see it through ✴︎ cl16
genre: friends to lovers, fake dating au, fluff!, humor, slight angst, slow burn-ish, yearning
word count: 9k
“It’s a proposition for the fans.” She smiles. “It’s a fake relationship.” Or: you go from social media manager to girlfriend in under a day. Keeping up appearances for Charles’ family isn’t easy, until it is – and until they’re not really appearances anymore.
notes... internet translated italian ahaha
auds here... this fic is quite long! i hope you all like it. title from this bee gees song which reappears in the fic later. few music references here so if you like to listen to music, just look for the titles, they’re famous!
You’d gotten the phone call on a Saturday morning.
Barely morning, you realized when you were digging for your phone in the sheets, half-asleep—it’d been five minutes past noon. You’d swiped, pressed the phone to your ear, and waited for the other end to speak, eyes shut.
“Good morning,” a vague voice had said on the other said, distinctly American. “This is Jenna Griffin, newly appointed PR specialist for Ferrari. Your boss told me you were free for lunch on Monday, so can I pencil you in for a one-thirty meeting?”
You click your tongue. “Um, yeah.”
“Wonderful. Monday, one-thirty. Apologies for the weekend call, it’s for Mr. Leclerc.” The line buzzes dead after, and you flop backwards onto your bed, confused out of your mind.
Your job for Ferrari was simple—create social media content, do the occasional damage control, have a pre-interview discussion with journalists, and generally stay out of everyone’s hair. It’s not a high-maintenance job, but it pays well, and you get to travel; plus, you’re young, and you figure this is just a stepping stone for a more legitimate post. Your point is, you’ve never gotten into trouble before, and are only at meetings to take minutes or get assignments.
Which is why a Monday lunch meeting—on your vacation, nonetheless—seems so out of the ordinary. And arranged by a PR agent from Ferrari? Last you’d heard, cars were objects and didn’t need publicity. The whole affair gives off a vibe of semi-mystery, almost, like you’re in the MI6 and taking lucrative calls in alleyways.
You feel through your bag for your hotel key card, wallet, and phone, and finding them all there, you leave and make your way to the restaurant. You’re not too nervous; you’ve had to have your own sit-down talks with higher-ups and even Charles or Carlos before, but none of the “you’re fired” variety.
The restaurant isn’t far from where you’re staying, so you shove sunnies on and trek there, managing to make it inside unscathed.
Table 17, the text reads, and you’re quickly ushered into a private section of the place. It’s empty, save for a couple and a far-off table seating one guy, whose back is to you. You realize it’s Charles when you squint your eyes harder. The waitress doesn’t give you much of a choice and seats you across him, promising to return with noontime champagne.
You slide your sunglasses onto your hair and look up. “Hi,” you say politely.
“Hey,” Charles says back casually. He wears a Richard Mille and a few other bracelets, a linen blue polo, and jeans.
“New PR thing?”
Charles smiles, shrugging. “Man, I’ve no idea. Wake up on Saturday and I’m due for a meeting. Is this for social media?”
Huh, so he doesn’t know either. “I don’t know. It was a super random call for me, too.”
He shrugs. “Both clueless.”
“Right. So, to be clear, we’re waiting for—”
“I am so sorry I’m late,” a woman says sheepishly, her heels clicking along the tiled floor. She definitely looks the part for a PR officer: pantsuit, heels, a blond bob, ridiculously expensive handbag, eccentric sunglasses. “Scusami, really.” Her Italian apology has an American twang.
“All okay,” says Charles with a small smile. “We were barely waiting, no?”
You nod, offering a tight-lipped smile of your own. “Yeah, don’t worry about it.”
She slides into the seat beside him and waves a waiter over, ordering in quickfire English; clearly, she’s been here before. Absently, you wonder if her previous affairs in this restaurant were also to have clandestine meetings. Your reverie doesn’t last long, though, because immediately Jenna’s starting her agenda. “So, are introductions in order?”
“I, um,” you say, “I’d say so, yes.”
“Alright, spectacular. I’m Jenna Griffin, just moved to Monte Carlo after living and working in SoCal. I’ve been appointed as a PR manager for Charles here, but don’t worry. You’re in good hands. I’ve handled three Kardashians, two NBA players, two One Direction members, and a lot of nepo babies.”
“Wow,” you say, nodding.
“Cool.” Charles says, clearly impressed.
Jenna’s gaze flits between the two of you, both smiling at each other. “Right,” she says. “Let’s get down to business.” She clears her throat and pulls out her phone from her handbag, scrolling for a few moments. While the silence settles, you steal another glance at Charles, and hide a chuckle when you find his eyes already glancing back at you.
“Aren’t we waiting for Carlos?” He asks, taking a sip of water.
His PR agent looks up briefly, then answers. “Actually, it’s just you two today.”
You nod slowly, burrowing even further into the confusion you’d been feeling since Saturday. It wasn’t like you were expecting Carlos, per se, but a meeting with just you and him—now, that’s a bit strange.
“So, I know this is all very confusing. But it’s happening for a reason,” says Jenna. “Charles—and I really only feel qualified to say this because I’ve done my research—has been on a streak of…erm, well, lady-related scandals lately.”
“Oh, God,” Charles groans across you, and you chew your lip. You’ve seen the headlines, but you’re still clueless as to how this concerns you.
“As a PR agent, I think it won’t do good for his public image to be seen as somebody who sleeps around.”
“It was two headlines,” Charles cuts in with a laugh. “And they were both fake. Please don’t misunderstand.”
Jenna clicks her tongue. “Yeah, the public definitely has some thoughts.” She turns to her phone and reads off of it. “‘Charles is a playboy and not a driver’, ‘Leclerc is too busy pulling girls’… times ten thousand. So, yeah, it’s a bit of a smear.”
“Right, okay. Listen, I’m not sure I understand,” you say with a stuffy laugh. “What has all this got to do with me?”
“Everything,” she answers with a smile. You raise a brow. “Well, you see, we PR managers always have a network. We keep tabs on who’s who, and who needs what. As a new manager, I need to implement some of my strategies around here. Go digging, you know? Find something good. And when I found your pretty little face in the background of many of Charles’ paddock photos, I realized you could help create something newsworthy.”
“Are you talking about a PR stunt?” You ask, your frown deepening.
“Well—virtually, essentially, yes.” She opens her mouth to explain but is interrupted by the serving of champagne and appetizers. “Okay. Don’t think this is a haphazard decision. Naturally, we had to find out if this would even be a good idea…”
“Which it’s not,” you say, taking a swig of champagne.
She nods. “The thing is, your bosses and I really did go over several scenarios, and this one seems the most likely to keep your fans engaged. This way, the appearances won’t look so staged.”
“—Jenna,” Charles says, clearly having detected your hesitance, “I don’t think she’s interested.”
“It’s fine,” you say, but you still sound off-put. It’s not fine, not really. “I don’t see how this is going to help Charles, though. I’d think the idea of him being committed to somebody would just further alienate his fangirls.”
Jenna chuckles. “While that is, to some extent, true, the number of fans who would go gaga over the two of you far, far outweighs the opposing population. This is a special case. A girl next door social media manager with a social media presence—and a wildly popular, totally charming Formula One driver? I mean, talk about Harry and Meghan! Everybody loves love. And, might I add, Charles’ male fans might actually like seeing you two together.”
You sigh, a quick huff of frustrated air. “So, what is this then?”
“It’s a proposition for the fans.” She smiles. “It’s a fake relationship.”
You reach for champagne, but find you’ve totally drained your glass. The room falls into muted silence, and you can’t bring yourself to look at Charles. You didn’t expect this on a Monday afternoon. You thought maybe it was a job termination. Or a leaked text message. Somehow, this is the strangest of all possibilities.
“So, good?” She chirps. “I’ll send you the primer.”
You both stare at each other. “We’re not actually going to. Right?”
“Right. We are not dating.”
—
“We’re dating!” You chirp, practicing your appearances in front of Carlos and Lando, who had visited the former.
“You two look like two people dating pretending to be friends,” Lando observes.
You grumble. Many of your shots had been staged pap photos outside his apartment, or fans happening to catch you two together; no official statement had been released, according to Jenna’s “masterplan.” For the most part, it was a good dynamic of putting up a façade for the public and settling back into a platonic relationship within minutes.
Nothing really goes wrong at first—and then Charles ruins it.
It happens after a Ferrari event in spring. You’re in Monza again, weather humid when you re-shoot the fifth TikTok for the day with Carlos. There are celebrities to and fro, even more journalists and a shitload of fans crowding the perimeter of the area. You’ve successfully pulled off the fake dating stunt, keeping a lowkey profile and doing your job.
There’s a green room for the drivers and close managers to wait and rest, where you stow yourself away to avoid the crowds. You review the reels and stories for the day, and cap it off with a “goodbye, Tifosi!” post with Carlos that’s enough to quell the many notifications.
Granted, many of the said notifications are of the speculative nature. Some are wondering if it’s you posting or if a new hire was underway to make room for the new couple. You ignore them anyway and take a seat on the couch across Carlos, sighing with exhaustion.
“Where’s your boyfriend?” He teases.
“Ha-ha,” you say, unimpressed. You gesture to the TV behind him, showing a live feed of Charles’ last interview of the day with Natalie Pinkham. Once this is over, you’re free for the week: free of social media manager and fake girlfriend responsibilities. The thought alone makes you well up with relief.
You and Carlos both watch intently as Charles answers several event-related questions that, to your horror, simmer into personal ones. Natalie sounds excited when she goes, “Any plans for the week with a special someone?”
Charles has no thought behind his eyes, a muted wave of panic coming over him as he fumbles for a response. “My family’s staying up in Tuscany, in a farmhouse we own, stay in for spring and summer. We are actually visiting them for the week.”
We are actually visiting them for the week. Your look of pure, unadulterated shock doesn’t go unnoticed by Carlos, who’s quick to snap pictures of you on his phone. What the hell is Charles talking about? Tuscany? No, family?
“I take it you didn’t know about this,” Carlos says with a laugh.
“You think?!” You holler, still appalled. Charles has a lot of gall to spin this without your permission, or Jenna’s for that matter. You know she’ll love it, though; it’s really, mainly, you who has a problem with it. Anxious, you get up and watch the broadcast end; not a minute later, Charles enters and offers a can of sparkling water to you.
“Thirsty?” He asks casually.
“Very,” you pipe, taking a gulp.
“You’re welcome,” he says teasingly.
“Oh, thanks! I think I’ve been busy thinking about the fact that I’m meeting your family!”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” He yells, trying to match your agitated volume. “I didn’t know you were watchi—I was nervous! I didn’t know what to say anymore! And—you kno—well—and Natalie kept asking a ton of questions!”
Your face of disbelief matches his of sheepish apology, facing each other frozen. Across you, Carlos lets out an incredulous laugh, mumbles something about wanting popcorn. You honestly can’t blame him. Had you been an outsider, you would’ve relished in Charles’ slip-up, too. Instead, you’re the one who’s apparently going to Tuscany on Friday to meet the extended Leclerc clan.
“It’s fine. It’s gonna be”—you attempt to find an appropriate adjective—“bearable. At least we don’t need to keep up appearances there.”
You’re met with disagreeable silence. When Charles doesn’t chime in with an agreement, you turn slowly back to him. “No.”
“It’s only for a week—”
“No!”
“A week!”
You’re both standing up, pacing around the other frantically. Pretending to suddenly be bumped up from social media manager to Charles’ girlfriend was a daunting enough proposition. Getting hate mail and death threats was enough incentive to let you want to leave. Timing exits and entrances was difficult. And now, pretending to be together in front of his family? His family.
“Why can’t you just tell them we’re not actually dating?!”
“It’s just—it’s complicated having to explain why.” You remember his assortment of man-whore scandals and realization sinks into you. You sit on the arm of the couch, deflated and contemplative. Despite your own knowledge of the scandals being totally baseless and false, you understand it’s difficult to explain the lengths of tabloids and online rumors to older family members.
You might have to grin and bear it.
“Fine.” You digress. He cheers silently. “One week. Once our quickie breakup is finalized, you’re telling them it ended well. I don’t want to be in anybody’s bad graces.”
“Yeah, yeah, okay.”
Tuscany won’t be so bad, you think. What’s the worst that could happen?
—
Charles’ extended family greets you at their farmhouse when you arrive heaving two pieces of luggage. It’s populated by two aunts, three uncles, and two younger cousins, and their hospitality is contagious. They all somehow remind you of Charles, their faces, their laughs, their easy attitudes.
His aunts, Mia and Giulia, are the first to pull you in for a hug and inspect your face. Good eyebrows! Good lips! Healthy attractive child for you both!
You have to pry yourself off of them with giggles and smiles and pretend the kid comment was never uttered for your own sake. They’re kind, ushering you inside and serving dinner immediately, inquiring about the drive and if it was bad, if Charles had spotted any dead sheep or cattle on the way (none.)
His cousins are both little boys, eleven and six, shy and with thick accents. Charles’ smile is huge when he speaks to them in Italian, eyes comical and animated. His three uncles all eat fairly quietly, talking about politics, or racing, only when they feel like it.
They ask many questions, and tell so many stories, over limoncello and rigatoni that leave you stuffed after two platefuls. You didn’t think you’d be satisfied so soon after the drive, but you’re grateful for it. His uncle Giorgio leads the tour of the house, his voice slow and constantly sliding into Italian, but Charles is quick to supply a translation into your ear. Lit by terrace lights, you get a night view of the house, surrounded by the hills, the lemon trees, and a swimming pool in the back. Further back, there are two horses for riding, and bicycles for easier transportation.
A vineyard borders the other side of the hill, owned by a different family. You can’t digest the beauty of this place, even without the sun to provide a better view. You’re back inside, being shown the rest of the wide dining room and kitchen that lead out onto a balcony-terrace area, and then clambering the stairs to be shown your room—a beautiful one on the second floor that overlooks the hills.
“This is so beautiful,” you say honestly. “Thank you so much. And Charles will be staying…?”
“In my childhood bedroom!” He quips excitedly, already halfway out the door to review his living situation.
Giulia and Mia share a look and then the former goes, “Wait, Charles!”
He slows to a halt and turns, awaiting their words. “Ay. Bambino, because you have been in Monaco so long these days, and we have gotten a lot of stuff, your childhood bedroom is now more of a… storage room.”
“A storage room?!” He sounds scandalized.
“Bambino, mi dispiace,” she continues. “But—let’s not be conservative! You two have been dating now for a year, correct? Surely, you’ve slept in one bed.”
Your face grows warm. “Um, actu—”
“Shh,” Mia says kindly. “No need to make excuses. Charles, stay with your girlfriend. And we will wake you both for breakfast. Ciao!”
You barely voice your assent, managing to wedge in a thank you! before the door closes and leaves you and Charles alone.
In a room without a single couch. The only non-bed “resting” space is a single chair, and as much as you want to, you don’t want Charles to break his spine trying to sleep on it. The situation is clear. You need to configure the bed.
“We cannot sleep on the same bed.”
“I’ll take the floor.”
“No! I mean—ugh. I don’t want to risk you pulling a muscle. Also, more importantly, if any of your family walks in and sees you sleeping on the floor, they’re going to think we’re freaks.”
“The bed is big enough for us both,” he says, gesticulating. You narrow your eyes. If you’re going to be avoiding physical contact, it definitely isn’t. It’s like the gods had decided to bless the room with a bed perfect for two people snuggling.
You place your hands on your hips, analyzing the best way to tackle the situation. You won’t lie, you’d thought about the possibility of sharing a room—but a bed was completely different. You’d expected a couch, a loveseat of some kind, both of which are woefully missing. Thinking fast, you take the three decorative, cylindrical pillows and place them vertically on the centre of the bed.
You step back. “Okay. That’s our boundary.”
Each side is a bit small, but it’s the price to pay, you think, taking a long look at your handiwork. Beside you, Charles snorts. “That is not going to work.”
“I’ll bet you it will,” you say matter-of-factly, retreating to the bathroom to get ready for bed. When you emerge, Charles is fast asleep, half his body on your side of the boundary. You have to pour water on his face to shoo him away, and that’s when you’re positive your creation will work.
You place yourself gingerly on your side of the border, remaining perfectly still as you drift off to sleep. You wake up the next day on Charles’ chest, pushing him away before admitting you’d been in that position in the first place.
You slide him five euros over breakfast.
—
Charles is a good driver, skier, and biker—you can attest to this from being by his side, reviewing pictures and videos of him for a living.
But there’s one thing he absolutely sucks at, and it’s teaching. You thought you’d never have to attest to this, but here you are, with scraped knees and a smudge of soil on the hem of your shorts, on your sixth attempt to learn how to ride a bike.
It’d been his idea, like many of the odd things you’d gotten yourself into. “Let me make up for dragging you along,” he’d said, and then proceeded to commit attempted murder every time he sent you away on the bicycle. Five tries did you no good; Charles’ directions contradicted each other and came much too fast, causing you to crash into the grass or skid yourself to a halt, your sneakers coated in a light layer of dust.
“Why are we still trying?” You ask woefully, examining the scratches on your calf. And to think you would’ve gotten to go truffle hunting with his uncle had Charles not swept you away to bike.
“It is an important life skill. Just—don’t look at the ground. Okay. Andiamo!” He sends you off again, watches as you twist and careen into a bush. Again. Your groan of pain matches the ooof he lets out, jogging to help you up. You turn away from the ground and toward his face. His laughing face.
“Ow. What?” You ask, raising a brow. You flex your fingers, waiting for him to pull you upwards.
“You smashed into a bush and a berry’s all over your cheek.” He says, still laughing when he helps you up. You hold the tip of your pinky to your face, press down, and sure enough, when you inspect it again, it’s stained a dark berry color.
“Is this toxic?!” You ask, agitated.
“Che? Toxic? No, no. It’s a juniper berry.” He reaches over and swipes his thumb across your face, sending you into a frozen state. Your hands remain at your sides while he focuses on wiping the rest of the fruit off of your cheek, showing you his stained finger afterwards with a proud smile. “All gone.”
You turn and pick up the bicycle. “One more for good luck,” you say, shaking off the nerves and gut churning feeling deep in your stomach. You situate yourself atop the bike, trying to remember and re-remember all the tips Charles had given you.
“Don’t look down, just breathe, keep your eyes trained straight. If you crash, on the grass always. Better than this path.”
“Got it,” you say breathlessly, determined. You take off, eyes trained on the landscape in front of you, leaving the house behind and gliding quickly downhill. It takes you a beat to realize, however, that you’re not falling. You’re doing it—properly. You turn to voice your pride, but that’s what gets you caught in your thoughts.
Charles is cheering behind you, but once he detects you’re stumbling, he runs the few metres over. Still, he can’t catch you fast enough; you do manage to turn right and land on the grass. In his own rush, Charles trips on the horizontal bike, and lands right beside you, atop your arm.
Eventually you’re both doubled over laughing, your fingers finding purchase on the blunt grass. You both only quiet down when you hear his aunt’s car, old and rickety, grow louder. You look up to find Giulia peeking out of the driver’s window, her face as amused as it is confused.
Beside her, Mia yells. “Buon lavoro, Charles!”
“What’d she say?” You ask, still half-laughing.
“Good job,” he replies, entertained. “She said good job.”
—
Charles takes Giorgio’s Vespa and rides you both to town two days later, even with the offer of a car. He claims the motor ride is the best way to experience Tuscany at its finest. Nothing about the two-seater bike on the pebbly road feels fine, though, and you’re seriously contemplating broken ribs when he makes a sharp turn. It’s only a ten, fifteen-minute ride, but the downhill slope makes it seem faster—and more dangerous.
Your grip on his waist had gone from loose and hesitant to tight and anxious, your voice a mantra of possible death in his ear. He can’t help but laugh, revving harder and chiming in with a biting remark of his own.
“You know who this is named after?” He shouts over the wind whipping both of you.
“Mmm?” You ask.
“Apollonia, from the Godfather.”
“Oh, Christ. The girl who died?”
“Hey, she was beautiful! My uncle loved the movies so much, his Vespa had to be named after her.” You lean onto his back for purchase, still unused to the speed at which he zips through the countryside. Eventually, after a few turns, the terrain turns from rough to smoother, and he parks at the busy-looking town square, populated by locals and tourists alike, but not with the traffic of more popular cities. Alleyways lead to smaller corner stores and cafés; a chapel overlooks the area, and a market populates the centre.
“What would you name your bike, if you had to?” You ask as a follow-up, removing your helmet and shaking your hair out. You pull at your dress to straighten it out.
“Well…” He takes both your helmets and stores them in the bike, leading the way toward the bustle. “My uncles, and my father—they always say we name our most precious things after beautiful women. Apollonia. My other uncle, Leo, he named his sailboat after his mother, Bianca. Even my dad would name few objects after my mother. It’s a way of honoring them, you know?”
You nod, stopping at a produce stall and examining a bunch of tomatoes. “I think that’s sweet.”
“Yes, so I guess… well, I don’t know, really. My mother’s name, maybe?”
“She’s got a beautiful one,” you comment offhandedly.
“Yeah. Or, if we go by appearances, I suppose your name.”
You ignore the flush of nerves that well up in you and turn back to face him, confused and amused. “My name? Why’s that?”
“I mean,” he coughs, crossing his arms and smiling, “people think we are together, so if I get a bike, and they ask for her name, I must say yours, no?”
“Only if you want to,” you chirp back, amused. What had possessed him to suddenly bring you into the discussion? Neither of you are pretending for all these strangers. Here in town, you’re friends again, browsing the market, walking around stalls, eating free samples of pesto and cheese.
“I do want to,” he says. It’s a joke, you’re sure. Half-sure. It’s a joke.
The town square’s noise begins to die when the sun sets. City-dwellers leave to take trips back to main hubs of Italy, and with no nightlife in the area, many in the square are families or couples sitting down for dinner. The ride back, while short, might be dangerous in the dark; you tug on Charles’ sleeve to relay your thoughts.
“Don’t worry,” he says dismissively. “I’ve biked here past midnight.”
“What were you even doing in town at midnight, hmm?” You tease lightly, following him around. There’s not much to do except eat at this point, judging by the way you’d both exhausted the stalls in the afternoon. He rolls his eyes, mumbling excuses.
“You womanizer,” you whisper in an exaggerated scandalous tone. You poke his bicep. “Bedding the locals.”
“I was not, ay!” He defends. You’ve noticed his accent is so much thicker here, where he has to speak Italian all the time, except with you. It sounds nice. “I would come to smoke weed.”
That’s even funnier, you think, throwing your head back to laugh. Thoughts of teenaged Charles, tinged pink and tan from summer, on a momentary break from a junior racing career, biking fast back and forth—for a joint no less—are both funny and endearing. “That is so cute, Charles. Drug virgin.”
“Don’t speak of those when we’re in front of the house of the Lord,” he says sarcastically, gesturing to where your cyclical walking had landed you: back in front of the town’s chapel. There’s a pot of holy water by the front doors and a rack of candles for lighting and offering. Besides that, there’s a coin drop box being manned by a priest.
In silent agreement, you walk in sync to the candles, lighting one each and whispering brief intentions. You’re not religious, you’ve never been; a church seemed foreign to you, always. But you figure there’s no harm in a candle and an offer to the big guy, if he’s there.
There’s a mural painted by the doors, which you observe silently while Charles goes to drop donations into the box. You catch bits of their conversation. Good evening. Are you a tourist. No, we live up the hill, visiting for spring, yes.
The rest you don’t catch, turning to Charles and watching him talk, animated as he is solemn. The priest smiles at you politely, turns to Charles, goes, “Siete qui insieme?” You rack your brain for the Italian you’d picked up recently but can’t match it to anything.
Charles nods. “Qui per cenare, ed esplorare.” Esplorare, explore? You fail again, but continue listening anyway, occupying your eyes with the mural.
“È la tua ragazza?” The priest asks with a soft chuckle.
“Oh, sì, sì.” Charles looks very sure of himself when he says so.
The priest nods once. “Se ti sposi, allora dovrebbe essere qui, no?”
Charles turns slowly, looks at you, then smiles. “Okay,” he says, still looking at you. “Farò in modo che accada.” Then they’re exchanging quick Italian goodbyes and he’s walking back to you, guiding you to a nearby restaurant for dinner.
“What was that about?” You ask, the curiosity getting the best of you. You don’t remember what they said, so you can’t plug it into Google Translate; your last hope is getting Charles to translate it for you. You figure it’s no problem. He’s always translated for you during your stay here so far, word-for-word recounts that have you feeling fluent in the language after decoding them. Whether it be a family anecdote or a market transaction, the language has never become an issue for you.
You walk beside him, awaiting the translation that never comes. Instead, he smiles, shakes his head, and says, “That was nothing.”
—
Your first, last, and only close call happens during a wine and poker night with Charles’ uncles and aunts. You’d spent the morning semi-cuddling (to beat the early a.m. cold, you both insisted), and then a majority of the afternoon in the nearby vineyard volunteering to help pick grapes, and they’d offered to let you wind down for the night inside.
It starts off well enough—you and Giorgio best the first two rounds, much to everyone else’s chagrin, and you rest on the sofa, reading Giulia’s cookbook with a glass of wine. At quarter to midnight, Charles’ six-year-old cousin, Marco, comes inside and slots himself beside Charles, eyes sleepy.
“Cugino,” he says. Cousin. His voice is squeaky and childish.
“Yes, Marco?” Charles asks, preoccupied with his cards.
“Put me to sleep,” he says in accented English.
“Later. You should wait.”
“Can she do it?” A chubby hand rises and points toward you. You offer a small wink, sipping wine.
“Only if she wants to,” Charles says, turning to face you. You chuckle.
“I’d be happy to, Marco.” You smile.
“Cugino.” Marco tugs on Charles’ sleeve to regain his attention. “What’s her favorite color?”
Oh, shit. Neither of you had really thought this would come up, so you hope Charles can fake it well. While you know everything about him, he knows not much about you, especially little niche facts like this one. Charles clears his throat and goes, “Blue.”
“Favorite song?”
“Uh. Marco, aspettare. OK?”
“Why should he wait?” Giorgio asks, gruff. “Your aunts and I are curious, too.”
Charles meets your eyes, and you try to signal for him to lie, which he ends up doing. “It’s Take a Chance on Me. ABBA, zio.”
You do know that song, but it’s definitely not your favorite. You close the cookbook and get up, pacing onto the seat beside Marco and leaning against it, smiling and nodding. Beside Giorgio, Mia asks sweetly, “Do you have any tattoos, dear?”
Just you, or are Italian aunts ridiculously straightforward? You open your mouth at the same time Charles does, and that’s what leads to your downfall. Yes, one, you say. No, none, Charles says at the same time. You both look at each other, eyes wide.
His uncle grunts. “Bambino, do you know nothing of this lovely girl?”
“You misunderstand,” Charles says. “I thought she wouldn’t want to share that yet, zio. I tried to cover for her, but, er—she seems okay with sharing it.”
It’s a flimsy excuse but it seems to work, and the poker game resumes without any more questions about you.
Still, you grow nervous, frustrated a bit, and, once you spot Marco asleep, you take him into your arms and mumble a polite goodnight, carrying him upstairs. The call was just too close. Why did Charles feel the need to interject like that? Had you been caught in such a lie, you’d need to reveal everything.
Something else tugs at your chest, but you refuse to admit it incites an unhappy feeling out of you. Charles’ lack of knowledge about you did nothing but remind you that in the end, he did know nothing about you, and this was just contractual and obligatory and for the press-turned-for the family. You pat Marco’s forehead, sighing. You shouldn’t be so upset, but you are.
You know a lot about Charles, but it’s a cold fact that he can’t say the same about you; at least, not to the extent that you know him. The doors and staircase creak, signifying the game’s end and everyone’s retreat to bed; you await Charles’ entrance, which comes after you hear him opening your room, finding it empty, and then—
“Sorry. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” you say, hushed. You get up and walk past him, crossing the corridor and opening the door halfway into your room.
He says, then: “You really never tell me anything about yourself.”
You freeze, turn, suddenly frustrated all over again. Suddenly sad. “Yeah. You really know nothing about me.” It’s exaggerated, so it cuts deeper.
He’s upset, you realize. “Do I have to beg for these sorts of basic facts? I wa—I…” He pauses. “I want to know you more. I’ve always wanted to.”
“You didn’t even think to—to ask me the most basic questions before we got here.” You’re aware he didn’t owe you this, but your irritance doesn’t quell. “My favorite song, my favorite movie, color, anything. I could name all that on your behalf.”
“Every time I ask, you deflect. You never told me, either,” he says defiantly.
You scoff and ponder for a minute before shaking your head and clambering down the steps. You need some fresh air, having gotten mad so quickly. You know it makes no sense—he never needed to ask about you. Prior to last week, you worked with him. Still, everything’s changed now, and it feels hurtful knowing he can’t name these things about you.
You take a seat on the terrace chair, pretend not to notice when he sits beside you, separated by a table.
You hug your arms closer to yourself, sigh. “It’s, a koi fish on my hipbone. Hurt like a bitch.”
He looks at you, curious. You continue.
“My high school superlative was ‘most likely to be elected president’—embarrassing, I know. I won the local spelling bee. Thrice in a row. I love the color green, and the movie Fantastic Mr. Fox.”
You pretend you’re not feeling anxious from the sudden sharing, clearing your throat and keeping your gaze trained on the landscape of houses and hills around you.
“I love crosswords to a worrying degree, I’m a dog person but have never owned one, and my favorite song is Don’t Go Breaking My Heart. I kill it on karaoke.” Finally, your eyes slide slowly over to look at Charles. He’s already looking at you, smile soft on his flushed, pink face.
“I didn’t think of you as much of a singer,” he says, eyes crinkling from the size of his smile.
Huffing and stifling a laugh, you cross your arms defiantly over your torso. Your lips melt into a pout, and you flip him off in an attempt to stave him off. He just laughs harder, gulping the rest of his wine with ease.
“To be fair, I think I dance better,” you respond proudly. “It’s still bad, but it’s better. Better than you, anyway.”
“Is that a challenge?” He asks, mouth half-open, still caught in a laugh. “Wow. Okay, d’accord. It’s on.”
“It is most certainly not a challenge, Charles!” You object frustratedly.
“Challenge accepted!”
Against your vocal protests, he gets up from his chair and reenters the house, exiting with his phone in one hand and the rest of the wine in the other. He browses his selection of songs, humming until he seems satisfied with one of them. He pours you both a glass of preparatory red, a grin lighting up his face.
You burrow into the chair, unrelenting when he stretches out a hand to invite you to dance. You only end up giving in when you’ve successfully finished your wine, getting up and straightening out the wrinkles in your dress.
Your hand is still loosely clutched around his when he plays the Bee Gees song he’d queued up, and then both of you start dancing.
It’s a bit fast-paced, but you catch up well, letting yourself move fluidly to the song. All the while, your hand remains looped around his, like an anchor, a saving point. You shut your eyes to immerse yourself in the song, a smile on your face. When you crack them open, you watch Charles dance goofily, with moves you’d be totally embarrassed by otherwise. This time, you’re strangely endeared.
Where you expected yourself—the both of you, really—to be stiff and awkward, you’re both loose and easygoing, chuckling and laughing as the song progresses. Your dress swishes by your knees softly when you move, letting go of his hand momentarily. It flexes with the feeling of his absence. Charles dances like he has no care in the world, with movements that would rival a fifty-year-old’s. You find that you don’t have a care in the world either, watching him with a stupid grin on your features.
Your heart swells and seizes, and you swallow, not wanting to realize why yet. He reaches for your hand again, seeks it in the evening light. You give it to him easily, cut his search short. You’re what he looks for.
He lifts your linked hands right as the song starts its ending, and you realize you’re supposed to twirl around them. With a laugh, you follow, letting your arms stretch out when you’re done. He pulls you back, with strength that sends you barreling into his chest. “Dude,” you mumble, giggling. “Charles, you ruined my flow.”
You both part, but barely; your hands are still clasped, your distance barely increased. You stare up at him when the next song clicks on.
It’s slower this time, a song you recognize from films and novels. You remember this specific rendition from two years ago in Silverstone, when Charles had shared over a meeting that he’d been busy teaching himself the piano—specifically, The Way You Look Tonight.
The song continues, your hands still together, your eyes boring into his. The moon makes his light eyes a different shade, all green and soft edges rivaling the intensity of his stare. “Come on,” he says. “Why stop, no?”
He raises your hands, guides his vacant one to wrap around your waist. It’s warm there, secure, belonging. With all the hesitance in the world, you wrap a hand around his upper arm. Your gaze is unbreaking.
“Thank you,” he says, steering you both into a slow, easy rhythm. The nerves melt away slowly when you continue to sway. You cock a head to the side in a silent request for elaboration.
“For sharing.”
“Oh. It was only right,” you reply. “Considering you know nothing niche about me.”
“Tell me…” He starts, but the words tangle in his throat, lodge themselves there in a fit of nerves. He breathes, breaks the gaze. “I mean, I wouldn’t mind… if you told me more.”
A brief shine of surprise passes through your eyes, and you nod. “Alright.”
“Alright.” He smiles.
“Do you think, ” you say, swallowing the sorrow, “we’ll need to keep doing this when the week is ov—?”
“Let’s not dwell on that,” he says quickly. He sounds—sad, almost, at the thought of this being fake. In the days spent here, picking grapes, drinking wine, going on bike rides and practicing Italian, it was easy to let the lines blur. Perhaps he’d forgotten.
You realize, when he leans forward and slots his chin atop your head: you’d forgotten, too.
—
Despite the tension, the next day goes fairly normal, and Charles takes you to town on Apollonia late at night. The Tuscan air is crisp and clean when he parks by a pub, loud not with techno music or hip-hop, but Italians singing. Inside, it’s not so crowded, populated by regulars, few tourists, and several older people.
Charles orders himself a beer, and a cocktail for you after you request something sweet. The bartender gives you an extra one on the house, and you and Charles seat yourself in front, watching people sing on the stage.
“Vi piace cantare?” Someone asks, and Charles quickly supplies: he’s asking if we like to sing.
You wave your palm back and forth. So-so, you signal. Charles, of course, ever the social butterfly, slides into a natural conversation with him, about Italy, pubs, beer, and singing. The guy introduces himself as Antonio, owner of said pub and a man who is apparently more than happy to clear the queue of singers for you two.
“Wait, seriously?” You ask. Antonio nods, clapping Charles on the back. You’d have thought they’d been friends for years or something.
You immediately turn down the request, but Charles scrambles onstage, having downed two bottles of beer. You’re overcome with horror as you watch him walk across the small stage to the side of it to request a song, encouraging whoops from the crowd.
“Ohhhhh. Oh, no. This is not a good idea,” you say, gulping. “Plus, I’ve had a lot to drink. Your aperol spritzes have so much alcohol in them.”
Beside you, Antonio laughs. “Non si preoccupi—do not worry. He seems to be a confident guy. You’re in good hands.”
“Am I? He didn’t even ask if I wanted to sing. I don’t even know what to sing.” You watch him whisper a song to the guy in charge of the pub’s ancient karaoke system, half-sure that the song archive stops after 1990. The stage creaks when Charles reaches for another mic and then stretches his arm out to offer it to you.
You muster your best angry face, but he just laughs. “Come on. You will like it.”
Gulping the rest of your cocktail, you accept the mic, and then his hand, strong in yours as he helps you climb onstage. The crowd of locals and few tourists cheer for the both of you, and you don’t do much to hide your stage fright; even the buzz of alcohol can’t help you. You hope (and know, deep down) that Charles will.
“Buona sera a tutti,” Charles says, met with more raucous cheering. “Io e il mio amico cateremo per te stasera.” He bows, and you follow a bit stiffly, not knowing what he’s saying.
“Amico?” Someone jeers from the audience. “O fidanzata?!”
Charles laughs, and you know he’s truly entertained because his eyes crinkle the way they do. You fiddle with your dress, your hair, anything to channel the nerves. He waves the crowd off with a shush motion and then turns, gestures for the song to start. He catches your eye, anxious, quells your nerves by taking your hand and squeezing it. Don’t worry, he mouths. I’m here.
You identify the song before two seconds of it even play, and the realization is breathtaking: your favorite. You shut your eyes and let a huge smile come onto your face, laughing. You almost can’t believe him for this.
He starts off the song, taking your hand and leading you into a dance. Don’t go breaking my heart.
You twirl around him, exaggerating your movements and smiling. I couldn’t if I tried.
Somehow, you find dexterity, flow in the movements, the words. Maybe because you love the song so much. Charles matches your enthusiasm, singing loudly and exaggerating his accent to incite laughs from the onlookers. When he speeds up, so do you, allowing both of you to join in an upbeat rhythm that leaves you panting.
Ooh-hoo, nobody knows it, you both sing, laughing and shimmying toward each other. You both point and laugh, joining hands again when the chorus ends to sing your lines all over again. Charles always leads you well, alert as he is excited, letting you melt into him, adapt to the dance. You feel like you’re floating.
Don’t go breaking my heart, he sings.
I won’t go breaking your heart, you sing back, ducking underneath your hands, laughing.
The tension, warmth, spark between you grow as the song begins to close, your words breathless, faces flushed with alcohol and semi-exhaustion. Even if your face seems to show it, though, you find you’re not tired at all, smiling as your heart beats faster. You pull away, dancing to the last bits of the song, having let go of all your worries, nerves. Why were you ever nervous? You always trusted him.
The song fades to an end when you pull together, faces as close as they’d ever been. You’re both breathing heavy with the intensity of your dance, smiling. You shut your eyes, laugh, with the ecstasy of this moment. From the crowd, the bartender yells: “Ora bacia! Kiss!”
Both you and Charles turn to the crowd, who quickly cheer him on, and laugh. But they’re not kidding, you realize—they’re all yelling kiss in unison, intermittent whoops and cheers joining the chant. It’s like a rural Italian version of an MLB kiss cam.
You turn back to Charles, who’s looking at you already. His eyes dart to your lips. You’d never done it before—appearances never went that far—but the crowd is unrelenting, and you nod back when he cocks his head to the side in silent question. Like always, you’re nervous. And again, like always, he helps you through it.
Warmth blossoms through your chest when he leans in and presses your lips together.
That would’ve been enough to satisfy the crowd, you think, but neither of you pull away. Sparks ignite your stomach, your hands looping around his neck, his around your waist. You kiss him back effortlessly, like you’d done this a million times before. You feel him smile against your own smile, laugh when you laugh.
The kiss is nothing if not dizzying, the perfect kind, the kind of the fairytale variety. His lips are soft, a bit chapped, against yours; when your tongues meet, they taste like aperol spritz and beer. Your hands tighten around his neck, like you need him still against you, when you both pull away for air. The crowd cheers.
You barely even hear them, staring into his eyes.
—
The night becomes cloudy, raining softly over the hills when everybody’s done singing; Charles boards Apollonia and like always, you wrap your hands around him, leaning against his back. You’re a bit tipsy, but above all, you’re utterly conflicted with how everything’s seemed to turn in on itself within the last few days.
The rain only grows as Charles revs harder, and the Vespa skids to a screeching, horrible stop. Thankfully, you’re not far from the farmhouse, so you don’t walk much; still, both of you are drenched, Charles’ arms stained with motor oil that drips off with the force of the rain. He stows away the bike, turns back to you. You’re looking at him expectantly.
“What is this?” You demand, raising your voice.
“Rain,” he replies blankly.
“This.” You wag a finger in between you both. “We kissed in Antonio’s pub, Charles. And we might—we might tell ourselves it was because of the crowd’s pressure, but we know. We both know that kiss was for nobody but us.”
He wipes a hand over his face. “What do you want it to be?”
“I don’t know,” you say honestly, sighing. Your hair is dripping with rain. “I really don’t.”
“I’ll tell you what I want,” he says. And he pauses, like he always does when he’s unsure, nervous, bumbling, and then blurts it out. “You—I want you. I was a fool to realize it late. But years of being with you, around you… I should’ve known earlier, I—”
“Charles,” you cut in, not expecting the sudden rawness. “No, no.”
“You’ve got to realize,” he says desperately. “I do. I constantly think of you, feel for you, look for you, look at you. I’ve known you for so long, I always end up liking you all over again. Everything comes back to you. Seeing you here, a place I love—seeing you love it here—listening to you sing, dancing with you—don’t you—haven’t you gotten it yet—?”
You stare at him.
You’re faraway, on the clouds, dry from the rain, when he says it. I love you.
—
The morning after is quiet, muted. You drown in your own overbearing thoughts.
“Got a lot on your mind?” You emerge from them quick, eyes darting over to Charles’ two aunts leaning by the doorframe of the dining room. You offer a polite smile, hoping it hides the conflict in the recesses of your mind.
“A bit,” you reply.
“Come join us,” Mia offers. “We will pick lemons outside. For lunch.”
You take a basket from the entryway and follow them through the front door and onto the yard, matching their slow pace, relishing in the morning sun that hasn’t yet grown too hot.
Tuscany is beautiful. Despite your best efforts, you’d grown to love it here over the course of the week. The hilly terrain, the fruit, the constant goat sightings, the bike rides to town where you clutch Charles’ shirt out of fear you might fall off.
They seem to spot good lemons within milliseconds, balding the branches in minutes. Perhaps because of your own cloudy thoughts, or maybe their breakneck speed, you fail to catch up, and they notice.
Mia again brings you out of your thoughts, guiding you three to the next tree. “Are you upset, bambina? Is Charles being a pest?”
“Oh, God, no,” you say with a laugh. “We—he’s a great tour guide. I never explored Italy before, and it’s beautiful here. He bikes me to town, because I can’t, uh, ride, unfortunately. He transacts for me, because my Italian is hopeless. He buys wine and cheese and lets me pet sheep when we bike past them on the hills.”
“Bambini innamorati.” Mia sighs fondly. “What is it you like about Charles?”
You hum, thinking. There are lots of things you like about Charles, but surely his family share the same sentiments. What’s unique? What about him is just yours? “His humor, I suppose,” you say. “He finds the fun in everything, even in competition, in boredom. Everywhere else, his good traits—everyone knows them. A stellar driver, charming, kind. Good-looking. But his humor, I think… I think he reserves his weirdest jokes, his best laughs, for the best people in his life. I’m just glad I’m there.”
Giulia is the next to speak, slow and encouraging, prompting you with a question you’d once dreaded but now feel excitement to hear: “Tell me again, how you and Charles met?”
It’s a rehearsed story, with bits of lies that you and Charles had to insert to make it appear more romantic and less coworker-esque. But you’d only told the short version before. To some journalists, to his cousin. You figure you’ll lie less and tell a more unabridged version. “Oh, okay,” you say, nervous and collecting your thoughts.
“I work with Charles. I was spending time with him a lot, so naturally, we became somewhat friends. Not very close, but comfortable enough. I had to take pictures and videos for him and his teammate, so we really were together a lot. I suppose that’s how we met. How we became… something more, is a totally different story. I think the best thing about it was that neither of us were looking for it.”
You breathe, pausing. “It simply happened—despite both of us not expecting, not needing a relationship, it happened anyway. Almost funny, how young people like myself look for the moment of love at first sight. The staggering moment of eye contact and realizing you’ve met your soulmate. But—it wasn’t like that for me. It happened slowly, like I had to dissect what I felt. Like my heart had always known, so I had to catch up with myself and realize I…”
You pause. You really aren’t lying. “…I’m in love with him.”
Giulia and Mia exchange a knowing look over the branches.
—
“So, are you dating?” Natalie asks. It’s the first race of the season, and everyone’s excited—but this interview moves slowly, Charles dictating the flow of it himself. He smiles.
“Yes, we are.”
“Well, there’d been rumors a few months ago that this was a PR stunt, calculated by your new officer, Jenna Griffin. So, tell me again, are you dating? For real?”
Charles seeks you in the crowd of the meet-and-greet fans, finds you in the front row. You roll your eyes when he smiles fondly at you. A Tuscany trip and several months later, he thinks, has changed everything.
For the better. “For real.”
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Unnecessary
(Spencer Reid x fem!reader)
Summary: In which BAU fem!reader silently suffers an unnecessary heartbreak over Spencer Reid’s “crush” on Agent Seaver.
WARNING: little angst, a nice fluff at the end <3
"Oh my god! You do think she's pretty!" Penelope squealed on what surprisingly seemed to be both a whisper and a shout as she walked alongside Spencer.
"I didn't say that. In fact, I didn't say anything." Spencer defended, clutching the strap of his messenger bag as he held himself back from glancing at your direction. He fought the redness to flow on his cheeks, averting his eyes at every possible object except Penelope's.
Derek immediately turned to you with a pitiful gaze. You gave him a tight-lipped smile, shrugging his concerns off. You never meant for him to find out. Emily and Derek were very different from each other and there were a good amount of people between them in your contacts, but it never stopped you from sending him your confession, thinking that you had sent it to Emily as you fell into a weightless slumber.
Nothing could describe your feeling when you found out the next morning, reading his reply:
—well, that's an interesting way to finally start a conversation that's not about work.
The sun and moon were dragged down to earth when you begged him to keep his flirty little mouth shut or you wouldn't hesitate to take him as your first deranged kill.
"You like her!" Penelope added, pushing Spencer's scrawny build with such force he almost flew down the small flight of stairs. “Is it her beautiful eyes? She has pretty eyes. I gotta hand her that. I like her eyes.”
You managed to hold your breath, gripping the file in your hand, your knuckles turning white. You didn't hate Penelope. You love her with all your heart and soul and reason that she didn't know anything about your massive attraction to Spencer. You love her sweet smile, amorous words, and eccentricity, but you wanted to push her down the stairs at that moment. You wanted her to stop talking.
"Alright, now, babygirl. Enough torturing pretty boy. We have a plane to catch." Derek wrapped an arm around Penelope's shoulder and you were certain that he meant she was torturing you rather than the boy genius.
Penelope knitted her brows, "What? You never defended Reid about this kinds of stuff. You know something and you will tell me this instant." She pointed her fluffy pen towards him like a knife.
You walked around them, fighting the urge to scowl or show any type of emotion, at all. What made your mood worst was when you had to share the elevator with Spencer. Emily was with the two of you, but still, it was suffocating just the same.
"A serial killer's daughter? That's gotta be the biggest risk this team has taken." Emily crossed her arms on her chest as she sighed.
"I'm sure she's just as capable as all of us. Hotch wouldn't have approved it if she wasn't any help to the team." Spencer replied, a little too fast than you would've preferred. You were thankful to stand behind them, having the ability to hide your sullen face.
You couldn't help but agree with Spencer. Despite the sinking feeling that hurled in the pit of your stomach, your logical reasoning never failed to keep you away from irrationality. It felt like you were stabbing yourself, though.
Emily looked behind you, "What do you think?"
A weak smile rolled over your lips, swallowing the lump of nothing that sat in your throat. "I think fresh eyes are always helpful." Just not Seaver’s oh so beautiful eyes. Of course, you couldn’t say the last part. You would’ve sounded like an idiot.
"Yeah," Spencer stated defensively. "Having a combination gene that's vulnerable to schizophrenia doesn't mean you'll develop one."
"Reid, I'm not saying she's a serial killer." Emily let her arms fall on her sides, giving him a worried look.
Spencer sighed, finally letting go of his suffocated bag strap. "I know... I just think it's unfair." He gave her a tight-lipped smile, and you wanted to embrace him even if he wasn’t directly talking to you.
Emily snorted, "I guess Garcia is right. You do like Seaver—" She shut her mouth at the realization of your presence. Sometimes she just couldn't hold her tongue and today was one of the days she wanted to chop them off.
She glanced at you with an apologetic smile, but you dismissed it with a silent laugh. It was making you tired. The act of smiling or laughing their guilty looks off. The ache was starting to swell.
In your opinion, it was plainly stupid. Your feelings for Spencer, that is. After joining the BAU as one of the youngest member of the team, you immediately felt drawn to Spencer. Of course, it was a form of friendship at first, but as they say, girls develop faster than boys. It wasn't accurate. You knew that. But it applied just the same.
You quickly got off when the elevator dinged open, turning to face the two of them. "Forgot something in my apartment. I'll see you at the jet!" You waved with the happiest smile you could muster and ran to your car.
The moment you sat on the driver's seat and buckled up, tears fell like a dam crumbling down. You didn't know why it hurt you. It wasn't like you told Spencer how you felt. He was ever oblivious contrary to his IQ.
It wasn't a big deal, you badly wanted it not to be. Spencer simply felt relatable to Ashley. That was understandable, reasonable. And you, of all people, understood it very well. It wasn't like Spencer declared his undying love for her. But you just couldn't help but feel jealous and depressed.
A hand covered your mouth as you fought the sobs that escaped your lips. You couldn't blame anyone, not even yourself. And that was the most painful part. No one to get mad at. No one to curse.
— ✿ — ✿— ✿ ✿ ✿
"Stop gawking." You muttered as you watched the rapid residential image slide in and out of your vision.
Derek scoffed, "I'm not gawking."
You sat up straight on the passenger seat and turned to him. "Your stare can bore holes on my head." You said unimpressively, leaning your head against the headrest.
Hotch assigned the two of you to visit the family of the victim, and as if you didn't just bawled on your way to the airport, you nodded. You were silently thankful for everyone to leave you alone. Granted, you worked with profilers, but they didn't need their skills to notice the redness and puffiness under your eyes.
"Okay fine." Derek glanced at you then back to the road. "But you have to stop acting like you're okay."
You snorted a laugh, much to his dismay and confusion. "That's the thing, though, isn't it? I have to be okay. I need to do my job and it's not like he did something wrong. There's nothing to be not okay about." You sighed, pushing your hair to the back of your head.
"Garcia was just teasing him, anyways. Reid probably doesn't think Seaver's a woman." He attempted to joke, anticipating for a genuine smile or laugh from your end.
"It's fine, Morgan. I know I'm not exactly the first girl a guy would land his eyes on in a room full of people. Reid's a guy through and through, 187 IQ or not. And Seaver is pretty. I'm not going to lie about that. I know how to appreciate beauty when I see it." You sighed, shoulders faltering as you stared straight on the road to keep yourself from showing any emotions.
The SUV stopped, Derek turning off the engine as you glance at the house in front of you. "Then, maybe it's time for you to tell him how you feel." He said, looking straight at you.
"And what?" You unbuckled your seatbelt, avoiding his gaze. "Jeopardize the team's workplace? Ruin Spencer and I's distant relationship? Or get cut off the team by Strauss for fraternizing? It's not that easy Derek." You covered your face with your hands, gulping the tears that were threatening to slide down your cheeks.
"To get yourself some clarity." Derek placed a hand on your shoulder. You removed your hands and looked at his assuring smile. "You can't let the darkness bury you, Bambi. You have to let it go at some point.” He squeezed your shoulder lightly before he added, “And you’re a beautiful woman. Don’t ever think otherwise."
You smiled at his gentle use of his choice of nickname for you. He has called you “bambi” for years and at some point, it grew into you. Despite his flirty tendencies, Derek was a great guy and he has been the closest thing to a brother you could ever find.
"Who knew Mr. Playboy gives love advice?" You kidded, a playful smirk appearing on your face.
Derek rolled his eyes and tapped your shoulder before stepping out of the car.
— ✿ — ✿— ✿ ✿ ✿
As soon as the jet landed, you immediately strode out of it. You got the approval from Hotch to head straight home, despite having three more hours left on clock.
What you didn't expect was for Spencer to follow you, scream your name, and hold your wrist. You stood dumbfounded in front of him.
"Reid..." You trailed off, not entirely sure what you wanted to say to him.
Spencer gasped for air, one hand on his chest and the other held your wrist, afraid to let you go. Usually, you would've panicked inside your head and blew up from the hotness of your cheeks, but not right now. Right now, you felt like throwing up. You felt nauseous at the bare sight of him.
"I've been calling you." He managed to gasp out, now pushing his hair with his free hand.
"Oh," you said less enthusiastic than you planned. "Did you need anything?" You watched as he steadied himself, controlling his breath a little better.
Spencer nodded, "Yeah, you." He smiled.
Shit.
If Spencer was seconds away from collapsing due to shortness of breath, you played it as a sport. Your breath hitched ever so subtly. You couldn't believe how much this man could make your heart skip a beat all while breaking it without wasting a single breath. Not that he did it on purpose.
"I know you love the tenth doctor because of David Tennant, and just so happens, I'm going to a convention that he's attending to. And I have an extra ticket!" Spencer beamed, squeezing your wrist subconsciously from excitement. His smile was so wide and handsome. His short hair was soft and messy.
"I can't."
It ached. The mere act of rejecting his invitation made you want to bang your head on a wall for crushing his innocent smile.
"Why?" He questioned, squinting, hand still wrapped around you wrist.
"I-I just can't that day—"
"You don't even know when it is. I didn't mention it."
"Take someone else? Why not, Seaver? I'm sure she'll—"
"She's not a David Tennant fan from what I concluded. She doesn’t even know what Doctor Who is. And I just met her today, she's a stranger."
"Penelope likes—"
"Are you mad at me?" Spencer's tone was different. The kind he only uses when he was frustrated and upset at the same time.
"No!" You exclaimed in a rush, finally looking at his chocolate stare that made you melt instead of the other way around.
Spencer's grip on your wrist tightened a little more, locking your gaze no matter how much you try to avoid his. "Then, why have you been avoiding me the whole week? I know you cried and I wanted to ask, but you always avoided me. I’ve been worried, so inviting you five months early for a convention seemed like a nice way to cheer you up. But you don’t want to come with me to see David Tennant. You would've choked me by now if I told you I'm going to see him and you're not invited. So I can only assume that you’re mad at me." A slight anger laid underneath his tone and even if you caught up to that, you didn't understand why.
You sighed, closing your eyes agonizingly. Derek was right. You had to let your feelings out or it would make you explode. And with your current situation, you’re already ruining your friendship with Spencer, so why not? When you gained vision once again, you twisted your wrist and held his own.
"I love you."
Silence enveloped the both of you for five seconds until your anxiety took over you.
"No, wait. Too advanced. I meant, I love you, like I have special feelings for you. Wait. No. I mean, I like you. Yeah. That. I like you. Hold on. That's too vague. I like you more than a friend. Like I want to kiss you type of like. Not I like your personality. Wait, I do like your personality. I just meant—"
"I love you too."
Your lips halted, and you stared at him with your mouth agape. "Wait..."
Spencer smiled and pulled you in, closing the little gap by connecting your lips. You didn't know what to do. Your body froze, arms falling limp on your sides. And soon you melted in his touch. One hand on your cheek and the other at the small of your back, keeping you close to him.
He pulled away with the same soft smile, "I bought the tickets, so I can take you, not some random girl I just met. Not Garcia, who helped me searched the internet for the tickets." Spencer kissed the tip of your nose.
"But— Seaver—" You couldn't form a sentence. Your brain was still foggy from his confession.
"Garcia was teasing me because I won't tell her who the other ticket was for." Spencer briefly explained. "And I was hoping I could ask you out to go with me to see David Tennant on our first date..." He trailed off, a huge grin over his face as he unravel his little plan for you. "Then, maybe ask you out for a second date. One that you actually know that it's a date."
The corner of your lips slowly curved. A laughed roaring out of you as you leaned your forehead against his chest. "I was so ready to push you to another woman, because I thought you didn't like me." You playfully slapped his chest.
"I thought you didn't, until you told Morgan." Spencer chuckled.
Your eyes blew wide, swiftly looking up at him. "He told you?!"
He immediately shook his head, "No! No..." His arms snaked around your waist, just in case you storm off and beat Derek up. "I was with him that night, when you texted him. He went to the restroom and left his phone on the table. I didn't mean to read it, but his phone vibrated loudly and, well, I read too fast."
"I..." You didn't know what to say, and the burning on your cheeks weren't helping either.
"The funny thing was," Spencer rested his forehead on yours, leaving a soft kiss on your lips. "I was with Morgan, because I needed to tell someone about my feelings for you. It kept me awake at night and weirdly energetic than usual during the day."
You chuckled, "You're down bad."
Spencer scoffed, pulling you closer. "Says, you."
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(Met) In the restroom
Dieter Bravo x f!reader
summary: Dieter looks good. Good enough that you let him fuck you in the public restroom at Met Gala
warnings: SMUT (vaginal fingering, oral-f!receiving, semi-public sex, mirror sex, unprotected p in v, spitting, biting, dirty talk, hair pulling, choking), cursing and fluff
word count: 3.8k (surprirse, surprise -quite short for me :D)
A/N: when I saw this look I instantly thought of Dieter. And you know I had to get this out of my head
It was unfair how good he looked tonight. Too good. And he knew it. He also knew you were watching him the whole night - catching your gaze a few times and sending you his signature cocky smirk or a sultry wink. And god, did that make you want to grab him and fuck his brains out right there on the carpet in front of all the other people.
His -other times- unruly hair was now slicked back enchanting his sharp features. His sharp jawline and aquiline nose were even more prominent from the side. You watched as he scratched the bald patch in his salt and pepper beard - the spot where you knew he was sensitive, always shuddering after you kissed him there.
You never saw Dieter dress up much - he loved his loose sweatpants and robes too much and felt comfortable in them so it was a rare treat to see him like this.
The thing that drove you the wildest though were the black shorts. You thought it looked silly when you first saw him arrive but after watching him longer and longer, watching how he strode on the red carpet with confidence made you reconsider. He pulled it off well and oh, you were thanking whoever decided on his outfit because his muscular thighs on display had you sweating in your dress.
The flash of cameras and people shouting and calling your name was something you got used to after the years. It came in handy sometimes. Like right now as you ignored them and watched Dieter as he talked to one of his co-stars on the current film he had been working in. He laughs and the corners of his eyes crinkle, his hand coming to rest on her waist as photographers quickly take pictures of the two of them. And you shouldn't feel jealous - you and Dieter weren't in a relationship. But still, the possessiveness that quickly washes over you is something you aren't proud of so you turn around, your back now facing them as you smile and wave at the people.
And maybe, just maybe you would feel a little bashful watching him like he was a piece of meat all night. But you knew Dieter. And he certainly did enjoy the attention you gave him - his posture always straightened whenever he saw you looking at him, his chest puffing in pride. Because even though he did not show it as much as you, he was affected by you in that pretty dress you were wearing tonight more than he’d liked to admit. You weren’t the only one with dirty thoughts swimming through your mind.
You and Dieter met on the set of Cliff Beasts 6. It was a silly project but your agent said it would get you places - it didn’t, not really. You met the Dieter Bravo and suddenly it was even worst than you anticipated because now you had to be in quarantine with him.
You two definitely weren’t the best buddies right off the start. Dieter is an "over-the-top" kind of guy and downright childish. Not a lot of people can stand him. He knows it. Maybe that’s why he got into acting. Pretending to be someone else every once in a while because nobody liked the real him.
He snorts coke in his free time and fucks anything that moves on two legs. So when he asked you with his puppy dog eyes and pouty lips if you wanted to sleep with him you immediately blew him off. But he was persistent, actually spending time with you and getting to know you - mostly because you were the only one who actually wanted to spend time with him even after he basically asked you multiple times if you’d allow him to “stick his glow stick into your dark cave”. And after a while, you got used to his eccentric persona and to be quite honest, you even enjoyed spending time with him. He was like a breath of fresh air.
One night you got drunk together - neither of you were good at holding your liquor.
That was all it took before you were in his room, your ass up in the air as he drilled into you from behind. And honestly, you never expected Dieter Bravo to make you cum three times in a row in one night. He was everything you’d thought he’d never be - attentive, passionate, eager to please. Also vocal. Very vocal.
And so you kept on sleeping with each other - even after the wrap of Cliff Beasts. You came to his, he came to yours. You fucked and then one of you left the other’s apartment. It was just that - release. Nothing more. But after a while, you started having breakfasts together, then it came to you keeping some of your belongings in his apartment, you just chatting as you watched him paint in his studio - you actually figured out Dieter was a smart guy if he wasn’t high, movie nights, dinner dates at home…you eventually moved in but neither of you would ever admit that.
For fuck’s sake, you weren’t even sure if you were dating or not. Dieter was scared of commitment, that much you learned from spending time with him, so you never pushed. And you were comfortable with it - no labels on your relationship, no pressure, no public exposure, no paparazzi or magazines that would start drama.
But at the moments like these - where he was pretending you didn’t even exist and you tried to do the same - you wished that you would go public. That you two would be now together here - as a couple. But alas, it was just your wishful thinking.
And before you know what is happening, a hand snakes its way onto your waist, a familiar cologne fills your nostrils and makes your heart skip a beat. You slowly turn your head to look at him and he squeezes your waist tighter, the rings on his fingers digging into your flesh, as he mutters a quick: “Smile for the cameras, sweetheart.”
You want to ask him what does he think he is doing but the words die on your tongue when he pulls you closer to his side. And so you do as he says, his touch sears its way onto your skin and yeah, you were in big trouble. Because fuck buddies definitely didn’t make eachother feel how he made you feel right now - like a fucking teenager whose crush smiled at them for the first time. Minutes pass, you aren’t sure, as his hands finally leave your waist and you think you are able to finally breathe again. Before he leaves, his hands brush against your lower back, his breath hitting your neck - you can smell the mint gum he chewed before he got here.
“I can’t wait to fuck the sweet cunt of yours tonight, sweetheart. You look so good in this dress.”
And with that, he leaves. Leaving you with your mouth wide open and your gaze burning into his back. But it does make you feel better - you would be the one who he was leaving with tonight. You would be the one who'd feel his plush lips on your skin, his tongue tracing your curves. You would be the one who'd ride the muscular thigh of his tonight because Dieter loves when you use him for your own pleasure. You would be the one who would make him cum and hear his pretty pleas and whines, and groans because they were only for your ears to hear.
Yeah, you had problems.
The afterparty makes you loosen up a little. You chat and laugh, drink expensive champagne and for a moment, totally forget about Dieter Bravo. You don’t see him, the room is crowded and loud as people talk. One of your friends leaves the table to get another glass for the two of you when you spot him - your eyes narrowing as he laughs at something one of his female co-workers says as she grabs him by the bicep and he is already looking at you from the corner of his eye, his mustache lifts upwards with the little smirk he throws you.
And you do need to get away because it’s not about you being jealous - even though you hate the fact. It’s about him toying with you and you not being able to do anything about it. Because what could you do? You never said you two would be exclusive and it hurts. It hurts because you have no right to be jealous - he isn’t yours. Oh, how freaking stupid you were to tangle up with Bravo.
You enter the restroom - it’s spacious and clean and it smells nothing like restrooms. More like lavender? You see your reflection in the mirror - she doesn’t look like you. Were you so desperate for a man that did not want you? That he was so afraid of being seen in public with you he rather flirted with anyone else but you? You put your purse on the edge of the ceramic sink and lean your hands on it, breathing in as you look down into it. You hear the door open and close quickly before you hear the lock click but you pay it no mind. When you look back in the mirror you yelp - jumping in the air comically. He chuckles and grabs your hips so he can spin you around and face him.
You don’t have a time to ask him what is he doing as his lips are already on your neck - you can feel him smile into your flesh when his tongue traces your collarbones and a quiet moan escapes from your mouth, your fingers gripping his coat and you pull him away from you because you can’t do this anymore. Sneaking around, only stealing a few minutes of time sometimes. His brown eye search for yours as he looks at you confused, pupils blown wide, his tongue quickly coming out to lick his lower lip. You do not dare to look at him.
“I think we should end this.” the room falls silent. You can only hear the music from outside the door and your beating heart that needs to call the fuck down. He pulls away from you completely, his expression more heartbroken than shocked.
“What? Why?” It hurts to hear him say it like that - his voice quiet as he almost chokes on the words. He looks like a kid that just broke his favorite toy. He waits and when you don’t answer hurt quickly turns into anger, his face hardening. “Just tell me why and then I’ll leave you alone.” His voice is monotoned without any traces of emotion and it’s scary how much of a good actor he can be. It spikes anger in your guts in return - for him to dismiss it just like that. You don’t want him to leave you alone. Is he blind? Why can’t he see it?
“Because, Bravo. I can’t stand another second pretending we don’t know eachother in public while at home you practically whine for me to not leave. I am tired of pretending that I don’t care when you flirt with other people. I am tired of pretending that what we have between us is just some “let’s fuck” deal. I am tired of pretending that I don’t have feelings for you. And I am tired of pretending that you might care for me where in reality you clearly don’t.”
Your chest heaves and he looks at you as if you had grown a second head. The Dieter Bravo that has always something to say now falls quiet and it makes the insides of you burn with anger because how dare he walk into your life and fuck you, make you feel like he cares and when you finally confess just stare at you?
“You have nothing to say now, Bravo? Really? That’s oh, so great because-“
“Shut up.” He grits through his teeth and your mouth falls open. Did he just say you should shut up? Fuck him.
“Fuck you. Don’t tell me what to do you prick.” You jab into his chest, solid under your fingertips and he doesn’t even move a muscle as you do. ”I pour my heart out for you and you-“
You squeal when his hand moves on the back of your neck pulling you close, his mouth finding yours and he breathes you in. His eyes fall tightly shut as you moan into his mouth and his tongue strokes yours. It’s different than the other times you’ve kissed. It’s passionate and desperate - but not in a sexual way.
It’s intimate and his other hand slowly strokes your hip, his thumb smoothing the fabric of your dress and goosebumps erupt on your skin as you feel his rings on the back of your neck - digging into your flesh with the need to pull you closer into him. Your lower back collides with the counter and he hoists you up on it - your feet now dangling in the air as he pulls his mouth away from yours and settles between your legs.
His eyes are soft and his thumb strokes your cheekbone, a soft smile on his lips makes your heart do a somersault in your chest. His forehead bumps with yours and you smile too when he whispers: “I have feelings for you too, sweetheart.”
And then he is kissing you again, his hands finding the zipper of your dress before he expertly pulls it down and the material of it pools at your waist, his hands instantly coming to hold your tits, his thumbs stroking your nipples and the cold of the rings makes you gasp. He smiles into your neck, his mustache scraping you as he trails soft kisses from your jaw to the juncture of your neck and bites you there, your keen into his touch as you moan, his tongue soothing the assaulted flesh with ease. He is quick to undress you completely -the dress falling onto the ground and he kneels on it, his mouth kissing your inner thighs, his teeth scraping you, his hands exploring and mapping your body before they settle onto your hips as he taps two times so you’d lift up a little. He hooks his fingers into your panties before they are off you too and he is kissing your mound.
Your hands fall into his slicked hair and he moans when you grab him by it and pull him closer to your cunt, his fingers quickly finding their way into his mouth before he pulls them out and shows you the saliva-covered digits as the ring shines with it before he slowly enters you with two of them and you throw your head back, your grip tightening in his hair as he kisses your clit.
The pass of his fingers inside you is slow, languid as if he had all the time in the world and wasn’t just fucking you in the restroom of Met Gala. It makes your core floods with arousal - that anybody could hear you two. His fingers dig into your hip while his others work their way in and out and before you know it he is babbling into your core - his hot mouth still lazily kissing your clit, his tongue poking out to lick you.
“You dirty little girl. This is what you wanted, right? Is that it, sweetheart? You wanted me to fuck you where anybody could hear?” You squeeze around him, your fingers digging into his scalp and he hisses your name, his cock aching in his shorts as the only thing he can do is hump the air. “Oh, you like that. You dirty little thing. You’d want me to fuck you somewhere anybody could walk in?” You whine and nod, looking down at him and he smirks. His eyes glazed as you watch his tongue lick you slowly. Because he knows you have a bit of exhibitionism kink - he figured out when he fucked you against the glass walls of his apartment telling you what a “Dirty girl you are. Letting me fuck you where anybody could see the two of us.” You came almost instantly when the words left his mouth and he kept this information in the back of his mind.
Your thighs shake around his head and that’s when your mouth opens into a silent “o” as he spits onto your pussy and slurps at you, the filthy sounds coming from him making your inside squeeze him tighter and you can feel that you are close, your eyes rolling in the back of your head when you feel the deep rumble coming from his chest.
Dieter Bravo was godly at eating out pussy and he enjoyed it too. You can feel it even now as he enthusiastically pulls his fingers in and out of you, speeding the movements of his tongue and fingers when you squeal, your toes curling and he knows he found the spot. It only takes two or three passes of his tongue before you are cumming and he grins into your mound when you try to push his head away. He takes the fingers that were in you mere moments ago into your mouth to “clean his rings” before he is pulling them out and kissing you - the taste of you on him makes you kiss him deeper, your tongue tracing his teeth and he smiles into the kiss.
“I like it when you are jealous.” You want to protest - tell him you aren’t. Lie to him. Rile him up. But he puts you back on your jelly feet and you are met with your fucked out expression. He isn’t any better though - his pupils blown back wide and his slicked hair disheveled because of you.
He crowds you in - his hard cock that still strains in his shorts presses against your bare cunt and you moan, your head falling back onto his shoulder. The fabric of his shorts makes your thighs tremble and you are sure if he keeps this up you will cum again. Your hazy brain stops working alongside your mouth when you say: “I want to ride your thigh tonight while I hold onto the coat. You look so good in that outfit.” And he stops. You hear a choked sound behind you and then the zipper of his shorts before you feel the fat head of his cock notching at your entrance.
“Yeah, fuck yeah, sweetheart. You can ride your sweet pussy on my thigh when we get home. Want you to soak my thigh. Fuck. Want you to get off on it while I watch you.” He whimpers as he slides his head between your pussy lips. When he enters you it knocks the air out of your lungs. No matter how many times you two fuck, you will never get used to the size of him.
His fingers dig into your hip as he sets relentless pace, his hips smacking against your ass and his other snakes into your hair and tugs at it harshly -making you open your eyes and your gaze meets with his in the mirror.
“Yeah, watch how I fuck you. You are so filthy, sweetheart. Letting me split you open right here on my big fat cock.” He spits.
You watch as your tits bounce with every pass of his cock. You see his throat bob and the small droplet of sweat running down his temple. You see the vein on his neck is now prominent, his teeth barred for you two to see as he looks down where you two join and he moans -his head falling back and his hand that was gripping your hair now pinching your nipples. He is attentive and he can feel you squeezing him again. He knows you're close and he grinds against you -his pubic hair stimulating your clit and he grabs you by the throat, his teeth catching your earlobe. You feel the puffs of air leave his mouth. It’s hot and sweaty and you swear you never felt this good in your entire life before.
“Watch how I fuck you silly with my cock. Who do you belong to?” You cry out when a particular rough thrust makes you see stars and he groans as you squeeze him. He is close too, sweating under the coat and shirt. “Come on, tell me, sweetheart.” He grits out and he sucks at the skin on your neck, marking you.
“Yours!” You cry out and he hums, his fingers squeezing around your windpipe tighter and your hand comes back to fist at his hair as you watch his ring-clad fingers hold onto you before you are cumming, tugging him by the hair closer so you can kiss him. It’s messy -teeth and tongues clashing together as he fucks you through it and when you part a string of saliva connects the two of you.
“Yes, that’s right. You are mine. And I am yours, sweetheart. Just yours.” It makes your heart constrict because yeah -he is yours. Yours. Your walls pull him tighter even though you already came and he chokes on air because he is so fucking close. And when you kiss him under the hinge of his jaw and whisper: “I love you.” He is a goner.
Because nobody ever loved Dieter. And you just said you did. And his heart swells because he loves you too. As much as Dieter can actually love somebody.
He cums with a hoarse groan of your name, his hand digging into your ass. He kisses your shoulder blade lazily before he calms down and pulls out of you - putting back on your underwear. And helping you back into the dress. Neither of you looks presentable but neither of you seems to care.
“Want you to drip my cum all night and when we come home I want you to show me before you fuck yourself on my thigh.” Home.
He gives you a chaste kiss on the lips before he checks himself out in the mirror - trying to fix his hair, unsuccessfully, before he leaves you in the bathroom with a silly grin on your face.
You couldn’t wait to get home.
TAGS: @harriedandharassed @bbyanarchist @completelyoverit @cutesyscreenname
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