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leclsrc · 1 year

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more than anyone ✴︎ cl16

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

word count: 13.7k

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

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

nsfw warnings under the cut!

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

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

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

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

“What’s going on?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wrong.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So it’s a no.”

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Charles laughs dryly. “Who asked?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Charles.”

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

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

—

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

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

“Hmm?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah.”

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

A beat. “What?”

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

“Europe?” You shook your head. America.

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

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

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

“You’ll be fine.”

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

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

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

“Charles,” you sighed.

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

Just: “We’ll be okay.”

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I need to talk to you.”

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

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

“Why should I be charming with you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Say it.”

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How American.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

“Hi.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So you’re friends?”

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who said that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So what happened?”

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

Cut. Lovely. Just lovely.

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

—

“Okay. What else do you remember?”

“I… do you remember the recital song?”

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

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

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

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

“Do people ask?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s it mean?”

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

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

“I don’t underst—”

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

“I don’t—I do not ever remember say—”

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

Muffled by the bedspread: Charles’ place.

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

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

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

“Do you want gelato?” No, no.

“Love Island?” In a minute.

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

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

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

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

She doesn’t answer, because you already know.

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

Behind you: “Are you okay?”

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

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

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

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

You nod in response.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

From: Charles Perceval Leclerc <[email protected]>

Date: 14 October 2014

To: You

Subject: Urgent!

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

From: Charles Perceval Leclerc <[email protected]>

Date: 14 October 2014

To: You

Subject: Buttercup

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

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

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

charles

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tremendous. Merci, Buttercup.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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daytaker · 9 months

Text

The Gang Have Bath Time

Or;

Headcanons About Everybody's Bathing Routine (SFW)

Lucifer

He likes his showers either very hot or very cold. For Lucifer, bath time is efficient, precise, and quick; not a drop of water is wasted. His showers last exactly 4 minutes and 38 seconds. In that time he washes his face, shampoos, washes his body, and starts brushing his teeth. Teeth-brushing continues at the sink. There's no reason to waste the space or time between the shower and the sink.

Mammon

Mammon is the kind of guy who forgets he's in the shower because he's belting out the classics and the acoustics in the bathroom are amazing. He never takes less than ten minutes in the shower, and he usually takes over fifteen. He likes hot showers and sometimes just stands under the water enjoying himself for the first five minutes he's in there. He also takes his sweet time after showering to do other important things before he leaves the bathroom, like putting on that face cream Asmo gave him or making funny faces in the mirror.

Leviathan

Levi prefers baths to showers. He likes to get fully immersed in the water. How can you really feel clean otherwise? He isn't picky about the water temperature, though he prefers it not to be especially hot. He sometimes hums or has quiet, one-sided conversations while he's bathing. He often gets distracted daydreaming in the tub, but if anyone knocks and yells at him for taking too long, he'll step on the gas and be out in less than three minutes, glaring daggers at whoever was waiting.

Satan

Satan doesn't like showering, so he does it quickly and not always very thoroughly. Get in, get wet, something something soap, get out. He hates the feeling of having wet hair so much that he let Asmo blow dry it once. (Only once. He didn't make that mistake again.) If he thinks he can get away with skipping a shower, he will.

When he was newly created, he refused to bathe. He would not do it. That looks like it sucks. No thanks. So all of his brothers besides Lucifer and Asmo went on strike and stopped bathing until he couldn't stand it anymore and hopped in a shower. Now he understands why it's necessary.

Asmodeus

Asmo, obviously, spends the most time in the bathroom by a pretty huge margin. Since he has his own bathroom, this doesn't cause problems with his brothers, so he'll spend upwards of an hour luxuriating in a rosewater bath and applying a whole cabinet of skincare products. Not because his skin isn't flawless, but you know what they say: an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of Botox. He's extremely thorough in how he cleans himself, and if you're curious, you can ask him, and he'll give you a blow-by-blow description of the entire process, lingering lovingly on each body part.

Beelzebub

Beel thinks showers are fine, but if he was left to himself, he'd definitely forget to take them half the time. Belphie or Lucifer usually remind him when it's time he needs to shower, then he goes and does it without a complaint.

Beel likes relatively cool showers, and he doesn't spend any unnecessary time in the bathroom. Sometimes he'll forget to shampoo, but who cares, right?

Belphegor

Belphie is very ambivalent about bathing. He's annoyed when he has to do it, but when he does, he'll hole up in the bathroom for an hour and soak in the tub. About 4 out of 5 times, he'll fall asleep, which frustrates Beel because that's how people drown, Belphie. He likes nice, warm baths best, but sometimes he'll take a hot shower when he needs to feel more awake.

Diavolo

Diavolo sings in the shower, loudly and not particularly well. It's a few precious minutes he has to relax over the course of a very stressful day of putting everyone else's needs above his own. His showers would be unbearably hot even for most demons, but for him, they're the perfect temperature to unwind. He doesn't dawdle, but he doesn't force himself to move too quickly either. He appreciates how to most effectively use his time, and a few extra minutes in the bathroom each morning can keep him alive for an extra half hour of work in the evening.

Barbatos

Barbatos is always immaculately clean, but has never been seen to bathe. Scholars are not quite sure how he does it.

Solomon

Solomon forgets to shower fairly often, since he gets distracted by much more important things, like testing out a new incantation or experimenting in the kitchen. He prefers a quick cleanliness spell to a full shower if he thinks he can get away with it, but it's a little like skipping a shower and just applying deodorant; it helps, but how much, really? When he does take a conventional shower, he likes the water to be cool.

Simeon

Simeon showers at the same time every night. He likes the water to be nice and warm, but not hot, and he uses fruit-scented soap and shampoo. His showers take just about five minutes, and he spends the time humming to himself and planning the next day.

Luke

Luke would like you to know that he takes showers, not baths, thank you very much, because he is not a child, but a thousand-year-old celestial entity with enough dignity to clean himself without a rubber ducky by his side. (Doth he protest too much? Probably.)

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sunkissedchld · 27 days

Text

𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐒 (𝟏𝟑𝟔𝟏𝟗𝟗) 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍

𝐈. 𝐃𝐄𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐒

asteroid eris is named after the greek goddess of discord and strife. eris is known to be a troublemaker and is often credited with starting and sustaining the trojan war. although eris is often associated with creating problems for people, liana miate asserts that hesiod (an ancient greek poet) splits eris into two: a younger version who aligns with sowing discord for no reason and an older version who intends to bring about competition and push people to go beyond their set limits.

in astrology, eris follows her mythological roots and represents areas of life where we can encounter disruptions, major losses, and chaos. eris can also tell of where we face injustices and where we need to learn to stand up for ourselves.

asteroid eris mainly makes itself known as it moves and creates transiting aspects, but for this post i will be focusing on how it functions in one’s birth chart. (if you do want me to analyze how it may work as it makes aspects to planets and other object - let me know).

𝐈𝐈. 𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐒 𝐈𝐍 𝐒𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐒

asteroid eris has an orbital period of about 560 years, so it moves through the signs really slowly. this asteroid has been in the sign of aries since the mid-1920s and won’t be in taurus until 2048 where it will stay until around 2146. with this in mind, i will only explain the way the signs aries and taurus will influence the way asteroid eris can function.

𝗔𝗥𝗜𝗘𝗦

eris in aries could be tumultuous. there could be more of an emphasis on literal war and combat which makes sense in my opinion given the world wars were in and around the time period of this asteroid being in aries. i also see eris in aries being more likely to fight back against the chaos the asteroid can bring; if older eris wants people to learn to stand up for themselves, then aries is the perfect sign for that to occur. again, we can look back in history to see revolutions like the civil rights movement, the vietnam war protests, the breaking up of the british empire and more occur while this asteroid was in aries. of course, these things happen all throughout history, but i want to specify how often this seems to happen while in the specific period of eris in aries. asteroid eris in aries seems to function as dealing with catastrophes head-on with the idea of pushing through the tough times instead of succumbing to them. while discord may hit hard; the collective will rise back with more strength than what was had before.

𝗧𝗔𝗨𝗥𝗨𝗦

eris in taurus could bring about a sort of predictable chaos. build ups to conflict may be obvious, but when it occurs it could destroy people’s comfortability and especially bring havoc to finances. conflicts could last for long periods of time, and people overall could fall into a “woe is me” attitude when it comes to figuring out how to move past catastrophes; instead of figuring out how to advocate for one’s self or the collective when facing injustices - those born under eris in taurus could try to wait things out. the idea of fighting back or advocating for oneself could take a while to be viable, but once it becomes an option i could see people putting up a hard fight. asteroid eris in taurus could be reluctant to face conflict head on, but once decided to it will be obstinate on its course. i’m reminded of the phrase “when an unstoppable force hits an immovable object”.

𝐈𝐈𝐈. 𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐒 𝐈𝐍 𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐄𝐒

𝗙𝗜𝗥𝗦𝗧

you could go through drastic physical changes. if you were to get into plastic surgery, fillers, botox, etc. it may not bode well for you; your body could react negatively to the treatments and/or you may not look as well as you wanted to. you could also struggle with your identity or feeling like you don't truly know yourself or what you want to do in life. you could go through "phases" or looking and/or dressing a certain way. you could feel as if no one understands you, or as if the way you view yourself is vastly different from how others see and understand you. people may not be able to come to a consensus about who they think you are as a person. it could take you a while to find out "who you are", and your body may change often throughout your life. those with eris in the first house probably need to come to terms with the way they look instead of trying to constantly change their appearance, and they also likely need to learn how to settle down with one way of living or learn to embrace that vastness of who they want to be instead of trying to put themselves into a box.

𝗦𝗘𝗖𝗢𝗡𝗗

money and other financial successes could easily come and go out of your life. you may be the type of person who loses things more easily than the average person, and you may find it hard to retain money and possessions. during tense transits, you could have items repossessed or even stolen from you. your routines could be hard to maintain, or you could find random incidents keep you from being able to have one. it could be easy for you to break bad habits (but again, could be hard for you to maintain good ones). you could find yourself struggling to keep jobs or find that you're drawn to jobs where every day is different and unpredictable. you may need to learn how to stay on top of what it is you want and need to do (ie. writing down a schedule, having someone hold you accountable, etc.). you may need to learn how to say no to yourself when it comes to spending money and work on having a savings account you can't touch at all. it may be better for you to make large purchases with cash instead of setting up payments, so you can keep possessions long-term.

𝗧𝗛𝗜𝗥𝗗

you could find yourself being ghosted often and/or you could have trouble maintaining contact with others. you could be "horrible with communication" or even technology to an extent. you could find that people misunderstand you or they think you're more harsh in your words than you intend to be. you could also have a tumultuous relationship with your siblings - maybe you've always found it hard to connect with them, or you go long periods of time without talking. your early education may have been interrupted in some way (having to move away, change schools, etc.). you could also have issues with transportation more often than others like your car breaking down randomly or always being late to events due to unreliability. learning how to advocate for yourself will be a major key to dealing with this eris placement. there's a need to learn how to "speak up" and deal with confrontation without running away and also without arguing. you may find it better to try leaving early to account for possible transportation issues. there's a need to learn to set boundaries with your siblings also in order to maintain the connection.

𝗙𝗢𝗨𝗥𝗧𝗛

you could have an unstable home life. maybe you had (or you do) change living situations often, or your relationship with your family might not be the best. your childhood might’ve been fractured as a result of family issues. people, areas, or things you find comfort in may seem like they always get “ruined” at some point (ie. if you have a comfort show it gets canceled or the writing starts going downhill, a celebrity you like ends up being very problematic, etc.). you may feel as if you have no control over your emotions, or whenever you try to control your emotions you end up breaking down anyways. you may even find it hard to trust your instincts. you may also find it hard to create and maintain relationships with women - especially your mother. you may need to learn how to come to terms with the fact your childhood wasn’t as good as you wanted (or as good as it should’ve been); you might even have to realize you need to put yourself and your needs above your family due to their issues. you may need to learn to step back when it comes to parasocial relationships; figuring out it’s okay to find comfort in things or people, but not putting them on a pedestal anymore.

𝗙𝗜𝗙𝗧𝗛

eris in the fifth house is also a contender for having an unstable childhood. maybe you weren’t allowed to behave like a child, or your childhood abruptly ended due to unforeseen circumstances. when engaging in creative avenues, you may encounter blocks often - in terms of imagination, originality, or physical blocks. you might even find that the art you create gets messed up in some way (ie. you delete a song or a section of a song you were making, you mix the wrong paints together, etc.). you may spontaneously lose interest in hobbies, or you’re prevented from being able to do them (ie. it rains on a day you planned to golf, you run out of yarn when you were planning to knit, etc.). with this placement, it may also seem like your romantic life is never going anywhere; this is another house that may see people ghosting them, or when you go out on dates they could be horrendous. you may need to learn how to create things out of your messes when it comes to creative endeavors; there’s a need to learn how to “roll with the punches” so to speak. you may find it best to engage in multiple hobbies instead of just one or finding a way to have someone hold you accountable for the creative work you want to create. there’s a need to allow yourself to go back to being the child you never got to be at some points.

𝗦𝗜𝗫𝗧𝗛

you may be the type of person who always has health issues or some sort of injury. when you try to create good health habits you may find it hard to stay on track, and there may even be instances where you unintentionally break your habits (ie. you’re counting calories and want to stay under a certain amount but by day three you’ve forgotten you were dieting this way, you’re forced to work overtime one night and it just happens to be one of the days you’ve set aside for weight training, etc.). you may lose items easily, and when you try to help others you may have a way of making things worse (ie. you tried to help someone cook, but you burned part of the meal). you may need to advocate for and pay attention to your health and your body more than the average person. similar to other placements, having other people hold you accountable may be helpful for you to maintain habits you want to implement. you may find it best to keep items in the same place each time you don’t have them in your hand, so you don’t lose things as often. when helping others, try to have someone check your work to be sure you’re providing aid the right way.

𝗦𝗘𝗩𝗘𝗡𝗧𝗛

you could find yourself entering toxic relationships often or at least relationships that often never go anywhere. you might find yourself being ghosted by people for seemingly no reason or drama arising out of relationships you have from out of nowhere. contracts you write up or engage in could fall apart easily (ie. you receive a job offer, but it’s randomly rescinded for no reason; you have everything in order to move to a new apartment, but you get rejected out of nowhere), or they could cause more headaches than they’re worth. you might find people often don’t give enough in their relationships with you - like you’re the one running the show, making all the plans to be together, spending all the money, and they’re only along for the ride, or they only focus on what they can gain from you. you may need to learn how to have respect for yourself when it comes to relationships of all kinds. learning to not set yourself on fire in order to keep someone else from being cold, demanding equality in partnerships, etc. with this placement in aries i could even see a need to step back from relationships in some way - to allow or force others to pull their weight instead of making everything happen on your own. there’s a need to learn how to advocate for yourself and your needs in partnerships and contracts.

𝗘𝗜𝗚𝗛𝗧𝗛

you could feel as if you’re always going through some sort of transformation - almost as if your life itself or life circumstances are always unstable. when you try to share with others you could find your kindness is not appreciated, so you may feel reluctant to give people money or take money from others for seemingly no reason. whenever you try to create deep connections with people it could feel like things never work out or always fall through (ie. you want to have a business partner, but the person backs out at the last minute, you need someone to cosign on a loan for you, but no one is willing). also, with this placement you may feel as if people leave randomly; this could range from being ghosted, them not putting in effort to maintain a relationship with you, conversations going stale to literal death taking people away from you without warning. additionally, your long term assets may be unstable. there could be a need to learn how to let go of things and people once they’ve served their purpose in your life; some people are meant to be present for only moments or periods of time in your life as opposed to throughout the whole journey. there’s also a need to stay on top of contracts and long-term investments; you could find that lower risk investments work best for you. there’s also a need to learn how to share yourself with others and allow others to do the same with you even through times where you may have been betrayed - learning from your mistakes is important in this area.

𝗡𝗜𝗡𝗧𝗛

this is another placement that could encounter issues with transportation since the ninth house deals with travel. going further though, you could often experience disruptions when going on trips or vacations (ie. forgetting your passport, wallet, or other important item; flights being canceled or delayed for no reason, having “bad” experiences when you visit other areas). this could also be an indicator of struggling in areas of higher academia; this could be in regards to the material feeling overwhelming to learn or things always going wrong during the school year (ie. experiencing life changing events that make it hard for you to attend class, having to drop classes or finding it hard to create a schedule that works, etc.). connections to religion could also be unstable; you could feel uncomfortable with the idea of religion because of issues with religious institutions. you may find that people often try to suppress your culture or way of living, or you could find it hard to connect with your culture because people push you away from it in some way. there’s a need to be proactive when it comes to the way you travel – opting to leave too early instead of even on time, checking your luggage twice and three times over, etc. you may need to advocate for yourself more when interacting with higher institutions like college or religious places, and there’s also a need to be proud of your culture and views despite people’s attempts to erase them.

𝗧𝗘𝗡𝗧𝗛

when it comes to receiving recognition for your achievements you could find that you’re often looked over. your career path may be hard for you to narrow down, or you could find you’re let go from jobs without warning when everything seems to be fine from your point of view. you may jump from job to job or be promoted and demoted to certain positions for no reason. you could encounter extreme highs and lows when it comes to your reputation; it might even be possible that your reputation is not consistent amongst people, and it could be hard for you to control it. when you’re in positions of power you may find that people often undermine you or refuse to take you seriously - especially men. on that note, you may find it hard to create and maintain relationships with men (especially your father). you could find people always find a way to criticize you or tell you all the work you do is wrong no matter what you do. there’s a need to possibly embrace whatever reputation people assign to you instead of trying to control the narrative or change who you are to appease everyone. there is also a need to demand recognition and praise when you know you deserve it - possibly even walking away from job opportunities when you know you’re being lowballed. there’s a need to maintain your sense of self trusting that the truth of who you are will guide you towards those who will appreciate you.

𝗘𝗟𝗘𝗩𝗘𝗡𝗧𝗛

it could be hard for you to maintain friendships and connections with the collective and other groups in general. you could find yourself being iced out or being the “odd one out” when you try to fit in. technology may fail on your frequently, or you may feel like it doesn’t like you (ie. you find it hard to connect to wifi, you always have phone or computer issues, etc.). you may feel as if (or told) that you’re not as helpful as you think you are when it comes to collective situations (ie. group projects). you could find your ideas and dreams for the future often don’t work out, or you find them hard to maintain. there’s partially a need to embrace your individuality - to come to terms with the fact that you will eventually find a group that aligns with you and won’t push you out or make you feel othered. there’s a need to keep putting yourself out there even when you feel like it never works out. there’s also a need to maintain hope – for the future, for connecting with others, and when it comes to interacting with technology.

𝗧𝗪𝗘𝗟𝗙𝗧𝗛

this is another placement that would indicate feeling as if you’re always going through some sort of transformation or ending in life. you could feel as if your spiritual life is in constant chaos (ie. having times where you’re clear on what your journey is and then suddenly feeling like you have no clue what you’re doing; being able to communicate with your guides clearly and then suddenly hearing radio silence, etc.). you could feel as if you don’t “truly” or “intimately” know yourself. you could find that your subconscious activates at random times and could cause trouble when you least expect it. you could feel as if your fate changes quickly going from having great luck to none at all. when it’s time to end certain cycles in your life you may find it hard to let go, or you may feel as if things end abruptly leaving little space for you to accept these endings. there’s a need to learn to be okay with abrupt endings or the idea of never receiving closure – finding a way to maintain peace even if this doesn’t happen. there’s also a need to take fate into your own hands instead of always being passive (or learning to be passive when it’s necessary). there’s a need to be open to ambiguity as opposed to running away from it.

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lightofraye · 16 days

Text

Debunking Nonsense Against Jared

There's apparently some crap about Jared that is just absolute nonsense. Full of lies and bullshit.

It'd be one thing if people just didn't like him. It happens. Not everyone is likeable. You're not expected to like him. But don't pull up lies to explain why you don't like him. Especially when they've been debunked again and again and again.

1. The "racist" tattoo. Y'all, this is nonsense. It's been debunked over and over and over. It's not a racist tattoo. For one, it's lacking the logo of "Come and take it", which would make it a racist tattoo. But a lone star above a cannon does not a racist tattoo make.

Jared is a proud Texan. He also donates to many a charity and organization that help people, speaking out about them often. Not to mention, prior to pro-gun rights appropriating the symbol and logo, it stood for a proud history in Texas. Jared would've known.

So how about instead of focusing on a mere tattoo, come up with more proof that Jared is a racist? Hmm?

Besides, if you're mad at Jared's tattoo, are you then mad at Jensen's t-shirt, which did show the saying as well?

2. Fighting with fans online. Oh come on. Misha's done it. (Misha's done worse, in fact.) Danneel's done it. Jared doing it does not a bad person make. And I don't think he's done it in a long time.

And of course, people will go "Danneel was hitting back!" And? What's the difference? Jared was hitting back too. Danneel went a step farther most of the time, siccing her followers on them, threatening them with Clif, even ran crying to Clif because people were being "mean".

3. RE: Prequelgate. Give me a fucking break! Jared was right to be upset! He called and texted Jensen for hours before he gave up and responded to that tweet about The Winchesters announcement. Jensen also lied about not being allowed cellphones on The Boys set. When they weren't filming, they were allowed. (Of course they can't have their cellphones on their person during filming, unless it suited the scene!) Besides all that, Jared honestly didn't know about it! Kripke was even shocked when he learned Jared didn't know! Supernatural and its legacy is as much Jared's as it was Jensen's! The whole freakin' industry gave Jensen a massive side-eye for his unprofessional behavior. Kevin Smith, a man who has directed, written, and acted in the industry, thought it was uncool. Also, Jared wasn't drunk.

4. Supposed bully accusations. I'd need to see more of this to believe it, but outside of occasionally putting Misha in his bullshit place, I've never heard of Jared bullying anyone. Everyone he's worked with has sung his praises. The only one who hasn't is Misha and that's because Jared won't let Misha put him down. And in fact, has had to step in to stop Misha from torturing Jensen. So fuck off with your noise.

5. His fanbase. Is he now responsible for his fanbase? I never knew that. What about Misha's fanbase sending Jensen death threats for denouncing Destiel? Has Misha ever stopped that? What about AAs hoping for Jared to suicide after Walker was cancelled?

6. What about Genevieve? Oh come on! Do I like that Gen is featuring the kids a lot? Myself, no. But if Jared was truly bothered by it, I'm sure he would've spoken to Genevieve. And Gen isn't any different than many other mommy influencers. I'm not keen on exploiting the kids like that, but would you say the same about Danneel abruptly grabbing the kids at Wales Comic Con and dragging them out for a photo op? All because she had no one in line for her autographs and desperate for attention?

7. Jared's Hair. Apparently there are some claiming Jared had gotten hair plugs. My response to that is: So what? Misha's had plastic surgery (trust me, it's obvious--his eyes and clearly lip fillers). Danneel's had worse--her hair is fried, bad extensions, plastic surgery galore that has ruined her hair line because of facelifts, fillers, Botox, and breast implants (twice!). Jensen's likely had a bit of work too.

So. Fucking. What. About Jared's hair?

Come up with truthful reasons to hate Jared, hmm? Not bullshit.

#anti jared hate #we love jared #oh shut up already

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f1goat · 11 months

Text

his teammate + lando norris x part eleven

In which you find yourself getting closer to your brothers new teammate who's a dick.

lando norris x fem!verstappen (sister) + cursewords + smut

A couple weeks have passed. Things are good between Lando and you. You’re coming closer by telling Max. Last days you already thought about telling him multiple times. You’ve noticed that Lando is getting a bit impatient as well. According to himself he wants to be able to take you out and be seen with you in public. You tried to tell Lando about what that will do to his - and yours - public images, but he doesn’t care about those things. Something you get.

Lando: come to my drivers room?

Y/N: you’re impossible

You smile at your phone before looking around. Max is somewhere in an office with Christian. Nobody is paying attention to you right now. If you want to see Lando privately this weekend, this might be one of the few chances you get. Without further thinking about it, you walk towards Lando his drivers room. When you’re standing in front of it you look around yourself a few more times, but it seems like you have it easy today. There’s no one around. You open the door and walk into Lando his drivers room.

“Hey babe,” you say without even looking in front of you. You just turned around to close the door. When you don’t get a response as soon as you normal do, you turn around curiously.

Lando isn’t in front of you. You already thought so. Normally you can’t take one step into his drivers room without him clinging to you. Then you remember he had the same meeting with Christian as Max. Fuck. There’s someone else standing in front of you. You know you recognize the girl, but you need to think about from where. Then it hits you. It’s Maisie.

“Maisie?” You ask surprised.

“At least he told you my name,” Maisie says bitterly, “You must be his newest toy.”

You notice the weird, almost unnatural tone in her voice. Now that she’s standing in front of you, you take the time to look at her. Last time you barely saw how she looked. Now you take your time while looking at the (fake?) ex girlfriend from Lando. You already noticed before that she’s pretty, but now that you have the time you notice that pretty might be the wrong word. The girl is beautiful in a not natural way.

Was this Lando his type you wonder. It seems like she isn’t afraid for needles. She has no frowns or signs from a face that lives. You’re pretty sure it’s botox. Not that something like that is bad, but it surprises you on this age. Her hair is dyed, the blonde color is nice but starts to fade already. It’s a bit yellowish now you look at it.

“Aren’t you going to respond?” She asks you.

“I thought you had more to say,” you tell her, “otherwise you probably wouldn’t get me in here with Lando his phone and insult me in the first seconds I’m here.”

“Hm,” she mutters, “You’re a bit more intelligent then his normal type.”

“Thanks I guess?”

“So I guess you already figured out that Lando is in some meeting and left his phone here,” Maisie continues, “and I thought as it of a chance to finally meet you properly.”

“Why would you want that?” You ask her curious.

“I want to tell you about Lando,” she says, “because I don’t think he has been honest with you.”

You think about your possibilities. It seems like this girl wants to damage Lando and not you. You decide to play along with her. You’re pretty sure that she will tell you the same things Lando already told you before. But she doesn’t have to know that.

“What did he tell you about me?” Maisie asks you.

“Uh almost nothing, just your name,” you lie.

“Pff,” Maisie sighs, “What a treatment for his first girlfriend. Well let me tell you, after this you don’t want to get near him ever again. He’s the absolute worst. Did he ever tell you about his family?” You shake your head to lie again. “They have ditched him because he’s an awful person and he doesn’t even care about that. He never tried to make things right with his family.”

“What happened?” You ask Maisie while you know she’s going to tell you only more lies.

“He became famous during his first formula one season,” Maisie tells you the truth this time, but is quick to continue lying, “and then he slowly lost all interest in his family. He became a dick. In the mean time I met him and we we’re quick to become a couple. So I know all about his family because I saw it happening myself.”

“Okay,” you mutter. You hope Lando will show up soon and stop this nonsense because it seems like a bad idea to leave Maisie here alone with Lando his phone. Maybe she can do even more damage to him.

“He was always mean to them, he had nothing nice to say anymore. The things his sisters did weren’t interesting for him anymore. He didn’t care about their lives and thought they should be at every race to support him. When they didn’t show up once because of a birthday, he completely lost it,” Maisie lies to you, “He called them up and told them they were horrible people. He said that he wished them dead. After that he blocked everyone of them. Sometimes they still text me to see if I can change his mind since they miss him so much.”

Some parts of Maisie her story make you nervous. This is the ultimate test for you if you really trust Lando as much as you say. What if Lando haven’t told you certain things and Maisie is telling them you now? You’re quick to shake off the thought. You shouldn’t worry about things like this. Lando is trustworthy. You’re sure of that. Some crazy ex girlfriend of his isn’t going to change that.

“And then he did even worse things to me!” Maisie continues with a raised voice. You notice that she walks around a lot and isn’t looking at you all the time. Should you text Max? He can send Lando. You get your phone out of your pocket and unlock it. Maisie turns herself back to you again. You ignore her looks and start to type something to your brother.

Y/N: tell Lando to get his phone, it keeps ringing and is driving everyone around here crazy

“Who are you texting? Are you really that stupid to text Lando right now while I’m holding his phone?” Maisie asks you.

“Oops, fuck I totally forgot that,” you lie while acting clueless. You put your phone on silence and tuck it back into your pocket.

“Pff you’re just as stupid as him,” Maisie comments, “but I was saying that he used me. He used me for more fame because at that moment I had more followers then him.”

“He did that?” You ask as fake surprised as you can.

“Yes! You should have heard him when I confronted him,” Maisie says bitterly, “He was such a dick. So I made it my mission to get my karma.”

When the door opens again you’re glad to see Lando coming in. He’s just like you not looking around himself and didn’t notice Maisie yet. He’s focused on you. “Couldn’t you wait till after my meeting princess?” He asks you with a smirk. Normally you would have loved this, but you have a feeling that Maisie isn’t going to like his question. Lando is already walking closer to you when he finally notices Maisie standing in the room as well.

“For fucks sake,” he grunts, “what are you doing here Maisie?”

In the mean time he walks even quicker towards you. Lando stands in front of you, making sure that nothing can happen to you. It surprises you how protective he’s acting without even giving it a second thought. It makes you feel safe. Lando makes you feel safe. That’s something new.

“I’m just informing your girly over here about the shitty things you did to your family and me,” Maisie tells him with a big grin, “So she can see that you’re unworthy of her time. Just like you told me I wasn’t worth your time.”

Maybe this is the moment you truly realize that the girl is crazy. She’s a real crazy ex girlfriend. You wonder how Lando will react. He stays silent at first, but turns himself around to look at you. You try to tell him it’s fine with your eyes, that you still have the same opinion about him. But you’re quick to notice that Lando his earlier smirk has already faded away and made place for a sad expression. Is he actually afraid that you believe Maisie over him?

“So,” Maisie continues to speak, “Are we ready for the best part? Not gonna lie Lando, it’s more fun now you’re here as well.”

“The best part?” You question surprised.

“I’ll summarize it for you. Lando used me for fame and after that he kept using me for sex, just like a billion other girls,” Maisie says, “and I guess you’re the newest one. Did you already get his speech?”

“Speech?”

“Yeah, the I’ll change for you speech,” Maisie answers with a smile, “He’ll tell you that he’s really trying to better himself. You’ll never see any changes, since he doesn’t want to change. He just lies to you so you stay with him until he’s done with you.”

Lando is still silent. You’re too. You don’t even look at Maisie anymore, you are focused on Lando. Why isn’t he saying anything? You don’t get it why he doesn’t defend himself. Should you defend him? Even after everything Maisie just said, you still trust Lando. After the conversations you have had with him where he showed you his vulnerability you know you can trust him.

“So, is this the part where you will break up with him?” Maisie asks you.

“Technically I can’t break up with him,” you state, “We’re not official.”

“Whatever,” Maisie sighs, “I don’t care how you call it. But I want to see how you tell him it’s done.”

Lando turns himself to you. You notice the stressed look on his face. He breaths fast and almost seems panicked. “Please don’t,” Lando almost whispers to you, “I.. I didn’t lie. Not to you. Never.” You grab Lando his hand, you draw figures on his skin with your thumb. “I know I’m not worthy,” Lando continues to ramble, “but I’m really trying.”

“Fuck Lan,” you sigh, “I told you before, you are worthy.”

“Sorry?” Maisie interrupts annoyed.

“You’re a lair Maisie,” you tell her even more annoyed, “Lando already told me what happened between you two and with his parents. And yeah, I got your so called speech but since I know Lando he keeps changing into a better person. So maybe you just weren’t worth changing for?”

“You’re lying!” Maisie screams angrily, “He isn’t changing for you. That’s a lie.”

This might be the moment you’re actually getting scared of the girl in front of you. You feel a bit alone. Lando is as quiet as before and doesn’t seem to notice anything that’s happening around him. He seems stuck in his own head. You wonder what he’s thinking of. Maisie is sending you a lot of angry glares which make you even more nervous. You drop Lando his hand, which causes him to look up with an even sadder expression. You take a few steps closer to Maisie.

“He is,” you tell her while walking closer.

“He is using you for sex,” Maisie sneers.

“Maybe I’m using him for sex,” you sneer back sarcastically, “I mean he’s pretty great at it.”

“Don’t lie,” Maisie replies, “he doesn’t even want go down on a girl. I ask him every fucking time.”

Her words surprise you. Lando and you are quite active and it happens a lot that he goes down on you. He’s always making sure you’re as much enjoying it as him. You wonder if you’re the first girl he has ever done that for.

“I’m not lying, but I’m also done with this conversation,” you sigh, “and to be honest, I think it’s time for you to leave. You’ve said everything you wanted to say.”

“I’m not leaving before I convinced you about him,” Maisie replies angrily.

You decide to lie a bit more. Let her think that she made a difference, who cares. If that makes her leave faster you sign for it.

“You gave me a lot of things to think about,” you lie eventually, “but you need to understand that I need time to think about those things.”

You don’t know how but Maisie has finally left. You needed to lie a bit more about having to think about everything she said and how it will influence your ‘thing’ with Lando. When she’s finally out of the drivers room, you’re quick to turn your attention to Lando. Who’s still really quiet. You expected him to say a lot more during the conversation with Maisie. He didn’t even defend himself. He only defended you. When you look at Lando it’s hard to miss his unsure attitude.

“I’m so sorry Lan,” you tell him with a bit of pity, “Are you okay?”

“Just say it,” Lando says with a soft voice, “Just tell me it’s done.”

“Sorry?” You ask confused.

“You told her you needed time to think, I know you’re just too nice to dump me in front of Maisie,” Lando mutters, “so please don’t sugarcoat it and just tell me.”

“I’m not dumping you!” You exclaim, “I just said that so she would go away.”

“You’re not?” Lando asks you confused, “Why would you not? She probably told you even more awful details about me.”

“She told me a lot,” you tell him, “but I already knew a lot if it was a lie, because you told me the truth earlier. She tried to confront me with what you did to her and what happened between you and your parents. She lied about those things. She made everything your fault.”

“Do you think that it’s my fault?” Lando asks.

“I still have the same opinion,” you state.

“Nothing changed after she told you so much?” Lando asks confused.

“I trust you,” you tell him, “not her. And when you’re calmed down, we can talk about what she said and then you can tell me what’s true and what not if you want to.”

“So we’re still together?” Lando asks confused.

“You still need to ask me officially,” you joke, “but nothing has changed between us Lan. I promise.”

“I really don’t know how I deserve you,” Lando mutters.

You press a kiss against Lando his lips. He is quick to pull you on top of him. He slides his tongue into your mouth and together you start to make out. You feel his hands toying with your bra clasp, you use your own hands to play with his hair. When you remove your lips from Lando, you’re glad to see that he’s smirking again.

“I did come in here to do this you know,” you tell Lando, “it’s too bad it wasn’t you who texted me.”

“Let me make it up to you,” Lando replies smugly. He lets his hands wander through your skirt and is quick to pull it up. He moves himself so that he can face your pussy. He teases you a bit by pressing kisses against your string.

“She was right about one thing,” Lando mutters. He slides his finger against your clit that’s still hiding behind your string. You let out a soft whimper. “You’re the first one I’m doing this for,” Lando continues to tell you. Surprised you look up.

“But I never asked?” You say surprised, “You ate me out the first time without even mentioning it.”

Lando shrugs. “I wanted to,” he says. His finger is still lingering around your clit. “I never had the need before,” he explains, “but with you I wanted to.” He presses a kiss against your clothed clit. You whimper.

“You’re a natural,” you tell Lando, “I’d never have guessed that it was your first time.”

“You’re just giving compliments so I will stop teasing you,” Lando laughs, “Aren’t you princess?”

“Lando!” A shout disrupts your conversation - and the rest of your activities. You realize that the voice sounds an awful lot to your brother. Lando is quick to change his position, while you put down your skirt. The two of you aren’t fast enough. The door opens.

Fuck you were right. It’s Max and Lando is still sitting between your legs. Maybe it doesn’t seem sexual anymore, but it’s still way too close to believe it’s friendly.

“Fucking hell,” Max mutters when he walks into Lando’s drivers room. “I won’t need Pierre anymore,” he continues to sigh.

i think this story is slowly ending :( don't have much to write about it anymoree. i guess one more part :)

part twelve

#lando norris #lando norris x reader #lando norris x y/n #lando norris fanfiction #lando norris imagine #ln4 #formula one #f1 #lando norris imagines

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