#hope i still remember how to write ids

[thiscatiscreepy]

Pondering the orb (and the wet beast inside)

[ID: digital drawing of Raphaella la Cognizi from the chest up. She is a white woman with long light hair, blue eyes and bat wings. She is leaning her arms and head on a transparent ball, and looks fondly at a slick red creature inside. The creature looks like the human heart, with 7 translucent tentacles coming out of it. The creature us alive and is clinging to the inside of the ball. Two of its tentacles are poking out of tye ball through breathing holes. End ID]

[kavennnn]

coil ch

edit: tumblr stole half of my tags so i put a bad version of the second half of what i was trying to say in my notes :( sorry

[todayisafridaynight]

WHAT DO YOU MEAAANNN "MID" THAT COMIC GOES SO HARD AND NOT FOR ANYTHING... THAT WAS MY FIRST THOUGHT VERBATIM... THIS GOES HARD. Incredibly effective composition and symbolism and use of values and shadow on the first page ESPECIALLY (I would love to hear what the third eye symbolizes as mentioned in your tags :) ) but. But. But like. Masato being Arakawa's comfort and not recognizing it and certainly not remembering it when he's older... despite how much it means to Arakawa in the moment... owwww owwie

I was gonna ramble about how much it hits home to depict Yoko as non-human because the nightmares that have stuck with the most about my mom were like that But Enough Of That We Get It... at any rate, as always, take care and I hope you get some good news soon!

thank you so much ♪(´▽｀) !! it generally felt like somethin i dont really post (but horror/blood is something i really love and love to draw), so its why i was especially excited to share it and see what people thought: im glad people like it from what i see (❁´◡`❁) ! and im glad the lack of color wasn't anything detrimental- it might have worked better in this instance. maybe.

i dont ever 'title' things per say since i feel weird doin it BUT i guess captions serve as the title sometimes. so the caption 'matrophobia' is really ironic with that whole aspect in relation to masato being arakawa's Everything: on the one hand, it can just be a general fear of your mother, but on the other hand it could also be the fear of becoming like your mother. if i ever intended to go through with a jo variant, 'patrophobia' would for sure be the title with that ambiguity in mind, but (and i suppose in both instances) with this its more ironic here since masato is the one who ends up the most like his parents' abusers- which ultimately just makes things more bittersweet in that moment dont it (´▽｀ ;;;) on top of masato being arakawa's comfort, it's not just masato himself being the only reason: tying back into the alt. meaning of matrophobia, it's also a relief for arakawa in that he didn't turn out like his mother- which, again, makes everything so bittersweet in the end. its like spiders in my brain when it comes to that whole aspect in regards to the arakawa family's history and dynamics...... it makes me insane to be blunt ☠️

ah but yeah ! i decided to make her an actual perceivable monster so people who. DON'T. have issues with either of their parents could get a better feeling of what it is like to have a troublesome parent/s (id rather see wolves in my dreams than my mom on that note- even if they were going to bite my face off ( ´◡` ;;; ) ). i ran out of tags before i could make any more notes i had while drawing （；´x｀） but i do have more and i'll be glad to explain the missing eye bit ! under the cut since it'll just be me rambling bout symbolism ig and its gonna get long (´▽｀;;; )

when it came to the third/center eye being missing specifically, i did it in relation to how the third eye can relate to enlightenment or higher knowledge. definitely just as a result of projection, but its cause all the time when i was growing up my mom would not only assert and act as if Her Way Was The Right Way and that she knew everything, but that i should only go to her if i needed help and no one else could help me- hence it being missing being a reflection of how that notion isn't true (or always true i should say). as en extension, it's also a dig at how enlightened persons are supposed to help others reach enlightenment- yk, guide them. yet, again, in this case, they're only doing harm.

that's all for the third eye bit, but also just some other things i didnt have room to ramble bout last post: i had her lips be torn away to constantly show her fangs since. well. i dont have to explain it i guess: its just meant to highlight the never ending feeling of danger when around her (and the promise of danger). her nose being gone is purposeful too: in animals, the smell of your family's significant and it helps you find out Which One Is Yours right. in her nose being gone- again, more projection and personal problems on my part- it's a way to emphasize the separation between mother and child: 'you're no longer my kid anymore, i can't even recognize your scent'. of course, that's only to the mother: she is the only one no longer able to say they're family because she can't smell that shared scent anymore. in reality, they could very much smell the same, it's just the mother's unwilling to accept that anymore.

i know i mentioned the flowers in my initial post, but her wearing a flower shirt really was convenient since it allowed me to add those thorns and vines. when you have a troublesome parent like that, the feeling of not just being trapped is there, but it's painful- it's not something you can deal with quietly. even if you're not interacting with the parent directly, the thought of their presence or the unfortunate thoughts that come about as a result of having been around them so long are a constant thorn in the side. if i may make a pun ( ´uゝ` )

alright NOW i think i've covered everything i wanted to. without all the symbolism aside, i hope she at least looks grotesque for people to enjoy without the added thought- and i hope i didn't overdue it. in any case im glad you enjoyed it !! i hope you'll enjoy the next comic i get out (❁´◡`❁) if i ever start it and i dont abandon it midway through ( ❁´◡`❁ ;;;)

[gyuswhore]

Grease (the tragedy)

“Careful, those marks on the floor aren’t just oil and paint.”

jeon wonwoo x reader

word count: 5.8k

warnings: smut [minors DNI], fluff, angst, mechanic!wonu, annoyances to lovers, blind date gone wrong but then gone right, kissing, clit stuff, oral (f. rec), thigh fucking (oop), this all happens at a desk LMAO, title is a what I thought was a funny spin on how people say "grease (the musical)"....has nothing to do with the musical though but lots to do with actual grease!!!

synopsis: In which you have to sit through one of the worst dates of your life, followed by the insistent tug of fate and compulsion that lead you straight back to where you'd sworn you'd never go.

[a/n]: HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MY WIFE CAMOTHY @highvern everyone go say happy birthday to cam or ill appear in your room at night 🔫 anygays HAVE FUN READING THIS I hope this is all the sexy wonu content you wanted, I cant wait for your reaction hehehhehe

and also bigbigbigbig thank you to jessifer @the-boy-meets-evil for proofing this for me!!! ily heh

and and to everyone reading this who is not cam, I hope you enjoy reading mechanic!wonu as much as I liked writing him heheh PLS REMEMBER TO REBLOG AND TELL ME UR THOTS it could be in the tags, replies, an ask literally anything!!!! id love to hear what you guys think!!!!

masterlist

 [You]: do you think he died on the way [Liv]: hes still not there??? [You]: what do you think????? [Liv]: let me ask Amelia [You]: dont bother [You]: he can show up whenever he wants im leaving in 5 [Liv]: you promised you’d sit thru this!! [You]: sit thru what? an empty seat across from me???

Liv doesn’t respond immediately, and you immediately know she’s buggered off to ask her cousin why your date still wasn’t here. 

It’s not like you couldn’t have asked him yourself, the sparse textbox sitting just under Liv’s contact. You open it to inspect the contents. 

[liv’s cousin’s something]: Amelia gave me your number [liv’s cousin’s something]: friday night at the sage&salt at 7  [liv’s cousin’s something]: is that okay [You]: uh hey [You]: yeah that’s fine

Today 7:20 PM

[You]: im here?

The first thread of texts were enough to make you feel like this was some cold business meeting instead of a date, knowing wherever this would lead would be either the city dump or off a cliff. Liv was hearing none of it, taking the guilt tripping route, saying she’d already committed and her cousin was irritating enough even without a scuffle.

So when Friday evening came around you’d pulled on the first dress your fingers could find, took all of ten minutes fighting with your makeup to make it look like you did something and left the house with zero expectations. 

Despite that, as you see a man walk into the establishment dressed like he’d gotten into a fight with a squid and a paper shredder, you feel the stone in your chest tank into the abyss. Zero expectations, and he’s somehow managed to strike out anyway. 

The jacket looks like he’s put it on as a weak cover for the grime stains on his shirt and trousers, a couple jet black splatters across the outfit to really pull the whole thing together. It’s not like he looked homeless or anything, his face surprisingly handsome with his hair pushed away from his forehead. Although he remains looking like he’d been playing football in some neighbourhood parking lot before remembering he had an adult appointment too. 

You’d never seen the man in your life, but your gut told you this was the shit texter who’d kept you waiting for nearly an hour. He seems to notice too, eyes locking from across the restaurant as the waitress leads him to your table. 

“Wonwoo,” you greet with a difficult smile, half sure it came out as a grimace. “Right?”

“Yeah,” he huffs as he practically slams back down on the chair, and you wonder for a moment how the legs didn’t give out. He says your name and you nod. “Sorry I’m late, I got a call in the parking lot.”

He’s been in the parking lot this entire time?!

It’s like you’ve been doused in gasoline and lit on fire, yet somehow needing to give him a shaky reply anyway. 

“O–oh, I see.”

The waitress saves you from spitting in his face when she asks if you were ready to order. 

Dinner was off the table, as you discussed with Liv who forwarded it to her cousin to her–whoever it was that set up this god awful date–and agreed on dessert and perhaps a drink. 

“I’ll have the chocolate cake,” you request in an attempt to make this somewhat better. You consider for a moment before asking for a drink as well, “And a dry gin martini, please.”

“Um,” he staggers as he barely skims the menu, ultimately flipping it closed. “I’ll have the same, I guess.”

Deep voice. You might’ve liked that if you weren’t already so peeved. 

The waitress disappears with the menus, leaving you two alone for the first time. 

“So,” you start with an exhale. “How do you know Amelia?”

“Her husband.”

“I see.”

Silence. 

“How do you know her husband?”

He sighs like this is all inconveniencing him, and it irks you to an irrespective degree. Like you wanted to be here either. 

“He brings his car to the workshop alot, became friends somewhere along the line.”

“Workshop?”

He looks a little startled, cocking his head to the side. “I’m a mechanic? Did Olivia–was it–not tell you?”

“No, she didn’t.”

It’s silent yet again as the man across from you refuses to elaborate. You curse as you ask him a follow up question. If there was anything you hated more than shouldering a dead conversation, it was sitting through an awkward silence. 

One hour. You’d sit through this for one more hour and then you’d leave. 

“What kind of cars do you work on?”

“Expensive ones,” he answers. You might’ve kicked yourself if he’d ended it at that, but he continues with a purse of his lips. “Ones that rich people abuse to an inch of the machine’s life and wonder why the dealership gives up on it. Vintage pieces too.”

“Have I heard of it?”

“The cars?”

“No, I mean,” you let out a breath. “Your workshop.”

“Jeon Motors, just a couple streets down actually.”

You did know what he was talking about, not expecting to recognise it through the empty question, passing by it on multiple occasions in this part of the city.

“Oh, I’ve seen it a few times.”

“Yeah, we’ve been there for a while.”

“Family business?”

“Uh–sort of.” 

“Okay,” you sigh in an irritated laugh. This was going to be a very difficult hour. “Keep that to yourself too.”

“Is there a problem?”

Just as you lift your eyes to lock with his, a ready yes, there is actually a problem on your tongue, there’s an intrusion. 

“Here are your chocolate cakes,” the waitress places the cakes down, and then the drinks. “And your dry gin martinis. Do you guys need anything else?” By the time the waitress is gone you’ve somewhat forced yourself to put that sudden surge of flames out, to a degree at least. 

“Okay,” he sighs, grabbing his glass and downing nearly half the contents. He emerges, wiping a bit of a spill from the corner of his mouth. “Let’s get this out of the way.”

“Hm?” He’s speaking to you with a very weird surge of intensity, and it confuses you.

“Neither of us wanna be here. You’re clearly trying to be hospitable but I’d really rather you not, especially when we’re both doing this to get our respective ticks off our hides.”

There isn’t much you can do but stare at him. 

“Have I misjudged your advances?” he asks over his glass, sharp eyes piercing. 

“No!” you yelp, reaching for your drink yourself, taking big sips only to emerge sputtering and heaving. 

Your date looks like he’s rising out of his chair when you raise a hand to stop him. 

“No,” you repeat, less jumpy this time. “I guess we could’ve cleared that out from before.”

Did he…snort?

“Sorry.” Dropping his chin to his chest, he composes himself. 

“What?” you ask, remaining annoyed as ever. 

“Nothing.”

That does it. You slam your now empty glass down on the table, slipping your fork out of the napkin a little forcefully, the metal glinting in the light of the restaurant. You dig into a corner of the cake and shove it in your mouth. 

If he was gonna be rude, you could be too. 

“I don’t know about hospitable.” You swallow. “But I assumed not being an ass was kind of an unwritten rule for any situation really. Including the ones you’d rather not be in.”

Wonwoo stares at you with a blank face, his cake untouched. “I���m being an ass. My laugh couldn’t have offended you that much.”

“So you did pick that up,” you comment. “With the way this conversation’s going I would’ve thought it flew right over your engine.”

“I’d argue your laugh was the least offensive thing you’ve done tonight.” You plunge your fork into your cake again. “But clearly we’re in different realms of etiquette.”

Your eyes meet the rough stains on his attire, and then his own that bore into yours like a challenge. The cake isn’t too sweet, rich just the right amount and texturally sound. Maybe something good did come out of this fiasco. 

“Okay fine,” he announces, sitting up straighter. “I apologise.”

“For laughing?”

“And for being obscenely late.”

“And?”

“And…” he genuinely looks like he’s struggling to figure it out, but catches your eyes flickering to his tattered and stained outfit. “And for my entirely inappropriate dressing sense. You’ll have to forgive me for that one, oil and grime are my spoils of war.”

“Wear it like a badge, mister mechanic, but perhaps somewhere it’s appreciated.” 

Wonwoo has already finished his drink, his cake remaining untouched. “You’re quite adamant on disliking me.”

“And you’re quite adamant on being a horrid conversationalist.”

The corners of his mouth lift the slightest bit. Opening his mouth to respond, you cut him off. “Cars don’t talk? Or perhaps, machines are easier to understand?”

“More like I don’t care to be personable.”

“That can’t be good for business.”

“The cars speak for themselves.”

He’s a weird one. Even more so when he offers to pay the entire bill, promising you he wasn’t lying when he said he was good at what he does, and to “make up for lost personality points.” You manage to pay your half anyway, considering the circumstances. 

“Can you at least let me drive you home?” Wonwoo asks as you both step out of the establishment soon after. 

“Depends.” You fix the strap of your bag. “Will it fall apart on the highway?”

The blaring white of the restaurant's outdoor lights backlight Wonwoo to make him look like some sad angel. He turns to you, the same slight smirk that seems to be plastered on his face. “Why don’t you find out?”

“What do you mean sell it? I got this thing a year ago!” 

There isn’t much you can do but sigh loudly as you listen to Olivia talk about the state of her car, the one that cost too much to justify but she seemed to use and abuse like a very replaceable toy truck. 

Leaning against the hood of the darn thing, you talk to her. “The dealership is giving you a shit deal to take it off your hands, you might as well try your luck.”

The look on her face is easy to read as she silences. Not convinced in the slightest, waiting for the conversation to end just so she could figure it out on her own. Sighing loudly, you look back to the dark beauty with a crate of issues that make it spit and sputter to a stop every few weeks. 

“How much did you say the repairs cost again?”

“Enough to put me on food stamps,” she whines through her frustration, tears pricking against her eyes as they glisten under the neighbourhood streetlights. “Why are you smirking like that?!”

“It’s just,” you pause as you consider your next words, pressing your lips together. “This is a little bit your fault.”

Lies, it was entirely her fault. 

Liv stares like you’ve just offended her, which you’re sure you have.

“Care to share how this possible bankruptcy could be my fault?"

“Because you drive the thing like you have a secret reserve buried somewhere in Tenerife.”

“My apologies for making a habit of not being a public nuisance and going forty on a national highway.”

“Your speed-o-metre is not the issue here.”

“Yes, of course, everything’s my fault.”

“Liv, please!” You groan loudly. “Just…let’s try putting up a listing tomorrow. Consider the prospects and you can decide from there.”

Sagging her shoulders and stretching her neck, Liv decides to simply trudge back indoors in silence. You take it as a begrudging yes, and follow her inside. 

That very night, when you were at the very cusp of falling into the dark space of sleep, your brain re-awakens before your eyes do. A jolt as the memory comes back to you of the many months ago, sitting in that restaurant across from a man who was too handsome for the personality he seemed to sire. 

“Expensive ones,” he had said. “Ones that rich people abuse to an inch of the machine’s life and wonder why the dealership gives up on it.”

How fitting. 

“Are you going to explain or should I explode instead?” 

You’d mentally prepared for the bombardment of accusations from Liv, her questioning perfectly right as you yourself cringed at the thought of showing your face here of all places. The one last one that’d officially banned her from ever setting you up with an individual of her choosing ever again. 

Hearing only silence as her answer, she appeals; “I thought he was the worst date of your life.”

“Nothing to do with his skills as a mechanic,” you mumble, refusing to make eye contact. 

“And everything to do with this being a horrible idea anyway!” Liv stares up at the sign on top of the garage. Jeon Motors. “What makes you think this guy can fix my car?”

What did make you think he could fix Liv’s car? If you’d known you might have given her an answer, but as you stare at the giant signboard that you’ve driven past for longer than you can remember, you can’t help but feel this place has been haunting you. Just a little. 

You can’t help but feel the tingle of goosebumps rise on your skin, the hairs across the expanse standing up at the thought of walking inside. There was no way you could differentiate the reaction from plain nerves or from the cringing drills that sound all the way outside the establishment. Regardless, you make an attempt to look confident as you make your strides into the pungent of the workshop. 

The first thing you note is how…clean everything is. Cleaner than any other workshop you’ve walked into anyway. 

The interior is bigger than it looks from the outside, the ginormous hall hosting about a dozen cars within your eyeshot alone. One side of the great hall holds an array of parked cars in different stages of dismantled and deconstructed, while the other side is lined with contraptions that look like stripped and enlarged elevators. 

Once you’ve inhaled a beyond recommended amount of smoke fumes and listened past all of the clanging, banging and sparks, you register the people that are elbow deep in the hoods of the vehicle they’re working on, enough to leave you and Liv standing at the entrance of an establishment that you can barely make sense of. 

“Can I help you?” A man in stained beige overalls approaches your wide eyed pair, face half covered in his baseball hat and hands occupied with a rag. 

To your slightest dismay, it isn’t the man you’re looking for.

“Uh– is Wonwoo here?” you ask. 

“He’s in a meeting right now. Are you a friend?” 

No, just a failed love interest.

“He,” you falter. If you weren’t a friend…then what were you? “He gave me his card.”

“Do you need help with your car?”

“Mine, actually,” Liv pipes. “It’s outside if you wanna take a look first.”

With one sweeping look across the warehouse, your eyes land on one of the few doors on the left. You register the plain look of it for barely a moment before joining Liv outside. 

By the time her car has been rolled and parked inside for a more thorough inspection, it’s taken you every last grain of your willpower to not stalk back out and wait in your car. For whatever reason, you can’t help but feel a very familiar spasm of irritation spark through you. Here you are, left anxiously waiting for the same man for a second time, merely feet away but remaining occupied with more important things. 

At the very least, the multiple hands prodding around the car’s engine were being somewhat of use, attempting to survey the same issues that had been looked at about a dozen times before. You silently promise to be a better person if this trip wouldn’t be for vain.  

“Am I late for something again?” 

Your throat is suddenly clogged as you open your mouth and no sound graces your presence. The face that meets you has his eyebrows raised as he stares at you in expectation, a ghost of a smile on his face. 

“W–Wonwoo, hi, um.” You clear your throat loudly, heat cursing your cheeks. “No, of course not.”

“To what do I owe the pleasure after…four months?” he asks, hands on his hips and his back straightened.

“I…my friend’s car needed to be looked at so…”

“Ah, of course!” He turns to where you’ve motioned, looking at the popped hood of the car his employees are working on. “I’ll take a look at it myself, don’t worry about it.”

He’s already walking away, towards the car and leaving you a ways away from the action. You stare at his back; the overalls tied at the waist and the stained white T-shirt that clings to his form from the humidity.

Wonwoo remains a man of a few words, and you remain at wits end about it all. 

A loud honk gives you something to do as you jump at the sound so up close, scrambling to move away from the smack centre as another car pulls into the garage. 

“Careful, those marks on the floor aren’t just oil and paint.” Wonwoo snickers from his place hunched over the hood as he cranes his neck to look at you. 

You walk over to where he is to get out of the way. “Was that meant to sound like an innuendo?”

“I was talking about the occasional running over someone’s foot,” he answers. “Not sure what you were thinking.” 

Ignoring the jab, you note that it was now only you and him crowding the car, “Where’s Olivia?”

“Went to look at spare parts.” You watch him as his gloved hands reach further into the enclave and yank at something hard. 

“So you can fix it?” 

“The car? It’ll take a couple days but it’s not really an issue.”

Furrowing your brows, you press on, “But the dealership—”

“Dealerships are the spawn of the devil,” he grunts as he finally wrenches out a spare nut or bolt or something that’s covered in oil. “Let me guess, they wanted her to sell it back to them?”

It’s your turn to raise your brows. “Yes. They tried fixing it, but it'd just stop again.”

“Because they’ve been fixing the symptoms.” He raises his eyes to meet yours, hands occupied with rubbing the part in his hands relatively clean with a rag. “They haven’t bothered to do anything about the actual problem.” 

“Because that’s gonna cost…?”

“Couple hundred, give or take,” he announces nonchalantly, turning his focus back to the engine. 

“But—” That’s it?

“Fifty extra for every question I have to answer after this.” You briefly wonder if Wonwoo’s eyes were always this piercing, boring into your soul like he didn’t need words to know what was going on with you. 

“Fine,” you huff, moving to drag a chair over, mostly just so you could have reason to break eye contact, and plop down as you watch him work. 

The more you think about it, the more you can find yourself unbothered by his strange behaviour. He wasn’t bleak, but nowhere near one of the more interesting people you’ve met. Taking the opportunity to really scan the man head to toe, you can’t say you find anything truly concrete to be this put off by him. 

Not much of a talker, but with the times you’ve prayed for a man that knew when to shut up sometimes, you wonder how much you can actually complain about this boon in particular. 

Besides, he was a looker, and you were completely content shutting your trap if it meant you got to shamelessly ogle at him from this close. 

“You know, this place looks bigger than it does from the outside.”

Wonwoo stares pointedly. 

You raise a shoulder in nonchalance, “Wasn’t a question!”

He simply huffs as he mumbles, “More length than breadth I suppose.”

“What are those things called?” you ask as you watch a sedan get lifted into the on some platform on the other end of the row. 

Glancing back, he answers, “Post lift, car lift, whatever you wanna call it.”

“What does it do?”

“Take a wild guess.”

“Touché.” 

Glancing back at him, you catch sight of his stained shirt once again. “Is that the same thing you wore to our date?”

Chin to chest, he registers what he’s wearing, hands still working on pulling bolts and boxes out of the hood. “Have about twenty of the same shirt, I can never be too sure.”

“You’re impossible.”

He smirks, “Touché.” 

You questioned if this was a mistake. 

Olivia could pick up her car herself, so why did you insist to be the one that did it? As you pay the taxi driver, you feel your ankles lock for a moment as you move to slip out of the cab. Frozen, you hear the driver ask you if everything was alright, to which your legs seem to work again, finally foot to gravel in front of the dreaded workshop.

The Jeon Motors sign blares the same as it always has in the afternoon light, glinting as it encourages you to walk in and do one of the stupider things you’ve done in life. Other than the ridiculous outfit you’ve put on, of course. 

But alas, as you hand over your slip to one of the many mechanics in the workshop, you find yourself praying he wasn’t here after all, that perhaps you could miss him as you leave and never have to see him again. 

Somebody yells out his name, and the dream drifts away like smoke. 

Finding the courage, you look up to where the man shouted for him, and immediately wish you hadn’t. 

Wonwoo remains in his overalls, the same ones that he had tied to his waist the last time you saw him. His undershirt however…

The tank top is revealing too much for you to pretend you don’t care, his hair remaining pushed back and away from his forehead as he walks over to you in what feels like slow motion. He takes the slip that he does not need, smiling at you as he says his hellos. 

“Car’s all fixed up, just need some papers that need signing and you’re all set.”

“Oh, but Liv isn’t here today.”

“That’s alright, you can sign them too,” he reassures, motioning for you to walk with him towards the car. “The car was alright in the test drives, revving hasn’t caused any problems either.”

He halts in front of the now (supposedly) fixed black sedan and pats the hood lightly, “If anything happens tell her to bring it straight here, although it shouldn’t have any more problems.”

“What’s your rate of return on customers?” you ask, a slight smirk on your face.

He thinks for a moment, “Pretty crap. But I guess that means I’m doing something right.”

You consider yourself something of a helicopter parent when it comes to your own car, but perhaps you’d change that if it meant you’d get to come here a little more often. 

Goodness, what’s gotten into you.

Wonwoo’s smiling too, and for a brief moment the silence is nearly awkward. A pause before he proposes leaving. 

“Shall we go to the office then?” 

Nodding eagerly, you trail behind him as he leads you towards the other end of the workshop, passing by even more cars in all their stripped or constructed glory. Glancing in front, you catch sight of Wonwoo’s back, ensnared for a moment before you snap your head away, reciting every curse word you know like a mantra. 

“It’s less hot in here too, keep the air on all the time.” Wonwoo stands in front of the plain doors, hands on the handle to wrench it open. You recognise it as the same door you had noted a few days ago. “Would you like anything? Coffee, tea?”

“Um, just water is fine, thanks.”

It’s quite plain, beige and leather against cream walls and unfittingly white lights. There’s a desk on one corner that’s beyond cluttered with more papers than you can register, pens and other office supplies mixed into the disorganised chaos of the large tabletop.

“Sorry about the mess, I can never find time to sort through it.” To your surprise, the light tinge of his cheeks suggest he might actually feel a little embarrassed. 

Cute. 

There’s cabinets that line on one of the far walls, and you watch him take his gloves off to open it and reach for a cup. The white porcelain emerges stained with an ashy grey as his fingers betray him. He looks flustered, glancing at his hands and back up to the cabinet. 

You can’t help but laugh a little, moving forward to help. “It’s alright, let me.”

“Sorry,” he apologised again, with a sheepish look on his face. “I’ll, um, wash this off.”

“Go on, I’m here,” you reassure as you move towards the water dispenser in the corner to fill your clean cup. 

He returns with significantly cleaner hands and apologises one last time. “Seems all I do around you is apologise.”

You have the good humour to chuckle, “So I’ve noticed.”

He does well to clear out most of the clutter that’s on his desk, leaving enough room to set down a few pieces of paper as you take a seat on the opposite side. 

As you scan through the papers, he attempts to make sober conversation. “You should…bring your car around for inspections if you want.”

“Oh? Even if I ask a million questions?”

“I can make an exception or two,” he grins. 

“And if you charge me double?”

“Might not charge you at all.”

“Might?” you question as you lift the pen he’d given you to sign the first space. 

“Might.”

“And what’re the conditions for that?” 

He doesn’t answer as he ponders and you fill in the second blank. “I’ll have to think about that.”

You snort before you can help it, your last signature coming out a little wonky as your hands shake. Turning the papers over to him, you continue, “Well then, let me know when you figure it out.”

He stares pointedly as he accepts the papers before dropping his eyes again, “Can I?”

“Hm?”

“Can I? Let you know?” 

It’s like you’ve been frozen over, the typewriter in your mind jamming as it punches out the implications of what he’s saying. 

“It seems, at least to me, that we may have gotten off on the wrong foot,” he continues. 

You hesitate. “I think so too.”

“I…I don’t want to put anything like pressure on you but–” 

“Would you like to try the new gelato place downtown this week?” you ask finally as you save him from his misery. “If…you’d like.”

He looks stunned for a moment before he’s scrambling, “Oh–of course! Yes, anytime is fine with me.”

“Great,” you smile, lifting from your seat. “It’s a date.”

“I’ll promise to wash my hands this time…and my shirt. And I won’t be late.” 

“Let’s not make promises we can’t keep,” you tease. 

You’re nearing the door as he follows behind, and just as you’re about to pull down on the handle, you hear him say your name. 

Turning around, almost too eagerly, you look up at him in expectation. He’s close, almost right behind you as he looks like he’s debating whether opening his mouth is a good idea. 

“Are you doing anything else today?” 

“Um,” you stutter for a moment. “I don’t have to drop off the car till later tonight, that’s all really.”

He swallows. “Do you wanna stay? Just a little while. We can stay in here, nobody comes in anyway.”

You aren’t entirely sure why you said yes, because you did actually have dinner plans with Liv later tonight, but the teeny tiny voice in your mind egged you on anyway. Besides, Liv wouldn’t mind, not if you were cancelling for this.

This entailed the very friendly contact of Wonwoo’s tongue in your mouth, and the extremely cordial way it seemed to caress your insides. If somebody asked you how it led to this, you don’t think you’d have an answer. Not that you care, especially when his hands are grabbing your waist and hips like that.

He’s already locked the door, reassuring you that nobody would find their boss and client in the smack dab middle of the devil’s tango. You take his word for it, relishing in the way his hot breath hits your skin below your ears, his mouth sucking under your earlobes as you whimper ever so quietly. 

Your hands are on his exposed biceps, feeling him up all to your heart's content. “Do you–Do you always wear stuff like this?”

He emerges, wet lipped and eyes trained. “So I wasn’t imagining it.”

“Imagining what?” you ask as you let him unbuckle your trousers.

“Please. Like you weren’t stripping me with your eyes.”

If you were warm before you, you're boiling up now. Were you being so obvious?

“It’s alright,” he reassures as you feel his fingers make contact with the crotch of your panties, pushing in to put pressure on your clit. “Wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t picked up on it.”

You feel his fingers push the dampening fabric away as his fingers make contact with your hole, coating his fingers in the arousal that’s made itself known. It’s hard to not hiss at the way he begins to circle it, thanking the universe that the loud noises of the workshop outside were masking whatever evidence of the heinous crime you were committing inside. 

Back against the couch in his office, you settle into the cushions once you feel him rub at your clit, one hand spreading your lips apart as he continues to massage your own wetness onto your throbbing cunt. 

When he retreats you almost cry out, but are smothered when he plunges two fingers into your hole instead, curling them almost immediately inside you. The consistent brush of the tips of his fingers on your walls are making it difficult to keep your eyes open, and absolutely impossible to keep your moans at bay. 

“Wonwoo, that’s so good, fuck.”

Through your closed eyes, you don’t note when Wonwoo gets on his knees. But you do feel him yank your trousers off entirely, and you definitely feel him place his wet mouth flush on your lower lips, sucking at your clit as he continues to pump his fingers in and out of you mercilessly. 

That’s all it takes for your noises to become increasingly high pitched, hands buried in his beautiful hair as he continues to pleasure you beyond imagination. 

“I’m so close, keep going, please, it feels so–”

He somehow buries his face in deeper, sucking harder, licking faster, and it’s enough for you to finally feel yourself collapsing on the inside, your composure dissolving as you moan so loud you’re sure they can hear it outside, even through all the clanging and revs of cars. 

There’s no way for you to know how long you lay there slumped against the couch cushions, but when you hear Wonwoo speak to you in your ear, you answer. 

“Was that okay?”

“More than okay,” you say as you grab his face and pull his lips to yours, tasting the tang in his mouth from your arousal. “Do you have a condom?”

“I–fuck,” he thinks for a moment. “I don’t think I do.”

You try not to feel too disappointed, but you sigh into his mouth anyway. 

“Can I fuck your thighs?” you hear him ask, and you might have just orgasmed again, untouched. 

“Fuck, yes you can.” 

With a yelp, you feel yourself lifted off the couch as you wrap your arms around Wonwoo’s neck, letting him guide you to his desk. “Wonwoo!”

You hear a loud crash of the desk being stripped of all its inhabitants, and your back hitting the cool of the table top. 

Wonwoo unties the arms of his overalls around his waist, letting the legs pool to the floor before slipping his hard cock out of his boxers. 

You don’t see it as you feel him lock your knees together and lift both your calves to rest on one of his shoulders. But you do feel it as he pushes the head into the seam of your thighs, watching the indent as the pink of his dick appears before you through the skin of your thighs. 

Wonwoo’s face is contorted as he pulls back and pushes back through again, this time brushing against your still sensitive clit. You gasp at contact, and immediately feel him thrusting faster. 

“Wonwoo,” you grunt. “Lower.”

He obliges, pushing his dick lower so it can rub flush against your clit as he begins to roughen up his pace. 

You moan as you feel his free hand that isn’t holding your legs trail to the ends of your shirt, caressing over your stomach to pull it up and reveal your bra clad tits. He pushes his hands under the nearest cup and begins to grope you so wonderfully with his big, warm hands. Rolling the bud between his fingers, you can only grasp onto his wrists as a handheld to keep you down on earth. 

The desk beneath you is rattling with noise, the full drawers making themselves known as Wonwoo pounds into your thighs like he would die if he stopped, mouth coming in contact with whatever skin of your legs he could reach, his breath fanning the side of your knees. 

You’re close again, and you know he is too with the way his thrusts are beginning to grow sloppy. 

“There,” he pants. “Almost.”

You orgasm for the second time, the throb your clit beyond comprehension as the rough of his dick slides across your clit mercilessly. 

“Cum like this, Wonwoo please I need to see you cum.”

And he does, shooting the heft of his load to cover your already wet cunt and thighs, landing on your stomach as he continues to ride out his high between your legs. 

The back of your head hits the table as you take in gulps of air through the aftermath of it all. Wonwoo is putting his weight on the back of your thighs, holding onto the table for support. 

“Oh, Liv is never gonna let me live this down,” you pant, lolling your head to one side as you register him. 

He peers up at you through his hair, the stupid smirk on his face, “Do you care?”

You’re smiling a little too when you answer, “Not really.”

And then your legs are off his shoulders as he nestles between them instead, diving in to lift your head and kiss you. 

And you let him, although you wouldn’t really call it too much of a kiss—not when the both of you were smiling like idiots through the clash. 

[leclsrc]

it’s never over ✴︎ cl16

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

word count: 12.9k  

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

nsfw warnings under the cut!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

“Who told you about that nickname?”

“Lorenzo.”

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

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

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

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

“It’s fine.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

“Mum—”

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

“Um.”

“Because… I’ve been…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You can.”

“No.”

“Fine. Next best thing then.”

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

“Pretend you’re dating.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Charles balks. “How did you even—”

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

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

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

You both nod, hyperfocused. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Got the IT team to fortify my account.” 

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

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

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

—

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

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

“How’s uni?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You can tell me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

“I was thinking more seafood.”  

“Tuna? Make ‘em little tacos.”

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

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

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

“It is not not okay.”

“So it’s…” You pause. “Okay.”

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

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

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

—

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

“We need to talk.”

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

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

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

“Tais-toi. It’s for her own good.” 

“So you’re going to pretend to date.”

 “Ouais.” 

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

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

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

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

“So how about her birthday?”

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

“Nervous?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sure.”

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

“Dream on. On y va?”

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

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

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

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

“It’s seven,” you beam. “Dumbass.”

“Again with the competitive streak.” memory

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

“No you’re just a—hi, hi, hello!”

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

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

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

“Texas,” Charles says at the same time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh.”

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

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

“… crazy about her forever.”

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You.”

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

“If you don’t want to—”

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

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

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

“First.” He looks away.

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

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

“Put me down, loser!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That was more than enough.”

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

“Did Papa?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Why do you care?”

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

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

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

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

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

“No, about her brand new dress.”

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then you’re quiet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

You purse your lips. “Charles—”

“A golden shower, mate. Absolutely.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“When will you two wed?”

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

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

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

“Si, he did.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of?”

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

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

“Now?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

“Okay, that’ll be me.”

“So that’s us.”

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

–

read an omitted scene here :)

[entwnii]

𝐊𝐔𝐑𝐎𝐎 𝐓𝐄𝐓𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐎 is a very busy man. being a sport promoter is a hard-working job in terms of schedule — having to find various endearing sport events and sponsors who will agree to take part and finance these social event — which consumes a lot of time and humain energy.

and while tetsuro is grateful for the way you support and understand that his work takes a lot of him he still feels guilty for leaving you alone most of the time — especially now that you’re six months pregnant with his son.

over the last couple of weeks your husband and his coworkers started working on a very special sporting event, the ‘FIVB Beach Volleyball World Championships’, the double-gender world championship of beach volleyball. despite this championship being in a bit more than a year it is by far the most important worldwide volleyball event happening in the following year.

which is why testuro has been working harder during the last few days, his schedule being filled with meetings to discuss with a bunch of different sponsors — on who gets to sponsor what.

so when tetsuro finds himself having a ten minutes break between two meeting he immediatly turns on his phone, checking for any texts or missed calls from you — to which he does find a few texts.

wifey ♡ babe babyyy testsuro !! pls reply as soon as you can :(

tetsu •ᴗ• sweetheart is everything okay  ? are you hurt ? fuck did you burn the house down ? wifey ♡ babyyyy yuh uh everything is fine !! and i only burnt homemade caramel once :( i just can’t write it over text… call me !!!

the raven-haired man stands up from his seat, excusing himself as he pushes the nearest door open with one hand, the fingers of his free hand swiftly tapping over his phone’s screen as he clicks on your contact id — dialing your number. he then places his phone over his ear, leaning his back against the wall behind him as he waits for you to pick up the phone.

as soon as tetsuro hears some shuffle from the other line of his phone he speaks up, not even letting you greet him properly. “sweetie, is there a problem ?” his tone is worried as he waits for your answer, hoping that everything is fine — that you’re alright.

“tetsu—” you start before letting out a laugh, which kinda helps your husband calm down for a bit. “i told you that everything is fine, you don’t have to worry”

on the other end of the phone you can’t help but smile at your husband’s worry for you, which doesn’t fail to make you remember how much he cares about — something that only increased as soon as the first symptoms of your pregnancy appeared. “what is it then ?” tetsuro’s booming voice immediatly brings you back to earth. “it’s just. . . i have a brilliant idea !” you joyfully tell him. the raven-haired man pauses at your exclamation, searching for any guesses of what that idea might be. . . until a grin appears on his face as he finally comes to realization. “is it another wild craving of yours, princess ?” he lets out a chuckle at your answer, laughing to himself as he hears you sigh from the other line of his phone. “my cravings aren’t weird !” you protest, the pout on your lips evident in your tone, which makes your husband’s grin even wider. “so, i’m craving nachos—” you say before the raven-haired man cuts your sentence mid-way. “oh, from which place do you want it babe ? i can get it delivered at home—”

“no ! i want sweet nachos.” you state, a huff leaving your lips.

your husband stands there, a dumbfounded expression written all over his face as he stares ahead of himself, his brain malfunctioning due to your words. any of his coworkers who would pass by would think that something is wrong with him, like he just heard one of the dumbest things on earth — which he kinda did. “sweet nachos— angel that’s not even a thing !”

“but it is a thing since i just invented it !" you exclaim, your voice full of confidence — as if you didn’t imagine the weirdest ‘dish’ in the whole word. "the base is made of chips — not any kind tho, only the original pringles — with a bunch of m&m’s, reese’s, chocolate syrup and whipped cream.” you say, taking the time to explain this whole snack of yours in details. "whipped cream as to be on top of the chips and in a small cup on the side, okay ?"

tetsuro licks his lips as he notes all of the needed ingredients in his minds, shrugging his shoulders before realizing that you can’t see him and speaking up. "yeah, sure. do i need to stop by the grocery store to get the ingredients or nah ?" he asks, which you answer with a simple ‘yes’. He hangs up the phone a few seconds later — after kissing you goodbye through the phone of course — and steps back inside the building for his last meeting of the day.

when your husband finally exits his work building — by 8:45pm exactly — he walks to his car, a white Mercedes-Benz CLE 200 Cabriolet. he opens the front door for himself, dropping all of his papers on the passenger seat next to him. he turns on his car, pressing on a button — making the roof of the convertible disappear inside of the trunk.

after about twenty minutes — and a stop at the grocery store — tetsuro finally parks his car in front of your shared house. he steps out of the car, a brown paper bag in one hand and his stack of papers in the other, a sigh leaving his lips as he pushes onto the front door’s handle, entering your residence.

“i’m home, sweetheart !” your husband calls out to you, taking his shoes off and walking towards the living room.

he smiles as he sees you laying on the couch, your head propped on one of your arms as you watch ‘from up on poppy hill’. he chuckles softly at the sight in front of him, placing his papers on the coffee table and bending over to get a proper look at your face. you glance up at his face when you finally notice his presence. you immediatly lift you head off your arm, a smile making it’s way on your lips as you sit up on the couch, puckering your lips for the raven-haired man to kiss you, which he glady does.

“how was work, baby ?” you ask him, looking up at him while slightly tilting your head to the side. “there’s a some oyakodon and rice in the kitchen that you can heat up in the microwave and the pan.”

“god, princess, i’m gonna wife you up again. . .” tetsuro mutters, resting his forehead against yours before placing a tender kiss on your lips.

he breaks up the kiss and stands up, affectionately flickering your forehead before walking back to the kitchen, turning the lights on. tetsuro notices the bowl of rice on the counter and grabs it, placing it next to the pan. he tears a bit of paper towel with his fingers, damping it with some water before placing it over the bowl. he turns on the microvage, putting the rice to reheat. your husband smiles when he sees the oyakodon heating in the pan on low heat before turning it higher.

he sighs, rolling up the sleeves of his white shirt onto his biceps before turning to the paper bag with the groceries he did ealier. once all of your craving’s ingredients are — finally — placed in front of him, tetsuro can start preparing your snack.

he opens the tub of unflavored pringles before placing some chips onto a plate, some whipped cream on top along with chocolate syrup before scattering m&m’s and reese’s on top of everything. he grabs a small cup, pouring some whipped cream inside.

when the time alarm goes off your husband opens the microwage, carefully grabing the rice cowl — without burning himself — before taking the damp paper off the top of the bowl. He moves the pan off the heat, pouring the runny mixture on top of the white rice that he garnishes with green onion, sesame seeds and a bit of togarashi.

in a swift move tetsuro snatches a pair of chopsticks, placing them between his fingers before grabbing both his bowl and your plate, tuning the lights off before walking towards the living room.

“here you go, sweetheart.” he tells you, handing you your plate while you thank him, your bright smile making your eyes squint and your head tilt.

you slide off the couch, now sitting on the floor as you place a pillow under your ass and behind your back, putting your plate on the coffee table in front of you. tetsuro slips down on the floor next to you, slightly bending his upper-body above the table, gathering some of his food between his chopsticks and taking a bite out of it.

you squeal as you takes one of the chips between your fingers, shoving it inside of your mouth. you can’t help the sigh of contentement leaving your lips at the salty and sweet taste you’ve been craving all day. You take another one, doing a small dance of happiness.

“i gotta say, princess, your food taste was already strange, but now ?” tetsuro says, whistling, only for you to slap the back of his head, a huff leaving your lips as a pout tugs at your lips, only for it to be wiped away by your husband’s lips on yours, to which you gladly kiss him back.

[bucknastysbabe]

hii, could you write smt abt aegon ii? 🥹 like kinda perv and loser stepbrother!aegon

YES I CAN! Hope you enjoy, getting back into my Aegon ways a bit! Xoxo

Just like that video! - Aegon II

Rating: Explicit

Tags: Loser perv step-bro Aegon, TW: alcohol abuse, underage (17) sexual moment, cocaine use, fat shaming, modern au, Aeg’s a shit but means well, Lannister reader, and they were step-siblings, lots of banter, pnv!sex, chubby!aeg, begging, family interactions, pseudo Incest and they get off on it, the panties were allowed to be kept

Taglist: @arcielee @aemonds-holy-milk @targaryenbarbie @lovelykhaleesiii @sugarpoppss2 @fairysluna @thought--bubble @valeskafics @dr-aegon @targaryen-madness @starogeorgina @fallingintoyourlilaceyes

You had no choice but to come home for college this summer, being a lame freshman. Next year you planned on getting a place off-campus with some of your tennis teammates. You would go back to the mansion this summer, reluctantly.

The stupid mansion your family had inherited over generations. Casterly Rock. Now it was infested with your stepmother's weird fucking offspring, minus Daeron. You liked Daeron. Regardless, the youngest sibling could not protect you from the advances of Alicent's eldest son Aegon.

He was harmless, really. He currently was in a 'gap year' between his junior and senior years. The term gap year was a nice overcoat of gloss. You knew he had a bad coke and alcohol problem and needed to get straightened out. You hadn't seen the fucker since he was absent for most of the holidays in a sober-living program.

You had been home for about three hours now, isolating in your room, watching Hulu, bored as fuck. You had spoken to your father and Alicent while the servants brought up your belongings. Alicent asked politely, "How was nationals? You know we would have come but Daeron was graduating."

"We got our ass kicked, I wish I was there to see Daeron too. Where's his highness?"

Jason grumbled, "Eating the house."

Alicent's face soured slightly at the mention of Aegon. She hummed, "He's just working his program and staying sober until he can finish up school. Mainly mopes around, it'll be good for him to have you here." You nodded, holding your tongue. Jason snorted and said, "Make him get the hell off his ass or something, play tennis, who knows. Dinner's at eight."

It would be a boring summer. Maybe you could call up the Reyne or Tarbeck boys for some fun. You didn't particularly want to hang around your peaked and washed-up fratboy loser of a stepbrother. You remember from when you were younger and excited, your father was marrying into the royal family!

You were met with a toddling Daeron, shy and dreamy Helaena, intense Aemond, and Aegon. Who promptly pointed at your chest and scoffed, "Totally not like the porno huh? That's lame." You stood in abject Lannister horror, planning on his immediate downfall.

Instead, you grew up under the shadows of your strange siblings. Aegon was 4 years your elder and acted like he was still in middle school. He ignored or made fun of his 'stuck-up stepsister.' You had a strange interaction when he was home on a holiday You had just turned seventeen and Aegon was a junior. He was pretty bad off when he first came in with Criston, the guard holding him up.

Aegon was rail-thin, drunk as fuck, and a crying mess. You exchanged a look with Aemond, the other brother making a face of disgust. He whispered to you, "Dumbass is about to get kicked out of school, he's on academic probation right now. Or might I mention his raging alcoholism and cocaine addiction?"

The pair of you watched him get dragged off to your parent's room. You mustered a weak reply, "I knew he was a drunk but not that damn bad." Alicent had put him on Antabuse when he was in high school and then deemed him alright to go to college.

That night you'd gone out with the Westerlings to Lannisport, you had a fake ID yourself. Coming back you managed to score Aegon some blow and a bottle. You don't know why you did. Maybe it was that desire to gain his pointless approval. You did it anyhow, smuggling it into your purse. Criston didn't bat an eye, he thought you were the golden child, soon-to-be salutatorian, and a tennis scholarship to a good school in Oldtown.

You crept down the hall, Aegon had the big room on the corner of the second floor. Knocking on the door, a haggard Aegon moaned, "What? I feel like shit! Fuck off, Cole! Jason! Whoever you are!"

You yell-whispered back, "No dumbass it's me, I have something."

The door opened to a much sicker Aeg, eyes red-rimmed, skinny body trembling under a thick blanket. You gasped "What the fuck is wrong with you? Do you have a virus?"

"No. Withdrawals. What did you bring me?" His violet eyes leered at your bodycon dress, making your cheeks heat up. He was handsome, stepbrother or fiend or whatever. You looked around and handed him the baggie and bottle. Aegon's eyes lit up and his smile brightened. He dragged you into his room, smelling of sweat and alcohol.

"Thank fuck, I needed this so bad, gods you are an angel."

You shrugged, standing there as he chugged some of the liquor, sighing in audible relief. He eyed you and asked, "You got a credit card?" Nodding in slight fear you rifled more in the purse and handed him the card. Aegon locked his door and got busy chopping up the coke. You pulled out your wine bottle and sat down, watching him drinking and shakily chopping up the white powder.

You ended up drunk as a skunk, Aegon absolutely cooked and giddy. He was making you laugh, chatting like you were a friend. Going so far as to inquire about your boring life. He seemed at ease, the dark cloud that would hang over Aegon had melted. The blonde looked at you with glassy eyes and hummed, "M'sorry for being a prick, you're not half bad."

"Sure, you're just happy I fueled your problem. Stuck up Lannister isn't that boring."

He laughed a bit, pretty teeth shining. Aegon asked, "Wanna watch this stupid movie? M'wired up right now." You gestured to the remnants of the coke and giggled, "I'd imagine, yeah come on then." You'd drunkenly climbed onto his huge bed, Aegon plopping on the other side, typing the movie into the big ass television.

It was funny, but somewhere along the way, Aegon had inched his way toward you. You had moved closer to him, snuggling into his side. The voice of reason was screeching in your head. Your stepbrother turned his face to yours, murmuring, "You're so fucking pretty you know that? I don't care how fucked up that is, I am fucked up."

You surged forward to meet his plump lips, Aegon's hand holding your cheek as he kissed you. He laughed darkly, nipping at your lip and sliding in a tongue. As the liplock grew more heated- spit-slick lips and tongues sliding against each other, Aegon rolled his frame atop yours, settling between your spread legs. Your dress rucked up to your panties from the movement, drawing a helpless whine from your throat.

This was disgusting, wrong, awful.

You arched into his touches on your hips, groaning into his mouth as you sensually kissed him, growing messier by the second. Aegon rutted a bit against your pussy, softly moaning and squeezing your waist. He murmured in your ear, "Mm, I know you're all wet for me, stepsis." Skinny fingers crawled to the edge of your underwear.

A deep pang of fear struck you, suddenly withdrawing and backing out of Aegon's amorous embrace. You shook your head, heart beating too fast, shame and guilt pounding your head in. The platinum-haired man stared in confusion, stuttering, "W-What the fuck? Are you okay? Hey!"

You shook your head, chest too tight to speak. grabbing the remnants of your debauchery you skittered out of his room, silent tears running down your face. You felt weird, you drew a line in the sand that would not wash away. With fucking Aegon. You could hit yourself.

The rest of the days he was icy. Icy all the way until he was going into rehab and further treatment. You didn't dwell on the experience until now, eyes darting towards his room. You would have to see him eventually. Passing by his door all you could hear was video game noises.

You locked the door to your room, a bit of anxiety peeping through. For the seven's sake, you were an adult now! You would be a polite sibling, Aegon was obviously sick at the time and trying to get well. He'd written you an apology from his sober living place and you wrote back a brief acceptance and gave well wishes. So it couldn't be that bad?

You'd take a nap and deal with your insane family later.

Sitting down at the dinner table, the normal-sized one, you chatted with your mother and Criston about tennis. Jason prepped some sort of penne dish with a salad. The sound of a chair being scooted back alerted everyone to another presence. It was Aegon. He murmured a quiet, "Hey. Nice to see you sis, sorry 'bout nationals."

"Thanks Aegon, how are you doing? Super proud of you."

You tried not to stare at your stepbrother but he had...changed. His hair had grown out to shoulder length and he'd put on weight. Nothing terrible, but it had to range somewhere in 50 pounds (23kg). The big sweatshirt and too-small joggers didn't quite help his case either.

"Yeah, it's not bad, ready to get back to school or do something before I go crazy."

Jason snarked, "A job is always a good idea huh?"

The awkward silence was permeated by an excited Daeron hugging you, still sweaty from soccer practice. You mock gagged and smiled at the little brother, batting him away. Criston hummed, "Dare's already started practicing at King's Landing U." You grinned, "Hell yeah! I'll come boo you when you play Oldtown!"

Things fell into a familiar rhythm besides Aegon scarfing his food up and excusing himself. Alicent called after him, "Where are you going, honey? Come visit with us." Aegon sighed, "I have a headache, sorry."

Your dad shook his dark blonde hair, rolling green eyes. He scoffed, "All Aegon does is eat and play video games. He'll be a fucking cow sooner or later."

You found yourself speaking up, "Would you rather have him chubby and sober or skinny and tweaked out Dad?"

Jason forked some pasta in his mouth, shaking his head. Criston broke the next stage of awkward silence. "Hey, he's almost at a year now. I'd never think I would see the day." Daeron nodded along. Dinner resumed to normal.

You had helped your father clean up, the conversation stunted and awkward. Lannister men had a tendency to never understand a woman, just a family thing. Some of your friends had fathers who didn't suck. Alicent tried and Criston was the occasionally cool uncle. Even if he wasn't related to any of you, just something that came along with being royal.

You spent some more time playing smash bros with Daeron, laughing and catching up after much needed time. It was late and you glanced at your phone. Marq Tarbeck had texted you back. You ignored it, yawning, "Alright Dare, I think it's time to hit the sack." His sleepy purple eyes seemed to agree as he got up, muttering about 'getting his nasty ass in the shower.'

Daeron split ways with you, going to his room nearby, and you up and across the mansion. Your room was also on the second floor- there was no way but to pass Aegon's room. Part of you wanted to check on him, it seemed like your father was hard on him. The other half said fuck it, he doesn't need to be babied. Still, you paused at his door, listening to the vague background noise of the television.

"F-fucking, god, baby," he groaned, muffled.

Your eyes widened in shock. A drawn out moan of your name made you freeze. Aegon rambled, "Knew you'd be so cute taking my dick stepsis. Gods!" His deep voice made you tremble slightly. Your imagination painted an image of Aeg spread out, fisting his cock, thickened thighs flexing. His plump lips would be extra swollen, those cute chubby cheeks blotchy.

Oh Gods. You couldn't. He was having a private moment and you stood outside his door like a weirdo. Then your phone began to ring. A loud buzzing as you frantically switched it off, fucking Tarbeck! With a pitiful whine you tried to book it away to your room.

"Get your ass back here!" came Aegon's whisper-yell.

You paused, hand over your mouth. Fucking fuck, you thought.

"C'mon, get over here, I heard you."

You dramatically groaned and shuffled to Aegon's doorway, eyes downcast, blushing heavily. A finger tilted your chin up, you reluctantly looking at his smug face. Aegon hummed, "Did you want a look-see or just to listen? You're just slumming it now huh? No Reynes or Tarbecks?"

You gritted out, "I was going to check on you, but then I heard my name. Of course I'd be curious to why you were moaning it."

Aegon rolled his eyes, scoffing, "So. Jig's up. I stole your pretty little lace panties to fuck too. Since I'm a man of honesty now."

Arousal laced up your stomach, pussy throbbing at the actual desperation this fucker was giving off. You panted a bit, shouldering him aside. Your panties were indeed on the bed, thoroughly used. Gaping at Aegon he shrugged, basking in the debauchery. Guess being sober didn't change him from being a little pervert.

You muttered, "I can't believe you."

"I tried to fuck you did I not? I remember how eager you were."

Glancing at his lidded eyes and frankly punchable face you kissed the man, gripping at his oversized sweatshirt. Aegon seemed surprised, inhaling sharply before grabbing your ass and returning the kiss with vigor. He murmured, "You aren't running away- hah- this time." He squeezed your ass hard, lips intense against yours.

Pressing yourself to his soft belly he stiffened a bit, apoligizing, "M'not very in shape, too many sweets, cock's the same." You shrugged, pulling his heavier frame atop your own, a thick thigh slotted between your sinewy legs. He groaned softly, hands pulling at your shirt impatiently.

He grunted while shucking off his sweatshirt, elbow about to take you out. You yelped and ducked, Aegon guffawing. "Sorry?" He chuckled. Shaking your head you pulled on his longer hair and resumed the earlier attentions. The blondie rudely unsnapped your bra, shoving you up the bed at the same time.

Pulling away with a snarl you exclaimed "Fucking hell are you going to manhandle me around the bed or kiss me?"

Aegon deadpanned, "Wanna see you naked. Going to do that for me this time? Nice tits by the way, I can say it's like the porno now."

You growled and shoved down your shorts and underwear, somehow turned on by his shithead attitude and stupid grin. Pointing at him you hissed, "Your turn. Those briefs looking a little tight anyways." Aegon snorted, laughing at you again while shimmying his ill-fitting briefs off. His violet eyes greedily roved over you, the shameless perv.

"Happy Lady Lannister?" He asked while gesturing to his hard cock.

"Much better, get over here."

Aegon pulled you by the legs, thick waist keeping your thighs spread, fat cock rudely shoved flush against your embarrasingly wet pussy. He pressed teasing little kisses across your throat, grasping hands all over your tits and ass. You mewled- rutting a bit against him, utterly pinned by his heavier weight.

"Gods- Aegon, you- gods!" you wheedled, shaky hands digging into his shoulders, slipping down to his plush hips and squeezing. He moaned and began to slide against your slit, eyes rolling erotically. Aegon rasped, "Been so fucking long- know you're tighter than I ever dreamed of. Little cocktease."

He took your mouth again, a possessive hand grabbing your chin, lips and tongue domineering and invasive. You were quickly becoming a puddle, whining as you tried to keep up, unable to focus as the bulbous tip of Aegon's thick cock jerked against your needy clit. Your stepbrother groaned raggedly, "Lion? Mewling kitten huh baby sis?" You whined again, jerking against him to claw at his shoulder.

"That's it, lemme see you try."

You huffed in frustration, nipping Aegon's puffy lips, trying to rut back against him. He laughed into your mouth, rough hands planting on your tits, thumbs swiping across your peaked nipples. You cried out into his warm mouth, shivering as Aegon alternated between dizzying little circles with the pad of his thumb or pinching and pulling roughly.

"Ah, mmm, fuck, fuck you, get- get a condom- oh my gods!"

Aegon groaned in annoyance. "We're literally rich, just go get a plan B."

"Get your lazy ass up and grab it!"

"Sound just like your father, gonna call me fat next?"

You stared at him, waiting. Aegon made a whole deal about heaving himself up and ungainly rolling to his side table, rifling through. "You're not even fat, sure are acting like it though, huffing about nothing," you replied. The prince returned with a condom, tearing the packet with his teeth. As he rolled it on the buffoon asked "Is it that bad? Be honest. The weight, I mean."

Alicent had made some weird fucking kids. You glanced around Aegon's body. He looked better than the last time you fooled around, actually healthy in appearence. The man took the brunt around his midsection, wide striped hips and a soft pooch. It appeared there was a slim layer of softness around his thighs, arms, and face. He seemed nervous now, that creeping insecurity.

"You look good. Healthier than being a skeleton. I don't see an issue. Maybe dress a bit snappier?"

He smirked, blushing and cursing, "Oh fuck off, I guess if you deem it alright. Let's fuck, yeah?"

You nodded with a grin, sealing your lips onto his own, wrapping your thighs around him tight. Both of you moaned as he slipped in, stretching your tight pussy out. Gods it felt good, the girth dragging against your sensitive spots. His hips stuttered a bit, hands clamping on your hips as he swore. You goaded Aeg on, digging your heels into his ass and whining his name.

Aegon pecked your mouth one more time, tucking his face into your neck, thighs heavily smacking your hips as he fucked. You yelped at the sudden movements, shivering in delight. Aegon grunted on every thrust, gasping against your neck before sinking his teeth in to grace your delicate skin.

You could do nothing but take his relentless bullying of your sensitive hole, thick tip drilling your sweet spot as he changed angles with a sharp inhale. Goosebumps littered your skin, sweat building between the pair of you. Your whines and his groans made a lurid cacophony, the slapping of flesh and the squelch of your own cunt.

Aegon panted, "Such a tight fuckin' pussy, made for me, s'good."

You arched feebly into his soft stomach, tits rubbing against his own. All you could manage was crying Aegon's name, tightening around him. You begged "Please, Aeg, touch me, touch me please, m'gonna cummm!" He growled in reflex, hips jerking particularly rough into the soft roof of your pussy.

"Yeah baby? Need your clit rubbed so you can come all over my dick? Beg some more, want you to mean it."

He slapped your thigh, smirking with lust blown pupils. Your eyebrows had knit together, the burning coil of ecstasy tightening into a ball. You just really really really needed Aegon to play with your clit. In the most embarrassing mewl you begged again. "Aeeegon, please! It fucking hurts, m'so swollen for you, please stepbrother, lemme cum, it-it'll feel so good!"

You sobbed in frustration, Aegon rumbling, "Mhm, I gotcha, needy little slut for a step sister. Fuck, you're gonna make me blow." His thumb and forefinger pinched and rubbed your flushed bundle of nerves, your stepbrother slapping a hand down on your wailing mouth. His hips stuttered, eyes rolled again as you clamped down on his twitching cock.

He babbled something, frantically swiping your nub until you released in a gush of slick, shivering from head to toe. Aegon made a gutted noise, his full weight baring down as he sloppily fucked himself out, groaning in near agony. He stiffened and whimpered your name, lips hanging agape as his cock emptied into the condom. Your pussy throbbed and twitched as you stared at the ceiling, hand in Aegon's platinum hair.

He groaned softly, "Ffffucking hell Lannister, you little demon."

Aegon groaned and slid out, laying on his back, pudgy belly heaving as he gathered some breath. You were just as limp, trying to formulate a sentence. Aegon tied off the condom and haphazardly threw it into a trash bin. You wrinkled your nose but managed to make the sluggish movements into his soft side. He was much more cuddly with the extra weight and post-orgasm haze.

Aegon wrapped a lazy arm around you, lips slightly curled up. He hummed, "You aren't going to run this time are you?"

"No. I don't think I will. We can tell Dad we're getting you lots of exercise now huh?"

"Just like the porno."

"Shut up."

[saenari]

my princess ♡

au : divider by v6que !! okay so basically this was a rly cute req , ellie williams takes u out on a first date n gives u kinda princess treatment !! no smut but you do get a kith ,, i hope u guys enjoy i will write smut soon enough i just have writers block for it auhhgggh ♡

cw : fem reader x kinda masc ellie , (idk) ellie is ur best friends other friend , intentional lowercase , age of both characters not specified , both u and ellie are in college , i proofread this time hehe

wc : 1.1k ♡

♡ ellie had seen you around campus multiple times in the past few months . she knew that you liked to hang around a lot of people , which was charming , but also excruciating , because she could never seem to get you on your own .

♡ one day , after class , your best friend dina was walking with ellie , and they were chatting animatedly . "hey dina!" you said enthusiastically . "who's your new friend ?"

♡ ellie eyed you up and down , a little bit nervous but definitely intrigued . she wanted to get to know you better . dina must've known ellie had a thing for you , because suddenly you and ellie found yourselves … very much alone …

♡ "so … i've seen you around campus a lot ..." ellie said as she rubbed the back of her neck . "i know you don't know me .. but would you like to get coffee sometime ?"

♡ now , you weren't a lonely person by any means , or even someone desperate for a partner , but there was just something about ellie ... the way her auburn hair fell around her ears ... the way her emerald eyes shone in the sun ... you just couldn't say no to her offer , simply because you too , were intrigued .

♡ ellie gave you her phone number and you two worked out all the fine details , deciding that saturday afternoon worked best for both of you . you decided that you'd waste no time at all in looking cute and put together for the date .

♡ you got out of bed and put on some denim shorts, a black tube top , black hair clips , white frilly socks , and some black shoes . you took care on putting all your jewelry on , putting on gold bracelets and earrings , with a heart locket necklace you had been gifted a while back .

♡ dina had offered to drive you to meet ellie , to which you happily accepted , and before you knew it you and dina were stopping outside the coffee shop . "thanks dina !" you shout before stepping out of the car and walking inside the cozy atmosphere of the place .

♡ ellie is there and she immediately waves at you and gestures for you to sit down . "hey there ... you look good" she said , while pulling out your chair so you could sit down . even though this was a casual date, nothing fancy, you still wanted to put your best face forward . ellie took care in noticing how you held yourself as a person , your likes and dislikes , your woes about school , and friendship troubles . she wanted to remember everything about you .

♡ after you two finish your coffee and chat for an hour or two , ellie suggests you two take a walk downtown . it's getting dark now , so ellie gives you her jacket to keep warm while walking .

♡ as you walk around downtown , you spot a cool shop that has antiques in it . "oooh, i totally wanna get dina something here , she'd love it" you say as ellie opens the door for you and lets you inside .

♡ the inside of the shop is super cozy n filled with all sorts of trinkets . you pick out a small ceramic figure of a girl holding a guitar , which you thought looked exactly like dina .

♡ ellie picks up a small necklace , that has a locket on it , almost like the one you were wearing , but the heart was smaller and was engraved with fine details .

♡ "i know you already have one ... but maybe you could wear this too ? just something special to remember this date by ." ellie says as she smiles . you almost pass out from blushing and nod your head . "yes, id love that" you say , flustered .

♡ you two walk out of the store a little bit later , ellie holding the door open for you, and you decide to walk down to the pier to look out on the ocean .

♡ ellie comes up behind you and moves your beautiful hair out of the way , and tenderly puts the locket around your neck . you grab it gently and smile. “thank you , ellie " you say while looking at it .

♡ ellie smiles at you and then puts her hands on your waist . "i'm glad you like it ... would you maybe … like to do this again sometime ? i had a lot of fun just chatting with you today .." her voice trails off . you immediately respond with a yes .

♡ "would it be alright if i kissed you ?" she asks, hands still wrapped around you in a loving embrace . "yes, i'd like that .” you say as your own hands cup her face . you and ellie kiss, smelling the ocean and feeling the breeze as both of your arms wrap around the other , pulling each other closer . ellie was warm , and felt like home to you .

♡ you pull away from the kiss to look into ellie's emerald green eyes . "thank you ... for everything today .” you say , while looking up at her "really, it was a gift for me .” ellie says. "let me take you home."

♡ ellie's hand comes down to hold your own , and she rubs the side of it before interlocking your fingers together and planting a kiss on your cheek . the two of you walk back down the long dock from the pier , hand in hand . something told you that you'd be seeing a lot more of her in the future .

♡ aughhhh thanks for reading if u care about me babbling hahahahas so during writing this fic it just threw itself in the garbage ,,, ummm so i wrote this fic around three times help me . i will write smut in my next fic i swear i promise i just am having such a block 4 it tbh ….. like i cannot bring myself to write it . help me anyways i proofread this like three times but there’s probably still stuff wrong LOL ty for reading i love you sm !! ♡

[qvrcll]

Hello :) I saw you are tking requests and I have something on my mind for a quite some time...If you maybe could write Leon Kennedy ID x younger (like in her early 20s) girlfriend reader where they are making love and chris walk on them. But if you dont want to write it you dont need to so feel no pressure. have a nice day :)

rosemary

summary: whilst you and leon share skin to skin contact in the fervent heat of your bedroom, a gentle intrusion seems to knocks things out of prospect. still, does it have to be so complicated?

warnings: female reader, ID ! leon, nsfw under the cut, getting walked in on EL OH EL, fluff if you squint i swear

a/n: hi lovely thank u for the request!! i had a great time writing this and i hope you enjoy :-)

Leon was 180 centimetres of hard, breathing flesh — that, put up against you in such a compromising position as this, made things all too complicated. Brooding, in a sense that make things sweat, heave with pounding release.

Of course, he never played the fair game, however many times he swore he would.

He’s got you folded in half already, quivering cunt spurting a heat so delicious, it sinks him in like a vice when he gives into it. His hands, dangerous aviaries that hold every part of you in place, scavenge across your body like he has never seen you like this before. Never had you quite this deep, this desperate and thrashing before.

But he has, and he knows it all too fucking well.

“Like it when I do that, hm?” he spits out, throat abused by the abundant swell of groans and other string of pathetic noises that leave him. Still, he’s zeroed in on you only — the way you croon against him like a helpless little thing, bundled up beneath him in a mess of nerves, an assortment of pleas, pitching high from “r-right there!” and “m-mhm… just—like that…”

He’s learnt it all — your noises, twitches. The sensitive grip of skin underneath your thigh that leaves you breathless and moaning. Two, three, four slick fingers intruding your cunt, leaving you sore and satisfied the next day. He’s made love to you, and this only seems it, that familiar beckoning gush of your walls pressing against his cock like it had so many other times before.

And it’s barely coordinated, when your hand sinks lower, between the fervent slaps of either of your bodies in a distorted rhythm, seeking to pay attention to the awful throb of your clit and you mewl when his own hands quickly supersede yours in quick fashion. They’re larger, cover more space and bear more weight beneath the flesh, when he grants you some mercy by slathering any wetness against your clit and doing the work for you.

Aw, how sweet of you, Kennedy.

Is what you would have uttered. Smirked with a superlative sense of ungratefulness, if he wasn’t aiming to drill another hole into you.

“Fuck—“ he curses above you, and it all falls out of rhythm. A delicious combination of all your senses. A sign of your impending release.

You remember the gruelling trip back in his car.

You remember the awful coldness of the elevator as he pressed you against the familiar glint of it, mouth all full of the taste you and a raging sense of impatience.

You remember tripping into his room, already bare. Already responding to his cut-throat presses and licks in seconds.

“You close, sweetheart?” He calls you. But for you, it’s a reminder, that you are still here, underneath him. Writhing, thrashing, but with him nonetheless. Heated and throbbing, but fingers interlocked with his in ceremonious fashion. And the thought makes you smile, sloppy and twitching, through the lewdness of the thick air.

And you can do nothing except claw at him, use him as a living, breathing grounding machine. Can do nothing but hold him so desperately as you break, count the wrinkles against his forehead as he pushes into you again. Await the swift hit of release as you choke out, “Y-Yeah… I—I’m… close… mnng—“

“Leon? You in here?”

The additional voice is distant, airy almost. You almost wonder if you’d imagined it, sorted it out of nothing from your deeply calibrated mess of a brain.

The sex must’ve driven me mad, you think. Almost laugh, but don’t, as light hits your eyes.

And that familiar coil in your tummy dampens, aches, is reduced to ashes as Leon scrambles for the blanket with a large scoff, wraps you gently with it and shields your body against his — the heat of your sweat and the lathering material from the blanket does more to irritate you, but it would do, when Chris himself was standing calcified and struck dumb with confusion in the arch of your doorway.

So much for locking the door.

“Chris, get out!” Leon yells, sifts for his shirt. Cards the floor for his pants and undergarments. He’s almost fully dressed as Chris grumbles out an apology, staggering out of the room with a limp you didn’t recognise he had ever worn before.

And you’re moth-eaten, hot, underneath the covers. Some part of you is mortified, but the larger part is aching for relief. Your legs are tense with the course of your muscles and sweat coats you in a messy sheen. But the ache between your legs is stagnant, mulling in sick waters like a beaten soldier.

“Sweetheart?”

It takes you a few counted minutes to realise your current predicament — Chris had seen the two of you in bed by pure accident, and with the last shred of consciousness you possess, you burst with colour. Still, Leon’s voice is molten. Electric. It sends sparks flying and frothing at your skin, as his arm skirts over yours in that familiar fashion — a silent kiss inked into your skin by touch alone, a low voice muttering ‘It’s alright. It’s okay.’

And he smiles, wide and large, smile lines soothing the ache and bringing you to be. You’re almost relieved, almost rid of that throe in you, sex nearly forgotten until he speaks again,

“Don’t touch yourself until I’m back. You can do that, can’t you? Hm?”

And as he leaves, smirking, you swiftly melt into the suffocating creases of your shared bed, charged up all over again.

© 2023 qvrcll ! do not repost any of my works on any platform.

[skzpvol]

⇢ ˗ˏˋ things your skz!bf would do - han jisung ࿐ྂ

pairing: idol!han x fem!reader

genre: fluff, crack, angst, slightly suggestive

words: 1,4k

a/n: hiii, it’s been a while! I’ve started writing this back in march / april, but then I forgot to post it. Anyways, this one-shot is inspired by this tiktok that I found really cute. I’ll try to do the other members if I have time! Remember english is not my first language, so make sure to tell me if I made some mistakes. As always, I’d appreciate if you could write your opinion about this and yeah, I hope you’ll enjoy it. Have a nice day / night ❤️

kisses you on your forehead before sleeping

You already had your eyes closed when you heard the door of your bedroom open. The sound of rain slamming lightly on the window, the warmth of the blankets and the thought that you might wake up late the next day were all reasons that would put anyone to sleep at once.

Yet you could not turn off your mind by feeling the right side of your empty bed. In fact, it was when you felt the blankets move and a hand resting lightly on your cheek that you sighed with relief.

Jisung knew you were still awake, but he also knew how much you wanted to fall asleep. So he decided that he would spare the gossip for the next day.

He came closer to your forehead and gave you a light kiss, then put a lock of your hair behind your ear. If you had opened your eyes now you would have seen all the love and affection reflected in his eyes.

«Good night babe, I love you immensely»

And it was there that your stomach did a somersault. You only hoped he wouldn’t feel the heart that was practically destroying your chest.

You would have made sure to wake up by giving him a kiss on the forehead, and telling him how much you loved him completely.

makes you feel like you’re the only person on this planet for him

«jisung, i swear if you don’t help me-» the laughter of jisung became even louder and, although you were about to fall, that sound made all your worries disappear.

You don’t know how you got the idea to go skating, but now you were regretting it bitterly.

«okay okay babe, i’ll help you» jisung came over to the skating rink and took you from life.

«stay with me and don’t think of anything ok?» you did as he told you and you embraced him tightly. Your face suddenly landed on his chest and you let go, to the beat of his heart.

«now close your eyes and breathe slowly» you don’t know how long it’s been but you would have done anything to make time stop there, at that moment.

«good job, babe. Now, do you think you are ready to move?» you nodded and opened your eyes slowly. But the thing you didn’t expect was jisung who held you closer for life.

«jisung, what are you doing?» you chuckled and that made a smile on the boy’s lips.

«let me guide you my love» he kissed your hand before continuing. «do you trust me?» her eyes shone.

«of course i trust you» and that was enough for Jisung. It pushed you slightly away from him by holding hands. And before you could do anything else, he started to spin you around.

And he also began to move with you in the music time.

«ji, you know people are watching right?»

«I don’t care, let them be. I’m just dancing with my girlfriend!»

It was just you and him at that moment. And if the world had exploded, you probably wouldn’t have even noticed.

often texts you that he misses you when you both are far away from each other

You had just set foot in your apartment when you heard the phone vibrate. The moment you read the message, a smile made room on your face.

sungie☁️: babeeee, did you get home safe?

you: sungie, you literally called when I was on my way home

sungie☁️: I know my love, I just miss you too much

If you had just entered the apartment, Jisung had been in bed for a few hours and couldn’t sleep. Being away from you has never been so exhausting. It was two months since the tour had started, but it seemed that time had stood still.

you: I miss you too jisung, you don’t even have an idea

you: just one week left and then we will be together again

you: we still have a few episodes of jjk to watch :))

Jisung already felt his heart lighter and thought that he could fall asleep faster at that moment.

you: btw, how did the rehearsals go?

sungie☁️: all good, especially when changbin hyung almost fell of the stage

you: WAIT FR??? CAN I FT YOU? I WANT TO KNOW EVERY SINGLE DETAIL.

Yes, Jisung would have slept well that night.

stares at your lips when you are speaking to him

«the professor assigned us an essay about a book that-» jisung wasn’t listening to you. Or rather he tried. But after a bad day, the only thing he could think of was being in your arms.

The moment you opened the door, he knew that today he would probably be entirely devoted to you. He wasn’t usually very clingy, but often happened that he didn’t want to come off.

And of course it didn’t bother you, but every time he caught you unprepared.

And while you were talking, Jisung kept wondering what you would have done if he kissed you so unexpectedly. Your eyebrows frowning for concentration, your chubby and red cheeks, probably for the heat, and your lips. Jisung always thought your lips were the most attractive part of your body. They moved so softly as you talked about the things you loved.

And most of all, they were soft. Soft as silk. The softest lips Jisung had ever seen. He would spend hours kissing you. He’d probably kiss you for the rest of your life if he could and-

«sungie, are you listening?» you brought him back to the planet earth again, after you had noticed that you were now talking with emptiness.

Jisung looked at you again but didn’t answer. He only hoped that you would notice how focused he was on your lips.

«You weren’t listening, were you?» you tilted your head slightly and gave him a slight smile. Your hand gently rested on his cheek and Jisung let go of your touch.

«I swear that I was trying. It’s just» he interrupted and looked at your lips again.

«Can I kiss you?» His words came out of his lips as if they were a whisper but they were strong enough to make your heart beat wildly. Exactly like the first time he asked you.

You did not answer him and eliminated the distance that was between you.

calls you “honey” while he’s comforting you when you are crying

You hated coming home late. But most of all, you hated coming home late on your boyfriend’s only day off. So you were on the couch, at 3 o'clock and an anime in the background, while jisung had you in his arms.

«it was an awful day» you leaned your head on his shoulder, while jisung turned down the volume of the television.

«you wanna talk about it?» Jisung turned slowly and clenched your hand. But you waited to answer and closed your eyes. You tried to concentrate on his scent, his heartbeat and his moderate breath. But no matter how hard you tried, the emotions were slowly getting the better of me and tears threatened to come out.

«you know, we can just stay here and keep watching hanako-kun» you don’t even know why, but after that sentence you decided to let yourself go crying. A cry of liberation, which you had held back for too long. Jisung turned immediately and could not help feeling powerless in the face of your tears.

«Hey honey, I’m here, don’t worry. Whatever it’s going on in that pretty head of yours, everything will be fine» his arms wrapped you in one of the warmest hugs someone had ever given you. Jisung didn’t even care that you were wetting his sweatshirt. The only thing he thought about was making you feel better and make you feel at home.

«i’m here if you want to talk, i’m here if you want to cry, i’m here for everything you want to do» he cupped your cheeks, while his thumbs dried the tears.

For a while neither of you said anything. Jisung was too busy giving his best to make you understand that whatever happened, he was by your side. You hated being seen like that. You hated it, because you knew how vulnerable Jisung was and the last thing you wanted was for him to be hurt by you.

«i-i’m sorry, i didn��t want to cry, it’s just» you blocked but jisung came closer to you. Without saying anything I urged you to speak. «I feel overwhelmed by everything, I don’t even know what makes me so angry in particular»

«honey, you are not forced to talk okay? If you are still feeling uncomfortable, I’ll just wait until you find the right words, as always» Jisung gave you a light kiss on the forehead, before hugging you again.

[imaniwriting]

Season 2 rafe when he has to leave his love reader to go live somewhere else because if wards 'death' and so he calls insomnia!reader at night and talks with her ti make her go to sleep and the pouges listen in on there conversation because they were accidentally hiding in his room?? Sorry if it doesn't make sense 😭

(Some requests got deleted and i don't remember them well enough to still write the imagine)

𝐌𝐢𝐬𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐬 (requests are open)

Warnings : swearing

Summary : when rafe left, you realized that it wasn’t the pills that cured your insomnia it was rafe

Genre : fluff

Ever since rafe left you could not sleep. It wasn’t that you weren’t tired, no rather the opposite every part of your body begged for rest but your brain didn’t grant those wishes.

Only now had you realized that Rafe was the reason you slept so good. The way his arms were wrapped around you or the way you were close enough to hear his heart beat was the reason you could sleep.

But now all these things were gone, his scent, his kisses, his hugs maybe never coming back. You hit your head against the pillow hoping that maybe something in your head would move and you would fall asleep. But it didn’t and you were left to stare at the ceiling.

Then your phone started ringing making you flinch since it was so quiet only the sound of the waves hitting shore. “Fucking hell” you groaned sitting up in your queen sized bed.

You picked up your phone and put on your glasses the one you only used when it was night since you didn't like the way you looked with them.

You picked up the call with a smile after seeing the callers id and not long after Rafe’s face popped up on the screen “hi” you breathed out after seeing him smile at you through the screen.

“You have your glasses on!” He exclaimed laughing when you just stared at him he apologized and stared at you through the screen. “God i fucking miss you already.” He admitted he would never do so in front of anybody else but you were different.

“He’s whipped” whispered JJ from his place in the walk in closet the pouges all were stuffed into when they saw rafe entering the room. Sarah nodded she knew her brother he would never in a thousand years admit affection for someone.

“So what are you doing Mr. Cameron why are you still awake? You asked curiously while laying back down on her bed. Rafe shook his head “im awake because i know you can’t sleep and that you most likely wont until i help you to” he explained getting comfortable on his bed.

“Well i would love to tell you, you are wrong but sadly you aren’t.” You replied sighing. ”didn't know y/n needed help sleeping” john b piped up leaning his head against the wall. Even though he was nervous about the whole being in Rafe Cameron’s closet thing he found it quite amusing.

“Did you at least try and take your pill’s?” He asked softly seeing the tired look on her face. “You just want me to fucking tell you that I can’t sleep without you do you Rafe?”

“Maybe” he said smiling slightly you were the only person that could read him. You let out a yawn which made Rafe smile harder he knew that this was the first stage now he only had to tell you random stories about his life before you and you’ll sleep.

”dude this is actually impressive” whispered Pope making JJ frown at him “what the fact that she starts getting tired?” He asked making pope shake his head “well not exactly that but it takes a lot to make a insomniac sleepy by just talking to them” he explained

“Baby, how was your day?” You asked running your hand through your hair. And with that Rafe started talking about how he missed you and how his day looked like without you. At the end you were fast asleep and the pouges were also trying not to fall asleep. It was after all almost 3 am.

“Good night baby i have to take care of something” rafe whispered hanging up and then he stood up walking over to the walk in closet already knowing what was waiting on him on the other side.

[apollodarling-writes]

ik this might seem stupid but a scenario where the reader needs lube because they can’t get wet on their own due to antidepressants,, i don’t see it enough, if at all

VARIOUS TOKYO REVENGERS WITH A READER WHO NEEDS LUBE

author note : this isn’t stupid at all !! im so glad you requested this, and im more than happy to provide. you didn’t specify who you wanted, so i kind of just chose some characters tbh,, i hope that was okay, but if not — whenever reqs open again, id be more than happy to write for someone you want.

includes : mikey, mitsuya, chifuyu, kazutora, sanzu.

cws : smutty, fem-bodied reader but no prns used, edging mentions, overstim implications, manhandling, multiple creampie.

mikey

it wouldn’t bother mikey at all — his main focus is your pleasure. he would hate to bring you any pain, nor does he want you to be self conscious about needing lube to get wet.

naturally, he’d try to get you wet of his own accord, paying special attention to your most sensitive spots. mikey would latch onto your clit, his tongue curling around it as his fingers tease your cunt. he’d take his time with you, getting you so, so close before ripping your release away from you.

of course, once he finally decides to let you cum, his digits are curling into your gummy walls as he laps at you — his pace fast and harsh. he’ll make you cum on his tongue before he ever makes you cum on his cock.

even if that doesn’t work in his favor, he won’t ever degrade you or think any less of you for needing lube — just sit back and feel good for him, okay?

mitsuya

mitsuya is similar to mikey, i think. the only difference is that while mikey can be a bit rough with you, mitsuya is very gentle — handling you as if you might shatter beneath him.

he would never mind helping you become wet enough to make love, but even if it doesn’t work, he would reassure you that it doesn’t bother him — that you’re not an annoyance and that he’s still going to make you feel good.

mitsuya is a gentleman, of course, but when he’s making you cum on his tongue over and over, murmuring sweet words of praise into your sopping cunt as he splits you open on his fingers… you can’t help but think he can be a bit cruel sometimes.

chifuyu

chifuyu doesn’t understand at first. he thinks he might be doing something wrong — that he’s not giving you the right attention in the right places, or that maybe you’re not in the mood. you’ll have to explain to him that it’s not something he’s doing wrong, but that your medication prevents you from self-lubricating.

once he understands this though, he will absolutely reassure you that it’s completely okay and that the two of you can always use lube if you need it. he’ll make sure to pay special attention to how you’re feeling, using more if need be. he wants you to feel good with him, and if you need lube to do that, he’s more than happy to accommodate you.

kazutora

kazutora would already understand, having looked up the side effects of your medication once he knew you were taking it. he knows how to make you feel good — he’s a pleasure top after all. he’s very observant too. he’ll watch your expressions to find what feels good and will commit it to memory.

kazutora knows that he’s good at it — which is why he’d already purchased a bottle in advance in the event that you would require it.

sanzu

sanzu already has a bottle on standby. the moment he realizes you’re not wet enough, he’s slathering that shit on you.

sanzu will have one hand gripping his shaft as he spreads the lubricant with his cock, the tip bumping and brushing against your clit, before he’ll slowly sink into your heat. he’ll take his time with you, making sure that you’re not in any pain, and slowly lose himself in the feeling.

sanzu will wrap his fingers around your hips, lifting you slightly off the mattress as he forces you to meet his thrusts — grinding you against his cock. you’ll cum more times than you can count, in more positions than you can remember. you won’t need more lube if he cums inside of you, right?

[biolumien]

hi hi!!! i love ur hoshina fics so much wooaagh you write him so well and each fic has me thinking !!!! i like how characterized him here!!!!

this one doesnt have to be an x reader but fans self Wuah id like to ask hoshina + kaiju no. 10 with like a symbiote sorta deal with the combat suit ?! i was rereading the bit when he got deployed with the suit for the first time and their dynamics clashing was so wuoaah and im jus a sucker for vice captain and how cool he is in his suit kw

notes: wahhh!! thank you so much... i have often thought about kaiju no 10 and hoshina as well... i hope this is what you were looking for....!

with 10

not quite an x reader. a reader is barely mentioned... hm. there's a bit of phrasing that can come off as ideation kaiju no 8 spoilers, too! word count: 911

there’s something different about you.

hoshina’s brow furrows when he hears the voice of kaiju no. 10 sneering in his head. as he grew to synchronize with the suit more and more, he found that the suit almost seemed to sink into his skin, form a secondary membrane around him, the almost scorpion-like tail as natural as anything. 

“i don’t know what you mean.”

you know exactly what i mean.

back when you fought me last, you were just like me.

swept up in it all.

hoshina remembers. fighting kaiju no. 10 was difficult, brutalizing–horrible. out loud, he’d said he’d never want to fight a numbered kaiju like that one-on-one again. but, in his head–it was exhilarating in a way that he’d never be able to describe in words without sounding insane. it was the adrenaline, right? it was the adrenaline, the blood-pumping feeling of finally being alive in a fight.

no. 10 had been right.

there was nothing quite like fighting an enemy that was just as powerful as you–or possibly more powerful, even by a fraction. it was that constant back and forth that got the blood pumping, made you feel truly alive. hoshina knew it well. every fight he lunged into against a bigger, tougher kaiju was him throwing all his chips onto the betting table, a smile on his face as he declared himself all in.

he’d said he’d never do it again.

and yet he’d donned kaiju no.10 like this for the express purpose of fighting more numbered kaiju. 

and it was horrifying how comfortable the suit was. how in sync he could be with kaiju no. 10. he focuses, commanding kaiju no. 10 to coalesce around his hands–and the suit responds, shifting across his body to form concentrated, claw-like shapes. it felt right, like he and kaiju no. 10 were always the same person.

he laughs.

he’d be just like kafka if he thought that.

“i can still be swept up in all of it.”

hoshina’s voice wavers at the last second, and he winces. 

you lie.

kaiju no. 10 doesn’t sound angry.

it was cliche to say it sounded disappointed, but that’s what it seemed to be. quietly, quietly disappointed. as quiet as an angry, speaking kaiju could be. the kaiju’s intent pulsed across his arms, and hoshina watches as his hand moves upwards, flexing his fingers for him. he can hear kaiju no. 10’s quiet displeasure.

hoshina should be terrified that kaiju no. 10 had such control over his body like this–two beings sharing the same body, practically, each fighting for control of his form. 

but he was calm. all too calm. 

there’s something else in your heart now. it’s not the thrill of the fight anymore. 

you didn’t care about anything else before.

but now you’re worried. you’re worried about coming out of this alive.

“you’re saying i can’t value my life?” hoshina draws his katana, feeling the weight of it. it almost feels alive in his palms, humming with electricity as the suit responds, pulsing with power. he can almost feel kaiju no. 10 burying its way deeper into him, pulling into his chest, trying to find the thing that’d make him tick. and he watches as his hand does the same, moving towards his chest.

you don’t value your own life.

kaiju no. 10’s voice was frank.

i felt that. your revulsion at me saying the truth. but it’s true. you don’t value your own life. why else would you search so fucking desperately for something that proved you alive? you swing the sword because you know it’s fun. because it makes the blood run through your muscles, expands your lungs. it’s as easy as the most fun breath you can take.

but that’s not my point.

kaiju no. 10–soshiro hoshina’s–hand presses at his chest.

something else beats here.

you want to live. not because you think you need to.

but because you don’t want to hurt the one person you love more than anything else.

“...”

you’d even give up fighting for them. isn’t that so?

“that’s not true.”

but it is.

hoshina’s heart pounds.

it was true. when he thought of fighting, he thought of your face. he’d wonder what you’d say if he showed up in front of you littered with wounds, and the terrifying thought of appearing as an unmarked corpse in front of you terrified him beyond all words.

but mark my words, hoshina. you and i are the same. so believe me when i say, you’d find a white-picket fence life boring. devoid of all value and color.

but i’m fucking stuck with you.

kaiju no. 10’s voice is venomous.

“hoshina.”

okonogi’s voice sounds in his ear.

“you’re deploying.”

“you hear that?” hoshina says to kaiju no. 10, trying to keep the panic out of his voice–the utter and sheer panic that he had been found out completely, all his secrets laid bare and open for the taking. “we’re going.”

fine.

hoshina couldn’t get used to it, kaiju no. 10’s form rippling across his, lines of muscle and sinew forming atop his own arms, crawling across his torso. it was like diving underwater–but not into a pool, where you could at least see the bottom–no. this was diving right into an ocean canyon, only being able to trust your own strength to pull yourself back out. 

but someday you’re going to come back to this conversation.

and you’re going to realize that i’m right.

[cripplecharacters]

Writing Intellectually Disabled Characters

[large text: writing intellectually disabled characters]

Something that very rarely comes up in disability media representation are intellectually disabled characters. There is very little positive representation in media in general (and basically none in media meant specifically for adults or in YA). I hope this post can maybe help someone interested in writing disabled characters understand the topic better and create something nice. This is just a collection of thoughts of only one person with mild ID (me) and I don't claim to speak for the whole community as its just my view. This post is meant to explain how some parts of ID work and make people aware of what ID is.

This post is absolutely not meant for self diagnosis (I promise you would realize before seeing a Tumblr post about it. it's a major disorder that gets most people thrown into special education).

Before: What is (and isn't) intellectual disability?

ID is a single, life-long neurodevelopment condition that affects IQ and causes problems with reasoning, problem‑solving, remembering and planning things, abstract thinking and learning. There is often delay or absence of development milestones like walking (and other kinds of movement), language and self care skills (eating, going to the bathroom, washing, getting dressed etc). Different people will struggle with different things to different degrees. I am, for example, still fully unable to do certain movements and had a lot of delay in self-care, but I had significantly less language-related delay than most of people with ID I know. Usually the more severe a person's ID is the more delay they will have.

Intellectual disability is one single condition and it doesn't make sense to call it "intellectual disabilities" (plural) or "an intellectual disability". It would be like saying "they have a Down Syndrome" or "he has autisms". The correct way would be "she has intellectual disability" or "ze is intellectually disabled".

Around 1-3% of people in the world have intellectual disability and most have mild ID (as opposed to moderate, severe, or profound). It can exist on its own without any identifiable condition or it can be a part of syndrome. There is over a thousand (ranging from very common to extremely rare) conditions that can cause ID but some of the most common are;

Down Syndrome,

Fragile X Syndrome,

Fetal Alcohol Syndrome,

Autism,

Edwards Syndrome,

DiGeorge Syndrome,

Microcephaly.

Not every condition always causes ID and you can have one of the above conditions without having ID as long as it's not necessary diagnostic criteria to be met. For example around 30% of autistic people have ID, meaning that the rest 70% doesn't. It just means that it's comorbid often enough to be counted as a major cause but still, autistic ≠ intellectually disabled most of the time.

A lot of things that cause intellectual disability also come with facial differences, epilepsy, mobility-related disabilities, sensory disabilities, and limb differences. A lot, but not all, intellectually disabled people go to special education schools.

Intellectual disability isn't the same as brain damage. Brain damage can occur at any point of a person's life while ID always starts in or before childhood.

"Can My Character Be [Blank]?"

[large text: "Can my character be [blank]?"]

The difficulty with writing characters with intellectual disability is that unlike some other things you can give your character, ID will very directly impacts how your character thinks and behaves - you can't make the whole character and then just slap the ID label on them.

Intellectually disabled people are extremely diverse in terms of personality, ability, verbality, mobility... And you need to consider those things early because deciding that your character is nonverbal and unable to use AAC might be an issue if you're already in the middle of writing a dialogue scene.

For broader context, a person with ID might be fully verbal - though they would still probably struggle with grammar, what some words mean, or with general understanding of spoken/written language to some degree. Or they could also be non-verbal. While some non-verbal ID people use AAC, it's not something that works for everyone and some people rely on completely language-less communication only. There is also the middle ground of people who are able to speak, but only in short sentences, or in a way that's not fully understandable to people who don't know them. Some might speak in second or third person.

Depending on the severity of your character's disability they will need help with different tasks. For example, I'm mildly affected and only need help with "complex" tasks like shopping or taxes or appointments, but someone who is profoundly affected will probably need 24/7 care. It's not infantilization to have your character receive the help that they need. Disabled people who get help with bathing or eating aren't "being treated like children", they just have higher support needs than me or you. In the same vein, your character isn't "mentally two years old" or "essentially a toddler", they are a twenty-, or sixteen-, or fourty five-year old who has intellectual disability. Mental age isn't real. Intellectually disabled people can drink, have sex, smoke, swear, and a bunch of other things. A thirty year old disabled person is an adult, not a child!

An important thing is that a person with ID has generally bad understanding of cause-and-effect and might not make connections between things that people without ID just instinctively understand. For example, someone could see that their coat is in a different place than they left it, but wouldn't be able to deduce that then it means that someone else moved it or it wouldn’t even occur to them as a thing that was caused by something. I think every (or at least most) ID person struggles with this to some extent. The more severe someone's disability is the less they will be able to connect usually (for example someone with profound ID might not be able to understand the connection between the light switch and the light turning off and on).

People with mild intellectual disability have the least severe problems in functioning and some are able to live independently, have a job, have kids, stuff like that.

What Tropes Should You Avoid?

[large text: what tropes should you avoid?]

The comic relief/punching bag;

The predator/stalker;

The "you could change this character into a sick dog and there wouldn't be much difference";

...and a lot more but these are the most prevalent in my experience.

Most ID characters are either grossly villainized (more often if they have also physical disabilities or facial differences) or extremely dehumanized or ridiculed, or all of the above. It's rarely actually *mentioned* for a character to be intellectually disabled, but negative "representation" usually is very clear that this who they're attempting to portray. The portrayal of a whole group of people as primarily either violent predators, pitiful tragedies or nothing more than a joke is damaging and you probably shouldn't do that. It's been done too many times already.

When those tropes aren't used the ID character is still usually at the very most a side character to the main (usually abled) character. They don't have hobbies, favorite foods, movies or music they like, love interests, friends or pets of their own and are very lucky if the author bothered to give them a last name. Of course it's not a requirement to have all of these but when there is *no* characterization in majority of disabled characters, it shows. They also usually die in some tragic way, often sacrificing themselves for the main character or just disappear in some off-the-screen circumstances. Either way, they aren't really characters, they're more like cardboard cutouts of what a character should be - the audience has no way to care for them because the author has put no care into making the character interesting or likable at all. Usually their whole and only personality and character trait is that they have intellectual disability and it's often based on what the author thinks ID is without actually doing any research.

What Terms to Use and Not Use

[large text: What Terms to Use and Not Use]

Words like: "intellectually disabled" or "with/have intellectual disability" are terms used by people with ID and generally OK to use from how much I know. I believe more people use the latter (person first language) for themselves but i know people who use both. I use the first more often but I don't mind the second. Some people have strong preference with one over the other and that needs to be respected.

Terms like:

"cursed with intellectual disability"

"mentally [R-slur]"

"moron"

"idiot"

"feeble-minded"

"imbecile"

is considered at least derogatory by most people and I don't recommend using it in your writing. The last 5 terms directly come from outdated medical terminology specifically regarding ID and aren't just "rude", they're ableist and historically connected to eugenics in the most direct way they could be. To me personally they're highly offensive and I wouldn't want to read something that referred to its character with ID with those terms.

(Note: there are, in real life, people with ID that refer to themselves with the above... but this is still just a writing guide. Unless you belong to the group i just mentioned I would advise against writing that, especially if this post is your entire research so far.)

Things I Want to See More of in Characters with Intellectual Disability

[large text: Things I Want to See More of in Characters with Intellectual Disability]

[format borrowed from WWC]

I want to see more characters with intellectual disability that...

aren’t only white boys.

are LGBT+.

are adults.

are allowed to be angry without being demonized, and sad without being infantilized.

are not described as "mentally X years old".

are respected by others.

aren't "secretly smart" or “emotionally smart”.

are able to live independently with some help.

aren't able to live independently at all and aren't mocked for that.

are in romantic relationships or have crushes (interabled... or not!).

are non-verbal or semi-verbal.

use mobility aids and/or AAC.

have hobbies they enjoy.

have caregivers.

have disabilities related to their ID.

have disabilities completely unrelated to their ID.

have friends and family who like and support them.

go on cool adventures.

are in different genres: fantasy, romComs, action, slice of life... all of them.

have their own storylines.

aren't treated as disposable.

don't die or disappear at the first possible opportunity.

...and I want to see stories that have multiple intellectually disabled characters.

I hope that this list will give someone inspiration to go and make their first OC with intellectual disability ! This is just a basic overview to motivate writers to do their own research rather than a “all-knowing post explaining everything regarding ID”. I definitely don't know everything especially about the parts of ID that I just don't experience (or not as much as others). This is only meant to be an introduction for people who don't really know what ID is or where to even start.

Talk to people with intellectual disability (you can send ask here but there are also a lot of other people on Tumblr who have ID and I know at least some have previously answered asks as well if you want someone else's opinion!), watch/read interviews with people who have ID (to start - link1, link2, both have captions) and try to rethink what you think about intellectual disability. Because it's really not that rare like a lot of people seem to think. Please listen to us when we speak.

Good luck writing and thank you for reading :-) (smile emoji)

mod Sasza

[bunnypeew]

Wicked little thing - Alastor x Gn!reader NSFW

warnings: NSFW, MDNI pls thank you,, possessive Alastor, pet names, established relationship, doesn't really have a plot just smut dom!Alastor, sub!reader

okay so this is gonna be NSFW I am aware that Alastor is ace but Id like to say that it is a spectrum and a lot of people who are ace themselves also write NSFW of Al, but in case anything happens I'll be happy to take it down also the outfit is primarily like shorts/miniskirt and a shirt with a boob window

Today was a peaceful day, well at least as peaceful as it could get in hell anyway, Y/n was getting ready in their room in the hotel, they weren't sure of what to wear so they opted for a pretty open outfit since it was hot that day, not thinking one bit about what other people might think, the important thing is that they were comfortable. So they went down to the lobby to get some errands from Charlie for the day, she was hanging out at the bar with Husk and Vaggie talking about god knows what but as soon as she saw Y/n coming in her direction she perked up ready to say hi to them

''Oh hi Y/n!! Good morning!! You came down to get some errands I presume?,,

she said excitedly taking them by the hand to greet them even more, they couldn't help but smile at her excitement

''yeah ahah, hope I'm not interrupting anything tho,,

she shook her head smiling looking back at them with kind of a serious face even tho it was still filled with excitement

''Okay so I need you to do some errands outside in cannibal town, you know how the people helped us and everything id like for you to give this to Rosie! sadly I'm too busy to do it myself I hope Its not a bother,,

''not at all, don't even worry about Charlie I will go there right away,,

they say taking said thing from Charlie's hands and heading out of the Hotel. As they arrived at cannibal town it took them a while to remember where Rosie's emporium was but as soon as they found they sighed in relief. It's not like they didn't like cannibal town, hell Alastor was a cannibal so it wasn't that, it's just that being outside with a bunch of people around made them uneasy.

As they enter the emporium they hear Rosie talking to someone so they walk towards the voices to find Alastor is the one she was talking to, they weren't surprised at all, Rosie was one of Alastor's dear friend so it was usual for them to be talking. They put all their attention towards Rosie not even noticing how Alastor was gripping his staff a little too tight

''Hey Rosie! I came here to give you something Charlie wanted you to have! here!,,

they say giving them the thing from their hands, Rosie was really happy and thanked them profusely also asking them if they wanted a pinky finger or something, but they declined kindly. It was at this point that Alastor got up from his seat, planting a hand on Y/n waist a little roughly

''My dear Rosie, it was a pleasure speaking to you but it seems that me and this little thing have to be going! till next time!,,

and like that shadows engulfed them making them appear in the shared bedroom they had at the hotel. Alastor then with one hand rotates them around roughly, putting one hand under their chin and pulling their head up to look at him while the other one digs in their waist. Y/n was confused at this little aggression that Alastor was displaying, it was not like it at all

''Don't I always tell you to be careful my dear, mh?~ what is going on with this distasteful outfit you are wearing, how many people looked at you,,

Y/n looked him in the eyes understanding what was going on: He was jealous and nonetheless possessive they didn't say anything, wanting Alastor to get even more worked up over how they looked today. Seeing this Alastor pushes them onto the bed and places himself between their legs, one hand digging into their hip while the other one is around their pretty little neck

''not replying now are we, pet?~ Let's see how much you can hold in your words, shall we?..

with that, he roughly took off their pants and slipped out his cock then pushed it all in one thrust, this made Y/n whimper with their mouth closed not wanting to give up on being a brat just yet. Alastor was going rough, hard and fast savouring every thrust, still holding on to their neck, the other hand claws digging deeper in their hip with each thrust

''you belong to me, do you understand that pet?~,,

he says waiting for an answer from them, when he doesn't get one he slaps their ass making them moan out loud, he then gets his face closer to theirs to whisper in their ear

''I want an answer my love~,,

they moan putting both their hands around the hand that Alastor had around their necks, they decide they've been a brat enough, after all they didn't want the radio demon to get even more aggressive

''Yes Alastor,,

he then smirks and kisses them on the neck going back to his pace now a little slower and softer

''Good pet,,

he says now kissing them on the neck and savouring every moan that comes out of their mouth. He then starts going even faster when he starts reaching his climax, his hands both on their hips digging into their skin, and finishing in them with one last hard thrust. He then flops himself on their chest breathing heavily

''Sorry I made you mad Al~,,

they say now in a soft voice, putting their hands in Alastor's hair to stroke at his deer ears, this makes him hum softly

a/n: I LOVE ALASTOR WITH MY ENTIRE BEING!! and him being possessive wowie sign me in!!! hope you guys liked this and remember my requests are now open in case anyone wants to suggest a prompt!!

[winchestersisterimaginessss]

Request: id luv if u could make one of car crash with the Impala and she gets pretty bad if she survives or nah it's up to u thanx

A/N: I hope you like this! Please comment if you like this so it helps me figure out if I should continue writing or not! Requests are still open. I have a ton of them that I’m working on and they are all such good ideas!

Sam and Dean Winchester x Sister!Reader

Warnings: Car accident

You bounced down the halls trying to find Dean. You turned into the kitchen and saw him sitting at the table.

You grinned, “Oh Deanooooo!” You sung with a big smile on your face as you made your way over to him and sat down.

He looked at you and sighed, “what are you going to ask me for?” He asked before chuckling, already knowing you were scheming for something.

“Pretty pretty please can I take the Impala to go get ice cream?” You asked, sliding off the seat and landing on your knees into a praying position in front of him.

He punched the bridge of his nose, “didn’t I just get you an entire gallon of ice cream the other day?” He asked.

“Okay yes and then you proceeded to finish the entire thing!” You whined.

“Okay yeah, I did do that didn’t I?” He asked laughing at himself before shrugging and giving an oops expression.

“Yeah you did,” you sassed, “so can I please take the Impala to get some more?” You begged still on your knees in front of him.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, fine.” He said, shooing you away.

“Wooooooo!” You cheered in victory and jumped up off the floor before turning back to Dean. “Do you want something?” You asked, already knowing that he was going to.

“Hmmm can you get me a rocky road with hot fudge?” He asked. You nodded and went to walk away before you heard him shout again, “wait with m&ms too!”

“Got it!” You said.

“And whipped cream!” He exclaimed.

You chuckled and turned back around to look at him, “just text it to me Dean. See ya!” You said, grabbing the keys and walking out of the kitchen.

“Okay, okay, drive safe!” You heard him shout before running into Sammy.

“Where are you off to bug?” He asked. “And how’d you get Dean to let you drive the car?” He chuckled, seeing you holding the keys.

“I’m getting ice cream do you want anything?” You asked, turning around to face him while walking backwards towards the door.

“Nope I’m all good be careful and drive safe!” Sam shouted after you.

“Yessir!” You saluted him and continued your way out of the bunker.

You got into the car and made your way to the ice cream shop. It was around 9pm so it was dark, but the full moon lit up the sky and the backroads that you were on. You admired how beautiful the moon was and continued to drive. As soon as you drove around a bend, a car came out of no where and swerved into your lane to avoid hitting what looked like a werewolf running across the road.

“What the hell!” You shouted and immediatly jerked the impala. In an attempt to correct yourself, you overcorrected and spun out. You screamed as the car spun off the road and was making its way towards the trees. You braced for impact as you slammed into a tree. You cried out as your head hit the steering wheel. The impact of the tree flipped the car over and you felt the car rolling down the ditch until it stopped upside down. Glass was everywhere and you were aching in pain. You whimpered as your hand went to your head. It was gashed and gushing blood. Panic began to set in when you realized you were stuck hanging upside down by your seatbelt. You tried to get yourself down and maneuver your body so you could get up straight, but it was no use. The seatbelt was jammed and it was making a clicking sound that pulled you in closer. Your heart stopped when you remembered that it was a full moon and that you were almost positive there was a werewolf roaming around. You immediately reached for your phone that was in your pocket to call for help. You knew Sam would be more level headed than Dean and if you heard Dean panicking then you’d start to freak out even more. You felt extremely weak and quickly dialed his number.

“Hey, what’s up?” Sam answered.

“Sammy.” You whimpered, terrified and in pain.

“Hey hey hey what’s wrong?” He asked frantically.

“I’m scared.” You sobbed unable to keep your emotions in check any longer.

“What’s wrong?!” He asked once again in panic. You could hear Dean in the background asking what was happening and you let out another sob.

“Hey bug I need you to talk to me alright?” Sam asked calmly trying to get control of the situation.

“A ca-car swerved into my lane an- and I- I jerked the car and swerved o- off the road and c-crashed.” You cried, thinking about how badly you hurt and how the impala was totaled. You let out another sob, “Sammy the c- car is destroyed I- I’m so sorry please tell Dean I’m so sorry.” You cried.

You heard the phone rustling before you heard Dean’s voice.

“Hey kid, I don’t care about the car alright? Are you hurt?” He asked with concern in his voice.

“Everything hurts,” you cried, “And I’m stuck hanging upside down! And I think there’s a werewolf roaming around because something ran across the roads which caused the other person to swerve and I’m trapped in the car!” You panicked, completely frightened for your life. Not only were you aching in pain and trapped in the car, but there was another physical threat roaming in the woods you were stuck in. Your luck was completely terrible because this sequence of events just had to happen to you.

“Okay, okay deep breath kid everything’s going to be alright, okay? Sam just tracked your phone, we’ll be there in 7 minutes. You’re going to be alright.” Dean said calmly trying to soothe you, but you knew he was freaking the hell out.

“My head really hurts!” You whimpered, reaching up to grab your gashed head. Not only was it gashed and gushing blood, the way you were hanging upside down was making you woozy. The blood was rushing to your head and you felt yourself growing faint.

“Okay hey, I need you to keep talking to us okay kid?” You felt your world slowly fading out. “Hey, can you do that for me?” Dean asked again when he didn’t hear you respond.

“Yes,” you moaned.

“Atta girl, keep talking alright? Don’t you dare stop.” Dean said. He could tell you weren’t going to be able to hang onto consciousness for much longer.

“Remember when we pranked Sammy that one time with that toy clown?” Dean asked.

“How could I forget?” You chuckled weakly.

“Yeah that was pretty funny huh? What colors were on that clown? Do you remember?” He asked, not giving a crap at all about the colors of the clown, but just trying to keep you responsive and forcing your brain to think incase you had a nasty concussion they were already expecting.

“Uhhh blue, green, red, y-yellow.” You answered.

“Yeah, yeah it was those colors, you’re right kid.”Dean responded already knowing the answer though. Shivers wracked your body and you realized how cold you were.

“De, ‘m so c- cold,” you whispered into the phone.

“Shit!” You heard Dean say before you heard the car they were in accelerate. The phone rustled and you heard Sam’s voice.

“Hey bug, you’re going to be alright okay? We’re almost there, I need you to stay with me for another minute. You’re doing so well bug, we’re almost there.” Sam said.

“Mhm.” You whimpered before hearing rustling in the woods.

“You’re here,” you sighed in relief.

“Almost bug, almost!” Sam ensured.

You sucked in a breath. Someone was out here with you and if it wasn’t your brothers then it was something.

“What! Somethings out here with me Sammy!” You cried panicking. Maybe it was the adrenaline that was now surging through your body or that you subconsciously knew that this could be your last fight for your life, but you somehow gained the energy to pick your head up and look around the woods. Your arms flailed as you tried to rip yourself from the seatbelt. You let out a strangled cry when you couldn’t get loose, yet again. You could feel your heart pounding through your body as you tried everything to see yourself free. You weren’t going to die without going down without a fight first. In your final attempt to free yourself, the driver side door was ripped open. You let out a strangled scream and frantically searched for something to defend yourself with.

“Hey! It’s Sam, it’s Sam! You’re alright, you’re safe!” You heard Sam say as he grabbed ahold of your shaky hands that were looking for a weapon.

“Sammy!” You cried, looking around for Dean.

“Hey, you’re okay! I’m going to get you down okay?“ He asked.

“Where’s Dean?” You whimpered, needing to know where he was.

“You were right, there was a werewolf. He’s taking care of it.” Sam answered.

You sucked in a breath terrified to be trapped in the car defenseless while there was a werewolf out there with your brothers. Sam noticed your panic.

“Hey, it’s okay! He already took care of it.” He corrected himself, reassuring you and just then Dean came into your view.

“Hey kid, everything’s okay. I need you to put your hands on the roof of the car so I can cut you down.” Dean said as he brought his knife to your seatbelt.

You nodded and put your hands up. You were weak though and your arms felt like jello. There was no way you’d be able to hold yourself up as you fell. As soon as Dean cut through the seatbelt, he noticed you weren’t able to hold yourself up so he quickly grabbed you to to lessen the impact.

“Alright that’s okay, I got you, I got you.” Dean whispered as he pulled you out of the car.

“Mm so tired De.” You weakly mumbled into your brothers chest.

“I need you to stay awake for me.” Dean said as he rushed you to the car. When he didn’t get a response, he gave you a little shake.

“Okay, okay.” You whimpered.

“I’m sorry kid, you can’t go to sleep.” Dean said softly as he placed you into the car. You groaned in pain at your body hitting the seat.

“I know kid, I know, I’m sorry.” Dean whispered before Sam slid in next to you and Dean hopped in the driver seat.

You felt weak so you gently slumped over and leaned against Sam.

“Hey bug, we’re going to get you cleaned up and you’ll be as good as new. Everything’s going to be alright, I just need you to keep your eyes open for me yeah?” He asked gently, seeing you struggle to stay awake.

“Mhm.” You mumbled, before everything went dark.

——

You jumped awake and panicked. Dean immediately grabbed your hand and you realized you were in the bunker.

“Hey you’re alright.” Dean reassured you and you instinctively brought your other hand up to touch the gash on your head. Before you could though, Dean grabbed it and held it down.

“You have a few stitches,” Dean sighed, “in a few different places.” He finished. You looked down and noticed two huge bandages. One was on your thigh and one was on your forearm. Just as you were about to say something, Sam walked into your room.

“Hey bug, you’re awake! How do you feel?” He asked, coming over to you and putting a hand on your shoulder.

“I’m okay.” You said as you winced in pain. Both of your brothers could see right through you.

“I’ll go grab the pain meds.” Sam said before turning and walking back out.

“How long was I out for?” You asked

“A couple days,” Dean trailed off. “You scared the hell out of me kid.” He said, rubbing his hand over his face.

“I’m sorry Dean and I’m so sorry about the car.” You said feeling terrible.

“Hey, hey, hey, you have nothing to be sorry for and as for the car? I don’t care, I’ll fix it. The most important thing is that you’re okay and that you’re safe kiddo.” He said softly.

You nodded and sent him a sad smile before realization hit.

“I never got our ice cream!” You said, disappointed. You looked back up at Dean and he smirked.

“I went out and got it for you because I knew that when you woke up you’d want it.” Dean said chuckling. You sent him a big smile just as Sam walked through the door with some pills and water.

“You guys are the best, thank you.” You beamed.