#which is INSANE if u ask me so yeah. it is good for us to take a break from each other 🙄

[incorrectquotesideas-deactivated]

Person A: Do you want a beer? I’m paying.

Person B, going through the restaurant’s menu: No. Ugh, where’s the good stuff?

Person A, half jokingly: I thought you were an alcoholic.

Person B: Exactly. I’d need at least, like, four beers — without food — to get slightly buzzed, and my stomach can’t fit over 2 beers in it. I’m small. I’ll have a rum, neat.

[apathyfairy]

im like a child so i cancelled spotify bc im mad at them for raising the price and amazon music gave me 5 months free so i was like ok perfect timing anyway and it's been less than 24 hours and i feel like this is the worst breakup ive ever had

[phagodyke]

first day back at work after a 4 day weekend is fucking ROUGH I don't remember it being this long.....

[finsplurtz]

OMGGG SUB!CHOSO FAILING TO DOM HIS BF PLEASEE!!! (∩˃o˂∩)♡

[a little bit of feminization and dumbification doesn't hurt anybody]

— sorry i take decades to finish requests😖😖

breeds u — choso.kamo

— dom ! male.reader x sub ! Choso kamo

— contents : Choso fails to dom u lol! Blowjob , cute Choso helpp , mention of blood in der.. dumbification if u ssquiiinttt , feminization so terms like “boypussy” n stuff , breeding kink , overstim n cute

warnings : mad ooc i js realized .. nothing too srs

✩°｡ ⋆⸜ 🎧✮

Your heart fluttered hearing your boyfriend ask you if you’d let him dom you. it’s just that was super cute and although it would go the way he’d want it to, you like to let him try.

according to him, he has been preparing for this moment which….was insane but he’d learnt a lot about this and was confident I mean CONFIDENT he’d dom you.

You were lying down comfortable watching your cute partner begin with jerking you off. You let out a pleasant sigh and close your eyes, relaxing to Choso’s touch.

though Choso has been extremely prepared, now that he was actually here and doing this….. everything he learned began to leave his pretty little head. He pondered, what does he do next?? He leaned down keeping his eyes on your face, he stuck his tongue out and licked at your tip.

You opened your eyes and looked down while he quickly averted his eyes, embarrassed. You brought your hand over to one of his cute pigtails and played with it, watching him shudder at your touch.

You gently pushed his head down on your cock expecting him to fight you off since he was soo ready but..he just let it happen. gladly taking your dick deeper down his throat.

your other hand made it to his other tied up pigtail and used it to fuck into his throat faster and faster, desperate moans leaving your throat the closer you got to coming. He gripped your thighs, his cheeks were crimson red and the scar over his nose leaked blood.

was he going to let you come? your dick twitched crazily in his mouth, it’d be fucking cruel if he pulled off now..

you gasped as your semen poured down Choso’s throat. You let go and tried catching your breath, running your fingers thru your hair to get it out the way. you peaked down at Choso who just looked at you nervously.

“..did…I mess..up..” he said in a low voice looking away sheepishly.

“Ohohh baby..” you sat up and smirked, cupping Choso’s face and leaving kisses on there. As you did that, you slipped his pigtails out of their tie and massaged his head.

“…you’re not supposed to do that” you kiss him before he could say anything and bring your hand down to jerk him off making him squirm and freak out.

he crawls closer, straddling your lap as you begin to finger him open, he’s moaning in your mouth, saliva tripling down his mouth.

“it’s okay, hon….you know what you are good at..?” Choso’s shaking as you rub your tip into his hole slowly.

“you’re good at fucking me with your cute boypussy..” you whisper and grab his ass, thrusting deeply into his tight hole.

“ahgn yn..! w..wait..” he’s flailing his hands around not knowing where to place them. “don’t worry ‘oso , just let me take care of you baby….” you kiss his chest and grind into his hips.

—

“ack—! s..ow…mmhhhn! da..~” you pressed your palm against his abdomen as you fuck him deeper, you can’t understand a single thing he’s trying to say you just love his sweet whimpers that sound like music to your ears.

“shhiitt…your pussy’s so..tigh..t..” Choso’s dick twitched at your words before releasing all over his tummy once again with a gasp of relief.

“hnnn..look at how deep I’m in you…” you slow down and admire the small bulge that disappeared and reappeared every time you moved.

“you were born for this…..born to go stupid on my cock and have my kids..” you say thru gritted teeth, Choso’s way too out of it to say anything back. just nodding in agreement with a faint smile on his face.

“yeah..? you’d love that…to be the mother to my kids” you giggled at your own words watching your dumb boyfriend struggle to stay conscious, scratching the sheets and letting out staggered cries. His nose and cheeks were smeared with blood, the red looks amazing on him.

you got closer and grabbed his wrists and fucked him harder than before, he’s screaming and squirming every time your cock hits his g spot, the overstim hurts and he almost can’t handle it.

you lean down and kiss his neck and jaw as you spill your seed inside his swollen hole. Small cries, you could feel his trembling body underneath you try to get you off. you didn’t even bother pulling out, you just moved over to the side and spooned him tightly.

you both knock out and he gets a tummy ache and starts questioning if u actually put a baby in him

a/n; can u guys tell i hate coming up with titles…. anyways come run in here n get y’all’s juice

[moon7jay]

Forced To Take Him (PART 2)

🫴Read Part 1 here

Warnings : stepcest, mentions of the word rape, manipulation, non con, dub con, spit play? Ig that's all idk

Note : IT'S NON CONSENSUAL, consider it dead dove do not eat. and if u chose to read even after all the warnings, I'm not responsible.

"f-fuck take it like a good girl, take it all baby shit-" his voice cuts off in a whine when he feels you gag around his length, your throat feels raw and abused and you aren't sure if you'll be able to talk once this is over. He's so rough with his animalistic thrusts in your mouth, his palms planted firmly at the back of your head, fucking into your throat like it's a cunt. A wet, messy cunt for the purpose of getting fucked.

His eyes are on yours, his lust filled expression making bile rise in your throat. But at the same time there's a tingling in between your legs, your body working against you

"fuck u like this, u like this don't you, u little sexy slut" he pants, smiling down at you sinisterly, his tongue comes out to lick on his plump lower lip, his brows furrow as he once again gets lost in the pleasure of your throat

There's saliva leaking out of your mouth, drool mixed with his precum, you can taste it . Taste how messy all this is gonna get.

"fuck u, fuck u for making me like this ughmmmm- drive me crazy, wanna fuck all the time oh yeahmmmhm" he moans loudly. Fear strikes your heart, acutely aware that your sister is just a little distance away, watching TV on the couch and a single kitchen counter is what hides your body from her vision. If she were to look over, she would only see sunghoon and not how he's busy using your throat mercilessly.

But sunghoon doesn't care. Ever since the first day he raped you, he had only gotten braver, more worry free and fearless.

He started fucking you more frequently. almost anywhere he felt like he would pull your shorts down and bury is cock in your snatch in a single thrust, pounding like an animal.

He would come into your room at nights, whispering filthy promises in your ear while his hips snapped into your womb with the intention to breed.

He had also stopped giving your sister the sleeping pills, and you could feel it in your heart that he wasn't scared of your sister catching u anymore. and your fear became reality when during one night of brutal fucking, his fingers dug into your jiggling fleshy thighs and he groaned into your ears the words which made your insides turn cold.

"wanna tie your sister up right beside ur bed and make her watch how I rape you baby- his teeth dug into ur cheeks as u sobbed - wanna make her see what real fucking looks like. THIS. This is what fucking is all about. Tight fucking pussy god fuck"

A sharp thrust inside your throat made you come back to the present, he held your head in place, going deeper and lodging his dick further inside your fluttering throat. Your nose meshed up against his pubic hairs, his groans getting louder

"fuck yeah" he laughed, at the height of his insanity, snapping his hips again, making u choke on this thick length, gagging sounds like music to his ears

"look so pretty like this, gonna fuck u right on this kitchen floor baby, gonna make u scream so your sister knows exactly how u drool around my dick in ur pussy like a filthy little -Fuckughhh- little slut"

Your finger nails dug in his thighs, your oxygen supply getting cut off due to his rough movements but u could feel that he was close, his taste getting stronger on your tongue

"fuck fuck fuck squeeze my balls, make me fucking cum , wanna cum so much, fuck-yeahh" he thrust rapidly at an animalistic pace, his head thrown back in pleasure as you played with his balls just like he asked for. You had learned how to obey, having seen how bad things could get when he was angry.

"swallow-holy fuck-take it all you fucking whore, take my seed" he groaned from above you, snapping his hips deep into your throat and holding your head against his pubes, cumming inside your mouth, his taste flooding up your senses. you swallowed instantly, afraid of disappointing him, squeezing his balls more to drain him of every last drop of his fuck cream, making him curse

He pulled his dick out of your drooling mouth with a pop. Before you could catch a breath he was dropping down on his knees and burying his tongue in your mouth.

one thing your sister's boyfriend loved more than fucking u was tongue fucking your mouth. you don't know what his obsession was with your tongue but he loved sucking on it while he made u suck on his own tongue. Just plain messy, open mouthed kisses, making out with your tongue for hours.

His wet muscle tangled with yours, licking into your mouth with vigor, wanting to catch any after taste of his cum that u just swallowed. His hands grabbed you by ur thighs and the next thing you know he was dragging them from under your body so that your sitting form fell down on the kitchen floor, your head hitting a little hard at the wood but sunghoon didn't care. He never cared if you got hurt.

He was instantly pulling back, tearing your panties apart, pocketing the shredded fabric to jerk off with later and he was burying his cock inside, breaching your entrance in one harsh penetrative thrust. A gasp escaped your throat while he groaned in pleasure and satisfaction. Finally being wrapped in your wet pussy folds.

Your pussy was sore from how rough he had taken u in the morning and he was so big, you felt an excruciating pain at your entrance, tears rolling down your eyes involuntarily. He started snapping his hips into yours without waiting for you to adjust, gasping in pleasure, folding your body in half, grinding your sexes together

"does it hurt? fucking tell me that it hurts-fuck"

It did. but u didn't want to give him the satisfaction of getting off to your pain. You knew he was a sick bastard who got off when u were hurting. Your tears turned him on.

"so so fucking wet, sucking my dick in your tight little fuck hole, I bet u want that fuck cream inside you so bad huh baby?" he spat upon feeling your nails dig into his neck, your pussy was so wet, your body's natural reaction making you cry more. Maybe it was your fault, maybe u did want this. Maybe he was right.

"Feels so good baby, cunt milking me so fucking good yeahmmugh jesus fuck"

his thrusts became rapid, carnal lust taking over his body, going deeper, harder. You closed your eyes to avoid seeing how much pleasure he was getting from using your body like this. The cold kitchen floor digging into your back, making you more aware of what was happening to you. You were crying and screaming in full force now, unable to hide how much pain he was putting you through, but also unable to hide how much pleasure he was giving you. Your hips were chasing his own, your lower region getting hotter and hotter, you could feel your high approaching. Please God no, no, you can't cum on this monster's cock.

He laughed when he felt your pussy clench around his dick

"fuck yeah u want this, u wanna fuck with me, u wanna breed with me, come on, let's cum together yeah? let's fuck some more" He panted, his eyes shining in a sick want, you tried to look away but his hand held your face in place, fingers digging into ur cheeks, his gaze fucking into your soul, his pleasure filled expression making the knot in your belly snap, your eyes rolling back at the same time his eyes rolled back, your cum mixing with his pearly white seed flooding inside your womb, profanities and "fuck yeah" s falling from his mouth, his teeth digging into your cheek, hips fucking into u relentlessly, intensifying the squelching sounds your grinding sexses were making.

You tried pushing him away, his thrusts now making your insides hurt but he didn't stop, panting like an animal, wrapping your legs around his waist while he resumed his thrusts, his dick still hard inside of you. Hot and hard and so cruel.

His fingers dug into your waist, his tongue coming out to lick your neck, upto your chin to your nose, sliding sideways to dip inside your ear making you whine in overstimulation.

"t-too much" u gasped out, your nails scratching his back in hopes that he would slow down, the pain mixed with pleasure starting to get to your head.

"yeah? good, gonna fuck a baby into u baby, gonna fuck ur warm little cunt till u start bleeding" he whispered, intruding your mouth with his tongue, his hips getting harsher, his dick head hitting your cervix head on, even going past it at some point with how much it hurt.

You were starting to lose your vision, so lost in the overwhelming feelings to take note of how eerily quiet the house had become. How the skin slapping sounds and your groans and moans were all that could be heard now. You could not hear the TV anymore.

Your head lolled to the side and your eyes met your sister's. Relief washed over you. She was here to save u, she was finally gonna save you, u were gonna be free, you were-

"she isn't gonna stop me sweetheart, she's gonna watch us fuck like the pervert that she is, she's gonna watch me rape your tight little cunt" sunghoon whispered in your ear and something ugly reared it's head inside your chest. You were begging with your eyes. He was wrong, wasn't he? But why was she not stopping him? Why wasn't she saying something??

your eyes travelled down and a cold shiver ran down your spine.

Your sister's hand was buried inside her shorts while she watched how sunghoon fucked u. He was panting and groaning like a wounded animal, his spit flying everywhere as his thrusts became sloppier, your heart felt numb and so did your mind. You could not comprehend the scene that was playing out in front of you. your sister's excited eyes were fixated on your and sunghoon's grinding bodies, how u writhed under him, how he was shaking in pleasure. Her hand's movements inside her shorts getting faster in tune with sunghoon's thrusts

That look. You knew that look. You had seen that look countless times throughout your childhood but u were a naive little girl who didn't know any better.

You were 13 when your mom had married lana's dad. It had been a happy marriage, never once did u feel unaccepted or unwanted by your step sister, she always kept u close to her, always took u with her when she went to play, always shared her toys with you.

But there were more things she liked to share with u. like kisses.

You were innocent, never understanding the meaning behind her lingering touches and kisses. You both were just kids after all. And even though it felt uncomfortable at times, you didn't want to ruin ur relationship with your new sister. You wanted to be good. And siblings kissed all the time didn't they? it was just a way to express affection to each other

But as time went by, her affection towards u became unhinged. She was overprotective over u in an almost obsessive way.

U didn't notice it at that time, u never did. U never noticed how she would insist on sharing clothes and baths and how excited she would become when u let her borrow your lip balm. or how angry she became the first time u mentioned a crush.

How one day u came home crying to her because everyone in school was talking about how ur mother was a whore and u also carried some STDs, unaware of the fact that lana was the one who started those rumors, an effort to keep u isolated and dependent on her.

at your 17th birthday, your sister bought u a dress matching with hers and even tho u insisted that u didn't want to change in front of her, she made u eventually

"We're both girls y/n, I change in front of you all the time, why can't u?"

and so u did. Missing the way your sister's breath became heavy with each article of clothing that u took off.

At first she used to watch, just watch. until you both were well into adulthood. Turning 19, she eventually started touching.

"You're so beautiful y/n" she whispered while caressing your naked waist. You smiled awkwardly, putting ur top on instantly, feeling uneasy at the look lana was giving you. But u brushed it off, u shouldn't have.

u brushed off a lot of things, like when your sister took u to clubbing one night and as the crowd increased on the dance floor, you could feel her body press closer to yours, her hips subtly rubbing against u.

or how when u leaned closer to whisper in her ear that you were getting out to get some fresh air, your sister buried her nose into your hairs, inhaling your scent unbeknownst to ur naive self.

You had been your sister's deepest obsession ever since you walked into her life years ago. But u were too blind to see that.

"so close gonna cum so much for u, gonna fucking breed u full holy shit, you're gonna make me cum so hard baby " sunghoon's groans reached a fever pitch, the squelching sounds of your groins meeting filling up the kitchen, you couldn't take your eyes off of lana or how her eyes rolled back in pleasure when sunghoon moaned his impending orgasm

"yeah yeah fuck yeah feels so good, god fucking godughh " He panted, flooding your womb with his cum, your second orgasm washing over u as u watched your step sister bite her lower lip and cum all over her fingers. Sunghoon's cock helping u ride urs and his high, pleasurable sighs filling the space

your senses were overwhelmed, your eyes shutting on their own, feeling guilty with how much you came but at the same time, a sick pleasure ignited inside of you.

You felt a soft caress against your cheek and without opening your eyes you could tell that it was lana. you leaned into her touch, a deep yearning flooding your chest. sobs escaping your trembling lips as she cooed and kissed your tears away

"Shh baby I'm here, I love you, I love you so much y/n" she whispered and ur sobs got louder. You could hear sunghoon's laughter in the background, his body had left yours at some point.

"she's pretty when she cries isn't she? kiss her baby, wanna see u making out with the little slut" he spoke from somewhere.

You refused to open your eyes, not wanting to face your sister's want and the glaring reality that it was her all along.

It wasn't sunghoon who wanted u, it was her.

She wanted to break u through sunghoon and now she had. You didn't think u could leave even if you wanted to.

A tongue slithered inside your mouth and ur sister groaned upon tasting you. Tangling your tongues together, you felt her hand groping your chest, moaning into ur mouth at feeling your body

"u're mine, u have always been mine" you heard her whisper before u sinked into unconsciousness. your body shutting down and mind choosing to disassociate from the glaring reality.

you always knew your step sister loved u in a way that was different from how your friends' sisters loved them. you always knew that lana loved you too much.

loved u so much that it was lethal

[disneyprincemuke]

not a gamer * fem!driver

lando manages to convince her to start streaming on twitch with him, leading her to influence others to join her

pairings: max verstappen x fem!driver, lando norris x fem!driver, oscar piastri x fem!driver, logan sargeant x fem!driver

warnings: butt load of stupidity

notes: initially, i was gonna write a fic solely about max because he was talking about fornite the other day... but i thought how funny would it be if it were to be with some of the guys so here i am

(series masterlist) | (📂 the rookie season)

"hello, everyone," she smiles, reaching forward to adjust the camera as she squints her eyes. "is this a good angle? let me know if it's flattering, okay? i can't not look good on twitch."

lando has managed to convince her to join him for a stream on twitch, insisting that she should start an account as well. she initially refused, claiming that she's not that well-liked to start an account and have a loyal following. even adding on the fact that she's not even a good gamer to begin with.

but lando said that it doesn't matter, and proved her wrong by setting up a poll on his previous stream just to get her to make an account. which, the effort was very endearing.

"you always look good," she squints, turning away the right where her other monitor sits. she scrunches her nose and turns to the camera to stare into it. "logan, how did you even know i was streaming tonight?"

she rolls her eyes when his reply rolls in, claiming that he follows her twitter where she announced it. "it's time for you to go out and do something else besides stalking me, logan," she scoffs jokingly with the roll of her eyes.

"okay, so this is my first twitch stream!" she beams, sitting up straighter as she grabs her mouse. "i'm just waiting for lando to finish setting up, so i'm afraid you guys are stuck with me alone for a couple of minutes. let's get to know each other, i might be doing this pretty often this winter break just to have a bit of a hobby.

"i wanna know what you guys want to see from me."

a comment immediately rolls in.

user1: i wanna see you play fortnite with lando and max

she grins sheepishly, dropping her head. "guys, i'm not much of a gamer. never have been so this is actually my first time-ish touching games in a long while. my longest experience was playing roblox with my younger brother when we were younger."

user2: how about oscar or logan playing some games?

she presses her lips together, thinking of ways she could be able to convince her best friends to join her for some online games. when, neither of them has really dabbled much in the hobby. "i'm sure logan will be pretty keen to try, but i'm not so sure about oscar. i'll try to convince him, though he's back in australia for the majority of the break, unfortunately. the timezone difference is absolutely insane."

logansargeant: guys, ask her what her hobbies are

"logan, get off my chat!"

logansargeant: im gonna expose you on twitter for cyberbullying

logansargeant: #endcyberbullying2023

user3: #justice4logan

user4: #justice4logan

user5: u should talk about taylor swift

“oh, my god! i should!” she squeals. “we should host a listen party when she releases reputation! how good was the 1989 vault tracks?”

user6: omg ur so right

user7: iion slaps

user8: slut! is my favourite i think

“1989 had the best vault tracks,” she nods, lips pressed together. “my favourite is ‘now that we don’t talk’ because i like calling my mom.”

blythe.yln: where is lando!!!

“guys, i don’t know. he texted me 5 minutes ago saying he was setting up his pc,” she grins into the camera. “hopefully he’s here soon.”

dalton.yln: i miss oscar

oscahpastry: i miss u too

“you’ve got phones, yeah?” she grins, “use it instead of flooding my chat.”

user1: yeah guys, some of us are trying to get her attention

user9: u guys get that enough

user10: leave some for us pls

user11: yeah y so selfish

she scoffs. "right, guys? can you believe these people?"

the discord sound makes her jump, lando's voice filling up her headphones. "yo, i'm sorry! i was looking for my keyboard."

"where'd you find it, lando?"

"under the bed. apparently, that's where i kept it the last time i streamed," lando laughs. "okay, let's start off with a little horror game? it's called phasmophobia."

"a scary game?" she looks at the camera. "why would i willingly play that?"

"lando, i'm gonna kill you!" she screeches, eyes closing as the creepy sounds from the game boost in her headphones. she peeks through her eye, watching the two hands on her screen before the screen goes foggy.

lando's laughter replaces the eerie sounds of the game, making her roll her eyes. "i told you to hide and close the door!”

“i didn’t know where the stupid door even was!” she screams back, slamming the table. “lando, i don’t wanna play this game anymore!”

“but it’s so fun!”

“lando!”

logansargeant: that was funny

logansargeant: lemme join u some time

user11: omg

user11: half the grid’s gonna be on twitch?

“yeah, i’m so nice, right?” she jokes. “i’m letting them explore different career options. influencer era or something, i believe.”

oscahpastry: i only created an account to annoy her :/

seb.v5: same

user12: no shot thats actually sebastian vettel

maxverstappen1: so we are all just here waiting for an invite from these two???

logansargeant: theyre gatekeeping the stream from us :(

maxverstappen1: i wanna play fortnite

seb.v5: wait i know that game

maxverstappen1: let me join or i’ll report your account

“that’s not very nice, max,” she frowns. she looks away for a second. “lando, max says he’ll report my account if we don’t invite him to play fortnite.”

“oh, let him report you. just make another account, mate!” lando laughs. “ask him to join us phasmophobia! it’s so fun seeing you scream.”

she turns to the camera with a lopsided grin. “chat, tell lando you don’t wanna see me scream in phasmo anymore please. i’m sick of this game, i’ve got no idea what i’m doing, and i haven’t guessed the ghost correctly this entire time.”

logansargeant: keep playing phasmophobia u pussy

oscahpastry: yeah pussy

user5: its v entertaining icl

maxverstappen1: but phasmophobia costs money

“costs money?” she repeats, confusion on her face. “max? do you need financial aid?”

user10: isnt max a millionaire??????

user13: bro is complaining about a game that barely costs anything while getting paid millions a year 💀

oscahpastry: that’s wild ngl

maxverstappen1: wow i just got cyberbullied.

maxverstappen1: i’ll go get it now damn.

she sighs. “guess we’re continuing with this stupid game.”

“lando, where am i going?” max shouts, her character watching max’s go around in circles, flickering the flashlight on and off. “what am i even supposed to do?”

teaching one person how to play a complicated game like phasmophobia is easy. teaching two, however, is absolutely absurd. lando doesn’t know how much more of this he can take.

“lando, there’s something written in the book!” she cheers, crouching her character down. she leans into her monitor as she tries to make out what it says. “bitch, it says run!”

she quickly gets up and walks out. “don’t have to tell me twice.”

“run where?” max shouts, his character still running in circles. “(y/n), where are you? escort me out.”

“guys, just stay inside the house and help me out!” lando whines, his character flickering the flashlight at max’s. “turn around, max. i’m here with you.”

“i’m going to the van.”

“no, you’re not! come here and camp the ghost with us!”

“absolutely not! i’m so scared shitless!”

“we should’ve just played fortnite, you know.”

“guys, please! you just have to hold the equipment for me.”

“oh, my god! oh, my god! the front door is locked!” she screams. “the front door is locked!”

logansargeant: lol dsurv

oscahpastry: not so tough now (y/n)

user8: LMFAO THAT GHOST IS HUNTIN

user14: dude the chaos is insane

user15: i need her to stream everyday actually

user16: she’s gonna be an influencer i can feel it in my bones

user17: u guys should try valorant

oscahpastry: i’d join if they play valorant

user4: omg thats crazy

user18: i kinda want to see it

user19: max playing valorant? the rage that man would feel

“lando, i’m dead again!” she screeches, slamming her mouse down into her desk. “we should’ve just played fortnite.”

logansargeant: ur issues with the door are hilarious

user4: i’ll be thinking about your inability to hide in a room for days

oscahpastry: evidence that u wouldnt survive a horror movie at all

seb.v5: maybe you should stick to sitting there and looking pretty

user20: OMG SEB CALLED HER PRETTYYYYY

user21: are we all so shocked?

user22: yeah, he looks at that girl like she aligns the stars in the sky on a race weekend

user23: him during her podium celebration cured my depression (real)

logansargeant: girl why r u just stalking lando as a ghost

“lando,” she whispers. “i saw the ghost in the corner for the room.”

“what?” max asks, voice trembling slightly. “what corner?”

“that corner.”

“what corner?”

“there. i’m pointing at it.”

“i can’t see you, stupid. you’re dead.”

“then that’s too bad.”

“i figured what type of ghost it is!” lando cheers. “follow me, max. let’s get out of this stupid house and play your stupid fortnite or something.”

“oh, how lovely! i saw (y/n)’s chat… something about valorant,” max mutters, following lando through the dark house. “i’ve seen that on tiktok and it looks kinda- lando, why’d you close the door?”

“i told you i saw the ghost lurking more than usual,” she mutters.

“i don’t even know what that means!” max shouts.

“i didn’t close the door, mate!” lando laughs. “go and hide in a room, max!”

“where? i don’t know where to go!” max screams, frantically running around in hopes of finding solace somewhere.

her character follows behind the entity in the game, clearly running around to find max. “oh, she’s coming for you, max! she’s angry!”

“i don’t know where to go!” max screams, his character running by the entryway in confusion. “lando, where do i go?”

“max, she’s coming! go in the closet!”

“what closet? oh, okay! i see it!”

“close the door, max!”

“what door- oh! okay!”

“did he live?”

“i think so. the ghost is lurking outside max’s door,” she grins into the camera, watching the entity walk back and forth outside the room max is in.

“don’t come out yet.”

“not even a chance, mate.”

“okay, she’s gone,” she sighs. “i’m gonna log out and create an account on fortnite.”

“we’re not gonna play valorant?”

“okay, chat, we’re waiting for oscar to finish the tutorial,” she smiles. “we should be in our first game in a couple of minutes.”

user24: bro ur tutorial was horrendous

user25: i love watching people be bad at valorant

user26: shes so real for that though

user27: she’d play sage for sure

seb.v5: i can’t believe you got oscar to join you

user28: and logan 🤨

user17: outrageous that i’ve been begging the grid to join lando’s streams and here she comes casually getting them to play silly games

user3: real

user28: everyone say thank you (y/n)

blythe.yln: i can’t believe u didnt ask me to join u

blythe.yln: i’m the best at valorant

blythe.yln: i’m better than dalton

user29: YES BLYTHE SPEAK YOUR TRUTH

“so, what do i do again, dalton?” lando asks softly. “what’s the ‘e’ button do?”

“puts up a wall,” the younger kid says. “and then it heals you too, but damages other people. even your teammates.”

“who’s this eminem looking bro?” max asks, giggling slightly. “frank ocean, i saw on tiktok.”

user30: my roman empire is blythe being a pro valorant player but this is the first time her sister is trying the game

“well, i’m sorry for doing other things than playing valorant,” she jokes with a smile. “but, yes, guys! blythe plays valorant for a living which is exactly why we didn’t invite her to play.”

user31: blythe is a pro val player!!?!?!?

user31: since when??

blythe.yln: yeah guys follow my twitch, i’ll treat u better

“i’m going to ban you from my chat if you keep marketing, blythe,” she frowns, though a smile creeping up on her face. “where is dalton?”

blythe.yln: dalton is my valorant spawn… i taught him what he knows

user31: dalton to go pro in a couple years?

user32: omg that’s crazy

user1: the yln’s are gonna take over the valorant scene

user6: blythe getting a redbull gaming clutch would be to die for

“mate, dalton, what’s this girl in the yellow jacket do? she looks stylish,” oscar asks.

“she’s got a turret and grenades,” dalton answers simply.

“alright, how do i get her?”

“you gotta play the game.”

“oh, what? that’s so unfair.”

“yeah, i’m sure that sucks that you’ve got to play the game, oscar,” she says. “where is logan?”

“i’m sorry,” the sigh in logan’s sentence making her laugh. “i got stuck.”

“how?” oscar asks with a laugh. “they literally tell you what to do.”

“i couldn’t find the buttons they were asking me to press,” logan mumbles with a hint of disappointment.

“are you actually intellectually hindered, mate?” she cries with a laugh, covering her eyes. “do you not frequent a laptop?”

“not really, no.”

“it shows,” oscar adds on.

blythe.yln: he’s gonna be shit

user5: so real i can alr see it

user11: dude they’re gonna be screaming at each other soon

“let’s do a quick test game,” dalton mutters as logan’s in-game name pops up on the screen. “just a short game.”

“with real people?” lando asks in a small voice. “that can trash talk me?”

“just trash talk them back, mate,” max answers. “easy.”

“just find their ip address and hit them,” logan suggests. “that’s easier.”

“what?”

“don’t pretend like you wouldn’t do it too, (y/n)!” logan whines. “come on, let’s start!”

“how do i defuse the spike?” max screams, looking at the ground as he runs around. “where even is it?”

“your left,” dalton says. “keep walking.”

blythe is now sat next to her older sister, leg propped up in her seat as she watches the screen.

“okay, okay, go to the right and look right here,” blythe mutters, pointing at the screen. “and then aim right here,” she adjusts her sister’s mouse, “when you see somebody, shoot.”

“that’s not fair. (y/n)’s literally got a pro helping her with the game,” oscar complains.

“you’re dead. literally doesn’t matter if someone’s helping you or not,” logan states. “we suck, man.”

“okay, i figured out how to defuse the bomb,” max says softly. “what now?”

“learn to play better,” blythe says loud enough for the microphone to pick up her voice. “i’ll teach you guys.”

“thank you for tuning into my stream,” she grins with a clap. “i appreciate all of the support and teaching me how to play the games. and roasting me.”

logansargeant: bro we suck

seb.v5: should stick to racing and leave gaming to blythe and dalton

“i read each and every comment you guys sent in the chat and they’re all very endearing. except yours, seb,” she stares into the camera with a stern expression, “yours were just outright unnecessary and kinda mean.”

oscahpastry: start a podcast next

maxverstappen1: i wanna be first guest

user16: please stream regularly!!

user10: make oscar play lethal company or i’ll cry

oscahpastry: stop giving her ideas

user21: when r u streaming again

“i will try to stream in a couple of days, after my shoots and marketing stuff with the team,” she grins. “thank you for watching me scream for 4 hours. catch you guys soon. stay kind and stay safe.”

user2: i’ll miss you 🫶🏼

taglist: @wcnorris @treehouse-mouse @laura-naruto-fan1998 @mindless-rock @inejismywife @vellicora @leilanixx @meadhgbcavanagh @2bormaybenot @ironmaiden1313 @angsthology @cherry-piee @christianpulisic10 @elliegrey2803 @cashtons-wife @love4lando @sadg3 @bborra @a10vely-yutazen @mellowarcadefun

[elliespassagerprincess]

okokokok but what abt ellie taking care of long-kinda curly hair! reader? like, reader also wants her to help, specially when washing it, cumbing and use dryer

this' me btw if u even care

Wash day - (ellie williams x reader)

Hi poookieeee!! As someone with very curly hair this was needed, i hope you enjoy <33 also hello kitty??? my favorite type of kitty tbh

Pairing: ellie x fem!reader

requests are open! send me your silly thoughts

warnings: none

Summary: in which she helps you with your hair

authors note: ugh i found out that ill only know if i got into uni in November, i'm going insane

masterlist

Ellie watched as you walked all over your shared apartment.

You walked from room to room grabbing different bottles of things she wasn't sure of. She heard you mumbling as you continued to grab towels and more bottles.

Ellie got up and she gently grabbed your wrist "baby slow down"

you looked at her with a small smile

"i cant slow down now, i need to start so i have enough time to finish"

Ellie raised an eyebrow "to finish what?"

"Its wash hair day"

She looked at the bottles to see hair products and other items. You removed yourself from Ellie's gentle grip before taking all the products into your arms.

"i would love to stand and watch you stare at all my stuff but i really want to start with my hair"

In all the months that the two of you have been together Ellie has never seen you do your hair. You would go into the bathroom and you'd come out with your natural curls after a few hours.

Ellie loved when you wore your hair naturally, but she also knew how much work it takes to maintain your hair.

"I want to help you"

You looked at her, jaw slightly ajar.

None of your partners has ever offered to help, they actually always had a problem with how long it took you to finish. But Ellie always told you to take your time, she bought whatever you needed, she was different.

It was the bare minimum but because no one has ever done this, you were taken back by this gesture.

god you really loved this girl

"Yeah" you quickly cleared your throat.

Ellie followed you to the bathroom and you quickly gave her a rundown of everything that needed to happen.

Wash, products, style, dry

It sounded simple to Ellie but when she saw everything you had set up, she knew that would be a long process.

Ellie sat on the edge of the tub as you went onto your knees, a smirk appeared on her face.

"oh so we're doing something else?"

you rolled your eyes "ew no. You're washing my hair"

Ellie chuckled as you rolled your eyes.

You shuffled closer to the tub and you leaned forward, so that just your hair was in the tub.

Ellie grabbed the shower head and she brought it to your head. As the water droplets fell onto your hair, it immediately curled even more than it already was.

After a few minutes you instructed Ellie to put a hair mask on. She gently squeezed the thick mixture onto her hand and she applied it to your scalp.

You almost moaned at how good she was massaging you. She had very skilled fingers so she knew what she was going.

"Just like that els" you sighed she chuckled.

"You normally say that to me when-"

"no"

Ellie let out a laugh before rinsing your hair.

She followed all the instructions you gave her when it came to applying shampoo, conditioner, she even checked the temperature of the water, like you told her.

After everything you got up and you gently wrapped your hair in a towel.

You kissed her forehead "thank you els"

You started to make your way to the bedroom.

"Where are you going?" she asked

"To finish my hair"

"i wanna come"

"then come"

She happily followed you to the room and she watched you from the edge of the bed.

"When can i help?"

"Let me do this part myself ok? You can help me dry it"

Ellie nodded watching you intently.

She watched you apply more product to your hair. You applied curl cream, some weird clear gel Ellie has never heard of, you even applied different oils.

Holy shit is it really this complicated to have curly hair?

"Come on Ellie" you suddenly called.

You scrunched your hair a little and you gave her a hairdryer.

You showed her exactly how to do it. She grabbed the dryer and she started from top to the bottom, just like you showed her.

You smiled as you looked at her in the mirror, she has a focused look on her face, her tongue slightly sticking out.

After 20 minutes she was done and she took a step back admiring her work.

You got up and turned to her and she gave you a smile.

"you look pretty"

"thank you baby"

You walked towards her and you gave her a kiss on the cheek. Ellie pulled out her phone and she grabbed your hand

"lets take pictures"

"why?"

"i want to remember the day i did your hair"

"Aren't you tired if my hair yet?"

"i love your hair"

<3

[2knightt]

CANT HOLD IT IN ANY LONGER!!! i’m utterly obsessed with the curtis brothers.

idk if u do this, but if u can, the curtis brothers with a reader who’s super down bad for them? they make it so clear, too. constantly doing everything for them, making food, buying snacks, just utterly everything. compliments, holding their hand religiously … yk.

୧ ׅ𖥔 ۫ you know i’m a fool for you. ⋄ 𓍯

…IN WHICH! you think the curtis brothers are the only men on the planet.

tags/warnings: swearing(on my end/once during dialogue.) reader being slightly overprotective or insane, mentions of reader getting hit on, mentions of reader leaving lip stick stains, me not knowing what to write for darry.

ೃauthor notes⁀➷ i’m using ny other accounts layout bc i can’t be bothered rn. also i’m here to feed y’all i’ve noticed the outsiders x reader tag is lowkey dry asl.

Ponyboy Curtis:

WOAH HE CAN’T HANDLE ALLAT😭

like actually. he is TWEAKING AT ALL TIMES! when you first like started complimenting him, showering him in kisses, giggling n’ shit—he thought it was a one time thing.

ponyboy just thought he’d have to thug that shit out once a week or something. he was, in-fact, pleasantly surprised when you continued to do it.

“you’re so-mwah-cute! i wish-mwah-i could-mwah-hold you forever!”

“y/n…😣”

he’s so flustered omfg like actually he’s beet red LMFAOOO. if you were to put your fingers to his forehead it’d be so hot. like ponyboy’s avoiding eye contact, his lips are tightened, etc.

if he were to stay the night at your place—you make him all types of food. like, food he’d never heard of. or food he’d dream about after eating bologna for a week,

“for me? …really?”

“mhm! c’mon, don’t let it get cold now.”

ponyboy is DIGGING RIGHT THE FUCK IN. okay he is SCARFING THAT DOWN. after he’d be a little embarrassed of how quickly he ate but like you just took it as a good thing.

thinks you’re the best cook ever tbh. gordan ramsey has nothing on you type levels.

going on a walk with him to go grocery shopping for the curtis house with your hands intertwined and letting ponyboy ramble about this annoying substitute he had!!! IT’S REAL!!! ALL OF IT!!!

“n’ then he tried to tell me my answer was wrong when i studied last night—I EVEN ASKED MY FRIENDS. so, i know it was right. i just think mr. johnson had a personal vendetta against me.”

“smh…i could do slash his tires if you’d like♡!”

“what”

“nothing.”

AWHHH PONYBOY FOLLOWING YOU AROUND THE STORE LIKE A LOST PUPPY BECAUSE HE DOESN’T KNOW WHAT TO BUY LMFAO

he’d like holding your sleeve or the hem of your shirt as you walk around, looking more awkward above all else.

uwahh showering ponyboy in compliments late at night when it’s just the two of you, twirling his hair as you hold him closer!!!

“you’re hair is so pretty. it’s so soft…i dunno why you put grease in it. if i was you—i’d never let anyone touch it.”

“i don’t. i only let you.”

“…REALLY??🥰🥰😚😚”

ur friends are soooo sick of you talking about ponyboy LMFAOOOO like actually. every time you go, ‘omfg did i tell you guys, he-‘ they know to just let you mindlessly ramble.

“and then ponyboy read to me ‘til i fell asleep! he’s so sweet—i dunno how he’s real!”

“i dunno how you’re so whipped.”

“he must be the funniest motherfucker on the planet if y/n’s this obsessed.”

Sodapop Curtis

OHHH Y’ALL ARE AT A CONSTANT WAR TO SEE WHO’S GONNA BEAT THE OTHER AT BEING THE BETTER PARTNER LMFAOOO

HE’S usually the whipped one in the relationship…he felt both extremely lucky and threatened when you started attacking him with kisses…

“you’re so handsome. i’m just the luckiest person on earth—ain’t i?”

“…yeah…���”

“why’d you say it like that?😞”

“cause I’M the luckiest person on the earth…I’M supposed to be tellin’ you this…”

but as time goes on—he does take the loss and accepts you’re better at him. for now. it’s only a matter of seconds until sodapop thinks of something insane to show his love for you.

anyways! IMAGINE COOKING WITH HIM OHHHH NY GODDDDD /?:&$:&: he just mainly stands there and looks pretty as he asks what you’re doing but SHHH. HE’S MORAL SUPPORT.

“…what?”

“i’m chopping onions for the flavour, honey.”

“you don’t like onions, though?”

“i don’t like the crunch rather than the flavou—YOU REMEMBERED I DON’T LIKE ONIONS??☹️☹️”

“of course i would!”

gladly holds ur hand 24/7. i’m not kidding. you two are like super magnets. HEHEHE IMAGINE HIM DRIVING WITH ONE HAND ON THE WHEEL AND HIS OTHER HAND HOLDING YOURS!!/!2!

you do take him grocery shopping. only sometimes, though. he only buys junk food rather than actual food.

“can i get these? please?”

“you already have two bags of chips in the cart, soda.”

“okay..😣”

“SIGH…get them.”

“HURRAY!”

knows you can’t say no to him and that’s like the only time he uses it to his advantage.

soc’s do hit on you under the premise of ‘showing you how a real man is supposed to spoil a lady like you.’ HOWEVER, you look at them like they’re aliens.

“hey, baby. what’re you doin’ around here?”

“…EW.”

“???”

they’re shocked above all else as they see you turn away from them and quickly walk away without looking back. AND WOOO SODA IS SO PROUD.

Darry Curtis

the gang acts like you two are constantly fighting whenever you start to look at darry with that sparkle in your eyes.

“guys, PLEASE! YOU’RE BREAKING UP THE FAMILY! STOP ARGUING!”

“what the hell are you on about, soda?”

“you’re scaring pony!” “don’t bring me into this.”

“mind you’re own business, soda.”

AJDIEHJR DARRY HAVING A HAND AROUND YOUR WAIST AS YOU MUTTER SWEET NOTHINGS BETWEEN KISSINGS>>>

you two are a POWER COUPLE IN THE GROCERY STORE! EVEN IF YOU REFUSE TO LET HIM PAY AND HE GETS POUTTY! EVEN IF HE DOESN’T TAKE COMPLIMENTS WELL!

“y/n, please. these are for my house.”

“so?? my wallet was out first.”

“that doesn’t mean anything. baby, i’m telling you, i’m paying.”

“too late, i already handed the cashier the money.”

you cook and clean for the curtis’ to take something off of darry’s back out of the kindness in your heart and totally not because you want him to pay more attention to you!! NEVER!!

but you do enjoy the fact that darry has more time to sit down and pay attention to you! and darry really likes the extra time he has!!

“you didn’t have to.”

“yes i did! you’ve been so stressed out, it’s the least i could do for you.”

“you’re such a treat, y’know.”

“mh. only f’you.”

you FORCE him to hold your hand. sometimes he forgets that he’s supposed to hold your hand in public so do NOT BE AFRAID TO GRAB IT YOURSELF.

but once you do, darry is the last person to let go. maybe to wrap an arm around your hip—BUT THAT’S IT.

teehee leaving lipstick stains on his white t-shirt accidentally🫶🫶!! it’s all so real to me!! sure, darry’s a little annoyed but it’s okay! he can never be mad at you!

[love-belle]

no comment !!!

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ in which they finally reveal their shared life.

or

for when you got really lucky with your love. ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚

social media au // carlos sainz jr. x fem!reader

warnings - language

author's note - hello!! i can't stop making these lmfao but fr these are so fun to write, i love them!! i really hope u like this, thank you for reading <3 i think, emphasis on think, that i will be able to post a pierre gasly social media au tonight along with part i of a max verstappen one so yeah, keep an eye out. i love you, hope you're okay <3

≡;- ꒰ °instagram ꒱

liked by lewishamilton, carmenmmundt, carlossainz55 and 985,517 others

yourusername people ask how long have i loved u, no comment

tagged carlossainz55

8,962 comments

username SHUT UO SHIT UP SHIT UP SHUT UP OMG

username OH MY GOD?????? WHAT??????

username her using her own song to hard launch her man is so iconic of her

username THIS IS WHAT I'VE BEEN WAITING FOR AGAHSJKAKSNAKA

landonorris fucking finally

-> yourusername props to carlos for convincing me 🙏

username "no comment" MA'AM WE NEED ANSWERS

username im vrying omg whag yje fjxk

lewishamilton the best couple ❤️

*liked by yourusername*

username what the duck i lo e them so mucj omh

username he's so pretty omg

carlossainz55 te amo ❤️

-> yourusername te amo mi amor ❤️

carlossainz55 loved you for a thousand lifetimes probably

-> yourusername carlos i will cry i love you :/

username they're so parents whatcthefucj

username RUE WHEN WAS THIS

≡;- ꒰ °instagram ꒱

liked by yourusername, landonorris, yourbestfriend and 964,528 others

carlossainz55 how i got you honey, even i don't understand

tagged yourusername

9,146 comments

username THE WAY "the party" BY Y/N IS LITERALLY THEIR SONG OMG

username HIM QUOTING HIS GIRL'S SONG I COULD CRY

username gone deceased six feet under decomposed decaying

charles_leclerc will you finally stop calling me at 3am ranting about how much you love y/n???

-> carlossainz55 no x

username MOTHER

username she eats everytime

username can carlos fight question mark

danielricciardo chihuahua energy in the second pic

-> yourusername WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN

-> carlossainz55 no no i get what you're saying

username THE WAY I SCREAMED

lilymhe the only thing i like abt u is ur gf

-> yourusername my love ❤️

-> carlossainz55 can't believe you because same

username he's down BAD bad

username this acc will turn into a y/n fanpage and i will eat up every second of it

≡;- ꒰ °instagram ꒱

liked by carlossainz55, pierregasly, lilymhe and 947,816 others

yourusername i know how lucky i am

tagged carlossainz55

9,146 comments

username GOODBYE.

username LITERAL PARENTS NOW OMG

username STOP THEY'RE GONNA BE SUCH GOOD PARENTS

danielricciardo normal y/n is such a gem to deal with, can't wait for the pregnant version!! good luck mate!!

-> carlossainz55 thank you brother, i will be needing it 🙏

-> yourusername these comments are public and you're on the couch tonight.

username CARLOS AS A DAD I CANNOT

username im so 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

username THIS IS INSANEEEE LIKE WE DIDN'T EVEN KNOW THEY WERE DATING BEFORE YESTERDAY AND NOW THEY'RE GONNA BE PARENTS LIKEEE

landonorris best godfather is here ❤️

-> charles_leclerc no

-> pierregasly no

-> lewishamilton no

-> maxverstappen1 no

-> danielricciardo no

username that baby is gonna be so blessed and loved

username stop im so happy for them sm

carlossainz55 i'm the one who got lucky, thank you for everything ❤️

-> yourusername gonna cry brb x

carlossainz55 i love you so much

-> yourusername my love for you grows everyday it's insane

username OH MY GOD SHJAKABDJAKANS

[leclsrc]

more than anyone ✴︎ cl16

genre: childhood friends to enemies to lovers (a mouthful), smut, humor, Fluffff!!!!, angst

word count: 13.7k  

You moved out of Monaco at fourteen with an unrepaired friendship hanging by a thread. Ten years and a whole lifetime later, you’re forced to work with him confront it all over again.

auds here… hi hi hi!!!! HAPPY 4k to us guys!!!!! i am so insanely thankful for all of u and i will make this a longer note when i wake up tomorrow because i have so much to say but have this for now. i hope u like it,i love love love u guys forever also i changed the banner because i wanted to

nsfw warnings under the cut!

18+ because... penetrative sex, semi public sex, praise central, size kink (pretty tame smut in auds world)

You know it’s bad when your assistant-and-friend-aka-friendsistant (her vernacular) Rachel walks in with a free coffee without a quip about how dependent you are on this exact order of coffee (she’s a millennial, so caffeine and lack thereof are in her arsenal of Funny Jokes). You fear you didn’t correctly anticipate just how bad it was going to be when she stays instead of leaving to work on your schedule, combing a few fingers through her fringe and sitting herself on your couch stiffly. Maybe you’re intuitive, maybe you spend too much time with Rachel and you can spot the way she scratches at her eye, maybe both—but it’s bad.

You don’t take a sip from the Starbucks that sits idly on the coaster, opting to watch the latte sweat instead. You do stare, though, at Rachel’s stagnant posture, scrutinizing her every movement. She takes a few deep breaths and drops the bomb.

“David sent me to tell you he has good news. But there is, um. Bad news.” Dread writhes through you at the mention of your manager with bad news, and you clear your throat to compose yourself.

“What’s going on?”

She purses her lips. “He’s on his way over here. Just…” She cocks her head sharply to the glass door of your home office, expression antsy. “Sorry. Wait for him. I can’t tell you anything yet.”

You take a swig from the pity coffee. “Am I getting blacklisted?”

“God, you dumbass, no—” She makes an incredulous noise, but before she can open her mouth to elaborate, your manager walks in with an excited expression on his face, pocketing his Juul to take a seat by your table. His smile is the radiant one of a man over forty with a comical amount of Botox.

“Rachel told me you had”—you stifle the adjective—“news.”

“That I do, yes.” He hums, tracing the edge of your table. “Did you enjoy Paris Fashion Week?”

Beside the brash Frenchmen, God-awful timezone differences and consequent calls at half past three, hungover show attendances, posing for pictures until your ankles blistered, and a temporary diet of black coffee, cigarettes, and stale croissants—sure, it was fun. It was your job to attend anyway, your obligation to shake hands with important people and be photographed in designer clothing and benefit from the PR, but how often could people call work fun? 

“Sure.” You take another gulp off your coffee. “It was… fun.”

“Well, since your movie’s doing well,” David pauses and hums, “how do you feel about another few weeks of fun?” 

“Like Paris Fashion Week—weeks… this month?” You frown, eyebrows knitting together. Is this a new Vogue thing? You’re not sure how many updates they give the schedule, but you wouldn’t mind too much if you could travel again for a little bit. “So soon after spring? Did Anna want this?”

“Iiiit’s, er, Vogue’s new project. Capsule shows in Europe, coastal and summery. She wanted an exclusive guest list. She asked for you by name,” David says smugly. “Well, she called my office, granted. But to ask for you—”

“Are you fucking serious?” You stand up, and if you hadn’t had some fix of coffee you would’ve gotten dizzy. “David, tell me you’re serious.” Time seems to have suspended itself as you await his answer—which, if affirmative, would be a pretty big deal to you. 

“Yeah, I am.” He plays off a grin. “She loved your movie with Greta, and would love to send you to Europe to do PR on a few shows and pair up with some guests on a couple features. Exclusive stuff.”

You sit back down, mouth slack. “Oh, my God. I can’t believe it.” Your eyes dart to Rachel, who’s caught between a smile and an awkward purse of her lips. “Fuck! This is huge, David.”

“Yeah—okay, yeah, it is.” David shifts in his seat and crosses, then uncrosses, his legs, then his arms. He stutters for a second. “Good and bad news, remember?”

You blink a few times. You’d nearly totally forgotten the fact that this good news—and it is overwhelmingly good—comes with a bout of bad news, so bad apparently that it’s noteworthy enough to state alongside this massive deal. But it’s. Fine. It’s whatever. Worst case scenario, you’re going to need to fucking swim to Europe sans oxygen canister.

“So… the shows? Events, and shit?” He watches, waiting for you to signal that you follow. When you nod, he continues, averting his gaze to the face of his Patek. “They’re all in Monaco.”

Wrong.

“Monaco.” You repeat, deadpanning your delivery. It’s not out of the ordinary, the glitz and coast of the city being a perfect venue for high fashion. But Monaco is different for you, vastly different, and you tend to avoid the place to the best of your abilities. “Monaco. Are—you’re sure?”

“Mmm,” he hums in affirmation. “I know, I know you’re not exactly privy to Monaco because, bleh, childhood shit, whatever. But this—like you said, this is huge! And I don’t think we should jeopardize that.” He pulls a piece of paper from the folders tucked in his arm and waves it around.

“Well—yeah, I suppose. I’ll deal with it.”

“Yeah.” He sucks his teeth, eyes gliding over the scenery of L.A. that your window offers. “Okay, that’s it, so. Byeandhaveagoodlunch.” He slams the paper onto your desk, jostling you a little, but as he makes his exeunt, Rachel raises her arm to stop him.

“Is that it, David?” She asks, an edge to her voice.

You pick up the paper as they make hushed, stifled conversation, and find that it’s a call sheet of sorts, listing all the collaborators traveling to Monaco and what or who they’re in charge of, or paired up with, there. Models, athletes, celebrities, influencers—all making TikToks, or appearances, or brand deals, or interviews, or YouTube videos, the whole shebang.

“Yeah,” says David dismissively—nervously? “That’s it.”

You search for your name. “Okay. Um, hey.” Rachel turns to you, trying to catch your eye, which is busy scanning the sheet. “Did, um—did David mention you’re paired up with Charles Leclerc for a feature? Because you are. Paired up with Charles Leclerc for a feature, I mean.”

David sucks his teeth. “Thank you very much for graciously reminding me of that, Rachel.” 

Still half-distracted and growing increasingly worried with the exchange happening in front of you, you make haste in your search—eventually, you find your name, printed in plain letters beside one you’ve wished to never read over ever again.

“Wait, my Charles?” You pause and look up, suppressing a yell as your eyes widen, and you blunder over a pathetic self-correction. “I mean—no, sorry—Charles, as in Charles Leclerc? I can’t work with him, you know this!” 

“Wh—well, Vogue apparently wanted a really good Monaco-born pair and they seriously lucked out on you two. Also,” Rachel says, adamantly defending herself, “you’re always saying you can work ��with anyone’!” She raises two comically vigorous air quotes to further her (moot) point.

“I didn’t ev—I never say that,” you lie straight through your teeth, mouth dry. You definitely do. You can place all the exact moments. “I would’ve known if I did. Rach—David—I cannot, absolutely cannot work with Leclerc. He’s my… we…” You shut your eyes and sneak two fingers upward to massage your temple, slowly caving into defeat.

David makes an oh well face and shrugs passively. “Fine. Then it’s either Anna Wintour’s special job that will help the Academy campaign or not meeting the ex-bo—”

“—friend.” You look up to cut him off, eyes narrowed. “Ex-friend.”

“Alright, kid. Suuuure.” David leans against the back wall of your office as Rachel comes to comfort you, her eyes already sympathetic and droopy. It shouldn’t be so bad, right? She asks sweetly, nudging the latte closer to your catatonic figure. You have seen him since, anyway.

With a despondent gaze, you just remain silent, refusing to state the negative aloud, opting to stare at the latte. At your disagreeable silence, Rachel continues, tone anxious: You have seen him since. Right?

You moved out of Monaco at fourteen, right after the school year finished and your father had gotten the opportunity to transfer out. The whole thing would’ve—should’ve, even—been a sentimental affair, full of tears and dramatic caresses of your bedroom wall, whispering thank yous to the city air in French and Italian, but it wasn’t. Months prior, you’d been preparing yourself for this kind of goodbye; but when it came to it, you merely kissed your extended family goodbye and slept en route to the airport, silk sleeping mask pulled taut over your shut eyelids. The only thing you left in the city was a letter written only to Gi and Cha about how much you’d miss them, with your email address scribbled at the bottom for an added touch, in case they felt like sending you longer messages.

“Do you two at least get along?” David asks, noting how genuinely aghast you appear.

“It’s not that simple.” You tap a nail against your desk a few times. “But I think it’ll be fine. I hope, at least. We used to be… good friends? As teenagers.”

You feel like an alien hearing yourself talk about it, talk about him and the whole circumstance a decade later. Your friendship with Charles was the only thing that mattered to your adolescent self, all lemonade stands and long car rides and stealthy conversations about your futures (racing and acting, respectively). It was happiness, in what you consider to be its truest form, it was lovely and real. And it ended abruptly, no goodbyes, no nothing.

“So it’s a no.”

“I’m just saying it’s impossible for me to work with him, and in Monaco no less?!” Your eyes are wild with frustration and anxiety at the prospect of your past whipping you in the face, full-fledged. “I don’t even talk about the guy or the city, how can I spend time with him there?”

“Are you seriously going to junk this amazing fucking opportunity just because of some petty childhood fight?” David’s tone is comparable to that of a dad’s, scolding and horrified, almost. “Look. If you don’t take this, career-wise, it doesn’t mean much. You get paid a shit ton, you’ll survive—you’ll do well. But emotions-wise? Maturity-wise? Be the bigger person and do it—I mean it.”

You stare back at him because you know he’s right. “Maybe it won’t be a big, long feature?” Rachel offers as some advice, some comfort. “If you reject it, his team will know, and so will he.”

And yes, you were fourteen, and yes it was petty and unexplainable even for fourteen—but there was a catalyst to all of this, a reason why the move became easy and forgetting childhood memories became second nature. A reason why you’re selective with who you make contact with from home. A reason why Giada and Charlotte are selective with topics they choose to bring up with you.

So, fuck it, really. That’s how you end up in Monaco, booked for the next three weeks, sharing a studio and public appearances and a 24-hour shoot with the last person you’d ever want to be in a room with. Ten years later—the person still is, and no doubt will always be, Charles Leclerc.

—

“MAMAN!” Charles’ voice was loud, loud, and so incredibly loud. You followed not far behind, legs running at full speed to try and leap onto his lanky figure and wrap an arm around his head to quiet him. It’d been futile: he ended up at the dining table facing his family with a victorious smile on his pink face. He breathed heavy, waiting for everyone to turn their attention to him.

“Charles,” you chimed in warningly, breathing even harder with the effort you had exerted to chase him from the sidewalk to here. “Don’t.”

“Guess who got the lead spot in the recital.” He slowly turned to point at to your angry face, and then bent, rifling through his already messy, grubby knapsack for something that he raised with glee: a headress that read…

“But-ter-cup.” Hervé sounded amused when he looked at your fuming expression. “You?”

“Yes, Papa! Maybe, just maybe,” he sing-songed, using the term wrong yet again, “she got the titular role!” He walked over to you and placed the headress square on your head, beaming. 

“There is no titular role in a school recital,” you seethed, burning with embarrassment. Your stellar academic record had apparently granted you incentive to be centre stage during the routine year-end recital, where years were lumped into twos or threes (in your and Charles’ cases, Years 8 and 9) and the student body would dance or sing a variety of teacher-selected music.

In your case, it was Build Me Up, Buttercup, complete with choreography you’d be practicing over the next month and a half. Charles laughed at your pouting expression, didn’t stop laughing even when you’d both sat down and twirled through forkfuls of spaghetti, didn’t stop chuckling even when Lorenzo got the turn to speak and he started talking about how Bringing Up Baby was his movie of the month.

You allowed him to laugh—even laughed yourself at some point—because all day, you’d been absently wondering how you’d break the news about your moving away to him.

—

Charles is not okay. He’d gotten off a red-eye from a short vacation stint, and now he’s back in Monaco, sleepy and a bit jetlagged, being briefed on brand deals and press junkets he has to accomplish by three p.m. today. “On the dot, sharp,” said his assistant, like the two didn’t just mean the same fucking thing. He’s patient, though, smiling through the exhaustion, through the dressing room, the tape around his waist and legs to measure clothes for this fashion… thing.

“A meeting for Ferrari, two TikToks, a vlog for your personal YouTube channel, three stories by noon… oh, and in the next few weeks, you’re going to film a Vogue-sponsored 24 Hours With… with—”

“D’accord, thank you,” he cuts in, already exhausted from the spiel alone. He’s a professional; no matter what people believed or what gossip rags liked to say about him, he maintains a well-kept reputation of being polite and kind to people he works with. Maybe it’s the jetlag, maybe it’s the lack of sleep, maybe it’s the heat outside, but today he just wants to close his eyes and sleep for days.

But the assistant follows, clipboard and Excel sheet and all, still spouting all his media obligations lest he forget (and mark his words, he definitely will). “Sorry,” he says. He’s new, probably assigned as a part of the Vogue team, lanky and tall and nervous looking. “I’m new. I’m Greg.”

Briefly, Charles is left alone to stare at his tired reflection while the assistants reconvene and connect. There’s several of them, each assigned or already committed to a different celebrity. Charles should know more details, but there’s only so much reading of a call sheet he can do before he’s conked out on Ambien; he trusts he’ll be around people much more famous than he is, probably American or English, actors and athletes alike. He’ll figure it out.

Yeah, she’s almost ready. Is Charles here? One of the assistants says, a bright-eyed American. They need to be introduced before 11. Her voice is quiet, quick and hushed, and Charles has to focus to hear what she’s saying. Greg chips in with something he can’t decipher; in response, the American whispers, Yeah, I’ll get her to sign it for you. Bring Charles out in five.

In five, he is indeed being brought out to the lobby of this hotel; the outdoor area is decked out with models, cocktail tables, Vogue signage and a carpet for pictures. It’s even busier inside, wait staff and event coordinators conversing in angry, aggressive French—table settings, mineral water, extra forks are needed. Greg keeps a steady pace transporting Charles through the indoor throng, and at 10:59, Charles is outside, by the pool.

“Um, right, yeah. Okay, uh—wait here. Your partner—not really partner, but like, mate? Fuck, definitely not. Um, partner. She’s on her way heeere…” He checks his phone. “Okay. You caught her name, right?” Charles nods to fend him off. “Okay. So, wait here.”

There are cameras taking pictures of him when Greg departs, some microphones waved his way; in the distance he spots fans waving crazily, sporting Ferrari merch. Charles is doing what he’s told (waiting, maybe posing a bit) when an even bigger crowd appears, surrounding one person; with their arrival, ameras click even faster, and an uproar follows. Greg waves him over, pointing at the person frantically, so Charles smiles, extends a hand, and when the crowd parts—

There you are, in all your glory. Pink dress, hair clipped into a bun, a tanline on your exposed skin, lithe hand coming up to shake his. Your eyes are flat but the lack of expression doesn’t inoculate them from beauty; they remain sparkling and pretty all the same. Cameras snap the interaction, seemingly innocent, seemingly the first.

He fights, he really does, to keep his hands shaking yours. He forces himself not to hug you, press a kiss to your cheek even if that might look friendly, caress a hand across your cheekbone, brush the tendrils of hair out of your eyes. It’s a valiant effort.

A valiant effort that pays off because, as soon as you’re ushered into a room by yourselves, your smile turns into a scoff; your hands are kept to yourself, slipping a pair of sunglasses on, and; underneath them, your eyes begin to roll. “I need a drink,” you huff, not even looking at him. 

You’re on two couches opposite each other, in what he assumes to be a foyer to a hotel room that’s much bigger than the one he was in earlier. A-list fame and that. The girl he’d seen earlier scurries off, mumbling something about a martini. Greg, beside him, goes: “Do you need a drink, too?” But he shakes his head.

“Are you voluntarily working for this guy, Greg?” You refer to his assistant by name, offering a sarastic, honeyed smile. You adjust the strap of your dress and he blinks his gaze away.

“Oh, no. I mean—yeah. Kind of. I was assigned to him.”

“It’s okay, I don’t expect you to do it of your own will,” you joke, crossing your legs.

Charles laughs dryly. “Who asked?”

“So he speaks…” You ping off his retort without missing a beat, a sardonic smile playing at your lips. 

“In the two minutes we’ve been around each other, you’ve insulted me and my assistant. I’d prefer silence, your highness.”

“Aww, did my joke and asking Greg a question piss you off?” You suck your teeth. “You must be fun at parties.”

“Do you two, um. I don’t want to, like, overstep, but do you know each other?” Charles notices that Greg’s forearm is signed by you and realizes he has no allies here, with an inward grimace. “Or if you don’t, like, are you two just… not in good moods or something?”

The girl comes in then, saying here’s the martini and catering you a sweaty glass with a smile. You offer up the empty space beside you, patting the white leather for her to sit down on. Your eyes meet his again briefly, catty and a bit challenging, before you turn back to the girl. “Sit.”

Maybe Charles spends too much time with Max, because he’s starting to become more and more inclined to getting the last word in lately. “Bossing people around, eh? Fame really does change you.” He offers a smile of his own.

“She’s my assistant, Rachel,” you say sweetly, but your smile is gritty. “We need to check my schedule.”

He wants to slap himself. “Too busy to open your calendar?” Nevermind, he’s a god.

Your sarcastic smile drops. “And what’s on yours? P6 this week, P7 next, DNF after?”

Fuck. The tension is so thick at this point, it’s almost steaming hot. Both the assistants stare at you, waiting for Charles to wedge something in, but he bites himself back. Thankfully, right as the silence just begins to settle like oil on water, the door swings open and one of the coordinators steps in, noisily rattling off the week’s plans and proclaiming you’re both free for the remainder of the day before things pick back up—Schiaparelli show at noon, both of you, front row—tomorrow.

The four of you filter out of the room, and you make a quip about your autograph on Greg’s arm, which grants your assistant some face time with Charles. She turns to him, combing a hand through her hair and furrowing her thick eyebrows. “Hey, I’m Rachel, by the way.”

“Charles.”

“I know,” she says sheepishly. “Listen. I know you two have history, she—we—she’s, um, told me about it before. I don’t know the whole story, and I’m not… like, I’m not saying I do, so I respect it, whatever it is. But I hope you can find it in you to work with her properly. It’s a huge gig for you both. So—yeah, uh. Great job, and good luck.”

She smiles with a nod before exiting the room, leaving Charles alone and stirring with thoughts and memories woken from wild unrest.

—

“Alors,” Charles had said, not turning from his position in front of your vanity mirror. He’d been picking at his face, stopping only when you tsked at him not to. “What is the problem?” His eyes flicked over to you, your lying figure on the bed exhaling little puffs of frustrated air to the ceiling. “Are you missing the recital?”

“Quoi? Non.” You gnawed at your lip, accepting your defeat. You couldn’t lie for much longer, not when you’d been keeping this under wraps for two months. “Listen. Charles.” He nodded, clearly preoccupied with something. “Charles.”

“Hmm?”

“Can you ple—look at me.” Your voice hardened.

He’d noticed it then, the curt cutoff of your voice, the absent look in your eyes. He knows you even through a mirror, even in the low light of your room. “Desolé. This pimple won’t go away.”

“Charles,” you said, groaning but allowing yourself to laugh. “Listen.”

“Okay.” He turned to face you, a spot on his chin red from how long he’d been scratching at it.

You shrugged then, suddenly scared to deal with the realness of it all. You didn’t understand why you felt so torn. “It’s something to do with me,” you said.

“Yeah.”

“I’m moving.” You rubbed at your nose, the cold draft coming in through the window causing you to sniffle. “Out of Monaco.”

A beat. “What?”

You closed your fingers around your necklace, scratching absently at the divots of the pendant. One, two, three little dips in the gold locket, tiny but comforting. “Yeah. In a few months, like, after school. It’s Papa—his job. It’s a whole thing.”

“Europe?” You shook your head. America.

“What… well, what does that mean, then?” His expression didn’t waver but if anything did, it was his eyes—desperate, seeking more answers, wanting them with a guttural, belly-deep desire. You’re his best friend, so if he has to let you go in this life, he at least needs to know everything about the move. 

“We’ll keep in touch,” you reassured, kicking your leg to further your point. “You were bound to get busy with karting anyway, so it’s like. Ça revient au même.”

“It isn’t the same,” he said, his voice thin and cracking. 

“You’ll be fine.”

“You have a very misguided idea of who I am.”

“Shut up. Come off it,” you laughed, sitting up straighter. “We’ll call everyday, and I’ll meet all the famous people who’ll get me a real acting job, and I’ll come for the holidays or summer or something. Things won’t change. Not that much, at least.”

“Maybe, just maybe.” He pauses. “Will you be here for my birthday, at least?” He’d made a big deal all year of his turning sixteen on the sixteenth.

“Charles,” you sighed. 

“No, yeah. I get it.” He looked down, rubbing his thumbs together, like he’s just been hit across the face. He will tell you one day it felt infinitely more painful than that. But at the time he shook his head and looked up at you, reached his pinky to yours, a thin slip of paper around the finger that matched your interlocked one, and didn’t say anything else.

Just: “We’ll be okay.”

—

You could pin a lot of adjectives on Monaco: picturesque, without a doubt; warm, glamorous, but you’d sooner die than pin the word home over it. The city is sprawling even with the little surface area it possesses, and only few things seem familiar. Your lodging is a hotel in Monte-Carlo, a penthouse suite that requires you to travel very little. It feels like a vacation.

And you embody the role of a vacationer very well—the first five, six days of your stay in Monaco went great, mainly appearances that lasted a few hours at most and several junkets to promote Vogue and your latest film, before you were free to do whatever you wished. You’d gone the touristy route already: shopping more times than you could count, trying your immense luck at the casinos, and eating at Michelin-starred restaurants; eventually all the fun blurred into each other and you found solace in naps instead.

Your troubles are not far behind, however, and they finally come after you on Day 7. The event coordinators had informed Rachel, who in turn informed you, that the first of next week’s agenda would be a photographed tour of the Musée Océanographique de Monaco, a grand seaside building right at the edge of the water. Today is, apparently, a day for you to “fraternize with” Charles, which meant you would once again need to put a façade over your less-than-kind appearance toward him.

Those are the concluding words of David’s very firm text, encouraging (read: coercing) you to settle things with Charles into some approximation of civility. You resolve things by calling him to skip over the awkwardness that comes with texting. It takes you all of twenty minutes and twice your body weight in courage to press the green telephone button.

“B’jour,” he goes, his voice quick. French people (he will hate that you called him French, even if it was just in your head; you relish in this) always talk rapidly. After some silence, he clears his throat: “Hello?”

Butterflies—some form of them, whatever—flutter in your stomach. “It’s me.”

He drops formalities and adopts a disinterested voice. “Huh. What do you want?” The butterflies have rotted to death.

“I need to talk to you.”

“To insult me again?” He sounds a little amused even over the phone, a breath of laughter landing in your ear. “Bah, I get it. We are enemies. You have no interest in reconnecting, et cetera. C’est tout ce que tu as à dire? I gotta go.”

Your face warms at his accusatory tone. “Wow, leave it to a guy to be charming, huh?”

“Why should I be charming with you?”

“At least be polite,” you taunt, but your voice lacks its usual edge. On the other line, Charles lets his own defiant tone ebb downward.

At least be polite. It’s the least he can owe you after ten years of forgetting. It wasn’t as if you two had a mutual agreement then, in 2013 when you moved away, to stop becoming friends. For months before you moved out, he completely stopped talking to you, like he’d forgotten you two were even connected, were even friends. What little words you two shared became petty and abrasive, and suddenly Monaco lost its color. The closeness you had with him, which for so long you’d convinced yourself was once-in-a-lifetime, was ripped from you, robbed from you—by him, no less, which hurt all the more. You’d given up on finding out why at some point. You waited for him to reach out. Maybe, you told yourself, just maybe, it would take a few months, a year.

Ten years of radio silence. He owes you that: politeness.

“It doesn’t matter,” you say to nobody in particular, in an effort to segue into the topic of your choosing. “Look, we’re supposed to be friends. In… on camera, at least. It’s disastrous if we look like we, you know, hate each other. We need to be professional.”

“For the cameras,” he says back, solemn.

“Yeah.” You wind a finger through your hair. “Just… for the sake of civility.”

You hear his little hums of consideration. “D’accord,” he says after a few minutes. “Truce, then.”

“Sure.” You smile a little. “I have to go.”

—

You were halfway through your mess of clothes when your mum peeked through your door, her hair held back by a headband. “Call you yet, poppet?” 

“Non,” you said, decimating your voice to a monotonous murmur. You looked up from the dress you’d been folding and offer a half-hearted, sardonic smile. “Je t’ai dit qu’il ne le ferait pas.” You were right: he wouldn’t call. What difference did a month make, anyway? This time, though, the usual victory of being right settled into an ugly disappointment in the pit of your stomach.

You wanted so badly to be wrong. To clamber to the telephone, to your Skype, to your cellphone, any of the three, and see his name flashed across the helm or his voice in your ear. Maybe he was dialing your number now, to ask if you wanted to grab dinner after the year-end recital, or to update you on karting, or to tell you Pascale wanted lunch.

She could tell, as all mothers can, that you’d been upset. The knit in your brows that didn’t go away, the bottom lip being chewed, the tight clutch of your fingers over the already-folded dress. She sighed. “I’m sorry, baby.” 

“It’s fine.” Your voice came out sharper than you intended and you have to roll it back, recede it, to sound more relaxed, more at ease. “It’s… fine. I’m fine.” She knew better than to pry, closing the door softly to continue packing up the living room.

You heaved a dry sigh to express the nausea that came with his absence. It began a month ago, two days after you first told him about it and poked at the zit on his chin. He’d buried his head in your shoulder until tears seeped into the cotton sleeve of your shirt, and you let him. You felt guilty, after all, for keeping it a secret for so long. You would leave in September, you told him. We have time.

Two days later he walked you home as always, on the “dangerous” side of the street, lanky legs skipping to the tree in front of your house. You pointed at the beginnings of clementines on its dewy branches, smiling, inviting him in, but he remained leaning against the trunk, playing with his mop of hair that covered his forehead.

“Bah, trop dramatique,” you said, poking fun. Lorenzo had showed you both some art house films he studied in class, and with the bout of French cinema, you and Charles had grown obsessed with making fun of overdramatic stills that often included the classic leaning-against-a-surface. “Come on, Mum made bouillabasse, I smell it.”

“We need to talk,” he eked out awkwardly. “I have something important to tell you.”

You dropped your knapsack, leather scratching against the concrete of the steps to the front door as you walked over to him. “Ouais?”

“I…” His lips moved, wobbled, but nothing left, so he shut them and his eyes, like he was considering something. His breathing slowed into one rhythm you find yourself unconsciously matching, just two kids looking at each other in the dusky breeze of Monaco, the orange sun casting shadows over the clementine tree. You closed your hand over his, a tight clamp over his knobby wrist with certainty. “I…”

“Say it.”

“I want to.” His eyes were shut. Exhale. Inhale, open. “I… I’m going… going home.”

You breathed out apprehensively and relaxed. “Oh.” You blinked. “That’s it?”

“Ye—ouais. Yeah. I gotta.” Already he was climbing to the gate, waving a half-hearted goodbye. “Save some for me, oui? Bye.”

“Charles,” you warned after him, voice tinged with concern. “That’s it, promise?” Your hand flexed around air.

“Cross my heart!” The last thing he ever said with any bit of something genuine.

—

You reunite with Charles at a meeting; under the guise of your truce, he makes the barely-necessary small talk. The rest of the staff file out of the restaurant in due time, but you both stay. You ask about Lorenzo and Arthur, leaving out questions you’d rather not listen to him answer, and he tells you they’re both alright. That his mum asks about you sometimes. That makes you smile. He asks if you’re still dating the guy you’d most recently been partnered with in Us Weekly.

“God, no. We never even dated, the… um, tabloids always make shit up.” You purse your lips. “Anyway. Is Lorenzo still in film?” You ask, turning your head a little. You don’t think you’ll ever forget his affinity for cinema.

“Not professionally, but I still sit through hours-long… you know, reviews, and stuff.” He laughs when he sees you laugh, eyes half-closed and meeting the ceiling.

“He introduced me to some of my favorite movies, especially when I got into acting and I was kind of… like, I wanted some inspiration, acting-wise. But not my actual favorite movie.”

“Which is?” He segues into a more personal topic. “Is it still Bambi?”

“Oh, it was, for the longest time!” You almost squeal with excitement. “Not anymore, though. It’s been dethroned, ha ha. I think it’s… I’d say it’s maybe Casablanca now.”

“How American.”

“Shut up.” Your face warms. “It’s so romantic. When he says—when he goes, um. We’ll always have Paris. And then, God—when Ilsa goes, I said I would never leave you—and Rick goes, And you never will… isn’t it so classic? Romance movies nowadays are—I, I, I… I get scripts sent to me that are just so bad, and they’re either too idealistic or too pessimistic, or too indie or too commercial, and.” You sigh. “It’s like nobody gets love right anymore.”

“Us Weekly disagrees,” he says weakly, after a period of silence.

“Stop,” you laugh warningly. “And don’t act like you’re not being paired up with different girls, too.”

For a minute you sit with the realization that you’ve both been keeping tabs on each other all these years, even just a little bit. It’s a bit jarring, it’s a bit warm, it’s a lot confusing. You make a move to ask for the bill but Charles is quicker, opens his mouth to implore your presence.

“Come see me tonight.” He says it like he didn’t mean to, like it escaped him on a whim, a blurted out confession born out of your memories and conversation. His voice is dreamy, faraway. “Earth to…?”

“Wh—sorry. Fuck.” You clear your throat and deduce your next words. “Where?”

“I’ll text you. A club, near your hotel.”

“Yeah… yeah, sure.” You hum an affirming noise. 

—

Your name is on the list, though you’re sure it doesn’t matter whether or not it was. No ID is needed, and paps catch a bouncer being dispatched to guide you through the nightclub toward the elevated area with significantly less people. It’s low-lit, smoky, vaguely blue and purple, smelling of flows of alcohol and fresh ice. An Azealia Banks song is playing, pounding through your head.

Tabloids don’t care about nightclubs. They care if you come out drunk or with a smidge of snow under your nose, neither of which have happened to you; entering is fair game, a fun affair, especially in a district like Monte-Carlo. You don’t have any explaining to do, not even to questions like are you clubbing with your professional Vogue collaborator, Charles Leclerc?

The collaborator in question is the first to greet you, getting up and approaching you with a smile so obviously tense. The picture in front of him is like if he’d conjured up a forlorn fantasy of his to life—your hair fell loosely over black lace, a hand pinched around the hem of your dress. “Hey.”

“Hi.”

“So.” He realizes he’s in charge of the socializing, and turns to properly introduce you. “Um, guys, this is my—friend—you already know”—he fusses over your name, which everyone in the world knows, anyway—“and these are my friends. Pierre, Alex, George, Lando, Daniel… you know Joris.” He points to each guy's face as he goes, eliciting a beam every time he gestures.

You wave with a polite smile before you station yourself beside the only one you know: Joris, with whom Charles shares a longtime friendship. He greets you first, with a side hug. “Long time.”

“Yeah, it’s been.” You watch him turn toward the low table, and back around with two shots, offering them to you with haste.

You thank the Lord that he makes quick, dextrous work of it, and before long you’ve downed a glass or three of some strawberry four seasons thing, socializing with the different people around the table. One of them, Lando, talks about your latest film for five whole minutes (“I rated it five stars on Letterboxd. I left a review, if you wanna see”) before he leans close and asks: “Are you his girlfriend?” His is obviously referencing Charles, and you pull back from the proximity to shake your head.

“No,” you holler to emphasize it. “We used to know each other. I grew up here.”

“Oh shit! Native!” He whoops, offering you another glass. This must be your fifth, maybe, fifth G&T or Cosmo or something or other of the night. You take it, drinking as you walk, planning to collect your bag to take with you to the bathroom—another hand takes yours, though, dragging you down the steps. Halfway through, you realize it’s Charles.

“How’s the drink?” He asks, brows straight.

“That’s all you wanted to ask?” You raise your voice above the bass. “Someone needs to teach you fucking… proper small talk.” A laugh involuntarily bubbles past your lips, eyes crinkling. 

He laughs, too, despite himself. “Non, I was—I was just asking. We should—I brought you over here to—so we could…” He realizes he’s been talking too fast without getting to the point and pauses, resetting himself with a pinched sigh. “Dance.”

Your heart pulses. Dance? You hear yourself ask. For wh…Why?

“For the sake of the truce.” His voice is light. “We should try being closer.”

“We were close once,” you say, loose. “Did you forget?”

He’s looking right at you, and you’re warm all over. “How could I?”

It feels too real. Not the words—yes the words—but the alcohol, the alcohol is what you’re referring to, and all those shots and drinks suddenly seem not as harmless as they’d seemed earlier. You scan the periphery for the WC sign and try your best not to look deranged on your way there, offering the same pretty smile to recognizing passersby. Behind you, Charles calls out; but you wave him off, heaving dryly.

The restroom is clean because the nightclub is outrageously expensive; you push yourself into the available stall that’s in your direct path and crumple above it. You heave. Heave some more. Nothing comes. The nausea rises and recedes, so you decide to wait it out.

The bathroom door hauls open, bringing with it a few seconds of noise before it swings heavily onto the frame again, sealing the sterile silence. The momentary return of the bass from the dance floor sends your head spinning all over again and you freeze, willing yourself not to wind up hurling your guts into the toilet. It’s a futile effort, though, because you’re feeling nauseated beyond your limit again, and you need water and maybe a salve or something.

“This stall is open,” somebody says, a chipper American voice that grows in volume as it nears you. A gasp follows, and then: “Oh, my God. Are you okay?”

You turn, your face flushed and lips parted. “I’m so sorry. I just—I’ve been nauseous all night.”

“I have water,” she answers, reaching her arm outward, as if seeking it. “Carmen, the water!” A bottle of Evian is thrust into her hand by another girl (Carmen, you presume), and she doesn’t hesitate to bend next to you to feed it into your mouth. She stares for a second, then goes: “On the off chance I’m lucky, and you’re the famous actress, by the way, I just want to say I’m a huge fan of your work.”

Eyes wide, you lock eyes with her and pull away from the water. “Oh, God. Yeah, that’s me. I’m so sorry—this is so humiliating.”

“It’s not—it’s normal,” she assures, nodding. “We’ve all… y’know, puked into a club toilet before.” From the stall doorframe, Carmen nods. “What’d you drink?”

“Fruity stuff,” you recall, eyebrows knitting at the memory. “And shots.”

They both grimace at the same time, knowing the exact feeling, the exact taste, it seems. “Are you heartbroken or something?” Carmen asks; Lily shoots her a look that can only really mean don’t ask the world-famous actress if she’s heartbroken. But you laugh it off, shaking your head.

“No. There’s a guy, though, and he’s… we’re… it’s a lot. I think I thought alcohol would absorb all of it, but… clearly, it did not.” Your lips simmer into a straight line and you’re quiet for a few moments before remembering you’re on a dingy club floor being supported by two nice girls who are strangers. “Anyway! Sorry. I’m clearly, um, delirious.” You get up on semi-wobbly feet, swallowing the nausea as you go. 

You walk to the sink, and behind your back, the girl and Carmen share a telepathic exchange (should we ask her to elaborate? Yes! Should we really? Fuck, no.) You rinse your mouth out, washing your hands and focusing on your reflection—your tired eyes, your smudged lip gloss, your fussed-up hair. You turn after rinsing, offering a small smile. “Thank you.”

“It’s nothing,” says the first girl, offering her hand and a tube of lip gloss. “I’m Lily, by the way. And just so you know—I’m so sure that guy has nothing on you.” Carmen, beside her, nods in solidarity, and your heart blooms.

Your smile grows as your hand shakes hers, accepting the lip gloss. “You’re too kind. Thank y—” 

“Lil? Baby, are you puking?” Comes a disembodied male voice from the door, ajar ever so slightly. Lily visibly cringes and walks over to the door, pulling it open further. On the other side—the detective of sorts—happens to be Alex, who you’d been introduced to a few hours ago. At the sight of you, his eyes widen with recognition. 

“We’re fine. Leave us alone,” replies Lily in a conspiratorial whisper. “Carmen and I have a new friend.” She doesn’t even need to drop your name; your face alone is enough to make people recognize who you are.

Alex, however, refuses to admit defeat. “Try harder next time.” He pumps his eyebrows. “We were introduced earlier.” He looks up and waves to demonstrate his truth; when you smile back, Lily’s jaw drops as she turns to her boyfriend again, aghast.

“What the hell? How?” A pause. “No offense. It’s like. Two levels of fame, right there.”

He makes a pinched face. “She’s Charles’… friend? I don’t—coworker? Something, something. They were both vague about it. Actually, George and I were talking about it, and we both think something is up. With them.”

“Wait—you might be right.” Her eyes are hyperfocused, and her voice drops to a whisper for a second. “Let’s talk about it at the hotel.”

You and Carmen watch their hushed exchange, and eventually Alex leaves you three alone again with a loud goodbye, which allows Lily to rejoin your conversation. “Sorry,” she says with a smile. “That was my boyfriend, Alex. I didn’t know you two were introduced! He told me you knew Charles?”

“Oh.” Your shoulders relax. “Yeah, um. We knew each other as kids, but I moved away and we kind of—we drifted apart, so. I’m here on a business trip, and he’s just welcoming me.” You try to reduce the decade-long mess into a sentence.

“So you’re friends?”

“Yeah.” You feel like vomiting all over again. 

—

The sky’s a searing blue at noon, silver clouds lining the horizon. Charles has to press a finger to the high point of his cheek to test if he’s sunburned from the heat, and the cameras catch it; he doesn’t doubt the fans will spin that into something cute later. You’re somewhere else on the property, this big, massive thing of a museum that’s crashed into by the waves.

He remembers Andrea first telling him about this whole arrangement. He and the team had deliberately left out any mention of you, like they could predict the immediate veto. He wonders if you knew, or if you, too, had been surprised when seeing him, a ghost of your past looking into your eyes. He wonders if you, too, are now in this endless emotional turmoil. Inside there’s a photoshoot ongoing, with you but also with some models in varying aquatic-related poses to convey the intent of the building; he’s done his share of pictures already, just needs to sit down with you for an interview. 

“And a B-roll of you guys, um, like, walking, like—around?” Greg’s voice invades his head again, the nervous man beside him running through a to-do list like this is boot camp.

You’d left him hanging at the club—he couldn’t blame you though. A truce hardly called for the bringing forth of memories you two are now supposed to have buried beneath you. Memories he buried first. But alcohol had loosened him, and maybe you had, too, your eyes in the vaguely bluish light and your smile.

He wishes to apologize. He makes up some excuse and finds you nursing an Evian by a faraway corner, against a screen of stingrays. Your eyes widen when you see him, in recognition. He waves and then, with a thumb, gestures to the catering outside.

You end up by the water eating one of the caterer’s churros, a recommendation he deems “very special.” (“Have you worked with these caterers before?” “No.”) It’s also his excuse to cheat on his diet and eat a churro or three—chocolate dip included, always. You rave over the taste, smile, enjoy the view. Charles realizes this looks deceivingly like a date, and at the same time realizes he would not stop to correct someone if they assumed so.

“Our truce seems to be working.” You say in-between chews, voice flat but eyes bright.

“It seems so. I owe that to my personality.”

You really laugh at that. “I didn’t know you had one. It’s very fit for someone as unapproachable as I am.”

“Who said that?”

“No, noth—nobody.” You comb a lock of hair behind your ear. “Aw, putain. I’m ruining my lipstick. Pat’s going to kill me. I look awful.” There are no reflective surfaces around you to affirm your statement, but you sound so sure of yourself.

He smiles. He enjoys the illusion, the mask that you two seem to wear, albeit involuntarily. The chocolate syrup he squeezes on your little paper box of churros. The muttered back merci when he’s finished. Your flushed face, eyes darting from the delicacy to the ocean, eyelashes fluttering, lips smiling, curving into a laugh at some random realization. Briefly he imagines what he might tell somebody if they stopped to ask if you were dating.

Some old woman, French accent and short in stature. You two are so cute. Si mignon! And she would ask how you two met. Charles would tell her the story. But that is imagination. He blinks out of it and focuses on the beauty in front of him, so very real.

“No. You are very pretty, you know.” He says then, and it’s taken him all his nerves and then some just to wrangle it out of his mouth and past his lips. Anticipatory, he watches you, waits for your response.

You comb the hair out of your face messily, licking over the cinnamon sugar on your lips; then you smile up at him, turning your head in question. “Sorry,” you laugh, and his heart’s frozen because it’s the prettiest sound he’s ever heard. “What did you say?”

The wind roars in his ears, so Charles barely hears himself when he says, stuttering, “What? Nothing, I said nothing.”

You make a face—confused, suspicious—but all your allegations quell once you bite into another churro, stepping yourself a path along the area. Having blocked off the building, production staff and models are all that populate your surroundings, big headphones and even bigger cameras, rolling around racks of monochrome and Hermés, Birkins to match Loro Pianas. It’s easy to get lost in a crowd—in a city—where everyone looks the same, and knows the other’s name. Perhaps that’s also why, even at fourteen, you were excited to leave, he thinks.

“The coast was always my favorite part about the city.”

He notices. The way your eyes have softened, become more fond than when you’re in the centre of it all, in the bustle. Here it’s busy, but less busy; the distinction, perhaps, matters. Your gaze is not one of distaste, of disdain. It’s nostalgic, homesick, yearning. He supposes he describes this gaze so well because it’s the way he catches himself looking at you over the week. 

“I wanted to…” He trails off. “I wanted to talk to you because, ah. I’m sorry. It was foolish of me to put you on the spot last night. I should’ve been more… yeah. I’m sorry. I hope you’re okay.”

You stare at the sea and nod quietly. Instead of responding, you launch a story: “I always…” You’re clearly lost in a different sphere of thought, and you have to fall quiet while finding the right words to say. “I remember, um. In Year 3, we—I came here with my mum. And I was super mad, because I got, like, three mistakes on my Maths paper?” You laugh and he does, too, but more because your storytelling is so effortlessly enthralling and funny and he needs to shut himself up.

“Anyway.” You pace around again, and he follows. “So, I’m mad, and she’s trying to cheer me up, buys me glace and everything, but no. So I go sit myself on a random bench. It must’ve been around here, I think.” You look around and point at an empty area. “There. But it’s—they must’ve ripped it out. Whatever. So yeah, I’m sitting there, and moping, and all of a sudden All You Need is Love by The Beatles comes blaring into the entire area.”

Charles’ eyebrows knit confusedly. “What, the bench area?”

“No—the whole pier, I guess? Like, it was loud, I almost jumped. And then this guy comes in holding this huge—this, um, board? Sign? Poster? And he’s got half the pier in on his whole thing, and I’m totally… it was just… yeah.” You smile. It’s the biggest smile he’s seen on you since you got here and the fact that he’s even around to see it gets him all warm.

“So what happened?”

“It was a flash mob. You know those—yeah, they’re usually insufferable, but that one was a little calmer. Nobody was, you know, dancing and yelling. It was just a bunch of people cheering and all, and the guy was actually proposing to his girlfriend. It was so cute.” You sigh a little, a brief exhale of air, and it turns into a smile. “I’d love that.”

He raises his eyebrows and, despite himself, laughs. “Vraiment?” 

You turn to him, ready to defend yourself, mid-laugh. “Heeey. Everyone says they find big, romantic gestures cheesy, but I think deep down, if you trust the person enough, you’ll like it. Maybe not a proposal, though—can you imagine the pressure?” You pause. “But I don’t know. There’s something so nice about just knowing that person loves you so much they think it’s worth it to share it to everyone around you. So even if it’s cheesy, I wouldn’t mind much. You?”

“It’s cheesy for me,” he disagrees, shrugging. “But I see your point.” Truth be told, he didn’t see you as a romantic type—but all he’s ever seen you do lately is work, and even back in childhood, all you ever did was study. He likes learning these little facts, ones you wouldn’t share in interviews—likes knowing you feel comfortable enough to share with him. “Dancing is a bit overboard.”

“Oh, definitely.” You throw your head back to laugh, eyes half-shut and crinkled and reflecting the sun. Would you look the same if he was dancing to The Beatles, proclaiming all the words he hasn’t had the courage to say?

—

Next question is who your first love was—we’re rolling in three…

“First love?” You laughed a little, facing the camera to continue your Screen Test interview with W. The questions had been candid and lovely, but they were about your career, which you answered with familiar ease. First love is different—uncharted, private territory. But you’d realized all this too late, and the director called go, and you let words spill out of you like a bag popped open.

“I want to be funny and witty and say acting, but that would be a lie. Um, my first love was a childhood friend. We lived near each other, our parents were friends, and I… I really did, I liked him a lot. But these—there were so many factors at tension with each other, like me moving away in 2013—that’s, what, six years ago now? And us being young and not really knowing how to communicate. When you’re a teenager, you’re kind of just like, oh, no worries, um, that’ll sort itself out, and then you grow up and look back and realize, these things never do. But I miss him a, a, a… a lot, and I think of him always.” Your smile didn’t reach your eyes when you looked at the camera again. “We learn a lot from childhood loves.”

Cut. Lovely. Just lovely.

“Thank you, Lynn,” you said with a small smile. A pause as silence creeps up onto the room, and then, quieter: “Could we omit that? I—sorry. I could answer anything else. First kiss, or something? I’m sorry, I just. Sorry.” For the first time in five years, you realize, you’ve conjured his memory again.

—

“Okay. What else do you remember?”

“I… do you remember the recital song?”

“Of course I do! The dance is… that’s a different story.” You’d been at Charles’ hotel room earlier to go over some video shoot regulations for a 24 Hours With video you’re doing in a few days. You stayed because—that’s beyond you at this point, and you’d rather not delve into the rationality of it all. You’re content with thinking about how nice this conversation is, a trip down memory lane.

“The dance, mon dieu, the dance.” He smothers a hand over his face, smiles fondly. “You were at the center!”

“Stop. Stop,” you protest, letting laughter settle into quiet. “It’s crazy, you know? How we… like, we share a life. Not—but like, we had a whole childhood together.” 

“And nobody knows.” It’s not something you keep a secret on purpose—it’s just that neither of you feel like name-dropping the other. Some stories have surfaced, but none of you have fully commented. Somehow, that’s a good thing for you.

“Do people ask?”

“People ask, yes.” His accent is a reminder of your past—you’d once had the same thick wraparound, the loose reign over English you’ve now grown to master. Now your accent is a lot thinner, to the point where it’s barely perceptible, and if it is, your coworkers and fans call it cute, chic, use it as a jumping off point to ask where you grew up. But in this hotel room, legs folded underneath you and glass of wine in hand, you have no coworkers or fans, it feels like; no one to perceive you but Charles. Charles and his accent, nostalgic and so very his, which you wouldn’t describe as anything but home.

“What do you tell them, then?” Quickly, you add: “The truth, or…?”

“That we knew each other as kids,” he says, smiling absently. “That is the truth, no?”

You cover a smile with the rim of your wine glass, nodding. There’s no revisionist history in that statement, but it hides a lot of the truth, the nitty gritty of it. You know it, he knows it, you both know it. “What would you want me to say?” His voice is soft and thin and imploring, so different from the boisterous voice he uses in public, from the slurred voice you heard in the club. This sounds real. This sounds like a conversation you would’ve had years ago in your childhood bedroom before everything went—

“Nothing, that’s fine.” You cut your own reverie off, clearing your throat. You even laugh, to alleviate the tension, but he sees right through you so many years later. “Unless you’re privy to telling people how we didn’t talk for months before I left.”

He blinks, smothers a palm over his face again, and sighs, eyes meeting yours. “I’m sorry. I don’t—I… I’ve wanted to bring it up.”

“I’m not mad.” It’s a half-lie. “Okay, no—I am, a bit. It just—it would’ve been nice to hear it two weeks ago.”

“I know.” He doesn’t even need to say it, but him saying it sends a low thrum of reassurance in you. Charles has found, in the two weeks of being in your company, that he accomplishes a sense of self—a sense of quiet, a sense of privacy—when he’s alone with you. Perhaps it’s your natural ability to bring out the best in people, to talk and loosen tongues and make everyone around you feel safe. Or, and this is on a likely front, maybe he misses being one of those people. 

He pretends he’s back to last week after another club rendezvous left you tipsier than the first time, dropping you off at your hotel room with two hands taut at your shoulders, one pinching a keycard. You’d been muttering something under your breath, stumbling as you went—you weren’t tripping too much, really; he didn’t need to hold you, but he told himself he had to—and leaning against the doorframe of your room, staring at him blankly. When he met your eyes, you said: maybe, just maybe. Just those three words. If he tries to remember right, you’d been smiling, but he was sufficiently tipsy, too, so he could just as well be wrong.

He does remember a few things right. The eyeliner smudged across your lower eye, lipstick smacked to a point where it looked like you wore none, beads of salt by your lip, your hand wrapped around your necklace. 

The silence is anything but awkward; still, he resolves to break it. “When you were drunk last week.” He looks up. “You said—you kept saying, maybe, just maybe.”

A laugh escapes you, stilted and a bit nervous. “Oh. That was—yeah, okay.”

“What’s it mean?”

“You seriously don’t remember?” You’re laughing for real now, your hair bobbing with it, eyebrows furrowed to emphasize your confusion. “Oh, my God. Charles, it’s all you ever said in Year… what, 7? I don’t… anyway. But when we were maybe twelve, I…”

Momentarily, you’re stunned by the memories of him—you’d forgotten they were even there. You press a few fingers to your lips and clear your throat. “Sorry. Yeah, I, um—I think you heard it in a movie or read it somewhere, and for ages it was your favorite saying. Maybe, just maybe.”

“I don’t underst—”

“—You were always just saying it,” you cut in, laughing, your voices layering as you discuss the origin of his former favorite term. “No, you really—”

“I don’t—I do not ever remember say—”

“—Well,” you say,  “I remember.” He stays silent for a few seconds, the intensity of your stare and the little smile on your face and everything beating down on him. For a split second he thinks of opening his mouth and getting on his knees and telling you everything, all the apologies, all the things unsaid in the months and years you became strangers. He seriously does. The pressure is almost physical, beyond overwhelming.

“I have to go.” You swallow the lump in your throat, disentangle your legs and clamber off the couch, setting the empty glass on his coffee table. “Good?”

“Yeah,” he says, blinking. “Yeah. Take care. Should I drive you?”

“God, no.” You laugh breathily. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

He closes the door after you leave, stares at it, as if that will conjure you back to him. It occurs to him, jolts him almost, that he’d almost let slip a quiet utterance of love you as you slipped out. His stomach boils. With thankfulness over not having said it, he wonders—or with regret?

—

“Best friends now, are you?” Lily, Carmen, and Rachel look up to the sound of your voice, their serious faces breaking out into smiles. If you could chart the time you spent here, there are definitely people you’ve spent the most time with—these three are at the top of the list. You hang your coat and drop your Chanel bag on the entryway seat, already picking up on the British noises of Love Island UK from the telly.

“Wait, so she’s hooking up with him?” Lily asks, confused; her train of thought is cut off by your flopping onto the bed. “Hiiii. Where’ve you been?”

Muffled by the bedspread: Charles’ place.

Silence. The television switches off and you hear the precarious preparation of three girls readying themselves for a debrief-or-sobfest of a lifetime, a noise you’ve heard and partaken in countless times over your life. You suddenly feel too watched, too spectated; you break the quiet by looking up, displaying your tear-streaked face.

“Talk to us,” Rachel encourages, her voice raspy with unuse (Love Island will keep one occupied and quiet for hours on end). Three of them are touching you in some way or other, reassuring grips on your hair or shoulders. “Did you two fight?”

And, oh Christ, fight? It’s not like you’re dating. You aren’t even halfway to that (not that you want to be, but that’s a discussion for another time). The idea of a fight with him is so terribly juvenile, so horribly reminiscent of secondary school and Monaco and being together and being friends. You can’t fight with a guy who’s not your boyfriend. You can’t fight with a guy you’re not close to, for Chrissake. You squeeze your tears out of your eyes and breathe hiccups out.

“Do you want gelato?” No, no.

“Love Island?” In a minute.

The truth is, you want both, but you really just want to sort everything out with Charles. It was no use—hating each other was futile, but pretending everything was fine in some pathetic attempt at a “truce” seemed even worse. You just want to talk everything out, even if it excavates feelings you’d once been able to suppress.

“What kind of crush doesn’t disappear after ten years?” You ask through tears. It’s almost funny, but the question comes straight from the heart. “I’ve dated guys, lived across the world, started a whole new life pretending he never—pretending we were—fuck. Pretending he didn’t exist. It was—I’m not lying, it was easy, pretending. But one glimpse—I see him one time and suddenly it feels like all of it was in vain. It’s the same crush I had before, coming back, like it’s never going to leave me alone.”

“Maybe it’s not a crush,” says Lily, slowly.

“So what is it then?” You ask, hopelessly. What is this—this revival of memories? This little feeling, this sense that no matter where he is or what he’s doing, you’ll be just as in tune when you reunite even if it takes a decade? A decade spurred by months of being given the cold shoulder? What kind of magic is that?

She doesn’t answer, because you already know.

—

“Hey Vogue—I’m here with Charles Leclerc, and we’re here to take you along with us on all our little adventures here in Monaco.” Your smile is rehearsed, the perfectly-orchestrated blend of fun and serious, and when the cameraman calls cut, it falls into a more natural resting face. It’s the one Charles turns to and observes for any signs of a grudge.

The day is busy, which is precisely why it was chosen as the film day: three shows in the morning, press junkets for your movie and Charles’ season in the afternoon, and then a gala in the evening, hosted and attended by Anna Wintour herself.

The day’s business is only trumped by its tension, which reaches its crescendo in the janitor’s closet of the fourth floor of your hotel. It’d begun with a fight over the color palette, then a fight over last conversation you shared, then a fight over him fucking up the color palette, and then kissing against the door. Ironically enough, this floor houses a fair number of honeymoon suites.

It’s ironic beause hardly anything about this is or should be romantic—it’s a temporary fix, a pause from the turmoil, his hand squeezing your thigh. He’s gentle but you feel his possessiveness, lingering longer, higher and higher up until he’s playing with the high hem of your skirt. You knot your fingers in his hair, smell the shampoo and hairspray and cologne in the wispy curls there.

He kisses your jaw, then downward, until he’s licking, nipping at your throat. Charles.

“Yeah?” His voice is rough against your pulse point.

“Make it—we gotta—quicker.” Your hands tremble, heart hammering loud and bold in your chest. His voice is sure, gravelly, quiet, and you have to focus on something—so you centre on his hands, up your thighs and slipping under the lace of your skirt, bunching the fabric up around your hips. His hands, big and calloused, fingers resting on your hipbones, on your ass.

He’s hard against your thigh, straining against his jeans. You could cry. “I want more.”

“I know, baby. I know.” The pet name, so new but so natural, sends you into a dopamine rush.

You squirm when he doesn’t let up on his touches, over every inch of your body, groping you. He wants to take his time—he hates that he can’t—and counts on the possibility of a next time. You pull him in for a spit-slick kiss, needy and whimpering, sloppy and tongues knotted. It feels good—fuck, it feels like this was all you were ever made for, his touch. 

You buck your hips into the air desperately. “We really—fuck. We don’t have time.” Cameras, a shoot, a video; reminders ring in your head like alarm bells. He nods, goes I know, and you pick up the strain in his voice as he tugs his jeans down just enough to rub his clothed cock under your entrance, hard and drooling through the fabric.

You moan softly. “Please, I can take it,” you breathe. You’ve never been this wet, this worked up, this teased. You need to feel him, be full of him; he presses you flush against the door with a hand at the small of your back to keep it from aching too much, and drops forward as he pushes into you. Your noses brush and he goes deeper, air thick and muffled with little moans and whimpers.

His mouth is against your jaw, thrusting slowly to get you used to the size of him. The angle gets you dizzy, draws a burst of wetness out and gets you clenching around him. You’re flushed and sweaty, moaning. Feels s’good. So good, Charles, so, so good. He fucks harder, the door rattling, dirty talk cooed from his lips to your ear: Yeah? Feels real good? You’re so good for me, baby, come on.

Your needy voice, needier movements, are driving him crazy, getting him to fuck you harder, licking over his lips as he watches you fall apart on his dick. Relax, he slurs. You squeeze around him and moan, wretched and raw. Oh fuck, fuck, fuck. You’re so big. You’re getting his dick wetter and wetter with every thrust, shiny and drooling with cum.

Yeah? He says it so well, the best kind of reassurance. Come on, we don’t have time, baby. Let me feel you cum.

I know— you whine. I’m cumming—it feels too good—

You cum first, thighs shaky around him and lip curling into your teeth. You lean forward, mouth to his shoulder, and bite at the cotton. Fuck, he grunts, and releases then, a groan spilled into your hair. You watch, laughing breathlessly, and feel the world click into something different. 

You two will do anything, apparently, but talk this all through.

—

The gala is big and extravagant and you’re seated not with Charles this time, but with a roster of celebrities straight out of an LAX red-eye. Anna is at the table adjacent, andy you were able to talk to her about the experience, though not without leaving out bits with Charles in them.

You’re beside Florence and she’s talking about something, about a new movie she’s working on, and you chip in with jokes and laughs but your smile doesn’t really reach your eyes. You’re still caught in a web of fragile confusion. “I need to excuse myself for a moment,” you say after a while, after you’ve done nothing but smile and push broccoli puree around on your plate.

Consolation comes with isolation, at least tonight, at least right now. You find an empty balcony on the third floor, stare into the black sea. You try and try to remember what life was like three weeks ago, but it’s irrevocable now, the change that’s come since then. You tap the glass of your beer bottle against the marble banister, solid and probably expensive—a match for the rest of the hotel, you realize. It’s starkingly clean and smooth, and white, the kind of things you’d only say about a marble banister when you’re trying to avoid an adult introspection.

Behind you: “Are you okay?” 

In response, you say, “We shouldn’t have had sex.”

Charles settles himself into a spot near you, not totally beside but not too far—he, too, holds onto a bottle of beer. There are fancier drinks around, but somehow the dry taste of ale is all that brings you comfort right now. Your gears turn and, without prompt or question, you spill yourself forth.

“It was hard, when you didn’t… when we didn’t talk, and you didn’t ever tell me why, so I didn’t know anything. I keep remembering it, even now, what—ten years later, ha ha, even after… I don’t know, after the fact. We’re supposed to have moved on from shit that happened to us when we were fifteen but I’m finding it to be the hardest thing in the world. It was so… like, I had no trouble saying goodbye to anything else but you. And I’m famous now, my life is a whole thing, a—this whole party, and I’m supposed to… fuck.” You shut your eyes, and you can feel, through the thick fog of embarrassment and delirium, the tears that stain your cheeks. “It’s like. You know when you’re a teenager and you see all of it in movies and TV, this, like, moment where you’re staring at someone from across a room, and you’re smiling and talking to other people and you’re happy because you know in a few hours, you’ll be with that person anyway? At home, rearranging furniture, feeding the dog, eating leftovers? That… I always thought you’d be that person for me. Maybe because you were the only—you know—the only love I ever knew, and now, what. Four? Boyfriends and ten years later, you might expect me to feel differently—hell I expect myself to feel differently, but, unfortunately for you and me, I don’t. Sorry. I’m not—I’m not drunk, or anything.”

He stares at you, his expression soft and unreadable. It feels like it’s just the two of you in the world today, twenty-somethings, ten years later, unearthing all you left buried. “I…” he says, before pausing. “I’m sorry for leaving.”

You nod in response. 

“I always thought you would forgive me.” His face is sullen and handsome and your heart seizes. “I wanted to be your person.”

“How could I forgive you without an apology?” Your voice comes out fragile. “I leave in three days. You’ve fu—you’ve… you’ve kissed me, had sex with me, flirted with me. You’ve done everything but that.”

“I did apologize. I don’t think it was enough, but—”

“But you didn’t,” you reply, a jagged response. “You never said anything.”

“I wrote you.” His eyebrows knit. “I wrote you.” 

“You wrote me.” You repeat, deadpan. Your head spins with it. “What, a letter?”

“An e-mail. Before your first film came out—2014? A year after you… yeah.” He’s quiet and timid and nervous. “I forced Gi to tell me your address.”

“I didn’t… I wasn’t using that e-mail anymore. I haven’t in years.” You pinch your nose and let the silence settle like fine dust onto the room, an unspoken bomb that explodes over the both of you, raining regret and unsaid words. “I have to go.” You push yourself off the banister, turning already to the doors of the balcony. He stops you before you can step any further, a hand closed over your wrist, rough and warm.

“If you find the message,�� he says, “will you read it?”

“I don’t plan to,” you lie. “Goodnight.”

—

From: Charles Perceval Leclerc <cmhpleclerc@gmail.com>

Date: 14 October 2014

To: You

Subject: Urgent!

hey buttercup, I asked Giada for this email address. my bday in 2 days. Will you be home for Xmas this year btw? ill show you some new places that open ed + we can bike around. mum misses u a lot too. parfois je souhaite que tu ne partes pas… not sometimes but always. i think i need to edit this a little let me try ag

From: Charles Perceval Leclerc <cmhpleclerc@gmail.com>

Date: 14 October 2014

To: You

Subject: Buttercup

j’appellerais mais je ne pense pas que tu veuilles répondre. it’s been more than a year since you moved out, in two days i’ll be celebrating my second birthday w/o you. i’ve been karting a lot, things are looking up, just like we always said they would :) just want to say i miss you a lot, and i hope you’re doing good. i would say i hate radio silence but i know it’s my fault all this happened in the first place. i’m sorry i stopped talking to you last year when you were moving away. i was being childish, but the truth is it was the only way i could handle it - by pretending we werent friends at all… i don’t want to make you pity me or anything (ne pense pas que je suis) but yeah you’re my best friend and you always will be. i’m sorry for being a knot head.

i was always scared to tell you but it’s been there since forever: i love you. i should’ve enjoyed your months here instead of leaving you in the air. i know i ignored you but it’s the 1 thing i regret. should’ve done a lot more, i know.. but i didn’t. we have a lot of promises i broke because i was being selfish. i kept the paper ring to remind me. remember that? we had a “playground wedding” when we were 5/6?

tu ne me dois rien - i just want you to give me a chance to make you happy, even if it’s just in the way we’ve always been (as friends). if you write me back i’ll try and fly there. mum is always asking me if we’ve talked yet. if not, that’s ok. i love you all the same and i will love you as you reach your dreams. this will never change. 

charles

p.s: est-ce que je te manque?

p.p.s: call me if you can and wish me a happy birthday?

—

“Rachel, I would sooner die than wait another two hours for the tarmac to clear again.” You try to up the firmness in your voice but it fails, only serving to make you sound less angry and more agitated. When all you get in response is a muffled I’m coming! you grumble and hang up the phone. Your plane was delayed all of three times, and the instant it arrives and is scheduled to take off on time, your friendsistant is nowhere to be found.

Lily and Carmen had thrown you a goodbye party the night prior, with sprinklers and music and cocktails, and promised to be on the next flight to L.A. Vogue and David had emailed you for a job done spectacularly, and to watch out for the videos and interviews’ release dates. Twitter is raving about your movie. Everything should be good, and yet, it’s not.

You check your inbox. IM COMJNG LILTIERALLY IM RUNNING THRU AJRPPRT!!!!!! You scoff again, hoping the plane doesn’t somehow take off for the fourth time, and take a seat on the VIP waiting area sofa again, shaking your now-empty chai latte. The room, sectioned off from economy and business, is fairly full.

A woman paces over to you, a bright grin on her face. “Hi. I’m a huge fan.”

“Thank you,” you smile, despite your tiredness.

“This is so embarrassing—but do you happen to have the time?”

“Sure”—you tap your phone open—“half past four.”

“Great,” she says. “Thanks, Buttercup.”

You’re opening your mouth to say you’re welcome, but it catches like cotton in your throat. You watch her depart like nothing happened, a strange feeling settling in your chest. You have barely any time to answer it, because a flight attendant is tapping you on the shoulder, addressing you by name, thankfully. She maintains a tone of professionalism all throughout her announcement that the aircraft under your name will have to evacuate the runway in ten minutes or less.

“I know, I know—I’m just, um. I’m waiting for somebody. She should be near now, though.”

“Tremendous. Merci, Buttercup.”

“Wh—” You stutter, blinking and watching her leave. “What?”

She doesn’t turn, walking to the kiosk to exchange information with her coworkers. You look around the airport, for a camera hidden somewhere maybe. Perhaps you’ve been unknowingly listed in some Impractical Jokers skit.

Rach hurry you text instead, leaning back and hoping you’re in some grandiose delusion. Your phone dings. Omw promise! It reads. Then: Look up buttercup

Your head snaps upward faster than you can register what you’ve just read, matching the opening notes of a song you’ve grown all too familiar with in your lifetime. The opening beat to Build Me Up, Buttercup flows like honey through the room’s intercom and floods it with life.

Mouth agape, you watch as the staff and guests perform the routine you’d learned at fourteen, complete with hops and turns you were too embarrassed to do even then. They’re smiling and whooping themselves and each other as they go, finishing the entire first verse before turning collectively to the entrance of the room. There, in all his glory: Charles, wearing an entirely too-small headdress that reads Buttercup, worn dusty from years of being stored away.

He’s dancing, too, closer to you. You refuse to budge for the express purpose that he dance some more, which he complies with, though not without an eyeroll and an exasperated sigh. Your heart beats with something irregular and warm. You’d told him about this before. He’d listened.

The music settles for a little and the dancers do, too, so he takes the time to raise his sign. Will you forgive me? It reads. No pressure. Except kind of. You laugh, throwing your head back at the gesture, at this entire affair that must have taken some amount of effort to prepare. As the lyric comes on, so does his sign: I need you… more than anyone, darling.

He drops the sign when you approach him, arms crossed over your torso. He removed the headdress and places it gingerly on yours. “I believe that belongs to you.”

And, hyperaware of all the eyes and yet the complete lack of cameras—you’re grateful for it—you finally, finally, finally pull him in for a kiss. You’ve kissed before, done your worst, but still means volumes to the both of you.

In-between kisses and cheers (from voices belonging to Lorenzo, Rachel, Lily—so many familiar ones), he says it again: “I’m sorry. I’ll make it all up to you.”

“You better,” you tease into his lips, smiling. “I know. I love you.” Ten years later—your person still is, and no doubt will always be, Charles Leclerc.

[stvharrngton]

Alr I got one for u pookie

“That’s it, fuck, that’s a good girl/boy.” But it’s reader saying it to Steve 😏😏

ur wish is my command 🫡

pairing: steve harrington x fem!reader

word count: 1.3k

warnings: smut, 18+ minors dni, mutual masturbation, dom!reader, sub!steve

prompt: “that’s it, fuck, that’s a good boy”

taglist: @inkluvs @dukesmebby @sweetbabygirlsworld @kennedy-brooke @gvf23

requests are open!

Steve watched you through heavy eyes as you removed the thin, lacy black material that covered your heat. He was already naked, from head to toe, as he sat back against the headboard of your bed, propped up by plump pillows.

It was the only item of clothing you removed. The matching bra was still squeezing your tits together, the suspenders and stockings hugging your hips and legs so perfectly. 

Steve’s jaw was slack, his mouth dry and his heart beating outside of his chest as he watched you saunter to the end of the bed. He curled his fingers into the sheets either side of him as you crawled towards him, that devilish look in your eye. The one you always coined when you were in the mood to tease, or rather torture, him.

“What do you want, Stevie?” you asked, all sweetly. Twirling a strand of your hair around your finger, “Use your words, honey.”

His brain took a second to respond. Not that he didn’t know what he wanted, fuck, he wanted you in any which way you would give yourself to him but he was so entranced and captivated by your oozing confidence and sexiness that he didn’t know if he was coming or going.

“Y-you,” he stammered out, the tips of his ears going a deep shade of red, his stiff cock twitching with every move you made, “want you to touch yourself, want you to touch me.”

“Yeah?” you breathed out, inching closer to where his cock sat against his stomach, “Do you think you can watch me make myself cum, baby? Without touching yourself?”

“I—, fuck,” he groaned, the mere thought of it, the image of you playing with yourself when Steve isn’t able to do a damn thing about it turned him on, an insane amount at that.

“No?” you teased, your hand wandering south, skimming over your soft stomach, “I might let you cum if you can keep your hands to yourself, Stevie.”

He swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded frantically. Hairs flopping across his forehead as he did so. You smirked in response, leaning in to brush your lips over his ever so softly, whispering a ‘good boy’ into his mouth.

Steve didn’t know how he was going to last. His cock was already rock hard, his length leaking precum from the angry red tip. His balls were heavy and ready to be touched, his cock ready to be milked for everything he had. But he was determined, nonetheless. He wouldn’t want to disappoint you, after all.

You took your position at the end of the bed, your legs spread wide, revealing your pussy to Steve. He groaned loudly at the sight, your slick already coating your lips and arousal leaking from your hole. God, he wishes he could taste you right now.

“Hands on your thighs, baby. Where I can see ‘em.” You instructed and Steve did as he was told. Once satisfied you took your index finger and teased your pussy, collecting your juices and spreading it around your cunt, your middle finger joining soon after.

You let a teasing whimper slip as your fingers brushed over your clit and Steve grunted at the sound, his blunt fingernails digging into the meaty flesh of his thighs. You sped up the pace of your fingers, rubbing circles over the sensitive bud as you watched Steve carefully through your lashes.

“Fuck, Stevie,” you mewled, your bottom lip settling between your teeth as you continued to spread your wetness around your pussy, “feels so good, so hot,” you moaned, slipping a finger inside your hole, “but it’s nothing compared to your long, thick fingers.”

You knew it would rile him up. That it would make his task seem even more impossible now. He whined at your words, his hips canting up to try and catch some friction on his cock from the thin air, his cheeks rosy red.

You chuckled at him sympathetically, bringing the finger that had just been inside of you to your lips. You swirled your tongue around the digit, sucking all your juices from it. Steve was itching to touch himself, itching to touch you. He knew he couldn’t keep this up for much longer.

Bringing your fingers back to your pussy, you slipped two inside your cunt now. Doing your best to curl them and scissor them to stretch you out but more importantly, to give Steve one hell of a show.

Steve whined pathetically at the sight, essentially fucking his cock into nothing as he did. “Baby, please,” he groaned, “fuck—, I can’t, ‘m gonna fuckin’ explode.”

“What’s the matter, Stevie?” you cooed, your fingers never letting up as you continued to fuck yourself with them. You couldn’t help but notice how wet his eyes looked, the boy desperately trying to blink away the tears at the corner of his eyes.

“Please, I can’t—,” he stammered, fingers now pulling at his locks in frustration, “need to touch my cock, please baby, I can’t take much more. I’ll be good.”

You contemplated his request for a moment, debating whether he had ‘suffered’ enough. You loved to dominate Steve, to put him in his place. But you could be sympathetic too. 

“Go ahead, baby. Stroke that big cock for me.”

Steve wasted no time in lathering his hand in his spit and wrapped his fingers around his hard cock. He started off gentle, soft teasing strokes, like you would do. But the faster your fingers moved inside your pussy, the faster Steve fisted his cock.

He moaned loudly, a pretty little high pitched whine emanating from his soft pink lips. Your cheeks grew hot at the sound, the way Steve looked so fucked out, his hair wild and all over the place, his eyes glassy, it almost had you drooling.

“That’s it, Stevie. Feels good, huh baby?” You praised him, feeling the pressure in your lower stomach build as you rubbed over your clit harshly. And Steve wasn’t far behind.

You both knew it wouldn’t take much for the spurts of sticky white to shoot from his length, you’d been teasing him for too long and he was ready to see stars. 

“Gonna cum, Steve,” you moaned, “fuck, want you to watch me cum all over my fingers. 

Steve nodded frantically, his fingers squeezing at his cock as he worked himself to the edge. He was panting, his brow sweaty, beads of sweat working their way into the ringlets of his hair. He watched you with a slack jaw as you came. Your back arching as you tried your best not to squeeze your legs together. Your orgasm washed over you as you cried out Steve’s name.

“Oh, fu-uck,” Stevie whined. His eyes traveled down your body, his pupils blown at the sight of your pussy. Dripping wet and a white creamy ring forming at your hole. As you came down from your high, you made quick work of getting Steve to his.

Plunging your fingers into your spent cunt, you collected your juices as you took your place on Steve’s meaty thigh. He was in awe of you, as he most often was, warm brown eyes blinking up at you as he continued to fist his cock.

“Open wide, honey.” You whispered, breathing softly down his neck. You brought your wet fingers to his pretty pink lips, “Want you to suck on my fingers when you cum.”

Steve’s eyes rolled back as his tongue swirled around your digits, feeling the pressure become too much, he squeezed at his cock as ropes of hot cum shot out from the tip, trickling over his hand and stomach.

“That’s it, fuck, that’s a good boy,” you mewled, stroking at his firm chest with your free hand, “I’ve got you, baby, doing so well for me.” The boys eyes scrunched together as he whined around your fingers, his hips rocking up and fucking his cock into his fist.

You removed your fingers from Steve’s mouth, his eyes still closed as he laid back, spent, against the plump pillows. You pressed soft kisses all over his flush face, “Such a good boy.” you cooed.

[mannaima]

Heard you wanted some dark requests for Joel? I have one!

How about Joel with a reader half his age. She’s an orphan growing up in the QZ. A sunshine type that’s always smiling and bright. She ends up striking a friendship with Joel but misses all the signs that he’s becoming infatuated with her because she’s naive. She doesn’t realize that people are terrified to get close to her because Joel’s made it clear he’s staked a claim on her.

One day she tells Joel she’s been asked out on a date. She’s nervous because she’s never gone out with someone and has no idea what to do. It’s not like the schools in the QZ are any good based off or what Ellie’s said. So she goes to her friend to ask him advice about sex. She misses how insanely jealous he’s becoming and how possessive he gets. Eventually he decides to show her, instead of telling her, what sex is like.

The next day she hears that the guy that asked her out is dead. Apparently Joel shot him while on a job as a guard because he showed signs of infection (how convenient). She’s heartbroken over losing him and doesn’t see how satisfied Joel looks. She has no idea he’s obsessed with her and will do whatever it takes to keep her.

Lesson

Summary: You look for advice from a friend, but he uses that to his advantage.

Warnings: NSFW (18+), smut, dub-con(ish), age gap (reader is 20 and joel is 56), joel being possessive, murder (at the end)

Word count: 5K

Summary: I like this! For reference, Ellie will be the same age as the reader, which is 20! Also, this is in a universe where ellie and Joel are in the QZ at an older age (yeah totally not canon but neither is any of this) Btw I didn’t proofread this at alllll so if u see any mistakes ignore it pls.

You had a good day so far, Ellie had invited you out drinking, which you happily accepted! Joel and Ellie had become really good friends, and you always looked forward to seeing them in your life. You had a simple life, go to work, come home, talk with your friends, and go to sleep. You enjoyed the laid back life, which was well deserved after the hell you spent a majority of your life. Though daily life wasn’t easy, it was much better than what you imagined you could’ve been if you had just made one wrong move fighting an infected. 

Sadly, it wasn’t very easy to make friends, a lot of people usually stayed away from you. You didn’t understand why, but you at least had Ellie and Joel to be in your life! 

“Ellie! Shush!” You both were laughing, you smacking Ellie’s shoulder as she said a dirty joke. 

“C’mon! You can't tell me that wasn’t funny!” She knew you too well, Ellie knew just how to make you embarrassed yet shift into a fit of laughter. You took a swig of your drink.

“Well, that might be true… But you can’t say that out loud! God forbid someone heard us talking about that…” You giggled under your breath.

“Talking about what? Say it or I will!” Ellie spoke a little louder.

“Please don’t.” You said, laughing with red cheeks.

“DIC-” You covered her mouth and both laughed to your heart's content. Although you loved Ellie, you admit she could be a little vulgar.

“Ellieee!” You whined “Shushhhh.” She laughed, and you uncovered her mouth.

“What do you know about that anyways, huh?” You mocked her, and she stuck her tongue out at you.

“You’re right, I should be screaming about pussy shouldn’t I?” You both shared a laugh, and she rested her hand on your shoulder,sharing a look. You both took a swig of your drinks.

“Hey Y/N!” Confused, you turned around, only to see a familiar face.

“Oh, hi Xavier!” A big smile grew on his face. Xavier was a friend you had met from work, both bonding over a familiar love for dogs initially, until you both started to talk more frequently at work. He walked over to you and Ellie, his hands nervously rubbing his arm.

“This is my friend, Ellie.” Ellie gave him a wave, and he gave her a smile and wave, his whole demeanor seeming a bit more nervous than usual, very shaky.

“So, um, Y/N…” You smiled, and nodded, letting him continue. “I was wondering, um, If we.. No… I-If I… Fuck…” He stopped and closed his eyes, letting out a deep breath. “I was wondering if you wanted to hang out tomorrow. Like… A date.” Your eyes widened at this, breath hitching. You had never been on a date before, you don’t even think you’ve held a guy's hand before! You looked at Ellie nervously, who had a huge grin on her face, nodding vigorously. You looked back at Xavier, who had a terrified look on his face, before you nodded your head yes.

“O-Of course! That sounds awesome!” Xaviers look of fear was replaced with a huge toothy grin, and nodded.

“Alright, awesome! I’ll pick you up tomorrow night! S-See you!” He promptly turned around, and walked through the other people in the common area. Ellie grabbed your cheek and turned you to face her.

“Y/N!! You just got asked on your very. First. Date!!!!” You both squealed like preteen girls at a sleepover, you couldn’t believe it! 

“Oh my god! This is so crazy. What do I wear. What should I do? What if he wants to kiss? What if he wants to…” Your eyes widened to look at Ellie. She laughed and raised her eyebrow.

“What?”

“Ellie… What if he wants to… Have sex…” You whispered the last part, and she laughed and slapped her knee.

“Ellie this is serious!”

“Why are you nervous? You know how that stuff works, right?” She gave you a laugh, before realizing you weren’t laughing. 

“Y/N… You aren’t serious, are you?”

“The schools at the QZ sucked, okay! They didn’t want us procreating!”

“Okay but… You seriously don’t know how sex works? You’re twenty years old dude!” You shushed her, trying to quiet her before others could turn their heads to see what you two were going on about. 

“It’s not my fault! I just never…Took much thought about it…” You put your head down in embarrassment.

“Hey, hey, Y/N. I’m just teasing. Sorry, I took it too far. But it's not all bad. I could teach you- No wait. I can ask Joel!”

“Joel?” You were confused, Ellie knew just as much as him, why did you need Joel to explain it.

“Joel’s actually got experience with… Y’know. Guy on girl action. So it would make more sense if he taught you, plus, he gave me the birds and bees talk!” You cringed at the thought. That talk was supposed to be given to kids who barely hit puberty, not twenty year olds. You nodded, and twiddled your fingers to try and ease your nerves.

“C’mon, it’s getting late. I’ll drop you off and Joel’s so it won't be as awkward with me there. Cause I’ll probably laugh every time Joel says penis.” You both giggled and walked to Joel’s apartment, the alcohol in your system making you a little less nervous about having ‘the talk’ with Joel.

“Alright Y/N, I’ll see you tomorrow, Good luck!” Ellie hugged you tightly, and did the same. You had barely realized you were already in front of Joel’s apartment. Taking a deep breath, you gave the door a few knocks before stepping back slightly. Hopefully he answered.

After a few seconds of silence, a few clicks were heard before the door opened, revealing a straight faced Joel.

“Hi Joel!” You said, maybe a bit too cheery, before giving him a little wave.

“Hey sweetie. What do you need?” He gave you a small smirk, body leaning out the door frame.

“I- Um. Can I come in?” Joel nodded, and moved to the side, allowing you to walk in. You felt a little nervous to ask him, nervous that he was gonna view you differently.

“What’s on your mind, sweetheart?” You looked up at him, his familiar face making you feel more comfortable, he was just a friend. A friend who could help you.

“So… Basically. Uhm…” You fidgeted around. “A guy… Xavier, asked me out.” You didn’t see the anger in his eyes when you said that. “And I’m super excited! But I’ve never been on a date with someone before. And I’ve never kissed a guy or held his hand or done anything romantic before.” You stopped your ramblings. “I was just wondering if. You could have the…. ‘The talk’ with me…”

“The talk?” Joel raised his eyebrow at you.

“Yeah! You know. Like the birds and the bees?” You nervously giggled, Joel’s expression worrying you. He just stared at you, and you couldn’t read his emotions. It was until he had a small, very awkward, smile on his face.

“Oh, alright. I guess I could tell you.” He walked over to his bed and pat the seat next to him. A wave of relief washed over you as you took the seat next to him, bouncing on the mattress. You looked up at Joel, his eyes staring into yours.

“Alright. So, basically, when two people love each other, they may feel… Hot. Warm. This is called arousal, but most people call it being horny.” You nodded. Taking a mental note of the word.

“And the man’s penis, his private part, gets hard.”

“I know what a penis is, Joel.” You giggled, and he put his hands up in defense.

“Just making sure! Anyways, the man gets hard. And the woman, well, she gets wet.”

“Wet? Like how?” Joel kind of stared at your legs for a little, seeming to debate in his head about a few things. He took a deep sigh and looked at you once more.

“How about I show you?” You gulped, what did he mean by show you?

“What? D-Do you mean like… Do it with me?”

“Yes. It’s better to show you. Plus, I doubt a guy like Xavier would know what he’s doing.” You nodded at this, realizing he was right, it would be better to know what you were doing than embarrass yourself.

“O-Ok. Show me, please?” You sounded so cute to Joel. He couldn’t get enough of you.

Joel had done so much to prevent any man from getting close to you, hell, even women too. You didn’t see the way he held a chiv up to people's necks just by mentioning your name, or how he shot a guy in the leg for waving at you, only letting him live to tell others to stay away from you, or else the next bullet would be in their heads. He didn’t want you corrupted by disgusting people of the world, he wanted to wait for the right opportunity to make you his, and it seemed Mister Xavier had given him the perfect opportunity.

“Alright. First lesson is gonna be on kissing. Get closer.” He commanded you, which made you slightly more nervous than it should’ve. You nodded, and obeyed, getting to the point that both your legs were touching.

“Alright, close your eyes. And purse your lips, not too much, just a little.” You did exactly as he said, and a few seconds later, you felt warm lips against your own. You felt the hairiness of his mustache and beard, tickling your features. He made a small ‘smooch’ sound before pulling away.

“See. It’s easy. You just had your first kiss.” You opened your eyes and saw Joel just a few inches away from your face. You giggled, and smiled with glee. You just had your first kiss! You kissed a man! Joel smiled back at you before rubbing your cheek and pulling your lip down, before letting it flip back up.

“Alright, lesson number two. Making out. Open your mouth for me darling, just slightly.” Your big eyes bore into his before doing exactly that. He suddenly slammed his lips against yours, his tongue slipping in your mouth. You let out a muffled noise before realizing he was playing with your tongue with his own. You kept staring at him before realizing his eyes were closed, so you followed in his steps. You both twirled your tongues against one another, your steps just being to follow him as closely as you could. His hands suddenly gripped your cheeks, cupping them in his hands, effectively pushing you closer to his lips. He seemed hungry, his mouth pushing against yours with such passion, his breathing getting heavy. You were very unsure of what to do, but it seemed he enjoyed what you were doing, so you felt okay. He kept pressing his tongue against yours, salvia dripping down your chin with how sloppy he was becoming. After a few minutes of making out, he pulled back, your tongue popping out your mouth as he pulled back.

“Fucking hell…” You heard him mutter under his breath, unsure if it was positive or not.

“Was that good, Joel?” You tilted your head at him, staring into his brown eyes.

“Oh.. Uh…” Joel had forgotten this was supposed to be a lesson for you. “Yes, you did amazing sweetie.” You gave him a large grin, so glad you did your best for him. Joel’s mind, however, was running a million miles an hour. His cock was so incredibly hard, throbbing almost, he had to contain himself from pinning you down and fucking your brains out. His hand was rubbing against his temple, trying to calm himself and collect his thoughts. Alright, he needed to focus on taking it slow for you. Stay focused.

“Okay. Next lesson is gonna be exploring your body. Let's take this off.” His large hands pressed up against your body, lifting up the hem of your shirt. You put your hands up, allowing him to slip the shirt off your body. He stared at your chest covered with a black bra, so simple, yet so arousing. He cursed under his breath again before gulping and softly rubbing your breast. 

“Get on my lap, sweetie.” You nodded and climbed over him, but he stopped you.

“Back to me, sweetheart.” His deep voice made you quiver a little, but you shouldn’t feel like that, Joel was your friend trying to help you out. You settled into his lap, feeling a hardness press against your ass. You shifted around, trying to find a comfortable position, unknowingly making Joel feel jolts of pleasure run through his body. The way your beautiful ass rubbed against him, god, he could cum in his jeans right now.

“I’m gonna touch you, is that alright?” You nodded, finally settling into a nice position on his lap.

His hands grabbed your breasts through your bra, large hands covering a good portion of it. You felt a flutter run through your body, Joel’s hands surprisingly warm. He kept squeezing and squeezing, making you feel a mixture of embarrassment at his possible thoughts, and a slightly tingly feeling in your lower regions.

His hands pulled the inner corner of your bra outwards, exposing your nipples. They hardened at the cold air, and Joel let the bra flip back, covering them once more. Joel’s hands snaked around your back and undid the bra with a ‘click.’ He guided the bra off your body and began to grope at you once more, this time with more passion, as he felt pure skin to skin contact. You whimpered, getting a weird feeling in your pussy at the way his fingers grazed your nipples. “Joel…” It was a quiet moan, barely a whisper, but Joel sure heard it. It rang in his ears, almost. His cock twitched at the noise, he was already addicted.

“You like it?” His voice was hushed, whispered into your ear. You nodded and bit your lip, a small and breathy “mhmm” leaving your lips. Joel's hands continued the groping movements, massaging your breasts almost, wanting to stay gentle for you. How badly he wanted to pinch your nipples and slap your tits as he fucked you while you hung off the bed, but this will do for now. He continued for a long time, before one of his hands snaked down your body, towards your stomach, down to your belly button and finally to where your jeans started. With one (skilled) hand, he unbuttoned them and slowly pushed his hand down your panties. Fuck. He’s supposed to be teaching you.

“I’m gonna touch your pussy now. It’s gonna feel good sweetie, have you ever played with yourself down here?” 

“N-no…” God, somehow, Joel got even harder hearing that. His heartbeat went up, he loved the fact you were so naive to it all, you definitely needed a man like him to teach you. It would be a waste for a bitch-boy like Xavier to take your pureness, no, you needed a real man to fuck you until you cried. 

Joel hand traced your skin, until he felt your clit. With a smirk on his face, that he was glad you couldn’t see, he began to rub your clit, which made you jump initially. But almost seconds later, you felt incredible pleasure as Joel rubbed circles into your bud.

“Hahhhh. Feels g-good Joel.” He hummed in response, feeling at peace with one hand groping your breast and one hand rubbing your clit. He wanted to wait until you were wet enough before fingering you, you did need a lot of prep for his fat cock. Your moans of pleasure were music to his ears, he loved the way you sounded. You felt him lift you up off his body, and slide out the way so you could sit back on the bed again.

“Let me take these off for you, baby.” Joel kissed your forehead before beginning to remove your pants. Your mind began to race, Joel always used nicknames like ‘sweetie’ or ‘sweetheart’ with you, but never baby. You had wondered if Joel ever saw you more as a friend, you saw him sorta like a mentor, someone to guide you, while also being one of your best friends, but the fact he called you baby made you second guess yourself. I mean, he was helping you prepare for your date tomorrow, so it couldn’t mean he was into you! Right?

“Your legs are so pretty, baby.” His rough hands rubbed your legs as softly as he could, feeling the warm flesh under his. You looked gorgeous like this, spread on his bread, practically naked. Only thing protecting your body from him was the small cloth covering your pussy, and he was seconds away from ripping it off your body. He wasted no time pulling them down, you aided him by lifting up your lower half for a few seconds to pull them off, and moving your legs to push them off completely. There you were, the love of his life, his everything, ready to be eaten like a beautiful apple off the tree. He waited so long for this, pumping his cock to the thought of doing every possible sexual thing to you every night. He dreamt of the way your body looked, and none of his dreams compared to the real thing, you were perfect in his eyes, and he wanted to make you his. 

Joel swiftly took off his shirt, revealing his chest to you, making you stare at him. He had smiled, softly, at you, allowing you to feel less nervous. It was only now you took a good look at his jeans, and there you saw it. The outline of his hard cock, it was a fucking giant! It was long and curved in his jeans, the thickness of it making you gulp. You had tried to say something, but Joel’s face was suddenly shoved in between your legs, and began to lick at your slit.

“Joel!” You moaned out, much louder than you anticipated, squirming around as he licked your pussy. You felt amazing, the mixture between his tongue flicking across your clit, to the way the tip of his fingers prodded your hole, it was pure ecstasy. You kept moaning as he continued to inflict the pleasure upon you, gripping the sheets of his bed as his face buried itself even deeper between your thighs.

“Feels so good… So good.” You moaned out, very drawn out, a weird feeling starting in your lower stomach. You only felt it for a short amount of time before Joel pulled away, a string of saliva connecting him and your pussy.

“You’re so fucking cute baby, let me feel you.” His fingers that went from simply prodding your hole began to push inside you, making you moan out at the way his two thick fingers pressed against your walls. You had covered your face with your hands, whining underneath your fingers at the way his fingers filled you. He couldn’t get enough of the way you reacted.

“Look at what you do to me…” His voice deepened, and you uncovered your face to see him rubbing against his cock. You gasped a little, his hands were so large but they seemed so small compared to his cock, the length and thickness making you curious.

“Is it hard?” You questioned, and his fingers pulled out of you, a small whimper leaving your lips.

“So hard. Wanna see?” You nodded slowly, curious to what it looked like. He unbuttoned his pants, revealing the top part of his boxers, and he slowly pulled them down. You sat up, eye level, and stared closely at it. Suddenly, his cock bounced up, hitting you on the nose with it, making you jump back and Joel lightly laughing.

“Touch it.” You let out your hand a little, touching the pink tip, making it twitch.

“Like this.” Joel grabbed your hand and guided it to wrap around his cock, a tight fist motion. You couldn’t wrap your hands around it all the way, however, which made Joel’s cock twitch once more.

“Good girl. Now move it up and down.” You nodded, looking up at him, and began to make the motion. He groaned, and you watched intensely as his foreskin pulled back to reveal the head of his cock, then went back to hide it once more. You continued this motion, Joel’s groans of satisfaction pushing you to continue further. Your head was then pushed forward, making your lips collide with the head of his cock.

“Yeah that’s right, lick it baby, put it in your mouth.” He kept roughly pushing your head, you forced your mouth open and gagged as Joel shoved your head into his cock. His hand, now pulling your hair, began to use you like a fuck doll while he shoved your head back and forth on his cock. It was rough, and his cock became slobbery with the amount of saliva you were producing from the gagging. He continued this, despite your whines and taps on his thigh, too enamored by the feeling of your warm mouth.

“Fuck baby. This is how you suck cock, you’re doing so well for a virgin.” His tone was sickly sweet, voice groaning in between words. Tears began forming in your eyes before he pulled your head back, letting you properly breathe. You took many deep breaths, coughing in the process as well, before Joel pet your head.

“Sorry, baby. I got a bit ahead of myself, didn’t I?” He let out a chuckle, and you nodded, feeling air come back into your lungs, and he bent down to kiss your puffy and drooling lips.

“I’m sorry baby, you’re just too cute to resist. Especially when you’re all ready for me like this. My gorgeous baby, all mine.” You felt your heart race at his words, all his? You didn’t understand, this was supposed to be a sex-ed lesson, but why was Joel acting like-

“Spread your legs baby.” Joel laid you back on the bed, and you hesitantly spread your legs, still unsure what were Joel’s intentions. He settled himself between your legs, lifting them to wrap them around his lower half. He tapped his cock on your navel a few times, making you twitch at the sensation.

“This might hurt, baby.” He began to push his cock between your lower lips, making you gasp at the sensation. Despite the lubrication you produced, it still hurt as he was pushing.

“Joel!” You groaned out, making him stop as he was halfway.

“Does it hurt, sweetheart?” You nodded, and Joel rubbed your thigh, a form of reassurance to help you with the pain. You both stared at each other, your chest moving up and down while you heavily breathed. Joel’s eyes bore deep into yours, admiring your beautiful flushed face, he thought you were the most beautiful girl in the world. He gulped, and continued to push into you as the moments passed. You winced in pain, and he shushed you in a sweet way, letting you whine as whispered small reassurances. Once his cock filled you, Joel looked back up at you, his body pinned over yours.

“How do you feel, baby?” You bit your lip.

“So… Full.” He smiled, grabbing your hand to kiss it.

“You look so pretty like this, no other girl can compare.” You internally winced at his words. You had a feeling this wasn’t a lesson anymore.

“T-Thank you Joel…” His lips planted against your own, and his hand squeezed yours while he drew his hips back. Slowly, he thrusted into you, you squeezed his hand and moaned into his mouth. He continued these movements, hips drawing back and forth at an agonizingly slow pace, he wanted so badly to hold your hips and fuck you until you came, but he held back the urge as he wanted to make you feel good, not only him.

“Fuck baby, you’re s-squeezing me.” His tone was low and shaky. You moaned at his movements, pain long gone as you wanted more.

“Feels good Joel. I like your d-dick.” This drove him over the edge, opting to speed up despite his brain telling him not to. Thankfully, you responded positively by letting out a loud moan and squeezing your eyes shut. His lips began to suck at your neck, thrusting into you at a fast pace now. You were overwhelmed, the feeling in your stomach coming back while he messily sucked at your neck. You gripped the sheets with one hand, and squeezed Joel’s hand at the same time, your throat not being able to form the right words.

“J-Joel. Feels funny…” 

“That means you’re gonna cum baby. Just let it happen baby, I’m gonna cum too.” Joel wanted to last long, he wanted to feel you squeeze his cock for hours, but he was too sensitive from the way your mouth felt earlier. You began to clamp down on his cock, releasing a high-pitched moan as you spasmed around his cock, his body not being able to take it anymore. With one last thrust, he came inside you, cock twitching as your pussy convulsed around him. You both held each other as your orgasms hit its peak, and Joel messily kissed your lips. You and Joel rode out your orgasms before he pulled his cock out, a mess from his cum and your wetness. He sighed and fell on the bed, next to you and took a minute to catch his breath, he was still an old man after all.

“So… That was sex?” You still were taking deep breaths, but Joel’s ‘lesson’ became a bit unclear towards the end.

“Yep.” He was tired, clearly, and he moved your position to be the little spoon, Joel’s arm wrapping around you. Your feeble mind, despite being very innocent, had assumed that Joel’s lesson wasn’t of pure intent, not by the way he was holding you like a lover would. You were slightly uncomfortable, one part telling you it was wrong to be with a man this old, the other liked the way Joel treated you. The issue was you only saw Joel as a friend, you had never seen him as anything more, but you were sure that now he saw you as something deeper.

“I think… I have to go h-” Joel shushed you, and pulled you closer against his warm chest.

“Go to sleep.” You wanted badly to resist, but your body and mind were far too tired to fight against you. You nodded, and cuddled into his hand and began to drift off.

–

The morning after wasn’t too bad, you woke up to see Joel was gone, and your clothes folded in a neat pile in the corner of the bed, a note on top of it.

‘Had work. See you later.’

You sighed, thanking the heavens you didn’t have to deal with the awkwardness. Maybe Joel did see you as a friend after all. You got dressed and quickly head to work, trying to avoid being seen leaving Joel’s apartment. You rushed over to job assignment, not before seeing a huge crowd of people. Curiously, you walked over to see what all the commotion was about, looking around at all the people. You saw a familiar face, Ellie, and pushed through the crowds of people to ask her.

“What happened?” Her face was of displeasure, and she hesitantly told you.

“Some guy got shot dead, bullet to the head. They don’t know who did it, they said he was showing signs of infection, but there’s no bite marks anywhere.”

“Who?” Ellie stayed quiet for a second, before sighing and telling you.

“Xavier.” Your mouth gaped open, tears forming in your eyes as you swallowed a sob, you didn’t want to believe it. You moved away from the crowd, right before FEDRA officers began to tell people to move away from the crime scene. Ellie was right by your side, rubbing your back, assuring you that it was okay.

Joel watched from a distance, a smirk on his face, knowing you only belonged to him. You were his, and now, he was yours as well. You just need a little more time to understand that.

.

taglist: @avengersfan25 @sloanexx​ @flowercrowns-goodvibes​ @aerangi​ @st4rb0y27 !! inbox me to join/remove from the taglist!!!

[minustwofingers]

exoplanet p.3

pairing: ellie williams x fem! reader (ur a girly girl in this one!!) (she/her pronouns)

summary: you’ve won the life lottery as one of the few people on earth with parents who gained admittance to the most prestigous safezone in the world after the outbreak. but after a lab accident sends you out to jackson, wyoming, real life hits you fast. it’s a good thing that a hot lesbian finds u. (lol). mean ellie at first, slowburn, enemies to friends to lovers, fem reader asf

warnings: (PLEASE READ!) explicit language, violence, description of a medical procedure sans anesthesia, recreational drug use (idk how else to put it ellie gets absolutely zonked in the beginning), reader overthinks asf and is a little neurotic but that's why we love her x

a/n: hey guys! thank you so much for the wait! it's been genuinely insane how sweet and incredible all of you are. i've never felt so appreciated for my writing!! also, some notes: this chapter is heavily inspired by my last relationship. sorry if it's not as immersive bc of it! and also i don't have ANY medical knowledge so...cast a blind eye when u get to that scene

part 1

part 2

tags: @prettyplant0 @666findgod​ @sawaagyapong​ @rystarkov​ @buzzybuzzsposts @addisonnie @galacticstxrdust @parkersmyth @pinkazelma

wc: 6.6k

enjoy x

“One more time.”

You gave Ellie a withering look from where you were sitting at the end of her bed.

“Please,” she said, drawing out the s. “Just once more. I promise.” 

“Fine.” You rolled your eyes—a habit of hers that you were quickly picking up—and took in a deep breath. “Fuck.” 

Ellie lost it, peals of laughter bouncing off the walls. “Another one. Say something else.”

“I don’t understand why you think this is so funny,” you said.

“You say it so weird.”

“I enunciate,” you clarified. “I don’t ‘sound weird’. It’s called pronouncing every letter in the word and not having a lazy mouth.” 

“Please,” she gasped. “At least say bitch. You haven’t said that one yet.”

You looked her dead in the eye. “Bitch.”

If you weren’t already certain that Ellie was high out of her mind by the smell of her room and the general haze in the air, the way she howled with laughter and fell back on her bed would’ve made you entirely positive.

This was new. You’d begun to hang out with her in her room after dinner—that was normal—but when she’d knocked on your door smelling heavily of weed once you’d said goodnight to Joel, you were nothing less than shocked. Of course, she had none left for you. Which was probably good, because only a sober mind could navigate a night sitting on Ellie’s bed without doing something really, really stupid. 

“I can’t believe you call me weird,” you said, tucking your feet under her and giving her a pointed look. 

“You’re so lucky you didn’t grow up where I did,” Ellie said, wiping a tear away from her cheek as she tried (unsuccessfully) to rein in her giggles. “You would’ve been eaten alive, good lord.”

“What were you like as a kid?” you asked, resting your chin on your knees. 

She considered for a moment, growing more somber. “Um…I don’t know if you would’ve liked me very much.”

“What do you mean? Of course I would’ve liked you.” 

“No,” she said, swiping at her face so she pushed a strand of hair away. “I don’t think you would have.”

“Why not?”

“I was…” She paused, picking at her cuticles. “Back then I didn’t have anyone. I was an orphan, you know. My parents were never in the picture, so I was the only one I could count on.  I was really rough around the edges and could be nasty. But I probably would’ve ignored you like I did everyone else. “

“Everyone? You didn’t have anyone? No friends at all?”

Ellie blinked, and her gaze remained fixed on her hands. “Basically, yeah. I mean, there was one girl, but that’s…I don’t want to talk about that right now, actually.” 

“That’s okay,” you said, reaching forward to touch her knee. She flinched at the contact but didn’t brush you away. The image of a young, scared Ellie living somewhere alone made your chest ache. “You don’t have to tell me.” 

“What were you like?” she asked, tilting her head and meeting your eyes. 

“Hmmm…” Mirth crept into your tone. “What do you think?”

“What do I think?” Ellie echoed, her eyes cloudy as she thought. Then a small smirk formed on her face. “Oh god, were you one of those spoiled brats? Were you a mean girl?” 

“God, no,” you said, raising your eyebrows. “Not mean.”

“Then what?”

You paused. “I was really shy, I guess. And quiet, too. I didn’t do much but read for a good 10 years of my life. I used to have awful pronunciation because I would spend more time reading than talking to anyone. But I think I would’ve liked you.”

Ellie shook her head.

“Yes,” you said. “Maybe I would’ve been a little scared of you. I probably would’ve never had the courage to talk to you. But I would’ve liked you, I think.”

“Scared of me?”

“Yeah.”

“Why? I was a kid.”

“I was mostly going off of how I felt when I actually first met you,” you said, shrugging. 

She gasped theatrically. “You’re scared of me?”

“No!” you said, smacking her knee. “That’s not what I mean. You’re just really intimidating.”

“Intimidating?” She looked at you incredulously. 

“You’re so tough,” you explained, feeling heat grow in your cheeks. “You seem just—I don’t know, just so capable. There’s nothing you’re too afraid to face, nothing you’re too afraid to say.”

“That’s not true,” she said lightly. 

“Well, of course I’m sure there are things that you’re afraid of,” you amended. “But you hide it so well. You just seem so…fearless.”

“Hm,” Ellie said, letting her head rest against the headboard. “I think you would’ve made me a nervous wreck. If we’d met when we were kids, I mean.”

“Why?”

She shrugged. “I’ve never met anyone quite like you before. You’re just so untouched.” She winced. “God, no. That sounds gross. I just mean…I dunno. I wouldn’t have known how to act around you. You haven’t had to harden up like everyone else I know.”

“Are you saying I should develop trust issues or something?” you asked, your voice a teasing lilt.

“You know,” she said, nodding seriously, “That is part of it. It was really off-putting how quickly you trusted me. But I guess that’s just a product of where you grew up.” 

“Yeah,” you said softly. “I wonder how I would’ve turned out if I’d grown up like you.”

“Can I be honest?” Ellie asked. 

“Sure.”

“I don’t think you’d still be here if you were me,” she said, her eyes crinkling. “No offense. You just have zero survival skills. I swear that shit has to be genetic. I’ve never met someone more averse to violence in my life.”

You sighed, pressed your hands deep into Ellie’s comforter as a thought hit you. “I think if you’d been born in my position, you would’ve been greater than anything either of us could ever dream of. Much greater than me.”

“Definitely not,” said Ellie. “There’s no fucking way I’m studying the way you apparently do. I honestly think I’d take being an orphan over the study schedule I saw in your bag.” 

She was of course referencing the time table you’d roughly sketched up the morning before you’d ended up in Jackson. It was blocked to the minute, citing the study content and the location of said study session. She’d been beyond horrified to see it. 

You laughed, nudging her socked food with yours. 

“Is there music? In Terranova?”

“Oh,” you said, startled at the abrupt change of subject. “Uh, yeah. Of course. I listened to it all the time.” 

“I used to have a Walkman,” she said, leaning back as she reminisced. She was lying flat on her back now. “It ended up breaking a while ago, but it was like my child.” 

“Have you ever seen a movie before?” you asked, sitting up rigid straight as the thought occurred to you.

“Duh,” she said, giving you a weird look. “Do you think I live under a rock?”

“How many?”

“Hm.” Ellie began counting, ending on her second hand. “I think 6?”

“You’ve seen a total of 6 movies in your life?” 

“Yeah.”

“Do you want to see more?”

She shrugged. “I mean, I guess. It’s just tough to find CDs that are still functional after so long.”

“Hold that thought,” you said, holding a finger in her direction as you stood up.

“Hey!” she called as you bolted out the door. “Where are you going?”

You came bounding back to her room in a matter of seconds, your laptop in your hands. 

“What the fuck?” she said. “Isn’t that your homework thing?”

“Yes,” you said, feeling around for an outlet, “But I also have a ridiculous amount of movies downloaded on this. Our dorm wi-fi is shit and I have way too much storage on this thing, so I just download, like, every movie I’ve ever wanted to watch.”

“Your dorm what?”

You waved your hand. The last thing you wanted to do was explain to her how the 802.11 standard allowed wireless connections a few years after the outbreak. “Not important. Here, come look at this.”

Your laptop roared to light with the help of your charging cord. Quickly, you typed your password in and opened your downloads. Ellie hovered over your shoulder, squinting at the screen with confusion. 

“Here,” you said, opening up the album that had everything you had seen for your entire university career and passing the laptop to Ellie. “Use the touchpad—there, yeah—to navigate. Press to click. These are all movie files that I’ve seen. We can watch them on my laptop. Some of them were filmed in Terranova, too, so they’re post-apocalypse.”

She perused the selection you had for quite some time, the glow of the screen lighting up her face against the dim room. “Okay. This one.”

And thus began a tradition. Each night after you’d finished showering and Joel retired to his room, Ellie would come knock on your door and ask if you wanted to come over. You’d talk for a while, then open your laptop and pick something out to watch. Ellie was never high after the first time, which was unsurprising considering that there definitely wasn’t a way to get any in Jackson. Where she found any the first time was still a mystery to you. 

~

A week or so after your first patrol with Ellie, Joel had taken it upon himself to teach you how to shoot. You were surprisingly not as bad as you’d expected, but the rebound was tough to get used to, and you were still hung up over the whole “killing living things” part. 

Your first patrol—first real one—came quickly, and before you knew it, Ellie was handing you the same gun you’d dropped the first time with a suspicious look. 

“Don’t kill one of us with that thing,” she warned. “Be smart, okay?”

“Sure thing, boss,” you said to her, mock saluting as best you could while you were leading Japan to the mounting block.

She rolled her eyes. “Please act normal or I’ll make you carry around that glorified pocket knife instead again.” 

The patrol began as usual, Ellie leading you down the same path you went last time. It was a beautiful day out, with the early spring sun filtering through the evergreen trees that populated the woods and birdsong filling the air. 

Though conversations with Ellie were getting easier (given that it actually seemed like she wanted to talk to you now), you were still starstruck. Nothing that you did and nothing that you thought could get you to stop seeing her the way you did. You were routinely distracted by everything about her. It was a wonder that you could even function as a normal person around her, much less handle a weapon and a horse. 

You two had nearly made the full rotation when your surroundings exploded in action. 

“Fuck,” Ellie hissed as someone behind you two fired a shot that narrowly missed Shimmer. 

You whipped around, gun in hand, to see two men—two normal men who weren’t infected. One held a bow, the other a gun. 

The one who had fired the first shot never even stood a chance. He was down on the ground seconds after you’d seen him, Ellie’s aim taking him out before you could even ready your gun. 

The second man notched an arrow and managed to draw it back and release into the air right as Ellie’s bullet struck him, sending him falling back. 

“I don’t think there’s any more,” said Ellie, slightly breathless as she scanned the forest. “Sometimes outsiders pull this shit—try to kill us for our supplies. I’ve never seen them this close to the wall, though. I’ll have to tell Maria and Tommy.”

Normally, you would’ve felt up to making some sort of sarcastic comment about how that was a really unconcerning thing for her to tell you and that you actually felt so much more comfortable going on patrol knowing that there were also just run-of-the-mill people trying to kill you, but a twinge in your lower body distracted you. 

Slowly, nervously, you looked down. Air immediately left your lungs. 

“At least we’re done,” Ellie was saying, wiping her hands off on her thighs and slinging the gun over her shoulder. “What a crazy end for your first actual patrol, huh?”

When you didn’t answer, she turned to you and saw the arrow sticking out of your side, 

“Shit,” said Ellie, jumping off Shimmer and reaching you in seconds. “Shit, shit, shit. Oh god.” 

“Am I going to die?” you asked, staring starstruck at the blood escaping the outline of the arrowhead. You couldn’t feel anything anymore. Were you in shock?

“No,” said Ellie firmly. “Absolutely not. Do you need help getting off?”

Before you could answer, she was already helping you down, carefully avoiding the protruding arrow. 

“Listen,” she said, back to being her unwavering self, “We’re right by the wall. I’m going to help you walk in, and then I’ll grab some supplies, okay? Don’t try to pull the arrow out. You hear me? Don’t.”

Swallowing hard, you nodded. She helped you walk the few steps to be carefully concealed by the wall, then grabbed the two horses and darted past you, making a break for Maria and Tommy’s cabin. 

In a haze of confusion, you could see Maria running out, holding a box out to Ellie in exchange for the reins of the horses. Ellie said something that made Maria point towards you. She nodded, then ran back to you.

By the time that she’d reached you, the shock had begun to wear off, replaced by the stinging pain from the object that had impaled you. It was worse than anything you’d ever felt before in your life, and it took all you had not to keel over. 

“Hey,” she said, reaching out to grab your face so you had to look at her. “Don’t be afraid. I’ve done this before, okay? I’m, like, the master. It’s going to be alright.” 

“Done what before?” you managed to grind out. 

Ellie let go of your face to dig through the box Maria had given her, producing a needle, a bottle of rubbing alcohol, and what looked like a spool of thin thread. 

Horror slowly trickled through you as you realized what was about to happen. 

“It doesn’t look all that deep,” Ellie was saying as she examined the arrow. “So I don’t think it’s hit anything. It’s just going to be a nasty hole. I’m going to pull it out now, okay?”

You let out a strangled scream as she grasped the arrow’s end and yanked it out without warning.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” Ellie repeated. She threw the arrow over her shoulder and knelt so she was hovering over you. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you gasped. You were most certainly not. You couldn’t quite get your eyes to focus, and your heart was beating out of your chest. 

“Alright,” she said firmly, grasping your shoulders and pulling you up so you were slumped against the wall. “Sit up straight, alright? Also, this is going to hurt.” 

At first there were just snipping sounds as she cut part of your shirt away—then something cool and wet pressed to your wound. You cried out again as a fresh white hot pain bloomed in your middle. 

“I know, I know.” Ellie’s voice was consoling as she reached up to brush away the sweaty strands of hair stuck to your forehead. “Just a few more seconds.” 

“Fuck—off—” you gritted out from your teeth. 

Ellie’s eyebrows shot up. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that. Just this once.” 

She released the alcohol-saturated cotton pad, throwing it aside and fussing with the thread and needle until she was satisfied. 

By the time her fingers were ghosting over your abdomen again, you couldn’t pull your eyes away from the puncture wound and the needle she was wielding. 

“Don’t look,” said Ellie. “Pick something else. You don’t need to watch.” 

“I hate needles,” you whispered, choosing the air over her shoulder to be your focal point. 

There was a prodding at the top of your wound, and you hissed. 

“I can’t say I’m a fan myself.” 

Something pierced through your skin, and your midriff exploded in pain. 

The edges of your sight went fuzzy, stars forming in the corners of your vision. Someone that sounded suspiciously like you cried out. Your cheek rammed up against something solid and warm. 

Once the initial sting had faded, you realized that you’d slumped into Ellie, your face buried into her neck. She didn’t make any move to push you off, instead just taking one hand to brush up and down your arm with a feather light touch. 

“You're fine," she said firmly. "Everything's going to be fine."

Your fingers curled around the hem of her shirt as the needle exited through the other end of your wound, pulling another whine from your throat. It was easier to not feel like you were about to pass out when you were crushed into Ellie, clinging onto her and just focusing on the way she felt against you. 

“Hang on, I'm almost there,” she muttered a few stitches later. You’d quieted down, only letting out the occasional gasp as she pulled the thread through. “You're doing so well. Just one more.”

Now that you were more conscious, you had no idea how she was managing to stitch your side while you were nearly on her lap, but she continued to weave her needle through your skin, pulling it taut. 

“And done,” said Ellie. You felt her take another cotton square to swipe against your skin. 

You laid against her for a few more moments, panting as the shock slowly began to fade. She shifted, and for a moment you were sure that she was going to shove you away, but then the hand she’d lifted hesitantly rested on your head, her fingers parting to card through your hair. 

“How did you learn how to do that?” you asked, your voice muffled from where you were pressed against her. 

“Trial and error.” 

Her joke was enough for you to finally let go, sitting back against the wall. Her hand slithered out of your hair, resting back in her lap. 

“Shut up,” you said. “That’s awful.” 

Ellie shrugged. 

“I’m sorry,” you said, feeling the bumpiness of the stony wall press into your back. “I have a really low pain tolerance.”

“So I’ve noticed,” said Ellie, the side of her mouth quirking. 

“I’ve never been hurt before,” you heard yourself saying. “Like, beyond the occasional splinter or bee sting or accidental scrape or ankle sprain. It’s just not something that happens.” 

“Must be nice.”  

You smiled sadly. “Yeah. It’s not nice being weak, though.” 

Ellie looked away from you then, silent as she packed up the first-aid kit. Then: “I don’t think that’s true.” 

She’d said it lightly, like it was meant to be an offhand comment, a throwaway addition that wouldn’t be remembered by either of you. But the sentiment still struck you, twisting your heart.

You were less capable because your survival had never required anything more. You were weak because you could be. 

Her voice from the night she’d been high floated back to you. You haven't had to harden up like everyone else I know. 

Out here, weakness was a luxury few could afford. 

“Not so untouched anymore, huh?” you said, since you didn’t know how else to respond.

“I won’t tell anyone if you don’t,” quipped Ellie. “But if I were you, I wouldn’t lose sleep over it. I still consider needing to be held to get 4 stitches as being soft. You haven’t changed a bit. No offense.” 

Your cheeks burned bright red. “I—”

“I’m teasing,” she said before you could defend yourself. “Arrow wounds suck. I get it.” 

“Right.” You turned away, keeping your gaze fixed firmly on the ground beside you. With feeling more yourself came the inevitable shame at what you’d just done. What had you been thinking, touching her like that? Grabbing onto her like that?

This was going to haunt you for the rest of your life. 

“Don’t make that face,” said Ellie. “I’m sorry for saying that. I didn’t mean to embarrass you. It really is fine.” 

It was not fine. It would never be fine. You wanted the thugs to come back to life and finish you off, and then have the earth open up and swallow you for good measure. 

Ellie probably thought of you as an overgrown child. You doubted that there was ever a point where she could see you as anything equal. If she ever knew how often she appeared in your imagination, she’d probably be disgusted.

She called you pretty a contrarian voice in your head reminded you. Don't you remember?

But maybe she hadn’t meant it. She hadn’t said it explicitly: “Y/N, I think you’re pretty.” She just hadn’t argued when you’d pointed it out. Maybe because she was being nice, or maybe because she was actually being sarcastic. 

“You were really brave, okay?” said Ellie. “Your first armed confrontation and you did well.”

“I didn’t shoot anyone.”

“It could have gone worse,” said Ellie. “You could’ve accidentally shot me. Or died. And neither of those things happened, so that’s successful in my book.” 

“That’s very glass half-full of you.”

“That’s me. Ever the optimist.” 

You snorted.

~

That night, Ellie knocked on your door and asked you if you were up for another movie. You found yourself sitting on her comforter, plugging in your computer and booting it up minutes later.

Physically speaking, it had always been a little awkward to fit two people on her twin bed if they weren’t right next to each other, given that your laptop screen was a very unimpressive size. When you’d first started watching with her, Ellie would rest against the headboard, her legs stretched out in front of you while you would sit with your legs crossed, positioned sideways so you weren’t accidentally pushing her legs off. 

But after the day you had had, your back was sore and your whole body ached. Sitting on something soft without any back support as you angled yourself to look at the screen was quickly proving unsustainable. 

“Pause,” said Ellie about ten minutes in. You’d been watching an older sci-fi flick—Ellie’s choice. 

You complied, leaning forward and pressing the spacebar. “What’s up?”

“Are you even comfortable sitting like that?”

“Yeah,” you said.

“Liar,” accused Ellie, crossing her arms over her chest. “Don’t think I don’t see you ‘discreetly’ cracking your back every 2 minutes. It’s ruining the movie.” 

“Sorry,” you said, shaking your head and smiling in exasperation. “It’s from all the years I spent hunched over a textbook.” 

“You know, you can sit up here,” she said, patting the space beside her. “I don’t bite.”

“Jury’s still out on that,” you said, though by the time Ellie let out a laugh you were already unfolding your legs and moving so you were next to her. 

She leaned forward, grabbing the bottom half of the laptop and lifting it. “Hey, do you want a blanket?”

“Sure.” 

Ellie’s other hand grabbed the edge of her comforter and held it up. 

Hesitantly, you slid your legs under and watched as Ellie did the same, awkwardly holding the laptop in the air before you were both settled enough to rest it on your covered right thigh and her left.  “Better?”

When you nodded, she reached her tattooed arm out and pressed play. The audio picked back up, but you couldn’t for the life of you focus on the movie.

When Ellie had asked if you’d wanted a blanket, you were expecting her to toss the throw blanket that would really only fit one person at you, not invite you to get under the blankets with her. That was significantly more intimate.

You two were sitting close enough that your sides were touching, from shoulder to thigh. You could feel her chest lift with each breath, feel the heat coming off of her.

After a while, Ellie properly laid down, taking the laptop and hoisting it up so it rested on her lower abdomen as she settled into her pillow.

You gulped, your eyes flickering between her face and the screen. Ellie’s gaze was fixed intently on the screen, her eyes half lidded with exhaustion.

You could be tired too. You weren’t, of course—your heart was racing a thousand miles an hour. But she didn’t know that. It was normal to lay down next to her, right? You’d done that with Irena more times than you could count, and it was never weird. Yeah, you could do that. 

Also, if you were totally horizontal, you would stop getting distracted by the sliver of her skin that her crooked shirt showed of her chest. 

In a moment of blind courage, you scooted down so your head was lying right next to Ellie’s. She didn’t seem to react, just extending her hand from under the covers to steady the laptop as it wobbled from the movement. 

Her sheets smelled like the soap that you used to wash your hair—a cottony freshness that had the slightest hint of lavender. 

“Are you going to fall asleep on me?” asked Ellie after a while, her voice nothing more than a whisper. 

“I could ask you the same thing,” you responded, equally quiet. Then, because you hadn’t made enough rash decisions for the night, you angled your head so it rested in the space right above her shoulder. 

She inhaled sharply but didn’t move. On her next exhale a piece of her auburn hair tickled your forehead. 

“How’re your stitches?” she asked suddenly, like she'd just remembered.

“They’re okay. I think. As stitches go.”

“After this is over, I’ll check on them,” she said. “Don’t let me forget, okay?”

“Okay,” you whispered, suddenly feeling shy. It was one thing for her to cut off your shirt and see your skin when she was trying to save your life while you were mentally gone. It was another thing altogether to pull up your shirt without adrenaline coursing through you.

You didn’t pay any attention to the rest of the movie, instead hyperfocused on the rhythm of Ellie’s breathing and the fact that if you moved just a little your chin would be on her shoulder. 

Her mention of the stitches wasn’t helping at all, either. Now all you could think about was the embarrassing way you’d basically tried to crawl under her skin, burying your face into her and clutching at her clothes like you were a child.

A part of you was disappointed that you hadn’t been more lucid at the time. If you had, you would’ve been able to clearly remember the softness of her skin against yours. You would’ve been able to enjoy it for what it was—the only time you’d be able to touch her like that.

Because you couldn’t go around just grabbing onto her shirt and getting into her lap. That was a one-off, the only time that the rules were waived. You couldn’t touch her like that now, now that you didn’t have any excuse. It wasn’t allowed.

But sometimes you wanted to so badly that it hurt. 

The movie ended abruptly, wrenching you out of your thoughts. 

“Hey,” whispered Ellie. “Sit up so I can see.”

Reluctantly, you pressed yourself up from your back and began rolling up the hem of your shirt. Ellie twisted to face backwards, her thin top riding up and showing part of her back as she reached for the lamp.

Once golden light returned to the room, Ellie turned back and bumped your hands away. She bent over, tilting her head so that she was looking at the stitches straight on.

They didn’t look bad, you had to admit. Though you wouldn’t consider the actual experience of getting the stitches a 5-star experience, Ellie had clearly known what she was doing. The surrounding flesh didn’t look angry or irritated, and she’d pulled the stitches just tight enough without it puckering. 

She prodded at the side, then gave a satisfied nod. “Looks good. What did I tell you? I’m really good at this sort of stuff.”

“I think you would’ve made a really good doctor,” you said once she’d sat up straight again. “Under different circumstances.”

“Is this you telling me that you don’t think I’m a good doctor now?” she teased. 

“Your bedside manner could use some work,” you offered.

Ellie laughed then, shaking her head and crossing her arms over her chest. “Yeah, yeah. You lived. You'll get over it.” 

“Did you go to school?” you found yourself asking, hung up on the thought of Ellie as a potential medical student. If she’d been in one of your intro biology classes, you never would’ve been able to pay attention. That was a fantasy you could shelve away for later. 

“Sort of,” said Ellie, looking down at her arms. “I went to a military prep school run by FEDRA. I didn’t graduate though—obviously. I was long gone by then.” 

“Right,” you said, remembering that she’d mentioned that she’d been 14 when she’d left Boston. “And what was it like?” 

She paused, opening her mouth before closing it. “It was—unkind. Joel's told me about schools before the outbreak. It was nothing like that. There were some normal classes, but most of it was meant to prepare us to be soldiers.” 

“Is that where you learned how to do sutures?” 

“Among other things.”

Terranova had no military academies, given that there was hardly any military presence. The founder of Terranova had bodyguards and there was a police force that controlled the borders, but it was nothing like Ellie described. With invisible borders and a social order that valued peace and tranquility over all else, there was no real danger posed to any of the citizens. 

But from what you had learned from movies and books and comments from older people, you had gathered a very dim picture of what a military academy looked like—harsh, strict, and cruel. 

“I’m sorry you had to grow up like that,” you said. 

“It’s okay.”

“Is there anything you would want to study? If you could?” 

Ellie’s eyes closed. “Yeah. There are a couple things.” 

She did not elaborate. 

~

It didn’t take long for you two to settle back into your routine of meeting in her room each evening and watching one of your downloaded movies. Following the night after you’d gotten your stitches, you wouldn’t even have to ask—Ellie would pull up her comforter and let you slide in next to her without giving you a second glance.

You’d also gotten over the fear of touching her. Now, when you flopped back so your head was on her pillow, you’d adjust until you were nestled into the crook of her neck. She never once reacted to it, remaining perfectly still unless she was adjusting the laptop or messing with the sound. 

Because it was normal, of course. You and Irena would rest your head on each other’s shoulders sometimes. That was something that friends did. 

One night a week or so into April, you and Ellie made a harrowing discovery: there was only one movie left in your collection that you two hadn’t seen together. 

“Damn,” said Ellie, furrowing her brow. “And there’s no way to get more on here?”

“I’m afraid not,” you said, frowning. “To download more or stream one, I’d need either an Ethernet cable or a wi-fi connection. Neither of which function out here anymore without cell towers and maintained cables.” 

“Right,” said Ellie, though her face told you that she didn’t understand a word that had come out of your mouth. “So—this is it?”

“Yeah.” Your finger hovered over the play button. “Savor it, I guess.” 

When you settled back and into her side, the heavy weight of dread settled into your stomach. Now that you’d finished showing her your entire collection, it’s not like she’d have a reason to invite you over every night. And there was especially no reason for you two to lie so closely together unless you were both trying to watch something on a small screen.

Once again, your excuse to touch her was gone.

You pressed closer to her as your mind raced. There was no way that Ellie didn’t see what you were doing as platonic, right? Was it possible that she was creeped out by how touchy you were but just tolerated it to be nice? 

Maybe. You swallowed hard, keeping your eyes fixed on the screen. Ellie didn’t see you like…like that. She spoke to you like you were an obligation, a burden. Because you always had been. You’d been a responsibility thrust on her by a father figure who felt like he was indebted to you from that stupid bag of coffee you were lucky enough to bring. 

Oh, god. Had Joel told her to befriend you? Had he asked for Ellie to pretend like she enjoyed spending time with you and to put up with your privileged, soft-hearted nonsense? 

The knowledge that you were spiraling wasn’t enough to stop you. You did the best that you could—tried to remind yourself that it’d been a while since she’d looked disgusted with you, recall that she was outspoken enough to tell you to fuck off if you did something she didn’t like—but it was to no avail.

Ellie reached forward and hit pause on the movie, thrusting you both into silence. 

“Is everything okay?” she asked after a moment. 

“Yeah, why?” 

“I can feel your heart going, like, crazy fast.” 

You froze. “Oh. Uh, yeah. I was just thinking.” 

Ellie pushed the laptop off of her, sitting up to give you an odd look. “About a near death experience or something? You running a marathon up there? That shit’s not normal.” 

You laughed nervously. “It’s really nothing. Just an, uh, suspenseful movie.” 

Which was actually really stupid of you to say, because you were watching some obscure Tarkovsky film that did nothing but pan over burning buildings and pensive men. For the past 5 minutes, there had been nothing on screen but the back of a car driving through traffic with minimal sound. Also, it was in Russian, and the English subtitles made zero sense.

There was a reason why this was the last movie you chose.

“This is the most boring fucking movie I’ve ever watched in my life, so you’re a dirty fucking liar,” said Ellie. Then her face pinched in worry. “Wait. Have you taken a look at your stitches lately?” 

Before you could answer, she was grabbing a flashlight off her nightstand and yanking the comforter off you. She was pulling your shirt up when you finally found your voice.

“Wait!” you said, grabbing the bottom of your shirt and yanking it back in place. “It’s not—I don’t have an infection, okay? There’s nothing wrong with me. I really was just thinking, okay?”

“About what?” She reached back to place her flashlight back on the stand without taking her eyes off you. 

“It’s nothing important.”

“If you say so.” 

She picked the laptop up and placed it back on her thighs, lying back down. You followed suit, but this time you didn’t touch her, opting to keep as much distance as you could so she wouldn’t hear the stuttering of your heart. 

Not even 5 minutes had passed before Ellie sat up to pause the video again.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

“No. Why?” 

“You’re acting weird,” she accused, but there wasn’t much conviction behind her voice. 

“What do you mean?” 

“I mean that you’re acting weird,” she repeated, shutting your laptop off and moving it to the bottom of her bed, despite the protests that left your lips. 

“I don’t understand,” you said. “I’m just watching the movie. I’m not doing anything. “

“You’re not watching the movie,” she said. “You weren’t even looking at the screen. What’s got you so bothered? Did I do something?” 

“Of course not.” You pulled your legs under you so your legs were crossed and your back was against the wall. “You don’t need to worry. It’s honestly fine. I’m sorry if I’ve done something to imply otherwise.” 

Ellie rubbed the bridge of her nose, sighing. “You stress me out. You can just tell me, you know? No need to be so cagey. I promise I’ve heard worse.” 

“Don’t be so quick to say that.”

“Okay, now you have to tell me,” she said. “I’m never going to know peace again with a hook like that.” 

You were about to open your mouth to tell her that it was stupid and that it didn’t matter, but something stopped you. 

That was the coward’s way out. That’s what you’d always done—hid your feelings and concealed your emotions. That’s how you’d been raised. That’s how you thought everyone was. But now that you’d spent 2 months in Jackson, you’d realized that some people actually just said what they thought. And that, in the grand scheme of things, it was a better system than the Terranovian culture of superficiality.  

Just because the you 2 months ago would have shook her head and changed the subject didn’t mean the you now had to. 

Maybe this you could be different. Maybe, for once, this you could be brave. 

“I really—” You stopped yourself. Saying I really like you didn’t even begin to encompass what you felt for the girl sitting across from you. To distill the sheer magnitude of your feelings down to four words felt criminal. The swell in your chest that never went away whenever you were near her could never and would never be adequately represented in the puny offerings of the Latin alphabet and the English language, and if you were going to do this, you were going to do it right. 

You dared to look up at her for a moment. She was completely still, her green eyes reflecting the dim moonlight from outside. Once you met her gaze, you couldn’t bring yourself to pull it away.

“I’m really sorry that I’m putting you in an uncomfortable position for saying this,” you began (because old habits ran deep, and you would rather die than be impolite), “And I totally understand if you don’t want to talk to me after this. And I’m sorry for not telling you earlier.”

“As much as I’m sure that this is some sort of cultural cornerstone for you, please spare me the 6 foot long disclaimer script,” Ellie drawled.

“Right.” You gulped. “Anyway. As I was saying.”

“Any day now.” 

At that moment, she had never looked more perfect. Your eyes had adjusted to the dark lighting, so the weak moonlight that spilled in from the window above her created a halo around her head. 

“It’s you.” Your voice came out tiny. “You’re all that I can think about, and I don’t know what to do.”

There. It was off your chest.

For a moment, it was as if you’d suspended time, stopping Earth on its axis as you both held your breaths. There was nothing but silence and the occasional wooden creak of the old house’s foundation in the wind. 

Ellie’s face betrayed nothing, save for something in her eyes and the disappearance of the smirk that had been on her lips moments before. 

Then she spoke, her response whispered.

“Come here, then.” 

final a/n: NOW HOLD ON before you show up outside my dorm with pitchforks and torches 🗣️🗣️🗣️ i'm so sorry but this was a necessary evil as this was going to a massive scene without the chapter break. also a disproportionately massive chapter compared to the other ones coming out. i write very quickly and should get the following part out in a timeframe similar to the first 3 parts. thank u for reading ! tell me what you think abt this chapter while you wait x

[verstppism]

Boy's Talk (About You) - Chapter 8

Chapter 8 - take me anywhere but home

word count: 1957

masterpost.

synopsis everyone has their secrets, a group chat formed by charles leclerc, pierre gasly, alex albon, lando norris and george russell knows all of them. the 'kill the grid' chat has only one purpose: gossiping about other drivers' lives, romantic and social

or, a casual chat leads to charles confessing a crush on max, who's has been his rival since childhood

If Charles was still half asleep, the iMessage notifications coming from Max definitely woke him up. All the nervousness and anxiety from last night made sense: Max was leaving Brazil and his girlfriend to spend New Years in Monaco. But what were his intentions behind such a sudden decision? If Max really broke up with her, then he wouldn’t be texting the older one on a cold December morning. Or would he? Max Verstappen was a confusing person. One night, he says he’s not happy with his girlfriend, the other he goes on a private padel match with his ex-rival. Things seem to go well between them.

It’s when he posts a photo with his girlfriend after the race that tears everything apart. Still in his racing suit. Messy hair. Still sweating. Everything that belonged to Charles and to him only. In fact, Max was his. Who does she think she is? Charles only thought about how he could talk so casually about Kelly right before calling him “Charlie” and pushing him as far away from Lance as possible in the sprint podium. It was driving him insane — More than he already is. After eternal minutes discussing his own love life and its frustrations, Charles notices he left Max on read, he had accidentally opened the app and his conversation with the other one.

“charlie: good morningg “

“charlie: i am! are u okay? “

Charles was really at a loss at words, so he decided to pretend that he didn’t know where Max was nor that he was a few meters from the blonde’s house.

“maxiee: yeah “

“maxiee: just had a little change of plans and came back to monaco “

“charlie: oh really? “

“charlie: did anything happen or? “

“maxiee: can we talk about this in person? “

“maxiee: we can go to that café you mentioned in the padel match “

He… Remember. Their meeting (date?) was months ago, and he remembers it. Something he slightly mentioned once in a lifetime, and he recalls it in perfect detail. Charles wonders if Max remembers everything that pondered his mind. He asks himself if he recalls their discussions back in their karting days, or when they slowly started to use pet names for the first time. In the end, did Max realize that they were made for each other, even though they were predestined to fight for a whole life?

“charlie: of course! what time? “

“maxiee: im just getting ready, i’ll be there in a couple minutes “

“maxiee: nothing is too far here “

Charles giggles at the last message, like he always did when he exchanged messages with his beloved. After all, it was more of a date orchestrated by Max — he is good at setting up dates so subtly. Or maybe Charles just accepts every invite from the other. — and again, alone together. A more casual reunion this time: without any sport or anyone that could get in their way. It seemed like a dream, Charles hoped it wasn’t.

He didn’t even mind telling his friends of such an important event, just got up from his bed and quickly got ready. Casual clothing and sunglasses to go unnoticed. It wasn’t easy to go on a date in broad daylight in a city as small as Monte Carlo.

—————

It really didn't take long for them to meet. That little cafeteria was one of the secret gems of Monaco, hidden between beautiful historic buildings. As Charles arrived, he already could see Max, stirring coffee and sugar on the delicate little cup. He was looking down, his face with little to no emotion, more like hesitant of… something. 

The doorbell ring filled the quiet place when the older entered the place getting the other's attention, which gave a soft and kinda sad smile to him. A smile that wasn't common as the post race ones or those shared in press conferences. ‘This is not the moment to overthink your relationship with him.’ Charles thought. 

“I’m not late this time. '' Leclerc broke the awkward silence between them as he sat down. “Yeah… I mean, you live around here, no?” Max sounded somewhat different. Nervous? Sad? Reading his feelings through his face wasn’t Charles’ best ability. “So remember when I told you I would spend New Years in Brazil?” 

“Of course! I was also about to ask you about it. Why did you come back home?” He said as he sat down. Home. Not the best wording at the moment, given that he’s actually Dutch and we are somewhere around near South France. It’s what they say: ‘home is where the heart is’. “Like… Did anything happen?”

“Yeah, uh…”  Apprehensive. A worried tone filled his voice. “Me and Kelly had a little fight right after Christmas and I thought it would be better for us to part ways. She wasn’t very willing to but… Can I be honest? I was growing tired of being stuck with her.”

Stuck with her. Stuck. Max was tired. Max doesn't like her. At All. Charles felt like his chest was collapsing in the best way possible. How was he supposed to act normally and feel pity for them when butterflies filled his stomach?

“And you know, I only kept the relationship up because of her daughter…” Verstappen smiled while looking at the cup. The older’s intrusive thoughts were telling to adopt a child with that man. He was such a good dad after all! “And PR too. I think our love wasn't reciprocal… I was there for the kid and she was for the status of being a Formula One driver's girlfriend.” 

“Oh Max… That's too bad. I’m so sorry for you” A pitiful look surged on Charles’ face, trying to show empathy and not that he was going insane over all of this. “I’m sure you and her will be able to meet again.” A shy smile appeared on the younger’s face when ocean and emerald eyes met. A comfortable silence surrounded them, only the ambient sound and smell of fresh coffee filled the empty café.

“Now that we are on the topic, it may sound rude but I need to get this off my chest. I doubt you two would still be together if you didn't win in 2021.” Still apprehensive, Charles felt safe to talk shit about Max’s ex-girlfriend. When he saw the other’s eyes glitter at the comment, he was sure: the blonde has been waiting forever to do this. “You doubt? I'm 100% sure! After we left RedBull’s party she started talking about marriage, mate. Can you believe that!?” 

Minutes that felt like hours passed by. Charles and Max talked about many secrets they've kept for each other for the mere thought of “this is not something you usually tell your best friend, especially when he’s dating a person you don’t really like”. In fact, they would never get to these specific topics – mostly about relationships. Maybe both were scared of oversharing and confessing their true love, ruining it all for once. The older didn't know if delusional thoughts took over, but he felt things were getting intimate, at some point, their feet touched and so their legs proceeded to slightly intertwine. 

They didn’t even bother to order food or anything. — and so the waiters did not ask them to. Perhaps it was an obvious date to whoever passed by. When leaving, Max only paid for this coffee cup that was now cold, half drunken and long forgotten on the table. Both got so deep in conversation they forgot the world keeps spinning, and the day goes by, like they always do. Like it always happens. If you didn’t know, you would guess that they were long-distance boyfriends meeting for the first time.

It was almost dusk when they left the café. The orange-ish colors in the sky implied the sun was setting, and so Max and Charles decided to walk home. Staying side by side on a very narrow sidewalk made their shoulders brush at all times.  

As they got closer to Leclerc’s house, he noticed that Max started to tense up. Was he scared of something? Scared of leaving Charles? That reaction started to worry him but as soon as they got to the older’s doorstep he spoke up, point blank:

“I… Charlie, the true meaning behind this all-of-a-sudden meeting is that… You are the love of my life. I’m sorry for not noticing it earlier.” Max stuttered, a subtle way to let the other know it was hidden and buried deep inside with fear for years and years. Maybe even his whole life. It drove Charles insane. It’s like he was feeling every single emotion at the same time. He swore he was dying or something. The older man fought every desire to kiss him right here in the middle of an empty sideroad right in front of his house, but he knew it would appear in every headline in worldwide newspapers. “Charles ‘il predestinato’ Leclerc is found kissing Life-long rival Max Verstappen”. That is not the best way to be in the news, probably something that would end their careers or worse: their friendship. With no words left to say, Charles just hugged him tight as if he would disappear at any time. “Je t'aime moi aussi, mon amour” He said as one or two teardrops slid across his cheek.

Feeling something wet hit his shoulder, Max broke the hug but still kept their bodies suspiciously close. He held the other’s face with both big hands as their eyes met once again, but now with much more compassion. After all they’ve gone through, all their ups and downs brought them to this moment. What they’ve been waiting for. 

“Wait wait wait.” Charles popped the little bubble they builded to protect themselves from the rest of the world. “Can we get inside first? I mean, it’s very romantic to kiss in the middle of the crosswalk I know but we’re kinda famous so yeah…” Max chuckled at the comment. “Of course we can, schatje”

He unlocked the door and let Verstappen enter as if nothing almost happened a few seconds ago. “Uh… So are-” He’s interrupted by the softest of lips crashing into his own, almost cornering him into a wall like a (ironically) raging bull. For the very first seconds they are both surprised by the feeling but locked in very quickly. This kiss felt like heaven, the way both mouths swayed together felt like they were pieces to a puzzle, just waiting for it to be finally found and placed together. It was definitely not what Charles thought it would be like but it was good nonetheless. 

They only broke the kiss when there was no oxygen left in their bodies still, they stayed close, panting and hanging on by a thread of spit. Leclerc hid his face on his lover’s shoulder and started giggling, ending up with a lowkey confused Max.

“Why are you laughing?” He said, with a broad smile on his face. Charles’ laugh was contagious.

“This is so stupid. Why did we take so long to do this?” 

It all came down to them snuggling together in Charles’ bed. The moonlight that invaded the room through a slightly opened window shines in their features, giving both an godly look. After a whole day spent with Max, Leclerc seemed to forget about his friends, who might’ve gone insane by his disappearance. So he was right: when checking his phone he’s welcomed with 86 missed calls, – all coming from 4 different people – and at least 300 messages coming from his group chat, Kill the Grid. Charles opens it, doesn’t read any of the past messages and starts typing.

“charlie: guys, youll never know what just happened '' Send it.

taglist: @mrsbrxkkxr , @nyxstice , @thedecalcomania-blog ,@sebastianize <3

[kafka-ish]

part 1

Patrick asks Art if he got the stuff and how much to which Art replies: yea just an 8th tho and Patrick replies Dude wtf

No dude. You never told me your dealer was hot!!!

Don’t bother. Asked if she’d trade head for half. Wouldn’t budge. Strict business or whatever.

Two seconds later: Still. I’d tap that.

Art decides against telling him about the sample he got. Sticks the joint you rolled in his desk drawer. Does weed have an expiration date? he wonders. He drops by Patrick’s who asks how the deal went. If you gave him a discount for it being his first time and all.

“How much’d she charge?” Patrick wonders aloud, comparing prices in his head, secretly hoping his friend got ripped off.

It takes Art awhile to settle on a number. He still doesn’t know the price of weed. “Like fifty?”

“For an eighth?” Patrick laughs at this like okay this chick is insane and Art realizes he said the wrong thing.

“She said it was the good stuff.” Art shrugs, trying to play it off.

“Whatever man, but you need to learn how to negotiate… So we gonna smoke this shit or what?”

Art begins to make appearances more frequently. But he has to be calculated with how he goes about this. Doesn’t want to seem desperate, hooked on fucking weed. How pathetic. He has to pace himself. At first his visits are periodic. Comes by a few times a month for his regular pick up. But he can’t get enough. Sporadic turns into every other week and every other week turns into Friday nights after his games or if not a tournament, practice. He’s at your door with takeout in hand. Something different every time; he keeps you on your feet and you like the surprise. Tacos, Thai, Lo Mien. Indian when he wins his matches.

You don’t smoke with him at first when he asks, though; you have a rule about smoking up with clients.

“Oh,” he says, feeling defeated. Disappointed that’s how you think of him.

“You still want that eighth?” you ask.

“Um, no. Actually I think I’m gonna go.”

“Art,” you say and the sound of your voice calling his name has him frozen in place. His hand is still on the knob for a moment before it drops, falls by his side. He wipes it on his pants, a habit he has. "Don't do this."

"What? Change my mind?"

"No--"

"You're not trying to peer pressure me, are you?" You wonder if Art's being serious right now. If he's using your methodology of paying tuition and groceries against you. It's your turn to freeze.

"Fine then. Leave. But just so you know I wasn't the one hitting up strangers for weed." You're calm when you say this, only making it harder for Art to reach for the door once more.

Of course, he comes crawling back. Ends up blowing up your phone.

Art: Hey

Art: I'm sorry for what i said the other day. I wasn't thinking. Obviously. It just hurt when u called me a customer. Which i guess i technically am. I dont kno.

Art: I think ur really cool

Art: I guess i just wanted to smoke with someone other than patrick

Art: Did i mention i think ur really cool

You roll your eyes at the thread of messages, how they still come in and your phone can't stop vibrating; you're not finished reading but it keeps pinging. Still, you're smiling. Can't help but read his texts over and over again before responding and you feel a heat on your cheeks when you haven't even lit up.

You text him the same thing when he always texts you after one of his games: My place 9?

"You think I'm cool, huh?" You nudge Art, sitting next to you on the couch. His legs are crossed, facing yours.

Art blushes at the question, the pressure you put him under. Finally musters up the courage to say, “yeah. Really cool.” Then leans in, does that thing that guys do where they grab your jaw, almost caresses it, then brings you in to kiss your lips. It’s soft. Gentle. Thinks he might hurt you if he’s not careful. And he doesn’t linger long but you can taste his chapstick. Mint. You miss him already when his lips leave yours and your tongue sweeps over where flesh once was, itching for another taste.

He sees this. Locks his lips on yours again. Instinct. It's just as quick and sweet as the first one. You feel him grin when his mouth meshes with yours and the sensation of his smile pressing into your cheeks gets you all giddy-like.

“So does that mean you’ll smoke with me?” His smile doesn’t leave when you pull away. And you see his eyebrows are raised while his eyes are blue and bright. A dash of hope shimmers in them and you can see your reflection in them.

“Yeah,” you say, hushed, almost a whisper as if you can’t bring yourself to say it out loud. You’re breaking your rules for him, is what Art’s thinking. And you tell yourself it’s just a one time exception but when he comes over next Friday you find yourself rolling a joint and passing it to him in between kisses.

And now it’s your routine.

He doesn’t need to text you asking for an eighth and you don’t need to tell him what time and place. He just shows up after practice. Of course, you expect him.

“I hope I didn’t get you addicted.”

“Nah.” Art’s lean frame is already hanging on the doorway and he doesn’t come inside immediately when you welcome him in. Instead, he takes you in his arms. They feel stronger each time. Plants a big wet kiss on your lips. And he is addicted. Just not what you think.

[bingwriterxo]

the shakespeare exhibit - part 6

pairing: tara carpenter x reader

summary: in which you invite tara over for dinner

warnings: smut, 18+ (minors DNI), fingering, cunnilingus

word count: 3600+

author's note: one of the longest pieces i've ever posted...

previous part | next part

Chad (4:10pm): wtm tn bois

Mindy (4:11pm): movie night @ t's place?

Anika (4:11pm): down

Ethan (4:12pm): sounds good! i'll bring snacks! :D

Tara (4:12pm): yea just invite urselves over why dont u

Tara looked up from her phone, glaring at Mindy from across the living room. "Who says I'm free tonight?"

Mindy scoffed. "Please. We all know Y/N has been visiting her parents this weekend because you won't stop whining about how much you miss her, and who else do you hang out with?"

"I do not whine!" Right? Tara thought. Right. "And I have other friends!"

"Oh yeah?" Mindy raised an eyebrow. "Who? Name them right now."

"Uh..." Tara furrowed her eyebrows. Does Sam count? "Oh! Quinn, obviously."

"She doesn't count! She's friends with all of us!" Mindy chuckled, shaking her head. "Face it, T--you've got us and you've got Y/N, and with Y/N gone, we all know you're not doing jack shit tonight."

Tara huffed, crossing her arms over her chest. "I fucking hate you."

"Don't hate the player," Mindy said, holding her hands up in surrender. "Hate the game."

"Oh, I'll hate the player, because the player's a pain in my ass--" The rapid vibrating of her phone cut her off and she glanced down, eyes widening at your contact name showing on her screen. She scrambled to pick it up, nearly declining the call as she held it to her ear. "Hey, baby!"

Mindy pretended to gag herself with her finger at Tara's words, and the brunette flipped her off.

"Hi, Tar," you said, and Tara could hear your smile. "What're you up to?"

"Just hanging out with the biggest pain in my ass."

You giggled. Tara grinned at the sound. "Say 'hi' to Mindy for me, then."

"Definitely won't do that."

There was some shuffling before you asked, "What're you doing tonight?"

Tara hummed. "Tonight? Oh, nothing important." She stuck her tongue out at Mindy, who gave her middle fingers with both of her hands. "Why?"

"I'm back early from my parents' house. Nate and Eddie were way too much for me to handle this weekend." You chuckled. "Nate's got the lead role in the school play, and you'll never guess what they're doing."

"Some sort of Shakespeare?" she asked, knowing of your younger brother's own love for the playwright.

"Yup! They're making it PG-rated, obviously, but he's running around only talking in Early Modern English and I just couldn't take it anymore." God help me on the day that I meet this kid, Tara thought. "And then Eddie, well, he's going fucking insane from it, so he was off the walls, and--" You sighed. "That's not what I was calling for."

She laughed. "What's up, then?"

"Do you want to come over tonight? I can cook your favorite!" Tara was barely given the chance to respond when you added, "And I miss you."

This fucking girl. She blushed, turning her face so that Mindy couldn't see."I miss you, too, babe. And yeah, I'll come over tonight."

Mindy whipped her head toward her. "What about movie night?"

Tara waved her off, but you had overheard the other girl. "Oh, if you're busy tonight, then--"

"No!" Tara exclaimed. Stupid Mindy. Trying to ruin my plans. "No, it's fine. There will be other movie nights."

"We could just have dinner tomorrow night, baby," you said. "I don't want to pull you away from your friends."

She shook her head even though you couldn't see it. "They'll be okay without me for one night. When should I come?"

There was a pause. Tara guessed that you were looking at the time. "Is seven o'clock good? I just need to run and grab some things first, and shower, because I'm kind of greasy." There was a little shuffling. "I don't know what it is about those boys, but every time I come back from my parents' place, I'm always, like, gross."

Tara giggled. "Seven's perfect. I'll see you then."

"Okay, cool! Bye, Tar."

"Bye, babe." I love you, she thought, but she didn't dare say it. I can't. It's too soon.

Her phone clicked as you hung up, and she pulled it away from her ear, turning to Mindy. "I won't be here tonight."

Mindy stared at her like she was stupid. "Yeah. I got that. Can we still use your apartment for movie night, though? I don't even want to try fitting everyone on my bed again."

Tara rolled her eyes. "Sure. I think Sam's staying at Danny's tonight, so just don't wreck the place."

Mindy hummed. "Hey, have you guys said 'I love you' yet?"

Tara blushed, warmth rising from her collarbones to her ears. "No."

"Do you want to?"

So badly, Tara wanted to say. "What's with all the questions?" she asked instead.

Mindy shrugged. "I'm just wondering. I mean, you told her about what happened last year, right?" Tara nodded. "And she responded well, right?" Another nod. "Why haven't you said it yet?"

"Have you ever thought about the fact that I might not love her yet?" Lie. Lie. Lie!

Mindy scoffed. "Don't lie to me. Everyone sees how you act around her, and how you look at her, and we all hear how you talk about her, and--"

"Shut up."

"So, why haven't you said it?"

Tara sighed. "We've barely been dating a month, Minds." Though it's already felt like a lifetime.

"Okay, and...?" Mindy cocked her head. "Anika and I were dating for, like, two weeks when we said it." She stood from the armchair and moved onto the couch, laying Tara's feet over her lap. "Y/N already knows everything about you--or, at least, you know, the stuff that might scare someone away--and she's still here. Don't you think that means she probably loves you back?"

"You're not who I want to be having this conversation with," Tara grumbled.

"First of all, rude. Secondly, would you rather Chad? Or maybe Sam, or Quinn, or--"

Tara threw her arms out. "Okay! I get it. You're the most plausible one to talk to about this." She covered her face with her hands, groaning. "I just--I don't want to freak her out." She looked at Mindy. "I mean, she's dated people, but she's never really been in a serious relationship like this, and I don't want to rush her."

Mindy furrowed her eyebrows. "She got you for her first girlfriend? Poor sucker."

I hate her. I really do. "This is why I don't want to talk to you about this!"

"Sorry, sorry," Mindy rushed out, patting Tara's ankles. "I'll be nice. Do you think there's any other reason you might not be ready to tell her?"

"Like what?"

"Like...Amber?"

Tara clenched her jaw and shook her head. No, she thought. No, definitely not. "Mindy--"

"I'm just saying." Mindy shrugged. "Amber was your best friend, and she's the first girl you ever fell in love with. She may have been a psychopathic murderer, but that's not someone who's easy to get over. Could you...still love her?"

"No." Tara shut her eyes, hard. "No, I don't still love Amber." Her voice was shaking; she could feel the tears behind her eyelids just from talking about the girl. "I miss her, sometimes, and then I remember that she literally tried to kill me." Her eyes shot open and she gestured to Mindy. "She tried to kill you, too."

"I know, T, but--"

Tara shook her head. "There are no 'buts'. I don't love Amber anymore." I only love Y/N. Her heart fluttered at the mere thought of you.

Mindy narrowed her eyes. "So, it really is just the time?"

"Yeah," Tara said. "I'm gonna wait until I know she's ready."

"You're so whipped, dude." Mindy grinned.

"You're the worst."

* * *

"Hey, Carmine," Tara greeted as she walked up to your doorman. She had become friendly with the man over the past few weeks, since, more often than not, the two of you hung out at your place rather than hers.

"Miss Carpenter," he said, nodding. "Miss Y/L/N ran through here about an hour ago looking a bit...disheveled."

Tara chuckled. "Yeah, well, you know our girl."

He hummed and gestured toward the door. "After you."

"I'll see you on my way out," she said, lamely saluting him. Why the fuck did I just do that? she thought. However, he quelled her anxieties quickly as he saluted back to her before turning away, his attention focused on some random man walking up to the door. Okay, Carmine. You're officially cool.

Tara made her way into the building and up to your apartment, knocking on your front door when she finally arrived. She patted down her hair and straightened out her clothes, making sure she looked perfectly presentable, and beamed up at you when the door opened.

Her eyes widened and her mouth fell open as she looked at you. You were wearing a sheer, white button down, your black bralette visible beneath it, and your pants were...well, they hugged you nicely. Girlfriend looks hot. Might explode. "I didn't realize we were dressing nice," she said, gulping.

You glanced down at yourself with a blush before looking back at her with a shy smile. "Just thought it might be fun," you mumbled.

She nodded. "You look..." Pretty. Say pretty. "Hot." Damn it, Tara. You're too gay for this bullshit.

"Thanks." You opened the door wider. Tara stepped inside, giving you a quick kiss. "You're not too bad yourself," you said, grinning.

Tara, for as much as she wanted to say she knew you, had not been expecting what you had set up inside your apartment. The lights were dimmed, there were rose petals on the floor, and the table was set with a candelabra in the middle (which she knew you had never used before because it was centuries old).

She turned to look at you. "I--You--What?"

"I originally wanted to take you out to a nice restaurant tonight, but I couldn't get a reservation anywhere." You shrugged and gestured to the room. "So, I had to make do."

"It's not an important date, is it?" No, not our one month. It's November, so it's not Valentine's day.

You shook your head. "No. I just wanted to do something a little more special tonight." You bit your lip. "Is it okay? I mean, I could turn on the lights and vacuum up the petals, and we could just order pizza or something if you wan--"

"It's perfect." She's perfect, Tara thought. Absolutely perfect in every way, and I love her.

You sighed with relief. "Oh, good, because the rose petals were kind of expensive." You placed your hand on the small of her back and led her to the table, pulling out her seat for her. "Sit. I'll get the food."

Is this real life? Did she actually set up a romantic dinner and is now bringing me food? This is--I'm dreaming, aren't I? Tara blinked as though to wake herself up, but she was still in your kitchen when she opened her eyes. Nope, not a dream. How did I get someone so perfect?

You returned with two plates of food in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other. You placed a plate down in front of Tara and one in front of your own seat before waving the bottle at her.

"My parents sent me two bottles of that '61 Merlot I gave Sam, so I thought we could have it tonight," you said, pouring her a glass. You stopped suddenly, freezing. "Wait, do you like wine? I have, uh, water, too, if that's better?"

Tara chuckled. "Wine's fine. Thank you, baby."You nodded and continued to pour before giving yourself a glass as well. You set the wine down next to the candelabra and then sat, smiling at her.

"I hope you like it," you said, pointing at the food. "I'm not the best cook. We grew up with private chefs, so neither of my parents taught me to cook, either, but I tried my best, and--"

Tara ate a mouthful of the pasta you had set in front of her, and her taste buds exploded. Her eyes widened as she moaned at the taste, and you gulped, watching her. "This is amazing!" she said, her voice somewhat muffled from the food. "Holy shit, Y/N." She can cook! Thank god, 'cause I'm horrible at it.

"Really? Oh, perfect. I was nervous I'd actually have to end up just ordering us a pizza," you said, starting to eat.

Tara hummed and reached for her glass. "You need to teach me how you did this one day."

You nodded. "Sure! Any time. It was pretty easy, actually."

She took a sip of the wine, smiling at the taste of it. Jesus, I can tell this was expensive. "This is also amazing. Thank your parents for me, would you?"

"Sure, Tar." You grinned. "They asked about you, actually."

What. "Oh?" No fucking way.

"They wanted to know if you were also into literature like I am, to which I said no, of course, and I think my mom was actually a bit happy to hear it." You chuckled. "The literature comes from my dad's side, mainly. She's...not stoked about it."

"I think your mom and I are going to get along great, then," Tara giggled.

"They wanted to know when they could meet you, actually," you said, glancing up at her sheepishly. Her eyes widened. "I know we haven't been dating long, but they want to meet the woman that has their daughter 'so captivated', as my dad put it."

"Captivated, huh? I'm sure they meant they want to meet whoever turned their daughter into such a simp," she teased.

You glanced down, blushing. "We're not starting this tonight."

"If you would just admit you're a simp for me, then I'd never bring it up again." Her voice was soft as she stared at you. She looks so pretty in the candlelight.

"I'll never admit that, since it's just not true," you said, looking up. "But I will admit that...I'm in love with you."

A shiver ran through Tara at your words, butterflies stirring in her stomach. She loves me, she thought. She loves me back. "I--"

"You don't have to say it back," you started. "I know it's kind of soon, but I just...I wanted to say it." You inhaled deeply. "I love you, Tara."

Say it, you idiot. Say it. "Y/N," she breathed out. She stood and crossed the length of the table, pulling your seat out from beneath it so that she could stand in front of you. She grinned down at you. "I love you, too."

Tara leaned down and kissed you with as much passion as she could. She tried to pour every ounce of what she felt for you into the kiss, and she smiled against your lips when you stood up, never breaking contact once. You wrapped your arms around her waist, pulling her into you.

"You love me," you said when you pulled back just enough to speak, your breath brushing over her lips.

"I do." I really do. More than you know. Her hands found the back of your neck as she leaned up to kiss you again, her tongue swiping over your bottom lip. Your hold on her tightened. She never wanted you to let go.

You whispered, "Is this...I mean, should we--"

"Bedroom?" Tara asked. You nodded slowly. "Yes, please."

You giggled as you took Tara's hand, leading her to your bedroom. There was nothing fancy happening there--no rose petals or candles or dimmed lights--but she didn't care. She liked knowing that you hadn't planned to sleep with her, that you were doing all of this simply because you loved her.

She shut the door behind her as you sat on your bed, waiting patiently. Perfect. Painstakingly perfect. She climbed onto your lap, straddling your legs, and kissed you again. This time, it was less slow and calculated; it was filled with more want, with more lust.

You nipped at her bottom lip, and she whimpered, her hips rising a little and brushing against you. You grinned, hands slipping beneath her shirt and holding her by the waist, your thumbs rubbing over her bare skin.

She shivered, pulling away. "You're--This all okay, right?" she asked. You nodded, and she leaned in to kiss you again before pausing, her eyes catching on something across the room. You furrowed your eyebrows at her, turning around to see what she was looking at. "Sorry. I need to..."

Tara stood and crossed the room, turning the statue bust of Shakespeare around so that he was facing the corner. Much better, she thought. I don't need Mr. Shakespeare watching me have sex.

"Oh," you said, laughing. "I didn't realize he'd bother you."

She frowned as she walked back to you, settling in your lap again, your hands retaking the position they had. "I didn't want him watching."

"I'm sure Shakespeare has seen worse things."

"Oh, shush. You're making me feel silly now."

You leaned up and kissed her. "It's a little silly."

"Whatever." She pressed her lips against yours again, silencing your teasing. Her tongue ran over your bottom lip and you gasped, allowing her the entry she so desperately desired.

You kissed for a moment more before she was dipping down, her lips dancing across your jawline, up to the little spot below your ear, and then down your neck. Her mouth was hot and warm against your skin, leaving you whining beneath her. I can do better than whines, she thought as she nipped at your pulse point. You moaned, your hand flying to her scalp when she sucked against the skin, sure to leave a pretty mark.

Her hands busied themselves with the buttons of your shirt, fingers fumbling in her haste. Stupid buttons. I hate buttons. Why do buttons even exist-- Your shirt fell open and she pulled back, gulping at the sight of you.

You were breathing heavily, your hair was mussed, the hickey on your neck was a magnificent red, and you were staring at her with half-lidded eyes.

"Jesus, you're beautiful," Tara mumbled. You turned pink at her words, looking away shyly. She cupped your jaw and softly pushed your head back to look at her. "Really, Y/N. You are."

"Thank you, baby," you said.

How can she be so cute yet so hot at the same time? Tara took your shirt off, leaving you in just your bralette, and pushed at your chest lightly. You laid back, your head on your pillows as you looked up at her, watching, waiting.

She leaned down, pressing open-mouthed kisses to the skin of your chest, and giggled when she felt your hips buck up. "Impatient," she muttered.

"Leave me alone," you grumbled above her.

She climbed off you, fingers working at the button of your pants. "Next time we do this, can you just wear a t-shirt and sweats? It'll make things a lot easier for me," she joked.

You raised an eyebrow, smirking. "Next time?"

Tara huffed, the button finally coming undone, and she helped you out of your pants, pulling your underwear down with them. "Yes. Next time." She threw your pants somewhere behind her and hovered over you. "Unless you find me to be...unsatisfactory," she whispered, voice low.

You gulped. "M'sure that won't be the case."

She kissed you again before moving downward, planting kisses along your skin and creating marks on the plane of your stomach, until she settled between your legs. "You're dripping," she breathed out, and you whimpered at the air against you.

"Please, Tar," you whined, hips bucking ever so slightly. "Need you, baby."

She nodded, dipping down and licking a stripe through your folds, groaning at your taste. You moaned, the sound raw as it left your mouth, and Tara grinned. Beautiful, she thought as her tongue continued to explore you. Sounds so pretty.

She wrapped her lips around your clit, and she swore that the noise you made was the closest to heaven she'd ever get. She sucked lightly, then a little harder when your hand gripped her hair, pushing her against you.

"Fuck, Tar," you groaned. "Feels so good, baby."

She brought her hand up, slipped a finger into you, and hummed at the feel of your walls tight around her. Her tongue kept circling your clit, lips sucking at it, as she thrusted into you gently.

It didn't take long until you were writhing beneath her, the only sounds coming out of your mouth being broken moans and whines of her name.

"M'gonna cum," you whimpered.

Fuck yeah. She sucked harder, and you fell over the edge, crying out her name as your walls squeezed her. Your back arched, Tara following the curve with her eyes, before you lamely pushed at her shoulders. She pulled away and climbed up your body, grinning at the sight of your flushed face and closed eyes before kissing you softly.

"How was that?" she asked.

"Embarrassingly quick," you said, opening your eyes to look at her.

She giggled. "I'm good at what I do."

You hummed, hands finding her waist and flipping the two of you over. "Now let me show you that I'm good at what I do."

It was a whirlwind of color as you undressed her, and Tara barely got a word out before your lips were around her nipple, sucking at the hardened bud. She gasped, your mouth wet on her, and felt your fingers at her entrance.

"You thought I was dripping?" you teased.

"Shut up--" She moaned as you slipped a finger into her. Fuck, she thought. Long fingers.

You kissed her, lips pushed against her hard, before dipping down to her neck, sucking and kissing and licking while your finger worked at her, your thumb circling her clit.

Her mind was hazy and focused only on the way your finger curled against her just right. You slipped another one in, and she swore she saw stars.

Jesus, already? she thought briefly at the feeling of a pleasant knot tightening in her stomach. You mumbled something against her neck, but she wasn't paying any attention.

It only took one, two, three more thrusts before she was unraveling beneath you, a shuddering breath pushing past her lips as she came. You worked her through her orgasm, slipping out when she came down, and she pulled you into her, kissing you gently.

"I love you," you whispered.

She grinned. "I love you, too."

A moment passed before you asked, "Do you think I could turn my Shakespeare back around now?"

She's dead serious, isn't she? Tara rolled her eyes lightly and kissed you between your eyebrows. "Let me put my clothes back on."