No Other Expectations - Max Wolfe Imagine (Gossip Girl)

No Other Expectations - Max Wolfe Imagine (Gossip Girl)

Title: No Other Expectations

Pairing: Max Wolfe X Reader

Word Count: 1,752 words

Warning(s): anxiety, nudity (not explicitly stated, but implied), mention of sex/friends-with-benefits situation

Summary: Max and (Y/n) had an arrangement. (Y/n) decides that it's time to make some adjustments to that arrangement. All that was left was for Max to accept or reject those adjustments.

Author's Note: Shut up. Just shut up. I know. I don't want any judgement. It's my blog, I'll write whoever's characters I want.

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I never thought about all of the little habits that could crop up in a situation like the one that Max and I had found ourselves in.

Max had developed a little knock when he showed up. A pattern that I think he repeated more out of instinct than anything else. The same smirk would sit on his face as he did it. Always so confident.

I had developed this habit of following the same path down his neck as I kissed him. I'd start just at the curve of his jaw, find the skin just behind his ear, and then continue my trail down to the space just between his collarbones.

He always grabbed one of my arms by the wrist. He'd dig his nails into the skin or guide it along his body or bring it up to his mouth so he could trace the skin with his lips.

My personal favorite of these habits was one of Max's.

After we got done and each got cleaned up, Max would lie next to me for a little while. He claimed that he was just calming down before leaving, but I think he liked lying next to me. He liked having the attention without the sex getting in the way.

He would trace his fingertips along my skin.

Sometimes they would follow the line of my spine, gently tapping little rhythms into the skin. Or he'd trace my side, usually following every slight bend that was there, sometimes drawing small circles. Or he would carefully small shapes on my stomach or along my collarbones. His eyes would always follow his hand wherever it went.

These were the times when I felt like I saw beyond the mask that Max liked to put up in front of people. It was so rare, but I adored it.

It didn't take me long to crave seeing it more.

I craved more than Max in bed with me.

I ignored it at first, assuming it was my brain swimming in fresh hormones and chemicals. It would fade in time. I was certain of it.

But as we saw each other outside of my room, I found myself longing for him in more than a physical way. It was strange and new and scary.

So, I hid it. I hid every ounce of emotion that wanted me to grab his hand or kiss his forehead or go on normal dates with him or simply hold him with our clothes on.

But the more I hid it, the harder it fought to show itself.

I felt like I was suffocating. Every time his fingers brushed my skin, something would get caught in my throat. Like the words were trying to fight their way out.

So, I made a plan. I planned every single thing I was going to say. I practiced it. I had to be sure that I could say it in that voice that seemed to bring Max back to me whenever I wanted to make the first move. The confident and seductive part of myself that I hadn't become properly acquainted with before I had met him.

I sat up one night, forcing his hand to fall from where it had been blindly tracing circles and stars on my collarbone. I leaned against my headboard, looking down at him from where I was sitting.

"You alright," he asked.

"I want more," I said simply. He raised an eyebrow at me, smirking a bit. "Not like that. I want more out of this... thing."

Max pushed himself into a sitting position next to me, one hand on either side of my legs so he could properly look me in the eye.

"I want more than fucking."

His eyes widened a bit at my bluntness.

"If you don't that's fine, but I... I do."

I tried to play it so calm and cool and collected, but honestly, if he had refused, I think I would've cried myself to sleep.

"You say that like you know my answer," Max leaned forward a bit.

"I wasn't going to assume anything, but..."

"You don't know," he stopped me.

I raised an eyebrow at him.

He only smirked a bit more before leaning in and pressing his lips to mine. One of his hands touched my leg gently as he leaned further forward in the hopes of guiding me onto my back.

I hummed into the kiss for a moment before leaning back. He tried to follow my lips, but I held my finger up, pressing against his chin just enough to stop him.

"You can't convince someone that you want more than fucking by fucking them," I said.

"What do you want from me then," he asked, running his hand up and down my arm as he leaned over to kiss my shoulder.

I took a deep breath. "Coffee."

He pulled away to look at me. His eyebrows were furrowed. I had to keep myself from chuckling at him. It was looking at a cat watching their owner eat or something. It was just... cute.

"Coffee," he repeated after a moment. "You want me to make you coffee?"

"No," I shook my head. "I want you to take me out to coffee. A date."

He just tilted his head at me.

"I want to meet in the morning for coffee, sit down with our drinks and talk about bullshit," I continued. "I want to talk about our favorite colors and what we think of the new album from whoever-the-fuck and I want you to hold my hand from across the table. And then, when we're done, I want you to walk me home, kiss me on the doorstep... and then walk away. Nothing more... no other expectations."

"Got the whole thing planned out, huh," he asked, his smirk returning to his face.

"I thought you'd appreciate it if I had all the answers," I shrugged.

He chuckled.

"9... tomorrow."

"And if I don't go?"

The idea made my chest tighten out of anxiety, but I tried to hide it. "Then, I know where we stand, don't I?"

He nodded before leaning forward to kiss me again. I entertained the kiss for a few moments, reaching out to touch his side as I leaned closer to him.

He leaned back before I could this time. He stood up and started pulling on his clothes.

"Are you gonna go," I asked after a moment of just admiring him.

He paused as he buttoned his shirt. "Yeah... text me where you wanna meet."

I tried to keep my smile from getting too wide. "Alright."

He left soon after, throwing a wink over his shoulder before he walked out of my room. I leaned back against my headboard, grinning to myself.

It felt silly to be so hopeful.

I felt something nagging at me for the rest of the night. Turning my stomach into knots and making me have to actively fight the urge to pick at my fingers in the hopes of relaxing. I needed to have more faith in him. I knew that. But that was a hard thing to force.

I spent most of that night tossing and turning in bed.

It's funny when you think about it.

He had been in my house, he had seen me naked more times than I cared to count, he had been with me already. Yet something so simple... something that should have no pressure in comparison... was the thing making me the most nervous.

I was early the next morning. Probably about thirty minutes, but I didn't want to check the time.

I sat at a table meant for two and waited. My eyes went from my fingers actively tapping on the table to the door. Sometimes it would creak open, and my head would jump up. It was never Max.

I didn't check the time until it read nine o'clock.

I felt that twisting in my stomach get stronger. Doubt creeping over me like a spider crawling up my spine.

No, I told myself. It would be fine. He cares about me. He'll show.

At around 9:15, I felt my hope dropping. It felt like everyone was staring at me. Feeling sorry for me. I couldn't blame them; I felt sorry for me too. I couldn't help it.

Had Max actually not shown up? Did he really lie to me about meeting me here?

I felt sick as I realized what had happened.

I stood up, trying to fight the churning of my stomach and the tears about to fill my eyes. My jaw clenched. Futile attempt, truly, but I could try.

I was just stepping away from the table when the door opened.

Max walked in. I froze where I was. Any confidence I had obtained last night when setting up this little date had gone entirely out the window since then, leaving me no way to cover my shocked look.

He looked around quickly before he spotted me. A kind of worried look turned into a smile as he walked over.

"Hey," he said, leaning over to kiss my cheek. In public. In front of people. "Sorry that I'm late. I didn't even think about how difficult this place could've been to find."

I couldn't speak, still stunned by not only the kiss on my cheek, but him showing up at all.

"Did you order," he asked.

It took me a second to quickly shake my head. He held out his hand.

"Come on," he pushed. "I'm buying."

I grinned before taking his hand. I relaxed immediately, leaning a bit closer to his side.

We were quiet until we made it to the table with our drinks. Max kept a hold of my hand. I bit my lip, trying to avoid smiling like an idiot at our hands.

"So," Max said, causing me to look at him. "What's your favorite color?"

I rolled my eyes at him.

It was a nice date. It was nice being able to just talk to him with no pressure. I didn't need to be seductive or charming. I was just... comfortable. I rambled more. Smiled more.

He smiled more too. A genuine smile. Not the normal smirk that rested on his face. A calm grin as he spoke and listened to me.

At the end of the date, Max walked me to my door.

He kissed me gently on my doorstep.

And he walked away... no other expectations.

Just as we planned it.

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Levitating

Summery: You are Charles’ celebrity crush… or are you?

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x reader. (This has nothing to do with my Smau series… it’s just a one shot I couldn’t stop thinking about)

Continua a leggere

sweet pea ✴︎ cl16

genre: friends to lovers, dad charles/pregnancy au, fluff!, humor, super slight angst

word count: 4.6k

“I thought the puking was food poisoning,” he says. “Jesus, you know how many takeout places I’ve avoided lately?” “Well, it’s not Panda Express. It’s your alien sperm.”

Or: you finally reap what you sow after fooling around with your best friend. The reaping in question is a kid.

notes... some nsfw allusions, nothing too bad. if pregnancy isnt ur thing this is all about it so.

auds here... i hated this for a long time so i thought id never post it hahahah but i will now bec i just redid some scenes and its okay in my eyes... also this is a bit overdue. i hope u like it everyone! :) title from this

It’s an hour before the race and you’re absent from your usual spot greeting friends and guests along the paddock. Instead, you’re leaned against the wall of the tiny motorhome bathroom, silently digging your toes into your sandals. Charles knocks twice before trying to open the door and succeeding. He beams when he sees you, goes, “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

He offers a hand, but you let your eyes shut, refusing to take it. You fail to even make eye contact, holding up the plastic stick that’d been in your clammy grip for about twenty minutes. It’s an omen, a portent, a cursed thing, casting your best friend into silence.

It’s cold and sterile in the bathroom—a stark contrast to where other families might find out they’re pregnant for the first time. You imagine a lemon yellow room bathed in noon sunlight and a happy balding doctor going “It’s positive, mama!” You picture a white family SUV in the parking lot, a happy blonde couple jumping into each other’s arms with unadulterated happiness.

Instead, you get: “Do you have COVI—oh.”

“Yeah.” You say, pursing your lips. You swallow. “Oh.”

“I thought the puking was food poisoning,” he says. “Jesus, you know how many takeout places I’ve avoided lately?”

“Well, it’s not Panda Express. It’s your alien sperm,” you counter, lifting yourself from the wall and bumping past Charles on your way out and into his room. He follows, brows knitted together, muttering something French under his breath. 

“By that logic, that’d mean you’re an alien now, too. See, your kinks have finally met their match.”

You turn, effectively stopping him in his tracks. He almost collides with you, his eyes trained determinedly on the positive pregnancy test in his hand. You cross your arms and narrow your eyes, annoyed. “Seriously. Jokes? Right now?”

“I mean—”

“Whatever,” you say, waving him off. “Just go and drive. We can talk about this later.”

“I’ll dedicate the race to the little alien.” He giggles, mimicking a champagne spray, waving the invisible bottle back and forth toward your still-not-showing stomach. His accent switches to a measly English one when he goes, “Oh my Gawd! And there goes the alien Leclerc! Wins in first! From pole!”

“Get out. Or so help me God this baby is growing up without you.”

He ends up winning. (“Should I dedicate every race to the ali—” “Stop calling it that.”)

—

This is nothing but a final culmination of your very layered relationship with Charles. For years, you two had comfortably gone by the “best friends” label, with a hidden “with benefits” clause. You’d grown up together, separated only when you went to university in New York. Your re-arrival in Monaco, coupled with the both of you having grown older and more independent, marked the start of the sex.

It works like clockwork. To relieve stress, to celebrate, to cure boredom. At some point, both of you just inwardly admitted there was a certain weakness to it. A glass of wine, a stick of tobacco, and you’d give in to the temptation easily. Then, in the morning—sometimes in Monaco, other times in foreign countries where your body feels like it’s still three a.m.—you come to a mutual agreement to never do it again.

But you always do, laughing in between kisses, mumbling whispered nothings between the sheets (or in the bathtub, or against the wall, or—that one time—on the balcony.) And now there’s proof of it. Well, barely any yet, you realize, staring at yourself in the mirror of Charles’ hotel room. You turn and flop yourself onto the bed, but face-up. You inch yourself toward the headboard and lean against it in a half-seated position.

“I can’t believe I’m…” You sigh. Finally, the jokes fizzle. This is the real talk.

Charles burrows himself next to you, shirtless and in a stupid pair of boxers with red hearts all over them. You’d gotten them as a Valentine’s Day gag two years ago, but now you’re thinking of the future, of telling this kid their dad has a pair of heart-decorated boxers. Momentarily, and temptingly so, you weigh the options of telling Charles you were joking and running away before sunup.

“Penny for your thoughts?” He asks. He’d learned the phrase from some obscure American rom-com, if you recall correctly. He uses it constantly, and for many years, improperly.

“I’ll give you them for free,” you say, breathless with worry. “We’re having a kid.”

A hand places itself on your knee. You almost jerk away, but you relax. “What do you want to do?”

“With?” You ask, emptily. There’s so much to do. “The baby?”

“Well, I mean, yeah, but also us.”

“We’re not dating,” you say, a bit sharper than intended. 

“We could.” He pauses. “For its sake.” He pokes your abdomen.

“I don’t—” You inhale, trying to reorganize all your thoughts. “I don’t want people thinking we’re suddenly dating and engaged and happy just because I’m about to pop a Charles Jr. out. I mean, what are you going to do with your racing? With a kid on the way, how’s travel going to work? My job? My masters?” 

“I think… I think you and I are lucky enough,” he says slowly, “to be able to weigh all these options without losing too much time or resources. I will support you no matter what, and you know that. And really, who cares if people think we ‘date’ because of the baby? You and I have been ‘dating’ since we were eleven.” 

You don’t realize you’re crying until your laugh is mixed with a sob. You don’t know if you’re sad, pissed, overwhelmed, loved—or all four. “Okay? So… let’s both think about it. More you than me. And tomorrow, we can weigh this all over again. Let’s sleep on it. Remember? La nuit—”

“—porte conseil,” you finish tearily. “Okay.”

—

It’s two weeks later. Charles gets stuck in the paddock doing something or other for Sunday, so you’re left to your own devices in the parking lot. Five minutes of waiting turns to fifteen, then a half hour. That’s the catalyst for your mid-evening freakout—suddenly you’re thinking about all the times you and this weird thing inside you might be alone, left for work, by an athlete dad.

“Are you okay?” A voice asks when you’re heaving out another dry, panic-induced sigh. You turn, finding it familiar, and see Seb behind you. He may have been Charles’ teammate, but he’s a friend to you, too, and you find he’s always the most grounded in heated discussions.

“Seb,” you croak, caught off guard. “I’m fine.” Your voice breaks on the ine, and suddenly fat tears roll quietly down your face.

You tell him eventually, when he asks you again if you’re okay, making him the second person to know; still, the telling doesn’t get easier. You didn’t even tell Charles, you think. You merely shoved a Clearblue stick in his face and waited for the goofy reaction that would undoubtedly meet your ears.

“A baby,” he says softly. Happily. “Congratulations. This is a big step… but you don’t sound excited.”

“I mean,” you say in between waves of tears, “I am? I am. But—it happened so fast—we’re not even officially together—and Charles is—”

“Do I need to talk some sense into Charles?” Seb asks suddenly, concerned. 

“No. He’s—he’s being great. Really supportive.” You wipe the tears and fresh ones come. “He’s happy. You know him. I think I’m just overwhelmed. I mean I’m the one who’s toting this baby around.” 

“Take it one step at a time,” he muses. “See a doctor, work out non-race schedules with Mattia, get everything in order. If I know you, this baby will be in the best hands. And that’s not even counting Charles.” He pulls you in for a hug that lasts ages, one that says thank you and I love you better than words. You inhale, find the tears have stopped. You realize what comes after this—it’s telling everyone else. Lily, your best friend. Carlos. Charles’ family. Your family. The fans, oh God you’d forgotten about the fans. The social media announcements. 

Charles strolls into the parking lot—runs, more like, with apologies spouting out of him, just two minutes after Seb leaves. He presses a delicate, apologetic kiss to your forehead, a hand on your stomach. “Hey,” he says. Then, to your abdomen, covered by a sweatshirt, “Hey there, alien.” You wonder what this will be like in two months. In seven. In nine.

—

You tell your families over lunch on a lucky off day. There is little surprise—just tears from both your moms and Arthur teasingly asking you to recount the details of conception. You’re in a sundress serving crostini when Pascale pulls you aside to the back of the yard.

She presses a kiss to your cheek, one of conviction and faith. “I always knew,” she says. “You’re going to be a wonderful mom.”

—

The drivers all find out one way or another, news trickling through the grapevine like honey. You share it to Lily first, and of course she tells Alex. You tell Lewis, too, over spring rolls that he claims will power up the baby when it’s born. Charles tells Pierre, who tells Yuki, and Carlos, who tells Lando. You tell Mick, who hugs you and says, “Oh my god! I already knew, Seb told me. I kept wanting to say congratulations.” 

It’s a matter of two weeks before everybody knows. You know because you’ve barely taken a step into the dimly lit Ferrari motorhome when you halt and bolt back outside, harboring yourself a few metres away at a safe distance. Charles, who had been walking beside you, arm looped around your waist, turns, puzzled.

“What’s going on?” He asks.

“No. Nuh-uh. It smells in there.”

He sniffs the darkness, fumbles for the light switch. “No it doesn’t.”

“It smells like”—you grit your teeth, trying to identify the stench—“cheese. And champagne.”

“Why would it smell like che—”

He bangs the light open and illuminates a surprise party. The entire grid starts cheering, having unheard the entire conversation. There’s a huge banner that says CONGRATULATIONS PARENTS, and on a makeshift table in the centre, an assortment of cake slices, cheese, and flutes of champagne. Charles laughs with delight at the surprise, and then turns to find you squatting on the ground, trying to quell your stomach. 

“Give me five,” you say, waving him off.

He returns after ten to find you still trying to calm the waves of nausea. You hear his footsteps and heave yourself up, standing to face him. “I asked Esteban and Max to evacuate the place of cheese and champagne. It’s just coffee and cake now. I even got three fans going.”

“Desolée,” you say, miserable. He wraps two big arms around you, nestling his chin atop your head. “I feel like a high-maintenance monster.”

“Don’t be silly. You’re not the monster. The alien is.”

“I told you to stop calling it that,” you say, shutting your eyes and leaning into his touch. “Before it catches on.”

“Okay. E.T.? Spock? Open to suggestions.” Hand in yours, he walks you gently to the party, arising loud cheers again. In between sips of hot water, he says, “How about Chewy?”

—

The sense of smell proves to be useful in endeavours elsewhere.

“You never clean your car,” you say, lying horizontal on the leather seat and picking bits of dirt off. “I can smell month old Cheetos.”

Charles watches you obsessively nitpick at the detailing. “Last time you looked like this, I gave you a baby.”

“One more word,” you warn sharply. 

“But seriously, be careful. The alien might get stressed.”

You brace yourself for the stupid words that will indubitably follow.

“Don’t worry. If it falls out I’ll plop it in a race car and it’ll be the next Hamilton. Imagine how light it’ll be.”

There it is.

—

Your first trip to the doctor’s is interesting. Charles insists on wearing a wig because he’s so easily recognized in Monaco, so now you look like you’re conceiving a baby with Weird Al Yankovic.

The doctor wheels in a cart with a monitor and all the necessary equipment, and even if it suddenly feels all too real, Charles squeezes your hand and you’re calm again. “I’m back,” she says, sliding into a wheely chair beside you and gelling your stomach.

“Hi, Back,” Charles responds in a crude, twangy Texan accent. The dad humor starts early, you suppose.

You grit your teeth to try and excuse his embarrassing behavior, but suddenly the monitor clicks open and there it is. It looks like the ones in movies, print-outs from friends, but at the same time it doesn’t. It looks different. Special. Yours. You zero in on it, breathless. That’s yours. The doctor says a couple minor things—nothing worrisome—and when you turn to relay it to Charles in case he’d zoned out, you find his face splotchy.

“Are you crying?”

“That’s ours,” he says, dipping down to press a kiss to your forehead.

“It’s mine and Charles’, not mine and Bob Ross’,” you say, but you pull him closer anyway. 

You order two printouts. The week next, you discover that Charles snuck back in to order an extra eight and has mailed them out to friends and drivers. You find out because Kylian Mbappe messages you “Due in April? Make me godfather!” on Instagram.

—

Gradually, you fall into a pattern of being queasy constantly. You get nitpicky with meals, and not irrationally—Charles had fed you a spicy hotdog and you’d gone half a bite before hurling it, and your breakfast, into the nearest toilet. You find solace in your cravings—all of which happen to be the same everyday.

Chinese takeout from just about any restaurant ends up being your best friend. You somehow can’t stomach anything but that specific cuisine, much to your own surprise. You find new ways to combine them with each other. Rice paper wrappers with chow mein. Hotpot with fried rice. If you’re not eating Chinese, you reduce your appetite to crackers or hot tea to avoid becoming too nauseated.

It’s poetic almost, the way he sets out the food carefully, in the order you like them. He always presses a kiss to your forehead after. 

Around this time, you develop a crazy sex drive, waking Charles up at numerous points of the night, begging into his neck for something, anything. You last an hour before you’re asking again. This proves especially difficult before races, where Charles gives in a bit too easily and Carlos has to knock on the door, going “You have to finish somewhere else too, Charles!”

—

You insist Charles hold off on telling the fans, for a few months. It goes okay until your outfits on the paddock evolve into the variety of “Charles’ hoodies” to hide the increasingly evident bloat of pregnancy, and nosy fans start speculating all over Twitter. That’s when he sits you down and gently tells you he thinks it’s time you both announce it.

You’re sitting beside him in his hotel room, after two calls with his bosses, trying to formulate the proper announcement. You download PicsArt to make it pretty and clean and formatted—because the poor guy was about to post a Notes app screenshot—and then it’s on the Internet. 

“She’s truly MOTHER,” one fan comments. Despite yourself, you press the heart icon beside it. It’s your bit of comfort when you catch sight of the nastier comments under the post.

—

You’re ironically gifted an ancient 80s aerobic exercise DVD for mums by Lily and Alex. You’re sure it’s older than you. Charles, though, in his valiant effort to connect with you and Chewy, does the routine everyday. You wake up to the electronic synthpop and Charles doing booty squats in the living room.

The permed instructor smiles through the scratchy 80s quality and goes, “You are rocking it, momma!”

“You hear that?!” Charles pants. “I am rocking it!”

—

Your first parenting fight ends up being one over the baby’s name. Yeah. Of all things. You don’t know why you’re so worked up about it, considering you don’t even know the gender of the baby yet. You arrive in Monaco to mark the first of five off days and Charles makes some random, offhand joke about naming the baby Daryl, and you suddenly start rambling on and on about how it’s too ugly, even if you’d never thought about names before now.

“It’s not going to be Daryl. It won’t be Daryl,” Charles says, hands on your shoulders. You heave another sob. “Please stop crying. You never cry. I’m a bit freaked out.”

“It’s—just—that,” you hiccup, “I—don’t—want to name a—our—baby—Daryl.”

“Yeah, yep,” he says, soothingly. “I got you. It’s not going to be Daryl. Never. We don’t need to decide anything. You gonna calm down for me?”

“I can’t—stop—crying,” you snivel desperately, burying your face in your hands.

He presses a firm kiss to the corner of your quivering lips, and you tug him in for a real one. You calm down when you pull away, exhaling. You gaze at him with red-rimmed eyes. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“Blame the alien,” you sniff. 

He kisses your stomach, which shows signs of pregnancy more and more as the days pass. “Hear that?” He whispers into the skin. “She’s blaming you, Chewy.”

—

Your next trip to the doctor’s is with your appointed private physician, Dr. Davies. Two minutes before the doctor walks in, you make a serious and compelling order for Charles to remove the Weird Al wig, which he does—but stores in your bag, “just in case.” It’s also his opporunity to play teacher’s pet and showcase how involved he is in your pregnancy, which, judging by the amount of weird cultish pregnancy books he’s burned through, is very much so.

“It’s gonna be a boy,” you declare while you’re being gelled up. You’re past the point of denial and bloat, now showing way too obviously. “Mom’s intuition.”

“Well, all the books say it’s a girl,” he says proudly.

“Yeah, they also say drinking lemon juice while trying to conceive gives you a girl. I’m sure scientific accuracy was their greatest objective.”

“Girl.”

“Boy,” you say dismissively.

“Girl.”

“Boy.”

“Girl.” It’s not Charles this time, it’s the physician, with a small smile on his face.

You squeeze Charles’ hand so hard you’re half sure it’s chipped off and fallen to the tiled floor. You’re having a girl. Normally Charles would turn and make some petty statement about he’d been right, but—you’re having a girl. A pretty baby girl. You almost can’t believe it. He totally can’t, pressing kisses to your hair and face.

You let him buy pink paint later that day.

—

You predict it, but it comes—fights and squabbles over nothing at all.

First it’s about work, then housing, then his job, then the danger of his job. It’s petty, and usually you storm off in an emotional cloud of irrationality, brought down after a talk, a play-by-play, compromise, reassurance. It’s hard when you’re carrying around a human being, you want to say. Try being in my shoes.

“Can we talk?” Charles says, in the thick of another fight. You’re on the balcony of your flat, mulling over nothing at all. Your stomach is heavy, you’re always exhausted, you never feel pretty anymore even if Charles is always unfailing at telling you you are. 

“Okay,” you murmur, turning. You’ve already developed a habit of placing your hands on your bump always.

He inhales. “I’m scared.”

This is a first. And you realize—in these six months of being pregnant, Charles has been your rock, but has never expressed much fear until now. He’s always been good. Great. Supportive. “Of what?”

“Of—becoming a dad.” He pauses, as if to weigh his words. “I don’t have… a blueprint anymore.”

It dawns on you what he’s talking about. You accept the hug when it comes, holding the nape of his neck. He isn’t crying, but is close to it. His voice is shaky when he continues, whispers against your ear. “What if I don’t know what to do?” 

“Baby,” you say, weakly. You push him gently so he’s looking into your eyes. “If the way you’ve taken care of me the past how many months is any indication of how you’ll treat this alien, I know she’s in good hands. You’ve got so much of your dad in you. You’re caring, sweet, you even got a headstart on the dad jokes.” He laughs. “I want this. And the only reason I ever did was because I knew you’d be with me, being an amazing dad, and an even better…”

“Boyfriend,” he says. His eyes hold hesitance—but you quell it with a nod.

“Boyfriend,” you echo. “For now.”

—

The nursery looks like a nursery in February. It was a storage room in Charles’ flat that had really, at some point, become yours, too. Full of boxes and old suits and memories, it’d taken weeks to properly store everything and make way for the furniture. Charles, of course, insists on painting it himself, with the shade of pink he purchased especially for the room.

He hits his head twice and touches the wet paint. There’s a handprint embossed above the bassinet. (Yours is next to it, at his insistence.)

—

You’re a yoga ball by mid-March, having trouble sleeping and dealing with everything being swollen. Charles helps you through it all, turning the heating up and down every time you get even a bit scratchy with the temperature in the flat or motorhome. Your cravings also morph again at this point, into rigatoni that Charles cooked sometime over winter; he requests Ferrari add an induction stove to every race weekend motorhome that you can make it to so he can cook it at your beck and call.

The season begins. Every race is dedicated to Chewy, and every race is won.

—

It’s early morning in late March when Dr. Davies sends you an email with a one-liner that sounds firm enough to set you and Charles in place after two races that involve you being flown around.

Absolutely NO more air and long car travel for Mommy. 

“Can we manage?” You mope, rereading the email, genuinely distressed as you watch your boyfriend pack for Australia. It’s a long haul flight, with only one stopover in Zurich, and you’re filled with anxiety. There isn’t a compromise—until you’re popping the baby out, Charles needs to try and score the title.

“You know I can always drop out of races,” he says softly. “That’s what reserve drivers are for.”

“It’s not the same,” you argue. “I’m just worried.”

“You’re not due ’til the 12th,” he assures you. “I’ll be back then, even if it means dropping a race.”

He leans down and kisses you softly, rubbing your shoulders and ankles. “I’ll be back before you know it. Get some sleep first, okay?” He repeats the sentiment to your stomach, adding a kiss and a bye bye Chewy. You drift off to a sorrowful sleep when he departs, a slow ache in your lower back blooming that feels just like many of the other slow aches lately. 

You’re up after a half hour with discomfort. You suppose something is just up with your sleep position, and readjust yourself. The discomfort sharpens, then melts. You sigh with relief, a long whistley exhale, and sleep again.

Bliss lasts about three hours, then you’re up again, groaning. You’re not due for a prenatal yoga class until four in the afternoon, and your body isn’t used to being awake. Hell, it’s not used to being this pained. You shift once, twice, trying to sleep with fruitless and exhausting attempts. It takes a while, but in between shifting positions and trying to make yourself yawn, it registers.

“Chewy.” You groan, cupping your gigantic bump. “Seriously?”

—

The first person you call is Charles, naturally. He should be in Zurich, but maybe signal is spotty or something, because none of your texts or calls ping. So you move down the list to the person you know will be in Monaco and not off racing, like everybody you know is—and it just so happens to be Dr. Davies.

You always thought Charles would be nowhere but beside you when you went into labor. But you’re here clutching the straps of your overnight bag being driven to the hospital, exhale, inhale, try Charles, try Carlos. Exhale, inhale. Try Charles. Try Carlos. Your contractions don’t quell; they only grow in intensity and you wince the whole ride through.

“Looks like it’s going to be a fast labor,” Dr. Davies says when he’s done checking you in and making sure everything is in order. You nod, breathless and flushed. You’ve called your mum here and she’s on the way with Charles’ but—Charles is the issue.

“I will weld myself shut if it means I’m giving birth without the dad,” you beg. “Without Charles.”

Charles, who picks up after forty-five minutes of radio silence. He’s in the jet. Give him an hour. “I will pilot this plane myself if I have to. Don’t do anything—don’t make any decisions without me.”

“Too fucking late.” You say, wheezy with labor. “I’m putting N/A on the certificate.”

“You carry Chewy around for nine months and I don’t get to meet her first?” He asks, in a last-ditch effort to cheer you up. You tear up, splotchy and red all over.

“We can’t call her Chewy. We never discussed names. And oh God it can’t be Daryl,” you say, whimpers turning into half-sobs of overwhelm and yearning. You’re scared. You need Charles, who’s been with you for every week, every milestone, every kick, every rigatoni craving. But he’s not here. You have Dr. Davies, and in five minutes you’ll have your mum and Pascale, but they are not Charles. You breathe heavy into the phone.

“I love you,” you say finally. “Please, I love you.”

“I love you more,” he says gently. “I love you. I’ll be there, okay? Just—just wait for me.”

—

Lil 3s ago

does it hurt?

i know it does but i’m trying to make u feel better

love from houston. i will call you ASAP.

You 1s ago

yeah it hurts so bad

apparently they don’t do epidurals

fuck europe

—

In between quiet periods and intense ones, you finally reach your peak. A nurse takes one glance and nods and your bed is disengaged and wheeling around again. Pascale squeezes your left hand, your mum the other. “Wait!” You pant, voice spent, totally tired, flustered.

The nurses exchange a look. “Ma’am—”

“No, you don’t understand. The dad, my—the dad—he’s out—and I don’t.” You pause, the onset of a cry coming on. Pascale takes the lead, firm, asking for a few more moments of patience.

“I can’t do this,” you say hopelessly, throwing your flushed head back. “No. Not without Charles.”

“I’m here,” Charles says, bounding through the door. He’s in official Ferrari gear and his hair is disheveled and he's clearly been crying. Had Chewy not been wedging her way out, you would’ve kissed him right then. You feel nothing but love.

“You’re a sneaky fucker,” you say instead, and the rest is a blur.

—

It’s an hour before the race and Charles is absent from his usual spot greeting friends and guests along the paddock. Instead, he’s leaned against the wall of the motorhome, silently digging his toes into his shoes. You knock twice before trying to open the door and succeeding. You beam when you see him. “We’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

His two girls.

Julia stretches out a chubby hand, but he smiles teasingly, refusing to take it. He holds eye contact, holding up the ring that’d been in his clammy grip for about twenty minutes. It’s a symbol, a sign, a blessed thing, casting his girlfriend into silence.

It’s a bit dark—a stark contrast to where other guys might propose for the first time. He imagines a Caribbean beach bathed in sunset. He pictures a Jeep in the sand, a happy blonde couple jumping into each other’s arms with unadulterated happiness. He figures if you don’t like this, he’ll pay for that.

Instead, he gets: “You’re a doofus—oh.”

“Yeah.” He says, pursing his lips. He swallows, gives you the biggest smile of his life. “Oh.”

It’s perfect.

The one with the “Call her Daddy Podcast”

Summery: you are invited to partecipate to the “Call her daddy” podcast, and after a serious considerstion, you decide to accept and to be unfiltered

Pairings: Henry Cavill x reader (demisexual!reader)

Warnings: 18+(there is not smut, but there is mention of sex), bad english (ENGLISH IS NOT MY FIRST LANGUAGE SO I’M SORRY IF THERE ARE ANY MISTAKES). This is not proofread, sorry!

FEEDBACK, OF ANY KIND, IS ALWAYS WELCOME AND APPRECIATED ❤️

When you had been asked to partecipate to the “Call her daddy” podcast, the first thing that had come to your mind had been an HARD NO! There was no way you were going to let anyone convince you otherwise: you were a shy person, you felt uncomfortable when people asked you too much personal questions during interviews. This side of you was so well known that many of your costars were always ready to come to your help when you started to get too flustered about the questions you were asked during interviews.

So no, there was no way that you were to be a guest of a podcast during which you were going to be asked personal questions for sure. 

Your agent had asked you to think about it a little bit more before turning the invitation down, she had pointed out that even though you had been an actress for long people still didn’t know much about you, and even though there wasn’t nothing bad with being a private person, it would be good for your career if you would be able to open a little bit more, just a little bit so that your fan could know you and sympathize with you and your life. You had promised her to think about it, because she actually had had a point, even though you were sure that after giving a couple of more thoughts and after talking with your boyfriend, you would have still come to the same conclusion: you couldn’t do it.

Instead... 

Your boyfriend, like the goddman perfect man that he was, had told you that he couldn’t make the decsion for you, that it would be something huge for you, so that you had to really think  it through to understand if you could do it: it wouldn’t make any sense if you decided to go but in the end wouldn’t be able to be very honest and answer even some uncomfortable questions. He had also told that you could never know if your interview wouldn’t end up helping someone finding out new things about thmselves.

So yes you had decided to try in the end and here you were trying to sit comfortably on a sofa ready to do this.

“Y/n Y/sn, welcome to call her daddy. How did you decide what you wanted to wear today?”- the host, Alexandra Copper, asked

“Well I just wanted to be comfortable so there wasn’t much of a choice. For a moment I had thought to come in my sweatpants, but then I thought I should at least put a little bit of un affort, so yeah in the end it was a jeans and a sweater ”- you smiled, you hadn’t expected fot that first question, but it actually helped calm you a little bit.

“I mean, sweatpants would have still been a great choice but you look really cute and comfortable so that’s what matter. So Y/n you are a very well known actress and I saw when you arrived how many paps followed you, how do you deal with that?”- Alexandra asked

“Well first of all thank you for the’ very well known’… I mean it’s not ideal and it’s not my favorite thing about my career for sure, but I think what helps is that they mostly bother you when you are in LA, anywhere else they are few and far and they usually are more interested in me when I am with my boyfriend. If I am alone most of the time I manage with just a couple of photos you know, so they can say they did their job; but when my boyfriend Henry is with me they go bananas. So I get that the solution for me would be to change boyfriend”- you and Alexandra both laughed in the end, both knowing it was a joke.

“So let’s get into it, you are in a relationship with one of the most famous person in the world, Henry Cavill, Superman himself. What are the best parts?”- she asked

“Well for starters Henry is one of the best person, if not THE best person, i have ever met in my life, he is one of those people that always thinks about others, that always does his best to make people happy and comfortable. So yeah the very best part I think his Henry himself. We met in a very delicate moment of my life and, even before we started dating, he had always been there for me, to support me, he is like my rock you know, my best friend”- you said, hoping that you didn’t sound like a fangirl with her first crush

“You guys are really cute together and I think that the love you two share is so pure and authentic that a lot of people can see it, even from the outside, even just watching you talk with one another, I think that’s a reason why like almost everyone really love you together”

“Thank you, it’s really nice to know people are supportive of our relationship, not that people hate would change how we feel about each other, I mean he would still be my soulmate even if there was a lot of hate direct at us, but it’s nice”- you smiled and you really meant it because when Henry had asked you out the first time 6 years ago you had been very unsure: he was already very much famous and you had just started your career and the last thing you wanted was for people to even remotely think that you were just dating him to boost your career. And adding to that there was an age difference that didn’t make either of you uncomfortable but you knew that most people probably wouldn’t like that. It had taken you a little bit of time to let your fear of what people could think behind and just decide to do what your heart was telling you to do.

“How has you dating such a famous person impacted your identity?”

“That’s a good question, I think that dating Henry, as Henry not as famous person you know, has added to my identity a lot like any other relationship would. I was a lot younger and he was a little bit older than I am now when we first started dating so I actually grew up during the relationship so yeah it has changed me for the best I think. Dating him has for sure helped me become the woman I am now; I dont’ know if I am explaining myslef”- you laughed sure that you had made a mess

“No no I get it, every relationship teach you a lot you know, have you ever received hate at the beginning of your relationship because of the age gap?”

“I mean people can be judgimental and at the beginning of our relantioship it was a real fear of mine, not of Henry, he didn’t care, again he was more mature than me back then so he was like ‘I am not doing anything wrong, I’m not hurting anybody so fuck them’ you know. And in the end Henry’s attitude rubbed off on me and when the months went on and then years went on and we were still together and people couldn’t say that he was with me only for sex or I was with him only for his money or his fame, it all passed. So yeah, he never cared about the possible hate and I started to not care anymore after some time too.”

“I get it, you know haters gotta hate so the only thing you can do is be happy”- Alexandra said

“Exactly”

“So this is a question that I hadn’t planned to ask so you can decide not to answear without any problem I swear, but it has been a curiosity of mine for so long that I have to.”

“You are scaring me”- you laughed trying to stay calm

“no no don’t be scared, I’ve watched your last film the other night, wonderful job by the way”

“Thank you”- you stopped her for a second

“So  there was a very intimate scene in the film and I have always wondered how are you able to play that scene, I mean I know you are an actor and of course it’s your job but isn’t it difficult to pretend?”-Alexandra finished her question

“Oh my god, you really scared me but I can answear that. It’s difficult, it really is, for me in particular it is more difficult to shoot an intimate scene than one where I am supposed to be sad or angry or whatever. It becomes easier with the experience of course but it wasn’t at the beginning. I still remember my first sex scene, it was such a flop because when you shoot an intimate scene it’s basically like you have to fake an orgasm and I really didn’t know how to”

“Oh come on every woman knows how to fake an orgasm because everyone has had to fake at least once”- alexandra argued

“I know it sounds difficult to believe but I haven’t, I have had my first sexual relationship, and can’t believe I’m actually saying it, with Henry and I haven’t ever needed to fake”

“Wait, leaving behind that you have never needed to fake with your boyfriend so lucky you, you didn’t date anyone before Henry?”- you thought a second before answering, you weren’t ashemed of who you were, of your experience but this was the first time you actually opened up about this side of yourself

“I had some dates before Henry but never a sexual partner before him. I am actually demisexual, I don’t feel sexual attraction if I don’t have an emotional connection first and a lot of people don’t have the patience to wait for me to get there. So I tried dating for a while but once I saw people getting impatient after the second or third date I actually stopped dating for a while. Beside I had just started my career and I knew I needed to be focused so I swore off dating, at least untill I met Henry, that is. And even then it was a while before I agreeded to a date but he is a very stubborn person”- you took a deep breath

“I didn’t know that”

“It’s ok, I don’t think anyone did other than my friend and family”- you smiled at her

“I’m really glad you decided to open up and now for the most difficult questions”- she started and you both laughed because you knew what was coming -”this is the part where we talk about your sex life if it’s ok”- Alexandra double checked even though you had already given the all clear before the interview began

“I’m ready”

“We need to give the fan what they want, to give them a little taste. So are you a morning sex or a night sex person?”- she asked

“I’m more like the morning sex kinda girl because it gives you a boost for the day you know. But both Henry and I, we work a lot and even though we try to make sure our work plan align as much as we can, it’s not always possible. So the real answear would be whenever we are together and have time.”- you could see the mirth in Alexandra’s eyes

“You gotta make it count right?”

“Right”- you nodded at her

“Has anyone ever tried to have a threesome with you and Henry?”

“If you mean if anyone ever have approached us in person, no, but a lot of people have asked on tweeter And the answer would be a no anyway, not only for me but even for Henry. He is not into sharing I’m afraid and not even I am. Sorry guys”- you laughed , yu were finding yourself to have actually fun… who would have thought

“Do you and Henry have the same favorite sex positions?”

“I think so”

“Can you give us one?”- Alexandra smiled trying to get more from you

“We like to change and experiment but my all time favorite would be cowgirl”- you answered in the end

“You heard it here, what is the sexiest think that Henry does that turns you on?”

“I mean you have seen my boyfriend, he can just look at me with those beautiful eyes of him and the love that I always find there is always enough to get me ready to go”- you laughed not even understanding how was possible for you to feel so comfortable to answear withouth any problem -”but one of the thing that turn me the most on is actually watching Henry work out”

“What is the sexiest thing that you do that turn Henry on?”

“wearing his clothes probably”

“Y/n Y/sn we are done, thank you for being here and thank you for being so open and honest, it was really nice to have you here”- Alexandra said at the end.

“Thank you for having me, I thought long and hard before agreeing to come because I knew of course the question would be really personal but I am actually gald I accepted to come”

And you meant it, you were glad in the end that you had changed your mind but you couldn’t wait to leave the building and go back to your boys.

Henry Cavill and charachters taglist: @xxxkatxo @mansaaay @thorins-queen-of-erebor @maan24 @grounded-in-light @omgkatinka @xprettyqueenx @marytudorbrandon @kebabgirl67 @narnianaos 

All around taglist: @jwspiter​

I hope I didn’t forget to tag anyone if I did I’m sorry so please remember me, if you name id crossed id because I wasn’t able to tag you

Charles Leclerc Smau- Part 5

[September]

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[October]

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your insta story (it’s a video guys)

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The post mentioned in the tweet ⬇️

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Taglist: @buendiabebeta @whathesaids @idkiwantchocolatee