audscyclopedia... my name is audrey but please, call me auds or whatever u manage to come up w (i’ve been called big A, audsie, auds bear… etc) i am a british girl without a british accent living in london and at the time of writing, i am traveling.

i am 22! and a triple scorpio, though i don’t dabble enough in astrology to bring any sort of value to this. besides formula one, i love film, music, and literature — which you will find evidence of in every inch of this blog! i’m also a chronic shopaholic and the word frugal is seldom in my vocabulary.

The wine you mention is in a glass wrapped by your left hand, which brings itself upward to your lips, staining them violet for a second before you lick the residue off. You should know, I’m more a white wine kind of girl. He laughs, and every other word he thought would come easy comes so stuck, wrestled out of him. For once it’s not because he’s nervous, definitely not because he’s unsure. In fact he’s never felt surer of himself, and his self-assurance is almost foolish if it wasn’t so resolute in the fact that he’d one day like to slip a band over your blank slate of a ring finger.

Already he feels like it’s too late, he’s missed out on too much time with you. He should’ve known this laugh years ago, felt your skin when he was much younger, known you in an embarrassing phase while he was in his own. His desires feel childish, juvenile, but they feel so real, so much so that he verbalizes them to Lando in a desperate attempt to stave them off at the end of the night.

But that is later and this is now, now you tell him you’re here for work. You’re a something-something at somewhere, too professional for him to repeat back to himself in the fluid way you’re gifted. He asks what else is keeping you in a city like London and he phrases it like London is a shit city, and you joke: “Aside from the fact that it’s basically a first-world city?” He stutters in response, he stutters. “I’m joking. It’s work.”

Work, you say, not a guy, not a girl, work. No ring on your finger. You, like him, are committed to nothing but work. And because you’re two people in your early twenties, the rooftop conversation gradually ebbs in that direction, a foray into the worlds you’ve traversed by yourselves. He shares, ever a man of little words, stories of ex-girlfriends he’d rather not bring up again. He says the usual. He’s thankful, but it’s over.

You too, you sentiment. A while ago. I knew him for years, but we wanted different things. Just wasn’t right, something like that. Your index finger tugs at the plain gold chain resting on your collarbones and slides back and forth. The lights—strung up on poles on the roof and from establishments below—shine on certain angles, illuminate your hair, the beauty mark on your cheekbone, the stain of burgundy lip gloss on the wine glass in your hand. “Maybe in another universe.”

“Do you believe in that?” He asks. All he knows about possible universes is that Marvel and that Oscar-winning A24 film Lewis made half the grid watch and give roses to. The concept is interesting and likely true, but he feels secure thinking this is his only universe. Which, technically, is true, too.

You say kind of. “But that idea gives us too much allowance for mistakes.”

“I know. I guess I believe in it in a…” He’s afraid he sounds stupid, but your eyes are egging him on, genuinely curious, burning bright with a want for him to keep talking. “In a… I feel like I’ve met you before, kind of way.” Like he knows everything he has to know about you and him and it’s been barely an hour.

“I get that.” You pause. “I get that.” Then, with a pretty smile and meek hand over the linen chest of your dress, you excuse yourself to refill wine and make talk with the party host. He lingers, of course, watches the sway of your dress, waits to see if you will turn and smile a funny little just us smile, but of course you don’t. You’re a stranger after all. He turns away to find Lando, and for a second he feels like there are eyes on him, but he keeps walking and shakes it off.

“Marry?” Lando repeats half an hour later, when they’re both tugging their coats on. “You just met her. She got out of a long-term relationship a while ago. And so did you.”

They’re in the foyer of the townhouse, and Lando is pulling open the door now, under the impression that his words successfully permeated Charles’ delusions. He turns and Charles is stationary on the last step, humming to himself.

“Mate,” bogs Lando, eyes dead serious. “How do you even know—”

18+ because... male masturbation, mentions of penetrative/handjob sex (f receiving), oral sex (m receiving), charles & reader are in an undefined (implied fwb/fuck buddy) relationship

You said you’d try to hide them.

Granted, he thinks to himself, there was a clear attempt—semi-opaque patches of your most expensive concealer, dabbed with precision over the darkened blotches of love on your throat and the slightly lighter one on the protrusion of your left collarbone. But it’s not enough, the purples still filtering through like moonlight through thick blinds. Like last night, in his hotel room, when you’d whimpered his name through a strained voice, begged for more.

And you’re giggling, muffling an angelic laugh into the heel of your palm, into the same little hand that’d been wrapped around his cock less than twenty-four hours ago. Beside you, Lissie is digging her elbow into your waist to tease, but your eyes meet his and you seem to possess no ounce of regret. 

No regret over having to leave the room at the crack of dawn, exchanging sloppy kisses in lieu of a formal goodbye. No regret over waking up to a self-set alarm instead of sleeping in, feeling Charles’ fingers already at your thighs. Just give me one, angel, he groaned out, feeling your cunt gush around him. No regret there at all.

So? He can hear Lissie’s impatience from metres away. He watches you another minute, watches you sweep your waved hair over your shoulder to try and hide them in the shadow, then turns to respond to something Pierre is saying. He can’t suppress his own smirk when he listens to her follow-up question. Who left those marks?

He retires to an empty hotel room, thinks of shooting you a text but thinks better after a split second. Thinks worse after a split of Scotch, thumb hovering over the send button on your text thread, which is always composed of the same shit: room numbers, times, greenlights. He thought it’d be easier to have this whole arrangement, considering it was his idea—but God, when he sees you, it’s like something in him just changes.

And tonight, when you’d worn that black dress, thin straps showing the remnants of your tan from over the summer. He wonders how insane he must’ve been to think he wouldn’t need you all the time. Wonders how much more of this he can take before he goes insane again. He wasn’t always this needy, was he? It’s you, he thinks, that’s the only explanation.

Your scent, sweet and natural, your eyes, the way they blink up at him when you’re on your knees, your lips, your body, everything. He sneaks a glance at his crotch, his hard-on thick under his jeans from the conjured memory of you alone. He feels himself get harder, thoughts running more rampant—last night, when you’d been so wet for him, so needy. 

His mind pleasantly hazed out, he tugs his cock out and wraps his hand around the head, giving himself a few slow strokes. His hand’s so rough, so big—a contrast from yours, so much smaller your fingertips fail to meet around the girth of him. He tries to imagine that, then your lips, the perfect full curve of them wrapped around him, staying still so he can fuck into them. You’re addictive, he thinks, murmuring your name as he speeds up his pace.

If it’s genuinely something, or if it’s just plain lust—Charles could care less at this moment.

At this moment, actually, he’s positive this is just thick, intense lust, a near craving to fold you in half and stretch you open around his dick. His hand moves faster, harder, and he thinks finally of the way you moan his name—high, needy, damp against his ear—and he opens his eyes and pants, watching his spend leak out of him.

18+ because... penetrative sex, rough sex, use of papi (just once and sorry guys), breeding kink, unprotected sex (on purpose)

“All he said was he liked my necklace,” was your last line before you were yanked out of the bar area.

Two drinks, a car ride with his hand up your skirt, and five he’s just a strangers later, he’s turned you into a sweaty, writhing mess on the centre of your bed. Your nails scratch at the sheets for purchase, this thousands-some thread count behemoth that won’t allow you to grip it properly, so you resort to digging your fingers into the hard, sinewy muscle of Carlos’ bicep.

He’s licking shapes on the hollow of your neck, pausing only to nip at it and cause your breath to falter, his cock halfway into you. Your ankles are linked at the small of his back, quivering like the rest of you. “That’s my girl,” he breathes into your ear, rambling to get his mind off the feeling of your cunt, hot and tight around him, bare. “Doin’ real good for me, cariño. No protection, no nothing… puta, you’re perfect.”

The praise inflates your head and you allow him to take, take, take, the feeling of his fingers at your clit, rubbing delicate circles distracting you from the stretch. “Made to take this fucking cock, yeah? Say yeah.” Yeah, you parrot stupidly, nodding. He’s huge and stretching you out, irresistible to buck up into.

“Gonna breed you tonight,” he rasps decisively, his accent causing the words to knock into each other, but you understand him of course you understand him, and you cry out a moan of affirmation. “You’re mine, cariño, all mine, gonna mark you up, show those guys there’s nothing here for them.” You’re dripping around him from his promises alone, the squelch of every thrust a welcome noise into your bedroom.

He’s always had a tiny jealous streak—the cute, endearing kind. Got all pouty when a guy approached you, a little moody when the flirting was less subtle. But you’d reassure him with a kiss, let him fuck you, call you his. This is different—this is intense. Spurred on by some asshole who let a hand slide down to your ass at the bar.

And his intent went from fucking you to something else—claiming you. And it’s exactly what it feels like, rougher, his words dirty, his cock stretching you out deliciously, each thrust punctuated by an involuntary cry. He’s louder, you’ll say, louder than you are, but also because his lips are pressed right by your ear, and every hot, damp moan is sent directly through you, getting you absolutely drenched.

He hauls himself up and presses your knees to your chest, thrusting back in at the easier angle, with the wider access. “Gonna let me breed you, baby?” He pants. “Fuck you dumb?”

“Yes, please, yes,” you goad out.

“Gonna knock you up, sí? Get you swollen with papi’s babies, yeah? Knock this pretty little—puta—pussy up?” His balls clap obscenely against your ass but you haven’t half the mind to pay attention to it, your own whimpers and moans drowning any other noise out.

“Yeah, fuck, Carlos—yeah—”

“Come on, come with me, cariño. Gonna fill you up, you gotta keep everything in for me.”

He slams into you one last time, so strong, so hard, and you’re releasing at the same time you feel spurts of his seed coat your walls. He moans at the feeling, at the way you’ve clenched tightly, gushing around him, and lowers himself back to kiss intermittently at your neck.

“Sweaty, baby,” you whine softly.

18+ because... car sex, penetrative sex, semi-public setting, use of bunny as a petname, riding, size kink

Days where you get to fuck in the car are obvious and numbered, because those are the same days Charles picks you up in his black Range Rover instead of an obscenely showy red Ferrari (because the low ceiling will never grant either of you the patience to ride him). Half the time this car pulls up at your flat, you barely make it to the parking lot elevator you’re never not unscathed, fully dressed, or swollen-lipped.

Those are also the same days he gets back from work trips or races. The same days you have to make it to an event on time and nearly never do. Today is one of those days, which you really should’ve embedded into your head when you decided to wear a dress that ended far above your knees.

When you slid into the passenger seat and felt his eyes on you, his hand on your thigh, lingering. When he asked for a kiss for the road and deepened it, licking into your mouth until your thighs quivered and you were the one asking for his cock, when he instigated it all. When he parked at the far, dark end of the garage of this godforsaken restaurant, ushered you into the backseat, invited you on his spread lap. Pressed open-mouthed kisses all over your bare neck, licking over your collarbones.

“I really can’t be late tonight,” you mouth hotly into his skin, but your words ebb into a whimper at the feeling of his hand sneaking up your tiny dress. “Charles.”

“We’ll be quick, bunny,” he affirms, his rough hand groping at your ass shamelessly. “Missed you too much, putain.” He thumbs at the wet seat of your lace panties, pulling it to the side so he can bully himself into you, and for a minute it’s just you two breathing as you struggle to adjust to the girth of him, always a challenge after he’s away too long. 

Your doe eyes struggle to stay open, fluttering shut when they meet his dark ones. “So big,” you wrench out, your voice on the edge of a sob. 

“Remember what I tell you, baby?” He whispers into the air in-between the both of you. “Say it with me,” he continues, closer and closer to bottoming out.

“We’ll make it fit,” you whimper, finally fully seated on him. You’re clearly struggling already, the burn of lifting yourself up and down slowly, slowly, then faster, taking a toll on you and causing a sheen of sweat to form across your writhing body. “Please, please,” you beg, unknowing what for.

“I know, baby, I know. Feels good, yeah? Hard to stay quiet?”

He watches your pussy swallow all of him again and again, thumbs at your clit to watch you squirm and release sweet sounds, taking his cock like you were made for it. Your stuttered moans rise in volume every time he thrusts upward to meet you, his cock making nasty noises that only get you wetter. You’re so tight, so wet, dripping all over him and your thighs. 

“I can’t take it,” you say, eyes squeezed shut. “I’m—gonna fuckin’—”

He’s doing the work now, thrusting up into you and involuntarily jerking moans of his name past your lips every time his balls slap against you. “Come on, bunny, keep bouncing. Come for me,” he says between his teeth, pressing his hips flush against your ass, so deep you can feel it in your stomach. “You gonna be good, oui? For me?”

“Yes, yes,” you nod dumbly, “don’t stop, please.”

He tells himself you’re both doin a good job of being quiet, staying under the radar. His car’s as hulking as it was ridiculously expensive, and it’s sturdy, so it doesn’t shake much. He repeats the shitty lie to himself as he thrusts into you harder, and this time you’re almost wailing his name, mixed with expletives and pet names of your own making.

You’re squeezing him, gushing down the length of his cock, and he knows he’s not going to last long. “Right there, Charles,” you whimper, “wanted you to fuck me since you picked me up. Wore your favorite pair,” and fuck the pink lace wrung around your hips, this really is his favorite. 

“M’gonna cum if you don’t shut up,” he scolds, pounding into you and feeling just how close you are.

“Yeah, me—me too, baby, I—fill me up, I wan’ it,” you babble, and before you can even inhale, he’s emptying himself inside of you as you release hot and wet around him, his hands everywhere, just dying to get a feel of you underneath the thin material of your dress. My filthy girl, he murmurs into your neck, accent heavier than ever.

Your phone rings three inhales later, and your sweaty hand swipes clumsily to pick up Lando's call.

Hey, dinner’s starting in five.

“Yeah, yeah,” you say, trying to not sound as breath-deprived as you are. You already feel the staccato vibrations of your boyfriend against your damp skin at the poorly-hidden lie and hide a laugh of your own. Quietly, he bites at your skin and squeezes the flesh of your waist. I love you, he whispers amidst laughs, at the same time Lando asks: You guys done driving?

to mack @formulaforza, thank you for everything. i wish i knew you sooner and i wish you and i grew up together with how often you get me all figured out – in times of quiet and inactivity i still manage to find you in bites of butter and knee scrapes, and when i feel like there’s nothing good to read i creep back onto your masterlist and exhaust it until my eyes droop closed. but besides being a brilliant writer you’re a true friend, not just to me but to everyone u surround urself with… i’m just lucky i’m in ur orbit

to dani @silverstonesainz, i still think of u as a famous writer i somehow lucked out with on the friendship front. the fame is deserved though because the talent is oh so thereeeeee. you’re an angel and a staunch defender of ur friends and u don’t deserve a lot of things that were thrown at u. i love you a lot and i miss you moresies

When you were fifteen, you were convinced the lyrics to Hall & Oates’ “Rich Girl” pinned up perfectly to your (insufferable) personality of the time. Raised in a big family and working in a career of refined prestige, your budding skill and already-cemented name in the modeling industry were just two small indicators of your parents’ massive wealth. Of course, neither Hall nor Oates were actually sitting and writing songs and singing about you—you just found it made sense in one way or another.

That was three years before you met Charles three years ago, at a pub in Soho. His band had only just spilled out of the confines of Soundcloud and seedy managers; they’d broken five million monthly listeners and the throng of people were there to watch them live. You were at the pub for a pint with another friend and left him with your number, a slip of paper tinged with beer; he fished out the nearest surface you could write on from a nearby bowl. Do I Wanna Know? it read in rushed cursive. It was a song request that went unfulfilled.

Rumors flew in your circle. Your father soured at the idea of you seeing somebody he wasn’t actively doing business with, but he failed to realize how limited your dating pool would be if you followed his wishes. Your interactions with the Formula One men he sponsored or worked with, however few and far between, were rancid and impolite. The drivers wore expensive brands, ones that didn’t even fall familiar on people’s ears, but refused to tip beyond three pounds. It came as both a shock and no surprise that the nouveau rich rock singer treated you with more decency than any of them did.

He was shy about it first, knowing how filthy rich you were. He made jokes about how his flat could fit in your kitchen twice over. He spoke what little French he remembered from childhood to impress you, paid for takeout, wore Lacoste when he came over to drink—then fuck—because it was, at the time, the most decent brand he owned. It’d been January when he came over, caught a sight of you at the foyer with all your expensive coats hung up. Your tongue was blue with a lozenge. It was the only thing he could look at while fucking you.

He wore a light blue variant once, fit and snug on him. You wrestled it off him in-between hot, sweet kisses, kept it on your bed so it’d be the first thing you tugged on in the morning before a shoot for a brand you can no longer place.

The last time you saw him he’d shown you lyrics, sang them aloud, drummed the beat he thought of on the skin of your thigh. His accent disappeared into rasp and notes. You told him to perform it live and he fucked you splayed up against your door, bent over your counter, then with your knees pressed to your chest on your white sheets, warm from the laundry. S’good for me, aren’t you, princess? All for me. My filthy girl.

Two hours later: I’m going on tour, sweetheart, he’d said while he cleaned you up.

’Til? Or… like, for long? Naked, you wrapped your blanket around your frame.

Ah, oui. For a while. 

You failed to answer amicably, your eyebrows twisting. You didn’t think to tell me? Just up and leave then? No number, no text, no announcement, just— You exhaled tightly. You knew he didn’t owe you anything of the sort; the sex, you guessed, the company had been so good you’d deluded yourself into thinking so.

Kitten—

Don’t call me that, you huffed, angrier now. Petulant. You got up and crowded him ’til you got to the door. Get the fuck out.

You watched him leave, brown leather jacket and black tee disappearing into London, and wrenched memories of him from the depths of your brain, the two years of your back and forth rendezvous. You wondered why you didn’t get a song in that time, after his ascent to fame, after the release of other hit singles inspired by his bandmates’ gossip rags and measly shags.

So a year later, when the memories have just begun to purge themselves—when the lyrics, which already have sent a swoop through your stomach, progress into the line When you walked around your house wearin' my sky blue Lacoste… and your knee socks, you effectively choke on your a.m. cappucino. It’s like “Rich Girl” all over again, but this is overt, it’s targeted. Like whoever wrote it must’ve known you’d be listening right now, en route to a shoot at eight in the morning.

“All good, miss?” Ed, your chauffeur, meets your eyes in the rearview, concerned.

“Perf—” your voice cracks. “Perfect.”

You screw your eyes shut and try to collect yourself, zeroing in on the lyrics that’d been foggy before.

Curing his January blues—the month you two started sleeping together.The fact that he’d had your number, a famous stranger, before you had his. Every beat, every word, every deep-voiced lyric traces back to you (unless, of course, he’s busying himself shagging any other girl in London on rainy Tuesdays and letting her wear his now-old polos. The thought sends a pang of jealousy through you.)

But you know better. You know you’re the only one.

Because your phone’s the only one buzzing late into the damp night—when the zeroes line up on the clock by your bed, the one he fixed up for you—with a number you’ve removed the name of, blocked at some point, but can still memorize in his absence.