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#Who sometimes has to leave for long periods of time

nu-suave · 2 days

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WHO FALLS FIRST, WHO FALLS HARDER? (pt. 2) feat. toji, suguru one, two

word count: 706

summary: who falls first, who falls harder? a/n: sorry i didn’t post the past few days… i did but i made myself angry at what i wrote so i deleted it all. you’ll be missed nanami kento x reader oneshot

Toji falls first, you fall harder. There aren’t many people he’s been able to be completely emotionally and physically vulnerable with; when you first openly offer that and show him no ill will or disdain, he doesn’t believe it. As time passes, though, he comes to accept it as a fact of your character - you simply are a safe person to him, and that’s a very unfamiliar feeling. Things rapidly become a lot more meaningful than he originally intended. He was going to mooch off of you, take a warm bed to sleep in or idle company while he gambled or meaningless conversation at the grocery market. It landslides from there. Physical affection, usually a means to an end, becomes something he genuinely wants. A lot of things about you become wants. He wants to touch you, wants to spend time with you, wants to get you things. It’s hard for him to recognise at first and, in all honesty, freaks him out. He doesn’t see himself as someone made for affection or domesticity or the kind of normal thing romance proves itself to be. It causes him to overcompensate at first - he makes biting comments and is a bit more reserved. He tries to scare you off, almost. He fails.

When you fall, it's about as graceless as Toji was. You’ve been friends for a while now, and in that limbo in between for nearly just as long. He hasn’t flirted with you or tried to push you into a relationship. If he’s being honest with himself, it’s because he thinks you’re too good for him - you deserve better than what he’s currently able to give you. Unfortunately (or maybe, more accurately, very fortunately) for him, you don’t feel the same way. When your feelings for Toji hit you, they hit you hard; you’re doing something mundane, like patching him up (an increasingly common occurrence) or chatting with him while he lazes on the couch, when he makes you laugh and the entire weight of your feelings hit you over a three-second period, leaving you numb with shock. Here’s to hoping you’re more proactive about your relationship than Toji is - you might be left in that period of requited pining for longer than either of you would like, until either you gain the courage to confess or he finishes attempting to pull himself together enough to feel like he can be something good for you.

You fall first, Suguru falls harder. He has a kind of effortless charisma that initially draws you to him; he’s charming, likeable, conscientious, and good looking to boot. You know from the very beginning that he’s the kind of person you usually fall for - you’re not wrong. It’s a spark that lights quickly, and it’s a gradual blurring of feelings until you look back on the early days of your friendship and wonder if there was ever a time you weren’t in love with him. He’s thoughtlessly respectful, never stepping over or pushing your boundaries - and sometimes picking up on them before you even need to say anything. It’s like he’s just tuned into your behaviour, and never crosses a line that’d make you uncomfortable. You never feel lesser in his presence or like you’re second place, even as you battle Satoru for his attention. Just by existing, Suguru makes the people around him feel heard.

When he falls, it’s over the course of a conversation. You’re both out with your friends, and Suguru is noticeably checked out of the conversation; he doesn’t talk much, is keeping to himself in the corner, replying to any attempts to engage him unenthusiastically. You pull him aside, asking how he is and if you want to ditch them together so he can get some fresh air. He does. During that night, it mounts and mounts; you engage him in light conversation, at some point just sitting beside him and not saying anything at all. You’re just there, an unobtrusive presence. It’s more comforting than you know, and as you bid each other goodbye at the end of the night, it hits him - how long has he been feeling this way about you? How long have you been this silent support for each other?

i really hate suguru's part lmao

#jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #toji x you #toji fushiguro x reader #fushiguro toji x reader #toji x reader #suguru getou x reader #suguru geto x reader #geto suguru x reader #suguru x reader #getou suguru x reader #getou x reader #geto x reader

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prone-to-fleeting-obsessions · 5 hours

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Dating Veritas Ratio hc's

Out of all the hsr men, I'd imagine he'd be the most irritated figuring out he has a crush

A crush? A stupid little manifestation of his irrational emotions???

He'll stew over it a while, picking it apart like the most complex of equations, his stoic expression not wavering

So what if he's around you often? So what if he unconsciously seeks you out, it doesn't mean anything...

He'll hammer that narrative over and over until it becomes truth, or as close to truth as his mind will allow

You'll act like a married couple, though

He'll scold you without any real irritation, eyes narrowing as he pulls you closer to just fix the problem himself

A leaf in your hair? Your sleeve unrolled? Coffee stain on your shirt?

Honestly, how could you be such a careless mess...

Wait, no. No don't go, you're his careless mess—

It'll become a new normal to just have him occasionally once over your appearance, looking for things he can fix and doing so without a word

He also takes it upon himself to make you a healthier and more rounded person

No you're not eating garbage calories for the third meal in a row, yes you are drinking a full glass of water as he reads you excerpts from his book on how quantum chemistry applies to theoretical engineering under Nous's 63rd law of imaginary quantum information science, and there will be a quiz after so pay attention

If asked about why he's often seen by your side, he'll usually answer with a glare and an insult, commenting on the lack of even borderline decent conversationalists around

You're probably not really going to get an actual confession out of him, because that would force him to admit defeat to those annoyingly persistent feelings that just won't leave him be

If you take the initiative of backing him into a corner, you get to watch him flounder a bit, an expression of agitation and a growing warmth throughout his whole body as he skirts the topic with overly complex excuses

He's a big fan of doing different things in the same space, talking isn't necessary

Occasionally, when he remembers you're still there, he'll glance up from his book to see how you're faring, before getting back into it

He has a bit of a staring problem, in a way

It's just that he's so up in his head often, usually easily loosing sight of his surroundings, and you just happen to be the most pleasing thing to keep his eyes on

He'll look away when he notices you staring back, but it's not long before you feel his eyes trained on you again, as if studying every little movement as he works out equations in his head

Of course he does need alone time, usually spent reading in the bath

But that period seems to be getting shorter and shorter as his focus is constantly broken by unconditionally looking around to find you while deep in thought

He will absolutely use you as a blank canvas to throw ideas and thoughts on if he can't work through something in his head

By explaining it to you in mind numbing detail, he'll usually run headfirst into the solution, and it's a treat to watch his eyes widen ever so slightly as he pauses, immediately thanking you curtly before moving straight to writing

Your sense of curiosity is his favorite trait, the one he wants to nurture and encourage you to feed

He's not expecting you to be as smart as him, that would be an impossible expectation, but he will not allow you to give in to ignorance, to get in the habit of complacency, as it is the enemy of growth

He's an intimidating figure to most, both from his status and sharp tongue, so it's not uncommon for low-level scientists with something to prove to seek you out

Sometimes to get information on him, sometimes to test your intelligence, as if trying to prove themselves better than the company the great Dr. Ratio chooses to keep

He's quick to nip that in the bud, though

His crossed arm stoic faced glare would scare away anyone who isn't keen on being picked apart verbally

He'll claim it's all to avoid tainting you with their idiocracy, and that you really shouldn't keep such company

Tries to use selfish logical excuses constantly to get things he wants from you

"I've already chosen your hotel room for this trip, it'll be next to mine so I don't have to travel as far to compare notes in the morning."

"Honestly. You're coming with me to dinner so I won't waste my time working around your schedule later."

"No. You are absolutely not going to get a closer look at those monsters because I'm not cleaning up the mess you'll no doubt get yourself into by being so reckless."

"You're really going to waste your valuable time entertaining those IPC buffoons? They have more credits than brain cells. Stay here, lest their ignorance rub off on you."

He means well, under the insults and unapproachable demeanor

And, at a certain point, he really can't imagine the rest of his life without you close by

#honkai star rail #hsr ratio #dr ratio #dr ratio x reader #hsr ratio x reader #my hcs #lowkey he's even intimidating to write for

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summerlovingbaby · 1 day

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okay so random ass Aaron hdc

i think Aaron has a horrible stomach

like really bad even when he was a kid and before he started using

he also has a pretty poor relationship with eating which doesn't help

so dude is pretty much constipated all the time

growing up in his environment he likely experienced food scarcity

and then he started using which only added to his stomach problems bc using drugs and health are not in the same sentence

and then Andrew locks him in the bathroom to detox, which makes him hate small closed-off spaces, specifically the bathroom

so being in the bathroom for long periods of time with the door closed, specifically pooping, stresses him out

and does not help with his bowel movements

Aaron could be in the bathroom for upwards of an hour and he can barely stand to be in it for more than 10 minutes with the door closed

and he's not about to shit with the door wide open so he just suffers through the mild stomach pain

he doesn't eat great or drink enough water which doesn't help

and he can go weeks without pooping sometimes

he tells Nicky who isn't quite sure how to help, but listens anyway

he can usually manage just fine with his stomach pain but sometimes it gets so unbearable that he can just sit there

like his back hurts, his head hurts, everything hurts

Nicky asks him about it, and Aaron explains that his stomach hurts, and lets it slip that he hadn't used pooped in 2 weeks

and Nicky is like dude wtf and is about to take him to the doctor

but aaron convinces him not to even though he feels absolutely awful and sick

and andrew walks in and looks at him curled up in his chair and studying and is like " does your stomach hurt?"

and he brushes it off about a bug, though its clear he's lying

andrew probably had constipation problems at one point due to the sexual abuse he suffered so he's empathetic

so he goes to the kitchen and makes aaron tea, and gives it to him with no explanation, saying it'll help

its a laxative tea, that used to help him, some combination of the warm temp. and the laxative makes it easy to shit

so aaron drinks it and like 30 minutes later he rushes to the bathroom and basically shits his bodyweight

he was in and out of the bathroom in less than 40 minutes, which is less than half the usual time it takes him when he's all stopped up the way he was then

and he leaves the bathroom, andrew is sitting outside by the door and just looks at him

and is like " you good?"

and Aaron is just horrified but nods and they never talk about it again, though aaron is really thankful

and Andrew doesn't exactly track his brother's diet and bathroom habits but he does keep an eye out to make sure aaron isn't suffering because he's to stubborn to admit hes constipated and needs help

also right after aaron detoxed he refused to be in any bathroom by himself so he makes Nicky go in with him for like a month straight, before he realizes how childish he is behaving

#all fo the game #all for the game #aftg #aaron minyard #andrew minyard #the sunshine court #the foxhole court #neil josten #andrew x neil #aftg trilogy #aftg neil

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i-heart-hxh · 1 day

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Could you ever see yourself falling out of love with hxh completely? I ask because I find myself going through phases of being obsessed and then not thinking about it at all but I always find myself coming back to it. But sometimes I wonder if one day I’ll just never come back. I feel like this fandom is really emotionally tiring to be w sometimes bc of how rarely togashi releases chapters, it feels like there’s kinda no hope? lol

It really helps though when I see users like you who have just been a constant for so long though

Hello!

Hmmm, I strongly doubt I'll ever move on from HxH. For one thing, once something truly wins me over I'm often a lifelong fan (I have multiple things I've been a fan of for many, many years and still deeply love), and also I feel like HxH has a few different factors that make it a source of endless fascination for me.

It's a multi-layered masterpiece with many different aspects and details to explore and enjoy and notice upon revisiting it

It fits my personal taste and interests very well, both as a series and as a fandom

The emotional hold it has on me has yet to fade at all--I think it just resonates with me so deeply that it's become a well of emotion that continues to fill

That said, part of how I can sustain interest in things over a long period of time is because I don't limit myself to HxH by any means: I watch/read a lot of other anime/manga, and I have other hobbies and interests as well. Even though I'm definitely obsessed with HxH primarily at this point, I'll get side obsessions with other things that give me some variety.

I definitely don't expect others to feel like they "have" to stick with HxH or any other fandom interest over the long-term, though, even though that's what makes me happy. Please do what feels right to you--whether that's staying, coming and going when you feel like it, or leaving and not coming back. There's not a set right or wrong way to enjoy things and ultimately only you can determine what brings you joy and what you want to spend your time and energy on.

It's true that the future of the series is very up in the air; it's certainly possible we won't ever get to see the end. But, I'm grateful for every chapter we get, I'm grateful for Togashi's hard work and amazing storytelling, and if we don't ever get to see how it ends, I'm still happy to have been on the journey nonetheless. I've taken Ging's words to heart in that sense. If Togashi is unable to finish the series, I'll cross that bridge when I come to it, but in the meantime I'll keep cheering him along and being excited for what's ahead.

#hxh #hunter x hunter #asks #anonymous #my posts #HxH is my favorite story ever out of everything I've experienced #it means a lot to me and I love it from a very deep place

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oifaaa · 1 year

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Yeah, as someone who was in boarding school a lot of my childhood- it's not neglect ffs. There are welfare roles, teachers, staff, other kids.

Do I have some issues with my parents now? Honestly yes, I do. I often wish they had been more involved.

But so do people whose parents have divorced or had to work a lot or honestly most people have issues with their parents.

Equating that to neglect??? When neglect is legally abuse? Is very serious

There are abusive/neglectful boarding schools but there are good ones and Tim went tk good ones

Yes boarding school can suck but between being home alone rather than with friends/teachers who raised me, I know which I'd pick. Most of my friends from college did not come from the same privilege I did and their parents also worked super hard but they didn't have the resources to pay for something like boarding school. I consider myself very fortunate!

Boarding school gave me community and an amazing education. My parents placing me there and paying for me was them taking care of me. And I can recognise that I'm extremely privileged for being able to have that education

(On anon because it's personal but no pressure to reply if you don't feel like it isn't relevant)

I think people throw around terms like negligence and abuse way too often when it comes to Tim without actually knowing what those terms mean and it results in people getting the wrong idea about his child hood which like considering I also grew up in a household were I never saw my parents since they both went out to work before I woke up in the morning and weren't home till after I went to sleep I don't get the fuss parents need to work it happens doesn't qualify as neglect and yeah we can talk about boarding school and how they can be good and bad but Tim never seems to have a problem with his and yeah I still think it would have been worse for Tim if his parents had flown him off to every corner of the earth like that's no life for a child

#ask #anon #Also I do find it funny #Bc someone on the last ask pointed out that Tim didn't always know where his parents were #And all I could think was #I'm 25 years old and I still don't know what either of my parents do as jobs or where they ran off to when I was a kid #Like I know one of my dad's jobs is farmer but that's not his main job #Is it normal to know what your parents do for a living I'd argue no #That's their business #I was busy playing Simpsons hit and run #Also speaking of Tim's parents just reminds me of another archeologist parent #Who sometimes has to leave for long periods of time #Bandit heeler he had a whole episode about having to leave sometimes

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suffarustuffaru · 4 months

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What If Julius and Subaru both met when Julius was a commoner and Subaru got transported Sooner

fun stuff im sure !! but haah okay given julius was a kid when he was a commoner - yeah theyre both kids here!! not sure how old but definitely somewhere before the age of ten. and i think theyd be up to some shenanigans together im sure!! theyre both very mischevious kids (or from what little we know of little kid julius, given iirc tappei hasnt specified just How Much of a "delinquent" little kid julius is okay. but hes definitely the type to sneak out past curfew or something. stay up late reading too, probably. that sort of thing). and also subarus a kid and no way he ISNT missing home poor guy T^TT getting ripped away from home like that is bad enough at seventeen, getting ripped away from home when you are like. no more than eight or something is Bad. but luckily!! im assuming subaru gets found by the juukuliuses (julius's parents probably?) and thats how julius and subaru form their friendship / long-term yearning for each other (if you so desire that) (okay but no way subaru ISNT gonna form long-term yearning for julius flajsdlf). but yes i think julius and subaru would be silly happy kids together and julius's parents would be like oh no this other kid is so lost where is he from :(( but hes so loved by julius already too... well we got another kid under our roof now.

except. julius's parents die in a flood. so i mean. Hypothetically.... either julisuba survive this one first try or subaru dies for the first time. which. ohh god. oh god. oh g -

#IM. IM JUST GONNA LEAVE ON THAT OMINOUS NOTE #yeah so i think this would turn into childhood friends to Possibly Mutual Pining but actually it might not be mutual if you wanna interpret #reinjuli a certain way. but then but THEN later it can become mutual if u so want #like when u know a person for such a long period of time u change over time. u know?? both you and the relationship u have with this person #has its alterations over time!! thats just how it b but if youre meant to be together youll stick it out <3 #julisuba in every universe they befriend each other for good is #Bound to be together for the rest of their lives. To Me. they are soulmates to Me okay their relationship is important #regardless of what form it takes!!! they could grow to think of each other like brothers in an au like this if u so desire too!! which i #think would be really touching <3 #yeah so. julisuba childhood friends au. shit goes haywire sometimes. its really awful bc subarus a kid so u can imagine the kind of fucked #stuff hes learning rn hahaha. or you can go the happier route and subaru doesnt learn about rbd until later </3 #either way. julisuba real. subarus an eldritch horror. these are both crucial facts for every timeline #i think julius would probs be a bit better having a companion by his side from the very beginning throughout all of this for sure!!#and someone who Gets the jealousy / do i want to be with him or Be him ;-;#i have a fondness for reinjulisuba (THE MESSIEST LOVE TRIANGLE YOUVE EVER SEEN)#and ok if subarus an eldritch horror since childhood then he and reinhard are gonna have Even More in common #hooray for childhood joys and traumas!!!!!#also julisuba visit julius's parents graves :(( leave nice flowers there im sure #subaru-joshua hostility begins also. that sort of thing #rezero #re:zero #ask #natsuki subaru #julius juukulius

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smoft-demons · 2 months

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MC falls asleep on him

_______

Lucifer:

‘…?!’ Is what Lucifer is thinking as your head drops onto his shoulder.

You had cajoled him into doing some of his constant paperwork in a bigger chair for a change. So there’s room for you to sit next to him! You’re not even demanding his attention, or the spare time that he doesn’t have, you’re being very considerate, you just wanted sit next to him, that’s all, you had promised!

Lucifer caved, because he is very soft for his human—even though he’s loathe to look like it. You were in fact being considerate… so he had brought a stack of relatively low-importance papers out of his office, into the living room.

You were sitting on a couch together, him with his stack of administrative papers and you with a homework assignment. You finished yours quickly, so you ended up playing a game on your DDD as you lean against him.

He checks on you periodically out of the corner of his eye. He’s relaxed though—as relaxed as Lucifer gets. This is peaceful. Meditative, almost. He’s happy. All his brothers are elsewhere, his tasks are not too overwhelming, he gets to have a nice, calming afternoon sitting in companionable silence with his favourite housemate…

A sudden weight falling on him jolts him out of his trance. Your cheekbone thunks against his shoulder. He blinks. Processing.

In quick succession, his brain goes like ‘..?!’ then ‘it is mid-afternoon why are you sleeping’ and ‘have we been overworking our human?’ and ‘aww. MC really does trust me that much.’

He adjusts the way you’re situated so you’re more comfortable as he finishes up the last of his work. When he’s done, he takes a moment to just observe. To appreciate your trust in him. Also, to congratulate himself again for his part in the creation of the exchange program, because it brought you into his life.

(He tries to ignore the stubborn twinge of nostalgic heartache he feels as well. You’re reminding him so much of Belphie, from back when his relationship with him was good. He’d never admit it, but he misses having his babiest brother fall asleep on him like this.)

Lucifer gathers up his papers, then picks you up, being careful not to jostle you too much. Let no one ever say he doesn’t take good care of his human. He carries you to your room to put you to bed. Clearly you need the extra sleep. Or… well, he tries to. You’re holding onto him pretty insistently.

He expects himself to feel irritated, but… no. He can’t help but feel a little smug, actually. It’s cute, you’re cute, you don’t seem to want him to leave you. So… fine. He’ll oblige. For a short break.

(An hour or two later, you’ll wake up to the smells and sounds of dinner being prepared. You’re… not under your blanket? No, you’re covered by Lucifer’s ridiculously long coat. It’s warm, soft. It smells like him. In this moment, it’s impossible to miss how loved you are.)

_______

Mammon:

The first time this happened (in your room, watching movies without any of his brothers for once), Mammon was stunned. He had frozen up, stuttered some nonsense to no one in particular, then quickly slapped his free hand over his mouth as he realized he would wake you if he didn’t immediately chill out.

Now though? You’ve been in his life for a while. He’s your oldest friend here. Those movie nights had become a habit, even though it remained rare to have one with no one else joining in. So this has happened a lot, and he’s gotten used to it. He doesn’t react so outwardly anymore, not unless one of his brothers show up to make fun of him.

If they try it, Mammon is rather aggressive about shushing them. At first, because he hated to be so obvious about how much he cares about you, but now that he’s a bit more used to it, it’s because he doesn’t want them to disturb you. He feels like he’s protecting you by keeping his brothers from waking you up. Sometimes, he’s the one who wakes you up by telling them to shut up just a bit too loudly, or silently gesturing for them to be quiet or go away a little too enthusiastically.

His brothers roast him even more for that. Poor thing.

Time and time again, you pass out on his shoulder. During a movie, mid relaxed hangouts with various groups of the brothers, in the rare times when hanging out solo with Mammon is a relaxing low-energy affair, while studying, during the lunch break at school, even in class sometimes. His heart warms, and he can’t help but smile at the familiar feel of you conked out on his shoulder again. He doesn’t even mind if you snore.

Mammon is usually such a loud, high energy person. Neither you nor him finds anything wrong with that of course, it’s one of many lovable things about him. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t like being able to just chill with you sometimes though. It’s nice.

Eventually, he gets familiar enough with this that he’s willing to move you around to get more comfortable. With time, he learns exactly what ways he can move you without disturbing you. So most of the time when you fall asleep on him, you wake up in some other position. Sitting in his lap, lying down with a sleeping Mammon wrapped around you, being carried to another room, propped up against his side in your next class, being hugged like a teddy bear in his room, etc etc.

He never questions why you’re tired. He just lets you pass out on him. He wants you to be in the best possible condition, and he will happily take all the time with you he can get. He takes this to mean that you also want all the time with him that you can get, that you would rather stay with him than go to bed when you’re tired because you would rather not be separated from him. Just like how he feels about you. Why else would he be in your room as often as he is?

You trusting him enough to sleep on him all the time makes him feel like he’s being a good guardian demon, like he’s as precious to you as you are to him.

He’s a fan of all the free cuddles he gets out of this, too.

_______

Levi:

You’re in Levi’s room with him, set up very comfortably as you’re marathoning an anime together. You’ve been at it for hours though, you’re already a bit sleep deprived, and you’ve seen this one a few times already. You can’t stop yourself from nodding off. Your head drops onto his shoulder.

Levi freaks out.

“afgshrjdxssh—WH-!” He flails. You immediately snap awake again. “You—uhh-!” He shoves you away in a panic, then immediately changes his mind, pulling you back in, then freezes for a moment before letting go of you to flap his hands frantically. “Nonono stay—wait no, you don’t want to—I mean, you don’t have to—I mean, get o—uhh! Um! I mean! S-stay if you want, but I don’t care if you don’t want to—!”

You blink slowly at him a couple times. Trying to parse his contradictory sputtering. You’re tired, you’re not working at full brain power. You figure he means something along the lines of: ‘ooo I’m Levi, I have bad self esteem and I can’t believe you want to touch me, but I want you to, but I can’t say that because I cope with feeling unlovable by acting all tsundere because that way I feel less pathetic, love you though!’

You know. Standard Levi stuff. You love him so much—and you’d be very happy if he started therapy.

For now though, you just grab his arm and pull him closer to you again. You bury your face in his shoulder. This time, it’s unmistakably a deliberate move. Wordlessly telling him that you do in fact love him enough to want to touch him.

It’s like his body just took a screenshot! He keysmashes out loud.

Slowly, he calms down. He puts one hesitant arm around you. You don’t move. He can’t tell if you’re already asleep again or just pretending to be, but either way you seem to be comfortable.

Soon enough, he finds himself smiling like an absolute dork. This… is actually very effective reassurance. He feels all warm and fuzzy and loved. He likes holding you.

It’s reminding him of TSL fluff fics he’s read where absolutely nothing happens except Henry and the Lord of Shadows cuddle. A way for him to experience affection vicariously through a character he relates to and a character he loves, when he really wants hugs himself but can’t have any.

He squeezes you softly as his heart warms. He squishes his cheek against the side of your head.

“I love my Henry..!” Levi mumbles to himself, under his breath. He has no way of knowing if you heard that, which is why he said it out loud. It’ll be a while until he gets the nerve to say it when he knows you can hear.

_______

Satan:

He is HONOURED, he is OVERJOYED, he is MELTING, he is… very carefully remaining perfectly chill.

It’s the same type of happiness as when a cat decides to sit on you out of nowhere. He’s been chosen!

He is SO happy you trust him so much!

He had been reading, as usual. You had been sitting next to him, as usual. You had gotten tired, and without a moment of hesitation you had buried your face in his shoulder and fallen asleep.

He carefully contains all the joy this gives him, so he doesn’t disturb you. He wraps an arm around you, plants a soft kiss on your head, and goes right back to reading.

If you sleep fitfully, he’ll stroke your hair to soothe you.

When you wake up, he’ll ask if you had a nice nap. He won’t make any moves to make you get off him. If you choose to anyway, he won’t react outwardly, because he doesn’t want to discourage you falling asleep on him again. He wants this to happen lots more! So he’ll just smile at you and go back to his book.

But if you don’t choose to leave, he’ll shift you entirely into his lap to make you both more comfortable. He can hug you properly like this. If he’s sure you’ll be comfortable with it, he’ll kiss your forehead before going back to his book. He’s very happy to keep you there.

_______

Asmo:

Predictably, Asmo’s gonna take ALL the pictures of this!

A few in which he doesn’t look at the camera, as if they were candid shots. Some where he’s posing cutely, a couple where he’s kissing your head, a bunch of various angles of your sleeping face. What can he say, he thinks the way your cheek squishes against his collarbone is just precious.

A bit less predictably, he posts none on devilgram. No, these are just for him.

…maybe the best ones are for the group chat. He’s gotta show off his cute human to someone, it may as well be to his brothers. They’ll appreciate you properly. He’ll share after you’ve woken up, though. He doesn’t want anyone barging in to disturb you.

He’ll share the pictures with you as well if you ask, of course! What he will NOT do, however, is risk you deleting them! He’ll back them up first. He’ll store them in a hidden album if you’re shy about them, but he’s not deleting them!

Well, unless you’re genuinely uncomfortable. Then, okay fine. But please let him keep at least one? You’re so cute!

He’ll be more affectionate over the following days. Trying to be next to you all the time, inviting you to his room at every opportunity, pulling you to sit next to him. All because he hopes you’ll fall asleep on him again. Or just lean on him like that, and let him cuddle you. Please, he’d be SO happy!

_______

Beel:

Beel is so used to this behaviour. Belphie falls asleep on him all the time. He’d be the most chill about it.

As if it’s routine, he’ll secure you in your position with his arm, so you can’t fall and get hurt. He’ll rub your back and hum softly to you to help you relax if you don’t seem to be sleeping well. Beel is warm and soft and big and comfy, like the giant teddy bear he is at heart. He’s considerate and gentle. He’s always really sweet to you, and that doesn’t change one bit even when you’re unconscious.

When he inevitably gets too hungry to stay where he is, he’ll just take you to the kitchen with him. It’s no problem, he does this with Belphie all the time. It doesn’t matter how much you weigh, Beel can carry you easily. He thinks nothing of it.

He can cook one handed too if he needs to. He’s got practice—also because of Belphie. He’s chilling, he’s comfortable, there’s nothing unusual about this at all to him.

If the kitchen noises wake you up, he’ll apologize and share his food with you. He’ll tell you outright that he’s happy to let you use him as a pillow whenever you want.

(Also, he makes a mental note to drop you off with Belphie instead of bringing you along to the kitchen and risking waking you up again next time)

If it doesn’t wake you up, no problem! That’s what he expected. He just carries you around as he does what he needs to do around the house. He’ll put you to bed properly if he needs to go outside of course, but otherwise he’s bringing you with him.

When you wake up, he’ll put you down if you somehow indicate that’s what you want. If you don’t though, he just… won’t. He likes holding you. He’d do it so often if he thought you’d like him to.

_______

Belphie:

…Welp. The table has turned, hasn’t it.

People don’t fall asleep on Belphie while he’s awake too often! He’s not usually conscious to experience this! He likes it though. He thinks you’re being so cute.

9 times out of 10, Belphie will take this as his cue to cuddle up to you and join you in sleep. He can always be tempted into a nap. He’d make sure this the comfiest, nicest, most restful nap you’ve ever taken. He’d make sure you feel so safe and loved. You will NOT be disturbed on his watch.

On the rare tenth time, when Belphie isn’t tired, he might whine about being trapped. When one of his brothers points out that he can move you very easily, he glares at them. He maintains that it’s illegal to move when you’ve been chosen as someone’s pillow. When it’s pointed out that he’s perfectly capable of waking you if he really wants to get up, he looks affronted. He would NOT do that, he says. Do they think he’s completely heartless, he asks.

Well. He wouldn’t do that unless he’s feeling particularly bratty. He’d totally do it to any of his brothers… but he’s soft with you. He loves you. Be so for real, do you think he’d really ever pass up an opportunity to cuddle you? No way. He can go shopping later.

He won’t tell you that though. He’ll bitch about it to your face, complaining until you agree to go shopping with him next time, all the while refusing to let go of you.

He already was not hesitating to fall asleep on you, but he somehow gets more shameless and constant about it. Since you’re doing it too, it’s your thing now. You’d be a hypocrite to complain now.

Yeah, he couldn’t be happier about this. Please sleep on him all the time. Enable him even more! He’ll make sure you won’t regret it.

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kokofromwattpad · 1 year

Text

CUDDLES

Featuring: Dorm leaders

Plot: The way how different twst characters sleep with and without you and their sleeping habits.

Cw: fluff, spooning(Riddle and Vil), snoring (Leona and Azul), mentions of boobs (Kalim), drool (idia)

Note: You can obviously tell who my favorite is.

RIDDLE ROSEHEARTS:

Before you:

He sleeps like a old man. Like, fingers crossed over his stomach, or he sleeps like a corpse. He is very silent when he is sleeping only letting out very soft breaths.

With you:

Riddle is either sleeping fetal position into your arms or being spooned. I feel like after having an extremely long day, all he wants to do is be held.

Without you:

He has zero clue what to do with his hands. So all he does is take one of his pillows and cuddles with that. Sometimes he gets mad just as he is about to fall asleep and just chucks the pillow across the room.

LEONA KINGSCHOLAR:

Before you:

He snores like a dad. Like, you know you sometimes when your dad is busy snoring and then he chokes on his own saliva mid snore... yea... thats Leona. Also he sleeps like a hot mess. Half of his body is off the bed and the other is barely hanging on.

With you:

Living blanket. Like, he just lays his entire body weight on top of you like a blanket. At first it felt like attempted murder, but after a while you got used to it and now you can't fall asleep without weight on top of you.

Without you:

He twists his blankets into a long noodle so that it (kinda) feels like he's cuddling you. Also, his tail is swishing the same way an angry cat does the entire time he is sleeping.

AZUL ASHENGROTTO:

Before you:

Completely normal. Maybe a hand under the pillow(?) Snores. The tweels used to make fun of him for that when they were kids but got used to it eventually.

With you:

Koala mode: activated. His legs are twisted through your legs and arms attached to your torso like superglue. He nuzzles his face in the crook of your neck and sometimes even leaves little kisses there.

Without you:

He refuses to sleep without you. Period. He got so used to sleep with you in his arms that it has become a condition for him to sleep. He will either stay in his office, busy with paperwork, studying for an upcoming test or reading a book you recommended him in his bed.

KALIM AL-ASIM:

Before you:

I headcannon that he sleeps fetal position. But like, on his stomach. His face is smashed into the pillow, which causes bedhead and he becomes scarily still (Jamil sometimes comes in and checks if he's still alive.)

With you:

He does not give a shit if you have tiddies or not, he is shoving his face into your chest like it's no-one's business. You have never slept so damn good until the day you started sleeping with Kalim in his fucking king sized bed made from swan feathers or something close to it.

Without you:

Tosses and turns, ruining the sheets and making it dirty. He usually gets up and starts pacing the room, trying to tire himself out, but failing miserably. Kind of just lays there.

VIL SCHOENHEIT:

Before you:

Looks like a fucking angel. His hair perfectly frames his head and he just looks so damn peaceful. I bet he listens to nature sounds whenever he can't sleep since him losing sleep is a big no-no.

With you:

He likes to spoon. He only big spoons, if not, then he's pushing you (affectionately♡) off the bed. He has gotten accustomed to your light snoring, kind of using it like a non-verbal lullaby.

Without you:

Can sleep, but not as nicely as when you do. Kind of turns a bit, but he does fall asleep normally. Gets a sad gut feeling whenever he wakes up without you next to him.

IDIA SHROUD:

Before you:

Probably never sleep willingly. He probably would just pass out from exhaustion ever once-in-awhile. But when he does sleep, he drools like a fucking dog. Like, entire pillow case damp from his drool. He has gained mild control over this, but is still considered a problem.

With you:

He wants to cuddle like how anime couples do. He specifically likes it when you sleep on his chest, your weight feeling the same as when a cat lays on him. He also gained a condition in order to fall asleep. He must stroke your hair gently while you mutter in your half-asleep state on how much you love and adore him.

Without you:

After he started dating you, he finally decided to get a better sleep schedule so he could spend more time with you, rather than being passed out, looking half dead. So he got a plain body pillow (He didn't get a cover as he thought it would be a betrayal of your trust) He cuddles the body pillow the same way he does to you.

MALLEUS DRACONIA:

Before you:

He slept the same way as Riddle, like a corpse. He is completely silent and does not move at all in his sleep.

With you:

He became absolutely addicted to cuddling once you introduced it to him. He would shove you into his chest, kind of like the two of you were hugging, but he has an absolute death grip on you.

Without you:

The skies have a green hue to them as lightning cracks. He is pissed at who or what made you not want or have the time to sleep with him. He would sneak out of his dorm and (break in) sneak into your dorm. He would then climb into bed with you and then instantly fall asleep.

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dredgesnails · 28 days

Text

stardew valley au where joel and skizz are new residents to pelican town (hermit town?). joel just inherited a large farm from his late grandfather and skizz is moving in with his old friend after reconnecting with him and wanting a fresh start. and the townspeople are like, kinda weird.

bdubs is fine enough - he’s a sweet man with a fun personality and he’s the local builder, but it’s almost frightening how fast he constructs new buildings when joel needs them. pearl, their resident postmaster, is also pretty normal other than the fact that skizz never seems to be awake early enough to catch her delivering mail. scar is lovely but he’s never available when joel wants another chicken. the mayor, xisuma, is pleasant too, if a little eccentric at times, but he doesn’t really seem to do much in town.

for the most part, skizz is settling in well. he’s moved in with impulse, who runs the local blacksmith in town, and he gets along well with most of the local townspeople. he’s started spending his evenings at the local saloon listening to ren regale the patrons with fantastical tales while he and stress serve up food and drinks, and he finds himself growing close with cleo, the local sculptor. he even gets a new wardrobe from hypno free of charge, and sometimes helps cub out with his totally scientific studies and creations.

skizz also joins forces with beef (who helps to supply the local general store that xb and keralis run) in terrorising the local manager of the corporate chain grocery store that no one likes. doc is a terrible manager but would make a fun supervillain (according to joe hills, the bookseller who appears once in a blue moon but seems to know doc more than anyone in town).

joel, on the other hand, seems to only be interacting with the strangest residents in town. he discovers the adventurer’s guild after only a couple weeks, and is only somewhat irritated by iskall’s refusal to pronounce his name correctly. false promises to give him prizes if he can kill enough monsters, which is not something joel had expected to be doing when he pictured farm life, but here he is. he stumbles upon a travelling cart one day, and the man inside insists he’s a knight from a faraway land, that he risked his life to make it all the way here to sell his wares. it’s all stuff joel can get cheaper elsewhere.

he’s pretty sure the local doctor has no real medical training, but then he passes out while fighting monsters and he wakes up completely fine, so zedaph probably knows what he’s doing. maybe. when joel isn’t passing out he sometimes makes trips to the library-slash-museum, which is probably almost completely empty because mumbo, who begs joel for anything to display, looks like he’s never fought a duggie in his life. eventually mumbo gives joel a key to the sewers, which are way cooler than they have any right to be, and that’s where he finds jevin’s secret sewer shop. jevin lives in town. he just also has a shop hidden underground. joel has stopped asking questions by now.

and then there are the three who live by the beach. etho spends most of his time tinkering around the fishing hut or hovering around bdubs, but sometimes he drives the bus to the desert. only sometimes. there might be something under his mask. no one knows for sure. gem runs the fish shop most days and she claims she’s a sailor, but joel has never seen a single working boat around despite all the ocean. she can also hold her breath underwater for an uncannily long amount of time, like, scarily so, and will sometimes disappear for a few days and return with an abundance of treasures. joel has never seen her leave by boat. grian fishes a lot and runs the shop when gem can’t, and he sometimes talks as though the sea can speak to him. skizz has caught him staring into space for extended periods of time. one time he waded into the water and just stood there, head down, muttering to himself.

apparently there used to be a lighthouse but “it’s gone now”. gem says if they ask bdubs nicely enough maybe they can build another one, but she and grian are banned from build requests after the last incident with their pet snails (joel has never seen the snails, but scar complains about them enough to convince him they’re real).

there also might be some kind of wizard who lives in the creepy tower in the woods. skizz has heard he’s the one who helps maintain the power in the valley, and joel’s convinced he hallucinated seeing him once until he recieves a letter from the wizard himself, and visits him only to find that the strange fire-creature he saw that one time was, in fact, tango, who is human for the most part, he just sets himself on fire sometimes.

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leclsrc · 1 year

Text

it’s never over ✴︎ cl16

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

word count: 12.9k

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

nsfw warnings under the cut!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

“Who told you about that nickname?”

“Lorenzo.”

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

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

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

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

“It’s fine.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

“Mum—”

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

“Um.”

“Because… I’ve been…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You can.”

“No.”

“Fine. Next best thing then.”

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

“Pretend you’re dating.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Charles balks. “How did you even—”

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

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

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

You both nod, hyperfocused.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Got the IT team to fortify my account.”

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

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

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

—

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

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

“How’s uni?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You can tell me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

“I was thinking more seafood.”

“Tuna? Make ‘em little tacos.”

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

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

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

“It is not not okay.”

“So it’s…” You pause. “Okay.”

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

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

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

—

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

“We need to talk.”

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

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

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

“Tais-toi. It’s for her own good.”

“So you’re going to pretend to date.”

“Ouais.”

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

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

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

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

“So how about her birthday?”

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

“Nervous?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sure.”

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

“Dream on. On y va?”

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

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

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

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

“It’s seven,” you beam. “Dumbass.”

“Again with the competitive streak.” memory

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

“No you’re just a—hi, hi, hello!”

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

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

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

“Texas,” Charles says at the same time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh.”

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

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

“… crazy about her forever.”

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You.”

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

“If you don’t want to—”

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

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

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

“First.” He looks away.

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

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

“Put me down, loser!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That was more than enough.”

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

“Did Papa?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Why do you care?”

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

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

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

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

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

“No, about her brand new dress.”

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then you’re quiet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

You purse your lips. “Charles—”

“A golden shower, mate. Absolutely.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“When will you two wed?”

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

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

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

“Si, he did.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of?”

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

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

“Now?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

“Okay, that’ll be me.”

“So that’s us.”

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

–

read an omitted scene here :)

#f1 #charles leclerc #charles leclerc smut #charles leclerc fluff #charles leclerc imagines #charles leclerc fanfic #charles leclerc drabble #charles leclerc x reader #f1 x reader

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celestialtarot11 · 1 month

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Astrology Observations 🧎‍♂️‼️

Hi friends! Today we’re just doing a general post for the astrological signs 🤭✨ Please enjoy and share! Your feedback is always appreciated.

Earth sign energy is heavy and dark, not negative, but they are very connected to their roots, ancestors and past lives. They carry lots of baggage from the past to heal in this lifetime, and thus may feel they lived through many timelines and cycles. They can feel similarly to Scorpio that experienced tons of transformations.

Libra moons can be indecisive in relationships, not because they have a bad sign placement but because they care a lot about people’s feelings. Sometimes too much to their detriment. They’d rather keep the peace than to rock the boat, but that’s what causes tension. Libra moons just need more confidence and security in their choices, and focus on themselves 🧘

Cancer Venus from a young age experienced misunderstandings from the people around them. Cancer venus wants a close community and people who understand their emotions, but in an emotionally unavailable society they can feel neglected and lonely. Its why cancer venus develops walls to protect their heart. They still care, but it takes them a long time to open up.

Virgos remember little details of everyone and hope they can do the same for them. They essentially give what they need and Virgos need attention and someone who creates quality time.

Gemini venus crave communication and mental stimulation in their connections. They love to learn and interact with people. Gemini Venus can also experience lots of isolation or periods of alone time because they aren’t finding the right people to connect to. They’d rather be alone than to have surface level interaction and filler conversations.

Leo + Aquarius pairing in a chart can indicate the native is truly unique and unforgettable. They strive so much to be themselves that it inspires others to do so. Some may even idolize the native, and others can get jealous because the native has qualities they wish they had. The native basically inspires others to get a personality 💅🏻

Mercury 8h can be so funny. We can get picky about what personal info to leave in the outside world. Even the idea of leaving behind our birthday info can irk us 😭 why? I think being in the spotlight or being perceived can be difficult for us.

Adding onto that, mercury 8h can channel spirits, occult knowledge, spirit guides, etc. when they tap in, they TAP in. They did not come to play 😍 All they need is a good meditation sesh and they’re good to go 🧘 all powered up.

Jupiter 8h can go through so many endings and terrible situations and still somehow come out stronger and better. They take their healing and growth seriously, and I think Jupiter 8h people have big hearts, so they always reconnect with that energy which is what carries them 😤

Cancer + Leo in a chart makes someone mystical, ethereal, private, yet somehow well known. There will always be an aspect to these natives to hide to protect themselves, and yet their Leo side will try to guide them out their comfort zone.

Aries rising females always knew who they were since birth 🤭 they could’ve photographed a lot, dressed up a lot, and it’s iconic. Since birth they knew! Aries rising females can be human rights activists too, because they have strong opinions, perspectives and believe in empowerment. Aries rising females may also be into modeling, because since a young age they were surrounded by cameras and people who thought they were beautiful ❤️

Aquarius rising children always look upset in their pictures or they have that thousand mild yard stare 😭 help #me

Sagittarius rising children always had that mischievous look on their face in every picture, or they looked incredibly angry. They had no issue letting their true selves out 😤

Pisces women tend to move far from their home town or childhood home. Lots of them have dreams of living far away from their roots. I think its to discover who they are and rebuild themselves after going through a lot. They physically need to disconnect from toxic environments to heal.

Gemini sun women are like teachers in many ways. Especially when they’ve healed a lot. They can be a teacher to the siblings around them or people. Many turn out to be motivational speakers because they have so much wisdom to share.

Thank ya’ll so much for reading 💗☮️ feel free to like comment and reblog to support the blog 🧘✨ Have a great one!

Paid Readings ✨

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bby-deerling · 1 month

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Can you do a HC about living (as their gf) with their bad habbits? With Zoro, Law, Kid and Luffy 😊

this was so fun to write! here you go nonny :)

dealing with their bad habits headcanons

ft. zoro, law, kid, luffy

masterlist || commissions

luffy

he is awful about stealing food from your plate, to the point where it's hard not to snap and yell at him sometimes, even though he looks so darn cute when he makes puppy-dog eyes at you, the crumbs of your meal still stuck to the corners of his mouth. forgiving him is hard sometimes, but sanji is always willing to lock your captain out of the kitchen and make you another plate.

isn't the best listener. you'll be telling him a story, or something important or emotional and he'll either completely space out or get distracted by a bug, or a game usopp and chopper are playing. you'll have to learn to not take things personally—he doesn't mean to be rude, he just doesn't have the attention span for deep conversations sometimes.

luffy is incredibly stubborn. it's his way or the highway sometimes (most times), and he'll either pull the captain card or pout and whine incessantly to get his way. there's no getting around his iron will, and you'll have to learn to compromise with him and let him do whatever it is he's so determined to do (or call over nami to bonk him over the head and knock some sense into him).

zoro

he has the tendency to get really engrossed in his training. as a result, he often loses track of time and can end up missing important events; he's stubborn and unwilling to compromise when it comes to striving to reach his dream, so you'll have to make peace with the fact that becoming the world's greatest swordsman will always be his priority.

zoro drinks. a lot. he never gets drunk, but he can get tipsy at times. when he does he can get boisterous, which is cute, but has the potential to grind gears when it's three in the morning and he's still determined to keep the party going.

doesn't shower as much as he probably should. everyone else around him exaggerates how long he goes without showers, but he still lets himself marinate enough to the point where his scent of musk and steel is a little bit overbearing at times. if you're not a freak like me who is really into that, you'll have to get creative in order to entice him to bathe more often.

kid

god is this man loud. always shouting and never shuts up. when he drinks, it gets even worse, and he's always getting himself into trouble by running his mouth. it's never anything he can't handle with a few punches and a bit of magnetism, but you'll have to get used to the fact that he's brash to a fault.

he tends to prioritize spending time with killer over your relationship at times. he never notices himself until you're fuming mad at him, but if you talk to killer privately, he'll make and effort urge kid to hang out with you instead before things boil over too severely.

in addition to him being prone to just saying anything on his mind, he has no concept of a filter or privacy, especially if he thinks something is funny—anything that happens between you two is subject to being shared with everyone aboard the victoria punk, unless you really beat it into his head that certain things aren't to be blabbed about (and even then, he's forgetful sometimes—another bad habit of his).

law

he is prone to getting moody and emotional, and tends to distance himself from you during these periods. truthfully, he secretly wants you to chase after him and dote on him, but he's too prideful to ask for it, so you'll have to observe him closely to figure out what his real emotional needs are.

sometimes he slips into his "captain voice" when he's talking to you in private and will accidentally order you to do something that he's easily capable of doing himself. he doesn't mean to do it, it's just a reflex that he has to unlearn—though he still slips up at times, which leaves you a tiny bit miffed.

he forgets to put the toilet seat down sometimes, especially when you first start staying in his room. he's so used to having his own bathroom that the thought doesn't even cross his mind until you complain about it. he makes a conscious effort, but every so often you nearly fall into the toilet bowl in the middle of the night and have to swallow your annoyance.

#one piece x reader #one piece headcanons #zoro x reader #law x reader #eustass kid x reader #luffy x reader #roronoa zoro x reader #monkey d luffy x reader #trafalgar law x reader #eustass kidd x reader #law x you #zoro x you #luffy x you #one piece fanfiction

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graphicpepsi · 15 days

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euphoria (nsfw, mdni)

OR: what happens when you and König move in together

Sex. lots of it.

Waking up to his hard dick poking your ass from under the sheets. Waking up to him grinding against the mattress, muttering sweet nothings into his pillow. It's sweet.

You're no exception; König can't count the number of times he's woken up to the feeling of your wet folds grinding against his leg, your eyes shut in an innocent sleep; soft little moans escaping from your lips as you desperately hump at his side.

Neither one of you can help it- his scent drives you fucking crazy, does something to you. And if he groans in his sleep? You're done. Wet and bothered for the next few hours until you either fall asleep or wake him up. (He hasn't let you take care of yourself since moving in)

During the day, his hands are always on you. You could be innocently cooking breakfast one moment, and the next be bent over the counter with no panties and his tongue in your pussy. (Why would you cook breakfast when he could just eat you?)

As much as he loves giving you head, König loves to receive it just as much, and now that you live together you can suck his dick practically whenever. If he's writing up reports at his desk, you're underneath it with his cock stuffed deep in your throat. Sometimes you'll even do it while he's on the phone- licking hot stripes up his veiny dick, watching him try to keep his composure.

It's not like either one of you are clingy, either- you're just making up missed time. Who knows how long it'll be before he's back on deployment? At least, that's what you tell yourself when his mouth is buried in your pussy for the fourth time that day. Not like he's complaining or anything, he basically begs you to let him eat you out.

He loves fucking you against the shower wall, too. Loves watching you struggle to balance taking all of him, loves it when he has to hold you so you don't fall. Adores the way your little moans and whines are drowned out under the sound of the water. Loves the sound your wet skin makes when he slaps it under the water, fucking you till it turns cold and you're both shivering against each other.

When you're on your period, he's the sweetest man ever; always bringing you chocolates, ginger ale, warm pads- you name it. He won't think twice before pouring $50 into your comfort.

The first day you're off it? He acts like a man fucking starved.

"Missed this fucking pussy, all mine."

"Good girl, fuck, such a pretty pussy."

and if you were ever up for it, you know this man has towels ready for some period sex.

"I don't care, mein schatz, I kill people for a living-"

"Little blood won't scare me, doe."

He likes fucking you everywhere. In the shower, over the arm of the couch, on the kitchen floor- anywhere he feels like, basically. He once made you grab the railing of your patio for dear life as he fucked you from behind, the cold autumn air making your nipples pierce through your shirt. (The neighbours won't see anything, right?)

And god, if this man doesn't stop putting your stuff on the top shelves because he thinks it's cute watching you reach for them- you might just kill him.

"Need help, mein engel?"

His voice purrs in your ear, hands gripping your waist and holding you down, preventing you from jumping up anymore.

"I don't remember leaving these on the top shelf, Köni," You sigh, leaning into him as a strong arm casually grabs the chips you were reaching for.

"Hm. Weird." He mumbles, pressing open-mouthed kisses on your neck, comforting the bruises he'd left there just last night.

His scent is everywhere- not that you're complaining. He smells like oak, and pine, and the best cologne you've ever smelt but never seen. Definitely helps when he's not home and the only thing you have is a vibrator and his pillowcase.

But besides all the desperate sex, there's also the pleasant domesticity of living with König. Like when he cooks you food, or when you bake him dessert. When he hands you a towel through the bathroom door after you forgot one. You bringing him hot coffee in the early hours of the AM when he's struggling with work.

Him carrying you to bed after you fell asleep watching Netflix on the couch. You sewing up his mask whenever it gets torn or ripped from battle.

You sitting on the bathroom counter, watching him shave intently because you think he looks hot doing it. Him helping you shave, which always, always ends in sex.

Leaving little notes for him about how handsome he is on the bathroom mirror because you know he's struggled with self-image before. Him leaving hickeys on every stretch mark or insecurity of yours he can find. You're just perfect to him.

Worshipping every scar on that man's body; kissing the ones on his jaw and licking the ones on his chest.

God, you're so head over heels for this man.

A/N: when is it my turn to live with zaddy könig😔😔 i want him primally. like actually i wanna **** him till i literally **** *** and *** from taking his ***** **** & my last sight is his massive ****** ******* me ****.

#konig smut #konig x reader #konig x y/n #könig #könig cod #konig mw2 #konig x you #cod smut #konig call of duty #konig fanfiction #konig fluff #konig imagine #konig headcanons

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juicedaloe · 10 months

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Mithrun and brain damage

I'm not sure if anyone is interested in this, but I wanted to make a post talking about why I think that Mithrun has brain damage from a traumatic brain injury instead of him being a representation of other neurological disorders or mental illness. I'm not that involved in the dunmesh fandom so I don't know how common this headcanon is, though I've seen a few people mention it here and there.

This is just my own opinion so if you disagree then that's fine. Some of this is just speculation and I can't say what Kui's intentions were. This post isn't meant to be that serious. I just wanted to talk about it and hopefully inform about how brain damage can affect some people in a way that I hope is interesting and relevant.

This will be kind of long because I like to talk so it will be under the cut. Apologies for the length and how much I ramble. Feel free to give input especially if I got anything wrong or if this is too confusing.

Okay let's go

Traumatic brain injury (TBI) is incredibly complex. The long-term effects of a TBI include a wide array of symptoms. Each injury is different, and some people can completely recover rather quickly while others can become permanently disabled, even for seemingly "minor" injuries. What I'll cover here isn't a definitive representation of the experiences of all those who have long-term effects from TBI, nor do I speak for everyone with brain damage.

Here are some long term symptoms relevant to this post:

Alexithymia (inability to process and name emotions)

Inability to process and name physical perceptions

Mood swings and emotional regulation difficulties

Communication difficulties

Social impairment

Apathy about caring for oneself

Lack of motivation

Alexithymia and inability to process physical perceptions

This one is rather obvious. While Mithrun is shown to feel emotions and have physical sensations (for instance, describing his location when he gets lost in the dungeon as "a cold place"), he is also apathetic to how this affects him. This means that his physical and emotional perceptions are reduced in some way. He says that becoming lord of the dungeon will leave someone "empty", showing he is aware of his dulled emotional state.

A good example of this is can be seen here in a bonus comic where he doesn't give much of a reaction to burning his mouth on hot food.

(I love these two a lot, by the way. Pattadol is really under appreciated.)

He is also not able to recognize bodily signals, such as hunger or when he is tired. Despite collapsing from exhaustion and not eating for long periods of time, he still insists he is not tired or hungry.

Mood swings

Mood swings in combination with alexithymia can be an especially disorientating experience. Those who struggle to perceive their own emotions can still feel them even if they don't know how to recognize it.

Individuals with brain injuries often experience drastic mood swings, particularly anger. To those around them, they can appear to go from 0 to 100 in an instant.

This is more speculation/headcanon on my part, as the strongest emotion Mithrun has for most of his appearances is anger. However one could interpret this as being unrelated as he is seeking revenge for a traumatic experience.

Communication difficulties and social impairment

Not only can naming personal experiences be incredibly difficult with a brain injury, but other areas of communication are often affected as well.

Mithrun is not able to set boundaries for himself even if someone is doing something he would not actually want them to do, which can leave him in a vulnerable position.

People with brain injuries can sometimes have a paradoxical experience when it comes to communicating with others. They can go from being very quiet to speaking at length about one topic, seemingly without regard for the importance of each bit of information. (I see it like Newton's first law of motion. It is hard to start speaking and it can be just as hard to stop.)

I really like this aspect of Mithrun's characterization. Usually, he is very quiet because he has no reason to speak. However, once he starts talking he is shown to be overly specific and goes on for long periods of time. Kabru has to spend multiple days figuring out his story.

In a side comic, Kabru tells Mithrun he should condense some of the personal details that Kabru finds irrelevant to the topic of the dungeon.

Mithrun shares many details about himself because his desire not to do so is gone. This mirrors the experience of many people who have brain damage to overshare and not understand how their words will come across to others. Sometimes they say or do things that are insensitive or inappropriate for the situation.

Caring for oneself and motivation

In the dungeon, Mithrun becomes reliant on others for self care. He also seems especially incapable of motivating himself to take care of his body when he is particularly focused on his goals.

In these panels, thus far he had been fairly receptive of Kabru trying to take care of him. However, he could sense that the demon was close and was too focused on that to care to eat.

Refusal of care and treatment is often an effect of traumatic brain injury. This can be for seemingly no reason, even if the person knows that this will help them. Sometimes people will lie about receiving treatment or doing things to take care of themselves, either so they can avoid it or avoid having someone take care of them.

He knows that eating regularly and not pushing himself too much will help him - he's been told multiple times on-screen - but he still has to be continuously told by others to give him that motivation to take care of himself. He's very apathetic to his physical state, even if it seems his only desire is for revenge and he should be doing anything he can to achieve that.

Other things of note

I wasn't sure where to put this, but while Mithrun's sense of direction is speculated by Kabru to be left over from his time as lord of an ever-changing, confusing dungeon, having poor sense of direction in the way he does could also be indicative of brain injury as well.

While the dungeon is confusing and illogical, he is known to have a poor sense of direction and to get frequently lost by those around him, even trying to exit an entrance he just came through. He is shown to be very intelligent, but memory is greatly impacted by brain injuries which affects a person's sense of direction and location.

Something that really stands out to me about Mithrun is how much the things that help him are particularly helpful to those with brain damage. He is physically capable of performing tasks, but he needs an outside source to remind him and get him started. He relies entirely on routine, and when that regularity is taken away he shows extreme difficulty taking care of himself.

Sometimes, the care that some people need is simply someone else to encourage them or to tell them when to do things. The care that he needs is pretty consistent with a person with a brain injury who does not need a full time caretaker and would prefer to have some independence.

Also, healing magic is specified to not work with brain injury unless the person is killed and revived. Mithrun had not been revived after his injuries, so it is entirely possible for him to have sustained a TBI. I don't think this matters that much because one is still allowed to have headcanons even if there is a magical explanation or isn't really possible in canon, but I thought it was an interesting detail.

In conclusion

Because of all this I don't believe that his lack of self care is due solely to mental illness. While mental illnesses like depression or PTSD can cause a decline in self care, the reasons why the affected individual is avoidant of these tasks differs. These disorders can also cause cognitive difficulties and emotional regulation issues, but not to the same extent or in the same way that brain damage would. I think that he does have both depression and PTSD (both are common after a TBI) but those are not his only disabilities.

And on a personal note, I just think that having a character with brain damage is really cool. Most of the time I've seen it the characters are not given very much respect and they are treated as comic relief and a joke. Regardless of whether you agree with this post or not, it is still nice to see a character with a disability like this.

Thank you if you read all of this. I hope it was easy to understand and I did not ramble too much. I don't have anything else to say but I've been wanting to write this out for a while.

Okay bye

#Dungeon Meshi #Mithrun

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sugurufic · 2 months

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I Wanna Ruin Our Frienship (Geto x F!Reader)

Summary: You want to try out a tiktok trend with your friend who you maybe have a crush on

Word Count: 1.1k

Content: Fluff :)

masterlist

You’ve been seeing this trend all over tiktok for quite some time, but you never got the time - or courage - to try it out. You had a not so low-key crush on one of your friends, Suguru. His beautiful appearance was easier to resist when you didn’t know him closely, but lately his soft voice, his pretty eyes, and his silky hair have been plaguing your thoughts.

So you finally got the time and the courage to try this trend on him, confessing your attraction to him in disguise. And you could use the trend as a perfect cover-up, in case he didn’t like you back. Easy-peasy!

You’re both sitting in the parking lot in your car, having just done shopping for your essentials, snacks, instant ramen, coffee and period care stuff.

“Suguru, there’s this trend on tiktok…” You start, setting your phone on the dashboard and turn to him with your best puppy eyes. “Will you do that with me, please?” looking straight into his pretty eyes is never easy, but with the plan in your head it’s even difficult.

“You know I can’t say no when you look at me like that.” He whines, but the steady smirk on his beautiful face says otherwise. You love the way his bangs fall on his face, they compliment him well, you think. “What’s the trend?”

“I can’t tell you that yet,” you giggle. “I’m recording it just for us anyways,”

“Okay,” he relents with a sigh. “At least tell me how to act.”

“Oh, just be yourself,” you keep it vague. “I’d prefer your honest reaction,”

“Really?” he draws out, almost purring in your ear. You have to deliberately suppress the shiver that threatens to come down your spine. Sometimes, you think he does stuff like this deliberately just to get a reaction out of you. Instead, you grin at him, and press record on your phone and the audio starts to play.

Jenny darling, you’re my best friend, you lip sync, looking at Suguru’s smiling face in the video. You just pray that he hasn’t come across this trend yet.

But there’s a few things that you don’t know of, the song continues, and Geto turns to you with a confused frown on his brow. He looks you up and down as if trying to decipher you, to see through the lyrics.

Why I borrow your lipstick so often, you lip sync, and Geto wets his tongue, pretty eyes jumping back and forth between the camera and you, extremely confused at the lyric.

I’m using your shirt as a pillowcase, you continue, finally turning to him. You bite your lip as you think of your next move, body heating up in anticipation of his reaction. He’s looking at you now, foxy eyes focused completely on you.

Leaning forward, you put your hands on the collar of his t-shirt and pull him close so that your noses touch as the speaker says, I wanna ruin our friendship. You could swear he looked about as nervous as you felt and when you let him go without kissing him, he too had a pretty pink flush on his face, breathing heavily.

We should be lovers instead. He doesn’t look very happy with that. You’re scared that you’ve pushed too far, but then his big hand gently wraps around your throat and pulls you to him, kissing you properly. His lips fit against yours perfectly, like pieces of a puzzle meant to go together, so soft, so delicious and all-consuming. Geto has the best pair of lips that you’ve ever kissed.

You’re flustered, shocked, delighted and feeling like a dream all at the same time with the intensity of Geto’s kiss. His hand doesn’t leave your neck as the song continues to play, long fingers pressing down on your pulse point, making you shiver. The video stops when the time exceeds, and you finally pull back, nearly panting with the intensity of your emotions.

“If you needed an excuse to kiss me you should’ve said so,” Geto tries to sass you, hiding his pink face behind his hand. He’s playing with his bangs, a habit you’ve noticed he does when he is nervous.

“I think both of us know who actually kissed who, Mister,” you sass him, suddenly feeling very confident. “I can still feel your hand on my neck,”

He clears his throat again, attempting to gather himself. His pretty eyes, usually full of confidence and looking straight into your soul, are averted as he asks, “So… did that song mean anything?”

“Only if this kiss means something to you,” you say, shying away from his words.

“Gods, I’ve wanted to do that for so long now,” he says, the tone of his voice sending shivers down your spine. If it wasn’t for his damned voice, he’d be easier to ignore. “I’m sorry I kissed you so suddenly,”

“We both know you don’t mean that, pretty boy.” You say, narrowing your eyes at him with a smirk. You put your hands on his collar, pulling him close yet again to kiss him. He hits record on your phone once again, putting his hands on the small of your back to pull you as close as he can to the passenger’s side. This kiss is less intense than the first one, but so much more intimate - your lips move in a graceful dance, savouring each other's perfume, taste and the feelings that the kiss surfaced.

“Darling,” Geto purrs against your lips, forehead resting on yours and noses touching. “You should let me take you out to dinner first,”

“You need to ask me to dinner first then,” you whisper, lips brushing against his.

“I’m asking you now,” He says. “Let’s have dinner outside tonight, just the two of us. What do you think?”

“I’d love that,” you whisper before planting another peck on his lips then separating. You pat your thighs, getting ready to drive back to Jujutsu Tech. You can feel the change in the stale air of the car, but it’s a good change. Geto takes your phone to send the tiktoks to himself, grinning like an idiot. You like Suguru just a bit too much, and you hope that he likes you a bit too much too. But there are still things to figure out, and you don’t want to worry about that yet.

The two of you are awfully cheery on the drive back, and it doesn’t go unnoticed by your friends. They don’t question you, yet. You’re getting ready, dressed in a lovely shade of red and applying a lipstick to match when a loud shriek deafens you. Getting out of the bathroom, you see Shoko and Satoru sitting on either beds of the room, a hastily dressed Suguru rushing in, trying to snatch away the phone in Satoru’s hand, veins popping out on his forehead.

“Give me back my phone!” Geto yells, lunging at Satoru.

A/N: Man's so pretty I wanna kiss him stupid

#geto x reader #geto suguru x reader #geto suguru #jjk x reader #geto suguru fluff #geto x you

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roesworks · 2 months

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my marauder's sex headcannons

james, sirius, and remus x female reader

WORD COUNT : 723

i wanna feed you guys (after literally a year) so enjoy my personal headcannons

james potter -

he is a certified switch. he leans more on the dominant side, but sometimes he just has a need to be told what to do.

when you're on top, without a doubt he is calling you mommy. not to mention, he will whine. he's always whining.

plus he will NEVER SHUT UP.

HE WILL ALWAYS PRAISE YOU.

"you're doing so good f'me, my love."

and he will never hit you or degrade you. he thinks that's just plain mean.

sex should be fun. he does it often so that he can skip out of doing cardio. killing two birds with one stone.

on the aspect of cardio, though, james can last a long time. he could go the entire night if he really wanted to.

"please just one more. one more, i promise."

he's a big guy, so you already KNOW that dick is at LEAST nine inches.

"it won't fit-" "-i'll make it fit."

HE LOVES THE STOMACH BULGE

fucking under the cloak.

while he doesn't like to hit you, he is most definitely leaving accidental bruises from gripping you so hard.

he'd rather grip your arm than the mattress. he loves feeling you.

he's probably the loudest moaner in the entire wizarding world.

he enjoys moaning your name so much that if you didn't cast a silencing charm then everyone in hogwarts would hear him.

he loves your boobs. whether they're big or small, he is most definitely sucking them and leaving them polka dotted by the end of the night.

and literally every night he's with you. sex or not. he's latching his lips onto your nipples and sucking the life out of them like they're lollipops.

he is without a doubt an experimentalist.

like whenever he finds a new position or just a new kinky idea, he's going to bring it up to you.

most of the time, you enjoy it. other times, it's just a one time thing.

he tells you he loves you all the time. it's all part of his 'never-shuts-up' persona.

sirius black -

dom. without a doubt.

"who's pussy is this?" "yours."

he likes making you cry. tears of pleasure are his favorite.

degradation is never out of the question.

and "my little slut."

while that is the case, he will, 'talk you through it' if you will.

"finish for me, baby."

100% getting off to you screaming his name.

he's definitely an ass guy. he likes groping it and hitting it whenever he gets the chance.

he's a little on the smaller side, but he definitely makes up for it in width.

he is very. VERY. loud.

he can last a SOLID three or four rounds.

ngl, he looooves bondage.

lets be real, he keeps a black rope in his nightstand.

he will most DEFINITELY tease you with his wand.

or he'll LITERALLY stick it up there.

honestly, he just likes to tease you in general.

pussy checks in public ALLLL THE TIME.

sometimes if you're wet enough, he will just do it with you on the spot.

"wet already, baby?"

he wants everyone to know that you're his, so he takes measures by leaving hickeys all over you, especially in noticeable places.

LOVES seeing you ride him.

he is 100% stealing james' cloak and doing it with you under it.

remus lupin -

a switch, but much more on the submissive side. so basically a sub.

he will literally get off on getting told what to do. and frankly he prefers being a pillow princess.

he definitely starts off quiet, like a whimper here and there,

and then as he gets more and more comfortable with you, (like around your third time) his whimpers become louder and louder.

he is a SOLID seven inches.

he will do some pretty kinky stuff with you.

like experimenting with candle wax. because he was curious, obviously.

and this guy has a huge thing for period sex. not that you mind it, it helps you forget about your cramps.

the rare times that he's on top, he is the sweetest ever.

"you feel so good."

you've done it in the library a few several times... in the restricted section. nobody has to know that, though.

he loves how you taste and will always tell you that.

your boobs are one of his most favorite things about you.

bite bite bite

and he loves touching you.

anywhere he can get his hands on you he will caress you.

he doesn't really last more than three rounds, but,

there were definitely days where he was so into it that he just couldn't stop.

he loves receiving pleasure and praise soso much.

he's just a sweet boy.

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