#* . ft. henri charming

[lvrclerc]

EVERY SUMMER'S END

summary: loving a writer is a dangerous game, and carlos sainz is reminded of it when the dedication of your new book throws him back to every summer you ever shared, and the bitter end of them all. ✷ IVY'S POETRY DEPARTMENT EVENT: « although i may not be yours, i could never be another's. »

F1 MASTERLIST | CS55 MASTERLIST

pairing: carlos sainz x romance writer!reader wordcount: 7.2K content: summer romance, breakup, takes place from 2016 to 2021, implied smut, loosely inspired by beach read by emily henry, bittersweet, ambiguous relationship status, inacurrate timeline/events, open ending, not proofread. note: requested here! i wasn't kidding when i said i love writing summer romances. carlos sainz you are the epitome of a book mmc. i finished this out of spite and i hate it, which is why it took so long to get out, but thanks @sunsetcupid for sticking with me for the highs and lows of the writing process and reading through it. ‹𝟹

♫ us. - gracie abrams ft taylor swift

THE INTERVIEWER ASKS about what Carlos enjoys doing outside of motorsports, and the answer is rehearsed.

Carlos Sainz is a man of many hobbies. Racing, of course, dominates his life—he had been born in a legacy of burnt asphalt, it only made sense for him to bleed checkered. He’s a man who enjoys sports: padel with friends on week-ends when their hectic calendars allowed it, he could appreciate a boxing match here and there as a spectator, liked surfing when the weather was right and the waves were kind, and, later in life, he would take up golf. Outside of all movements, Carlos found comfort in good music, the kind with low, rumbling rhythm and gravelly guitar chords he would hum under his breath as a kid. He liked old movies too, the ones with seductive charm and grainy black-and-white frames that felt like diving into a memory.

Yet, amidst all the various things he enjoyed, Carlos Sainz had never been much of a reader.

It’s not that he didn’t like reading—he could get around it—but he just never had the time. As a child, karting consumed him too much to think about anything else. There were a few stray books, Percy Jackson maybe, when all of his classmates were raving about them. But he never learned to let himself get lost in pages. He never had the stillness for it—not with the life he grew up in. The erratic rhythm of racing didn’t leave space for leisurely afternoons, thin paper slipping between fingers, and other worlds unfolding in quiet.

Except once a year.

There was a place, tucked away like a whispered secret in the south of Spain, where time didn’t tick the same. There, the sun kissed his skin with soft acknowledgment. The air smelled faintly of vanilla and light florals. And there, he read.

But he doesn’t like to think about it. So when the interviewer asks about books, Carlos only shrugs and says he’s not much of a reader. 

Then he moves on.

—

LA HERRADURA, PROVINCE OF GRANADA, ANDALUSIA, SPAIN. SUMMER BREAK OF 2016.

La Herradura is a small town, as per Carlos’ standards, tucked along Spain’s Costa Tropical. His orange-tiled home set in Madrid, with its silent halls, had started to feel like a weight pressed against his lungs since February of last year. A place too close to memories, but too far from the heart, or something like that—metaphors weren’t really his strong suit. Returning for his second Formula One summer break would’ve swallowed him whole, which is why he chose this town, where nobody would think to look.

Five thousand people at most, strolling in the narrow streets folded between whitewashed buildings, with a beach that always seemed to hum in the distance. Here, he thought, he might be able to breathe again.

And yet, it’s only his second day, and someone spilt coffee all over his shirt.

You hadn’t meant to. You were just reaching for a packet of sugar near the café counter, as your waiter had forgotten to bring any. In no way had you expected the man beside you to whip around, so when he did, it became a mess of startled movement, clumsy apologies, and dark espresso blooming across his white cotton shirt like the birth of a bruise over his heart. You both spoke at once, tripping over sentences. Your voice tangled in the air until, mid-flurry, his hand caught your wrist gently.

“You’re alright, I promise,” the stranger had laughed. It rumbled through his chest and for a second, even the waves lapping outside the beachside café seemed to roar in jealousy.

He was beautiful in the way people rarely are, terribly so, all in sharp edges and sunburnt youth, sculpted by speed itself, with cheekbones etched by the wind, and jaw clenched from habit. Then, as anyone might have thought he could come off as severe, there were his eyes: soft in their curves, chestnut brown, flickering with curiosity and warmth. It was the kind of moment that would’ve made you roll your eyes if you were ever to write it—too convenient. Still, your heart lifted when he smiled, washing over you like carbonation fizzing to the top of a soda bottle you would have turned upside down.

“I’m still really sorry,” you apologized. “I wasn’t paying attention and—”

“Neither was I,” he cuts you off, and the exasperated smile that escaped you made his smile grow. Carlos found it charming.

“Let me at least buy you another one,” you offered. “It’ll make me feel less like a disaster.”

By principle, he should’ve declined. He had more than enough money to buy his own coffee, and his parents hadn’t raised him to let a pretty woman cover the bill. But there was something in the teasing in your voice he couldn’t place, a color twinkling in your eyes he craved to name, a story he didn’t want to end yet. So he said yes.

He ends up back at your table, settling into a wildly uncomfortable straw chair on the terrace, and you talk, voices clashing pleasantly over the aroma of salt and espresso. Carlos comes to the realization you don’t seem to know of him—or his last name, or his face—outside of the little world you built out of spilled coffee when you ask, casually, what he does for a living. He panics. Says he works as a chauffeur, because he likes the way your hand rests naturally on his forearm, unbothered, and he’s not ready to see the awkward change his upbringing might lead to.

To steer the conversation away from the sudden heat blooming under his collar, he nods toward your open laptop and the notebook darkened by messy scrawling next to it. “And… you write?” he asks.

Your cheeks go warm, and Carlos—absurdly—wants to bottle the shade and carry it around with him. “I attempt to,” you mumble, hastily flipping the notebook closed. “Haven’t written anything good in a hot minute.”

A year, two months, and thirty-two days, if we’re being precise. Your debut novel had made quiet waves, gotten a litany of praise. Critics called it raw, authentic, the kind of story that lingers between ribs. One reviewer went as far as to say it felt like the words spilled right from your lips onto theirs. There was irony in it, because you didn’t feel like anything spilled anymore. You had been staring at your blank document and blinking cursor, crafting slowly wilting outlines for months now. All ideas withered the second you touched them.

People called you a romance writer now. But how were you supposed to write about love when your last relationship left you with scars so soft they rotted sweet, like overripe fruit? What good was a writer who couldn’t write?

“Writer’s block?” the beautiful stranger asks, bringing you back from your own mind.

You nod. “Exactly. My agent’s on my ass about getting something new on paper, and I just… can’t. I thought coming here might help. Change of scenery, all that.”

He leans in, half-grin across his lips, almost conspiratorial. His hair brushes your cheek right where the shadow kisses your cheek. There is some poetry to that, and it’s so precise and cinematic that you want to laugh, that you want to lean further in and grasp its intricacies. “What do you write?” he inquires, and his voice is similar to dusk: low and warm. “Maybe I could help.”

That makes you smile, and a chuckle tumbles out of you. “Romance,” you say. “Technically, it’s women’s fiction, but they always shelve it under romance.”

“So you make a living out of people… falling in love?” His eyebrows lift as he says it. You nod, though the motion is braced. You know what people think of the genre, especially men: the subtle scoff and the condescension disguised as charm. You’re already preparing to pull the plug on the conversation, right with the slow building fantasy of it all, before it goes sour. But instead, he says, “I thought it would be easy, writing about love.”

The laugh that bursts out of you is entirely involuntary. You throw your head back from it, startled by the naivety of it, and the sheer audacity that he might really mean it.

“Love is far from being easy, tesoro.”

Sunlight catches your hair as you say it, and Carlos is possessed by the sound of the waves crashing onto shore as he asks, boldly and oddly earnest, if you can visit the town together. “As inspiration for your book, and another payback for the coffee,” he justifies.

Truth be told, he disagreed with you. For Carlos, there was nothing as easy as love: he fell in love with karting before he could spell the word ambition, let the scent of gas and gravel tarnish and scorch his lungs black, until the motion of getting into his seat became automatic. He loved the cockpit, the spare parts, the silence behind the helmet. He loved his country, with its sun-warmed streets, the music folded into each inflection of the language. Tradition etched into gestures that he carries with him when he drives. He had loved multiple women until his heart gave out under the effort.

Carlos loved with a ferocity you could only hold in the wild, boundless beginnings of adulthood, when the world still seemed so wide and endless, beckoning you to seek for its borders, and fell with just as much force.

Love wasn’t something complicated, or a puzzle to figure out. Cars were, so were strategies. But love? Love came as naturally as breathing, so easy to give yourself in.

And when you say yes, a knowing smile tugging at the corner of your lips, just this side of daring, Carlos thinks he might be falling for you just as easily.

You walk through the streets slowly, without a plan or destination, just the rhythm of two people perfectly content to orbit one another. La Herradura doesn’t offer much unless you’ve planned ahead: no grand museum or crowded monuments, instead overflowing in small alleys, bougainvillea spilling down balconies, salt-sticky air curling around your wrists like ribbons.

Neither of you minds. Carlos is more than happy stopping by overpriced ice cream stalls, pointing out absurd flavor just to see you wrinkle your nose. He tells you the worst one-liners he’s ever heard, mostly from his mother’s soap operas she used to watch while folding laundry, and bask in the teenage feeling burgeoning in his chest at the mere idea of them making you laugh.

He pays for dinner without a second thought. It’s the tourist spot next to the café where you first met, and the food is nothing special, but your snarky comment as the waiter brings the wine makes him feel like he’s won something. The sun’s set by the time you finish, but the last of its glow still lingers on the skin of the sea, similar to yours, and Carlos is surprised by how easily the parallel draws in his mind. A bonfire crackles by the beach, a testimony of late June and the traditions he loves, flames and music and voices all blending into a single glowing memory.

Like all good romantics, you’re drawn to it like a moth. Carlos slips your shoes off your feet before you can protest and holds them in one hand, his other brushing lightly against your back to guide you toward the shore. You sink into the sand, slow and aimless.

“Tell me about your first book,” he says. And you tell him how the story came to you all at once, like it had been simmering into a carafe and poured out in the cold glass of a single summer, with no real plans or outline. You say you didn’t think anyone would care for it. Carlos disagrees, this time openly, saying he would’ve read it even if no one else had.

You laugh, because you believe him, and that is such a ridiculous notion to hold for someone you just met.

You stroll along the shore for what could be like hours or mere minutes—time often loses its shape when the moment is right. Somewhere between the fifth song from the beach guitar and the taste of the wine still on your tongue, Carlos brushes a loose strand of hair behind your ear. The look you give him, like the sky is collapsing on itself, you’re sure you could have written about it this time around.

And maybe the sky really is collapsing. Maybe this night doesn’t exist in the real world at all, maybe it’s just a dream stitched together by the help of seafoam. Because when he says, “Come back with me,” as if he’s asking for a secret and not demanding, you don’t even think about it.

You go. Hand in hand, shoes forgotten, sand clinging to your ankles. The streets are in deep slumber, and his rental smells like sea and freshly washed cotton, and the moment the door closes behind you, it’s as if the world exhales and fades out of reality.

Carlos kisses you like he’s known you across lifetimes, like he’s loved you before and lost you, and this is his only chance to get it right. He touches you like he’s never going to see you again, because deep down he’s not sure he will. His hands are rough, his mouth devout. The pads of his fingers leave heat wherever they pass—marks not visible but undeniably there. You welcome them with parted lips, quiet sighs, nails digging crescents into his shoulder blades.

He doesn’t let you breathe for too long. Every exhale is an invitation he answers with his lips, his hips, his hands. It’s all consuming and fierce, because Carlos doesn’t know how to be anything else but hungry. Burning at the edges but still asking for more, dangerously close to spinning out but never losing control. He gives you everything because he doesn’t know how to love halfway. Because that’s Carlos: he only knows how to take, and take, and take, but only in exchange of all of himself.

You lie tangled in the sheets afterwards, skin kissed warm and hearts pounding in synchrony. A breeze floats through the open window, carrying with it the fresh air of a summer night. In the mellow silence, he studies you.

The flush of your cheeks could be called rose, but that’s too cliché. It’s something deeper, warmer—carnelian, maybe? He wasn’t the best with words. Or was it the color of joy? Or the exact hue of summer slipping beneath the ocean, the kind that never really leaves the sky? He commits it all to memory as sleep takes you both, you pressed to his chest no matter the heat.

And when he wakes up, you’re gone. In your place is a note, scribbled in your messy handwriting. “I have a plane to catch, didn’t want to wake you so early in the morning. Thank you for everything.” And beneath that, almost like an afterthought, a softer, neater line: “You’re nothing like I expected.”

He traces the paper with his hand for too long, heart thrumming somewhere in his throat. Yet, Carlos still gets up. He showers, and dresses, and for the first time in years, he walks into a bookstore. 

The woman at the register smiles when she sees the title he picked. “It’s a good one,” she says, and Carlos nods with pride as if the compliment was directed to him.

He reads it in pieces over the rest of the summer break, trying not to read it too fast in order to ration memories. To let your ghost linger a little while longer.

And somewhere in the sky, a few hours before your layover, you finally open your laptop. For the first time in forever, your fingers don’t stall on the keyboard. The words come gently, naturally, and you type them out with the same carefulness. 

They’re not about him, not yet, but Carlos lingers in every line, like the unmistakable smell of sun once it has set.

—

“You don’t read?” his new girlfriend asks, somewhere over the Mediterranean. 

The plane ride home to Monaco is a long one when you’re flying from Abu Dhabi, and Carlos had barely said a word since the takeoff. It’s December, and even at cruising altitude, Carlos can feel the temperature shift. He hates the cold—it bites instead of kisses. Give him heat, always. Give him sticky skin, the faint hum of the fan overhead and someone's breath mixing with his in the dark.

His mind travels to his personal Eden, where summer seemed to loop for years on end. The sound of cicadas, the coast so washed it looked half-dreamt. It’s only when his girlfriend calls his name again that he blinks, startled back to the present.

Right, reading. She’s referring to the interview. 

“I never have the time,” Carlos answers mechanically, punctuated with a tense chuckle.

She hums, unconvinced, and starts rummaging through her bag. “I could lend you one of mine, just to try. This one’s a beach read,” she says, oblivious to how his chest seems to tighten at her words. “My favorite author. I’ve read everything she’s written. Her stories are always kind of… sad, but really beautiful.”

Carlos wants to protest, say that he’s too tired and beach reads aren’t his thing. If he were to read, he’d want something heavier: a brick of historical nonfiction, or a complex murder mystery. He opens his mouth with an excuse at the ready, but the words die in his throat the second he sees the cover.

It’s a painted memory of soft edges and impressionist strokes, displaying a warm-toned terrace café with straw chairs, dappled in afternoon light. Carlos knows this place, not because of the building or how the awning folds over itself, but because of you.

You’re sitting at one of the tables. Well, it’s not exactly you, more someone like you. A woman rendered in delicate brushstrokes, a sundress flowing to her knees, holding a book just high enough to shadow her face. Still, her likeness is uncanny. And where the café’s name should be, in looping white script, is the title: Every Summer’s End. Beneath it, your name.

Carlos forgets how to breathe.

“You said you vacationed there, right?” his girlfriend inquires, unaware of the rupture. She flips the book around to show him the back. “La Herradura? That’s where it’s set. So funny, it made me think about you when I bought it.”

He takes the book when she offers it, thumb grazing the glossy spine. It’s heavy, like truth, and he forces a slow nod of acknowledgement.

Funny.

—

LA HERRADURA, PROVINCE OF GRANADA, ANDALUSIA, SPAIN. SUMMER BREAK OF 2017.

Carlos doesn’t believe in fate. He never has, not in the grand scheme of things. He’s not enough of a romantic, in the historical sense, too much of his father’s son, to do so. What he believed in was repetition, in giving until there’s nothing left and your body breaks before your mind. Fate had never helped him score points, efforts did. And licking open wounds caused by those efforts like an injured dog in hope of miracle recovery is what led him to La Herradura for a second time.

He couldn’t admit out loud that it wasn’t the town he came back for. It was the feeling.

The café hasn’t changed much. The layout is different from last year, the chairs rearranged and the menus reprinted in a more minimalist aesthetic. The cushions are a new shade of sun-bleached coral, he notices, but the air still carries the same warm hum of sea salt and citrus.

Carlos doesn’t look when he turns after ordering. A sharp movement, and his cup tips forward in a graceless arc, splashing a deep brown bloom across your pale beach cover-up. “Joder— shit, I’m so sorry—” he stammers and grabs a napkin with the frantic energy of someone half-present in his own body.

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this, tesoro.”

It’s not immediate. It crawls leisurely over his skin, laps at the snowglobe of his memories. Your mouth curves into a smirk he’s sure he’s shaken a few times in his mind. You laugh, his nickname on your tongue, and it clicks all at once. You were the feeling he missed.

You, on the contrary, don’t believe in coincidences. You believe in the invisible threads that tie together with quiet purpose. That everything, no matter how painful or messy, is part of some intricate, meaningful design in a bigger story. You’d be lying if you even thought that some hidden fragments of you hadn’t been hoping, all along, to see him again, wondering if the right set of conditions would pull him back where you left off.

No screams leave your lips, or curses at the temperature of the drink. You were never one for dramatics. You beam at him, damp fabric clinging to your swimsuit. “I think you owe me a clean shirt, this time around,” you say, and Carlos huffs out a disbelieving laugh.

He insists on buying you another coffee, and puts the sugar in it before you can think about telling him to. This time, you sit on the opposite side of the terrace, shaded by a new umbrella but caught in the same orbit.

The rest of the day folds over itself like a well-read book, the ones with the crack in the spine and the wavy pages from hair dripping of pool water. You walk again: down the coast, over the pebbled sidewalk, past shuttered shops and sleepy balconies. When you pass by the same tourist restaurant where you had dinner last year, you both decide to dine somewhere else.

Later, when the sun sinks and the bonfire sparks to life again, a feeling of continuation sneaks upon you both. You walk barefoot in the sand, again, letting your fingers thread through his, again. Unlike last time, Carlos asks about your new book with a carefulness similar to the one of a child. You admit that it’s finished, that people loved it, but you don’t tell him he inspired you. Not yet.

When you get back to his place, again, Carlos kisses you the exact same way, the brush of his mouth against yours too familiar for something that happened just once because he still remembers every second of it. He touches you like he’s still memorizing you, like you’re something he’s still trying to make sense of.

You fall asleep with your limbs tangled in linen and this time, when he wakes up, you don’t disappear. You’re still here when he wakes up, curled into his side with sunlight slipping through your hair. There were no planes to catch this time, you had made sure of it. However, Carlos is a man of habit, a creature of rhythm and ritual. So he gets up. Dresses.

The bookstore is only a short walk from his place. It’s barely open when he arrives, and yet, he finds it immediately: on the middle shelf, front-facing, your name bold and bright against the soft watercolors of the cover.

By the time he returns, the apartment smells of quiet mornings and coffee. You’re sitting on a stool at his kitchen island, legs folded up, his white cotton shirt swallowing your body. The seagulls heard through the windows are alive and singing but your hair is still mussed with sleep and bleary-eyed. Still, Carlos had the sensation to have walked upon something sacred.

Until you froze as your gaze dropped. “Wait,” you say, voice hoarse, “You— You bought it?”

Carlos turns the book around, displaying the familiar name stamped across the bottom with boyish pride. “First thing in the morning,” he grins.

You groan, tucking your face in your hands, even as your cheeks grow blotchy and warm with color. He’d spent half the night thinking of words to name it: he liked carnelian, but coral was as gorgeous. Cardinal stuck. Cardinal, bright, bleeding. It reveled on his tongue like you did.

It looked like the morning sun was in love with you.

Carlos smiles again, slower this time, fondness finger painting his features like a Monet’s. “I really liked your first book. I thought I’d check out the new one after yesterday.”

“You read my debut?” you gaped.

He hums. “Last summer, after you left.”

You just stare at him with wide eyes in wonder, adoration sprinkled like stars in the sky of your pupils. Your heart is louder than your thoughts, skipping similar to a stone over water. You feel seen. In that quiet, piercing way only readers could ever make you feel. And of all people, for it to be him.

Your voice falters as you admit, finally out loud, “Okay, well. In this one, I mean—just a little—some parts might’ve been…” You gesture vaguely, tugging at the hem of the shirt you borrowed. “Inspired by what happened last year.”

Carlos’ smile softens into a molten thing. If your emotions transpired through your eyes, his overcame you in the soft curve of his mouth, seemingly waiting for each one of your words to trigger something in him. He crosses the space to you in the beating of a heart and, as if it was an everyday thing, presses a kiss to your forehead. “I’m honored to be your muse, preciosa.”

You laugh, and it bubbles out of your chest bright and alive. Carlos could compare it to the shaking of a cold soda bottle on a hot day, but he’d be afraid of sounding somewhat ridiculous. You wrap your arms around him without thinking, face tucked in his shoulder. He still smells like the beach, like intimacy.

“Well,” you murmur, “you’ll probably end up inspiring another one this summer.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, thumb brushing under your skin. “Then I’ll help you through the process again,” Carlos assures, his voice laced with poetry. “I’ll give you a thousand stories worth writing about.”

And it’s such a you and him thing to say that you feel your chest bloom open.

Outside, the world is just beginning to stir. The sunlight is thickening, birds singing as if to beckon the beginnings of July closer and closer. Inside, in this little kitchen scented with espresso and sunscreen, you know in your bones that won’t be the last time you wake up here.

This isn’t fate. This isn’t coincidence. It’s what’s left of the sand after it trickled down the hourglass, somehow, the two of you begin again.

—

The book was shelved under Romance.

Carlos hesitated in front of the section. His gaze trailed over the display of cartoon covers and pastel spines until his eyes settled on it.

Turquoise and dark sienna, a palette so at odds with its neighbors that it looked like it was meant to misfit. The title curled across the spine in delicate letters tangling into one another with the intimacy of intertwined lovers. Carlos felt like he intruded on something that he had no right to look at. Maybe that was the case.

He handed back the copy his girlfriend had so kindly lended him. Her copy, with loopy, highlighter-bright annotations and neatly color-coded tabs with tiny hearts next to her favorite quotes. It didn’t feel like you at all. Not when you were all in cracked spines and sand-stuck pages, yellowed out by the sun. Your notes, when your mind raced slow enough to make them, were scrawled hastily in the corners of receipts and napkins tucked before the backcover, legible only in candlelight, sometimes not even to yourself.

When they landed in Monaco, Carlos didn’t go home. He went to the airport bookstore, the scent of sterile bleach and teary goodbyes clinging to the air. He needed a clean slate: something that didn’t belong to her, but not something that belonged to you either. Just something that let him read the book like it was a book, and not a wound he’s been carrying around like a splinter.

As he takes the novel in his hands, the rough pads of his fingers shake around the paperback. A book could never be a person, Carlos reminds himself. Still, disappointment swelled in his chest like rising tide when the cover didn’t give under his touch the way your skin used to. It held firm, cold.

He glanced around instinctively. The bookstore was mostly empty, and he waited for the clerk to turn her back on him before tucking one, two, three, four under his arm. He was absurdly careful. As if they could bruise, he mocks himself.

With the carefulness of a lover, Carlos placed them at the very front of the shelf titled Women’s Fiction.

—

LA HERRADURA, PROVINCE OF GRANADA, ANDALUSIA, SPAIN. SUMMER BREAK OF 2018-19

You found each other again, summers after summers, until it became another beloved tradition, a ritual engraved in the gravelly skin of La Herradura, like initials in driftwood, softened by sun and salt but never erased.

Every late June, you’d return to your meeting place: the beachfront café that had once been the backdrop to spilled coffee and first laughter. Same time, same order— there was comfort in that, in repetition, the predictability of you and him.

As the sun dipped low below the sea, you’d slip back into his hunchback rental, skin warm with the fingerprints of daylight and your limbs heavy with knowing exactly where the night was going. You wore his shirt like silk and let him read you like scripture under the low hum of the fan.

Mornings belonged to books and windows cracked open. Carlos always woke before you, force of habit, and he’d pad down to the tiny bookstore with sand still crusted to his ankles and pick up the novel you’d published the summer before. Always one summer behind, and always eager to catch up in the only place he actually could.

He had learned to notice the parallels, to draw the metaphors by himself, no matter how clumsy. A sunset that had once dripped like marmalade over your bare shoulders found itself in Chapter Twelve. The stray kitten that had curled up in his lap one morning during breakfast became a symbol of grief in your prose. He watched your stories unfold and realized he was there: tucked between allegories and half-truths, tucked in the margins.

The days melted into each other with the same syrupy pace as the tide. For someone whose life was clipped in interviews and lap times, Carlos learned what it was like to breathe again, to fill his lungs until they stretched open without ache. His fingers, used to clenching around the wheel or curling into fists from tension, learned to soften. To touch with intention, not urgency.

He slept through the night, and he let silence settle without needing to break it.

In your shared Eden, nothing touched you. Not the headlines, not the passing of time. Even the reality that loomed past the end of those three weeks seemed to be kept at bay. There was only the breeze, the sea, and the soft, looping miracle of finding each other again.

—

LA HERRADURA, PROVINCE OF GRANADA, ANDALUSIA, SPAIN. SUMMER BREAK OF 2020.

Someone had to bite the apple first, and this time the sinner had brown hair.

This time, Carlos landed in La Herradura with red flashing in his mind, tensing the deepest parts of his bone, flashing behind his eyes when he tried to sleep. The familiar rumble of the engine still echoed inside of him as he crossed the beachfront café, the one where it always begins. This time, his body didn’t relax.

The switch hadn’t been sudden, not really. The idea of Ferrari had haunted him long before the contract had been signed. The discussions, the promises, and the restructuring of his future in motorsports; it had consumed him in the months separating one summer from the next, had bent his life in directions he’d sworn to never take for granted.

When he found you again, sitting below the striped awning with your sunglasses pushed up into your hair, your drink sweating under the Andalusian sun, he smiled. Yet, it didn’t fully reach his eyes.

You noticed it. Of course, you did.

Carlos remembers what you said, in a faraway place in which cradled the beginnings of the two of you. You said that love is far from being easy, and back then he’d disagreed without a second thought. There was nothing as easy as love. He was twenty-two then: all heart and bleeding devotion, untouched by the weight of what it meant to choose. But today he was twenty-six: it felt older, he had traded cotton shirts for linen button-ups, and learned to appreciate the taste of stronger alcohol.

And no matter how soft the sand, the hourglass kept running.

This time, Carlos planned things. Planned. The word itself was foreign to your time together. He made reservations at upscale local restaurants with white linens and dizzyingly long wine lists. He drove winding cliffs to bring you to coastal vineyards, places with photo ops and curated beauty. He booked you both scuba diving lessons with a man who introduced himself as Diego and called you lovebirds. He filled the time until it overflowed, as if silence was a sin he couldn’t afford anymore.

This wasn’t how La Herradura worked. You never planned here. You lived here.

Now, he drove too fast, kissed you like the end was always lurking around the corner. The only time he’d breathe and settle down was at night, when he held your body flush against him. His hands tugged you impossibly closer, like he was made of marble and trying to carve you out of him.

Still, you didn’t ask. The problem didn’t reside here, in your sacred, familiar garden. It lived in whatever came before and after, so you didn’t think you had a right to. You didn’t belong there.

Next year, things would have to change. Carlos would have to change. His body, his name, his entire presence all had to be shaped into one thing, focused and sharp. The Carlos you had couldn’t split himself between two places, love and legacy.

Hard-working. Focused. Determined. That’s what Carlos is, down to his core. He’d never been a romantic.

And yet, you curled into him that night, limbs loose from wine and heat, hair spilling over his bare chest like ribbons. The fan circled overhead. Outside, the waves licked the sand in soft intervals, time dissolving once again in white noise. Carlos stared at the ceiling, his hand draped low on your spine, fingers memorizing.

He keeps telling himself that it was always meant to be temporary. Time stopping for anyone or anything was a silly notion enfolded in the delusions of early adulthood. You were a substance he had to get out of his system, and those summer breaks spent in this secluded paradise had him indulging more than he felt the need to.

You were always meant to be temporary, he tries to convince himself as he holds your sleeping figure close to his chest. 

For the very first time, and in a desperate attempt to grasp the last seconds you could ever share, he whispers in your ear for the very first time, “I love you, preciosa.”

He would hold on to his name on the back of the vermilion suit, on his ivory number somewhere on the bar of his cerise car. It wasn’t the cardinal flush of your cheeks, but it was as close as he was going to get in a long time— if not forever.

Carlos would hold onto that too. Until he could draw another parallel, find another adjective.

Love is far from being easy, he finally agrees.

—

Nostalgia is a traitorous substance, an opiate of the heart: indulge in it too much and you become addicted. Carlos had learned, early one, to stray away from it. There was no room for looking back when you lived life ten seconds at a time. However, melancholy— melancholy he never quite managed to unlearn. And nostalgia, no matter how hard he tried to keep it at bay, always found a way back in.

Both brewed now, unbearably sweet, in the pages of Every Summer’s End.

Carlos sat crooked on his bed, spine aching and sheet twisted at his hips. The only sound was the rustle of paper and the quiet shift of his breath whenever a sentence carved too deeply.

When his girlfriend told him it was set in La Herradura, Carlos’ heart had dropped straight to the floor. He was scared of what he’d find between the lines. Terrified of you, not in flesh and skin but in ink and metaphors. More precisely, Carlos was afraid of finding out if you had grown to hate the memory of him, if you had walked the same streets, swam under the same starry sky, but the landscape curled into you like spoiled wine, if you had spat on his name while he held yours tenderly behind his teeth. It was a selfish fear, but real nonetheless.

Then he started reading. That’s when he realized the truth: the book wasn’t about him, like it had been so many times before.

This time, the novel was about you.

The lines blend together until they form black-and-white frames in Carlos’ mind. Adriana—your heroine—had lost the love of her life. The how was ambiguous— sometimes, you hint at the cruel but tender hands of death. Sometimes, you allude to another woman, on another coast, somewhere colder. Carlos read and reread each implication like scripture, combed through context like scripture.

But the novel was never about the man. No matter what you may imply, it all comes down to the same thing: the mourning of what was. Grief, in its purest shade, and the rebuilding that came.

He recognized every place Adriana visited, and Carlos felt it like bruising under his skin to the point of nausea. The worst wasn’t even the familiarity, but knowing you had been there too: walked those same steps without him, cried without him, healed without him. And survived.

Because that’s what the story was really about: surviving through the healing process. Life isn’t restricted to loss. It might shape and change what you are, but it doesn’t erase you. It doesn’t vanish, but simply loosens its grips. The places you once loved don’t reject you; they remember you and help you puzzle yourself back together. In the library near your rental, in the San Juan bonfire on the beach. You are still there, somewhere, no matter what happened.

Eventually, you learn to love again.

Adriana meets someone at a beachfront café. A stranger, simple and warm. He doesn’t spill his coffee on her. He tells her he’s a local, works in a bar not far from here. He’s different from her past lover, and that’s good, because he reminds her that love isn’t always followed by silence.

The tear that hung on Carlos’ eyelashes finally fell down. Gravity had decided to be merciful, just this once.

—

LA HERRADURA, PROVINCE OF GRANADA, ANDALUSIA, SPAIN. SUMMER BREAK OF 2021.

Carlos wouldn’t know what happened at that time or place. He wasn’t there.

However, you would. But you didn’t like to recall it, so you wrote about it instead.

Then, you moved on.

—

By the time Carlos had turned the last page, the sun had started its gentle ascent, spilling gold through the half-closed curtains of his bedroom. The warmth of the light filled the emptiness that came after savoring a book, heavy with everything that had been lived on the page.

The sleepless night had passed in an ever present ache. He deciphered your every allegory, holding your tone close to his chest. He had read you in every line with your rhythm, the sentences that curved like the lines of your body. Your prose was yielding, bruised. It felt like another night beside you, your hands toying with his hair, whispering sweet nothings in his ear. When the final word passed under his gaze, it felt like he was leaving you all over again.

But now he was done reading, and you were almost gone.

Almost. Because there it was, not in capitalized letters or bolded words, but on the final page, similar to the unearthing of a secret.

Although I may not be yours this time around, I could never be another’s.

He could recall a conversation you once had on the balcony of his rental. “I hate dedications at the beginning of books,” you’d muttered with a sigh. Carlos was sunbathing next to you, opening an eye to look at your figure hunched over your keyboard. “It doesn’t make sense to me. The person you dedicate it to doesn’t know what you’re giving them yet.” He’d hummed with a laugh, and you had continued. “Maybe it’s ridiculous, but I would much prefer it to be at the end, so that they understand the meaning of all of it.”

“Would you ever dedicate it to me?” Carlos had asked teasingly.

You’d arched a brow at him, rolling your eyes to the sky with nothing but tenderness. “If I did, I wouldn’t say your name, tesoro. Much too obvious.”

He hadn't thought much of it at the time, only amused when he looked for the dedications in your books and found them right before the backcover.

Except that now, the last of your presence hung on the last page and the two lines that made it, and Carlos knew in the deepest, most egoistic parts of himself, that it was meant for him to understand. That was probably the cruelest part: the story had ended, so had the numerous summers, and he wasn’t sure either of you were still the people who loved and burned under the Andalusian sun. Time passed, it was something Carlos had made peace with.

Yet, the dedication said maybe.

The most rational part of him told him to let it go. He should protect what little healing you and him may have found, to not dig up something that already fed the soil. But the thing about Carlos Sainz is that he had never been at letting go of the things that made him feel alive. Because you had a part of him in you, just like every car he had ever stepped foot in possessed a part of his soul, just like every race track could beat to the rhythm of his heart. Because Carlos Sainz doesn’t know how to give halfway.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing until he’s done, but a ticket to La Herradura for the end of the next month of June is blinking at him on his phone screen.

He had no plans, no speeches, and didn't mean to prepare any. The only desire inhabiting him was the one to be there, in that place, basking in the possibility of it.

Maybe Carlos won’t see you, maybe he will. If he does, you’d talk. He’d offer you your usual coffee, if you still took it that way, and he’d tell the entire truth. He’d see where it leads, if he’d take back that part of him you held or he’d let it stay with you.

Some summers, just like love stories, never end. 

They just get rewritten, again and again and again.

©LVRCLERC 2025 ━ do not copy, steal, post somewhere else or translate my work without my permission.

[evita-shelby]

Dolce Vita

for @duckprintspress May Trope Mayhem: Pet Acquisition

Luca Changretta x Isabel Riley ft Dolce the Beagle

set in the What Happens in Vegas verse and totally inspired by Jay and Stella from Modern Family

cw:dysfunctional family, issues, age differences (Isabel is 10 years older than Luca/Luca is 16 years older than Eva)

Isabel should have known this would not be easy

She hadn’t expected to fall in love with the same suave mobster romancing her twenty-three year old daughter, but it had and if Eva had been close to forgiving her for abandoning her time and time again as a child, then this would make the chasm between them as deep as the Mariana’s Trench.

Luca Changretta had a charm that would make even the greatest snakes in the world fall under his spell. It was the way he carried himself, the tattoos that branded him as dangerous and the devotion he could show his lover.

Isabel has had many lovers and two husbands, but it had been so long since anyone had stirred her heart ---and her loins--- like the Sicilian Mafioso had done.

Then Dolce came into their lives.

A cute little beagle Eva had hoped to give her much older boyfriend in person after his chihuahua, Miele, died of old age. Dolce was adorable, very well trained and Isabel liked dogs. It was just that Luca loved dogs the way a parent spoils their favorite child.

The Italian bought her every cute thing he saw, made her gourmet dog food so she wouldn’t have kibble or scraps like a normal pet ---he once scolded Isabel for giving her scraps of her meal as it was not good for the mutt--- and after several nights, Dolce learned that her new owner would never kick her off the bed.

Dolce even looked smug as she snuggled with Luca, as if she were gloating at driving a wedge between them.

If Isabel asked her lover who would he save if both were drowning, he would say the fucking dog.

“Please, vita mia, tell me what’s wrong.” He nuzzled her neck and tried to use his charms to get her to stop being cross with him, it would have worked, but just as she uses sex to get what she wants, Luca does the same.

It was how she let him convince her that she shouldn’t let this chance at happiness pass, that things between him and her daughter had ended for good and that Eva will understand that love is love. Eva had found a nice young man closer to her age, an old neighbor of Henry’s in Birmingham, and sure the man couldn’t keep it in his pants, but then she had found a yankee she met in Vegas and found again at Harvard or so her sister, Livia, had told her.

“I feel neglected, Luca, you used to be all mine and now I have to share you.” The forty-nine-year-old woman admits to her lover who is ten years her junior, he appears to understand, promising to do better and, most of all, lock the bedroom door for some good old nasty fucking.

“You don’t have to be jealous of Dolce, she could never be as important as you, amore.” He assures her and she believes him. Believes him up until they hear a splash on the pool and Dolce’s barks.

Luca could put first responders to shame with how quickly he sprung into action, left the house without his sandals in the hot sun, didn’t give a flying fuck that his clothes would be ruined and had the audacity to call the mutt ‘vita mia’.

Her second marriage ended because Gabriel spend too much time killing people under the guise of being a musician and a civil servant, the first ended after Isabel realized she was going to be a shit mother stuck with a husband who wants to live hand to mouth and travel the world like that. She doesn’t want to lose Luca over a fucking dog.

“She was going to drown!” Luca dries the wet pooch with a towel left by the staff on the pool chairs and denies any favoritism when he’s using baby talk and her favorite term of endearment on the dog.

“She can fucking swim! You taught her how to swim!” The Irish-Mexican heiress yells back at him and realizes that her daughter did this on purpose. Of course, she would, Isabel would do the same if she had been in her shoes. Evita knew how attached he was to his old dog, that attachment would pass onto this new pet and make her fight for his affection even is she doesn’t know who has replaced her in Luca’s heart.

But she knows her mother hates sharing, knows she would be driven insane by whatever takes up all the space she occupied. She knows because Eva inherited it from her.

“She knows.” Isabel pinched the bridge of her nose as she came to the natural conclusion as to why her obstinate daughter would go to such lengths.

“Dolce? She’s a puppy----” her lover begins and the older woman clarifies.

“Not the mutt, Eva. She did this on purpose to get her fucking revenge on me for stealing you away from her.”

Spirits, none of it had been intentional, but still Isabel woke the witch and gets to suffer Eva’s anger all over again. They had been so close, but now Isabel might as well claim Dolce as her child to feel some of the affection she’ll never get from her own flesh and blood.

“Amore, I can part with all the gifts she gave me, but not Dolce, never Dolce.”

The ultimatum is there unspoken. If she makes him choose between her or the dog, he is choosing the dog. Isabel will have to learn to share if she wants to make this work.

[thisisyourdriverspeaking]

Well, this took me a lot of online digging & a lot of patience but this is the top songs in the charts/most popular songs for each of the winners of the Indy 500. I hope you guys enjoy the effort 😂

30th May 1911 - Ray Harroun - Arthur Collins - Steamboat Bill

30th May 1912 - Joe Dawson - Enrico Caruso - Dreams Of Long Ago

30th May 1913 - Jules Goux - Harry Lauder - It's Nicer To Be In Bed

30th May 1914 - Rene Thomas - Heidelberg Quintet - By The Beautiful Sea

31st May 1915 - Ralph DePalma - Alma Gluck - Carry Me Back To Old Viginity

30th May 1916 - Dario Resta - John McCormack - The Sunshine Of Your Smile

31st May 1919 - Howdy Wilcox - Henry Burr & Albert Campbell - i'm Forever Blowing Bubbles

31st May 1920 - Gaston Chevrolet - Al Jolson - Swanee

30th May 1921 - Tommy Milton - Marion Harris - Look For The Silver Lining

30th May 1922 - Jimmy Murphy - Al Jolson - Angel Child

30th May 1923 - Tommy Milton - Carl Fenton - Love Sends A Little Gift Of Roses

30th May 1924 - Lora L Corum & Joe Boyer - Al Jolson - California Here I Come

30th May 1925 - Pete DePaolo - Ted Lewis - O! Katharina

31st May 1926 - Frank Lockhart - Gene Austin - Five Foot Two, Eyes Of Blue

30th May 1927 - George Soulders - Ben Bernie - Ain't She Sweet?

30th May 1928 - Louis Meyer - Gene Austin - Ramona

30th May 1929 - Ray Keech - Rudy Vallee - Honey

30th May 1930 - Billy Arnold - Rudy Vallee - Stein Song (University Of Maine)

30th May 1931 - Louis Schneider - Bing Crosby - Out Of Nowhere

30th May 1932 - Fred Frame - Louis Armstrong - All Of Me

30th May 1933 - Louis Meyer - Leo Reisman ft Harold Arlen - Stormy Weather

30th May 1934 - Bill Cummings - Duke Ellington - Cocktails For Two

30th May 1935 - Kelly Petillo - Guy Lombardo - What's The Reason (I'm Not Pleasin' You)

30th May 1936 - Louis Meyer - Benny Goodman - The Glory Of Love

31st May 1937 - Wilbur Shaw - Teddy Wilson ft Billie Holiday - Carelessly

30th May 1938 - Floyd Roberts - Shep Fields - Cathedral In The Pines

30th May 1939 - Wilbur Shaw - Benny Goodman - And The Angels Sing

30th May 1940 - Wilbur Shaw - Bing Crosby - If I Had My Way

30th May 1941 - Floyd David & Mauri Rose - Deanna Durbin - Waltzing In The Clouds

30th May 1946 - George Robson - Denny Dennis & The Skyrockets - Mary Lou

30th May 1947 - Mauri Rose - Bing Crosby - Among My Souvenirs

31st May 1948 - Mauri Rose - Bing Crosby - Galway Bay

30th May 1949 - Bill Holland - Burl Ives - Lavender Blue

30th May 1950 - Johnnie Parsons - Billy Eckstine - My Foolish Heart

30th May 1951 - Lee Wallard - Les Paul & Mary Ford - Mockin' Bird Hill

30th May 1952 - Troy Ruttman - Jo Stafford - A-Round The Corner

30th May 1953 - Bill Vukovich - Frankie Laine - I Believe

31st May 1954 - Bill Vukovich - Doris Day - Secret Love

30th May 1955 - Bob Sweikert - Eddie Calvert - Cherry Pink And Apple Blossom White

30th May 1956 - Pat Flaherty - Ronnie Hilton - No Other Love

30th May 1957 - Sam Hanks - Andy Williams - Butterfly

30th May 1958 - Jimmy Bryan - Connie Francis - Who's Sorry Now

30th May 1959 - Rodger Ward - Elvis Presley - A Fool Such As I

30th May 1960 - Jim Rathmann - The Everly Brothers - Cathy's Clown

30th May 1961 - AJ Foyt - Temperance Seven - You're Driving Me Crazy

30th May 1962 - Rodger Ward - Elvis Presley - Good Luck Charm

30th May 1963 - Parnelli Jones - The Beatles - From Me To You

30th May 1964 - AJ Foyt - Cilla Black - You're My World

31st May 1965 - Jim Clark - Sandie Shaw - Long Live Love

30th May 1966 - Graham Hill - The Rolling Stones - Paint It Black

31st May 1967 - AJ Foyt - The Tremeloes - Silence Is Golden

30th May 1968 - Bobby Unser - Union Gap - Young Girl

30th May 1969 - Mario Andretti - The Beatles with Billy Preston - Get Back

30th May 1970 - Al Unser - England World Cup Squad - Back Home

29th May 1971 - Al Unser - Dawn - Knock Three Times

27th May 1972 - Mark Donohue - T.Rex - Metal Guru

30th May 1973 - Gordon Johncock - Wizzard - See My Baby Jive

26th May 1974 - Johnny Rutherford - Rubettes - Sugar Baby Love

25th May 1975 - Bobby Unser - Tammy Wynette - Stand By Your Man

30th May 1976 - Johnny Rutherford - J.J Barrie - No Charge

29th May 1977 - A.J Foyt - Rod Stewart - I Don't Want To Talk About It

28th May 1978 - Al Unser - Boney M - Rivers Of Babylon

27th May 1979 - Rick Mears - Blondie - Sunday Girl

25th May 1980 - Johnny Rutherford - Hot Chocolate - No Doubt About It

24th May 1981 - Bobby Unser - Adam & The Ants - Stand & Deliver

30th May 1982 - Gordon Johncock - Madness - House of Fun

29th May 1983 - Tom Sneva - The Police - Every Breath You Take

27th May 1984 - Rick Mears - Wham! - Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go

26th May 1985 - Danny Sullivan - Paul Hardcastle - 19

31st May 1986 - Bobby Rahal - Peter Gabriel - Sledgehammer

24th May 1987 - Al Unser - Starship - Nothing's Gonna Stop Us Now

29th May 1988 - Rick Mears - Wet Wet Wet - With A Little Help From My Friends

28th May 1989 - Emerson Fittipaldi - Gerry Marsden, Paul McCartney, Holly Johnson & The Christians - Ferry Cross The Mersey

27th May 1990 - Arie Luyendyk - Adamski - Killer

26th May 1991 - Rick Mears - Cher - The Shoop Shoop Song

24th May 1992 - Al Unser JR - KWS - Please Don't Go

30th May 1993 - Emerson Fittipaldi - Ace Of Base - All That She Wants

29th May 1994 - Al Unser JR - Wet Wet Wet - Love Is All Around

28th May 1995 - Jacques Villeneuve - Robson & Jerome - Unchained Melody

26th May 1996 - Buddy Lazier - Buddiel, Skinner & Lightning Seed - Three Lions

27th May 1997 - Arie Luyendyk - Eternal ft Bebe Winans - I Wanna Be The Only One

24th May 1998 - Eddie Cheever - Tamperer ft Maya - Feel It

30th May 1999 - Kenny Brack - Shanks & Bigfoot - Sweet Like Chocolate

28th May 2000 - Juan Pablo Montoya - Sonique - It Feels So Good

27th May 2001 - Helio Castroneves - DJ Pied Piper - Do You Really Like It?

26th May 2002 - Helio Castroneves - Eminem - Without Me

25th May 2003 - Gil De Ferran - Justin Timberlake - Rock Your Body

30th May 2004 - Buddy Rice - Frankee - F.U.R.B (F U Right Back)

29th May 2005 - Dan Wheldon - Akon - Lonely

28th May 2006 - Sam Hornish JR - Gnarls Barkley - Crazy

27th May 2007 - Dario Franchitti - Rihanna ft Jay-Z - Umbrella

25th May 2008 - Scott Dixon - Rihanna - Take A Bow

24th May 2009 - Helio Castroneves - Dizzee Rascal & Van Helden - Bonkers

30th May 2010 - Dario Franchitti - Dizzee Rascal - Dirtee Disco

29th May 2011 - Dan Wheldon - Pitbull ft Ne-Yo, Afrojack & Nayer - Give Me Everything

27th May 2012 - Dario Franchitti - Fun ft Janelle Monae - We Are Young

26th May 2013 - Tony Kanaan - Naughty Boy ft Sam Smith - La La La

25th May 2014 - Ryan Hunter-Reay - Sam Smith - Stay With Me

24th May 2015 - Juan Pablo Montoya - OMI - Cheerleader (Felix Jaehn Remix)

29th May 2016 - Alexander Rossi - Drake ft Wizkid & Kyla - One Dance

28th May 2017 - Takuma Sato - Luis Fonsi, Daddy Yankee & Justin Bieber - Despacito

27th May 2018 - Will Power - Calvin Harris & Dua Lipa - One Kiss

26th May 2019 - Simon Pagenaud - Ed Sheeran & Justin Bieber - I Don't Care

23rd August 2020 - Takuma Sato - Joel Corry ft MNEK - Head & Heart

30th May 2021 - Helio Castroneves - Olivia Rodrigo - Good 4 U

29th May 2022 - Marcus Ericsson - Harry Styles - As It Was

28th May 2023 - Josef Newgarden - Calvin Harris & Ellie Goulding - Miracle

26th May 2024 - Josef Newgarden - Sabrina Carpenter - Espresso

And yes, this wouldn't be a post from me if I didn't create a playlist 😂

[unblissfulawareness]

🙌What's a line or paragraph of yours that you're proud of?

🚿Where do your best ideas seem to strike?

🥘What wip are you most excited about?

Omg yay!

Okay so 1. "Drex wanted to be indestructible too. He glowed under Ray’s shine, worked for his praise, and came as close to indestructible as he could get. He tolerated pain better than anyone Ray knew, barely even flinched until he stopped flinching entirely. He worked rigorously to gain muscle, and skills, and become someone Captain Man would be proud of. Then he realized Captain Man could only be proud of himself. He’d seen the video footage. Daddy called him special and it went to his head."

I love getting into character's heads. This is a line from Bloody Knuckles, which is a favorite of mine that I've written. It's always my go-to when someone asks for an example of my work.

2. I get my best ideas in bed. A lot of my fics are written between the hours of 11pm-5am because I either had a dream or had time to lay there and think. Sometimes I'll remember a line or a scene and I'll want to expand on it and sometimes I just want to put people in situations.

3. I have two answers for this. The first one is a Schwoz-centric backstory fic I've been working on for some time now, since last summer. It's almost ready but I really want to finish it before I post it because if I start posting without finishing, odds are it won't get done. The second one is one I have re-hyped myself up for and I need to work on it soon. It's a Danger Force/Charmed crossover power swap fic ft. Henry as well, which is part of a multiple crossover series I want to do. The biggest issues I'm having are, a. trying to justify putting season 6 Charmed and season 2 Danger Force in the same space because we're talking early 2000s and post 2020 in the same realm as each other and a lot has changed since then, and b. I don't particularly like crossovers so writing one feels weird.

[wavesketcher-sq]

Kintsugi V (ft a scene I’m very proud of)

Anything resembling peace freezes when they reach the floor of the apartment. Regina recognises their voices immediately - Henry does too, taking her hand in his, protective like he’s the parent. 

“I thought you’d be happy to see us.” 

“I’m happy,” Emma is saying, sounding far from it, “I just… I wish you would’ve called.”

“David thought this way would be better…”

They’re at the door now. Henry looks up at her, apprehensive, and she forces a reassuring smile. 

Regina pushes at the half open door and announces herself by shutting it behind them.  Snow and David stare at her, the former panicked, the latter angry; Henry tightens his fingers around hers. 

“Regina.” David puffs out his chest, readying to defend his honour like a true Charming. “We are taking Emma and Henry back to Portland.”

“David,” Emma winces, “We haven’t-”

“No, Emma,” he interrupts, “We are family. Family is meant to be together.”

Snow stays silent; her eyes are on Henry and Regina’s entwined hands. 

“It’s not that simple,” Emma says, voice steady like she is fighting to keep it from revealing her true emotions. 

“Henry,” David says, pinning him with a fierce stare, “Do you want to stay here or come to Portland with your grandparents?”

If Regina had her magic, Prince David would be flung across the room by now. “That is too big of a decision for a ten year old -”

“You don’t get a say in this,” David snarls.

“No? I’m his mother.”

“Emma is his mother! You’re nothing but a witch.” 

Regina feels Henry flinch. Her entire body is pulsing with rage but she will not lash out. She will not give this self-important fool the satisfaction of seeing fear - fear she inflicted - on Henry’s face. 

“Regina is his mother too,” Emma says quietly. 

“She destroyed-”

“She raised my son.” Emma’s voice is so eerily calm, only the fold in her brow betrays any anger. 

Snow perceives it too and runs her hand along David’s arm. “Emma, please try and understand us.”

The blonde turns to look at Regina, eyes wild with an intensity that strips her bare. “Henry needs you. I know he does.”

Regina nods, throat thickening with emotion. “I will not hurt your daughter,” she says to the couple. “And frankly, calling me a witch in front of your grandson is poor behavioural modelling.” 

That last sentence is all the spite she allows herself. David’s eyes flare with fury but Snow curls around his arm again and says, defeated, “Okay. Okay, Emma, we’ll go. You know where to find us.”

Emma slumps against the kitchen counter. She looks so fatigued in that moment, Regina wants to move toward her. To do what, she doesn’t know, and she won’t dare try and find out. 

On her way toward the door, Snow hesitates in front of Regina. The Princess frowns, like a surprising thought has crossed her mind. “I’m a mother too,” she says.

And then they’re gone and Henry begins to cry and, as Regina’s folding him into a hug, Emma walks out of the kitchen and encloses herself in the bedroom. 

Read the full chapter here.

[nyasbrain]

Tumblr in 2025?

Hey...is this thing on?

As a long-time tumblr fan and advocate, returning to the app (everything is an app, even if I'm writing this on my laptop) was not on my 2025 bingo card.

What was on my bingo card, however, was a fairly vague "crafts & DIYs" square. I'd like to think of this as a craft of sorts.

I'm not great at sharing through pictures and videos, so while I'd love to get on the recently resurrected TikTok and yap to the camera, that is not an option. Lucky for me, I've always been good at yelling into the void.

Everyone is on Substack these days, which is like tumblr for serious people. As a 2013 vet and self-proclaimed unserious person, I've always seen tumblr as a void. I could post and reblog whatever I wanted without fear because no one I knew was on the app, despite my constant advocacy. So here I am again, in 2025, asking for tumblr to be the same space I needed in 2013, where I posted my horrible Wattpad stories, discovered Frank Ocean, and explored my style via the NYC influencers I wanted to be just like (where are they now?).

Now into the weekly brain dump:

Reading: The Neighbor Favor by Kristina Forest

After being sucked in by Emily Henry last year, I became a BIG romance reader. It's by no means my favorite genre, as the formula for romance is super predictable. The two love interests are introduced, form some relationship through a popular trope (enemies to lovers, fake relationship, or in this case, secret identity), miscommunication causing the (always hated by me) third act breakup before everything is resolved and they live happily ever after.

The romance book formula is why so many people love the genre and why romance books are perfect when I'm between something heavy or don't know what else to read. Before we get into it, this is my rating scale, for reference.

☆ Worst thing I ever read ☆☆ Something to talk about ☆☆☆ Cute, fun, hot, interesting ☆☆☆☆ Hooked, giving you a play by play  ☆☆☆☆☆ Burned into my brain, will never get over 

The Neighbor Favor is the first in The Greene Sister Series. Since I got into romance, I've been on a mission to read all the popular romance series, especially by Black authors. So this being a letdown was just as sad for me as it is for anyone who loves the book.

Stage 1: The two love interests are introduced.

The FMC Lily, an assistant at a non-fiction publishing house with dreams of being a children's book editor, deliriously emails the author of her favorite fantasy book on a hot summer train in NYC. That one email turns into months (maybe a year) of back-and-forth between Lily and the ~mysterious~ and charming author. After several emails, flirting, and imaginary dates, the two mutually agree to FT (or Zoom? Skype?). Lily is sat, waiting on the call for the full hour before getting an email back from the author saying, "I'm not who you think I am," and disconnecting his email altogether, which I thought was VERY dramatic.

Months later, Lily moves in with her sister Violet (yes, all of the sisters are named after flowers) and runs into the MMC, nicknamed "fine as hell neighbor" Nick, in the elevator, who is giving a pep talk to his other neighbor Henry about how to get a girl.

Stage 2: Form a relationship through a popular trope.

Lily, who is described as shy and reserved, enlists Nick to help her find a date to her sister's wedding after an electrifying kiss, which Nick runs out on. The two begin the forced proximity, wingman trope.

Of course, Lily and Nick want to be together, but Nick has some "I'm unworthy" complex that I frankly hate in a character, especially when it is unwarranted.

Stage 3: Third act breakup

If it wasn't apparent, the mystery author and Nick are the same person. Nick uses a pen name, N.R. Strickland, has no author photo, and says he's British in his author bio (more on this later). Nick reveals this to Lily after kissing her the third time (he actually does nothing to help this woman find a date besides taking her to a party), and Lily admits her feelings for him.

Post-reveal, Lily feels (rightfully) betrayed, Nick feels guilty AF, and gives her a stack of emails he has written to her since he ghosted her, then proceeds to buy her some (practical) gifts. Nick apologizes, says he'll never lie to her again, and grovels for approximately five pages before...

Stage 4: Everything is resolved

Lily forgives him and agrees to begin building a relationship. Blah blah blah, Lily goes to her sister's bachelorette party, some stuff happens with Nick's family, and he fucks off to NC for a week before he comes back for an author wrap party at the publishing company and reveals that he is N.R. Strickland (GASP).

Stage 5: Happily Ever After

With all that, the two go to her sister's (not) wedding together, and they live happily ever after.

Now, here are my issues with the book.

1. So many tropes. You've got mail (the first quarter of the book is told through email) x forced proximity x wingman x secret identity x friends to lovers. Girl, give it up! I only have the tolerance for maybe two tropes a book without it feeling forced.

2. Nick's woe-is-me attitude is so insufferable. I understand he's had a hard family life, but one of his big reasons for not wanting to reveal himself as the author is because he lied about being from England, and when I say nobody cared... NO ONE CARED!

3. Pacing? I don't know; it was just weird for me. The amount of times they kissed and then tried to be friends? No tension, IMO. What makes a romance is the HEA, so while I know they will always end up together when the third act breakup comes, I want to at least think they won't.

Overall, I gave it two stars. It's something to talk about (clearly), and I will read the rest of the series; I would not recommend this as a stand-alone.

Eating: Yogurt Bowls w/ Apple and Cinnamon

idk, this is just a hyper-fixation meal that carried over from fall to winter. I'm not good at buying fruit, but somehow when I go to the grocery store, a bag of apples always ends up in my cart. Mix that with some yogurt and a dash (one of my favorite metrics of measurement) of cinnamon. That gets five big booms from me. 

Playing: Imaginal Disk by Magdalena Bay

What is on my bingo card for 2025 is listening to 30 albums. I'm a chronic listener to my liked playlist, which I have been saving songs to since I made my Spotify account. This year, I'm rejecting modernity (listening to curated Spotify playlists) and returning to my roots of discovering music on my own.

How I haven't heard of Magdalena Bay before this week is beyond me because

1. I'm obsessed

2. They have 3.5M monthly listeners.

The album gave me the same feeling I had when I listened to Nurture by Porter Robinson (one of my favorite albums of last year) , which is: wow; I love everything. I love music. How I have I never heard this before? Can I hear everything else by this artist immediately?

Angel on a Satellite is one of my favorite songs on the album, mostly because it makes me feel how I felt when I watched POSE for the first time. I will not explain further.

Reccomending: Making things with your hands

I've become somewhat of a fiber arts evangelist, as my friend Nia described it, in the past month. There is something so fulfilling about making shit with your hands.

Having a "hand hobby" outside of going on your phone is a lost art. While I firmly believe scrolling is a hobby, making tangible items with your hands is unmatched. There is no better feeling than crocheting a sweater or knitting a scarf and saying "Thanks, I made it" when someone compliments you.

I've known how to crochet for years. The first time I learned was in middle school, where some cool girl taught me on the school bus in the morning (I hope she is being hot and thriving somewhere). Since then crocheting has been on and off for me and the first garment I made was in December. Something in me unlocked. Knowing I could make clothes out of yarn??? I felt like a witch! Since then, I've been spreading the good word about making shit with your hands.

I watched this video on the politics of feminism and fiber arts, which I don't have anything smart to say about, but thought was good.

But that's not all. I've also been super into junk journaling this year. My junk journal, which is mostly a collage of shit I've collected, has brought me so much joy. I'm yearning for old magazines and craft supplies so I can create more spreads. I've never been good at regular journaling, but this feels like a way to reflect on the things I've done. 

Treating: Very expensive jeans

I'm not one for buying expensive shit, but last week I spent $200 in 30 minutes, which, frankly, I think should be illegal.

I've been playing with my personal style lately, trying to find clothes that SCREAM my name and outfits I can create interesting silhouettes with. So last week, on an adventure to find barrel jeans, I walked into Madewell. Naturally, I went to the sale section, and where I wanted to find barrel jeans; I found wide-leg black jeans, a staple that was missing from my closet.

I did the normal find a size, try them on, and when I say I could not leave the store without them, I mean it. Thankfully, it was 50% off sale, which meant these normally very expensive jeans would be $69 instead of $138.

WRONG!

The sale section, one room in the back of the store, is "split" into two sections. Sale on the right and non-sale on the left, except it is not split, it's just clothes in a room. So after I tried them on, and decided I couldn't live without them, I ended up spending $138 on jeans, which I'm vowing to NEVER do again. And as a writing this, the jeans are now on sale...

That's it for now. Thanks for being my place to scream into the void.

[toxi-works-at-culvers]

also what are some of your headcanons for him? i'd love to know:)!

ohh i have so many thoughts about him, thank you for asking! :3c

some general stuff first i guess? i think he genuinely loved his kids! and i think that he also liked kids in general, since he opened up fredbear's and all. i don't think he was the best dad, but i think he genuinely tried. and i don't really like when he's portrayed as abusive because i don't feel like it makes sense for his character.

basic stuff: 6 ft 2 in tall, built like a fuckin twig, scariest gray/green eyes you will ever see. charming bastard smile. missing a tooth because he's definitely gotten into a fight before. wears purple in almost every outfit and dresses more formally than needed. bisexual. somewhere in his mid-30's in 1983

hobbies include robotics, designing animatronics, acting, journaling, and juggling (canon btw)

british. that's not even a headcanon but i feel like it's being forgotten lately (matthew curtis' voicelines for him + he's not gonna have an accent in the movie… sad!)

very afraid of death

has a very high opinion of himself

probably had a cat at one point. i feel like he would

i think his hair would start graying kind of early because of stress. the man's a workaholic and has definitely done more than a few all-nighters :P

i also think he got married kind of early (in his 20's or so) from societal pressure and also oopsies!! accidental pregnancy! so yeah. michael was an accident but william still loved him - but once elizabeth and evan were born william kind of ends up ignoring michael in favor of them. and that causes michael's teen angst to get especially angsty which is why the bite of 83 happens

he 100% used to have a thing with henry. there's no way they weren't at least a little fruity. (from the silver eyes, "a search of his house had found (…) stacks of journals full of raving paranoia, passages about henry that ranged from wild jealousy to near worship." tell me that's not homosexual.) but anyways they both have families now, yet william still lowkey kind of wants henry. but will never have him because they are both doomed by the narrative :) (edit to also say. they are like a divorced old couple tbh.)

his opinion about henry swaps around a lot. sees henry as being superior and better than him even if, technically, william has made wayyy more advanced animatronics. or sometimes thinks that he's the best and henry would be nothing without him.

and now his personality!! i kind of try to base most of it on how he's portrayed in the books, with my own touch added on. basically he's silly! he's a great actor and he's very theatrical. he's also very charismatic, good at interacting with people as well as getting what he wants. but underneath all that he's kind of an asshole, he's really selfish and only really cares about himself. he's egotistcal and he doesn't admit his faults because he thinks he can't be wrong. so yeah. (this actually got really long so i condensed it down. more elaboration under the cut)

gets springlocked and dies in 1993. returned to the fnaf 1 location because he wanted to destroy the old animatronics, thinking that it might free the souls and let him avoid their wrath or something idk. kind of backfired on him.

post springtrapping he's had a lot of time to reflect, but rather than feeling guilty he feels like he needs to get revenge. he wants to kill everyone who's ever wronged him and that's what keeps him going, even in death. (also the only one he might ACTUALLY somewhat regret is killing charlie, because of how it broke his relationship with henry. but otherwise he doesn't feel guilty at all.)

and most importantly, the fnaf 6 ending (with henry's speech) is canon and he's dead after that :) no glitchtrap, no mimic, no FUCKING FEAR GAS!1!1!11

(the original, longer version of his personality here lol) i think that william is actually a very silly goofy guy! he's dramatic, he's an entertainer and an actor as shown by how he acts when he's wearing the springbonnie suit. although he's definitely playing it up for an effect there, he's still kind of uhh. theatrical i think. but he's also very charismatic and could probably smooth talk his way out of prettty much anything, which is part of the reason he doesn't get arrested after the MCI (also the lack of evidence). at the same time he has kind of a weird vibe to him, you can just tell there's something wrong with this dude, like maybe he's trying a little too hard to look normal.

and thennnn there's what's beneath the surface. william is kind of insensitive, self-centered/selfish, and egotistical. he also absolutely refuses to admit his own faults or shortcomings. something bad happened? not his fault! he was wrong about something? no he wasn't! another thing, william is very paranoid and usually feels like anyone or anything could be a threat to him (mostly because of that one passage from the silver eyes, "had spent so much of his life fighting like a cornered rat." and ANOTHER thing from the silver eyes, "he had taken on the mantle of bitter sadism as an integral part of himself. he would strike out against others and revel in their pain, feeling righteously that the world owed him his cruel pleasures.")

at first he kills charlie because he wants to bring evan back, and feels he deserves some kind of revenge on henry because it was HIS animatronic that did the bite after all, right? but along the way he realizes he enjoys killing. and that it feels so good to have power when he hasn't for most of his life. so he keeps going, and eventually all that comes crashing down on him. and it's tragic! because he used to have what many would call a perfect life. but he completely ruined that with his own selfish desires.

[grtmnick]

The steel of the bars felt cold in Regina's hand, but she just wasn't able to muster enough give a fuck to really notice how the cool metal stung the skin of her right palm, given the mark of death that she held in her left.

Though the door to the jail's cell had been opened, she knew that the only thing which awaited her beyond the tiny 8 x 8 ft. room, was her probably well deserved fate.

Despite being a former Evil Queen who was infamous for scheming, she didn't even bother paying attention to whatever sentiments the Charmings were sharing with their golden haired goodly broodling. No-doubt they were reveling in their victory, and had only opened the door so that Regina could be escorted to her quickly approaching demise.

"I made a promise to Henry--She's not dying," exclaimed Emma in a quiet voice, but one also laced with iron-willed determination.

The statement broke through Regina's shell of misery, shattered it into millions of pieces even.

Her amber eyes widened. The dark coal-like husk that was what little remained of her heart, clenched. Her focus welded to the woman that had just demanded she be Regina's Savior.

It seemed that a dashing knight had come to her in the late hour when she was most in need.

[randomestfandoms-ocs]

Honey La Bouff & The Unfairytale Kids ✤ Impossible Dreams

Say “I love you” to your friends sincerely and often

(Honey La Bouff, Lawson Henry, Jane, Li Lonnie, Doug, and Prince Aziz, ft. honorary member Chad Charming)

Tag List: @airwolf92 – want to be added?

[theimpossiblescheme]

a pair of plausible fellows: playlists for mungojerrie and rumpleteazer

mungojerrie: 01. london calling - the clash | 02. movin’ out (anthony’s song) - billy joel | 03. leroy and me - no more kings | 04. parklife - blur | 05. all along the watchtower (instrumental) - devlin | 06. hold out your hand - brandi carlisle | 07. quiver a little - benjamin clementine | 08. devil may care - charming disaster | 09. be who you are - the kooks | 10. color on the walls - foster the people | 11. something for sellers - henry mancini | 12. tubthumping - chumbawumba | 13. catch me if you can - matt walden | 14. smooth criminal - alien ant farm | 15. secret worlds - the amazing devil | 16. come on eileen - dexys midnight runners | 17. drive It like you stole it - sing street | 18. sunflower - vitamin string quartet ft. thatviolakid | 19. how far we’ve come - matchbox twenty [x] rumpleteazer: 01. helter skelter - dana fuchs | 02. we are golden - mika | 03. all through the night - cyndi lauper | 04. lowlife - poppy | 05. sweet child o’ mine - postmodern jukebox | 06. suite v electric overture - janelle monáe | 07. should i stay or should i go - the clash | 08. red tide - neko case | 09. harder, better, faster, stronger - pomplamoose | 10. authority song - john cougar mellencamp | 11. and everything becomes a blur - hellogoodbye | 12. into the wild - lp | 13. lollipops and roses - herb alpert and the tijuana brass | 14. it’s for my dad - nancy sinatra | 15. making a lady - daniel pemberton | 16. freak show - ingrid michaelson | 17. everywhere - fleetwood mac | 18. venom - ravyn lenae | 19. goodbye yellow brick road - yola [x]

[unitedcountryvirginiarealty]

Waterfall Property For Sale in Virginia | 18 Acres Cabin & Creek | Bassett VA The Waterfalls of Blackberry Creek - Waterfall Property For Sale in Virginia | 18 Acres Cabin & Creek | Bassett VA 📍 Big Mama Ln & Hales Fish Pond Rd, Bassett, VA 24055 Now Offered at $330,000 Welcome to The Waterfalls of Blackberry Creek — a secluded 18.15-acre retreat in Henry County featuring a historic log cabin, a 20-ft natural waterfall, a half-acre stocked pond, and over 1,300 feet of creek frontage. This is a rare opportunity to own a legacy property with rustic charm, recreation value, and deep roots. ✅ 24x36 log cabin with power, water, sewer & fireplaces ✅ 1/2-acre pond with dock + 1,300’ of creek frontage ✅ 20-foot natural waterfall with custom-built overlook platforms ✅ Four deeded parcels with trails, mature hardwoods, and privacy ✅ Once home to the Hollandsworth Mill (1700s-era family operation) ✅ Ideal for retreat, hunting, investment, or short-term rental use 📞 To schedule your private showing, call or text me direct at 804-210-6533 — 🔔 Subscribe for new listings, market updates, and rural property tours https://www.youtube.com/@vanclandandlake/?sub_confirmation=1 — 📬 Stay Connected: 🌐 Linktree: https://ift.tt/yTdp201 📘 Facebook: https://ift.tt/zWtIpN4 📸 Instagram: https://ift.tt/S97qKEZ 💼 LinkedIn: https://ift.tt/0SKEmkj 📩 Email: jr@ucvirginiarealty.com ☎️ Mobile: 804-210-6533 — 🎬 Watch Next: ▶️ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ly9ui9ymZ30 ▶️ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wvEQyhHyCtQ ▶️ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VwKf51q0uXE ▶️ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ip_cAmW3pUA ▶️ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B8LZCDed3ok ▶️ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ij6m0PIpxOs ▶️ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y_isrw-0wik ▶️ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6CDzJZW-DXc ▶️ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iPMhBVJLJnY ▶️ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tn2ehc_JoxU ▶️ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PksqN_-yDO0 ▶️ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0nB52RDNCVE ▶️ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Mq5a1KnMKNw ▶️ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q2kBbXMyPcc ▶️ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0t40RFqydYw ▶️ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m8g5c5jROQE — ✅ About J.R. Webster – United Country Virginia Realty | UC Hunting Properties As an experienced Land Agent and proud affiliate of UC Hunting Properties, I specialize in helping landowners unlock the full value of their rural, recreational, and investment land across Virginia and North Carolina. While I represent a range of property types, land is my primary focus and passion — from waterfront lots and timber tracts to hunting land and buildable acreage. I bring national marketing exposure, local expertise, and over 20 years of military leadership to every deal — backed by one of the most recognized land brokerages in the country. This channel is built for landowners, investors, and sellers who want an authentic, results-driven approach to rural real estate in the VA/NC region. — 🔎 Search Phrases: Bassett VA land for sale Waterfall property in Virginia Cabin with creek frontage VA Recreational land for sale in Henry County Southside VA hunting retreat Virginia land with pond and cabin Log cabin land listing VA Blackberry Creek Bassett VA UC Virginia Realty listings Virginia investment land for sale — #VANCLandandLake #VirginiaLandForSale #WaterfrontProperty #WaterfallProperty #CabinInTheWoods #RecreationalLand #BassettVA #HuntingLandVA #UCVirginiaRealty #UCLandPro #ShortTermRentalLand via J.R. Webster - United Country Virginia Realty https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC9UFHQiBssjjkBMGEjZV42g May 20, 2025 at 07:54PM

[kinonicaltrickster]

friends and others tags

rick shades/oblivious obsequious [epithet erased, friend fictive] - #🐙

sylvester ashling [epithet erased, friend kin] - #🧶ft dr yoyo

mera selamin [epithet erased, friend kin] - #🧶ft shattered and bruised

molly blyndeff [epithet erased, friend kin] - #🧶ft beartrap

shipahoy dudley [bendy and the dark revival] - #✒️ft dudley

boris the wolf [bendy and the ink machine, friend association] - #✒️ft my big buddy

julie joyful [welcome home, friend kin] - #⭐️ft julie

barnaby beagle [welcome home] - #⭐️ft barnaby

fluttershy [my little pony: friendship is magic, friend kin] - #🌈ft flutters

pinkie pie [my little pony: friendship is magic, friend kin] - #🌈ft pink

rarity [my little pony: friendship is magic, friend kin] - #🌈ft rares

applejack [my little pony: friendship is magic, friend kin] - #🌈ft aj

discord [my little pony: friendship is magic, friend kin] - #🌈ft discord

microphone [inanimate insanity, friend kin] - #🧀ft mikaphone

suitcase [inanimate insanity, friend kin] - #🧀ft suitcase

smack [supermental, friend kin] - #🧿ft smack

kris [deltarune, friend kin] - #🦖ft kris

noelle [deltarune, friend kin] - #🦖ft noelle

foxy [five nights at freddys] - #💄ft captain hook

lolbit [five nights at freddys] - #💄ft error404

funtime foxy [five nights at freddys, friend association] - #💄ft funtime

mac [rhyme and reason, friend kin] - #🪅ft mac n cheese

static [rhyme and reason, friend kin] - #🪅ft static noise

the heart [chonny charming chaos compendium, friend kin] - #🔱ft little bird

the mind [chonny charming chaos compendium, friend kin] - #🔱ft mechanical man

tails miles prower [sonic the hedgehog, friend kin] - #🦔ft my number one fan

henry jekyll [the glass scientists, friend kin] - #🎩ft the rose to my thorns

[greatevent89]

Grand Hyatt San Antnio

Host your unforgettable events at Grand Hyatt San Antonio River Walk, where sophistication meets the charm of the Alamo City. Positioned on the historic River Walk, our upscale hotel serves as the perfect venue for weddings, grand events, and memorable gatherings. Elegant Venue: With 115,000 sq ft of indoor-outdoor event space, including ballrooms and terrace seating offering breathtaking views, our hotel provides an elegant setting for your special occasions. Top-Notch Catering: Indulge in world-class catering featuring locally sourced products and Hyatt’s Personal Preference Dining® for a flawless event experience. Prime Location: Adjacent to the Henry B. Gonzalez Convention Center, our hotel offers unparalleled convenience for your guests, making us the only hotel connected to the convention center.

[hvnriks-archive]

alright, erik could understand the reason for all the tensions as much as the next guy, but this was just quite frankly getting ridiculous. it was a week later. very much the forgive and forget type, erik just kind of assumed everyone should be that way too. hence why he found himself pounding on the door to henry’s room late one saturday evening - he refused to let his friend feel bad anymore. “ henry ! henry ! ” each yell was punctuated with a loud smack on the door frame - he didn’t particularly care how many people in the hallway heard. “ open up, i know you’re in there, you big sensitive sulk. and if you don’t, you know i’m just coming in anyway. ” @stubbxrnchaos​

[wavesketcher-sq]

Kintsugi (ft Regina immediately after the curse breaks)

Regina wakes to the cold light of the Sheriff’s station - and the cold light of Snow White’s gaze. 

“Have you come to gloat?” she hisses, though it falls to the floor of the jail cell as a defeated croak.

“No, I actually feel sorry for you.”

“So noble,” Regina says dryly. 

Snow cocks her head to one side. “Or honest.”

“What’s the grand Charming plan then?” Regina studies her through the bars. “Parade me through town, then execute me under the clock tower? Pierce me with one of your quaint little arrows?”

She’s not sure where she’s finding the energy to provoke the Princess. Maybe it’s not energy at all - maybe it’s just defeat, forcing it’s way out of her in a final, pathetic battle cry. 

She is numb. 

Emma has taken Henry and she is numb.

Snow sighs. “I’ve never had the same thirst for revenge that you do, Regina. It looks exhausting.”

“What then?”

And Snow takes a step forward. She lifts an iron key out of her pocket and, to Regina’s confusion, twists it in the lock. “This is your kingdom, Your Majesty,” she says, letting the door swing open with a clang, “Reign over it.”

Regina doesn’t dare move. She stands in the doorway and watches the Princess exit the room. She assumes it must be a trap, that stepping forward will detonate a bomb and she’ll explode into a million pieces of disparate love, without ever getting the chance to rebuild into a mother. 

But Emma has taken Henry. She watched them drive away - as Whale pinned her arms behind her back and handcuffed her, as the dwarves jeered and spat at her shoes - she watched them drive away and now she is numb. 

Eventually, Regina decides that death via explosion would at least be instantaneous so she takes a step. Then another. And another. 

Then she walks out of the Sheriff’s station and into harsh, but warm, sunlight. 

What she observes is emptiness. There is Granny’s and the library and the Town Hall and every other building she designed but it’s all empty. There is not a soul. 

Until -

The familiar clack, clack of a cane on concrete makes her spin to her left.

Rumple's mouth twists. "That went well."

Regina strides towards him, fury consuming her like a fresh curse. “Where the hell is everyone?”

He laughs. “This was their prison, dearie. They were hardly going to stay.”

She is desperate now, standing here, in the embers of the town she built, desperate enough to say, “And where are you going?” as though she wants him to stay with her. 

“Where I’ve been waiting to go for twenty-eight years.”

Her head spins. “You can’t just leave!” she shouts after his limping form, and he laughs again. A cold, pitying sound. 

She whirls around, staring at the clock and its ticking time, a scream building in her throat. There is nothing left. There is nothing left of her. 

Emma has taken Henry and she is nothing. 

Regina sinks down on to the warm tarmac, streaked with the tire tracks of fleeing citizens, and stays there, for hours. 

Read Full Chapter Here

[btdemaru]

Obey Me! Dating fluff headcanon.

ft. The 7 demon brothers seperate

(obey me brothers x GN! Reader)

Note : these r just the headcanon + love language that i think would fit them, if it's abit ooc i apologize!

Warning : slightly suggestive

Lucifer

his love language is definitely acts of service and quality time

Opening doors for you, pouring you a cup of coffee he made just for the both of you

Whenever he's doing work and you're in the room with him, he'd probably pull you onto his lap

Lucifer loves and always enjoys the times you spend together frfr

Even if it's just in his room, going for night walks, fancy dinners and so on

If you guys go out for dinner or just grocery shopping he would definitely put his hand around your waist just to show everyone there that you're his

He'll say that hes a little overprotective.. even tho 'little' is far from how protective he actually is 💀

Tends to overwork himself so you have to force him to get his ass to bed whether you drag him or not

Is too prideful to admit that he craves your hugs and cuddles every night

Mostly calls you 'my love' or 'my dearest'

If you disturb him while he's working on a deadline or just giving him an attitude he'd definitely be pissed and wouldn't hesitate to put your bratty attitude in place

Loves kissing your lips and neck

Mammon

I think his love language is gifting (more to receiving gifts lmfao) and physical touch

Will make you his lucky charm when he's gambling 😉

If he won, you're in for a treat! Would spend the money he won on you by buying you new clothes, shoes, jewelry or even a lingerie (more of a gift for him tbh)

Mammon is very caring towards you so when he sees that you're down or upset he'd definitely will try his hardest to cheer you up

Which probably is easy since he's such a fun demon to he around with so you're never bored with him around

I think his nicknames for you that he uses alot is probably 'stupid' or 'human'

Ofcourse he doesn't mean it when hes insulting you though

If he hears anyone insulting you he'd make a scene which sometimes mostly isn't really needed if you dont give a shit about what other demon/people say.

Favorite parts of you he likes to kiss is your cheeks

Leviathan

I've always imagined him as a sweet boy (so breedable)

His love language? Quality time and maybe physical touch <3

He's mostly in his room, so when you invited yourself in and started talking about how you like his interest he'd burst right there and then.

Loves your touch, perhaps abit clingy..? Typa guy who'd snuggle with you in bed while he's playing games or sitting on your lap while he's fighting bosses 👌

has difficulty accepting that you choose to spend time with him or even dating him

If you decide to cosplay just for his eyes only his brain would malfunctioned, face and ears all red flushed

Tbh he'd get just a teeny tiny bit jealous when you pay more attention to henry 2.0 than him but he thinks it's cute that you also care for his little goldfish.

Would call you 'normie' or just by your name

Loves when you reassure him no matter the situation, when he has nightmares or his self-esteem isn't good or more.

Kisses your inner thighs or hand

Satan

Maybe word of affirmation?

Satan would write and reads the poems he made just for you

Most likely he'll read you stories if you're struggling to sleep or has insomnia

he will let you read him the book he's reading while he lays on your lap demanding his head to be stroked as well

Favorite activity with you is reading together in bed the whole day or going to a cat cafe, taking pictures of you holding a cat (would probably make it his wallpaper)

He can be harsh sometimes especially when he just had an argument again with Lucifer and would apologize dearly when he lashes out at you.

Not much of a PDA fan but will hold your hand when the you're going out together

Idk abt nicknames but probably 'kitten' (?) Or 'darling'

Satan will keep every cat item you gave him (keychain, plushie ect)

Kisses your right hand alot along with your lips

Asmodeus

Physical touch 🔛🔝

We all know he's flirty and he won't hide it

He loves PDA so be prepared lmaoo, he'll hold your hand/waist or give you random kisses here and there whether it's on your lips, neck, hand anywhere!

You guys would go on shopping dates ALOT, he loves picking clothes for you and once even tried going in to the changing room with you to "help".

Shopping with him takes pretty long- after buying clothes he goes to buy perfume then shoes then nail polishes then this and that, but no worries he'd spoil you to buy whatever you want there

Asmo buys alot of matching outfits for the both of you

Without you noticing he'd probably buy new toys every now and then for the both of you to try (iykyk)

Another favorite activity he likes to drag you into is warm steamy baths together, just the thought of your bare body touching gets him excited!

Has plenty of nickname for you its uncountable 'sweetie', 'love', 'darling', 'dollface', 'hottie' and 'sexy'

Beelzebub

quality time

This big boy melts like putty when you cook for him, whether it's a dish from where you came from to his favorite foods

Likes to cuddle with you while eating chips, the crumbs tend to get all over you but he has no problem cleaning it up with his mouth

Ask you on a movie date alot (bringing snacks and food is a must!!)

Loves when you're watching him exercise and would be happy if you join him

He'd blush hard if he notice you staring at his body (who wouldn't tbh)

Sometimes but rarely ask his twin brother to join on sleepy dates

Usually would walk behind you or hold your hands, nobody would dare to do anything to you if he's around- he would throw hands if you got physically hurt by someone- so you'll definitely feel safe with him

'honey' or food based stuff is probably his favorite nickname to call you.

I think he'd bite you softly more than kisses, but if he does kisses you it's mostly collarbone or forehead

Belphegor

Like his twin beel, loves quality time with you!

Your dates with him would probably 99.999% be sleepy dates and cuddles

Always ask you to sleep next to him, bodies tangled together and just so comfy he LOVES it!

I personally like to think that he purrs- so imagine him purring loudly while you give him head pats and sleeping on your chest.

Gives you the right airpods/headset so you both can relax while listening to music together, just enjoying each other's company

His body temperature is ice cold so if you're a warm person expect him to cling to you everywhere

If you aren't there he'd probably pouts while hugging his pile of stuffed animals and pillows until you get back

Hogs your lap purposely if you're having a conversation with beel, belphie pretends to be asleep tho he's listening to both of your convo.

Nicknames? I think he'd just call you by your name.

Sleepy kisses on your lips, sometimes sloppy makeout sessions.