Hi, I’m just a girl — 18 years old — who loves chocolate, fruits, and of course, writing.
A daughter of Molière’s land (oui oui, baguette 🥖) trying her best in this wild language of Shakespeare — thankfully, a friend helps me translate sometimes.
Requests are open for anything and everything: music, sports, series, movies, manga, etc.
If I don’t know the character, don’t worry — the answer will come later, once updated.
When I’m not taking requests, I just post about my OCs, sorted by universe.
↝Pookie
↝Masterlist F1
I don’t like toxic tropes and I’ll refuse any NSFW requests I find unhealthy.
Also… I have writing waves — expect silence and sudden bursts of inspiration.
I can write for any kind of character: LGBTQ+, ethnicities, disabilities, and more
bref c'est juste pour une amie... profite bien babe !
Hummingbird était le genre d’établissement qui se donnait des airs chaleureux, presque familiaux. Un lieu propice aux amitiés, aux rencontres… et, comme tout endroit où trop de vies se croisent trop souvent, une terre incroyablement fertile pour les ragots. Ici, les informations circulaient à une vitesse indécente. Il suffisait de traverser un couloir pour être déjà au courant du dernier scandale — celui que Sarah avait, une fois de plus, provoqué en revenant fouiller dans son casier pour ce qui devait être, à vue de nez, la centième fois afin de récupérer sa veste.
Tu laissas échapper un soupir en sortant ton téléphone, jetant un regard presque nostalgique à l’écran. Dimanche matin. Le genre de matin où tu aurais dû être encore enfouie sous ta couette, à rêver de grasses matinées interminables. À la place, tu serais, condamnée à promener une bande de sacs à puces à travers des parcs.
C’était probablement ta faute, au fond. Traîner ainsi au milieu du couloir, l’esprit ailleurs, sans prêter la moindre attention à ton environnement… Forcément, ça devait arriver. Et bien sûr, il fallait que ce soit la personne la plus désagréable que tu connaisses. Celle qui semblait persuadée que sa simple existence lui donnait tous les droits.
La collision fut brutale. Tu vacillas, te rattrapant de justesse au mur dans un grognement agacé, ton épaule heurtant la surface froide. Clément, évidemment. Il ne ralentit même pas, comme si tu n’avais été qu’un obstacle temporaire sur sa trajectoire.
— Sérieusement… marmonnas-tu entre tes dents.
Derrière lui, Rachel et Evan se retournèrent aussitôt, visiblement gênés.
— Désolés, vraiment, s’excusa Rachel avec un sourire embarrassé.
— Il fait jamais attention, ajouta Evan, presque lassé, comme si cette scène s’était déjà répétée trop de fois.
Tu te contentas de lever les yeux au ciel, un geste devenu presque réflexe face à ce genre de situation. Clément, lui, poursuivait déjà sa route sans un regard en arrière, fidèle à sa réputation. Tu te redressas lentement, lissant machinalement tes vêtements, résignée à l’idée que la journée ne faisait que commencer… et qu’elle promettait d’être interminable.
— Alors… tu es intéressée par le concert, Mika ? demanda Rachel avec son sourire tendre.
Tu n’avais rien contre elle. Vraiment. Mais l’ennui qui t’habitait était trop profond pour être masqué. Ta réponse en fut forcément teintée.
— Un concert ? Quel concert ?
— Les Nuggets on the Run, répondit-elle aussitôt. Ça va être vraiment sympa.
— Oui, ajouta Evan avec enthousiasme. Franchement, ça vaut le coup.
Tu hochais simplement la tête, sans grande conviction. Ce groupe, tu le connaissais bien trop. Bien plus que tu ne l’aurais voulu.
— Je ne m’intéresse pas à eux, lâchas-tu finalement. Ils ne sont pas intéressants.
La main de Clément se posa soudainement sur ton épaule. Ton corps se raidit aussitôt et tu te décalas, comme brûlée par le contact. Il t’offrit alors un sourire éclatant, presque théâtral.
— Allez… tu ne l’as toujours pas acceptée ? lança-t-il en ricanant, visiblement ravi de son effet.
— Acceptée quoi ? demanda Rachel, innocente, ses yeux pétillants de curiosité.
Clément ne se fit pas prier.
— Vous ne saviez pas ? Mika est une talentueuse batteuse, déclara-t-il avec une ironie à peine voilée. Vous vous souvenez du jour des talents au collège ? Eh bien, elle a perdu face au groupe. Vous auriez dû voir sa tête…
La colère monta aussitôt en toi. D’abord parce que ta fierté n’avait jamais vraiment cicatrisé. Ensuite — et surtout — parce que tu refusais que cette vieille histoire se répande comme une traînée de poudre.
Tu le fixais, mâchoire crispée, les poings serrés.
— C’est vrai, Mika ? demanda Evan d’une voix calme, presque trop douce.
Les idées se bousculèrent dans ton esprit.
La fuite.
Les larmes.
L’envie très sérieuse de pousser Clément dans les escaliers.
Finalement, tu te retournas vers eux, forçant ton visage à afficher quelque chose qui ressemblait vaguement à un sourire.
— Quoi ? Non, évidemment que j’y serai, répondis-tu. Enfin… je ne détesterai jamais quelqu’un pour ça.
Même toi, tu n’y croyais pas.
Ce soir-là, allongée dans ton lit, le regard fixé au plafond, tu établis deux choses très claires.
Premièrement : la liste des personnes à anéantir venait d’être mise à jour. Clément y occupait désormais une solide deuxième place, juste après Lando Norris.
Deuxièmement :
J–13 avant de devoir subir cet affront fait à la musique.
Ta haine pour les membres du groupe était, dans ton esprit, parfaitement justifiée. Légitime, même. Mais surtout… inégale. Elle ne se répartissait pas équitablement entre eux, loin de là. Peut-être était-ce ton côté légèrement misandre qui refaisait surface. Peut-être aussi ce crush mal digéré que tu avais eu, à une époque, pour Béatrice. Bref. Une chose était sûre : Josh était, de très loin, l’épicentre de tous tes malheurs.
Ce mec était trop direct pour être supportable, mais pas assez intelligent pour que ça passe. Le pire des mélanges. Tu avais probablement envoyé trop de mails au CPE dans l’espoir désespéré d’un changement de classe — au point où tu en étais venue à soupçonner l’administration de t’avoir tout simplement bloquée.
Et puis, il y avait eu ce moment de lucidité cruelle.
Tu t’étais résignée.
À défaut de solution institutionnelle, tu nourrissais désormais un espoir beaucoup plus personnel : qu’il redouble. Une seconde fois. Sa première année. Et que, par un heureux concours de circonstances, tu ne croises plus jamais sa silhouette, sa voix, ni même son ombre dans les couloirs.
Un vœu simple. Modeste. Presque raisonnable, à bien y réfléchir.
Était-ce mal ? Peut-être. Mais l’humiliation — et surtout la rancœur — te donnaient tous les droits. Affalée sur ta table, les écouteurs enfoncés dans les oreilles, tu faisais défiler Instagram sans vraiment regarder quand une petite tape sur ton épaule te fit lever les yeux au ciel avant même que tu te redresses.
Cheveux jaune poussin.
T-shirt affreux à l’effigie de son groupe.
Josh.
— Alors, tu comptes vraiment venir ?
Pas de bonjour. Évidemment. Josh dans toute sa splendeur.
— Bonjour à toi aussi, répondis-tu en croisant les bras sur ta poitrine. Évidemment que je compte venir. Ne serait-ce que pour constater la médiocrité de votre musique.
— Hé ! On s’est beaucoup améliorés depuis…
— Grâce à Béatrice, coupas-tu sans hésiter.
Il roula des yeux, faussement vexé, avant de tirer une chaise et de s’installer à côté de toi. Tu fronças les sourcils. Il n’allait quand même pas te faire la conversation ?
— Tu es vraiment cruelle.
— C’est un talent que j’entretiens, lâchas-tu.
— Alors… tu es vraiment disponible ?
— Si je viens, c’est que oui.
— Génial ! Je t’enverrai toutes les infos par message.
Il t’offrit un large sourire. Trop large. Tu fronças les sourcils, soudain méfiante.
Pourquoi voulait-il te contacter, exactement ?
L’étrangeté de cet échange te revint plusieurs fois au cours de la journée. Béatrice te serra dans ses bras sans prévenir. Des gens que tu connaissais à peine te dirent qu’ils avaient hâte de te voir. Chaque interaction ajoutait une couche d’incompréhension à ton malaise.
Assise sur un banc, tu attendais Nejma en triturant ton téléphone. Lorsqu’elle arriva, elle te regarda longuement avant de froncer les sourcils.
— Alors… c’est vrai ? demanda-t-elle.
— Qu’est-ce qui est vrai ? répondis-tu en rangeant ton téléphone pour lui faire face.
— Le concert.
Tu écarquillas légèrement les yeux avant de hocher la tête. Une avalanche d’émotions traversa son visage : l’incompréhension, la colère, le dégoût… et quelque chose qui ressemblait dangereusement à de la tristesse.
— Comment ça, quoi ? Mais tu les détestes !
Tu roulas des yeux. Si seulement elle savait. Ce n’était qu’un millième de ce que tu ressentais réellement pour lui.
— Tu vas vraiment être leur batteuse… et tu ne m’en as même pas parlé ?!
Tu te figeas.
— Quoi ???
L’échange de messages avec Josh fut ponctué de tes silences. De ta colère. Et surtout de ton incompréhension.
Son frère, Ben, s’était cassé le bras. Rien que ça. Il aurait demandé à Lauren de te contacter pour savoir si tu pouvais le remplacer. Sauf que Lauren, en réalité, avait demandé à Evan. Qui l’avait dit à Sarah. Qui l’avait répété à absolument tout le monde. Tout le monde… sauf toi, évidemment.
Josh s’excusa pour le dérangement. Puis, dans un long pavé — un de ceux où tu pouvais littéralement l’imaginer à genoux, implorant ton pardon — il finit par annoncer qu’il devait annuler le concert.
Manipulateur.
Seule dans ta chambre, pourtant, tu eus presque pitié de cet idiot. Presque. Alors tu répondis. Tu dis que ce serait la seule fois. Que tu ne serais pas aussi clémente une seconde fois.
Tu soupiras en posant ton téléphone sur le lit.
Quelle idée stupide d’accepter de rester un vendredi soir après les cours pour répéter avec lui, en plus.
Béatrice — cet ange tombé du ciel — t’avait déposé les partitions, les paroles, tout ce qu’il fallait. Mais elle ne pouvait pas assister à la répétition du vendredi. Tu avais prié le Seigneur, sincèrement, pour que tout soit annulé.
Évidemment, non.
Josh avait envoyé, beaucoup trop enthousiaste :
« Aucun problème ! Ce sera une affaire entre moi et Mika ! »
Tu fixas l’écran quelques secondes, les mâchoires serrées.
Vendredi soir.
Une salle de répétition.
Josh.
Tout ce que tu détestais, réuni au même endroit.
Le soleil s’infiltrait dans la salle, glissant entre les vitres et illuminant les instruments déjà en retard sur l’heure prévue. Évidemment. Tu roulas des yeux avant de jeter négligemment tes affaires sur l’un des bureaux.
Sa guitare attira ton regard. D’un noir profond, presque insolent. Tu passas tes doigts dessus distraitement, comme si tu testais sa présence, son poids, son histoire.
Le bruit sec des portes coulissantes te fit sursauter.
— Tu es déjà là ! Génial !
Tu soupiras doucement et hochas la tête en guise de réponse. Pas besoin de bavardage inutile. Vous reprîtes la musique presque aussitôt, corrigeant le tempo, ajustant les accords, cherchant le bon rythme. Les heures passèrent — plus vite que tu ne l’aurais cru. Bien plus vite.
Quand vous tombâtes enfin d’accord sur une pause, il te lança une bouteille d’eau que tu rattrapas au vol sans même y penser. Il ouvrit les fenêtres, laissant entrer l’air frais. La nuit avait déjà décoré le ciel sans que tu t’en rendes compte.
Tu soupiras et t’approchas de ton sac quand un bruit familier te fit froncer les sourcils.
Click. Click.
Un briquet.
Tu te retournas juste à temps pour comprendre que Josh essayait — sérieusement — de fumer dans l’enceinte de l’établissement scolaire. Tu ouvris la bouche pour protester, mais il insista. Encore. Et encore.
Puis la flamme apparut.
Il l’approcha de la cigarette coincée entre ses lèvres. Le bout se mit à rougeoyer avant de se consumer lentement.
L’odeur âcre se mêla à celle du bois, du métal, des câbles chauffés par les heures de répétition.
Tu le fixas, incrédule.
Vendredi soir.
Salle de musique.
Josh en train de fumer comme si tout lui appartenait.
Et soudain, tu sus que cette répétition n’allait clairement pas se terminer comme prévu.
La flamme éclaira brièvement son visage. Blond, les yeux bruns, une barbe à peine esquissée qui lui donnait cet air négligé qu’il entretenait volontairement. Ton regard glissa malgré toi jusqu’au tatouage de note de musique, juste là, sur son cou. Ostentatoire. Prétentieux.
Tu roulas des yeux.
Sans lui laisser le temps de réagir, tu t’approchas et lui arrachas la cigarette des lèvres.
— Interdit de fumer, monsieur.
Tu la portas aussitôt à tes propres lèvres et inspiras. Lentement. La fumée s’enroula dans tes poumons, la nicotine s’injectant dans ton sang avec une familiarité presque coupable. Tu recrachas un mince filet gris qui s’éleva entre vous deux.
Il te regarda une seconde de trop.
Un sourire étira ses lèvres. Arrogant. Presque amusé.
— Voleuse de cigarette ?
— Ma mère a trouvé mon paquet il y a un mois, répondis-tu sans détour.
Il hocha la tête, comme si cette information expliquait tout. Puis il s’approcha à son tour, assez près pour que tu sentes la chaleur de son corps, et reprit la cigarette entre tes doigts pour tirer une bouffée.
Vos regards se croisèrent.
Trop proches.
Trop longtemps.
La fumée flotta entre vous, lourde, chargée de quelque chose qui n’avait rien à voir avec le tabac. La répétition, la colère, la musique… tout semblait soudain comprimé dans cet espace minuscule.
Et tu compris, avec une pointe d’agacement mêlée d’anticipation, que ce vendredi soir venait de franchir une ligne dangereuse.
Il te jeta un regard, comme pour te dire que c’était à ton tour. Tu fis un léger recul, hésitante, tandis que ton esprit repassait toutes les participations au conservatoire, les centaines d’accords, les heures de répétition, la discipline imposée. Et pourtant… tes doigts glissèrent naturellement sur les tambours, comme si ton corps se souvenait de quelque chose que ton esprit refusait encore. Les baguettes sautèrent sous tes impulsions, frappant la peau tendue avec une précision instinctive. Il n’y avait aucune pression, juste la musique, pure et immédiate.
Tu sentais ses yeux sur toi. Bruns, intenses, presque brûlants. Chaque note semblait se frayer un chemin entre vous, invisible mais tangible. La pièce disparut autour de toi, il n’y avait plus que le son des instruments, la vibration des cordes, et cette tension électrique qui s’installait à mesure que tu jouais.
Tu jouais He’s My Man. Tes mains et tes pieds bougeaient en automatique, chaque frappe sur le tambour résonnant dans ton corps. Il te regardait, les lèvres étirées en un sourire presque arrogant, presque fier. Tu roulais des yeux malgré toi, agacée par son air trop confiant, mais incapable de détourner le regard.
— Facile. He’s My Man, murmura-t-il, son ton mêlant amusement et défi.
Il enchaîna avec American Wedding. Tu pris place à la batterie pour l’accompagner, frappant chaque temps avec soin, ajustant ton rythme au sien. Ses doigts glissaient sur les cordes, précis et légers, chaque mouvement hypnotique. Tu ne savais pas pourquoi tu regardais. Tu n’aurais pas dû. Mais c’était impossible à ignorer. Le tatouage sur son cou, la bague qui brillait à la lumière, la barbe naissante… tout cela formait un tableau qui te dérangeait autant qu’il t’attirait.
La musique devint un dialogue silencieux. Tu jouais, il jouait. Tu répondis à ses accords, tu sentais ses inflexions, et il semblait écouter chaque frappe de tes baguettes. Plus le morceau avançait, plus la pièce semblait rétrécir autour de vous, vous enfermant dans une bulle étrange. Tu respirais la fumée encore suspendue dans l’air, son parfum mélangé à celui des cordes, du bois, de l’électricité statique de la pièce.
Il s’arrêta un instant et te lança un regard qui te fit frissonner. Ce n’était pas un simple regard. C’était un mélange de défi, de curiosité, de quelque chose que tu ne savais pas nommer. Tu te concentras sur la batterie, mais tu sentais chaque vibration, chaque frôlement d’air provoqué par ses mains sur les cordes, comme un contact invisible. Tu jouais, mais tu sentais qu’il te regardait, attentif à chacun de tes mouvements, presque comme s’il essayait de te lire à travers le rythme.
Tu sentais ton cœur battre plus vite, la tension monter, le plaisir coupable de jouer et de te laisser happer par ce moment. Chaque note, chaque silence, chaque respiration entre les morceaux semblait amplifier cette énergie entre vous. Tu aurais dû le haïr. Tu aurais dû rester froide, distante, concentrée uniquement sur la musique. Mais tu ne pouvais pas. Pas vraiment.
Il sourit à nouveau, large, satisfait, presque triomphant. Tu te mordis la lèvre pour ne pas montrer combien cette proximité te perturbait. Tu frappais encore, mais tu sentais ton corps répondre autant à lui qu’aux tambours. Le temps passa plus vite que tu ne l’avais prévu. La lumière du soleil couchant filtrait toujours par les fenêtres ouvertes, dessinant des motifs sur le parquet et les instruments, comme si la scène elle-même te mettait en valeur.
À ce moment, tu compris quelque chose : cette répétition n’était plus seulement un exercice. Elle était devenue un jeu silencieux. Un échange où chaque note, chaque regard, chaque sourire mesurait une frontière entre provocation et complicité, entre défi et attraction. Tu ne savais pas qui allait céder le premier. Ni si tu le voulais vraiment.
Et tandis que la dernière note résonnait dans la salle, suspendue, tu savais déjà que ce vendredi soir allait marquer quelque chose.
— Il se fait tard ! coupa-t-il soudain.
Tu restas figée, assise sur le petit siège, incapable de bouger. Sérieusement ? N’avait-il aucun sens de la sensualité ? Aucun instinct ? Ne sentait-il pas la tension, palpable comme une corde tendue entre vous depuis des heures ?
Tu hochas simplement la tête, la mâchoire crispée, et te renfrognas. Tu rangeas toi-même tes affaires, dans un silence lourd, presque gênant. Les instruments, les partitions, les baguettes… chaque geste semblait amplifier l’air chargé de non-dits.
Vous descendîtes dans la cour, tes pas résonnant sur le béton, et il ne dit rien de plus. Pas un mot pour briser le silence qui s’était installé entre vous depuis le début. Juste, un murmure en passant près de toi, comme une brise trop légère :
— À dimanche pour le concert.
Tu restas un instant hébétée. « À dimanche… » ? Rien de plus. Pas un geste, pas un sourire qui ait un sens. Et toi qui pensais que peut-être… il s’intéressait à toi. Que cette tension électrique, ces regards volés, cette proximité forcée par la musique, signifiaient quelque chose.
Rien. Nada.
Il partit. Simplement. Sans même te raccompagner, sans un regard en arrière. Et tu te retrouvas seule, au milieu de la cour vide, avec le vent qui te semblait plus froid que jamais, et ce mélange étrange de frustration, de colère et d’incompréhension qui te nouait l’estomac.
Tu te surpris à te demander : Comment quelqu’un peut être aussi insensible à tout ça ? À toi, à la tension, à la musique, à ce que vous veniez de partager… et partir comme si rien ne s’était passé.
Et tandis que tu franchissais les portes de l’école pour rentrer, tu savais une chose : dimanche allait être long. Très long.
Voilà des semaines que le concert avait eu lieu. Et vous étiez… moins froids. Pas meilleurs amis, non. N’allons pas jusqu’aux extrêmes. Mais c’était bien. Supportable. Tu le supportais.
Tu souriais même parfois en croisant son regard, ravalant ta rancœur. Une nouvelle émotion avait pris sa place : ce petit quelque chose, ce soir-là, que personne n’avait osé initier. Ce moment suspendu, rempli de tension, et pourtant jamais concrétisé.
Était-ce cet idiot que maintenant tu voulais secrètement voir se recasser le bras ? Était-ce lui qui te faisait te rendre à ce concours, dans une salle infestée d’alcooliques et de groupes médiocres, juste pour revoir ses doigts glisser sur les cordes ?
Oui. Oui, tu l’étais. Complètement.
Et tu le savais. Le détestais et le désirais en même temps. Le haïssais pour sa capacité à te troubler, et en même temps, tu ne voulais rien d’autre que d’être là, encore, à le regarder jouer, encore, malgré toi.
Chaque note qu’il posait résonnait dans ton corps plus fort que n’importe quelle musique autour de vous. Et toi, malgré toutes tes résolutions et tes furies passées, tu te surprenais à attendre la prochaine fois.
La prochaine fois qu’il jouerait. La prochaine fois que tu le regarderais. La prochaine fois que… quelque chose pourrait enfin bouger.
Oui. Tu étais idiot. Et tu l’acceptais.
Tu étais au conservatoire, rangeant tes affaires avec une lenteur presque théâtrale, consciente que chaque geste te rapprochait de ce stupide Battle Underground. L’affiche, ridiculement colorée, se glissa dans ton sac. La vision de ces lettres criardes te fit lever les yeux au ciel. Sérieusement ? Ils appelaient ça un “événement underground” ? Pff.
Dans les toilettes, tu fermas la porte derrière toi et commenças la transformation. Jupe → jean. Débardeur sobre. Une veste en cuir que tu avais piquée à ta sœur pour l’occasion, trop grande, trop confortable, mais parfaite pour te donner cette impression de pouvoir. Tu l’enfilas avec un soupir satisfait, ajustant les manches comme si tu préparais ton armure.
Tes doigts passèrent dans tes cheveux, cherchant désespérément comment les attacher. Queue de cheval ? Chignon ? Laisser tomber en bataille ? Tu finis par opter pour un élastique trouvé au fond de ton sac, tirant tes cheveux en un geste mécanique mais efficace. Quelques mèches rebelles s’échappèrent, mais tant pis. L’important n’était pas la perfection, mais d’être prête.
Tu t’arrêtas un instant devant le miroir, te scrutant, te préparant mentalement. Le reflet te renvoyait l’image de quelqu’un qui savait ce qu’elle voulait… ou du moins, qui faisait semblant. Tu inspiras profondément, sentant ton cœur battre un peu plus vite.
Ce soir, il y aurait de la musique, du bruit, de la sueur, et lui. Et malgré tout le reste, tu ne pouvais pas nier que tu avais hâte de voir ses doigts glisser sur les cordes, encore une fois.
Bref… il était temps de sortir et d’affronter cette salle pleine d’inconnus, de mauvais groupes et, très probablement, d’alcool trop fort.
L’odeur… bon sang. L’odeur. Une combinaison de bière renversée, de sueur, de fumée et de ce parfum acre qui te fit presque regretter d’avoir payé la modique somme de 15 euros pour t’enfoncer dans cette gueule de bête.
Tu descendis dans la mêlée. Les gens te bousculaient, cherchaient leurs amis sans lever les yeux de leur nombril. En clair… c’était exactement comme au lycée, mais en pire. Le bruit résonnait dans tes oreilles, une cacophonie de voix, de rires gras et de notes désaccordées qui vibraient à travers le sol.
Tu réussis finalement à te frayer un chemin vers un endroit un peu plus calme, presque un refuge. Quelques personnes dispersées, discutant, riant doucement, regardant leurs téléphones ou un ami d’un air attentif. L’air y était moins lourd, plus respirable. Enfin… presque.
Un gars s’approcha. Sympa, pas prétentieux. Il venait encourager un ami qui participait lui aussi au Battle. Il avait ce type de sourire qui mettait un peu de lumière dans ce chaos. Il sembla remarquer ton air perdu, et te lança un salut amical.
Puis, alors qu’il se frayait un chemin dans la foule, quelqu’un le bouscula. Son verre de bière aigre se renversa au sol dans un éclat qui fit grimacer ton nez. Un petit rire secoua sa poitrine.
— Tu veux un verre aussi ? proposa-t-il, en souriant.
Peut-être que c’était la lumière verdâtre qui te faisait tourner la tête, ou le bourdonnement constant qui te perturbait le cerveau… mais tu te surprends à hocher la tête. Sans vraiment réfléchir, tu t’accrochas à son poignet et il te guida à travers la marée humaine. Chaque corps pressé, chaque geste maladroit semblait te pousser, t’attirer, t’écraser, mais tu restais suspendue à lui comme à une bouée dans cette mer agitée.
Le passage fut un petit miracle : tu sentais l’air circuler enfin, un peu moins chaud, un peu moins moite. Tu laissas échapper un souffle que tu ne savais pas avoir retenu. Il souriait, parlant doucement, t’expliquant qui jouait, qui avait fait quoi, mais sa voix se mêlait au brouhaha ambiant. Et malgré le chaos, il y avait quelque chose de rassurant dans sa présence.
Pour la première fois depuis que tu étais entrée dans cette salle, tu te sentis un peu moins seule. Moins assiégée. Tu jetas un coup d’œil autour de toi et, pour un instant, l’odeur, le bruit, la foule… tout sembla reculer.
Et alors que tu levais le verre qu’il venait de te tendre, tu eus conscience que cette nuit, malgré tout, pouvait encore réserver quelques surprises.
Tu suivis lui et son groupe d’amis vers le devant de la scène. La salle était déjà remplie, le son des groupes précédents encore résonnant dans tes oreilles, mélange de guitares mal accordées et de basses trop fortes. La foule te bousculait parfois, les gens cherchant leurs amis sans lever les yeux, complètement absorbés par eux-mêmes. Et pourtant, tu restais concentrée sur lui.
Ils étaient amicaux, rieurs, et quelques fois tu avais cette sensation que les doigts de Mark effleuraient tes hanches au bord de la scène. Juste un frôlement, mais suffisant pour que ton corps s’en souvienne. Tu secouas légèrement la tête, frustrée par ton propre corps qui trahissait ton esprit, et avanças un peu plus vite pour te rapprocher de Josh.
Puis tu aperçus les coulisses. Et là… cette horrible chevelure jaune éclata devant toi. Un rire involontaire te traversa les lèvres. Tu lui fis un petit signe de la main. Il te répondit d’un sourire, rapide, accompagné d’un chuchotement vers son grand frère que tu n’eus pas le temps de comprendre. Puis, sans un mot, il fit de grandes enjambées pour rejoindre la scène.
Plus il se rapprochait, plus tu détaillais son visage. Le léger froncement de ses sourcils, la confusion dans ses yeux, le pincement de ses lèvres… Chaque détail te fascinait autant qu’il t’agaçait. Ton souffle se fit un peu plus rapide, ton cœur tambourinait dans ta poitrine, mais tu te força à garder une contenance.
— Hey, Josh ! criais-tu pour qu’il t’entende au milieu du brouhaha.
— Hey… je ne savais pas que tu venais, répondit-il, sa voix plus grave que tu ne l’aurais cru.
— Haha… et bien si.
Il hocha la tête, sourire aux lèvres, avant de jeter un rapide coup d’œil derrière toi. Ses yeux cherchèrent tes compagnons, et il fronça légèrement les sourcils en les voyant.
— Et qui sont tes… compagnons ? demanda-t-il, comme s’il essayait de jauger ton monde.
Tu te retournas vers Mark et ses amis et souris, essayant de garder ton calme.
— Ce sont Mark et ses amis…
Mais tes mots se perdirent aussitôt lorsque tu sentis ses doigts calleux glisser sur tes hanches. Juste un effleurement, sûrement au bord du débardeur. Une étincelle parcourut ton corps. Tu eus un frisson incontrôlable, et instinctivement, ton torse se colla contre son dos, comme si tu cherchais le contact malgré toi.
Tu sentais la chaleur de sa peau contre la tienne, le parfum léger mais entêtant de sa chemise et de sa barbe naissante. Chaque respiration de sa part te traversait comme un courant électrique. Ton corps réagissait malgré toi, mais ton esprit hurlait de rester rationnelle, de ne pas céder à cette attraction.
— Eh bien… prenez soin de ma copine, dit-il ensuite, son ton presque joueur, presque possessif.
Avant que tu n’aies le temps de comprendre ce qu’il voulait dire, il se pencha et déposa un baiser léger sur le haut de ta tête. Le geste, anodin en apparence, fit frissonner tout ton corps. Peut-être était-ce un de tes fantasmes, mais tu jurais que ce baiser frôla une partie plus intime de toi.
Puis il murmura, juste pour toi :
— Ne regarde que moi.
Le reste de la salle, le bruit, la lumière crue, le chaos du Battle Underground… tout disparut. Il n’y avait plus que lui. Et tu savais, avec une certitude troublante, que tu ne pourrais pas détourner les yeux.
Chaque mouvement qu’il faisait semblait calculé pour te perturber, te séduire sans jamais franchir la ligne. Ses doigts jouaient sur les cordes avec précision, mais toi, tu sentais chaque geste contre ta peau, chaque vibration. La musique devenait un dialogue silencieux, mais chaque note semblait vous rapprocher davantage.
Tu essayais de te concentrer sur le son, sur la basse, sur les accords, mais ton attention revenait toujours à lui. La façon dont il bougeait, la légèreté de ses mains, la manière dont il souriait parfois, comme s’il savait exactement l’effet qu’il avait sur toi. Tes jambes tremblaient légèrement, ton souffle se fit plus court, et tu sentais ton cœur battre trop vite dans ta poitrine.
Pourtant, malgré tout, tu gardais une façade. Tu ne voulais pas céder trop vite. Tu voulais paraître distante, concentrée sur la musique. Mais plus le morceau avançait, plus tu étais consciente de chaque effleurement, de chaque regard, de chaque sourire. C’était une danse silencieuse, un duel où vous jouiez tous les deux sans paroles.
Et tu comprenais, avec une étrange certitude, que cette nuit ne serait pas seulement une répétition ou un concert. C’était un champ de bataille invisible, où désir, provocation et curiosité se mélangeaient. Et toi, tu étais déjà perdue.
Tes yeux ne décrochaient pas de lui. « Ma copine »… tu n’étais même pas sûre de comprendre ce qu’il voulait dire. Vous n’étiez pas amis, n’est-ce pas ? Ou peut-être qu’il te considérait comme ça. Peu importe. Tu laissas ces questions de côté, ton attention happée par l’instant présent.
D’une façon que tu n’arrivas pas à expliquer, tu te fis entraînée vers l’after. La musique était plus basse, plus lourde, et pourtant, c’était infiniment plus grisant. L’air était chargé de parfum, de rires et de l’odeur âcre de la sueur et de l’alcool. Tu t’abandonnas presque, te jetant sur un canapé, sentant le bras de Mara s’enrouler autour du dossier, vous riant aux éclats comme si le monde entier venait de disparaître.
Ben s’approcha, sourire aux lèvres, et te salua. Tu ne pus t’empêcher de demander, presque machinalement :
— Ton bras va mieux ?
Il hocha la tête, et tu réalises à peine que Josh se tenait dans la pénombre, en retrait, observant silencieusement. Ben et Béatrice rigolaient, légers et complices. L’ambiance était chaotique, mais il y avait un rythme presque hypnotique dans ce mélange d’amitié, de musique et de chaleur humaine.
— Vous nous faites de la place ! cria quelqu’un, et quelques amis se déclarèrent pour laisser Béatrice et toi vous installer. Roch n’avait pas vraiment de place, mais tu te levas pour faire un peu de place.
Mark, assis à côté, ouvrit la bouche :
— Tu peux venir ici si tu veux ? dit-il en tapotant sa cuisse.
Tu roulas des yeux, agacée, mais avant que tu ne puisses réfléchir, tu te fis tirer sur les genoux de Josh, ses mains solides comme des ancres, te ramenant presque instinctivement à la position initiale, collée à lui sans avoir le choix. Ton souffle s’accéléra, et ton corps réagit malgré toi à cette proximité.
— Alors… tu m’as regardé ? murmura-t-il, sa voix basse mais chargée de quelque chose que tu n’arrivais pas à nommer.
Tu sentis un frisson te parcourir. Était-ce la peur ? L’agacement ? Ou le désir ? Tes yeux le fixèrent, ton esprit refusant de se perdre dans les milliers de questions qui te traversaient, tandis que ton corps, lui, se souvenait encore du contact, de la chaleur, du poids de ses mains.
Tu sentais ses mains avant même qu’il ne parle. Solides, calleuses, les doigts longs et précis, comme s’ils savaient exactement où se poser pour imposer leur présence. Lorsqu’ils glissèrent sur tes hanches, juste à la limite de ton débardeur et de ta jupe, un frisson te parcourut, incontrôlable. Ta jupe remonta légèrement sous le mouvement, effleurant ta peau, et chaque millimètre de contact envoyait une décharge dans ton corps.
Il ne pressait pas, pas vraiment, mais la simple pression suffisait à te faire coller instinctivement ton torse contre lui. Son dos, chaud et ferme, te servait d’ancrage. Tu avais l’impression que ses doigts se mouvaient avec intention, explorant juste assez pour que tu sentes chaque contour de ton corps, sans jamais franchir une limite trop flagrante. Et pourtant… tu étais consciente de chaque effleurement, chaque mouvement, comme si ton esprit et ton corps étaient dédoublés : l’un observait, l’autre réagissait avec une vérité brutale que tu ne pouvais ignorer.
Sa peau était légèrement rugueuse, mais chaude, et le contraste avec la douceur de la tienne, exposée sous le débardeur, était électrisant. Tu sentais chaque battement de ton cœur, chaque souffle qui te traversait la poitrine alors que ses mains restaient là, immobiles mais impossibles à oublier. Les doigts de Josh n’étaient pas pressants, mais il y avait dans leur placement une autorité subtile, une façon de dire : je sais ce que je fais, et tu le sais aussi.
Ta jupe, remontée par la position sur le canapé, laissait ton haut de cuisse légèrement exposé. Tu sentais le tissu de ton jean contre ta peau, mais c’était le contact de ses mains qui te faisait trembler, qui te rendait consciente de chaque centimètre, de chaque frôlement. La pièce autour de vous s’effaçait. Tu n’entendais plus vraiment la musique, ni les rires, ni même les voix. Il y avait juste le poids de son corps contre le tien, la chaleur de ses doigts et le léger froissement de ton vêtement sous leur contact.
Tu te mordis la lèvre, essayant de cacher le frisson qui te parcourait. Ses mains semblaient savoir exactement où rester, et pourtant, tu sentais la tension, cette ligne invisible qui flirtait avec le désir et l’agacement. Tu voulais te détacher, reculer, mais ton corps refusait d’obéir. Tes jambes se resserrèrent un peu, comme pour répondre à la caresse involontaire, et tu compris que cette proximité t’avait piégée bien avant que tu puisses réfléchir.
— Alors… tu m’as regardé ? murmura-t-il, et tu eus l’impression que sa voix passait directement dans tes os, te transperçant.
Ses doigts se déplacèrent légèrement, s’assurant que tu restais là, contre lui. Le contact, minimal en apparence, était tout sauf insignifiant. Chaque millimètre éveillait ton corps, chaque effleurement devenait presque insupportable. Ta peau brûlait là où il avait touché, et tu savais que tu n’avais aucun contrôle sur la tension qui montait en toi.
Tu avais conscience de la fragilité de ce moment. Un faux geste, un mouvement brusque, et tout pouvait basculer. Mais en même temps, tu voulais rester, sentir, absorber chaque sensation. Le froissement de tes vêtements sous ses doigts, la chaleur de son dos, le contact de sa peau contre la tienne… tout devenait une expérience hypnotique, presque irréelle.
Et toi, malgré toutes tes résolutions, tu restais là, collée à lui, le souffle court, les yeux rivés sur son visage dans la pénombre, incapable de détourner ton attention. Tu savais que ce soir, tu ne reverrais plus jamais la musique, ni même la foule, de la même façon. Chaque contact, chaque frisson, chaque effleurement avait gravé une marque dans ton corps et ton esprit.
POV Josh
Je sentais sa présence contre moi, chaque frisson, chaque mouvement. Même lorsqu’elle essayait de se décoller, j’avais conscience de chaque vibration de son corps contre le mien. C’était un équilibre fragile : rester proche sans franchir la limite, sentir ses réactions sans la brusquer, la maintenir ici, contre moi, juste un instant de plus.
Mark et son groupe s’affairaient sur le canapé, roulaient des joints, riaient fort, insouciants. Je voyais du coin de l’œil leurs gestes, leurs mains rapides, leurs éclats de rire. Ils voulaient qu’elle participe, qu’elle s’y implique, qu’elle se laisse aller. Mais je pouvais lire sa réticence, ses petites tensions corporelles, la crispation de ses doigts sur le tissu de son jean. Elle ne voulait pas. Et je le savais. Avant même qu’elle n’ouvre la bouche, je savais ce qu’elle pensait.
— Lâche-moi un peu, souffla-t-elle en essayant de se décaler, sa voix un mélange de frustration et d’agacement doux.
Un grognement instinctif m’échappa, presque animal, pour couper court à Mark et signaler que j’étais là.
— Stop. C’est bon. Elle ne veut pas, dis-je, d’un ton sec mais maîtrisé.
Mark haussa les épaules, son sourire un peu désinvolte, comme pour dire « ok, je comprends ». Mais je sentais encore le poids de cette tension, la chaleur entre nous qui ne diminuait pas.
Je posai ma main sur le dossier derrière elle, juste assez pour qu’elle sente ma présence. Pas trop ferme pour ne pas l’étouffer, mais suffisamment pour qu’elle sache que j’étais là, attentif, protecteur, que rien ni personne ne pourrait l’atteindre dans cet instant. Je voyais son regard, cette lumière d’inquiétude mêlée à un amusement silencieux. Elle essayait de jouer, de masquer ses sensations, mais je les connaissais toutes. Chaque micro-frisson, chaque soupir retenu, chaque froissement de ses vêtements sous mes doigts me disait exactement ce qu’elle ressentait.
Je savais que chaque mouvement devait être mesuré. Un geste de trop et elle pourrait se détourner, s’éloigner, disparaître dans cette pièce bondée. Mais un geste précis, un effleurement contrôlé, et elle restait, collée, consciente que je n’étais pas là pour lui faire du mal. Pour le moment, nous étions seuls dans la foule, malgré la musique, les rires et les joints qui circulaient. Nous étions seuls dans ce petit monde fragile, un monde que nous partagions sans parler.
La soirée avançait. Les basses diminuèrent, les lumières s’adoucirent, les rires s’éteignirent peu à peu. Fatigué, j’inspirai profondément, sentant le poids de tout ce chaos autour de nous, et le calme fragile de ce moment. Elle respirait à côté de moi, un souffle irrégulier que je percevais sans effort, chaque mouvement de sa poitrine un rappel silencieux de sa présence réelle.
— On rentre, dis-je enfin, ma voix basse, posée, presque un murmure pour ne pas briser cette bulle fragile.
Je sentis un léger frisson parcourir ses épaules lorsqu’elle comprit que la soirée touchait à sa fin. Ses mains, encore posées près de ses jambes, se crispèrent légèrement, comme si elle ne voulait pas vraiment partir de ce cocon suspendu que nous avions créé. Je laissai mon regard glisser sur elle une dernière fois avant de tendre la main pour l’aider à se lever.
Chaque geste, chaque contact était un équilibre délicat, mais je savais que, pour elle comme pour moi, ce moment resterait gravé. Une ligne invisible entre nous, fragile et électrique, prête à éclore à tout instant… mais pour l’instant, il fallait juste sortir de cette salle, respirer l’air frais de la nuit, et marcher côte à côte, silencieusement, avec ce fil de tension qui ne demandait qu’à se tendre encore un peu plus.
Le retour dans la rue était presque irréel. Les lampadaires projetaient des halos de lumière jaunâtre sur le bitume humide, et le bruit de la ville semblait loin, presque étouffé par la tension qui s’accumulait entre vous. Elle marchait à côté de moi, mais la tête relevée, les yeux fixés au loin, comme si elle cherchait quelque chose… ou essayait d’échapper à ce moment.
Bon sang. N’allait-elle pas poser de questions ? Pas seulement des questions anodines, mais celles qui brûlaient vraiment. Pourquoi je l’avais touchée comme ça, pourquoi maintenant, pourquoi tout le monde semblait croire qu’elle était ma copine. Toutes ces interrogations tourbillonnaient dans ma tête, et chaque seconde de silence semblait les amplifier.
— Mika… parle. S’il te plaît, murmurai-je en retenant doucement son poignet, juste assez pour qu’elle sente ma présence mais pas pour la contraindre.
Elle sursauta presque, détournant légèrement les yeux vers moi. Son regard se posa sur le mien, incertain, et quelque chose dans sa posture changea. Elle soupira, un soupir qui semblait contenir à la fois de la frustration, de la fatigue et… de l’inquiétude.
— J’ai tellement de questions que je ne sais pas par où commencer… souffla-t-elle, sa voix presque étouffée par le vent léger.
Je laissai mes doigts s’entrelacer un peu plus à son poignet, incapable de lâcher prise. Son parfum, léger mais entêtant, me traversa la poitrine et me fit presque oublier tout le reste : le froid de la nuit, le bruit de la ville, les regards des passants. Elle m’envoûtait. Complètement.
— Alors commence par celle qui te brûle le plus, dis-je doucement, la voix basse mais ferme, presque un murmure pour qu’elle se concentre sur moi.
Elle me regarda, ses yeux cherchant les miens, comme pour jauger mes intentions. Chaque seconde d’hésitation semblait durer une éternité. Sa main se crispa légèrement dans la mienne, puis se relâcha. Je pouvais sentir son souffle irrégulier, le léger tremblement de son bras contre le mien.
— Pourquoi… tu m’as touchée comme ça ? murmura-t-elle enfin, la voix tremblante, hésitante.
Je laissai un sourire fugace effleurer mes lèvres. Pas moqueur, juste… honnête, presque sincère.
— Parce que je ne pouvais pas m’en empêcher. Et parce que je voulais que tu saches… que personne d’autre ne le ferait comme moi.
Elle cligna des yeux, surprise, comme si je venais de briser un mur qu’elle avait construit autour d’elle. Je sentais son cœur battre, rapide, juste à côté du mien, et je savais que ce moment serait gravé dans sa mémoire autant que dans la mienne.
Nous marchions côte à côte, le silence entrecoupé par ses questions, mes réponses mesurées, et cette tension indéfinissable qui ne cessait de grandir. La nuit avançait, mais aucun de nous ne voulait vraiment briser ce fil fragile qui nous reliait… un fil de désir, de curiosité et d’anticipation qui promettait que cette conversation ne serait que le début.
Ses doigts toujours dans les miens, je sentais chaque petite hésitation, chaque frisson. Elle me regardait, les yeux larges, le souffle légèrement coupé. Puis, enfin, elle laissa sortir les questions, comme si elle avait retenu tout son souffle pendant la soirée entière :
— Depuis quand… ? murmura-t-elle, presque incrédule.
— Depuis que je t’ai vue… la première fois, répondis-je calmement, la voix basse, mais sans détours.
Ses sourcils se froncèrent, une petite ride qui trahissait son étonnement. Elle inspira profondément, comme pour accumuler tout le courage nécessaire pour continuer :
— Pourquoi moi… ?
Je sentis son poignet se contracter légèrement dans le mien, mais je ne lâchai pas prise. Ses mots, simples mais puissants, résonnaient dans ma poitrine. Je posai mon autre main sur son épaule, juste un effleurement, juste assez pour lui montrer que j’étais là, mais sans la pousser.
— Parce que… tu es toi, dis-je doucement. Parce que personne d’autre ne compte autant que toi.
Elle secoua légèrement la tête, un mélange de frustration et de confusion. Ses lèvres tremblaient presque, et je vis la lutte dans ses yeux : colère, étonnement, amusement, désir… tout se mélangeait.
— Et pourquoi… comme ça ? demanda-t-elle enfin, la voix presque brisée par l’intensité de ses émotions.
Je laissai un sourire fugace effleurer mes lèvres, un sourire chargé de promesses et d’honnêteté.
— Comme ça… parce que je n’ai pas su attendre, parce que je voulais que tu sentes exactement ce que tu représentes pour moi. Chaque effleurement, chaque frisson, chaque regard… c’était pour toi.
Elle inspira profondément, laissant ses questions flotter entre nous. Ses yeux cherchaient les miens, et je savais qu’elle voulait comprendre, qu’elle voulait être rassurée, et qu’au fond elle avait peur.
— Tu… tu ne peux pas juste me laisser respirer normalement ? souffla-t-elle, moitié colère, moitié amusement.
Je ris doucement, un son bas qui lui fit frissonner.
— Respirer… ça devient plus facile quand je suis là, murmurai-je, juste assez près pour qu’elle entende, le souffle chaud caressant son oreille.
Elle détourna les yeux un instant, comme pour cacher le rouge qui lui montait aux joues. Et pourtant, je sentais son corps se rapprocher de moi malgré elle. Chaque mouvement, chaque souffle, chaque frémissement me disait qu’elle était là, entièrement là, même si son esprit essayait encore de trouver des réponses.
La rue autour de nous continuait de vivre, mais pour un instant, tout semblait disparaître. Il n’y avait plus que nous, la tension entre nos corps, la chaleur de nos mains, et ces questions suspendues dans l’air, chargées de vérité et de désir.
Putain. Putain. Putain.
On était déjà devant chez elle. Déjà. Comment avait-elle fait pour me devancer ? Je me croyais malin, persuadé d’avoir réussi à rallonger le trajet, à garder juste un peu de temps supplémentaire pour respirer, pour… je ne savais même pas quoi. Et maintenant, me voilà là, figé devant sa porte, les mains moites, incapable de bouger.
— Salut… murmurai-je, la voix étranglée, un petit au revoir gêné qui sortait plus par réflexe que par courage.
Elle me regarda, les yeux écarquillés, bouche entrouverte. Et là… putain. Ce regard. Ce silence. Ce foutu mélange de choc et de défi. Mon cerveau hurla “recule !”, mais mes muscles ne répondirent pas. Mes mains, mes doigts… tout mon corps refusait d’obéir.
Elle gémit, presque, un petit son qui fit battre mon cœur à cent à l’heure. Et avant que je puisse me rendre compte de ce que je faisais, elle m’attrapa. Ses mains s’enroulèrent autour de mon cou, de mes épaules, me tirant vers elle avec une force que je n’avais pas anticipée.
Et puis… ses lèvres se pressèrent contre les miennes. D’un coup sec, volontaire, insistant.
Je perdis tous mes moyens.
Combien de fois avais-je touché ses reins ? Trop de fois. Chaque contact m’avait brûlé la peau, m’avait fait perdre le fil de tout sens rationnel. Et là, sous la lumière jaune du lampadaire, je sentis encore le tissu de sa jupe contre mes mains, contre mes doigts, frôlant sa peau, et je perdis pied.
Elle… elle n’attendait pas que je fasse le premier geste. Elle s’imposait, et je me retrouvai prisonnier, incapable de lutter. Ses lèvres bougeaient contre les miennes, chaudes, insistantes, et mon cerveau s’embrouillait. Mon souffle se mêlait au sien, chaque battement de cœur était une décharge.
Je me reculai légèrement, juste pour respirer, mais elle ne lâcha pas prise. Ses mains se resserrèrent un peu, ses yeux plongés dans les miens. Elle voulait que je cède. Et putain… je cédai.
Mes mains glissèrent instinctivement sur ses hanches, retrouvant l’emplacement de chaque contact précédent, chaque frisson déjà inscrit dans ma mémoire. Ses reins, son dos, ses jambes… chaque point de contact était un rappel électrique que je ne pouvais ignorer. Et pourtant, quelque part au fond de moi, la panique persistait. La culpabilité. Le « je ne devrais pas… » Mais toutes ces pensées furent balayées par la chaleur de son corps, la force de sa volonté, le désir brut qui brûlait dans nos deux regards.
Et là, sous le ciel nocturne, devant sa maison, entourés par le silence de la rue, nous étions juste deux aimants irrépressibles, incapables de nous détacher. Chaque baiser, chaque effleurement, chaque geste était chargé de toutes ces semaines de tension accumulée, de toutes ces notes de musique partagées, de tous ces frissons jamais avoués.
Je ne comptais plus les fois où j’avais touché ses reins. Je savais juste que ce nombre, trop grand pour être réel, brûlait encore sur mes doigts, et qu’il ne cesserait pas de me hanter, pas ce soir, pas jamais.
Ses lèvres s’étaient pressées contre les miennes avec une détermination presque insolente. D’abord un choc, une surprise, un frisson instantané qui parcourut tout mon corps. Mais très vite, chaque seconde devint une éternité. Je sentais la chaleur de sa bouche, douce mais ferme, légèrement sucrée, et mon esprit se perdit dans cette sensation.
Je glissai lentement mes mains sur ses hanches, retrouvant instinctivement le contact que j’avais cherché des semaines. Ses doigts s’accrochèrent à mes épaules, puis à ma nuque, comme pour m’ancrer, pour me dire qu’elle était là, entière et présente. Chaque mouvement était calculé, instinctif, et pourtant totalement incontrôlable.
La douceur de ses lèvres contrastait avec la tension qui me parcourait. Chaque pression, chaque mouvement, chaque petit glissement me faisait perdre la notion du temps et de l’espace. Je sentais son souffle se mêler au mien, chaud, rapide, presque irrégulier, et ça me brûlait l’intérieur. Je pouvais sentir son cœur battre à tout rompre, comme si nos corps communiquaient sans paroles.
Mes doigts glissèrent un peu plus bas sur ses reins, la caressant juste assez pour éveiller la tension sans franchir une limite visible. Elle se cambra légèrement contre moi, un léger gémissement étouffé s’échappant de sa gorge, et ce son fit vibrer chaque fibre de mon être. Chaque effleurement, chaque frôlement de sa peau contre la mienne était une décharge électrique que je ne pouvais ignorer.
Je sentais son corps se presser contre le mien, nos torses collés, nos jambes frôlant celles de l’autre. La douceur de sa jupe contre mes doigts, le tissu froissé sous la chaleur de nos corps, le parfum subtil de sa peau et de ses cheveux… tout cela m’envoûtait, me capturait, me laissait à la fois en extase et terriblement conscient de la panique qui grondait en moi.
Ses mains explorèrent mon dos, descendirent légèrement sur mes épaules, et je sentis cette tension silencieuse qui oscillait entre le contrôle et l’abandon. Chaque seconde s’étirait, chaque mouvement était un dialogue muet : nous nous apprenions l’un à l’autre sans un mot, chaque frisson, chaque soupir, chaque pression parlant plus que n’importe quelle phrase.
Je me penchai légèrement, approfondissant le baiser, mes lèvres glissant sur les siennes avec plus de fermeté, plus de possession, mais toujours mesuré. Je pouvais sentir la délicatesse dans chaque mouvement, la façon dont elle répondait à mes gestes, parfois avec hésitation, parfois avec audace. Et cette audace me faisait perdre pied.
Le monde autour de nous s’effaçait : plus de lampadaires, plus de rue, plus de passants. Il n’y avait que ce baiser, nos corps proches, nos souffles mêlés, cette chaleur qui brûlait entre nous et cette tension qui ne demandait qu’à exploser. Chaque contact de ses lèvres contre les miennes, chaque effleurement de ses doigts, chaque pression contre mes mains sur ses hanches… c’était un mélange de douceur et d’ardeur qui me consumait.
Et pourtant, malgré la chaleur, malgré la fièvre qui me parcourait, il y avait cette conscience aiguë de ne pas franchir certaines limites, de garder un équilibre délicat entre désir et respect. Chaque seconde passée contre elle me rendait fou, chaque frisson qu’elle laissait échapper me capturait un peu plus, et je savais que ce baiser resterait gravé en moi, indélébile, longtemps après que nous nous soyons détachés.
I'm thinking about… a Boxer AU with Max Verstappen… I think it would be a departure from his personality… Here's the synopsis, is anyone interested?
Resume: Monaco shines by day under the sun and by night with its vibrant energy. Between grand ballets where perfection borders on the divine, and the modern-day coliseums of boxing where bodies collide under the spotlights, the principality lives to the rhythm of excellence. At night, the streets still resonate with the echoes of music, engines, and elegant crowds. It is in this constant brilliance that some lose themselves, and that others desperately seek meaning beyond the applause.
Max always followed his father's orders. His desire for victory while on top of the world was as hollow as his real ambition. Yn no longer seeks to please. The pinnacle of dance, only yesterday the obsessive desire for glory swallowed everything up, cushioning his fall. Destruction is the best medicine against loneliness.
Resume : Yn is a young chemistry student at university. Although she's almost certain to pass her year, one thing matters more than anything: the Best Student-Athlete trophy. A passionate basketball player, she's ready to do anything to win it. But what happens when an Australian seems to excel at ice hockey? Do Australians really know how to play hockey? Her friend then gives her some rather dubious advice: "Lower your grades!" Oops… she's going to sleep with him.
a/n : I'm not a student in the American system, so I have no idea about the sports calendar. Anyway, I hope this makes sense… English isn't my first language, so please excuse me in advance. There will be warnings depending on the section… Well, first long chapter, I don't really know if you'll appreciate it… anyway, enjoy!.
Word : 8k
Triger : alcohol consumption, mild sexual tension
The music managed to evaporate all the way into the street, muffled yet insistent, like a heart beating too loudly behind walls that were too thick. You weren’t even sure of the exact location. A frat house, maybe. Or just some rundown place sacrificed for a night, promised to chaos, crushed cans, and rough mornings. One thing was certain, though: it would be trashed before the night was over.
By a bunch of young adults too drunk, too loud, and vaguely hopeful that the start of this year would offer them something more than a headache and hazy regrets.
You didn't want to be there. After the shitty afternoon you’d just had — the meeting with the dean, the heavy stares, the numbers, the performance comparisons — the idea of a party held no sense of liberation. It was an obligation. A bright, noisy prison where you were supposed to relax.
Barely past the door, a wave of heat, alcohol, and smoke hit you in the face. The house vibrated with bass. In the small space near the entrance, two bodies were already sprawled on a couch, unconscious or simply defeated. Further on, through a half-open door, thick smoke floated above a cluster of people trying to push their way towards… whatever. The makeshift bar, the dance floor, their friends, or just some punch. You grabbed a glass without really knowing what was in it. Red. Sweet. Strong.
Perfect.
Glass in hand, you started looking for your friends. Your gaze swept the room like a turret, analyzing faces, ignoring hands that got too close, dodging loaded smiles. And then you saw her.
Alexandra.
Pinned in a corner, leaning against a wall, already surrounded by a good dozen admirers. Alexandra Saint-Mleux. If someone had told you a few years ago that you’d become close, you would have laughed. You, a chemistry student from the east wing of campus. Her, an art student, settled in the south buildings with the other loud creatives.Elegant, charming, always too at ease to be honest. She’d offered to help the basketball club almost as a joke at first. A joke that had lasted four years. Four years holding a position nobody thought she’d keep for more than two weeks.
You pushed your way towards her in long strides, holding your glass high to avoid spilling it. A few drops still ran down your fingers, sticky, but you didn’t care.
"Fuck." you let out as you reached her.
She looked up at you, surprised, then immediately smiled. Alexandra knew. She knew it was today. The meeting with the dean. The ranking. The talk about that damn trophy.
"Bad day?" she asked, already half laughing.
You took a long swig before answering. You needed to silence the noise in your head.
"The race is going to be hell this year," you grumbled, casting a dark look at the crowd.
Alex raised an eyebrow, intrigued. That prize… She’d heard you talk about it before. Every year. As if, without your name on that damn board, your entire life lost value.
"Oh yeah? Because of who?"
You slowly turned your head, letting your gaze travel across the room. And you saw him. Tall. Calm. Almost still amidst the chaos. A glass in his hand. Probably the only sober person within fifty meters. Oscar.
Oscar Piastri.
That damn Australian nobody expected here, least of all at the top of the sports rankings. Ice hockey. Seriously. And yet, he shone. He dominated. As if he’d been granted some incomprehensible grace in a sport that should never have been his.
You vaguely pointed your chin in his direction.
"Him."
Alex followed your gaze, observed him for a second… then smiled. A dangerous smile.
"Wait… the hockey guy?"
"The Australian, yeah."
"The one who looks like he’s incapable of having fun?"
"Exactly."
Alex burst out laughing.
"Then ruin his year."
The phrase came from behind. A friendly tap on your back. Lily.
Your dorm roommate. Your role model too. She’d won the trophy two years earlier thanks to her golf championship victory. And above all, she always had the craziest ideas. You almost choked on your drink.
"What?"
"Distract him. Seduce him. Make him lose his head" she said calmly, as if talking about a homework assignment.
"You're crazy."
"Do you want that trophy or not?"
You looked at Oscar again. He was smiling slightly at something someone had just said. A discreet smile. Controlled. Not the smile of someone easily carried away. A shiver ran through you. Not of fear. Of challenge.
"…This is a very bad idea," you whispered.
"The best ones always are," Alex replied, raising her glass.
You drank. Deeply.
And without really knowing exactly when you’d made the decision, you started moving. The race had just begun. It took you another two, maybe three drinks, and a good hour of mental preparation. Not to drink. To dare. Had you ever even spoken to him?
Absolutely not.
You could still see him from afar, just as calm, just as removed from the chaos. That irritating way he had of existing effortlessly, as if he had nothing to prove to anyone. You hated it. And at the same time… it drew you in. And then you saw the table.
Beer pong.
Of course.
You grabbed Alexandra by the wrist before she could protest and pulled her forward. In the same motion, you slapped a small wad of bills on the table, with a smile that promised no good. Around you, heads turned almost immediately.Your skills were already proven. The previous years had done the work for you: finals won, humiliating challenges, bets collected. Your name always came up when it came to boozy competition.
"Seriously?" Alexandra sighed, rolling her eyes. You shrugged, an arrogant smile on your lips.
"I'm making it up to you, I promise."
Your gaze then slid to one of the hockey team members. Charles. One of the few you vaguely knew, along with Lando. French? Swiss? Honestly, it didn't matter. He was already pretty tipsy, a glass in hand and a stupid smile plastered on his face.
"Hey, Charles!" you called out. He turned to you, intrigued.
"If you win… a date with any of my girls." His smile immediately widened.
"Holy shit, that's a serious offer you're making."
"Then find yourself a partner."
Charles wasn't stupid. He glanced around. Lando was far too busy exploring the tonsils of a girl whose name he’d already forgotten. No, Charles wanted to win. His gaze landed on the most sober person in the room.
Oscar. Before you could say anything, Charles grabbed him by the collar and pulled him to the table.
Bingo. You smiled, victorious, and held out your hand.
"Yn. Pleasure."
He looked at your hand for half a second before shaking it. "Oscar."
His voice was calm. Too calm. As if he was already tired of being there.
"Shall we play?" Charles said, already overexcited.
The game began. And against all odds, Oscar turned out to be a fierce opponent. Precise. Calculating. Focused. You, on the other hand, felt your precision evaporate with each drink. You teased him, got a little too close, brushed his arm "by accident," threw out fake-innocent jabs.
"Seriously, do you train for beer pong too?"
"No," he replied simply, without looking at you. "I aim."
Annoyed. You were seriously annoyed. Every time you thought you’d unsettled him, he stayed upright, unflappable. Not an extra glance. Not a nervous smile. Nothing. And worse still: he was winning.
When the last ball landed in your last cup, a victory cry erupted around the table. Charles raised his arms, euphoric.
You giggled, a little drunk, a little vexed, when Oscar slowly raised an eyebrow and turned to you.
"So…" he said. "What's my prize?"
You blinked, surprised he’d actually claim it. You put your smile back on, the one you’d mastered perfectly.
"Dinner with one of my girls?"
Laughter erupted around you.
But Oscar shook his head.
"No."
Silence.
"I'd rather have won nothing."
This time, you were the one frozen in place. The taunts redoubled, Charles burst out laughing, Alexandra shot you a fake sympathetic look. You felt heat rise to your cheeks. Surprise. And something else. A sting of pride.
"Seriously?"
"Seriously," he repeated.
He finally looked at you properly. Not as a girl to seduce. Not as a trophy. Just… as an opponent. And for the first time that evening, you understood. He wasn’t immune to your charm. He simply refused to give in to it. And that…
That changed everything.
You picked up your glass again, took a sip, then smiled once more. "Very well, Piastri."
"Very well, Yn." The game had just gotten much more interesting.
The air in the lab smelled of disinfectant and cold metal. A clinical, almost reassuring smell. On the workbenches, the components were arranged with almost manic precision: labeled tubes, aligned pipettes, notebooks open to the right page. Everything was in its place. Everything, except your thoughts. Your gaze slid over the formulas projected on the board without really seeing them. Your mind kept returning to the night before. To that table. To that calm look. To that refusal. You sighed. Deeply.
"If you sigh one more time, I'm switching partners."
You straightened up with a start, as if caught red-handed. Your lab partner stared at you over her safety glasses, arms crossed.
"Sorry," you murmured. "It's just… I'm a bit preoccupied."
You’d been paired up for the whole semester. You weren't friends, but not enemies either. A neutral, functional understanding. She was efficient, discreet, and clearly impatient with people who lived too much in their heads.
"Because of the matches?" she asked, adjusting a test tube.
"Partly." She nodded.
"Last year, you guys had a good national season though."
You shrugged, fiddling with your pen. "Yeah. But this year…" She gave you a sidelong glance.
"It's because of Oscar, isn't it?"
"How do you know that?" you said, a bit too loud.
Several heads turned towards you. You immediately shrunk back, mumbling a vague "sorry." Your partner gave an amused half-smile.
"Because he turned you down. Apparently, it was just… really funny," she said with a smirk.
"He did not turn me down," you retorted immediately.
"Mh." She didn't believe you for a second.
"Anyway, I'm not even interested in him," you added too quickly.
"Well… whatever."
"Do you even know him?" she asked. "I mean… outside of matches."
You opened your mouth, then closed it.
"I dunno. Where could I—"
"Hey, Yn," she cut you off, raising a hand. "I'm a lesbian. Do you really think I hang out with those guys?"You blinked, surprised, then let out a nervous laugh.
"Fuck, sorry. I just want… I want him to have no chance against me."
She stared at you for a long time.
"That's petty."
"I know."
Silence fell for a few seconds, only broken by the sound of instruments and the muffled voices of other students.
Then she spoke again, more softly:
"The pre-season party."
You looked up.
"What?"
"The pre-season party," she repeated. "There'll be a crowd. The whole team. Even the coaches will be there."
Your brain immediately kicked into gear. The puzzle pieces fit together almost too well. Pre-season. Full team. Relaxed atmosphere, far from official matches. A context where nobody's really watching anyone else. Your heart raced.
"You think he'll be there?" you asked, feigning detachment.
She gave you a knowing look.
"If he's breathing, yes."
You looked down at your notebook, but a slow smile was already spreading across your lips. That was it. Not a direct challenge. Not aggressive seduction. The context. You were going to play it finer. Smarter. Where he'd feel safe. Where he'd let his guard down.
"Thanks," you murmured.
"For what?"
"For the idea."
She snorted.
"Just try not to set the lab on fire first."
You dove back into your lab work, your movements more precise, your mind finally clear. For the first time since the night before, you felt like you were back in control. The pre-season party. This time, you wouldn't leave anything to chance.
The pre-season party was exactly what you’d imagined. Too big. Too loud. Too bright. And most importantly… he wasn’t there. You scanned the room as soon as you arrived, instinctively searching for a figure too calm to be honest. Nothing. No Oscar. Not even a shadow of his presence. Just bodies in motion, laughter too loud, glasses raised too high. So you did what you knew how to do best when things didn’t go as planned.
You drank.
You’d come with the entire women’s basketball club. All of them. As a pack. A veritable mob. The new starters were radiant, proud to have been integrated into the group. You formed an impressive unit: black jackets, the hyena embroidered on the back, the club logo clearly visible. Hit girls, clearly. Impossible to ignore. Under the music, laughter erupted. For a few hours, you forgot the training, the aching muscles, and the recovery session waiting for you the next morning.
Alexandra moved closer to you, an eyebrow raised.
"You sure about this?"
You raised your glass, already half empty. "No! But let's celebrate the start of the season!"
You shouted the phrase to the rest of the team, triggering a wave of enthusiastic screams. The girls raised their glasses, some even jumped up and down. The moment was perfect. Almost. A guy approached you a bit later. Too close. He was talking loudly in your ear, alcohol on his breath. You rolled your eyes. That loser hadn't even bothered to come to the party. You kept drinking.
Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Charles and Alexandra dancing together. They were laughing, completely absorbed in each other. You weren't going to ruin your friend's night. So you kept going. The drinks kept coming. So did the laughter.
And then, well…
The guy next to you wasn’t so bad, after all.
The music vibrated in your chest. The bass made the floor tremble. The faint smell of weed floated in the air, mingling with alcohol and sweat. He was nice. Too pushy maybe, but nice. Except if he gave you another drink, you’d really end up on the floor. Heart Beat pulsed from the speakers. You tried to gently push him away by putting a hand on his chest.
"Let me go… I need some air."
He kept following you, telling you you didn't look well. And for once, he wasn't wrong. Everything was spinning around you. The room seemed to contract, as if the walls were closing in. You headed for the exit, almost stumbling. The fresh air hit your face… well, almost. A face appeared in front of you.
Clear. Sharp. Much too real for your state.
"Fuck… you're a handsome one."
Blackout.
You woke up with the very clear feeling that something was wrong.
Not the "I drank too much" kind. No.
More the kind of dull premonition, lodged somewhere between your stomach and your dignity. Your eyelids were heavy, your mouth dry, and your skull felt like it had been used as a drum all night. You groaned, turned on your side… and stopped short. This wasn't your bed. Well, it was, but not just your bed.
An oversized sweater slid off your bare shoulder. You frowned, still half asleep. It smelled… nice. Not your perfume. Something more neutral. Clean. Masculine. You sat up abruptly.
"Fuck…"
Your phone vibrated on the nightstand. A notification. Then two. Then five.
Instagram.
Your heart skipped a beat. You opened the app, still groggy, and immediately landed on the university's official account. Stories live. Way too many stories.
Video 1: you, completely wasted, screaming the lyrics to a song you clearly didn't know. Funny. Honestly? Very funny. You grimaced but almost breathed a sigh of relief.
Video 2: you again, surrounded by the basketball team, in jackets, the hyena clearly visible on the back. You were chanting something incomprehensible. Iconic. Good team spirit.
Video 3…
You froze.
A darker corner. Away from the crowd. Dim lighting.
And you.
And Oscar.
Your stomach clenched.
He was leaning against a wall, clearly sober — obviously — and you… you were laughing way too close to him. Way too touchy. The video had no sound, but you didn't need it.
You watched yourself take off your t-shirt, looking perfectly focused on the task, as if it were the most logical thing in the world. You ended up in your bra, still laughing, while Oscar…
Blushed.
Really.
He looked away, ran a hand through his hair, clearly uncomfortable, while someone off-camera filmed, shaking with laughter.
"No… no no no…"
You scrolled. And there, the detail that made you want to throw yourself out the window. The sweater. It wasn't yours.
You looked down at the one you were still wearing. Same color. Same cut. And reality hit you full force.
"Fuck… that's HIS sweater."
You fell back, arms spread, staring at the ceiling. Your brain was desperately trying to piece things together.
Oscar.
You.
A dark corner. One less t-shirt. One more sweater. No clear memory. Just vague flashes. His silhouette. His voice. And that strange feeling — not shame, not really — but a burning awkwardness, mixed with something else. Something twisting your stomach.
Your phone vibrated again.
A message.
Oscar:
Hey. I think you took my sweater last night.
You closed your eyes.
Very tightly.
The race had clearly changed territory.
In the locker room, the laughter was even louder than in the hall. Lockers slammed, bags littered the floor, and the familiar smell of deodorant and clean sweat hung in the air. You pulled on your jersey, trying very hard not to think about a certain sweater.
"So…" a voice said behind you, far too innocent, "you slept with him?" You whipped around.
"What?! NO! Never! I was just… wasted."
"We saw that," Alexandra giggled, sitting on a bench, phone in hand.
You grabbed your jersey rolled into a ball and threw it at her head.
"Fuck off. Go make out with your stupid Frenchman."
"He's Monegasque," she corrected immediately without looking up. "But you'd be too stupid to place it on a map."
"Very funny." You slumped onto the bench next to her, head in your hands.
"I was wasted," you repeated, more softly. "And fuck… I threw up on myself. He told me to take off my t-shirt and I did. Just like that. Without thinking." Alexandra burst out laughing.
"Classic Yn."
"Anyway," you cut in, lifting your head. "I just need to give his sweater back."
You paused. A slow, almost triumphant smile stretched your lips. "But good news… I have his number."
The laughter in the locker room redoubled. Someone clapped. Another whistled.
"Oh no," Alexandra said. "Don't tell me you're actually going to—"
"Yes," you replied, standing up. "I'm going to give his sweater back. Politely. Calmly. Like a responsible adult."
"You're a terrible liar."
"I know."
You grabbed your bag, phone already in hand, your heart beating a little too fast for someone claiming to feel nothing. Returning a sweater.
That's all.
Well… in theory.
morning run around campus. The air was still fresh, the kind of morning where everything seemed suspended.
As captain, you had that rare little privilege: being one of the keepers of the keys. You opened the emergency door, dragging your tired body inside. The bleachers were empty this time. Not a sound.
You sighed with relief before sitting on a bench to change your shoes.
Warm-up over, you refused to be sadistic with your own body. No way you were enduring one of those ball-less training atrocities.
You opened the storage room where the photos of past teams were displayed, all generations together, the balls neatly stacked below.
And there… you exhaled slowly.
Her face.
You never went into this hall. Never. You avoided that photo like the plague. Frozen in time, ironically. Your first year. Her last.
She held you by the shoulders, a big proud smile, as if nothing could ever separate you. You grabbed a ball and slammed it against the floor.
"Stupid…" you muttered. "Stupid to remember the dead."
Sweat quickly beaded on your forehead. The shots came one after another, mechanical. The ball left your fingers, soared over the hoop… sometimes rolled around the rim, sometimes fell with that sweet, almost pleasurable swish sound. But you weren't in the zone.
Three baskets in a row. Then nothing. The pressure mounted. So did the anger, dull, stuck in your veins. You finally admitted it: you needed a break. That's when footsteps creaked on the parquet floor.
You looked up.
"You're up early…" You sighed softly, then straightened up.
"Hey. Oscar. Welcome to my temple."
You gave him a charming smile, almost automatic. He didn't seem to really react, too busy looking around.
"Your sweater…" he finally said. "Still sorry. That was awkward. You must have really… anyway. Sorry."
"I wasn't," he replied immediately. "I was worried."
You blinked, slightly surprised. He said it with disarming simplicity.
"Oh… I see."
A silence.
"What were you doing?" he asked.
"Just shooting. I have class at ten, so I'm taking advantage."
"Ah. For us, the rink doesn't open until eight."
"That sucks," you sighed. "But you hockey guys are lucky to have your own weight room."
You crossed your arms. He laughed frankly. "What? What's so funny?"
"You guys really believed that? Apparently, everyone has access. It's just tradition. We're not allowed to reveal it."
"WHAT?!"
"You just have to ask admin. There are time slots. Where were you guys?"
"With the footballers and volleyball players."
He burst out laughing. "You poor thing." He hesitated. "If you want… I can take you there. I mean, if—"
"Yes."
You were already gathering your things. "Can you put the balls in the cart?"
He obliged, chuckling, and you caught yourself speaking aloud. "I've never heard you laugh so much."
"Oh really? Enjoy it then, it's a rare commodity."He pushed the cart with you into the storage room.
"Wow… Your team photos are literally in a closet," he teased.
You rolled your eyes. He inspected the pictures.
"That's you?! Damn, I barely recognize you. You were so thin."
You walked over to the photo, smiling. "Yeah… I've bulked up."
"I barely recognize you. And next to you…" He leaned in a little more.
"Damn… is that your portrait? Your sister or something?"
His accent came back whenever he swore. You froze. "Yeah. That's my sister."
"Damn… she looks familiar. I've seen her before, haven't I…?"
"I don't think so."
You gently closed the closet. "Shall we go?"
He nodded without pressing. You left the gym together, chatting about nothing, the atmosphere surprisingly light. It was only once the door closed behind you that you realized…
His sweater was still sitting on the bench.
The weeks passed at a crazy speed. As a good captain, you had taken the lead in requesting access to the university weight room, and you were proud to be able to manage it under the eye of that stupid hockey captain, thus breaking years of neglect in less-than-pleasant locker rooms. The two star clubs of the university had to share the best-equipped room: mornings for the basketball girls, afternoons for the ice hockey guys.
On Friday mornings, almost no girl was available, so an exception was made for the two of you to go together. Everyone was preparing for the decisive season, muscles still sore from previous workouts, minds focused on the goals ahead. And that stupid sweater… it still hadn't found its owner.
At first, it was just an accident. You’d cross paths during your morning run, a quick nod, nothing more. But this time, you were determined to accentuate everything. Every encounter had to become a little trap, every exchange an opportunity to bring your worlds closer.
You didn't mention "borrowing" a wrist strap so you could use the excuse of lending him yours. You even offered to put it on his wrist for him, an innocuous gesture that nonetheless sent an unexpected shiver.
Little by little, you realized you didn't find him unbearable anymore. His seriousness was intact, but his teasing side was starting to unsettle you more than you'd have thought. That smile… that stupid smile. The prize for best athlete seemed to slip away every time it appeared, eclipsed by his quiet laugh, the gleam of his slightly crooked teeth, that fake-naive innocence that seemed to follow him everywhere.
And you… you were falling into this strange fascination. You watched him as he adjusted his hands on the pull-up bar, or that Friday when you'd taught him to shoot perfectly. Every move seemed calculated, yet natural, almost hypnotic. He'd pass you the ball, and you'd feel your heart clench when your fingers brushed.
You were aware you were playing a dangerous game. But how could you resist this mix of confidence and awkwardness? That serious side he only showed to a select few. That teasing side that, without you realizing it, had already gotten to you.
And there, standing in front of him, you caught yourself smiling for no reason, looking for him between each shot repetition. The bunny teeth. The corner of his mouth slightly higher than the other. That little detail you couldn't ignore. You wondered, for the first time in a long time, if what you were feeling was strategic… or real. One thing was sure: the sweater had become more than just a piece of fabric. It was a pretext, a bridge, a beginning. And you, you had just taken the first step onto terrain whose existence you’d never imagined.
The basketball game was anything but elegant.
The hall was full, saturated with shouts, improvised drums, voices blending into a dull, continuous noise. The bleachers vibrated under the feet of standing students, club colors painted on cheeks, poorly hung banners threatening to fall with each collective roar. You already felt the pressure before the tip-off. Not that electric excitement you usually loved, but something heavier, more suffocating. Your shoulders were stiff. Your hands were sweaty. Your breath a little too short.
This wasn't your game. You knew it from the first minutes.
Your footing lacked precision. Your shots left the rim after grazing it, as if to mock you. Two missed layups. An intercepted pass. You gritted your teeth, frowned, clapped your hands to motivate the team — the perfect captain on the surface, but inside, you were fuming.
"Calm down," you told yourself.
But your body wouldn't listen.
Opposite, the other team played dirty. Constant pressure, borderline contact, provocations muttered just loud enough to be heard. A player gave you a mocking smile after shoving you. You shot her a dark look, but your next shot bounced off the rim.
Missed.
The timeout came like a gasp of air… too short.
Alexandra put a firm hand on your forearm.
"Breathe. We're still ahead. Even if you're not."
It hurt. Because she was right. You lifted your head as you returned to the court, and your gaze instinctively slid towards the bleachers. You didn't know why you were looking for that. Or him. And then you saw him.
Oscar was there. Standing, arms crossed, expression concentrated. Not shouting. Not laughing. Just… attentive. His eyes followed your movements, your runs, your hesitations. And weirdly, it unsettled you even more than the opposing defense. The third quarter was brutal.
Shoulder checks. Falls. Late whistles.
You took a hit to your side, stayed on the floor a second too long. The silence in the hall was almost violent before the shouts erupted again. You got up, clenching your teeth, signaled you were okay. Proud. Too proud to come out. But your play remained messy. You forced it. You wanted to compensate. You wanted to prove.
And then, in the chaos, something changed.
It wasn't a spectacular shot. Nor a heroic play. It was a pass. Simple. Lucid. You finally let go of the ego. You involved the others. Alexandra scored. Then again. A rookie sank a three-pointer under the crowd's roars. You grabbed a crucial defensive rebound. You drew a smart foul.
You weren't brilliant.
But you were useful.
The last few minutes were breathless. Close score. Legs on fire. Lungs burning. With thirty seconds left, you had the ball. The shouts faded. The world shrank to the court, the ball, the rhythm of your heart. You faked, passed, cut, recovered… and let Alexandra take the shot.
Swish.
The buzzer sounded.
You had won. Not a dazzling victory. Not a masterpiece.
But a victory nonetheless. Your legs were trembling as you left the court. Sweat ran down the back of your neck. You were breathing hard, almost too hard. The girls were screaming, laughing, hugging. You smiled, finally. A tired, sincere smile.
And when you looked up towards the bleachers, Oscar was still there.
He wasn't applauding like the others.
He was just looking at you… with that funny look.
As if he’d seen something the stats would never show.
And for the first time in a long time, you wondered if winning the best athlete trophy really mattered that much…
or if the real fight had just begun.
The diner was almost empty at that hour, as if frozen out of time.
One of those places that survive on insomniac students, athletes who eat too late, and people who don't really want to be alone but don't really want company either. The neon lights hummed softly above the vinyl booths, their too-white light giving faces a slightly tired, slightly honest look. The persistent smell of burnt coffee mixed with that of overly greasy fries, and somewhere behind the counter, a machine beeped with nobody caring.
You were slumped in the booth, legs tucked under you, in training gear. The fabric clung slightly to your skin, maybe because it was still damp from the shower and the subsiding adrenaline. Your hair was tied up haphazardly, a few strands already escaping, and your face bore the obvious traces of fatigue — not the kind that comes late at night, but the kind that accumulates when you give too much without really recovering.
In front of you, a barely touched plate was cooling. You’d stabbed two fries. Maybe three. No more. Oscar sat across from you. More relaxed than in the bleachers. Without the hockey captain's rigidity, without that almost intimidating calm he usually displayed. Just a guy with a cup of coffee between his hands, shoulders slightly slumped, looking a bit distant. In front of him, a half-eaten fish and chips. You didn't even know they served that here.
"You're not eating," he remarked softly.
You shrugged, gaze fixed on your plate as if it had personally offended you.
"I'm not hungry."
That wasn't entirely true. Your body needed to eat. But your stomach was knotted, stuck somewhere between the pressure of the game and the overflow of emotions you hadn't yet digested.
Silence settled.
Not heavy. Not awkward. Just present enough to let thoughts drift where they wanted.
"I sucked," you finally blurted out.
The words came out unfiltered, like a confession held back for too long. Oscar looked up at you, surprised.
"Sucked?"
"I missed easy shots. I forced plays. I was tense the whole game. A captain is supposed to set an example, not…" You made a vague hand gesture, unable to find a precise enough word.
"…that."
Your voice cracked slightly at the end. It annoyed you almost as much as everything else. You hated that moment when your control slipped through your fingers. You didn't like complaining. Even less in front of him. Oscar set his cup down calmly, as if to show you he was there, really there.
"You won."
"Yeah, but not because of me."
He tilted his head slightly, studying you carefully, as if analyzing a complicated play.
"Wrong." You frowned.
"You were moving the ball. You were talking the whole time. When one of your players panicked, you were already there." He paused.
"That's being a captain."
You stayed silent. No one had ever phrased it like that to you. Not even you. You’d always associated your role with performance, with numbers, with almost military exemplary conduct. Not with… that.
"And besides," he added with a slight smile, "you know what?"
"What?"
"You were cool to watch play. Even when it wasn't working."
The phrase hit you harder than expected. You felt heat rise to your cheeks, traitorous. You looked away towards the diner window, beyond which the night seemed still, as if the whole world had hit pause.
"You don't have to be perfect, Yn."
He’d said your name as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Without insistence. Without ulterior motive. And yet, it hit you right in the heart. You ended up eating anyway. A little. Slowly.
The conversation drifted to simple things. Training too early in the morning. Annoying coaches who talk too much. Playlists to get motivated — he gently mocked your taste, you mercilessly attacked Australian cinema. Laughter came easily, without tension. Your phone kept vibrating in your pocket. Messages, mentions, videos, invitations to the after-party. You ignored them with almost professional efficiency. You hadn't gone. You didn't have the energy. And that's when you’d seen Oscar, at the gym exit. He’d understood right away that something was wrong.
"Come on," he’d said simply.
You hadn't thought. Not for a second. The trip back to campus happened in a gentle silence. You’d dozed off a bit in the passenger seat, head leaning against the window. You could hear his whispering voice when he spoke to you, as if afraid of waking you completely.
When you got out of the car, the fresh air hit your face. You shivered, more from fatigue than cold.
"Do you want… to come watch a movie?" he proposed after a moment.
"A movie?" you repeated, still a bit foggy.
"Yeah. Nothing crazy. Just… to prove to you that Australian cinema is the best."you snorted.
"You guys know how to make movies on your island?"
He burst out laughing, a real, frank laugh that echoed in the almost empty parking lot.
"Come on, you'll see." You followed him.
His room was surprisingly simple. Clean. Too clean for a student athlete's room, almost. The bed was made. Books stacked near the desk. A few family photos hung crookedly, clearly put up without much thought. The smell of fresh laundry hung in the air.
"Make yourself comfortable." he said, grabbing a blanket.
You sat on the bed, sinking into your sweater, exhausted but strangely soothed.
And for the first time in weeks, you felt… safe.
They were sitting on his bed, side by side, not really touching but close enough that the other's presence was impossible to ignore. The roommate's spot was empty — his desk tidy, his chair pushed under the table, his bed impeccably made.
"He's in chemistry too," Oscar said, vaguely pointing to the other side of the room. "Funny, right?"
You nodded distractedly. Very funny, yes. Especially since you were already hardly listening.
Oscar had taken the remote, leaning slightly towards the screen, trying to explain his movie choice with an almost endearing seriousness.
"Actually, it's not exactly a comedy, but it's not really a drama either. It's more… a matter of rhythm, you know? And the landscapes are incredible, it helps to…"
You were following the movement of his lips more than his words. His voice, low and calm, reached you like pleasant background noise, a continuous murmur. Your gaze, however, had gotten stuck on his shoulders.
Since when were they that broad? That muscular? The t-shirt he wore pulled slightly on the fabric, outlining the sharp line of his arms when he gestured to illustrate his point.
You swallowed.
He moved a little, came closer without thinking, and you felt the warmth of his body against yours. A simple sensation, almost banal — and yet your heart immediately sped up.
"…and so, the beginning is a bit slow, but then you understand why," he continued.
You nodded mechanically, not really knowing what you were agreeing to. Your brain refused to cooperate. All you registered was the proximity, the light scent of laundry detergent, the way his arm brushed against yours with every movement.
"Is that okay?" he suddenly asked.
"Huh?"
You blinked, caught in the act. He looked at you, an eyebrow slightly raised, an amused smile at the corner of his lips.
"The movie. Is it okay?"
"Oh. Yes. Yes, of course," you stammered a bit too quickly.
He chuckled softly, not mocking, and started the movie. The screen lit up, casting moving shadows on the walls. For a few seconds, you both watched in silence. Then, without warning, he leaned back further against the headboard. His shoulder brushed against yours. This time, you didn't move away.
Damn… had he always had shoulders that muscular? And since when had that detail seemed so important to you? The movie could wait. Your attention, however, was already elsewhere.
The film had been playing for a few minutes already.
Images of landscapes scrolled across the screen, accompanied by soft, almost contemplative music. Oscar was leaning back slightly, eyes fixed on the TV, face serious. Concentrated. Too concentrated.
You observed him out of the corner of your eye, discreetly. His jaw clenched at times. The furrow between his brows when a scene seemed to captivate him. He wasn't looking elsewhere. He wasn't looking at you.
And your mind raced.
Is he really that into this movie?
Is he not interested in me?
Did I imagine everything?
Is he just being polite?
Is he gay?
Questions flew, collided, tripped over each other. Ten thousand absurd scenarios in less than a minute. You suddenly felt ridiculous, too aware of your breathing, of the proximity of his body, of the warmth trapped under the blanket. And then you felt it. A different warmth. Slow. Soothing. You looked down almost against your will.
Oscar's hand was there. Resting on your hip, under your sweater. Not pressing. Not hesitant either. His fingers made small, regular, calm movements, as if trying to reassure you without interrupting the film. As if it were the most natural thing in the world. A giggle escaped you before you could hold it back. He immediately turned his head towards you, surprised. His eyes met yours, questioning, almost worried.
"You okay?" he murmured.
You didn't answer.
Instead, you leaned towards him and pressed your lips against his.
It was brief. Messy. Spontaneous.
He froze for a fraction of a second — just long enough for your heart to clench — then he responded. Really. With a contained eagerness, as if he’d been holding back for much longer than just this evening.
The film kept playing somewhere behind you, forgotten.
He leaned over you without brutality, his weight supported on one arm, his other hand still on your waist. The kiss became slower, deeper. Nothing rushed. Just… incredibly pleasant. His lips were warm, precise, and you felt a shiver run through you when he sighed against your mouth. Your hands instinctively went up into his hair. It was softer than you’d imagined. You clung to it slightly, as if to anchor yourself. Your brain was overloading.
Too many sensations.
The warmth.
The contact.
His breath.
When you started to run out of air, he gently left your lips, kissed your jaw, then your neck. Nothing hurried. Nothing stolen. Just a series of slow, controlled gestures that made you close your eyes despite yourself.
Your heart was beating too fast.
And for the first time in a long time, you weren't thinking about the trophy.
Or the ranking.
Or the race.
Only about him.
She giggled softly, still a bit dizzy, and looked up at him.
"I didn't know Australians could kiss like that," she murmured, feigning seriousness.
He barely had time to smile before his phone vibrated. The noise seemed far too loud in the sudden quiet of the room. Oscar groaned under his breath, clearly annoyed, then glanced at the screen. His expression changed instantly. He blushed. Really.
"Shit…" he breathed.
He sat up a bit too fast, moving away just enough to break the moment, and answered, clearing his throat.
"Hey, Mum…"
You looked away out of sheer decency, biting your lip to keep from laughing. He spoke softly, responding with "yes," "no," banal phrases, as if nothing had just happened. As if, two seconds ago, his lips hadn't been against yours.
When he finally hung up, a slightly awkward silence settled. Neither of you commented on it. You acted as if nothing had happened. And strangely… it worked. You got up to grab your jacket, ready to leave before fatigue truly caught up with you. That's when you saw it. Sitting on a shelf, a bit crooked. An old cap, faded, clearly worn by time.
"What's this?" you asked, picking it up. He froze for a second, then smiled, a different smile. Softer. More vulnerable.
"My lucky cap."
"Seriously?"
"When I was a kid, I wore it to all my games. And every time I had it… I won. The only day I forgot it, I lost."
You chuckled softly, amused, and placed it on your head without asking permission.
"So it's me now, your good luck charm?"
He burst out laughing, a real laugh, frank, that dissolved the last tensions of the evening. He came closer and adjusted the cap on your head carefully.
"It suits you…" he said simply.
"Thanks, everything suits me," you replied with a falsely pretentious air.He shook his head, chuckling.
"Your ego is terrifying."
Your laughter mingled once more, light, complicit. And without you really realizing it, something had just changed between you. Not a promise. Not a definition. Just a beginning.
The day of the State Final arrived with a particular gravity.
It wasn't just a game. It was the game. The one that decided everything: the next step, nationals, recognition, the pressure changing scale. You were there.
Against all odds, against the insane schedule, against the fatigue, you’d managed to convince a few friends to come. Even people who knew nothing about hockey. Because tonight, it wasn't just about sports.
You’d gotten ready together, in the dorm bathroom, the atmosphere far too nervous to be calm. The mirrors were fogged up, nervous laughter erupted. On your cheeks, two sharp lines: the team colors. You’d hesitated for a second — too visible? — then you’d thought screw it. It was a final. You lived it to the fullest. Alexandra was next to you, focused on her reflection, a bit too meticulous for someone pretending not to be stressed.
"So…" you said, putting your makeup away. "Your crush, is he on the ice tonight?" She almost jumped.
"What?"
"Your crush, Alex. The one who skates. You know exactly who I'm talking about."She blushed instantly, all the way to her ears.
"Charles Leclerc…" she mumbled.
You burst out laughing.
"Oh my god, she said his full name."
"Stop it!"
"You know he's Oscar's teammate, right?"
"Exactly!" she protested, hiding her face. "That's why it's weird!"
You teased her mercilessly, imitating her, exaggerating her shyness, until she threatened to throw an eyeliner at you. But you could see her smile. The one she couldn't hide.
In the bleachers, the atmosphere was electric. The ice rink shone under the spotlights. The sound of skates on ice gave you chills. You sat down, knees pressed together, hands clenched on them without even realizing it. In front of you, the players were warming up. You instinctively searched for one figure in particular.
You spotted him quickly.
Helmet under his arm. Shoulders tense. Concentrated. Oscar.
Your heart sped up.
Calm down, you told yourself. It's just a game.
Blatant lie.
The game was about to start. The lights seemed even brighter. The shouts rose a notch. You leaned towards Alexandra.
"I'm hungry…" you suddenly whispered.
"You want a snack?"
"Yeah, I'll go quickly."
You got up, went down the steps, already digging in your pocket. Then the other. Then your bag.
Nothing. You stopped short in the corridor, a bit away from the noise.
"Fuck…" you murmured.
You'd forgotten your wallet. Of course you'd forgotten it. Because tonight, nothing was simple. You stood there for a moment, hesitant, while behind you the crowd was already roaring, impatient.
You come out of the corridor, still a bit dazed by the noise and the crowd. The fresh air hits your face, but it's not the cold that makes you shiver. And there, in the almost deserted corridor, you see him. Oscar, still half-dressed, his jersey wrinkled on his chest, his hair damp with sweat, looking concentrated but surprised to see you.
"Hey…"
"Fuck, I'm happy to see you… I was about to text you."
You look at him, raising an eyebrow. He has that strange mix of seriousness and relaxation that makes you forget the shouts from the bleachers and the smell of popcorn in the air. His eyes shine slightly under the fluorescent lights of the corridor, and you feel your heart race before he even moves. Without warning, he puts his cap on your head. A simple gesture, almost innocent, and yet you feel your face instantly flush. The cap is soft under your fingers, carrying the faint, familiar smell of worn fabric, mixed with a subtle scent he always wears.
"I need my supporter to wear my good luck charm."
You blush, unable to suppress a little laugh. And instinctively, you take a step back, shrugging, as if to protest.
"You're an idiot… you think you're going to kiss me just like that?"
He smiles, a bit embarrassed, but still confident. His eyes sparkle with mischief, and you feel that shiver run down your back and stomach. He tilts his head slightly, as if to get closer, but you refuse to give him that victory.
"No, I only kiss winners." you declare, a carnivorous smile on your lips, your fingers gripping the cap against your head.
He frowns slightly, surprised, but he doesn't back away. His breath is warm against your face, and every fiber of your body twists the reality around you. You leave him just centimeters away, his lips so close, and yet, you refuse to yield. He tilts his head, a smile half-amused, half-defensive, and almost whispers:
"Get ready then…"
You feel your heart beating like a drum in your chest. You know it's not a threat, not a casual invitation. No. It's a challenge. And you, you're ready to play. To let him imagine, to keep him in suspense… without ever giving him what he really wants. The heat of his body is almost tangible. His hands, placed near you, haven't moved yet, but you feel them. The few centimeters separating you seem to become a world apart, a space where time slows and every breath countsYou draw back your breath slightly, sketching a mischievous smile, sure of your game. And even if your heart starts to race, even if every thought screams to give in… you stay there, firm. Because today, you decide: he'll have to win to taste your lips.
And that… you like that much more than you'd care to admit.
The final whistle blew.
You raised your arms, unable to contain your shout of joy. Victory was there, warm, electric, almost unreal. The fire of euphoria ran through your entire body. Around you, the team was screaming, jumping, hugging — it was the most perfect chaos you'd ever seen. You hugged your friend, and you applauded in unison as the athletes skated under the hollers and cheers of the crowd.
Oscar was still holding his helmet under his arm, his face damp with sweat and effort. His eyes met yours for an instant, and a familiar shiver ran down your back. Behind him, the crowd stirred, but for you, there was only him and this suspended moment. He’d been chosen Man of the Match. His name echoed from the loudspeakers, and you burst out laughing, almost hysterical. Too happy, you laughed until your stomach hurt, unable to hold back your enthusiasm. They handed him his trophy, which he raised proudly, while the whole team jumped on him.
Your foot tapped nervously against the plexiglass. You were excited, but also anxious at the thought of talking to him. You looked like a teenager caught between admiration and desire. Then courage seized you and you walked towards the narrow wooden door, knocking softly. You heard a few seconds of murmurs, then someone's voice approaching. The door opened to reveal a slim man who looked you over, surprised, before chuckling and turning back to the group of men in the locker room.
"Oscar? It's your girl," he called out.
Behind the door, the guys reacted like brutes in the middle of celebration. They slapped his chest, shook him, whistled his name. The commotion made you blush. Oscar groaned, half-annoyed, half-amused, and tried to make his way towards the exit, still out of breath and dripping with sweat. And there, you really saw him. He came out, chest gleaming with fatigue and sweat, muscles defined by the effort. He closed the door, pushing back a crude comment from who you guessed was Lando. For the first time, he no longer seemed the courageous man from the ice: he was blushing slightly.
"Hey… Yn, so, you liked the game?" he said, amused.
You couldn't help but snicker.
"Congratulations, champ!" you whisper, laughing, and without thinking, you pull him towards you.
He freezes for an instant, surprised, but doesn't pull back. Your lips find his in a quick but intense kiss. The heat of his body against yours, the smell of effort and sweat, the pressure of his hands on your hips… all of it makes you lose track of time.
You laugh again, drunk on the moment. He laughs too, a bit muffled, and you feel his breath against your face, the silent complicity settling after months of tension, training, exchanged glances, and stolen moments.For once, it's no longer a game. No longer a trophy. No longer a challenge or a strategy. Just this moment. Just him. And you.You look him in the eyes, a mischievous smile on your lips:
"So… champ, what's it like to have won everything?"
He shakes his head, amused, almost embarrassed, but his smile says it all. He's never been so satisfied… and neither have you.
Resume : Yn is a young chemistry student at university. Although she's almost certain to pass her year, one thing matters more than anything: the Best Student-Athlete trophy. A passionate basketball player, she's ready to do anything to win it. But what happens when an Australian seems to excel at ice hockey? Do Australians really know how to play hockey? Her friend then gives her some rather dubious advice: "Lower your grades!" Oops… she's going to sleep with him.
a/n : I'm not a student in the American system, so I have no idea about the sports calendar. Anyway, I hope this makes sense… English isn't my first language, so please excuse me in advance. There will be warnings depending on the section…
(Well, maybe a little, but these are genuine questions I'm asking myself.) I mostly feel like I'm the only crazy person who gets so cringe-worthy that I literally roll my eyes repeatedly.
I readily admit that there might be a degree of parasocial emotion involved. In fact, I almost always feel it more with women than with men—which, in itself, could warrant a thesis.
In the context of Formula 1, I follow the profiles of many women—especially the WAGs—because I find them attractive, interesting, or simply because I like their world. Nothing too subversive so far.
But what really shocked me was the completely unashamed violence some accounts directed at them.
We keep reading that we “shouldn’t see them during races,” that they “take up too much space,” that they “steal attention.” But let’s be serious for a second: they’re not holding the remote. They don’t control the cameras, the editing, or the editorial choices. If there’s a problem, it lies with the broadcaster—not with the person whose only fault is being in the frame.
What I see most of all is harassment disguised as critical thinking, supposedly fighting against alleged harassment. And in the end, it’s often the critics who become the most obsessive: analyzing every story, counting appearances, performing FBI-level analysis… all to “not give them attention,” of course.
But what bothers me most is the constant exaggeration, the almost artistic distortion of the facts. Elements of their private lives are overinterpreted based on simple deductions, sometimes with truly remarkable imagination.
Take Eliska, Kimi Antonelli's girlfriend, for example. I've seen it said that she's "problematic" because "she posts pictures of her boyfriend for views."
Well, excuse me, but… they're a couple, of legal age, consenting, and vaccinated. If it really bothered the driver, don't you think they would have talked about it between themselves? Unless we assume that an F1 driver is both incapable of communicating and held hostage by Instagram.
Especially since, factually, he appears in maybe two out of fifteen videos. Two. Not fifteen. He's mentioned because—plot twist—they're together. At this rate, posting pictures of your partner is aggressive marketing, and saying "my boyfriend" becomes an influence strategy.
Sociological Development
And here we get to the heart of the matter: the sociology of the WAG phenomenon.
WAGs are not simply a “by-product” of elite sports. They are a social construct. The term itself—Wives and Girlfriends—reduces women to their relationship with a man, erasing their individuality, their work, their cultural or economic capital. We don't use the term “HABs” for men who accompany female athletes. This isn't an oversight: it's a deliberate choice.
In the sociology of sport, this phenomenon is largely analyzed as an extension of the male gaze (Laura Mulvey). Women are visible, but rarely the subjects of it. They exist as decorative elements, symbols of success, emotional trophies validating male performance. Their implicit function is to be seen, but never heard, and above all, never active.
This is where the contradiction becomes violent:
They are expected to embody this role—beautiful, present, desirable—but they are punished as soon as they actually occupy it. Too visible? They are accused of seeking attention. Too discreet? They are bland, nonexistent. Active on social media? Opportunistic. Passive? Self-serving but useless.
This is what feminist studies call a double bind: a contradictory injunction in which no position is acceptable. The criticisms leveled at WAGs are therefore not based on facts, but on gendered norms. They punish an invisible transgression: that of not staying in the place expected of them.
When a woman monetizes her image, she is accused of “taking advantage.” When a man does so, it is called “branding,” “strategic vision,” or “career management.” This is not a difference in action, it is a difference in social interpretation.
Studies on female respectability show that women in the public eye are constantly evaluated against an implicit moral ideal: modesty, discretion, and emotional restraint. WAGs, by definition, fail to meet this ideal, since they move in a space associated with luxury, visibility, and social performance. They thus become perfect targets for a normalized form of symbolic violence.
And this violence is all the more insidious because it often disguises itself as “rational” criticism. While claiming to denounce a media system, the attacks are relentlessly directed at the least powerful individuals within that system. Broadcasters decide, production teams approve, sponsors orchestrate—but the anger is focused on the women filmed on screen, as if their mere presence were an act of activism.
Here we observe a mechanism well-known in sociology: moral deviance. WAGs become figures onto whom broader frustrations related to spectator sports, commodification, and the loss of sport's "purity" are projected. They serve as convenient scapegoats because they are socially permitted to be scorned.
The most ironic—and most revealing—aspect is that this hatred is often produced in the name of a pseudo-progressivism. There is a claim to defend sport "against sexism," while simultaneously reproducing the most classic patterns of misogyny: surveillance of women's bodies, judgment of behavior, sexualization followed by contempt.
This is what sociologists call internalized misogyny, sometimes perpetuated by women themselves, who unconsciously reproduce patriarchal norms to distinguish themselves from those deemed "too visible."
Finally, we must address reverse parasocial behavior.
It's not just fans who become attached to public figures: some develop a negative obsession. A form of imaginary closeness fueled by anger, excessive analysis, and the scrutiny of every story. It's no longer criticism; it's an fixation. And it primarily affects women because society tolerates—and even encourages—the monitoring of their behavior.
summary: Rio never sleeps. The city is burning. Fireworks explode over Copacabana like gaping wounds of light, and the ocean reflects everything it refuses to forget. Luna Reyes disappears from the scene and reappears on Instagram: tanned skin, pink cocktails on a terrace, laughter too loud to be innocent. She seems unattainable. Unreal. A dream retouched with filters and catchy music.
» [“ Heartbeat ” — Childish Gambino] «
0:00 ─〇───── 4:10
⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻
@ Luna.Fast
Finally, vacation time! Enjoy your family and friends. See you in 2026, meus pequenos guepardos!
@ Luna.Fast: @ George.Russel trust me, it’s for the better 💖
@ Luna.Fast
Bye London Back to Home !!! Prepare for the photo dump
comments
@ username1: Can’t wait for the pics 😍
@ friend2: Safe travels!!
@ username3: London looked amazing on you 😎
@ KimiAntonelli: @ Luna.Fast Don’t forget the skyline shot 😏
@ Luna.Fast: @ KimiAntonelli you know I got you
@ DorianePin: Bring back souvenirs for me lol
@ Luna.Fast Like
@ username4: Waiting for the full photo dump 👀
@ friend5: @ username4 same here!!
@ username5: Travel queen 👑
@ Luna.Fast posted a story
Respond at Story
@ username2: Stop being iconic 💀
@ friend4: Save me a sip next time pls 🍹
@ username3: You’re literally living the life rn… cocktail in one hand, city in the back 💖
@ Luna.Fast: @ username3 every night should be like this honestly
@ friend5: That laugh tho 👀 you look so happy lol
@ username4: Okay but can we talk about that glitter on your nails ✨
@ Luna.Fast: @ username4 signature move 😏
@ Luna.Fast
You've been waiting for it, and here it is! 2025 photo dump!!
comments
@ username1: OMG the first pic is iconic 😍
@ friend2: That sunset shot tho 🌅
@ username3: Wait… who is she kissing in pic #12?? 😳
@ friend4: OMG I was wondering the same thing 😭
@ DorianePin: @ username3 @ friend4 lol chill y’all she’s allowed to live her life 🤷♀️
@ username2: That glitter on the gloves though ✨🔥
@ friend6: And that car pic 😍 she’s literally untouchable
@ username4: She looks so happy in every pic 💖
@ friend7: The cocktail shots are everything 🩷
@ username5: Bruh, pic #9 is wild lmao 💀
@ DorianePin: @ username5 iconic content as always
@ friend8: @ username3 stop being dramatic it’s 2025 she’s allowed a little mystery 😎
@ friend9: Wait… she’s in Tokyo AND New York in the same dump?? How?? 😭
@ Luna.Fast: @ friend9 magic ✨
@ username6: Can we talk about that rooftop pic tho… absolutely insane 👀
@ friend10: She looks like a straight-up diva in that one 💅
@ username7: The shoes tho… every pic she’s slaying 😭
@ friend11: @ username3 pic #9 is messy but I stan 🩷
@ friend12: Ok but the glow up in this dump… next level 💀
@ Luna.Fast: @ friend12 thanks babes, 2025 was a ride 🏎️
@ Maxverstappen : And the guy in #9?? 😤 You know the rules.
@ Luna.Fast: @ Maxverstappen it’s not who you think 😏
@ friend8: lol max is really out here policing Luna’s 2025 dump 😂
@ Kimiantonelli
Brazil, I approve.
Coment Bloked
@ XOXO.F1
👀☕️ Ho ho… A source very close to the paddock has revealed that Formula 1 driver Kimi Antonelli recently landed in Brazil 👀🇧🇷
Why?
To meet up—discreetly—with influencer and model Luna Reyes.
Images that appear to show them kissing are already circulating on several social media platforms, although neither has confirmed anything yet. A simple coincidence?
Friendship?
Or a new romance on the horizon? 👀🔥
Stay tuned.
comments
@ username1: WAIT??? Kimi in Brazil???
@ username2: Luna Reyes?? THE Luna Reyes??
@ username3: I KNOW IT
@ username4: The pictures?? Where are the pictures 😭
@ fanF1_italia: Kimi never travels "for nothing" 👀
@ brazilvibes: She's Brazilian, he's Italian… the movie is perfect
@ username5: She's kissing a guy in her dump photo, right??
@ username6: @ username5 EXACTLY
@ username8: He literally left Europe for HER
@ username9: Paddock romance incoming 💀
@ f1gossipdaily: If it's fake, why isn't anyone denying it? 👀
@ username10: Luna Reyes ALWAYS attracts chaos
@ username11: Her + Kimi = uncontrollable energy
@ username12: Him so discreet and her so diva… I love it
@ username13: The pictures are blurry but it looks so much like her
@ username14: Kimi kissing someone??? I'll never get over it
@ username15: Okay but why Brazil specifically 🤨
@ username16: @ username15 because it's HER HOME
@ username17: The paddock will explode if this is confirmed
@ username18: And what about Max Verstappen in all this?? 👀
@ Luna.Fast
Que estranho, acordei uma manhã e me apaixonei por um italiano bobo… Feliz Ano Novo!
comments
@ username1 : EXCUSE ME ?????
@ username2 : L’ITALIEN IDIOT C’EST KIMI ???
@ username3 : I’M SCREAMING
@ username4 : She hard launched 😭
the McLaren team: now, Oscar, remember to reply to Lando's celebration post in a way that doesn't make you look vaguely suicidal. show a bit of enthusiasm!
Kimi’s words about Max coming for him remind me of when teenager Max used to terrorize Nico during his championship fight. Some things never change and Max terrorizing the whole grid is definitely one of them 😭
summary: Kimi would love to enjoy the company of his girlfriend, but an evil creature seems determined to destroy him.
word: 926
» [“Stand by me ” — Ben E. King] «
0:00 ─〇───── 4:10
⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻
Hot oil crackled in the pan, hissing like a tiny audience applauding the start of the culinary showdown.
And around the stove, two young adults were laughing like kids.
“I’m telling you, I cook better than you,” Kimi declared, stirring the sauce with the confidence of a Michelin-star chef… who might have been bluffing a little.
Luna arched a brow, dramatic as ever, a sly smile curving her full lips.
“Oh really? The king of frozen risotto is going to teach me about cooking now?”
“Ehi,” he protested, laughing, “I’m Italian. It’s in my DNA.”
She bumped her hip against his. Big mistake.
Kimi instantly slid his arms around her waist, pulling her back against him, chin grazing her neck.
“Hey! Cheater!”
“Me? Never,” he said, breathing in her scent — always that warm, sun-kissed sweetness that made his knees absolutely useless.
Luna giggled, twisting in his arms, her crystalline laugh bouncing off the white tiles. On the counter, two wine glasses caught the glow of the kitchen lights. A fancy bottle of Bordeaux — her favorite — waited between them, promising a soft evening… or a dangerously electric one.
The rich smell of searing meat, thick tomato sauce, and fresh herbs filled the London apartment.
It smelled like home. Like warmth.
Like intimacy.
A perfect evening.
Really perfect.
If only Merlin didn’t exist.
The black cat was sprawled on top of the fridge, tail swaying like a metronome announcing an incoming disaster.
On Instagram, he looked adorable — a tiny ball of fur, golden eyes, a cute innocent little face.
But from Kimi’s point of view?
A creature straight out of a horror movie.
Ever since Kimi’s first night in the London apartment, Merlin had apparently sworn vengeance.
He remembered it perfectly: the two of them curled up in the huge bed, half-hidden under a blanket, legs tangled like their bodies had forgotten personal space existed. The dim light cast a warm glow over their skin, his heart was beating too fast, his hand tracing lazy circles on Luna’s hip…
…then crash — a plant hit the floor.
Followed by a dramatic MEOOOOOW, worthy of an Oscar.
Luna had leapt out of bed in pure panic, thinking the worst.
Kimi already knew.
He had seen it — that spark of pure evil in the cat’s eyes.
The look of betrayal.
That night ended at the emergency vet.
Diagnosis: Merlin was perfectly fine.
Actually, better than fine — he was prancing around happily the second Kimi stepped out of the room.
Little menace.
And that wasn’t even counting the movie nights that turned into surprise makeup sessions… where Merlin spent the entire time attacking his toes like some tiny, furry assassin.
Back to the present.
“Merlin, NOT the counter!” Luna cried, eyes wide.
Naturally, the cat did not care about authority in any form.
He climbed up anyway, looking like a conqueror reclaiming his kingdom.
Luna scooped him into her arms, hugging him tightly like a living plush toy.
“Meu amore,” she murmured to the cat, who began purring loudly, head nudging against her collarbone.
Kimi watched the scene, arms crossed, eyes narrowing.
Yes, Merlin was purring.
Yes, Merlin looked adorable.
And yes… Merlin was STARING AT HIM.
A cold, calculated stare.
A feline “I will destroy you.”
Kimi pointed at the cat.
“You SEE?” Kimi hissed. “He hates me.”
Luna burst out laughing, brushing a stray curl behind her ear.
“He loves you!”
Merlin — without breaking eye contact — sank his claws into Luna’s sweater like a tiny mafioso sending a message.
Kimi pointed at him. “Yeah. Right. He looks like a mob boss in fur.”
They managed to ignore the furry menace long enough to pull the lasagna out of the oven. Perfectly golden, bubbling on the edges, smelling like heaven — or at least an Italian grandmother’s kitchen.
By the time the plates were scraped clean, Kimi couldn’t wait any longer.
He hooked a finger into the belt loop of Luna’s jeans and gently pulled her toward him.
She laughed, letting him lift her onto the countertop, legs wrapping around his waist as naturally as breathing.
His hands slid over her hips, warm and sure.
Her breath hitched.
The room suddenly felt smaller, hotter, suspended.
Kimi leaned in, lips tracing the delicate line of her clavicle.
He murmured against her skin, voice low, husky, the kind of voice that felt like fingertips running down the spine:
“Sei bellissima… meravigliosa…”
“Those lips,” she whispered, breath trembling, “Dio…”
“Non so… come fai…” His forehead rested against hers.
(“I don’t know how you do it… how you make me lose my mind like this.”)
Luna’s fingers tangled in his hair.
Her neck arched instinctively.
A soft sigh escaped her lips — not forced, not dramatic, just pure, warm desire.
It grew between them slowly, deliciously, like a wave that knew exactly where it was going to break.
They ended up tangled in each other, mouths crashing, hungry and breathless, like their bodies had been waiting days to catch up with their hearts.
The bedroom welcomed them like a secret place.
Clothes disappeared — a T-shirt on the floor, another tossed near the bed.
Kimi kissed along her jawline, down her neck, across her bare shoulders.
Luna laughed between sighs, her fingers mapping his back, pulling him closer, closer—
Then—
Scratch.
A very clear scratch.
Deliberate.
Confident.
Strategically timed.
A Machiavellian interruption.
Kimi froze.
“No.”
Another scratch.
This time louder.
Sharper.
Definitely intentional.
“No. No, no, no—”
Luna blinked, still breathless, hair tousled, lips swollen, voice soft and hazy.
“…Merlin?”
Kimi didn’t give her a chance to move.
He kissed her — deep, intense, consuming — the kind of kiss that emptied the mind, stole the breath, and turned the rest of the world into static.
Because if he didn’t?
That cat would win.
And Kimi refused to lose a battle of wills to a creature the size of a baguette.
✦ Name: Luna Reyes
✦ Age: 19
✦ Born in: São Paulo, Brazil
✦ Currently: Red Bull Stunt Driver | Professional Baddie
✦ Background:
Daughter of a Brazilian mechanic and a Filipino dancer, Luna grew up with gasoline and rhythm in her veins. She learned to drift before she learned to drive legally, honing her skills in empty parking lots and industrial estates. Red Bull found her through viral videos of her insane car control, set to Brazilian funk music. She became the youngest—and only female—stunt driver on their elite team, specializing in precision drifts and explosive rollovers.
✦ Appearance:
Petite frame with toned muscle, a mischievous glint in her dark eyes, and a smile that promises trouble. Her style is a permanent vibe of pink crop tops, ripped denim skirts, and oversized racing jackets covered in patches.
✦ Personality:
A force of nature wrapped in pink. Fiercely confident, wildly passionate, and unapologetically herself. She’s loud, she’s bold, and her catchphrase isn’t just for the track—it’s a life philosophy. Beneath the "baddie" exterior lies a loyal heart and a surprising wisdom about cars and people.
✦ Relationship with Kimi Antonelli:
The most chaotic and captivating duo in the paddock. She, the wild stunt artist; he, the disciplined F2 prodigy. Theirs is a story of clashing worlds and magnetic attraction. She teaches him how to let go, he teaches her about focus. It’s a high-speed romance built on mutual respect, shared passion, and the thrill of the chase.
✦ Aesthetic:
the smell of burning rubber & bubblegum perfume · sunset drifts on airstrips · glitter on racing gloves · the sound of a turbo spooling · messy buns under a helmet · rose gold jewelry against greasy coveralls · loud laughter in quiet garages · adrenaline rushes & quiet moments
✦ Favorite Color: Hot Pink 🩷
✦ Pet: None, but her Nissan Silvia S15 (named 'Rosita') is her baby.
✦ Fun Fact:
She can execute a perfect J-turn in a multi-million dollar hypercar while applying lip gloss in the rearview mirror. She once challenged a rival driver to a drift-off for pink slips and won his car, only to give it back because "it was ugly anyway."
✦ Quote:
“They told me I was too much… so I became a stunt driver. Now, ‘too much’ is my job description.”
✦ She has a fake nose piercing that she sticks on for big events, for the "bad girl" look, but she's too scared to actually get it done.
✦ Her love isn't expressed with words, but with actions: a steering wheel perfectly tuned for him, a cleaned helmet, a silent hug after a bad day.
✦ And if you see her watching Kimi while he's discussing technical details with his engineers… you understand that even bad guys have a soft side.
✦ Her nails are always manicured, even under her racing gloves. It's her signature.
✦ She learned basic Japanese just to understand unsubtitled Japanese drift tutorials.
✦ Her phone is covered in diamond and glitter stickers, much to Kimi's dismay, who finds it "unprofessional."
✦ The first time she did a controlled roll, she cried tears of joy sitting in the wreckage, unable to contain her euphoria.
✦ She has a weakness for shy, reserved boys, whom she loves to tease until they blush.
✦ Her favorite music for drifting is heavy Brazilian funk. The bass has to make the whole car vibrate.
