how much i missed writing posting and interacting w u guys. thank u for all the love & follows i’ve gotten in my periods of mia. more things soon i promise ty for ur patience love love love u allll 🌟🤎🤠💋 this is my love letter to fic tropes. i feared if it was too long i’d lose the plot somehow so i had to condense it. i truly hope u all like it :) will try & reopen reqs sometime soon to get inspo kicking

It’s later than late. The lights are strobing purple and blue, the “let’s get you even drunker than you are” headache inducing kind. The floor is crowded, swelling with teenagers who are probably too young to get in, drunk off cheap aperol and watered-down tequila shots. You’re balancing yourself on a barstool, one hand busy wrapped around a slim glass, the other clawing your miniskirt lower because the air bites at your legs.

“Another voddy Red Bull!” You’re slurring, mind spinning almost as fast as your vision. You almost drop your empty glass in your rush to look for another one—but right as it slips clumsily out of your fingers, it’s caught. 

Charles, your cocktail’s knight in armor and yours just as well, is eighteen. His hair is  light brown and long, but not draping over his eyes like before. You know before because you’ve never not known before—Charles has been your best friend since you were five.

Snoopy, he says, voice steady and calm in your ear. His frame is still lanky but he’s tall and his grip on your shoulders is enough to quell the yelling. You pout. Get me another voddy red, you plead. Charlie, it’s my birthday. He smiles to himself, knowing your vision’s too cloudy to see him and your mind’s too bogged to remember any of this. You’d already slipped up and told two bouncers you were seventeen and not eighteen, like your poorly-Photoshopped ID suggested; Charles had to keep you in check, lest you or your friends end up kicked out of the club.

A song booms in through the speakers and your eyes widen with recognition. Charles doesn’t anticipate your reaction fast enough, affording only a stumble backwards when you attempt to leave the barstool to dance. He swears under his breath, mind recounting the five previous dance sessions that left you exhausted and out of breath earlier.

I’ll get you a vodka Red Bull if you sit down, he tells you. He enunciates because, twelve years later, you still can’t wrap your mind around his thick European accent. Sit down.

Alriiiight! You hoot, throwing two fists up in the air. Customary for many bartenders on nights as busy as this one, a free shot is thrust into your vacant hand and you cheer loudly, much to Charles’ chagrin. With whatever malice the eighteen-year-old can muster, he casts the bartender a dirty look before turning to face you again, worried. He places a hand on your shoulder and watches, half-anxious and half-endeared, you take the shot and visibly grimace at the raw taste. Fuck. It’s gin I think, you sputter. Charles presses: You okay?

More than, you holler, smiling. I am officially seventeeee— 

The bartender’s eyebrows furrow, the thirty-something businessman in the adjacent stool turns to look—so Charles has no choice but to shut you up, leaning in and pressing his lips to yours before you can seal your fate.

Your eyes widen briefly, and when Charles feels the passed seconds are sufficient, he pulls away. You stare, eyes hazy, at the pretty boy you’ve had feelings for since you turned fourteen, and lean in to kiss him again. 

—

Pascale is hosting her weekly Sunday brunch at the Leclerc residence, all French windows and wide kitchens and bowls of fruit. As always, your place is at the kitchen island picking at plates to taste test them. Bonjour, Arthur drawls when he walks in. He turns to Pascale. Mum. Then you. Snoopy.

You halt biting into your forkful of arugula and turn toward the younger Leclerc, eyebrows raised. “What’d you just call me?”

“Snoopy,” he says simply. He’s beside Pascale, one arm wrapped around her affectionately. “Or, Snoops, if you like that. Yes?”

“Who told you about that nickname?”

“Lorenzo.”

“Hasn’t been in use since your voice was cracking every sentence.”

“Tête de noeud.” Pascale swats his arm and he yelps, so you resume your arugula with satisfaction.

Charles is late for reasons he did not disclose, but everyone is used to it. The open kitchen door stretches into the front yard, where the table is set up and Lorenzo is setting the places. You know that although you usually expect a few more relatives, today’s just for the family—and you, but you’re basically family.

“How is Paris?” Arthur asks, licking hummus off a spoon opposite you. Your position is reminiscent of how you spent afternoons after school with Charles before, and the memory strikes a chord in you. Strange nostalgia, fondness.

“It’s fine.”

“Oh really?” He laughs in-between nibbles of carrot.

“I got an offer for a higher position,” you relent. Pascale calls you both, and you get up and walk toward the yard to sit down. “If you must know.”

“Oh? Let me know how that goes.” He follows you, carrot slice in hand, chewing. The conversation is cut short by the smooth noise of Charles’ decidedly un-smooth parking outside.

You’re seated at your usual spot—in-between Charles and Lorenzo, across Arthur—when the former finally walks into the yard. He looks tired, moreso than usual, bags under his eyes deep and hair a bit more disheveled.

He sits beside you. “I need to talk to you.” Then, quieter, “Private.”

You hum confusedly, eyes flitting across the three other people at the table to gauge their reactions. They’re equally aloof. “Wh—now?” He nods.

You end up talking in the kitchen. He’s sighing the whole fifteen steps there, rubbing the bridge of his nose, exhaling, inhaling. Ever observant, and of someone as close to you as he is, you pick up on the tiny actions, behaviors. Charles is wringing his hands. He’s tried to pop the same knuckle twice. He isn’t frantic—he’s scared. You lean against the counter, waiting, eyes looking him up and down to identify his exact emotions.

“Tell me,” you press. “Whatever it is, I won’t judge.”

“The—my—the iCloud of my phone has been leaked. The press found out.”

When you were eight and he was nine, you and Charles summered in Villefranche with your mum and dad. The weather then was the kind you could write love letters to and about—blue skies, salty wind, soft sand. The current was calm enough that you could ride the gentle waves without fear of going under or straying far from the shore, where your parents sunbathed blissfully.

Don’t drown, he’d warned you, ever protective. You wore pink floaties over your arms, so it was already difficult to.

You dove under with great effort, fighting against the buoyancy, and poked his bare knee, surfacing to watch his reaction. He grimaced. Slowpoke, you teased, swimming away. You wondered then what it might feel to drown. Maybe not in the blue water of Villefranche, but anywhere else.

You think it hurts to drown? You blubbered, bobbing above the wave. Charles swam in front of you and wiped water off your face gently. I hope you never find out, he said, smiling.

But this is you finding out. This is it now, the drowning. Your fingers flex over the edge of the counter and you gulp, eyes fluttering with nerves. “Shit?” It comes out like a question from how nervous you are. “Um, sorry. What are we—” But your question is cut short by Pascale’s voice, cutting through the tension like it’s wet cardboard. The agreement is silent and mutual: save this discussion for later.

—

Charles can’t wake up fast enough. There are calls, texts, voicemails from every officer on his team, which isn’t that surprising given he’s up two hours late. But the amount—the sheer amount of notifications is dizzying. Overwhelmed, he finds it in himself to pull up his search engine app and let his fingers possess themselves.

All he types is his last name, and then The Sun article is splashed onto his face like a pot of scalding coffee: “F1 DRIVER ICLOUD LEAKED, PERSONAL PHOTOS ALL OVER INTERNET.” Daily Mail is next, of course, watering down the situation to seem more dirty and scandalous: “Naughty Driver? Charles Leclerc’s iCloud Hacked, Reveals Mystery Girl.” And then of course Page Six, who doesn’t miss a beat—

Wait. He blinks and presses the back arrow to return to the previous webpage. He reads over it again, slower this time. Mystery Girl? Shit—no. No way. It’s almost (it should be) silly, the way he’s reading vigorously over the reports like he’s a fan, but he’s anxious. He scrolls, because if any tabloid is daft enough to publish the leaked photos, it’s got to be the Daily Mail.

He pauses his quick swiping when his eyes harden with recognition, and staring back at him, on his phone’s full brightness, is a picture of you on his lap at Christmas. It’s the one Lance took while attempting to guess Charles’ password, one of you wine drunk with his head buried in your neck.

It’s unmistakably him, at his own house in Monaco where the drivers had a holiday get-together. It’s unmistakably you, hair draped over your face, three gold rings on your fingers. You had just given him a Strokes vinyl, he recalls. That’s why you were hugging.

There’s another one of you playing Scrabble in his bed—he’s not in the frame, but he remembers taking it. This, he could deny. He’s not in it, and he’s pretty sure the fans don’t know his house this well. Already his brain’s doing manual damage control, dread filling his veins at the thought of reading through his team’s frantic messages.

Another message stands out, pinned on top of all the others—from his mum, reminding him about brunch. He gets ready half-focused, half-lucid. Fully worried. He worries about the PR crisis this may cause, about his iCloud security, about the reactions online. Above all, though, he worries about you. About what he should tell the press. About how “actually, we’re not dating, we just fuck constantly” might hold up for the fans.

—

You’re twelve and Charles thirteen, both of you seated across Hervé and Pascale. Behind them stand your own parents, and they all look stern. What this is, Pascale says gently, is a family meeting. Okay?

Okay. It leaves your high voices in shaky unison. You both know what you’re doing here—you snuck out of school to catch a movie earlier, the teacher naturally caught wind of the misdeed, and now you’re in a meeting for it.

Snoops, Charles whispers, trying to ease your nerves with lighthearted commentary. This is the worst.

No, you want to tell preteen Charles—this is. You’re older now, yet still subjected to similar questioning, though today it’s Pascale going solo. It’s been three days since the fated day where the press leaked the pictures of you and Charles in compromising positions, and like any boomer, she’s used Facebook to her advantage and gotten ahold of the compromising pictures, too. 

“How long?” Her voice is enunciated in hard syllables.

“Mum—”

“Answer the question.” She looks back and forth, moving into territory of intense questions. “Both of you.”

“Um.”

“Because… I’ve been…”

You notice it immediately, given your observant track record: her shoulders relax and her lips smile just slightly. You sit still, and wait for the next words out of her mouth. “…waiting for this all my life!”

You and Charles watch in mild horror as Pascale’s face goes from firm to absolutely elated. Her eyes soften and a smile spreads over her face, illuminating her with pure joy. Do you even know how many bets I made with your papa, Charles? She claps her hands together several times.

Charles opens his mouth to verbalize dissent, but she doesn’t take it—she’s already droning on and on about how long she’s waited for this to finally happen. Your eyes glide over to the doorway of the dining area, where Lorenzo and Arthur watch with smug looks on their faces. Little shits won’t help you. You don’t even try to protest, and at some point Charles gives up, too. You don’t know how it’ll come across, anyway.

Ninety minutes later, you’re in Arthur’s bedroom rifling through his desk and praying you don’t find anything too gross. He’s on his bed throwing a bouncy ball up in the air, conversing with Charles about your gameplan with their mum.

The sky outside is in limbo between afternoon and night. It’s cloudy, so the sunset is a pale yellow instead of angry orange. “Why not just tell her the truth?”

You’d also thought that was the easiest option, escape route, exit path. But that would involve breaking Pascale’s heart, and that was out of the question for you, let alone Charles, certified mommy’s boy.

“I can’t, Arthur.” Charles’ voice is steady and unwavering.

“You can.”

“No.”

“Fine. Next best thing then.”

You fiddle with a Rubik’s cube, then turn in the seat. “What?”

“Pretend you’re dating.”

“Arthur,” you say seriously. “Shut up.” But he doesn’t join you, and you realize neither does Charles. You stare blankly at both of them, unwilling to believe they’d actually bank on this as an actual plan. 

“You guys realize this kind of thing never works? Zero percent success rate.”

“It’s just paddock appearences. You’re not pretending for millions of people,” Arthur says, shrugging. He catches the ball and throws it to you—you catch it one-handed. “You’re pretending for Mum.”

“Sure. And by extension, millions of people. Are you dense, or do you think the paddock appearances will just breeze by everyone who saw the leaks?”

“Ughhh. You’re acting like it’s impossible.” Arthur holds his breath before he utters the next sentence. “Like you two aren’t fucking every other w—”

“—oh, my God!” Shocked, you get up, and so does Charles. “Wh—I’m—language, Arthur!”

Charles balks. “How did you even—”

“I didn’t. But merci mille fois for confirming my theory,” Arthur quips faux-sweetly, smiling dopily. “I mean, I was going to find out! Your pictures are so… intimate. So just pretend to date and throw Maman off your scent.”

You protest briefly, wrestling with the option, and reconvene on the bed, you cross-legged and leaning on Charles’ shoulder and Arthur in front of the both of you. He’s always had a knack for schemes—he never got caught sneaking out, which destroyed your and Charles’ record of being caught twelve times by either of your parents. It’s a bit childish, but he gets the job done.

“Do it for… let’s say a month. Tell Mum you’ve been dating a while—Christmas isn’t that long ago, and that was the least recent picture. D’accord?”

You both nod, hyperfocused. 

“During race weekends, be all over each other—shouldn’t be hard—especially in front of Mum. People might catch you doing it, but I wouldn’t worry.”

“No, wait—I mean.” You shrug. “People—tifosi—they know I’m Charles’ friend. They’re going to be all over the fact that we’re apparently dating.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll use palatable density,” Charles says, nodding.

You pause. Arthur does, too, sensing something off.

“You mean plausible deniability.” Your deadpan voice is tinged with amusement, muffled into his shoulder. 

“Right, ouais, that.” He smiles, chuckling a bit; his shoulder shakes with it and your head nearly slips off. He brings a hand to cup over your jaw and hold you steady. “Sorry.”

“S’fine.” You sigh. “I’m totally okay with this. Just worried it’s going to have unintended consequences.”

Arthur quells you with rushed explanations about how it’ll be over and you two can say something like we decided we’re better off as friends to really sell the thing. At the seven-minute mark of your and Charles’ intense interrogation, he promptly kicks you out to figure out if you’re willing to do it yourselves.

You wedge yourself into Charles’ front seat, knowing you were headed to his place anyway. You massage your temples with one hand and fiddle with the hem of your shorts with the other. Nervous. Antsy. “Did Fred say anything?”

“Got the IT team to fortify my account.” 

“You think this thing’s going to be okay from a professional standpoint?” You look up and toward him; he’s already gazing at you, eyes soft. “I’m worried. Plus, with my job offer thing in London and New Y—”

“Don’t be.” He starts the car and maneuvers out of the driveway, into the dips of Monaco streets and the familiar route back to his place. “Bitter with the sweet. The only thing you need to worry about”—he takes your hand in the centre console, laces your fingers together loosely—“is your acting skills.”

“God, you’re right.” You sigh, looking out the window. “How am I going to pretend I can stand you?” Then, for good measure, you squeeze his hand wrapped in yours.

—

You visit Monaco from uni in London over spring, and for the first time in months, your schedule aligns with Charles’—though you learn this indirectly when you visit the Leclerc home. Pascale, of course, is the one who tells you his new flat’s address before she presses a kiss to your cheek and then leaves to run errands in the city. Alone, and in a burst of excitement, you make the drive there, take the elevator upstairs and shove the door open without knocking. He’s there. Your Charles. You can tell because the music he plays is loud—The Kooks—like his ears are still fourteen and not twenty-one, like he’s still in middle school and not in Formula One.

“Save your eardrums,” you say, before beelining toward the couch and leaping onto him for a hug. He sits up to match your energy, arms wrapping around you, sitting up straighter to keep you from totally falling atop him. 

“How’s uni?”

“Shit,” you say into his hair. It smells like his shampoo and his favorite cologne. Clean, soapy. “Obviously. How’s the Ferrari?” 

“Amazing.” He smiles. “Obviously. How’d you know I was in? Mum told you?”

“Ouais. She’s running errands. Listen, can we drink tonight?” You sigh, parting from the hug and sitting across him.

Yeah, sure. His voice is concerned, thick with worry. You shake your head—it’s not that deep, you tell him. It’s just—I had a bad date before I left and it’s put me in the worst mood.

Oh? He leans back, clasping two hands behind his head as he goes.What happened? He laughs. 

You tense visibly, rolling your eyes despite yourself. “He was just weird. Nothing.”

He wiggles his eyebrows. “You shy, Snoops?”

Ha-ha. You roll your eyes, but your face is flushed and your gaze avoids him. You reach up to tuck the loose strands of hair by your ears behind them, face warm. You’d never talked with Charles about boys or flings before—maybe several times, but never in full detail. It was always vague umbrella statements, like Ryan is boring or Greg is such a prick, but never anything beyond that. Come to think of it, you don’t know why, either.

“You can tell me.”

“The—when we—I had to fake,” you say cuttingly. “You know.”

He purses his lips and smiles, eyebrows furrowing. I don’t, actually. Something unnamed trills through you—through your stomach and into your fingertips. Your first time talking to your best friend in real life after months of uni and racing and this is the topic? It’s, if anything, a sign of your growing up, you guess.

Charles lets up on the teasing and you end up rejecting the club in lieu of sharing a bottle of vodka, throwing it back raw and without any type of chaser (to really prove nothing at all; you don’t even know why any sane human would do this). You do a Just Dance party on his TV, even try out drunk sim racing and FIFA, but by the end you’re well exhausted and retired to the couch again.

His voice is wavy and tipsy when he speaks. “You really had to fake it?”

“Yeah.” You pout. “Can never—um, finish, I dunno.” Your inhibition’s gone, shame loosened and untied by the vodka. You shift in your position on the couch.

“Maybe because it was too casual.” His voice hardens.

“So you’re saying I should…” You swallow dryly, eyes fluttering. “Sleep with somebody I know?” You’ve dropped the implication and it floats up, hangs above.

His eyes flick over to your legs, folded on the couch. The hem of your shorts. Your fingers playing with your empty shot glass. He didn’t mean anything by that. He’s half-sure you didn’t. 

“I am just saying that a good friend would do that for you.”

“You’re a good friend,” you say, volume low. 

Five minutes later you’ve properly crashed into each other, him pinning you down against the couch, licking fire up your throat. His lips trail across your jaw. 

He dips a hand into your shorts, presses against your clothed core. He’s smiling. So wet for me. He’s got his mouth pressed messily up to your jaw, when he sinks one finger all the way in, slow and stretching; and you’re clenching around him—

Come on, he’s saying. Insisting. You’re trembling, yanking desperately at his hair as he pumps his finger slowly in and out of you, aching to be full of him, to take him deeper. 

He slips another one in, and you feel the cold of his ring pressed against your entrance, then he’s fucking them into you and you’re leaking around them. 

Yes, yeah, Charles—you’re gasping, airy breaths tapering into whimpers that sound sinful, desperate. He knows you so well already. Presses his fingers against your sweet spot, watches your eyes flutter.

So needy, and you’re chanting his name under your breath as he quickens his pace, craving the stretch of him desperately. I know you want to cum, baby. He’s calling you baby and you’re closer, so much closer. Come on, for me, yeah? 

You melt, crashing and crumpling into him and shuddering as you release all over his fingers. He presses his forehead to yours and lets you take a beat. You feel giddy and dizzy and warm, which is weird because you don’t feel drunk at all anymore. This dizziness is something different. It’s Charles.

“Are we going to do that again?” You ask meekly, hand still in his hair.

“Only if you want. Whatever you want,” he says. He’d do anything for you. He’d do whatever you wanted.

“I do, I do want.” And Charles, the good friend he is, helps you out.

—

Imola is humid, warm, and the racetrack is absolutely teeming with people. But you’re not there—clad in linen shorts and a fresh tank top, you’re walking around the vicinity of the track, cup of gelato in hand, sunglasses over your eyes. The restaurant near you is playing music out loud. Beside you, singing along and drafting a list of wedding appetizers, is Lorenzo.

“Lamb chops?” You suggest, licking amaretto off the plastic spoon. The weather is pleasant enough that people are crowding the streets without it being too unbearably hot. Stevie Wonder flows from the speakers, permeates the entire block.

“I was thinking more seafood.”  

“Tuna? Make ‘em little tacos.”

“Good idea. Think I’ll go for those. Hey, are you sure you’re on board with fake-dating my brother?”

You turn sharply toward him, taken aback. He hadn’t brought it up in the week and a half this plan had been in the works—he’d been privy to it the entire time, too, which makes it weirder that he’s asking so suddenly.

“I meaaan…” You slow your pace, contemplative. A shy smile plays at your lips, brows knitted together. “It’s only going to be for a month. Ish. So, yeah. Are you—do you—sorry. Is it alright with you? Sorry.”

“It is not not okay.”

“So it’s…” You pause. “Okay.”

“It’s—yes, but I worry, is all. How sure are you that this won’t hurt anyone?”

“I don’t know, it’s… bitter with the sweet. And who’s getting hurt… like the fans?” You laugh a little. “They’ll live, won’t they?”

“Like you.” He pauses. “Like Charles.”

—

Pierre is running a comb through his hair, staring at himself in the mirror; his Narcissus moment is interrupted by a banana to the back of his head. Bonjour, he says, monotone and already knowing the culprit.

“We need to talk.”

“Could this possibly be about the news of your brand new ‘girlfriend’ over last week? Where is she, by the way?”

“With Lorenzo. Listen, here’s the thing. Mum thinks we’re dating, and I don’t know how to tell her we’re not—so I won’t.”

“Lie to your mum, go ahead.” Pierre crosses his arms and hums.

“Tais-toi. It’s for her own good.” 

“So you’re going to pretend to date.”

 “Ouais.” 

“Should be easy. You guys are hooking up and making out or whatever all the time.”

Charles pauses and lets the silence speak for itself. When Pierre makes a noise of confusion, he gives. We don’t kiss, he says finally. She thinks it is too intimate, and we ‘are not dating,’ so sex is the only thing we do. Sex, and if you still have leftover antsy energy, you pull on his shirt and sit up against the headboard to finish a crossword puzzle. Sometimes he helps you, but most of the time he’s just there to press lazy kisses to your hair and temple, cheekbone and jaw—never your lips.

“You don’t kiss?” Pierre’s genuinely shocked. “Putain, you’re a hero. How does that even work?”

“We just do not kiss. We fuck, but no kissing.” He shrugs. “It’s always been that way.”

“So how about her birthday?”

“She doesn’t…” Charlex exhales tightly. “Remember.”

“Charles,” you suddenly say, head appearing into the doorway. “Oh, hey. Fred said you might be here. What are you guys talking about?”

“Sprint racing,” Pierre says, an easy lie.

Charles, though, is never good at the lying bit. “International tariffs.”

—

Your only memories of your seventeenth birthday are applying lip gloss and mascara, wearing your shortest skirt and tightest top, and reciting your supposed date of birth in line like a mantra. Anything after that’s been sprayed off by the ultra-clutch strength of vodka. Which, you’ve been told, was your drink of choice.

“Headache’s better,” you moan over the phone, face squashed onto your pillow. “Mum gave me an Advil but I was so sick all morning.”

“Did you snog anyone?” Charles is always teasing.

“God, I wish.” You shut your eyes and try to remember if your drunken stupor had somehow managed to get you successful in lip-locked matters. Nothing comes up and you wipe a dry hand over your face, heaving a sigh. “I really wanted to kiss Matthew but I think he left before you and I did.”

A pause. Then Charles clears his throat. “You mean you and me and the police car that escorted us home?” He snorts.

“You’re such a prick!” You scream into your pillow, laughing. “I already thanked you for being my literal savior last night.”

He smiles to himself. “You’re welcome.”

“Did you have fun?” You flop onto your back and stare at the stick-on stars on your ceiling. You make a mental note to try and remove them.

“Bit boring because I vowed not to drink at all, but I got to dance. Bitter with the sweet, right?”

—

“Nervous?”

“I mean, fuck, yeah.” You fix the hem of your dress, speaking to Giada through the phone. “Pascale’s waiting for us on the paddock. And so are, like, a hundred photographers.” You wince. “Can you even imagine Charles and me? It’s just—I dunno—it’s weird.”

“It isn’t,” she says, laughing. “Not really. It makes sense. Plus, aren’t you on the whole arrangement?” You envision her air quotes.

“Yeah, but”—you slip your sandals on—“it’s on and off, and that’s not dating. It’s sex. Two different things.”

“Is it really, though? Considering how close you are outside of bed, aren’t y—”

“Okay, input no longer needed,” you laugh. “Bye, Gi. I’ll text you later.”

You reunite with Charles just by the paddock entrance. The throng of fans holding cutouts and posters notice you two before anyone else does, inciting a collective bout of yells around the both of you. He notices your blue silk dress first, eyes unmoving. “You look like the sky.”

“Thanks, man.” A beat, and you squint through your sunglasses. “That’s a compliment, right?”

“Sure.”

“Prick.” You peek over them and to the fans, who wave more aggressively when they notice you’re looking. Nervously, you raise a hand and wave back, and the noise heightens. “I think I’m going to be replacing you.”

“Dream on. On y va?”

You turn back to him, smiling, and you both enter at the same time. His hand wraps around your waist, dips a bit lower to rest at the small of your back as you walk—the fans clearly dig it, because everyone’s yelling in a frenzy as you depart. What are you doing, you ask through your smiling teeth.

“Did you forget we’re supposed to be dating?” He maintains an equally pleasant (totally duplicitous) façade, smiling. 

“I didn’t think,” you say, still smiling falsely, “that you’d put your hands on me five minutes into the whole agreement.”

“Smile, honey,” he teases. “I see at least five cameras at us right now.”

“It’s seven,” you beam. “Dumbass.”

“Again with the competitive streak.” memory

“I totally deserved to win last week’s game. You’re just a sore loser.”

“No you’re just a—hi, hi, hello!”

Your walk to the motorhome is interrupted by running into a friend of Charles’—someone from McLaren, one of the executives there. While Lando has been informed of your stunt, nobody else on that team has. 

They handshake and he waves at you politely. “Whole paddock’s buzzing with news of you dating,” he says, smiling. “It’s a tad crazy! I remember seeing you as Charles’ plus one back when he was in Formula Two. And now you two are dating. How did—well, if you don’t mind me asking, where’d it all happen?”

“Oh,” you say, laughing. “Yeah, Monaco.”

“Texas,” Charles says at the same time.

Alarm bells go off in your head at the totally random, unwarranted statement out of Charles’ mouth. Texas? Neither of you have even ever been at the same time. “He means”—you say, coughing and nodding—“we went on this, um. Wild West themed, um, restaurant in Monaco, and that’s where he asked me out.” You make a face that you hope conveys you get it, and it seems to work.

“Definitely not what I had in mind, but if it worked, it worked, eh?” He grins. “I guess I always knew you two would end up together. Alright, ciao!”

You’re smiling and waving after him as he leaves, and then you’re (semi) alone again, or at least within your own space on the incredibly crowded paddock. 

You turn to him, unable to hide your confusion. “Um? Texas?! What’s up with the backstories?”

“It slipped out! Sorry. But nice save.”

“You’re so f—” You try to scold him, but can’t, bursting into laughter and leaning forward to laugh into his chest. “Texas, really?”

“Sorry,” he says. You feel the vibration of his own laugh through his chest and it’s warm and nice. You peel yourself off lest you look too clingy, and resume your walk to the motorhome.

Ferrari is crowded, filled with people and strategists and guests. You’re given a bottle of water and then hounded with questions from the team who haven’t been informed of the situation at hand. David, one of the engineers close to Charles who you’d previously spoken to in one of the earlier races, asks to borrow him.

“Ciao, ciao.” They speak in one of the outdoor patio areas. “Is everything okay?”

“The car is fine. I just wanted to ask about the girl.” David punches his arm, playful. “You finally got her!”

“Oh.”

“It’s just… I remember all the times she would show up and you’d tell me about how much you liked her… I don’t know, it’s perfect for things to end up like this, no? Bravo!”

“Oh, si. I’ve just been, you know…” He looks through the glass sliding door and into the hospitality, where you’re talking to Isa and Carlos, sunglasses over your hair. Your hands are moving quickly, and you’re smiling while talking. He wonders what you’re so passionate about. When you’re caught in fits of happiness and passion, you’re extra animated. Your eyes are lively, and your lips can’t stop curling into a slight beaming smile. Now, maybe it’s France, maybe it’s crossword puzzles, slim chance it’s your job—whatever it is, he could watch you talk like this for hours. He thinks it’s beautiful, the way you transform, the way you smile, when you talk of things you absolutely love. 

“… crazy about her forever.”

—

There are banners, Italian flags, and Charles’ face on every other wall. He’s done his first hat-trick of the season (of several more, you’re hoping). You’ve foregone the usual clubbing for dinner with a smaller group of people, but only because you’ve been told the nightlife is bleak and you’d rather save that energy for the next race.

Lando picked out the restaurant—he’s “on a massive Yelp high” trying to get the best restaurants in every city they get to. He’s tried two over the weekend, and is hoping this guns for first place. The restaurant’s name is long and so very Italian, to the point where your semi-fluency fails you. The food is amazing, though, and so is the wine—a whole other level of grape-flavored bliss.

You’re in-between Joris and Charles, nursing your fourth glass while Charles downs a bottle of beer. Light conversation flows through the table, but your sleepiness only allows you to hear some of it. You’re content with the white noise.

Lando is getting a new cat, Lewis bought a new pair of shoes—oh, no, shares in the company that makes the shoes—Joris bought the shoes, Lorenzo will now buy the shoes, why isn’t anyone paying attention to Lando’s cat. It’s funny, entertaining, and the perfect nightcap to your immensely exhausting day of acting.

Wine tipsy makes you loopy and snoozy. By default, your head lolls onto Charles’ body; he immediately wraps a sweater-clad arm around your frame, leans back, pulls you closer. Doesn’t miss a beat. In fact, while doing so, he’s even able to get a dig in against Lando’s affinity for cats.

“No more wine, m’kay?” He whispers quietly, angling his head to yours. 

“Oh, but it was so good, though.” You mope, but nod in agreement. “I could seriously drink wine out of a keg here.”

“Sure did that a lot with beer.” You laugh, punching his bicep with what little space you’re given. “You sleepy?”

“Yeah. But I’m fine,” you respond, smiling. “Now shut up. I need to know what happened to Lando’s cat.”

Lewis leaves first, claiming he’s into this whole “sleeping at 9PM” thing, and Lorenzo follows to get ahead of an early flight tomorrow. It’s you, Joris, Charles, and Lando now, and you’re good as dead, eyes half-shut and fluttering, head slipping off his shoulder.

How was it? Lando asks, lowering his volume to keep from being too jarring. Day 1, fake dating? I actually read something like this in one of those, um, fanfiction stuff the fans do. Joris and Charles cast him a half-weirded out, half-amused pair of looks, but Lando defends himself. They’re actually pretty good, guys. I read one where I ended up with my rival or summat.

“Sorry to burst your bubble, Lando,” you croak, voice raspy with sleepiness and a day of bubbling laughter, “but Charles and I probably didn’t do your fanfiction kink justice.”

“Ignoring the emasculation.” He says, turning beet red. “What’d you do, then? Wasn’t it hard?”

“It was hard, but it’s like that.” Charles likes to substitute the phrase it is what it is to it’s like that, a result likely stemming from his trilingual childhood. “We just. Pretended. Oi, we held hands in front of the cameras.”

“Yeah, you can get a good wank in if that does it for you,” you joke. Lando hurls a cube of parmigiano at your face; it lands squarely and you flip him off, the table erupting with peals of laughter.

“In all seriousness, though—how are you two okay with this? I know I’d be second guessing my feelings every second.”

You shift, trying to hide your obvious lack of answer. It’s quiet for a few seconds, and then Charles says, “We’re both comfortable with each other, I think.”

“Yeah, comfortable enough that we can, you know, be honest.” You’re looking at Lando when you say that. You don’t know how well you could repeat the sentence if you were looking straight into Charles’ eyes.

You leave the restaurant with a generous tip, and Charles helps you pull your coat on when you’re out the door, back into the chilly night air. It’s then that all four of you catch news via text, of a club invite somewhere in the city.

“It’ll be fun, guys.” Joris and Lando stand in front of you and Charles, bumbling with excitement. “I heard Lil Tjay is going to be there.”

“It sounds very fun,” you say, smiling, “but I might pass out if I drink anything other than water, and I have zero energy. You three go ahead.”

“Wh—no, I’m not going, either.” You raise an eyebrow at Charles. “Serious! I wasn’t in the mood much, anyway. Joris, take Lando’s car and we’ll take mine.”

“Alright,” Lando whistles. “Suit yourselves, agoraphobes.”

“Joke’s on you”—Charles smiles, smug—“I don’t know what that means.”

“Not the dig you think it is, Charles,” you say, rolling your eyes. “Night, Joris, Lando. See you guys tomorrow. Use protection!”

“Should be saying that to you guys,” quips Joris with an evil grin that he closes the car door on.

The climb into the car feels like a chore in itself with how tipsy and sleepy you’ve become. Charles likes to bring his Ferrari to race weekends, but you convinced him to use a different car for this one, because you honest-to-God can’t stand the low seats anymore. 

“You want dessert?” He asks when he’s rounded the car and settled into his seat. “Gelato, a cone, biscotti…”

“No, no,” you say, voice thin. A palm covers your shutting eyes; blindly, you reach for his hand. It’s easy because he sees you searching and takes your hand to cut it short. “I’m good. So sleepy. Can I sleep at your hotel room?”

“Sure.” He starts the car, waves to the wait staff idle by the entrance, and drives off. “How was the day as my fake girlfriend? Anyone ask about me?” He wiggles his eyebrows, flickering his gaze to your figure beside him. “Wasn’t too tough, I hope.”

Imola whizzes by, trees and city, and a poorly stifled yawn escapes your lips, wine stained. You laugh sleepily. “It was a bit awkward, but bitter with the sweet, right?” He smiles, nodding, and you continue. “Yeah, few strategists, some people who knew you from Prema. I was talking to Isa and Carlos, too, earlier. Even if they know it’s fake.”

He recalls seeing you talk to them through the glass. “About?”

“You.”

—

The sun is merciless on the clay courts, and so are your shoes, shuddering against the surface in your continuing attempt to beat the opposing team. Charles cowers behind you—he’s scored less than half of your points thus far—but you’re on a mission, like your competitive self always is when you’re put in a position to be able to win.

You’re two points down now, and the noontime is becoming increasingly itchy and unforgiving; across you both, Giada and Joris call a mutual time out. “That’s not allowed!” You say, petulant.

“This is a practice session,” Charles says gently, nearing you. “Mate, none of us are actual players.”

You wipe sweat off your forehead. “Right. Désolée. I’m just—I’m in the zone.”

“Ouais, I get it. Relax, m’kay? We got this.”

You shake yourself off and hop a few times, skirt bobbing by your waist as you go. Your braid bounces on your shoulder and you nod, turning your racquet over in your grip. 

Charles pings the ball hard and it soars over to land just shy of the line, seemingly scoring a point for you two and securing your win. Giada and Joris chime in with protests, claiming that the ball’s out. You throw your hands up in question.

“Okay, what? That was clearly a point!”

“Snoops, I think they might be right. The ball looked out to me,” Charles says, wrapping a sweaty arm around your red shoulders.

“What are you talking about, Charlie? That ball was in! I saw it!” You elbow yourself out of his grip, aghast.

“How about…” He suggests quietly. “We let them win? You did win the last”—he pauses to count—“five sets. Come on, Snoops. They need this. Bitter with the—”

You take a deep breath, staring into his eyes. “Fucking sweet, right, okay. Fine, fine.” 

Charles thinks he’s in the clear and he’s managed to extinguish your flames of frustration—that is, until you walk into the Leclerc household for lunch an hour later and, after greeting Pascale and Hervé, you point squarely to the jar on the kitchen counter. “Five euros.”

He splutters. “Five? Wh—non, non! I was trying to calm you down.”

“You were blind and gave Giada and Joris a fake win,” you say playfully.

“Saluuut,” Lorenzo greets, sitting at the stool beside yours. “Quoi de neuf?”

“Charles has five euros for the jar.” The jar, the infamous jar, sometimes dubbed the Dumbass Jar when Pascale’s out of earshot. It was Lorenzo who first made it up after three straight instances of Charles pulling a push door (three different establishments).

Arthur’s joined in at this point, but its biggest indirect donors are definitely Lorenzo and Hervé, who view it as just about the funniest thing in the world. Out of pity, you don’t call dumbass too often, but the tennis loss is bruising enough that you warrant the usage.

“You heard Snoopy. Five euros. We’ll be able to get milkshakes with this money after next week.” You high five. “At this rate, Charles, you could open a restaurant in Paris.”

“He’s going to race,” you correct. You both watch a begrudged Charles junk a bill into the nearly-full jar. “What race driver is going to open a restaurant?”

—

You meet Yuki Tsunoda on a flight to Nice. You’ve seen him several times before, not too frequently but enough that his name and face are familiar on your mind. Also a personality trait that Pierre would bring up in fond conversations with you and/or Charles: he loves food, apparently.

“Yuki’s volunteering AlphaTauri to be your hideout,” Pierre tells you and Charles, across him. 

Turns out, the hardest part (insofar) of this whole schtick: the officially appointed paddock photographers are being extra sneaky with it, finding the best vantage points to snap pictures of an unwitting you and Charles.

They’re like hawks, watching for even the slightest glimpse so they can post the photos on Instagram and get clicks.

So, just a few hours earlier, Charles asked if there was a place you and him could talk if needed where photographers wouldn’t be awaiting you already, and this was the answer.

“If it’s too much trouble, feel no need to… you know.”

“Nonsense.” Pierre smiles goofily and Yuki pokes him to stop, pausing his session of eating a quesadilla (where he’d even acquired it, you’re clueless). “Yukino would be happy to.” 

The flight lands and the drive to Monaco is infected with notoriously slow traffic; you pop an Advil to try and alleviate the motion sickness. Pierre and Yuki, it seems, have joined you even outside of the flight. They’re in the backseat offering bits of conversation.

“Oh, mate, we should totally play tennis while we’re here.” Pierre sighs. “Didn’t you guys play before?”

“Mmm, yeah,” you mumble with a lilt of amusement at the memories from basically a decade ago. “At the country club. Doubles always, otherwise I’d knock Charles out of the park.”

“Hey, I won a couple times!” He protests weakly. “Like… twice.”

You laugh out loud. “Anyway, Pierre, do not bring me into tennis. I get all competitive and develop anger issues.”

“I had to calm her down twice a set,” Charles says; you swat him lightly to silence him. “Still do.”

“You know, if the Dumbass Jar still existed,” you say cuttingly, “I swear I’d be able to buy off Ferrari with that money.”

—

Monaco is swelterinly hot today. You know this because you know the weather here, you know the curves and ups and downs of it—this is your home. And today is hot. Every few minutes a breeze filters through the air and you can hear journalists or PAs sigh a collective breath of relief before they’re all subjected to the inane, high-degree weather again.

It’s also, according to Arthur, a good day to kiss in front of the cameras. He says it easily over a plate of sliced kiwi, with a devious smile, because he assumes your friends-with-benefits arrangement equates to constant kissing. But the truth is you’ve never kissed Charles, and it intimidates you.

“Do we have to kiss?” You play with his bracelets, sitting beside him on the sofa. The talk of kissing entertains the thought of sex and you can’t help but mentally complain at the remembrance that you haven’t gotten laid in weeks.

“If you don’t want to—”

“I do.” You splutter, eyes going wide, face warm. “No! I mean I don’t mind. If it sells the thing.”

“D’accord, then we will.” He smiles. “That okay?”

“Sure. First kiss,” you say. Your voice feels as clammy as your hands.

“First.” He looks away.

You take your woes off the kiss by playing a friendly round of tennis with your favourite opponents, Giada and Joris. They bemoan your competitive nature (that, to be fair, allots you and Charles three straight wins), and Giada incites a protest for a girls versus boys round.

You both embarrass Charles and Joris, heckling them as you win another two straight games. Charles runs over to you when you throw up the L sign on your hand, lifting you up and making you squeal.

“Put me down, loser!”

Giada and Joris exchange a look. Amused, knowing. “Charles! You’re such a cunt.” You kick hard, and manage to snag his abdomen, so he gently places you onto the clay again. He laughs and paces back over to his side, and you play with the tail of your braid as you watch.

You play set after set, but the kiss comes anyway. When you know photographers can see you—by the entrance—and it happens faster than your mind can muster. He’s leaning in, you’re reaching up, and your mouths slot together. It’s—and it feels crazy to say it, but—

It’s perfect. It’s lovely. You smile against his lips like they belong there and like they’re familiar and yours and like maybe this is all you’ve ever wanted, and like they deserve the smile, because they do. You feel your need to pull away before you can’t help but keep him tethered to you always. It’s strange and it’s not platonic—you’re mature enough to admit that, but not enough to label exactly what it is.

You spend the day with your fingers pressed to your lips, like you’re sealing the memory. Hours later, Charles wins. There’s massive uproar and you’re in the crowd when it happens, in the sea of strategists going to congratulate him on winning Monaco, which—that’s—it’s winning Monaco. Your ears ring by the end of it and your throat’s dry from your own cheering. Carlos comes in second, and the outlook for their team is going much better than it’d been at the start of the year, so there’s a lot to celebrate.

And celebrate you do. It starts with being pinned up against the door, hungry kisses along your jaw and neck. One kiss, it seems, has broken the dam from the few years you’ve spent abstaining from the kissing. He’s just finished interviews. He’s only just changed into his polo, and now he’s tugging it off again, feverish.

This is rushed and dirty, down low and dark. Only one light’s been switched on and he’s hiking your dress up, panties down with one hand to tug his cock out with the other. He’s kissing you—kissing you stupid, almost. Like he’s waited forever to taste your lips and now he’ll starve if he’s away for just a moment. He needs you. So have me, you want to say, all of me, push me up against the wall again and cover my mouth with your palm. Or don’t, don’t—so everyone knows I’m yours.

He presses your chest against the wall so your back’s turned to him, thrusts in with a breathless, throaty grunt. 

“S’ big,” you’re saying, clawing at words the pleasure bars you from finding.

“Barely even in,” he whispers. “Slow down, baby, come on, take it.”

Your toes curl. You’re high on the win, on the kissing, on Charles, on the slow delicious stretch of his cock. “I’m taking it, I’m taking it,” you say, shaky. He thrusts, slow and deep and dirty, until he’s bottomed out and you’re tiptoeing from the overwhelm.

“I feel you,” you’re whimpering, moans and gasps leaving your mouth. You blindly search for his hand, find it against your hip, drag it to your abdomen, under your dress that he hasn’t even fully removed. “I feel you there,” you say, an edge of teasing to your voice.

His cock’s bulging, almost, out of your stomach, and it’s getting you both all lightheaded. He thrusts harder, a devious smile felt against your neck.

I need it, Charles, you plead, please, please fuck me harder. You feel it coming, the familiar pleasure intensifying so quickly—you don’t usually cum so early, he’s always making you wait for it—pussy squeezing around him.

Jesus, already? He’s groaning but a laugh escapes, breathy and amused and taunting. He’s fucking you harder, faster. It’s so good, each hit getting you closer. Taking me so well, you’re bruised all over now, baby. You hate how well he knows what turns you on; memories of mornings post-sex spent inspecting the purple marks on your hips flash through your head and you’re even closer now, shaking, whimpering, begging.

You’re half-sure someone can hear, but it doesn’t even phase you. Harder, deeper— and you’re collapsing, legs spasming uncontrollably, orgasm so intense it’s on the brink of totally hurting. Tears roll down your sweaty face and he kisses them away, cumming onto your back to wipe off in a few minutes.

“I never even”—you pant, tired—“got to say congratulations.”

“That was more than enough.”

—

Charles is elated when you tell him his family has thrown a party for him the day next. He’s boyish in that way, optimistic and kiddy, the kind of person who’s up at five-thirty to announce their own birthday. 

He drives you both to his childhood home, a route so familiar he could drive with his eyes closed. (“I hope you’re not driving closed-eyed,” you’d warned.)

Even if he could, anyway, he’d rather not. The scenery of Monaco is stunning, ever-changing, and he never tires of it—the buildings, the skies, the trees and shrubbery, stores lining the streets, clean entrances. 

And you—in the passenger seat, humming softly to a song of his choosing. Drives are always better when you’re in the passenger seat.

The turnout is generous: extended family, and several friends from school. There’s bowls of fruit, salad, plates of salmon and racks of lamb, knobs of butter with warm bread. Pascale commands the kitchen—visible in how she leaves it cluttered with bowls, ingredients, whisks still dripping with syrup or batter, spoons licked for tasting. The good kind of clutter.

Lorenzo has also taken reign of the AUX, because it’s 70’s music playing, which is what he’s fond of for family gatherings like these. It’s My Cherie Amour now, Stevie Wonder mellowing across the lawn and into the house.

Charles knows you love the kitchen as much as his mum does, so when you get to the house, he’s not surprised to see you leave him in favor of checking out what damage has been done to your favorite marble countertops. He watches Pascale turn from the gas range, her eyes lit when she sees you, inviting you into an embrace. 

You look like the song playing, pretty and lovely, breeze in the summer. He almost loses himself in thought before his great-aunt Eden places two bony hands on his arms and greets him in feeble Italian.

He flits his eyes away from you, if just briefly, and faces the woman with a smile on his face. “Ciao, zia,” he says, voice buoyant, happy. “You came here to see me, no?”

All five-foot-one of her shakes in disagreement. She wags a finger for extra measure. “No,” she says. “Sono venuto a vedere la tua ragazza.”

His eyes widen. “She’s—” He pauses. He debates telling Eden you’re not actually his girlfriend, that this was a setup to appease Pascale and, by extension, tifosi. But he backtracks.

He shouldn’t, but he gives in, lives out his dreams for a bit. “Ah, she’s over there, zia. Con mamma.” He points to the open door, and to you on the far end of the room inside, holding a spoon. “Beautiful, yes?”

“Molto,” she says proudly. “You marry her?”

Fact: his great-aunt has the worst memory. She forgot Charles’ name twenty times, let alone niche facts like this one. Another fact: she rarely shows up to family events. Maybe now, because it’s a racing thing; but baby showers and funerals, she’s at home. So he indulges a bit more.

“Si, we’re engaged. But—it’s a secret, zia.” He grins. “Non dire a nessuno. Okay?”

“Sei fidanzato?!” She claps once, excited. “Ay, Charles. I waited my whole life for this moment, si?” And she’s wobbling away, still muttering under her breath.

—

“How is my son?” Pascale’s voice is teasing. She sighs happily. “For years I wondered if this would happen. And it really is.”

“Oui, sure is,” you sing-song, laughing a bit awkwardly. “We’re—he’s okay. We’re great. In love.”

“Oh, in love,” she swoons. She leaves you, after fifteen more minutes of detailed discussion, with half a spoonful of vinaigrette to taste-test, departing to check on the guests for a few minutes. In her place arrives Lorenzo, already bearing a shit-eating grin. “Saluuut.”

“Mmm, good to see you, too.” You taste the liquid and add lemon to the bowl. “How’s wedding planning?”

“Think we’ll throw a shower. Is that pretentious?”

“No,” you say, mulling over it. “Sure, a bit. But just don’t make it a whole thing, you’re golden.”

“I see.” He sighs fondly. “You know, many a conversation we’ve had right here at this counter. About anything.”

—

You loosen your school tie, slicing an apple like you so often do, waiting for Charles’ karting practice to end. Pascale had fixed you a bowl of something, Hervé a glass of orange juice. And somebody else would always, without fail, steal your food. A hand swipes two slices form your chopping board and your head whips up.

“Lorenzo!” You stomp your foot. “Stop stealing! That is my apple.”

“You mean the Leclercs’ apple.” He laughs, pops another slice into his mouth, smiling. 

You roll your eyes, shaking your head. The braid beside your head shakes with it as you continue slicing it into perfect quarters. He pipes up again: “How was school?”

“Shit, as usual.” You lower your voice and smile, leaning in. “Pascale scolded me earlier, for saying that word.”

“Did Papa?”

“Obviously not. He fist bumped me.” You share a laugh, both chewing on apple slices now. “Anyway, I aced a math test, had aubergine for lunch… got driven here by Charlotte’s mum.”

“Charlotte?” Lorenzo hums conspiratorially, making a mmmm sound. You look up from the yellow chopping board, furrowing your eyebrows. He persists: “Mmm. Cha-r-lotte.”

“What’s up with Charlotte?” Bit impolitely, you ask, in-between chews.

“I think she likes Charles, a little.” You nod slowly, trying to follow. Charlotte liking Charles. Your Charles. Wait, no. Not your—or nobody’s, really. Just Charles. Yeah.

“What? Bull!” You narrow your eyes. “Says who?”

“Why do you care?”

“Wh—I don’t!” You squeak, caught. “Just… I think I’d know, Lorenzo.” You make a tch noise, crossing your sweater-clad arms. “So—says who?”

“I saw her leering at him during his birthday party.” 

“You’re wrong,” you say, but you don’t really know who you’re convincing. He reaches over for an apple slice, and you move the chopping board out of the way sharply.

“Mon dieu, you’re snappy. Fine, fine. I might be wrong,” he relents, shrugging. He gets up and slides beside you to be able to acquire more slices. “I talked to her during the party, too.”

“Weirdo,” you tease, allowing him to take a few more. “About Charles, yes?

“No, about her brand new dress.”

“You’re the funniest Leclerc brother, I assure you.”

“She told me…” He says, louder this time, shushing you effectively. “She told me she ‘finds Charles cute.’” Air quotes, shrug. “But that they ‘probably won’t’ date.”

“Huh. Did, um. Did she say why?” You play with the tail of your braid, shuffling back and forth on your flats. You don’t know why you’re so fidgety—you aren’t nervous, you don’t think.

“Because…” he says, chewing to allow for a pause. “She said every time she looks for Charles to try and ask for time alone, or on a date, or something, he’s already following you around like some puppy.”

—

You comb your hair into a bun and venture into the patio, having avoided a good chunk of the noon heat. You greet some relatives politely along the way, and receive a hand squeeze from great-aunt Eden. At one of the tables is Charles, beside Joris and another friend, and Giada and Charlotte across them, an empty seat beside the latter.

You seat yourself in it and Giada kisses your cheek. “Hey. Ça va?”

“Fine,” you say, smiling. Then you lower your voice to a whisper. “Do you remember when I told you about my crush on Charlie? For the first time?”

“Yeah,” she whispers back. “Around… 2013.”

“Ouais. And… and it disappeared after that,” you say. “Right?”

“You said it did,” she says. “A year later. When we were sixteen.”

“Right.” You think. Seventeen onwards—you’d never formed a full-fledged crush on Charles. “Okay. It’s nothing. Just a memory. I was just. Yeah, oui.”

“Oui, let’s eat.” The memory fades and so does your running mind. Charles’ eyes meet yours across the table, and suddenly you feel a little less like your thoughts have ripped you open.

—

When you and Charles were younger, you adopted the adage “bitter with the sweet.” Charles will have people believe it was made by the both of you, with philosophical minds stretched so far beyond their years. Well, revisionist history. The truth lay in the Carole King song of the same name you’d heard on the stereo.

Those are the exact words Charles tells Ted when he’s interviewing for the Spain Grand Prix. It’s a hot day and you’re especially doubled down on by the fact that he’s finished ninth. 

You’d been fake-dating for the cameras all weekend. At all costs, you try and avoid interviews, but the damned Drive to Survive producers insist on a soundbite and start following the two of you around everywhere (only to find your conversations sound very weird and niche, and not scandalous or sexy).

Pascale also called—Charles first, and when he didn’t check his phone, you. You spent an hour on the phone just talking about the race. About the penalties and the nasty headlines that followed, and just everything.

“I’m glad you’re there,” she says. “God knows he needs you.”

You end up biking to try and relieve the stress, posing with fans for pictures.

“I’m such a big fan. I stalk Charles’ Insta like, all the time, and it’s crazy how you guys are dating.” A teenaged girl laughs nervously. “Where’d it happen?”

“Texas!” He, again, tries out the bit to appease the fans but you have to extinguish the flames of his blatant lies.

“He’s kidding,” you interject. “It’s just—it just happened, really.”

How does something just happen? Someone told you once, in a Paris bar, that love is like an echo. It’s always there, in the underbelly, underneath it all, and then one day it echoes, like a bass drum or a cymbal. And the echo—the echo is you feeling it. You feel the echo, the all-encompassing echo, even if the love itself’s been there all along.

With Charles, it’s out of the question. You love him. He’s your best friend. You trusted him before you even learned what trust meant, for Chrissake.

How could you not love him? That seemed impossible. The love was there. The love’s always been there and it’ll never go away.

It echoes at half-past-two in Barcelona, when he whips past you on his bike and says on your left. The breeze pulls your hair to the left, covers your face, and when you rake it away he’s stopped to check if he accidentally bumped you in his rush to look cool.

You’re creepily observant; you’ve been told this many times before. What people don’t know is with the observance comes even more questions. Ifs, whys, wheres, whens, hows, God the hows. The questions keep coming because there’s never an answer.

“Are you okay?” He asks. Green eyes glittering like a lake. Smile like the sun. Hair curly at the ends. “Did I hurt you?”

Then you realize. In the matters of love, every question—every single question. Every single one. The answer is Charles.

“Of course not,” you say. And you smile.

—

You almost drop your book in your rush to scurry past the paparazzi. They’re still busy on the two figures (Alex and Lily, you think) on another end of the paddock, which allows you only a few moments to try and evade them.

Others are stationed near the Ferrari hospitality, which means you’re going to need your hideout. Yuki had texted Pierre who had texted Charles who had told you that it was all clear to go there for a few minutes while waiting for the photographers to clear out.

Hurry, Charles is saying. Laughing. His hand’s gentle in yours. You want them there forever. You want to drag the tip of your nail over the barely-perceptible grooves of his fingerprints so he knows how much you need him.

The days post-Spain were spent biking, watching shows, listening to music, eating food. The travel to Canada—long, cold, compression socks. Pascale had called mid-flight to check on her “favorite pair”—you maneuvered yourselves into a much more cuddly position to appease her, and her giddy smile was incentive enough to stay that way for ninety minutes.

You’d been in a weird mental state trying to grapple with your rapidly returning and intensifying feelings for him, which have dawned on you all at once.

But he makes it better. You’re still laughing when you wedge yourselves in, eyes meeting.

And then you’re quiet.

The gaze you share is intense, but almost unsure, like you’re supposed to be looking away anytime now. You step backward shakily, and his hand moves from your waist to the small of your back to keep you from stumbling any further. You’re closer now. But this shouldn’t feel as strange as it does when you two have been in much more scandalous positions before—what’s different?

He’s so close, so so close, his green eyes looking right through you. You lean closer, ready to kiss him like you have before, ready to feel his mouth slot softly over yours, comforting and safe and Charles.

Funnily enough, it’s then that the illusion breaks, his grip loosening and the distance between you increasing. He coughs twice, awkwardly.

“Shit—sorry,” you say profusely, clearly having read the moment wrong. Embarrassment wells up in your system, warming your face. You laugh to diffuse the tension but it barely does anything.

“No, don’t—” He exhales, squeezes the bridge of his nose, trying to find words. “It’s not that I don’t want to kiss you. I do.”

“So kiss me,” you suggest simply, looking around for anything that might stop him. The embarrassment ebbs away, replaced quickly by confusion. 

“I don’t want to kiss you in an AlphaTauri stock room,” he mopes, burying his head in his hands in clear frustration. “An AlphaTauri stock room.” He repeats it in a hushed whisper, disbelief etched all over his pretty face.

“Charles,” you begin, smiling already, the quaint way that makes his knees go weak every time. “You’re acting like you and I haven’t kissed before.” 

“This is different.” He says firmly, looking away lest he lean in involuntarily. He interjects with conviction, not realizing what he’s implying until the implication’s hanging in the air. The longing kills him softly, and he feels if he looks at you a second longer he’ll kiss you anyway.

It’s a wonderfully confusing feeling. You open your mouth to respond but you can’t; your brain tacks itself onto his sentence, the division created between the kisses before now and the kiss that might happen anytime soon.

“H…” you trail off, throat drying. Blinking, you try again, “How different?”

He looks up, eyes conveying all the things his lips never will. This is different. You know it. I love you this time.

The answer is exchanged and accepted wordlessly. You slip out of the room when Pierre tells you it’s okay to, and it’s only then—only then—that Charles’ hand leaves your body. You seem to burn alive with its absence.

It’s a Ferrari 1-2. You snap a thousand pictures with Isa and Carlos holding Carlos’ trophy while Charles is doing interviews, and they invite you to join them for the break. You’re open to it—the win, the good standings, they definitely warrant a celebration for the few weeks’ break. So your original itinerary is Portugal—beaches, coasts, food—but the jet re-charts a route and the flight is cut much shorter because you’re in New York City.

—

Somewhere in Manhattan, a wedding shower is thrown on an outdoor rooftop. “This is one hell of a wedding shower,” you squeal excitedly when you spot him, bringing Lorenzo in for a hug. Your yellow dress flows in the wind. “I thought you guys were going to throw it in Monaco?”

“Yeah, well… why not here, right? It’s beautiful.” He gestures to the skyline, smiling. “Plus, Charles, Arthur, and Mum were already near the country for work, so we got ahead of it. Everyone was happy to fly out.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, I love it.” You beam. “I can’t believe it, either. When’s the final date?”

He opens his mouth to reply, but the wind is knocked out of him by Charles barreling into his arms for a hug. You roll your eyes at the latter’s childish behavior, smiling despite yourself. They part and Charles finds his place beside you, arm snaking around your shoulders. “What a wedding shower!”

“Don’t flatter me, dipshit,” Lorenzo jokes.

“It’s a lovely one.” Lorenzo thanks him. “An amazing shower. You know, it’s a total golden shower!”

You purse your lips. “Charles—”

“A golden shower, mate. Absolutely.”

That garners at least three odd looks and you calmly place a hand on his chest to whisper don’t ever fucking say that again it means something completely different please don’t embarrass me or your brother. 

For all your embarrassment, you make up for it in having the literal time of your life. The food is good, the city view is amazing, the weather is fair and the music—Desafinado now—is amazing. “I could see myself here,” you say offhandedly to Charles, who nods back with a faint smile. He’s half-distracted.

“You look beautiful, by the way,” he says, squinting from the sun in his eyes. “Very.”

You part ways at some point—Pascale whisks him off, no doubt for another long round of questioning about your relationship, and you meander around with a glass of champagne.

You’re halfway through swiping a mini quiche when a hand wraps around your wrist and squeezes to get your attention—Charles’ great-aunt Eden. She speaks only intermittent English, and your Italian fails to carry you through well enough, but you smile and greet her. “Ciao, Eden!”

“Ciao, bella.” She smiles. “Flight was long.”

“Oh, yeah. New York’s far. I might work here someday. I’ll hear results in around two weeks, but I’m hoping for London instead.” You slow your speech.

“When will you two wed?”

“Wed?” Your face warms and you stutter through a giggly mess of a sentence. “Oh, Eden—zia—no, no! We’re just friends.”

“My Charles told me you two are to be married.” You both crane your heads to the right, where Charles is leaning against the terrace railing talking to one of your friends, Matthew, animatedly. He meets your eyes, sees Eden beside you, and seems to connect the dots.

Jokingly, perhaps, he raises his hand and wiggles his empty ring finger. You can’t help but smile as you turn back to the old woman. “Oh, did he, zia?”

“Si, he did.”

“Well, we’re just going to let it happen, then. You’re invited. Front row.” You kiss her cheek and she smiles, wobbling off to drink more wine before any of the adults can stop her.

It’s announced then that the dance floor is open, and many of Pascale’s friends filter through to show off their moves to the 70’s music. You watch, amused, at the display of dexterity to Frankie Valli and Aretha Franklin. You cheer them on, content to watch them against the backdrop of the New York sunset.

When Ain’t No Mountain High Enough plays, the dance floor grows, because nobody can resist the song—not even Charles, apparently, who takes your hand without preamble and takes you, squealing, to the centre.

You sing each of the parts, like you always do when the song comes on. It’s semi-tradition at this point: you take Marvin Gaye’s, Charles takes Tammi Terrell’s. You both exaggerate your dance moves and pretend you’re performing.

His hand’s in yours, winding you around and pulling you close. At some point he starts robot dancing to entertain you. It works—you laugh out loud, your eyes half-shut and faced to the stars above. He could write a poem about this. Or a song.

The song ends and you lean onto his shoulder to take a breather—then the photographer swoops in and takes a picture. “That’s going into the RSVPs!” He says, accent unmistakably American.

“Does he know we’re not the couple here?” You ask.

Do we know we’re not the couple? Charles asks himself.

The night escalates as the “oldies” leave, and Matthew, Joris, and Giada join you both for one last round of drinks again. You’re all standing at the exit making conversation; Lorenzo attends to his friends at the other end of the terrace.

“I feel young again,” Matthew says, liberated by Tito’s vodka. He takes another swig and pulls his coat on.

“You’re twenty-five, calm down,” you joke. “Dodged that bullet.” You’re poking fun at the semi-massive crush you had on Matthew in secondary school, and a laugh passes through the four of you. “Anyway, you three be careful. No driving.”

“Jesus, but really—I haven’t been this drunk since you”—he points at you, laughing—“turned seventeen at that club, Amber? No?”

“Oh, God. Y’know, same.” You fail to notice Charles and Giada share a look. “I remember nothing from that night! Or, like, the first two hours at least.”

“I remember drinking my body weight because of heartbreak,” he jeers. 

“Heartbreak? Were you—were you with anyone?” You ask, confused.

It happens before anyone can stop it. “No, when Charles kissed you. And you kissed him after. Alright, night mates! Lorenzo—merci!”

Oh, fuck, you hear in the back of your now-muddled brain. Giada’s voice.

You open and close your mouth. “Ch—wait, he—what?”

“I—let’s talk here,” Charles flounders, dragging you to a more secluded spot and facing you. The three of your friends exit; Giada waves, apologetic. “When… we were at Amber… and you were absolutely hammered, we kissed. It was twice—just twice. And you didn’t, um. Remember a thing.”

You’re unsure. “In Amber?” You blink, confused. “What do you mean?”

“We… I don’t—I mean, I understand why you don’t remember. We kissed that night.”

“So that’s… Charles… You didn’t tell me.” Your voice quivers, like a wire flicked. “Why didn’t you say it at the time?”

He doesn’t give you an answer. He just looks at the counter, imagines the way your eyebrows furrow, your lips move, eyes glitter. He can’t give you one. He doesn’t want to hurt, disappoint, sadden you. He wants to get on his knees and root you here, so he’ll have all the time in the world to come up with an answer.

“Charles.” But he loves you, and he can at the very least be honest for you. “Look at me.”

“I was scared.” His eyes gravitate to yours.

“Of?”

“It felt stupid, is all. That you didn’t remember, and maybe you did but you were pretending you weren’t. I didn’t—it didn’t—sorry.” He laughs, stutters. “I convinced myself it didn’t mean anything because we didn’t have feelings for each other.” He pauses. “Then.”

“Well,” you say, slow. Eyes stuck to his. “How about now?”

“Now?”

“I love you, now. I mean, isn’t that all this is? Loving? Even if? De—despite of?” 

And this—God. This is how it feels. He’s looking at you and you’re telling him you love him because you do, and finally he’s been over with reassurance.

You love him, too. That way. He trembles with it. His hands are shaky when they lace into yours, like you’re a shrine, a prayer, and he feels like maybe these are the emotions that swirl through the human body when one wins the lottery and gets struck by angry lightning at the same time.

This is it, he thinks. Profound and lovely and an echo of sweet memories. He’s yours. Here in a city unfamiliar to both of you, yet to be conquered, your fingers lace lightly and you smile, smile, smile at each other, as if you’re the last two people on Earth. He’s yours, so foolishly in love with you.

Even far from home, you’re both filled with warmth, with longing. Extended stares, pits of your stomachs welling up with something lovely in between homesickness and nostalgia. Here again, you again, us again—it’ll always be us again, your heart seems to say, surrounded by the same love the same hurt the same sad the same everything, you and me, all the love in the world, all the confusion, we’re here. It’s never over.

Across the terrace, Lorenzo watches. Two figures, laughing, emanating happiness, gentle unkowing love. You two have finally made it here, after what felt like a thousand trials and dreams and stories.

So even if you’re taller, in high heels and a yellow dress—and Charles is broader, in a suit and tie—Lorenzo thinks he can blink and see the two little kids who hosted a tea party in the backyard. He can blink again and see you hugging, eyes shut, his lips pressed to your forehead to convey the intimacy nothing else will do as well. 

“So what now?” You ask. Again with the questions. In your defense—it begs so many follow-up questions. A love so many years in the making—layer after layer after layer—of course it begs all the questions, almost to the point of overwhelming capacity. What’ll we tell Pascale? The fans? The family? Everyone?! 

But one look and he makes it better. His green eyes, bright against the deep black of the skyline. You’ve grown. You’ve done it. You’re here. “We’ll figure it out.” He smiles. “We deserve this kind of ending, don’t you think?”

—

“He has my name.” A tubby finger points to the boy on the greeting card. “That one.”

“And who’s the dog?” Asks the girl beside him, hair wound into a plait. She likes this boy. He’s cute. She plays with the end of her braid and stares, eyes flickering in-between him and the card they’re staring at.

“The name’s right there. They’re best friends.”

“Okay, that’ll be me.”

“So that’s us.”

“Oui.” She smiles. “Charlie and Snoopy.”

–

read an omitted scene here :)

[vaguesxrrow]

OMG I LOVED UR CHARLES X SHORT ALIVE READER CAN U DO ONE WITH EDWIN PLEASEEEEE

THANK YOU SMM both for the compliment and the request, and ty for your patience !!

edwin / short!alive!reader

a/n: i hope edwin doesn't seem ooc in this 😭

tags: gender neutral reader, short reader, alive reader

- okay first off, some hcs for before you get together:

- you're the newest addition to the group (thus expanding the alive sector of the dead boy detectives)

- the romantic tension is immediate, and edwin, no matter how hard he tries can't deny it

- would try to stand over you, frowning, to be intimidating

- but when you smile at him, unperturbed, he can't handle how cute you are and ends up being the one getting flustered

- charles and crystal are side-eyeing each other in the background as this happens, and niko is just very happy for her friend

- as for AFTER you get together...

- edwin is secretly SO grateful to be able to rest his head on yours like he's always wanted to do, and give you forehead kisses...

he would always ask permission to kiss you

- a softly mumbled "may i?" while looking down at your perfect features - if you say yes, it'll be gentle, no matter if the kiss is chaste or passionate

- he doesn't treat you gently because of your height (he would never underestimate you like that - you're one of the strongest people he knows) but because he thinks you deserve to be delicately loved

- for your first date, edwin would explore the area for its more scenic and secluded routes, and take you there on a walk

- he treated you to a milkshake earlier, and the way you lit up and thanked him gave him butterflies

- imagine: music playing from buskers a street away. since there's no one here, you ask him to dance

- he rolls his eyes but agrees, because how could he ever say no to you?

- you're bouncing around with your fingers intertwined with his

- he notices that even with all your jumping, you barely reach the height of his ear, and he thinks it's adorable

- edwin spins you around and you're both laughing when you fall into his chest

- he wraps his arms around your neck, all too aware of how close you are even if he can't feel it. if his heart was still beating, it would be jackrabbiting in his chest

- ...he can't help but hope you're enjoying the proximity as much as he is

- edwin adores your height. he thinks it's so cute and loves the benefits of it

- if you say you want to be taller or anything he'll immediately respond with, "i think you're perfect for me the way you are."

- imagine: browsing the shelves at tragic mick's when you see a book that's practically screaming edwin's name

- one problem: it's on the top shelf

- but of course you can't ask edwin to get it for you, if you're planning on getting it for him

- so, you decide to keep trying, because you're nothing if not determined

- after a while of semi-climbing the shelves, edwin finds you

- edwin: [name], what are you doing?

- you: ...i saw a book you might want, but it's on the top shelf

- edwin reaches over you to get the book, looking especially pleased with himself when he presents it to you and you begrudgingly smile at him in thanks

[luveline]

Hi!!! I love this idea so can I please get I need a ride + someone spiked the punch with pretty boy Steve? Maybe something where r is at a Halloween party and has to call Steve, who comes in his pajamas, so he can take her home? Thank you dearest, I love your work (and before you ask YES what you called your hurt/comfort request was what I requested and no I am not taking criticism at this time).

join luveline's halloween party

hey!!!! ty for ur request, hurt/comfort with bff!steve x tipsy!gn!reader

Your knees ache. You're sitting all screwed up on the bottom step of the staircase so people can get past you, too tired and achy to keep standing. This was the best seat available.

Your heart ticks in your chest, the threat of tears stinging behind your eyes.

Steve should be here soon. Maybe. You're not sure if he's actually coming to get you he'd sounded that tired, which is another reason to cry. You'd woken him up to come and save you like you always do. He's going to get sick of you eventually. He might be already.

You smother a hiccup with the back of your hand and wait.

You're not sure how long it takes. One second you're awake and miserable and the next you're nearly sleeping, a familiar hand climbing from your knee to your thigh.

"You okay?" Steve asks quietly. You almost miss it under the bumping stereo.

"Steve?" you question, eyes bleary and words sticky as thick toffee.

"Yeah. Ready to go?"

You close your eyes and ignore him. Not because he isn't really pretty, or because you haven't missed him like crazy, but because you're suddenly exhauste.

Fatigue claws at you and keeps you where you're curled, a tight ball that doesn't wanna move no matter how hard your best friend tries it. Steve starts with amicable hands hooked in your armpits, then tries to pick your head up of off your chest. When neither works, he sighs morosely and starts blowing hot breath at your eyelashes.

"Don't," you whine softly.

"You asked me to come and save you, bub. Get up."

"No, just-" You huff. "Leave me here."

"I forgot alcohol makes you cranky."

"M'not cranky," you grumble.

Steve's hands are hot, twin hearths pressed to your covered knees. "This is a nice costume," he says, pinching at your ripped jeans. "You're Cameron, right? From Ferris Bueller? Makes complete sense."

You smile ruefully. You'd thought the same.

"I can see you smiling," he says, voice like twined stands of spun gold. It shines. It's soft.

You rub your tired, bloodshot eyes and open them, startled at what you find. Steve kneels in front of you looking maddeningly handsome in a way that scream little effort has been made. He's in his pajamas, for one, plaid bottoms and a shirt that's too short for him, the tiniest slither of naked torso and hair visible if you look for it.

Which you definitely don't.

"C'mon, perv," he says.

You meet his melty brown eyes and glare. "Shut up, Harrington."

"Shut me up. Come on, let's go."

Steve holds both hands palm up, keys hanging around his middle finger like a ring. You slide your hands slowly against his. You swear you can feel every tiny line, every crease and wrinkle.

He rubs your knuckles with his thumbs. "Something's weird about you tonight," he says curiously.

"Something weird about you every night."

He laughs loudly and stands, helping you to your feet with infinite patience. He's always like this when you're drunk; he acts as if you're made of the most fragile glasswork ever crafted, shielding you from stray elbows and overzealous shoes.

Steve keeps one hand in his as he drags you down the steps and out onto the street. The sky is pitch black but the party lights glare over everything, casting the world in an irritating technicolor. He frowns at you as you cover your eyes and moves to stand behind you with a hand guiding your lower back to his haphazardly parked car.

"I'm sorry I woke you up," you say as he opens the passenger side door.

Steve helps you in and miraculously you don't smash your skull on the roof.

"This is exactly the kind of stuff you should be waking me up for, don't worry," he placates, following you inside the car.

You gasp at his sudden proximity and hold your breath as he stretches your belt over your chest and clicks it in. To your horror — excitement? — he lingers, face alarmingly close. The heat of his breath kisses your wind-chilled cheeks.

"Are you okay? You sounded really upset, on the phone."

You shake your head, tipsiness making you slow, head heavy as a sack of quarters. "I don't remember."

"You said you missed me."

You watch his lips form each word and are still, somehow, surprised. You're pulse jump-starts, smile shaky and unsure as you ask, "I did?" way too loudly.

"Something about needing a Ferris to your Cameron."

He waits for you to say something. You shake your head with an awkward little giggle and he shrugs, ducking out of the car. "All limbs inside the ride?"

You pull your elbow away from the door and let him swing it closed.

"Robin always says that movie has a lot of subtext, you know?" he asks, climbing into the driver's side. He inserts his key and starts the engine, reversing before you've had a chance to comprehend what he said.

"What?" you ask, off-kilter.

"Robin, she says that Cameron has major feelings for Ferris."

You don't like his smile. It's knowing. He can't know how you feel about him, there's no way, but his smile. So frustratingly smug.

"Ferris is a dick," you say eventually.

Steve roars with laughter. You can't believe it, the way he tips his head back just a touch, his teeth poking out, his huge smile as he struggles to regain composure. He turns to you bodily in all his pajama'd glory and winks.

"Tell me how you really feel," he says sarcastically.

You slouch down into your seat and pretend to lose consciousness. Steve leans across the console and flicks your leg all the way home.

"Don't want you to succumb to alcohol poisoning, or anything."

With the way his teasing makes you feel it might be a kinder fate.

[sleepysheepytea]

ok so theres this one dude i work with and he’s cool and whatever but hes also super like touchy with his friends and stuff (and others too he gives me random fistbumps without saying a word lol) BUT TODAY HE HONKING TICKLED ONE OF MY BEST FRIENDS AND OMG-

ok so me fren usually wears our uniform jacket all the time for some reason even though its like a gajillion degrees all the time but anyway its a pretty thick jacket (ive tried doing the side zap thing to my friends but havent really gotten any reactions cuz its a pretty thick jacket and also ppl have done it to me and. nothing.) BUT ANYWAY TO THE POINT-

MY FREN HONKING SQUEALS AND JERKS BACK- AND I WAS LIKE SIR OMG HOW TICKLISH ARE YOU 

LIKE IF HE REACTED THAT MUCH FROM TICKLES OVER A JACKET HOW TICKLISH- omigoodness

also his squeal was the cutest honking thing and he was so giggly afterwards im gonna miss him so much when i leave omg i gotta give him the fattest hug before i go

also my other friend was being so nice and she was helpin me out and stuff bc i lost my voice and she was talking for me lol i love her too im happy today was a good work day 

ALSO SORRY FOR THE LACK OF DRAWINGS WE’RE DOING HOUSE RENOVATIONS SO WE’RE PRETTY BUSY BUT I AM IN THE PROCESS OF DRAWING A FEW THINGS SO STAY TUNED ILY ALL MWAH TY FOR UR PATIENCE

[catboymoments]

Just the shear patience my friend has to watch me scroll through your account and show them all of ur yummi art :D

AHHHHHHEHEUEHGHJGFJDHJJJJJJ GIVE ME UR ART SKIILLLLLLZ :3

WAH???? TY

[niphredil-14]

pls write some fluff for raph <3333

its 2 am rn so i just want something comforting to read lmao. maybe some headcannond about trying to get a peaceful nights sleep while ur crime fighting boyf sneaks back into ur room after patrolling/a mission?🥷🥷🥷

ty bby

METRONOME OF AFFECTION (2012 Raphael Hamato/Reader) Warnings: some pining, some light insecurity, lots of fluff, friends to lovers word count:1794 notes: tumblr wouldnt let me post this all at once so i was forced to break it up.

Protecting a city as massive and crime filled as New York was far from an easy task, no matter how many people were on the team, and in some cases, the team could add more to his plate than they took anything off of it. From small annoyances, and petty arguments to full on battles, it didn't take long to wear Raphael down, he could feel his patience falling away from him like loose scutes. Every little inconvenience and setback sticking to him like algae on his shell. By the time that the bright moon, clouded by the fog and smoke rising from the city, had begun to set over the skyline, Raph's feet were dragging with every step, his very bones ached, and what risked becoming a permanent scowl had carved itself onto his face, his mouth curving downward, pulling awkward lines down his jaw from his beak. The group had all been heading towards their go-to sewer cap, located in a small, cramped alley in the Italian district, right next to a small Mom-and-Pop pizzeria that they had April and Casey frequenting on their behalf. The closer they got to their equivalent of a doorstep, the more Raph's appetite lessened and a strong sense of dread set into his chest. He did not want to end his less-than-ideal night with going back to the lair, with people who has spent the past six hours doing nothing but getting on his nerves, only to brood and stew in his misery, holed up in his room or the dojo until the stars rose yet again as the next evening dawned, where they would all rinse and repeat their ass-kicking and name-taking routine, he needed an escape, and he knew exactly where to go. He had stopped walking, letting his brothers and friends build a gap between them as he slowly melded with the shadows, turning and heading east. After five minutes or so, he would send them a text, just before he arrived at his destination, letting his family know that he was okay, and that it was just a bit early for him to crawl back to the sewers to hide from the world again. Pausing after sending the text, letting the dim blue-light from the screen minimally illuminate his face, he hesitated on their fire escape. The window led into their living room, and he could tell that there was not a single light on in their apartment, save for a small night light kept plugged into the hallway outlet, so that they didn't trip if they had to get up in the middle of the night, as they so often did. The last thing he wanted to do was disturb their sleep, he knew that with everything they had going on in their life, that they weren't getting nearly enough, and yet he couldn't stop himself from at least slipping in to use the first aid kit they kept underneath their bathroom sink, and making sure that they were okay. He placed his fingers underneath the window, and let out an exasperated sigh when it lifted open without resistance. The number of times he had warned them to keep all their windows locked was as impossible to count as the stars with the naked eye. He faced the evil of the city every night, he knew what hid in the shadows, he knew the monsters that would give anything to hide in their closet or under their bed, he could be counted among them, though for contrasting reasons to the other freaks and low lives. Silently crawling through their window, with some struggle due to his sheer size, he made his way to the kitchen first, grabbing a glass of water, and some of the snacks they had begun buying once Raphael's visits became more frequent. He smiled to himself in the dark of the kitchen, his heart touched at seeing that they had restocked his favorite snacks. After having a quick bite, he snuck into the bathroom, taking out the first aid kit an patching himself up where needed, which fortunately for him, was not much, he hadn't gotten more than a few cuts, and only had to remove two bullets. He slid the kit back into the cupboard and shut the door behind him, walking as quickly as he quietly could towards the end of the hall, where their bedroom was.

The door was closed, but he could hear their soft breathing behind the door. Their breaths were slow and even, and he was sure that they were in a deep sleep. He felt as though he shouldn’t intrude, but they had always told him that he was always welcome, no matter the time or the day, and maybe, he thought, he should just do a quick check to make sure a necklace they forgot to take off wasn’t choking them and that there weren’t any intruders or creepy-crawlies hiding in the room, waiting for the perfect moment. And so, he slowly opened their bedroom door, cringing at the low squeak that resulted. He froze, waiting for any sign that he had disturbed them, but their breathing did not change, and they only slightly shifted. It wasn’t the first time that he had shown up in the middle of the night, and though he always felt so guilty about it, he knew how it usually ended, with them tucked close to his plastron, as the two cuddled close underneath the comforter, drifting off to sleep, with only a small stream of light creeping in through a small crack in the blinds. And yet, though this was far from his first time entering without prior notice, he was afraid. Afraid that it would be the last straw, that they would turn him away, tired of his company, tired of his existence. Despite his fear, the turtle took a step into their room, and then another. He walked around the perimeter of the room, checking the closet, the blinds, and any other potential hiding spots, before making his way over to the side of the bed. He did not lift the covers, just stood there, blocking the small bit of window light, and casting a shadow over their form. They looked so peaceful that he couldn’t help but just stop and stare, unable to fathom how someone as gruff and rough around the edges as him, someone with a shell even harder than their head, could end up with someone who made them feel so soft. Looking down at his friend, the one he had loved for what felt like several lifetimes before his own, he felt a sense of hopelessness. He loved being close to them, and yet he was so sure that they could never feel anything more than platonic, if even that, for him. Sometimes his brain turned its rudeness towards him, yelling at him that they only ever kept him around out of the kindness of their heart, out of pity, that he was a charity case, that they would never willingly want to be with a mutant such as him. In a moment where he wanted to be close enough to crawl inside their skin, but was to fearful of the rejection, he could only grant himself any sort of reprieve from the tightening of his heart, by lightly brushing his finger along their face, tracing swirls on their cheek. Being with them was as torturous as it was heavenly, they gave him a safe haven when he needed an escape, but with their gift of hospitality, their bright smile and caring eyes had planted a seed of sickly sweetness deep within him. He didn’t know how they had managed to reach through his plastron to tug directly at his heart strings, puppeteering him like a string marionette, but they had and there was no one else he would rather have such control over him. And just as he was about to let his hopelessness consume him and leave, their eyes slowly blinked open, their head lolling to face him as their gaze followed his arm up to his shoulder, jaw, then face. A sleepy, almost drunk-like smile graced their features, and his heart swelled. In a moment of vulnerability, they had smiled at him, so genuinely he was convinced that it couldn’t have been an act of pity.

“Hey, Big Guy.” The exhaustion seeped into their words, slurring them. His voice caught in his throat, and he coughed, clearing his throat.

“Hey.” He replied, trying to pull his hand away from their face, unsuccessfully, as they grabbed his wrist and tugged them towards them, lifting up the covers for him to crawl under. He sat down on the side of the bed, undoing the wraps on his feet and hands, and taking of his belt an harnesses, finally taking off the bandana as well, before finally climbing into bed with them. It was a small bed, twin size at best, which did not leave much personal space between them. He hovered his hands on his side, until they shifted forward, hugging him as they buried their face in his shoulder. “Sorry for waking ya,’ Doll.” They shook their head, nuzzling into him some more in the process.

“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for, Raph. You know I’m always happy to have you. It’s been too long.” He gave a light chuckle, caving to the cuddles they both craved, and pulling them even closer to him.

“It’s been three days.”

“Exactly, that’s far too long to be without my love.” Raphael sputtered, and he was sure that if reptiles could blush, that he would be red as the first roses, dyed with the blood of Aphrodite herself.

“You love me? Like, love me, as in, a more-than-friends kinda way?” He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“’Course I love you, Raphael, you think I’d let anyone else break into my apartment at five in the morning to wake me up for a cuddle sesh? You’re my everything.” As embarrassing as it was, he could feel his tail thump against the mattress behind him.

“You’re my everything too.” Raphael replied. He wanted to tell them that he loved them too, but the words were too heavy in his throat, and too scary for him to let escape just yet, so he settled for mimicking their last sentence, and lowering his beak to gently press against their forehead, to mimic a kiss as closely as he was capable of with his beak. Giving them a tight squeeze, he shuffled even closer to them, nuzzling the top of their head, and drifting off to sleep, with their hearts synching to beat together as a metronome of their affection.

[hiverphub]

hey guys i know i said i may do some things on here this week but honestly i think im gonna just go on hiatus for a bit, i really need a break from discord and tumblr especially but i still wanna be around for art related things so please feel free to follow my art tumblr @osodemiel , my IG @ osodemielstudio and twitch @ kingbennybee !! any updates abt my shop or commissions will be over there and ill be streaming every so often but those are the best places to contact me for anything atm !! if u have me on discord, feel free to message me if needed and close friends/moots are always welcome to talk to me, just expect my responses to be a bit slow !! thank u guys so much for everything, im really sorry if i owe things and the like, im just mentally exhausted because of a lot of things and our system has been in distress so we just all need a bit of a break in general !! again ty guys again for ur patience and i hope to be back soon!!

[biframes]

HAPPY BDAY and ty for all ur swag art🎉🎉🎉

Thank you for your kind message! It made me happy. I was feeling self conscious about my art again. I am spending this week with friends, so I will probably not be posting art. I hope that when I return home I feel confident again. Thank you for your patience and kindness

[muekyn]

update !

hey gamer friends! i’m sorry i just disappeared for the last month or so. i was doing a lot of thinking and sorting out some things in my life.

i am going to post more on my own terms/schedule, so i may be a little slower with replies and such.

ty for everyone who reached out <3 and i appreciate each and every one of you, you all are so kind and considerate and caring. you’re a blessing in my life! :)

again, i’m sorry for leaving everyone in the dark. thank you all for ur patience with me while i try to figure my life out… just know your kindness doesn’t go unnoticed!!

[twsthc]

twst character playlists pt. 2 🎧☆

⚠️ warnings: not a warning but i just wanted to say that i have 2-3 asks in my drafts rn!!! i have not been ignoring you ive been procrastinating studying for finals and sleeping ^_^!!! they should be answered soon i prommy, ty for ur patience <3

last updated: december 17, 2023

🌹 🎼

Riddle: Red Velvet - Day 1 , Lee Hi - Only , Laufey - Promise , Beabadoobe - Glue Song , Men I Trust - Show Me How , Humming Urban Stereo - Banana Shake

cutie patootie basically

also music thats easy to study to!!! i just swiped this from my study playlist.

Ace: VANO 3000 - Running Away [adult swim] , Gorillaz Ft. Kali Uchis - She's My Collar , Worthikids - Friends In Low Places , Joey Valence & Brae - GUMDROP

music i listen to in roller skating rinks and drinking slurpees and crying

only ace uses a skateboard and probably wouldn't be crying and would drink the cola icee instead of the blue raspberry one

Deuce: AC/DC - Highway to Hell , Dominic Fike - Mama's Boy , The Offspring - Pretty Fly (For A White Guy) , Army Of Lovers - Crucified , Joan Jett and the Blackhearts - Bad Reputation

"ACDC stands for acedeuce" -someone from the twsthc server

ummm not really much to add to this. deucepel canon. join my server

Cater: Aliyah's Interlude - IT GIRL , Girls Generation - Gee , IVE 아이브 - After LIKE , NewJeans - Super Shy , LE SSERAFIM - Eve, Psyche & The Bluebeard's wife

BITCH, YOU KNOW IM SEXY. UGH! DONT CALL, JUST TEXT ME XP

cater is a kpop stan and knows all the lyrics and dances and hums them randomly whilst walking down the hallway i saw her

Trey: Fuji Kaze - Shinunoga E-Wa , CAFUNÉ - Tek It , monsune - OUTTA MY MIND , piri & tommy - soft spot , Essosa - Waste My Time , Tatsuro Yamashita - Fragile

chill as fuck. in his zone. moisturized. at peace.

he plays this on low levels as he bakes and while hes studying

🥩🎶

Leona: SZA - Broken Clocks , Childish Gambino - Redbone , Kendrick Lamar , Money Trees , Tyler, The Creator - See You Again , willowsmith - Wait a Minute! , Tyla - Water

leona is a part of the sassy male apocalypse

listens to Broken Clocks while its raining like he just went thru a breakup (he didnt)

Ruggie: Chief Keef - I Don't Like , jnhygs - JERK! , babyxsosa - EVERYWHERE I GO , Flo Milli - Conceited , Ice Spice - Princess Diana , Brent Faiyaz - Been Away (Jersey Club Remix) 

n i just fell n luv w a gangster, so he put my name n a tatt

but i dont let em come 2 the crib, so we get it on where we at

Jack: Outkast - Ms. Jackson , Destiny's Child - Bills, Bills, Bills , The Notorious B.I.G - Big Poppa , MF DOOM - Rapp Snitch Knishes , 2Pac - California Love

lalalalalaaa

my favorite african american

🫧🎵

Azul: Queen - Killer Queen , Joan Sebastion - Secreto de Amor , Caravan Palace - Rock It For Me , Lady Gaga - Americano , Chicago - We Both Reached For the Gun

once again older jazzy sounding songs

also electroswing. the octatrio are electroswing, and the Chicago musical

Jade: The Buttress - Brutus , Elita Harkov - Sour Switchblade , Elita Harkov - Mentally Not Here , KikuoHana - 不幸屋の娘 , NASTYONA - 09 요단강

in part one i put their cute girly girl hiking mushroom collecting playlist but here is their fucked up evil plotting and biting playlist

also useful for studying and lounge shifts! three in one!

Floyd: DIGITAL CIRCUS - Pilot Official Soundtrack , Kikuo - 天国へ行こう , Rufus Wainwright - Another Believer , Chuu - Heart Attack (sped up) , SB Soundtrack - Clownfish Capers

what can i say

silly goofy music for a silly goofy guy

🌞🎼

Kalim: Heavenly - P.U.N.K Girl , No Doubt - Just A Girl , TWINKLE ♡ HEART/jun 音源 , Cascada - Everytime We Touch (Nightcore) , Dolly Style - Cherry Gum (Nightcore) , S3RL - All That I Need

hime gyaru kalim lives

i snuck in nightcore and S3RL im really not sorry

Jamil: Marie Madeleine - Swimming Pool , X-RAY SPEX - I Am a Poseur , Vundabar - Alien Blues , Memo Boy - Insomniac

just a girl

👑🎶

Vil: Lady Gaga - Beautiful, Dirty, Rich , Barry Manilow - At the Copa , NewJeans - ETA , Judy Singh - Up and Down , Amy Winehouse - Stronger Than Me

Epel: MF DOOM - Doomsday , Primus - The Devil Went Down To Georgia , The Crane Wives - The Moon Will Sing , October Country - My Girlfriend Is a Witch ,

The Devil Went Down To Georgia is the type of shit epel would listen to while performing the most back breaking nail chipping farm chores

Rook: I Monster - Lust for a Vampyr , Kali Uchis - I Wish you Roses , peace - stolen dance , Lamp - From The Window ,

☠🎵

Idia: TOPHAMHAT-KYO -Princess♂ , LamazeP - 難聴系男子が倒せない , Bokusatsu Tenshi Dokuro-chan OP , BLEND-A - Bon Appetit S , Bakudan Poppy - Oha-Yo-del , Dancing Samurai

🐉🎼

Malleus: Soap&Skin - Me and the Devil , Yoko Kanno - Green Bird

Silver: Korn - All in the Family , batta - chase , Lil Boodang - Jesus Don't Like That I'm Gay but Satans Cool With It , My Chemical Romance - Teenagers ,

yes thats the name of that song

emo teen music, not cos theyre an emo teen but cos lilia introduced the genre

Sebek: deaf, doesn't listen to music

Lilia: BABYMETAL - Headbangeeeeerrrrr!!!!! , Graveyardguy (feat. Slayyyter) - Final Girl , NANAOAKARI - One Room Sugar Life

[beyondtheglowingstars]

(the one that request Luigi x DK) Of course! Write how you feel comfortable and satisfied, I will enjoy your writing in any way!

djsabjabk ur all so kind to me... my heart-

Sorry if this took a little long to come out, but now it's finally here! I hope you like it (also ty for requesting such a cute ship, I gotta make more content for it in the future) and thanks for your patience.

Will make some additions in the future to make the formatting look prettier, etc, etc.

╒══════════════════════════════════════════╕

Understood

Pairing: Luigi x Donkey Kong Word count: 1.6k WARNING(S): Not much except Luigi has a bit of a crush on DK and Mario makes one of those jokes in typical older sibling fashion (not really explicit though). General info: He thought Donkey Kong hadn't been given a proper chance to integrate with the group, it bothered him. He knew what it was like to be in that situation, and set out to rectify the problem; it wouldn't be solved immediately, but he'd take the first step now.

Luigi didn’t think it was fair; the way they treated him, he didn’t like it. But don’t misinterpret his true message, everyone that Mario invited to the more casual get-togethers or more serious competitions always got treated like money. Everyone got the same 5 star privileges, the same quality food and accommodations. That was not what he was worried about, it had to do with how well he (or rather how well he had not) integrated with the group.

It’s not that they were mean to DK, but it was clear most of them weren’t able to connect with him, Luigi included. The younger plumber would chalk it up to the language barrier between them, like he’s done before, but now it didn’t seem like a reasonable excuse.

Donkey Kong can read and understand what he’s being told, just not speak English himself, and yet the air wasn’t as awkward when it came to Yoshi or someone else that didn’t speak the common language either. And the more he thought about it, the less excuses he could find as to why DK didn’t have an actual friend within the group. It broke his heart every time he saw the kong by himself, because he knew what it was like to feel rejected and distant to everyone else.

He’d always been a curious one, even if his cautiousness prevented him from getting any answers, in contrast to Mario. If one were to look at things as they were, it wouldn’t be difficult to notice Luigi was fascinated by the gorilla in several ways; intrigued by his carefree yet somehow charming personality, how he bothered taking good care of his appearance despite his lack of clothing, how he always has a smile so bright that put him at peace, and so much more. The green-clad plumber often felt his face warm up when he thought about it, but he tried to not pay it much mind.

The more he thought about it, the more his excitement increased. He’s always enjoyed the kong’s company whenever they got to spend time together, and something in the back of his mind told him there was a lot to uncover from the ape that nobody had been able to get to yet. He may not be the best at initiating conversation, but he’d be damned if he didn’t give it a chance to get to know DK better.

After a little more than a month of planning, Mario’s famous parties were set to begin today and end a dew days later. Luckily, Donkey Kong was able to assist; it was the perfect opportunity to act, the day was scheduled to consist of group activities in its entirety. Though, it’s always way easier to think and daydream about doing something while fully knowing that it’s not as easy as it is in your head. That’s why Luigi took some sweet minutes to work up his courage before making his move.

DK was currently helping himself to some snacks, his back to Luigi. The plumber silently walked towards him, feeling a pit in his stomach with every shaky step forward. He extended an uncertain hand to DK’s shoulder, lightly tapping it with the tip of his fingers. The gorilla made a hum of confusion at that, swallowing his food and then turning his head to meet the one that called for his attention. His puzzled expression dissipated and softened when he noticed the green plumber.

Luigi’s body stiffened, he opened his mouth to speak but his tongue wouldn’t cooperate and words remained unsaid. He cleared his throat, taking that moment to compose himself before retrying.

“H-Hello Donkey Kong, would you like to be my partner today?” His tone came out more nervous than he originally thought, fiddling with his fingers behind his back.

Donkey Kong’s face lightened and he nodded with a sound of approval, voicing an excited ‘okay!’. Luigi let go of a breath he didn’t know he was holding, arms back to rest on his sides and his racing heart no longer beating as fast. DK slung an arm around his shoulders and pulled him closer, a little rough.

He realized that might be another reason the kong struggled to connect with the others, he was very direct with physical contact, which he also engaged in VERY often. The plumber didn’t really mind being hugged or becoming a teddy bear for someone else, but he never failed to gasp in surprise at DK’s sudden gestures. The weight of the furred arm anchored him in place, making him effectively unable to leave unless he begged to be let go. He laughed nervously and his cheeks sprouted red over them.

The unlikely duo gathered several questioning glances from whoever was in the vicinity; Luigi attempted to pay them no mind, DK seemed to not have noticed them at all and the mustached man was almost jealous of him. Fortunately, the curious eyes on them left at some point, only returning every once in a while, but it was easier to ignore them at that point as the younger twin’s attention was fully set on DK.

It wasn’t too much of a difficult task to talk with Donkey Kong as Luigi first imagined. Granted, when it was the gorilla’s turn to reply it became kind of a guessing game when trying to make sense of his hand gestures and short vocalizations, depending on how much he wanted to say. But the green plumber was able to work with that, still making a mental note to find a more effective method of communication for next time. Due to the difficulties, their conversation didn’t get too far before the events were ready to start; the brunette wasn’t able to ask or find out as much as he was planning to, but he took what he could get and in the end, he did learn more about DK.

The group activities came and induced questions from Luigi’s regular partners about his unusual choice for the day, and he did a poor job at answering them with a believable lie, but they seemed to let it slide. He ended up shutting many mouths that day as he and Donkey Kong emerged victorious in almost all the games, doing exceptionally well in the sports events.

Luigi wasn’t really one for serious competition, he didn’t care about taking first place, but he must say that it felt good to remain on top once he got there. But what would forever stay in his mind was how much of a good time he had with DK, turns out there was some untapped chemistry that was awakened that day, and Luigi attributed their success to his little social efforts earlier in the day.

Night time rolled around, and it was about time everyone got ready to sleep. Those guests that traveled from far away would be the ones staying at Peach’s castle for obvious reasons, while those with homes not too far away were beginning to head out. Mario waited for his brother at the castle entrance, Luigi was about wrapping up with his goodbyes before leaving. The younger plumber pat Donkey Kong’s arm and smiled at him, the kong had not left his side the entire time so, it was no wonder he didn’t have to look for the gorilla.

“Good night Donkey Kong. I will see you tomorrow.” His exhaustion burst through with a yawn at the end.

He took a step forward, towards the exit, when he felt his arm being gripped and gently pulled. Luigi looked at the large hand that had a hold on him, then at DK with a soft smile.

“It’s ok, I will come-a back tomorrow.”

Donkey Kong showed no signs of letting go, a pout on his face. Luigi scratched the back of his neck with a titter, talking to himself in Italian about his options regarding the situation at hand. A long sigh left his lips, he gave in.

“Ok, I will stay. Let me say goodbye to Mario.”

The younger twin approached his older sibling, a near-permanent grin on his face.

“I won’t go with you tonight, DK wants me to stay.” He nervously kicked his feet, gaze refusing to meet Mario’s face.

The shorter brother faintly jumped in surprise, quickly correcting himself to hide the tiniest sparkle of mischief in his eyes. He rubbed Luigi’s shoulder with his thumb, pretending to act the way he always did.

“Ok bro, I’ll-a see you tomorrow. Remember to use protection.” Mario’s evil grin came out untamed.

Luigi froze on the spot as he replayed over and over his brother’s words, his face exploded with a red more vibrant than Mario’s clothes. He took quick glances to his sides, in hopes of reassuring himself that no one else had heard the joke. He spotted Daisy looking their way while clamping a hand to her mouth to mute her chuckles, and to make matters worse, Mario began laughing like he just saw the most hilarious thing in the world. Luigi covered his warm face with his cap, audibly whining, the older twin playfully ruffled his hair.

“Bye-bye!” Mario waved to his brother as he exited the castle, but not like Luigi could see with his still covered eyes.

The younger twin could only hope that Donkey Kong didn’t hear or understand anything about the exchange he just had, but he’d quickly find himself getting distracted by the more interesting interactions with the gorilla. Oh, if only Mario knew that the day had concluded with an exhausted Luigi falling asleep and using DK’s chest as a pillow; the younger twin would have never heard the end of his brother’s relentless teasing.

He may not have entirely solved what he set out to fix at first, but this would become a valuable first step in his plan, eventually. But that’d be future Luigi’s problem to deal with though, right now it was more important to enjoy what he thought was the most comfortable person to lay on.

[negligenceatbest]

Where we Start is Where we End. (Where we Live is Where we Die.)

Summary: You lost everything in the apocalypse. Everything you ever cared about, that is. After bouncing from survivor groups to other survivor groups you decide you can't live like a rule book anymore. So, you decide to travel the map and end up in Baltimore, MD.

You expect nothing more than to find a place to lay your head down and sightsee for a few months before keeping it going to the next place, like you had before. The apocalypse was a free vacation Afterall.

Maybe it'll start to cost you one day.

Relationship(s): Yandere Cult leader Hannibal Lecter x Reader

Chapter Five: Anti Fruit Snack Association.

Words: 2.2k

A/N: this took me forever to post it was basically done but was sitting in my drafts bc i had to rewrite some parts. to those still reading this series ty for ur patience and without further ado let’s get into it :))

Sometimes, you wonder what life would be like if the apocalypse didn’t happen at all. If on that spring evening so many years ago, the sun didn’t fall, and the human race didn’t turn where you would be? And though, it’s inevitable and probably (certainly) nothing you could’ve done to stop it, what if you could have? What if someone could have?

To be known as the hero who saved all of mankind. And to be known as the hero who helped. What would that have been like? You didn’t know and wouldn’t know in this life, but it was still fun to think about. To be looked at differently than who you once were. Then who you were now.

But even if it wasn’t you, and there was somebody else, somebody with more credentials and more experience or maybe just somebody who looked better on screen to say that they saved the human race… What kind of life would you be living right now, in that universe?

You would probably have finished high school and would have made something of your life. You would have traveled like a normal person, maybe meeting that guy you met the other day and his dog like a regular person. Making blatant conversation that did nothing but further your relationship that was yet to come. Then, you could’ve been regular friends. Like regular people in regular situations. Maybe become something more like regular people do.

That would be your preferred normal future.

You wouldn’t have had to scavenge for your food, visiting stores with high claims secretly just so you could get your fix not to starve. You wouldn’t have to wear the same outfit for days on end just to ensure you had enough clothes before you could find some place to wash them again.

There were many things you wouldn’t have to do again, and vice versa. You wished you were in that universe now.

But unfortunately, you aren’t and will never be. You will grow old on this planet that houses living corpses that seek food in their warm counterparts. They will always seek you out, cold eyes gazing into your warm ones. You will keep moving and they will always be slightly too close behind. Always a little too close for comfort.

You, a warm counterpart, will keep killing until you die. Whether it be for self-defense or for food. It’s a kill or be killed world and you will never have the hands of a saint.

*****

Lightning bugs only coming out during the summer was one thing you were regretful to learn multiple years ago, their tearful existence leaving you like the seasonal apple trees your grandmother used to plant in her field over the acreage of her farm.

You had only seen them a couple of times in your life, their beauty lighting the dark and bringing you to a path of wonder you would follow blindly on your own accord, a trail of bright light following behind you as you went. These bugs had lit up the dark and you had experienced fireworks in your own hands. These bugs were wonder and faith, you would wait plenty more summers if it meant having a chance to see them again. Even in the apocalypse.

Right now, you sit in a tire swing far from the house you squat in, humming a song you grew up listening to and reading the journals you just couldn’t seem to stop reading. This time, the writer, Will Graham, talks of his childhood. Nothing too explicit, and nothing too subtle. Mostly of his adoptive father and this Hannibal character. You were growing curious if the writer would ever come back to the house. You would like to put a face to the penmanship.

Most of the writing in these journals were comedic in a sense, but you can tell the writer has struggled. You shook your head at the thought and realized that everyone alive had struggled now. Still, it wouldn't be fair to pity someone who didn't ask for it.

Your legs kick slightly as you swing softly in the tire and chew on some fruit snacks you had gone to find the other day. They tasted a lot like if fruits were chemicals, but they were still good, so you didn’t care. You turned the page with your free hands pinky and thumb and read that page as well, hoping you wouldn’t finish these journals all so soon and if you did that there were more somewhere else.

Maybe reality shows were onto something when tv was still a thing. People really were interesting sometimes.

You continued to read one page after another, never growing tired of what they had to say. On one page you had read of Will finding an abandoned dog he named Winston, a male dog who was terribly hurt and not much of a people person himself. The writer had gotten close enough by feeding him and being as non-threatening as possible. Soon, after Will gave the dog treats, they became inseparable. You wondered if it really was the treats or if it was true animals could tell good people from the bad ones.

You counted back the date, thinking of the already older dog being even older by now. Winston probably was already a senior citizen by now in dog years. It would be nice to meet the dog before you left if you could.

If you couldn’t, you wouldn’t be so surprised either. It wouldn’t be the first time something didn’t go right. You really started to wonder about the owner of the house now, thinking that maybe he had moved elsewhere.

It would be sad, but plausible. You had done so as well, why couldn’t he? You shrugged to yourself subconsciously.

Tires rolling over gravel halted your thoughts as you fell out of the tire swing and back onto your blanket that held your booklets and fruit snack wrappers. The ground was soft as you fell with an ‘oof.’

The house seemed farther away now that someone was here and you kind of sighed as you wished you had brought your binoculars. It was probably the owner anyway so you weren’t that worried, but you hoped they wouldn’t be that freaked with someone lounging in their house.

You mean, imagine if you came home and someone was sitting on your loveseat reading your diary entries laughing at your painstaking memories and was eating fruit snacks that you weren’t even sure we’re safe to consume. To your defense though, they were the good type so that does kind of make it better. Anyways, you suddenly really wanted to hope the owner would be a good person.

Maybe you were too nonchalant about staying in another survivor's house. You should have just looked elsewhere. Somewhere without a fireplace or hot water or plumbing. Yeah, no. You would take your chances fighting off the anti-fruit snack homeowner (if they were anti-fruit-snack.)

You doubted it.

You slowly made your way back to the rustic house and trying to put on a welcoming face. You thought about how you would tell the person you had been staying in their house for days without them getting mad. You didn’t know if they would take that well at all, so you decided to just not add any more fuel to the fire and not tell them about reading their diaries.

Hopefully, it all goes well.

*****

After Will had finished talking to Hannibal in his office, he decided to look for Kylo. As tired as Will was, his dog was more important than sleep. He was family. Family doesn’t leave each other behind.

If Will was being honest, the temptation of a silk duvet and matching pillowcases to rest his head on were something he had all but wanted to say no to. He had all but wanted to decline Hannibal's invitation, but he concluded long before that the safety of his dog (his family) was more important than sleeping like a king. Will would rather sleep in his dog stuffed barn, covered in fur and kisses and warm as a coat than to even choose leaving his dogs behind for a one-night arrangement of velvet comforters and feather pillows.

What good would a night of comforters and cloud like wonder do if after all that, his dog was nowhere to be found or even worse? If he had took that offer, if he had even thought for a second that it would be something worth more than finding his dog alive, then Will would have truly succumbed to the world he lives in now. Will would then know that he was better off being dead then ever being compared to anyone in this stupid suburban hell.

But Will wasn’t that person, not yet anyways, and somehow he knew he wouldn’t be-even if it was only for awhile.

The night was pitch black and cold, drawing a shiver from Will as he walked in silence. The small amount of light illuminating from street to street was sadly only coming from inside the curtain covered windows. It had shown a pathway, all the way down to the third to last house before the street ended with a turn, it was the only house without lights on and Will had known that that was Arleen’s house. If not because of her upkept garden he could slightly see, then because of the sleek cruiser parked out front that hadn’t been driven in years.

Damn, Will thought to himself, that is one hell of a ride.

And it sure was, too. Though Will wondered if there was any way to get it back up and running again. It wasn’t a priority in the first place so he didn’t care. Will had made it to the house, walked around to the side door and knocked once, twice, thrice before he stopped and looked around, still on edge. He waited a while, before he knocked again and heard a hard bark.

Will sighed as he heard that bark, a relieved feeling swaying over his nerves. A feeling almost like he had been high and was as relaxed as ever. His adrenaline crashed downwards and he felt himself sway as he stood. He was so tired. Will soon saw the porch light and urged himself awake for a little while longer. He would be asleep soon, it’s fine, he told himself.

The door opened and Arleen peeked over in her white night dress and curler filled hair, she sighed in relief finding it was Will. Not even saying anything she urged him in and pushed him into the living room, guiding him to the sofa. She guided his sitting figure to a laying one and pushed off the extra pillows to where he only had one for his head to rest.

Will followed blindly, trusting her undeniably and opened his mouth to speak as she left the room for a moment. She came back in less than a minute with a comforter and thick blanket to stack on top of each other. Will took them from her and just as she was about to leave and turn the light off he had called out to her, noting how everything went so fast.

“Mrs. Bradshaw?” Will queried.

“Yes, William?” She turned around with a small smile, she could tell his night hadn’t been well and she hated seeing the boy like that. Such a sweet child who’s only flaw was having one too many dogs, it didn’t matter though because as she saw it, he was doing them a blessing.

“Uhm..” He hesitated, “Are you not gonna ask me why i’m here?”

“I already know. It’s written all over you.” She laughed, “Plus it wasn’t like I wasn't expecting you since I woke up with Kylo scratching at my door.” She finished. Will nodded in understanding and assumed Kylo was in the house somewhere. He let out a small hum and opened his mouth to say something else before he was interrupted by a tired voice.

“Let’s talk in the morning over breakfast, okay? Beauty sleep is required of those over 50.” Will nodded, sinking further into the warm blankets. “Now, goodnight.” She said and Will returned the words and blinked as the room turned black. Soon, Will was laying down staring at nothing in particular except for the dark and only then did it occur to him how drained he was. He felt like he had never slept, and his only hobby was seeing how long he could go without blinking.

His eyes burned and he closed them, cuddling more into softness. It’s okay, he knew it, Hannibal would take care of the mess he made, and maybe he would finally kick them out. No it wasn’t a maybe, Will thought, He would.

It was handled in a different way, obviously. But We all know that.

[ellieluvr420]

Well your chapter 23's teaser first reminded me of when I had been in hospital for over a week, and i told my mom i wanted to go home. I cried and i guess she cried too. But that's not the mystery.

I never know what i was down with. That evening i felt really dizzy, and i was rushed to hospital at 4am when my mom woke up and saw red spots all over my body. I was sleepy af and didnt feel hurt or itchy or anything. I just knew that everyone in the hall was staring and pointing at me. I couldnt care more i just wanted to sleep. They took me in and did everything while i was asleep already. I got an IV on my fore arm and the back of my hand. I dont remember much, but the princess treatment was great so I lied to my parents that i had headaches and stomachaches for another 2 weeks before getting back to tons of elementary schoolwork. I asked my mom about that event once but she just said it was an allergy. No i definitely dont have any allergies🤷

It's nice that you're back posting ❤️ you're really good at writing, and i hope you're doing well. Love you mwah mwah 😘

omg I’m so sorry, i didn’t get any notifs about my asks so I missed this but omg you are a medical mystery, the doctors were confused about me because i had broken like six bones by the time i was twelve but turns out im just clumsy soooo

i love u more for interacting like this, ty ur a sweetheart, i hope you’re doing okay!

also btw people, friends? never new chap out tonight!!! finally finished and edited it i just wanna do the last few adjustments and then we’re good, ty for your patience as always love y’all <3

[sharkpupsblog]

😨 Lost Horse! 🐎 PART 4. Goldenhills.

A Sabine x GN! Reader fanfic!

Hi!!! Another silly part omg!!! This is the last part without Sabine 😳 she will show up in the next part! So so sorry for making y’all wait 4 parts for her 😭💔 I promise the fluff I’m gonna write will make up for it!!! As always i wrote. A lot. I edited and added more stuff in so this part is LONG . 😭 Anyways ty guys for ur patience and enjoy! :D

Summary: The Soul Riders take you and Khaan to Goldenhills.

Warnings: foul language.

Alex frowned, and she watched you as you rode sadly behind the group with Anne next to you. “They’re very quiet” she whispered to Linda who nodded in agreement. “They must be upset” Linda frowned too “Avalon said they had Khaan for a while, so they have already built a bond with him.” Linda got even more upset at the thought of having to give up Meteor. She could not imagine how much you were hurting. “Should we talk to them?” Linda asked, and Alex answered with “I don’t think we should.”

Alex saw the look you gave Anne when she introduced herself. It was clear you did not like her or anyone in the group. “We should just give them some space I think they hate u-“ both girls snapped forward as you looked up. They both looked back at the road so quickly that Linda’s glasses almost fell off. You narrowed your eyes at them not liking being watched. Anne looked at you, and she started to try to initiate a conversation with you. “Have you been to Goldenhills before?” She was hoping you would answer, but you didn’t. She wasn’t disappointed she was honestly expecting you not to say anything. Even though you didn’t say anything Anne continued to try to be friends. She really wanted you to know that she was an ally and not an enemy.

“I’ve been here a few times for Soul Riding missions” she looked around at all the trees seeing the warm colors on the leaves. Before Anne came to get you, your dad filled you in on all the druid and Soul Rider stuff. He also told you about the Dark Riders, but you didn’t have much interest in either group. They both sounded incredibly stupid. He also told you that the plan was to get Khaan to a witch named Pi. There was a chance she could reverse the dark magic in Khaan… But the probability of it happening was extremely low. If it didn’t work, then Khaan would be given to druids that lived far in the mountains. You prayed the whole ride to Goldenhills that Khaan could be returned to normal. You really didn’t want to say goodbye, and neither did he. You let out a groan as you heard Anne continue to talk.

“It’s always closed in winter” Anne pat her horse when it neighed. “They say it’s to keep spirits in” she looked to you, and Khaan looked to her letting out an angry snort. He wanted to kick all of the Soul Riders, especially Anne, but he didn’t want to get you in more trouble. You opened your mouth, and Anne got excited at the thought of you finally responding to her. “I would like to ride quietly” your tone was bitchy “thanks.” As soon as you said that all of Anne’s hopes of being friends were crushed. She frowned giving you a nod not saying anything else. You all rode through Goldenhills forest for a few more minutes in uncomfortable silence.

When Pi’s swamp was visible in the distance Alex stopped the group, and she broke the silence. “Wait-“ she looked at Anne “are we going to Pi now or…” The girl smiled “or do you guys want to go get something to eat at the fishing village?” Linda smiled too letting out a sigh “I could definitely get something to eat, and Meteor needs water.” Meteor let out a neigh shaking his head to fix his mane. Lisa nodded “I’m hungry too and Starshine needs water as well” Starshine whinnied pawing at the ground moving fallen leaves around. “What do you say?” Lisa turned to you and Anne.

The leader smiled giving everyone a nod “let’s go to the fishing village and we can meet with Pi tomorrow.” You rode with Anne and the group to the fishing village. You said nothing as everyone talked about what food they would order. Khaan let out angry snorts and neighs every time one of the soul steeds got too close to him. You scowled when Alex turned to you asking, “what will you get?” She was trying to be friendly. You wanted to keep quiet, but you had a question. “Where is the inn?” You tensed hoping to show that all you wanted was a simple answer through your body language and nothing more.

Alex blinked a few times trying to think of where the inn was. “It’s to the le-“ you didn’t need her to finish her sentence she said enough to get you where you wanted to go. You thanked Alex, and you clicked your tongue. Khaan walked then sped up into a trot taking you to where Alex said the inn would be. All the Soul Riders watched as you rode away. Linda was unsure of letting you go alone “you don’t think they’ll run, do you?” She looked to her friends for their thoughts. Anne shook her head starting the ride to the café nearby “I don’t think they will.” She trusted you she knew you wouldn’t run, and her trust was not misplaced.

You yawned, and stretched as Khaan rode through the forest. It was early morning the sun hadn’t completely come up yet. The forest was dark and foggy, it was really hard to see. You and the Soul Riders were on your way to Pi. Anne made everyone get up early. She was like your dad. Waking you up early, and saying “the earlier we do it the sooner we’ll get it done” it made you hate her more. Khaan was still sleepy, and falling behind the group. Anne wasn’t riding next to you anymore. It was clear you didn’t want to be friends she respected that, so she left you alone.

She was riding at the very front of the group leading everyone to Pi. She held a strong flashlight in her hand using it to light the way through the foggy forest. You couldn’t see much though since Khaan was riding very far from the group. He was too far to get any light from Anne. He yawned, and you looked down at him patting his shoulder “let’s rest for a bit.” You knew he needed to wake up a bit more. Anne could wait for you both. The Friesian let out a whinny. He shook his whole body shaking you in the saddle. It made you laugh, he responded to the laugh with a neigh. Slowly he was starting to fully wake up. The journey from Valedale to Goldenhills completely tuckered him out.

You leaned down hugging his neck “poor horse” you cooed. You felt bad for him, he had to walk a lot. “It will be over soon Khaan” you brushed through his long mane carefully untangling any knots you found. “We’ll be back home soon we just have to get through this” you were being positive. You hoped your positivity would manifest a good ending for both you and Khaan. An ending where he could come home with you, and you would never have to see the Soul Riders again. Khaan closed his eyes taking a moment to relax thinking of how nice it would be to be home. He couldn’t wait to lay down in his stall, and have his mane braided.

The journey completely messed up his braid, so you had to undo it. He didn’t like his mane down, it was long, he felt like he was going to step on it. The Friesian let out a snort taking a step forward. You knew he was ready to catch up with the group. You sat up taking the reins into your hands, and you clicked your tongue. You rode straight following a trail you thought Anne had gone through. After about 5 minutes of riding you realized… You were lost. Khaan stopped walking, and he looked around. There was no sign of Anne or her friends. You couldn’t hear them or their horses. You were now starting to wish that Anne had ridden with you.

This felt like a lesson from Aideen. She was surely saying ‘this is what you get for being an asshole!’ While watching you ride through the dark foggy forest. You frowned, now what? You had your phone with you, but you didn’t have anyone’s number. “Okay…” You tried not to panic. “Let’s just continue riding through this trail” you decided to keep following the trail “it should eventually lead us out right?” Khaan neighed trying to calm you down. He could hear how fast your heartbeat had gotten. You sighed patting the side of his neck “come on Khaan let’s keep going” you clicked your tongue, and Khaan walked.

You felt like you had been on the trail for hours. It had only been about twenty minutes, but your fear made it feel like hours. Khaan was completely calm, but you were near tears. You had never been to Goldenhills, you didn’t know where you were or what to do. You tried checking the GPS on your phone, but it had no reception. While you tried not to cry Khaan trotted through the trail you found. You were still in the forest, and it was still dark. The sun was coming up, but the leaves and fog were blocking it out.

Your horse trotted carefully. He took big steps, so he could walk over any logs or roots he thought were on the ground. As he trotted, he kept his ears high trying to listen for Anne and her group. He hated them all, but right now he wished they would appear. He knew you were freaked out due to being alone in a place you didn’t know. You needed someone other than him to guide you through the forest. You huffed almost falling forwards off your saddle as Khaan came to a hard stop. “Khaan? Can you hear the-…” You trailed off as you heard the sounds of waves. They were crashing against the shore.

You must be close to the fishing village! You smiled leaning down to hug Khaan “we’re almost there Khaan!” Your horse neighed, lightly rearing in excitement. “Let’s keep going! We’ll be out of here soon!” Khaan continued trotting following the sound of the waves. The sun started to shine stronger as the trees started to spread out. You could see light at the end of an exit in the forest. “We did it!” Khaan neighed turning his trot into a gallop “we made it to- are you kidding me!?” When Khaan made it to the exit you saw that you weren’t out of the forest yet. You were still in a part of it. The part where the light ride took place every year. The fishing village was right in front of you, but you couldn’t reach it. Water separated both places it was a huge obstacle. Khaan wasn’t a big fan of water, so you definitely weren’t going to ask him to ride through it.

You reached for your phone seeing that you still had no reception. You huffed putting it back in your pocket. You looked for a different trail. Khaan looked at you letting out a neigh, and he bobbed his head. He wanted to rest he was tired, and he could tell you were too. You looked down at him knowing what he wanted “I think we can set up camp here” you got off of him. You carefully slid off your saddle not wanting to fall. Your legs felt like jelly thanks to how long you were riding. “We’ll wait till the sun is up, or till the fog clears, or until Anne finds us” whichever one came first you didn’t really care for, you just wanted out of the forest.

Maybe out of Goldenhills completely too. It was like a giant maze you hated it. You took your backpack off laying it down on the ground. Khaan watched as you opened it, and dug through it. You brought out a blanket laying it down on the ground. Once it was set, and you made sure it was safe to lay down you laid down on your stomach letting out a big sigh. Your body slowly relaxed as you tried to find a comfy spot on the blanket.

Khaan walked over to you, and he laid down too. He was careful not to damage his tack as he laid down. He let out a sigh copying you as he laid his head on your back. You reached back to give him a scratch on his cheek then you crossed your arms in front of you using them as a pillow. You closed your eyes clearing your mind completely. You fell asleep first, and when Khaan made sure you were both safe, he fell asleep too. Seconds after you both fell asleep two shadows loomed over you.

TY FOR READING! :D

[alittlestarling]

for the dabble game, #20~~~ :)

insert “It’s been 84 years” gif here  “You were always the quiet one.” ft Emmeline Trevelyan (companion) and Blackwall. 

------

Anger would have been preferable and far tamer than the rage that boiled within Emmeline’s chest. Hot and icy all at once, she struggled a moment to compose herself as she straightened her back, golden brown eyes boring into the guards who stood watch over the prison door. “Move, if you please.”

“Em.” Her cousin’s voice caught her attention, but she dared not look over at Alexander and let her composure fade into whatever mess her emotions had become. “You shouldn’t be here. We’re taking care of this.”

“I don’t care,” Emmeline spoke through gritted teeth, clenching her jaw tightly as she watched the nearest guard shift uncomfortably under her glaring. “I need to see him.” Need also felt like too tame a word to use as all her ladylike tendencies clawed and struggled to remain firmly in place. Her little sister was the wild animal, not her, but she felt as though she could give Cora a run for her money at this moment.

“It’s not pleasant down there-” Alexander began, his mouth snapping shut as Emmeline whirled towards him, letting her mask fall with a soft, barely audible hiccuping breath.

“Lexie, please.” While the nickname was Cora-given, it was easy to see how it worked on Alexander as he gave in with a long, slow sigh. A flick of his hand moved the guards, the wooden door creaking open before her.

“Prepare yourself, Em,” Alexander’s hand grasped her shoulder, an act of reassurance that Emmeline would only admit inwardly helped. “Don’t stay too long. We’ve nearly outstayed our welcome here.”

Nodding, not trusting her own voice, Emmeline squared her shoulders as she marched down into the depths of the Orlesian dungeon. Decked in her finery, she was decidedly out of place among the stone walls that had cracks in them, mildew clinging to the air and rusted metal bars of the cells that surrounded her. Her boots clicked against the flagstone, the only cell occupied all the way in the back with the barest flickering light on the wall.

Blackwall, or whoever he was, sat in his lonely cell. His shoulders were hunched, defeat etched in every line of his body. Emmeline was caught, unable to breathe as she tried to reconcile the man here with the one who she had loved fiercely. 

“You were always the quiet one. I suppose I should have suspected something from you. But affection and lust can blind anyone’s senses.” There was a slight tremor to her voice despite her best efforts, pressing her lips together in a tight line as she watched him move from behind the bars of his cell. 

“Have you come to gloat, Madame?” There was a finality to his tone, the words dripping with sarcasm as he finally dared to look her in the eye. She knew a wounded soul when she saw one; Cora was proof enough that sarcasm and barbs were almost enough to keep anyone at arm’s length. Almost, of course, being the key there.

“I’ve come to see for myself who and what you are.”

Blackwall gave a barking laugh, but there was no humor to it. “Am I monstrous enough for you?”

“You look sad,” Emmeline snapped, eyes narrowed as she watched him. “And pathetic behind these bars.”

There was a surge forward, the chains rattling hard in his grasp as he shook the bars with a soft snarl. “You should not be here. Prison is no place for an esteemed lady.”

“If you mean to scare me, you’re doing a poor job of it.” She stepped closer to the cell, reaching out as her gloved hands rested upon his. “Yes, you have done terrible things. But I do not believe that the man you were is the same man that stands before me.”

“I have blood on my hands, Emmeline. I do not think it will ever wash clean.” The anger in his voice softened and anguish replaced it swiftly. “Alexander should leave me here. You should leave me here. Forget about me and move on with your life.”

It was a tight fit, but Emmeline managed to squeeze part of her hand through the bars, gently grasping the tip of Blackwall’s chin. “No one tells me what to do,” she murmured softly. “You should know that by now.” 

“Impossible woman.” 

“Pot, meet kettle,” Emmeline couldn’t help the humor, indulging in some normalcy for a moment before she pulled her hand away from the cell. “I’m going to sort this out. When you’re back at Skyhold, then we can talk about penance.” 

Alexander would show mercy, that much she knew without a doubt. Whether or not her lover would accept it was another story. Straightening her shoulders, she looked him over once again, biting back further rising emotions that threatened to spill out once again. If they couldn’t save him…

“I’ll see you soon, Thom.” His name felt foreign on her tongue and, turning away, she hurried back through the damp towards the outside world again.

[ajdrawshq]

was anybody gonna tell me the eviolite was introduced in gen 5 or was i supposed to find that out myself after trying to find a way to keep my Dragonair alive for more than 10 seconds