#and be known lover of song > ids

[keyringmogai]

Alt Esperkyn flag

[PT: Alt Esperkyn flag. End PT.]

[Flag ID: A rectangular flag with four horizontal stripes. The first takes up a third of the flag and is dull turquoise. The second takes up a sixth of the flag and is dull yellow. The third takes up a sixth of the flag and is dull forest green. The fourth takes up one third of the flag and is dark gray. In the center of the flag is the esperkyn symbol in deep, dull red. End flag ID.]

An alternate esperkyn (link) flag which is less straining to the eyes.

We did not coin Esperkyn, Esperkyn was coined by @/astrophellian.

[dykrophone]

the ferocity with which i will always sing ask your new lover what it's like to be given a real fighting chance before you wish her good riddance did anything ever count or was i just a two year practice rooooooooound as an aroace should be studied under a microscope

[menlove]

anyone else up listening to old flames can't hold a candle to you by dolly parton

[leclsrc]

it’s never over ✴︎ cl16

genre: childhood friends to friends with benefits to lovers (a mouthful), smut, humor, Fluffff!!!!, several references to 70’s music, 

word count: 12.9k  

You must have lost the plot along the way, because pretending to date your childhood best friend was not on your 2023 bingo card. (Neither was the fact that things are looking a lot more real as time passes.)

nsfw warnings under the cut!

18+ because... handjob (f receiving), penetrative sex, semi public sex, praise central, size kink

auds here… hi hi hi!!! you’ve no idea how much i missed writing posting and interacting w u guys. thank u for all the love & follows i’ve gotten in my periods of mia. more things soon i promise ty for ur patience love love love u allll 🌟🤎🤠💋 this is my love letter to fic tropes. i feared if it was too long i’d lose the plot somehow so i had to condense it. i truly hope u all like it :) will try & reopen reqs sometime soon to get inspo kicking

It’s later than late. The lights are strobing purple and blue, the “let’s get you even drunker than you are” headache inducing kind. The floor is crowded, swelling with teenagers who are probably too young to get in, drunk off cheap aperol and watered-down tequila shots. You’re balancing yourself on a barstool, one hand busy wrapped around a slim glass, the other clawing your miniskirt lower because the air bites at your legs.

“Another voddy Red Bull!” You’re slurring, mind spinning almost as fast as your vision. You almost drop your empty glass in your rush to look for another one—but right as it slips clumsily out of your fingers, it’s caught. 

Charles, your cocktail’s knight in armor and yours just as well, is eighteen. His hair is  light brown and long, but not draping over his eyes like before. You know before because you’ve never not known before—Charles has been your best friend since you were five.

Snoopy, he says, voice steady and calm in your ear. His frame is still lanky but he’s tall and his grip on your shoulders is enough to quell the yelling. You pout. Get me another voddy red, you plead. Charlie, it’s my birthday. He smiles to himself, knowing your vision’s too cloudy to see him and your mind’s too bogged to remember any of this. You’d already slipped up and told two bouncers you were seventeen and not eighteen, like your poorly-Photoshopped ID suggested; Charles had to keep you in check, lest you or your friends end up kicked out of the club.

A song booms in through the speakers and your eyes widen with recognition. Charles doesn’t anticipate your reaction fast enough, affording only a stumble backwards when you attempt to leave the barstool to dance. He swears under his breath, mind recounting the five previous dance sessions that left you exhausted and out of breath earlier.

I’ll get you a vodka Red Bull if you sit down, he tells you. He enunciates because, twelve years later, you still can’t wrap your mind around his thick European accent. Sit down.

Alriiiight! You hoot, throwing two fists up in the air. Customary for many bartenders on nights as busy as this one, a free shot is thrust into your vacant hand and you cheer loudly, much to Charles’ chagrin. With whatever malice the eighteen-year-old can muster, he casts the bartender a dirty look before turning to face you again, worried. He places a hand on your shoulder and watches, half-anxious and half-endeared, you take the shot and visibly grimace at the raw taste. Fuck. It’s gin I think, you sputter. Charles presses: You okay?

More than, you holler, smiling. I am officially seventeeee— 

The bartender’s eyebrows furrow, the thirty-something businessman in the adjacent stool turns to look—so Charles has no choice but to shut you up, leaning in and pressing his lips to yours before you can seal your fate.

Your eyes widen briefly, and when Charles feels the passed seconds are sufficient, he pulls away. You stare, eyes hazy, at the pretty boy you’ve had feelings for since you turned fourteen, and lean in to kiss him again. 

—

Pascale is hosting her weekly Sunday brunch at the Leclerc residence, all French windows and wide kitchens and bowls of fruit. As always, your place is at the kitchen island picking at plates to taste test them. Bonjour, Arthur drawls when he walks in. He turns to Pascale. Mum. Then you. Snoopy.

You halt biting into your forkful of arugula and turn toward the younger Leclerc, eyebrows raised. “What’d you just call me?”

“Snoopy,” he says simply. He’s beside Pascale, one arm wrapped around her affectionately. “Or, Snoops, if you like that. Yes?”

“Who told you about that nickname?”

“Lorenzo.”

“Hasn’t been in use since your voice was cracking every sentence.”

“Tête de noeud.” Pascale swats his arm and he yelps, so you resume your arugula with satisfaction.

Charles is late for reasons he did not disclose, but everyone is used to it. The open kitchen door stretches into the front yard, where the table is set up and Lorenzo is setting the places. You know that although you usually expect a few more relatives, today’s just for the family—and you, but you’re basically family.

“How is Paris?” Arthur asks, licking hummus off a spoon opposite you. Your position is reminiscent of how you spent afternoons after school with Charles before, and the memory strikes a chord in you. Strange nostalgia, fondness.

“It’s fine.”

“Oh really?” He laughs in-between nibbles of carrot.

“I got an offer for a higher position,” you relent. Pascale calls you both, and you get up and walk toward the yard to sit down. “If you must know.”

“Oh? Let me know how that goes.” He follows you, carrot slice in hand, chewing. The conversation is cut short by the smooth noise of Charles’ decidedly un-smooth parking outside.

You’re seated at your usual spot—in-between Charles and Lorenzo, across Arthur—when the former finally walks into the yard. He looks tired, moreso than usual, bags under his eyes deep and hair a bit more disheveled.

He sits beside you. “I need to talk to you.” Then, quieter, “Private.”

You hum confusedly, eyes flitting across the three other people at the table to gauge their reactions. They’re equally aloof. “Wh—now?” He nods.

You end up talking in the kitchen. He’s sighing the whole fifteen steps there, rubbing the bridge of his nose, exhaling, inhaling. Ever observant, and of someone as close to you as he is, you pick up on the tiny actions, behaviors. Charles is wringing his hands. He’s tried to pop the same knuckle twice. He isn’t frantic—he’s scared. You lean against the counter, waiting, eyes looking him up and down to identify his exact emotions.

“Tell me,” you press. “Whatever it is, I won’t judge.”

“The—my—the iCloud of my phone has been leaked. The press found out.”

When you were eight and he was nine, you and Charles summered in Villefranche with your mum and dad. The weather then was the kind you could write love letters to and about—blue skies, salty wind, soft sand. The current was calm enough that you could ride the gentle waves without fear of going under or straying far from the shore, where your parents sunbathed blissfully.

Don’t drown, he’d warned you, ever protective. You wore pink floaties over your arms, so it was already difficult to.

You dove under with great effort, fighting against the buoyancy, and poked his bare knee, surfacing to watch his reaction. He grimaced. Slowpoke, you teased, swimming away. You wondered then what it might feel to drown. Maybe not in the blue water of Villefranche, but anywhere else.

You think it hurts to drown? You blubbered, bobbing above the wave. Charles swam in front of you and wiped water off your face gently. I hope you never find out, he said, smiling.

But this is you finding out. This is it now, the drowning. Your fingers flex over the edge of the counter and you gulp, eyes fluttering with nerves. “Shit?” It comes out like a question from how nervous you are. “Um, sorry. What are we—” But your question is cut short by Pascale’s voice, cutting through the tension like it’s wet cardboard. The agreement is silent and mutual: save this discussion for later.

—

Charles can’t wake up fast enough. There are calls, texts, voicemails from every officer on his team, which isn’t that surprising given he’s up two hours late. But the amount—the sheer amount of notifications is dizzying. Overwhelmed, he finds it in himself to pull up his search engine app and let his fingers possess themselves.

All he types is his last name, and then The Sun article is splashed onto his face like a pot of scalding coffee: “F1 DRIVER ICLOUD LEAKED, PERSONAL PHOTOS ALL OVER INTERNET.” Daily Mail is next, of course, watering down the situation to seem more dirty and scandalous: “Naughty Driver? Charles Leclerc’s iCloud Hacked, Reveals Mystery Girl.” And then of course Page Six, who doesn’t miss a beat—

Wait. He blinks and presses the back arrow to return to the previous webpage. He reads over it again, slower this time. Mystery Girl? Shit—no. No way. It’s almost (it should be) silly, the way he’s reading vigorously over the reports like he’s a fan, but he’s anxious. He scrolls, because if any tabloid is daft enough to publish the leaked photos, it’s got to be the Daily Mail.

He pauses his quick swiping when his eyes harden with recognition, and staring back at him, on his phone’s full brightness, is a picture of you on his lap at Christmas. It’s the one Lance took while attempting to guess Charles’ password, one of you wine drunk with his head buried in your neck.

It’s unmistakably him, at his own house in Monaco where the drivers had a holiday get-together. It’s unmistakably you, hair draped over your face, three gold rings on your fingers. You had just given him a Strokes vinyl, he recalls. That’s why you were hugging.

There’s another one of you playing Scrabble in his bed—he’s not in the frame, but he remembers taking it. This, he could deny. He’s not in it, and he’s pretty sure the fans don’t know his house this well. Already his brain’s doing manual damage control, dread filling his veins at the thought of reading through his team’s frantic messages.

Another message stands out, pinned on top of all the others—from his mum, reminding him about brunch. He gets ready half-focused, half-lucid. Fully worried. He worries about the PR crisis this may cause, about his iCloud security, about the reactions online. Above all, though, he worries about you. About what he should tell the press. About how “actually, we’re not dating, we just fuck constantly” might hold up for the fans.

—

You’re twelve and Charles thirteen, both of you seated across Hervé and Pascale. Behind them stand your own parents, and they all look stern. What this is, Pascale says gently, is a family meeting. Okay?

Okay. It leaves your high voices in shaky unison. You both know what you’re doing here—you snuck out of school to catch a movie earlier, the teacher naturally caught wind of the misdeed, and now you’re in a meeting for it.

Snoops, Charles whispers, trying to ease your nerves with lighthearted commentary. This is the worst.

No, you want to tell preteen Charles—this is. You’re older now, yet still subjected to similar questioning, though today it’s Pascale going solo. It’s been three days since the fated day where the press leaked the pictures of you and Charles in compromising positions, and like any boomer, she’s used Facebook to her advantage and gotten ahold of the compromising pictures, too. 

“How long?” Her voice is enunciated in hard syllables.

“Mum—”

“Answer the question.” She looks back and forth, moving into territory of intense questions. “Both of you.”

“Um.”

“Because… I’ve been…”

You notice it immediately, given your observant track record: her shoulders relax and her lips smile just slightly. You sit still, and wait for the next words out of her mouth. “…waiting for this all my life!”

You and Charles watch in mild horror as Pascale’s face goes from firm to absolutely elated. Her eyes soften and a smile spreads over her face, illuminating her with pure joy. Do you even know how many bets I made with your papa, Charles? She claps her hands together several times.

Charles opens his mouth to verbalize dissent, but she doesn’t take it—she’s already droning on and on about how long she’s waited for this to finally happen. Your eyes glide over to the doorway of the dining area, where Lorenzo and Arthur watch with smug looks on their faces. Little shits won’t help you. You don’t even try to protest, and at some point Charles gives up, too. You don’t know how it’ll come across, anyway.

Ninety minutes later, you’re in Arthur’s bedroom rifling through his desk and praying you don’t find anything too gross. He’s on his bed throwing a bouncy ball up in the air, conversing with Charles about your gameplan with their mum.

The sky outside is in limbo between afternoon and night. It’s cloudy, so the sunset is a pale yellow instead of angry orange. “Why not just tell her the truth?”

You’d also thought that was the easiest option, escape route, exit path. But that would involve breaking Pascale’s heart, and that was out of the question for you, let alone Charles, certified mommy’s boy.

“I can’t, Arthur.” Charles’ voice is steady and unwavering.

“You can.”

“No.”

“Fine. Next best thing then.”

You fiddle with a Rubik’s cube, then turn in the seat. “What?”

“Pretend you’re dating.”

“Arthur,” you say seriously. “Shut up.” But he doesn’t join you, and you realize neither does Charles. You stare blankly at both of them, unwilling to believe they’d actually bank on this as an actual plan. 

“You guys realize this kind of thing never works? Zero percent success rate.”

“It’s just paddock appearences. You’re not pretending for millions of people,” Arthur says, shrugging. He catches the ball and throws it to you—you catch it one-handed. “You’re pretending for Mum.”

“Sure. And by extension, millions of people. Are you dense, or do you think the paddock appearances will just breeze by everyone who saw the leaks?”

“Ughhh. You’re acting like it’s impossible.” Arthur holds his breath before he utters the next sentence. “Like you two aren’t fucking every other w—”

“—oh, my God!” Shocked, you get up, and so does Charles. “Wh—I’m—language, Arthur!”

Charles balks. “How did you even—”

“I didn’t. But merci mille fois for confirming my theory,” Arthur quips faux-sweetly, smiling dopily. “I mean, I was going to find out! Your pictures are so… intimate. So just pretend to date and throw Maman off your scent.”

You protest briefly, wrestling with the option, and reconvene on the bed, you cross-legged and leaning on Charles’ shoulder and Arthur in front of the both of you. He’s always had a knack for schemes—he never got caught sneaking out, which destroyed your and Charles’ record of being caught twelve times by either of your parents. It’s a bit childish, but he gets the job done.

“Do it for… let’s say a month. Tell Mum you’ve been dating a while—Christmas isn’t that long ago, and that was the least recent picture. D’accord?”

You both nod, hyperfocused. 

“During race weekends, be all over each other—shouldn’t be hard—especially in front of Mum. People might catch you doing it, but I wouldn’t worry.”

“No, wait—I mean.” You shrug. “People—tifosi—they know I’m Charles’ friend. They’re going to be all over the fact that we’re apparently dating.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll use palatable density,” Charles says, nodding.

You pause. Arthur does, too, sensing something off.

“You mean plausible deniability.” Your deadpan voice is tinged with amusement, muffled into his shoulder. 

“Right, ouais, that.” He smiles, chuckling a bit; his shoulder shakes with it and your head nearly slips off. He brings a hand to cup over your jaw and hold you steady. “Sorry.”

“S’fine.” You sigh. “I’m totally okay with this. Just worried it’s going to have unintended consequences.”

Arthur quells you with rushed explanations about how it’ll be over and you two can say something like we decided we’re better off as friends to really sell the thing. At the seven-minute mark of your and Charles’ intense interrogation, he promptly kicks you out to figure out if you’re willing to do it yourselves.

You wedge yourself into Charles’ front seat, knowing you were headed to his place anyway. You massage your temples with one hand and fiddle with the hem of your shorts with the other. Nervous. Antsy. “Did Fred say anything?”

“Got the IT team to fortify my account.” 

“You think this thing’s going to be okay from a professional standpoint?” You look up and toward him; he’s already gazing at you, eyes soft. “I’m worried. Plus, with my job offer thing in London and New Y—”

“Don’t be.” He starts the car and maneuvers out of the driveway, into the dips of Monaco streets and the familiar route back to his place. “Bitter with the sweet. The only thing you need to worry about”—he takes your hand in the centre console, laces your fingers together loosely—“is your acting skills.”

“God, you’re right.” You sigh, looking out the window. “How am I going to pretend I can stand you?” Then, for good measure, you squeeze his hand wrapped in yours.

—

You visit Monaco from uni in London over spring, and for the first time in months, your schedule aligns with Charles’—though you learn this indirectly when you visit the Leclerc home. Pascale, of course, is the one who tells you his new flat’s address before she presses a kiss to your cheek and then leaves to run errands in the city. Alone, and in a burst of excitement, you make the drive there, take the elevator upstairs and shove the door open without knocking. He’s there. Your Charles. You can tell because the music he plays is loud—The Kooks—like his ears are still fourteen and not twenty-one, like he’s still in middle school and not in Formula One.

“Save your eardrums,” you say, before beelining toward the couch and leaping onto him for a hug. He sits up to match your energy, arms wrapping around you, sitting up straighter to keep you from totally falling atop him. 

“How’s uni?”

“Shit,” you say into his hair. It smells like his shampoo and his favorite cologne. Clean, soapy. “Obviously. How’s the Ferrari?” 

“Amazing.” He smiles. “Obviously. How’d you know I was in? Mum told you?”

“Ouais. She’s running errands. Listen, can we drink tonight?” You sigh, parting from the hug and sitting across him.

Yeah, sure. His voice is concerned, thick with worry. You shake your head—it’s not that deep, you tell him. It’s just—I had a bad date before I left and it’s put me in the worst mood.

Oh? He leans back, clasping two hands behind his head as he goes.What happened? He laughs. 

You tense visibly, rolling your eyes despite yourself. “He was just weird. Nothing.”

He wiggles his eyebrows. “You shy, Snoops?”

Ha-ha. You roll your eyes, but your face is flushed and your gaze avoids him. You reach up to tuck the loose strands of hair by your ears behind them, face warm. You’d never talked with Charles about boys or flings before—maybe several times, but never in full detail. It was always vague umbrella statements, like Ryan is boring or Greg is such a prick, but never anything beyond that. Come to think of it, you don’t know why, either.

“You can tell me.”

“The—when we—I had to fake,” you say cuttingly. “You know.”

He purses his lips and smiles, eyebrows furrowing. I don’t, actually. Something unnamed trills through you—through your stomach and into your fingertips. Your first time talking to your best friend in real life after months of uni and racing and this is the topic? It’s, if anything, a sign of your growing up, you guess.

Charles lets up on the teasing and you end up rejecting the club in lieu of sharing a bottle of vodka, throwing it back raw and without any type of chaser (to really prove nothing at all; you don’t even know why any sane human would do this). You do a Just Dance party on his TV, even try out drunk sim racing and FIFA, but by the end you’re well exhausted and retired to the couch again.

His voice is wavy and tipsy when he speaks. “You really had to fake it?”

“Yeah.” You pout. “Can never—um, finish, I dunno.” Your inhibition’s gone, shame loosened and untied by the vodka. You shift in your position on the couch.

“Maybe because it was too casual.” His voice hardens.

“So you’re saying I should…” You swallow dryly, eyes fluttering. “Sleep with somebody I know?” You’ve dropped the implication and it floats up, hangs above.

His eyes flick over to your legs, folded on the couch. The hem of your shorts. Your fingers playing with your empty shot glass. He didn’t mean anything by that. He’s half-sure you didn’t. 

“I am just saying that a good friend would do that for you.”

“You’re a good friend,” you say, volume low. 

Five minutes later you’ve properly crashed into each other, him pinning you down against the couch, licking fire up your throat. His lips trail across your jaw. 

He dips a hand into your shorts, presses against your clothed core. He’s smiling. So wet for me. He’s got his mouth pressed messily up to your jaw, when he sinks one finger all the way in, slow and stretching; and you’re clenching around him—

Come on, he’s saying. Insisting. You’re trembling, yanking desperately at his hair as he pumps his finger slowly in and out of you, aching to be full of him, to take him deeper. 

He slips another one in, and you feel the cold of his ring pressed against your entrance, then he’s fucking them into you and you’re leaking around them. 

Yes, yeah, Charles—you’re gasping, airy breaths tapering into whimpers that sound sinful, desperate. He knows you so well already. Presses his fingers against your sweet spot, watches your eyes flutter.

So needy, and you’re chanting his name under your breath as he quickens his pace, craving the stretch of him desperately. I know you want to cum, baby. He’s calling you baby and you’re closer, so much closer. Come on, for me, yeah? 

You melt, crashing and crumpling into him and shuddering as you release all over his fingers. He presses his forehead to yours and lets you take a beat. You feel giddy and dizzy and warm, which is weird because you don’t feel drunk at all anymore. This dizziness is something different. It’s Charles.

“Are we going to do that again?” You ask meekly, hand still in his hair.

“Only if you want. Whatever you want,” he says. He’d do anything for you. He’d do whatever you wanted.

“I do, I do want.” And Charles, the good friend he is, helps you out.

—

Imola is humid, warm, and the racetrack is absolutely teeming with people. But you’re not there—clad in linen shorts and a fresh tank top, you’re walking around the vicinity of the track, cup of gelato in hand, sunglasses over your eyes. The restaurant near you is playing music out loud. Beside you, singing along and drafting a list of wedding appetizers, is Lorenzo.

“Lamb chops?” You suggest, licking amaretto off the plastic spoon. The weather is pleasant enough that people are crowding the streets without it being too unbearably hot. Stevie Wonder flows from the speakers, permeates the entire block.

“I was thinking more seafood.”  

“Tuna? Make ‘em little tacos.”

“Good idea. Think I’ll go for those. Hey, are you sure you’re on board with fake-dating my brother?”

You turn sharply toward him, taken aback. He hadn’t brought it up in the week and a half this plan had been in the works—he’d been privy to it the entire time, too, which makes it weirder that he’s asking so suddenly.

“I meaaan…” You slow your pace, contemplative. A shy smile plays at your lips, brows knitted together. “It’s only going to be for a month. Ish. So, yeah. Are you—do you—sorry. Is it alright with you? Sorry.”

“It is not not okay.”

“So it’s…” You pause. “Okay.”

“It’s—yes, but I worry, is all. How sure are you that this won’t hurt anyone?”

“I don’t know, it’s… bitter with the sweet. And who’s getting hurt… like the fans?” You laugh a little. “They’ll live, won’t they?”

“Like you.” He pauses. “Like Charles.”

—

Pierre is running a comb through his hair, staring at himself in the mirror; his Narcissus moment is interrupted by a banana to the back of his head. Bonjour, he says, monotone and already knowing the culprit.

“We need to talk.”

“Could this possibly be about the news of your brand new ‘girlfriend’ over last week? Where is she, by the way?”

“With Lorenzo. Listen, here’s the thing. Mum thinks we’re dating, and I don’t know how to tell her we’re not—so I won’t.”

“Lie to your mum, go ahead.” Pierre crosses his arms and hums.

“Tais-toi. It’s for her own good.” 

“So you’re going to pretend to date.”

 “Ouais.” 

“Should be easy. You guys are hooking up and making out or whatever all the time.”

Charles pauses and lets the silence speak for itself. When Pierre makes a noise of confusion, he gives. We don’t kiss, he says finally. She thinks it is too intimate, and we ‘are not dating,’ so sex is the only thing we do. Sex, and if you still have leftover antsy energy, you pull on his shirt and sit up against the headboard to finish a crossword puzzle. Sometimes he helps you, but most of the time he’s just there to press lazy kisses to your hair and temple, cheekbone and jaw—never your lips.

“You don’t kiss?” Pierre’s genuinely shocked. “Putain, you’re a hero. How does that even work?”

“We just do not kiss. We fuck, but no kissing.” He shrugs. “It’s always been that way.”

“So how about her birthday?”

“She doesn’t…” Charlex exhales tightly. “Remember.”

“Charles,” you suddenly say, head appearing into the doorway. “Oh, hey. Fred said you might be here. What are you guys talking about?”

“Sprint racing,” Pierre says, an easy lie.

Charles, though, is never good at the lying bit. “International tariffs.”

—

Your only memories of your seventeenth birthday are applying lip gloss and mascara, wearing your shortest skirt and tightest top, and reciting your supposed date of birth in line like a mantra. Anything after that’s been sprayed off by the ultra-clutch strength of vodka. Which, you’ve been told, was your drink of choice.

“Headache’s better,” you moan over the phone, face squashed onto your pillow. “Mum gave me an Advil but I was so sick all morning.”

“Did you snog anyone?” Charles is always teasing.

“God, I wish.” You shut your eyes and try to remember if your drunken stupor had somehow managed to get you successful in lip-locked matters. Nothing comes up and you wipe a dry hand over your face, heaving a sigh. “I really wanted to kiss Matthew but I think he left before you and I did.”

A pause. Then Charles clears his throat. “You mean you and me and the police car that escorted us home?” He snorts.

“You’re such a prick!” You scream into your pillow, laughing. “I already thanked you for being my literal savior last night.”

He smiles to himself. “You’re welcome.”

“Did you have fun?” You flop onto your back and stare at the stick-on stars on your ceiling. You make a mental note to try and remove them.

“Bit boring because I vowed not to drink at all, but I got to dance. Bitter with the sweet, right?”

—

“Nervous?”

“I mean, fuck, yeah.” You fix the hem of your dress, speaking to Giada through the phone. “Pascale’s waiting for us on the paddock. And so are, like, a hundred photographers.” You wince. “Can you even imagine Charles and me? It’s just—I dunno—it’s weird.”

“It isn’t,” she says, laughing. “Not really. It makes sense. Plus, aren’t you on the whole arrangement?” You envision her air quotes.

“Yeah, but”—you slip your sandals on—“it’s on and off, and that’s not dating. It’s sex. Two different things.”

“Is it really, though? Considering how close you are outside of bed, aren’t y—”

“Okay, input no longer needed,” you laugh. “Bye, Gi. I’ll text you later.”

You reunite with Charles just by the paddock entrance. The throng of fans holding cutouts and posters notice you two before anyone else does, inciting a collective bout of yells around the both of you. He notices your blue silk dress first, eyes unmoving. “You look like the sky.”

“Thanks, man.” A beat, and you squint through your sunglasses. “That’s a compliment, right?”

“Sure.”

“Prick.” You peek over them and to the fans, who wave more aggressively when they notice you’re looking. Nervously, you raise a hand and wave back, and the noise heightens. “I think I’m going to be replacing you.”

“Dream on. On y va?”

You turn back to him, smiling, and you both enter at the same time. His hand wraps around your waist, dips a bit lower to rest at the small of your back as you walk—the fans clearly dig it, because everyone’s yelling in a frenzy as you depart. What are you doing, you ask through your smiling teeth.

“Did you forget we’re supposed to be dating?” He maintains an equally pleasant (totally duplicitous) façade, smiling. 

“I didn’t think,” you say, still smiling falsely, “that you’d put your hands on me five minutes into the whole agreement.”

“Smile, honey,” he teases. “I see at least five cameras at us right now.”

“It’s seven,” you beam. “Dumbass.”

“Again with the competitive streak.” memory

“I totally deserved to win last week’s game. You’re just a sore loser.”

“No you’re just a—hi, hi, hello!”

Your walk to the motorhome is interrupted by running into a friend of Charles’—someone from McLaren, one of the executives there. While Lando has been informed of your stunt, nobody else on that team has. 

They handshake and he waves at you politely. “Whole paddock’s buzzing with news of you dating,” he says, smiling. “It’s a tad crazy! I remember seeing you as Charles’ plus one back when he was in Formula Two. And now you two are dating. How did—well, if you don’t mind me asking, where’d it all happen?”

“Oh,” you say, laughing. “Yeah, Monaco.”

“Texas,” Charles says at the same time.

Alarm bells go off in your head at the totally random, unwarranted statement out of Charles’ mouth. Texas? Neither of you have even ever been at the same time. “He means”—you say, coughing and nodding—“we went on this, um. Wild West themed, um, restaurant in Monaco, and that’s where he asked me out.” You make a face that you hope conveys you get it, and it seems to work.

“Definitely not what I had in mind, but if it worked, it worked, eh?” He grins. “I guess I always knew you two would end up together. Alright, ciao!”

You’re smiling and waving after him as he leaves, and then you’re (semi) alone again, or at least within your own space on the incredibly crowded paddock. 

You turn to him, unable to hide your confusion. “Um? Texas?! What’s up with the backstories?”

“It slipped out! Sorry. But nice save.”

“You’re so f—” You try to scold him, but can’t, bursting into laughter and leaning forward to laugh into his chest. “Texas, really?”

“Sorry,” he says. You feel the vibration of his own laugh through his chest and it’s warm and nice. You peel yourself off lest you look too clingy, and resume your walk to the motorhome.

Ferrari is crowded, filled with people and strategists and guests. You’re given a bottle of water and then hounded with questions from the team who haven’t been informed of the situation at hand. David, one of the engineers close to Charles who you’d previously spoken to in one of the earlier races, asks to borrow him.

“Ciao, ciao.” They speak in one of the outdoor patio areas. “Is everything okay?”

“The car is fine. I just wanted to ask about the girl.” David punches his arm, playful. “You finally got her!”

“Oh.”

“It’s just… I remember all the times she would show up and you’d tell me about how much you liked her… I don’t know, it’s perfect for things to end up like this, no? Bravo!”

“Oh, si. I’ve just been, you know…” He looks through the glass sliding door and into the hospitality, where you’re talking to Isa and Carlos, sunglasses over your hair. Your hands are moving quickly, and you’re smiling while talking. He wonders what you’re so passionate about. When you’re caught in fits of happiness and passion, you’re extra animated. Your eyes are lively, and your lips can’t stop curling into a slight beaming smile. Now, maybe it’s France, maybe it’s crossword puzzles, slim chance it’s your job—whatever it is, he could watch you talk like this for hours. He thinks it’s beautiful, the way you transform, the way you smile, when you talk of things you absolutely love. 

“… crazy about her forever.”

—

There are banners, Italian flags, and Charles’ face on every other wall. He’s done his first hat-trick of the season (of several more, you’re hoping). You’ve foregone the usual clubbing for dinner with a smaller group of people, but only because you’ve been told the nightlife is bleak and you’d rather save that energy for the next race.

Lando picked out the restaurant—he’s “on a massive Yelp high” trying to get the best restaurants in every city they get to. He’s tried two over the weekend, and is hoping this guns for first place. The restaurant’s name is long and so very Italian, to the point where your semi-fluency fails you. The food is amazing, though, and so is the wine—a whole other level of grape-flavored bliss.

You’re in-between Joris and Charles, nursing your fourth glass while Charles downs a bottle of beer. Light conversation flows through the table, but your sleepiness only allows you to hear some of it. You’re content with the white noise.

Lando is getting a new cat, Lewis bought a new pair of shoes—oh, no, shares in the company that makes the shoes—Joris bought the shoes, Lorenzo will now buy the shoes, why isn’t anyone paying attention to Lando’s cat. It’s funny, entertaining, and the perfect nightcap to your immensely exhausting day of acting.

Wine tipsy makes you loopy and snoozy. By default, your head lolls onto Charles’ body; he immediately wraps a sweater-clad arm around your frame, leans back, pulls you closer. Doesn’t miss a beat. In fact, while doing so, he’s even able to get a dig in against Lando’s affinity for cats.

“No more wine, m’kay?” He whispers quietly, angling his head to yours. 

“Oh, but it was so good, though.” You mope, but nod in agreement. “I could seriously drink wine out of a keg here.”

“Sure did that a lot with beer.” You laugh, punching his bicep with what little space you’re given. “You sleepy?”

“Yeah. But I’m fine,” you respond, smiling. “Now shut up. I need to know what happened to Lando’s cat.”

Lewis leaves first, claiming he’s into this whole “sleeping at 9PM” thing, and Lorenzo follows to get ahead of an early flight tomorrow. It’s you, Joris, Charles, and Lando now, and you’re good as dead, eyes half-shut and fluttering, head slipping off his shoulder.

How was it? Lando asks, lowering his volume to keep from being too jarring. Day 1, fake dating? I actually read something like this in one of those, um, fanfiction stuff the fans do. Joris and Charles cast him a half-weirded out, half-amused pair of looks, but Lando defends himself. They’re actually pretty good, guys. I read one where I ended up with my rival or summat.

“Sorry to burst your bubble, Lando,” you croak, voice raspy with sleepiness and a day of bubbling laughter, “but Charles and I probably didn’t do your fanfiction kink justice.”

“Ignoring the emasculation.” He says, turning beet red. “What’d you do, then? Wasn’t it hard?”

“It was hard, but it’s like that.” Charles likes to substitute the phrase it is what it is to it’s like that, a result likely stemming from his trilingual childhood. “We just. Pretended. Oi, we held hands in front of the cameras.”

“Yeah, you can get a good wank in if that does it for you,” you joke. Lando hurls a cube of parmigiano at your face; it lands squarely and you flip him off, the table erupting with peals of laughter.

“In all seriousness, though—how are you two okay with this? I know I’d be second guessing my feelings every second.”

You shift, trying to hide your obvious lack of answer. It’s quiet for a few seconds, and then Charles says, “We’re both comfortable with each other, I think.”

“Yeah, comfortable enough that we can, you know, be honest.” You’re looking at Lando when you say that. You don’t know how well you could repeat the sentence if you were looking straight into Charles’ eyes.

You leave the restaurant with a generous tip, and Charles helps you pull your coat on when you’re out the door, back into the chilly night air. It’s then that all four of you catch news via text, of a club invite somewhere in the city.

“It’ll be fun, guys.” Joris and Lando stand in front of you and Charles, bumbling with excitement. “I heard Lil Tjay is going to be there.”

“It sounds very fun,” you say, smiling, “but I might pass out if I drink anything other than water, and I have zero energy. You three go ahead.”

“Wh—no, I’m not going, either.” You raise an eyebrow at Charles. “Serious! I wasn’t in the mood much, anyway. Joris, take Lando’s car and we’ll take mine.”

“Alright,” Lando whistles. “Suit yourselves, agoraphobes.”

“Joke’s on you”—Charles smiles, smug—“I don’t know what that means.”

“Not the dig you think it is, Charles,” you say, rolling your eyes. “Night, Joris, Lando. See you guys tomorrow. Use protection!”

“Should be saying that to you guys,” quips Joris with an evil grin that he closes the car door on.

The climb into the car feels like a chore in itself with how tipsy and sleepy you’ve become. Charles likes to bring his Ferrari to race weekends, but you convinced him to use a different car for this one, because you honest-to-God can’t stand the low seats anymore. 

“You want dessert?” He asks when he’s rounded the car and settled into his seat. “Gelato, a cone, biscotti…”

“No, no,” you say, voice thin. A palm covers your shutting eyes; blindly, you reach for his hand. It’s easy because he sees you searching and takes your hand to cut it short. “I’m good. So sleepy. Can I sleep at your hotel room?”

“Sure.” He starts the car, waves to the wait staff idle by the entrance, and drives off. “How was the day as my fake girlfriend? Anyone ask about me?” He wiggles his eyebrows, flickering his gaze to your figure beside him. “Wasn’t too tough, I hope.”

Imola whizzes by, trees and city, and a poorly stifled yawn escapes your lips, wine stained. You laugh sleepily. “It was a bit awkward, but bitter with the sweet, right?” He smiles, nodding, and you continue. “Yeah, few strategists, some people who knew you from Prema. I was talking to Isa and Carlos, too, earlier. Even if they know it’s fake.”

He recalls seeing you talk to them through the glass. “About?”

“You.”

—

The sun is merciless on the clay courts, and so are your shoes, shuddering against the surface in your continuing attempt to beat the opposing team. Charles cowers behind you—he’s scored less than half of your points thus far—but you’re on a mission, like your competitive self always is when you’re put in a position to be able to win.

You’re two points down now, and the noontime is becoming increasingly itchy and unforgiving; across you both, Giada and Joris call a mutual time out. “That’s not allowed!” You say, petulant.

“This is a practice session,” Charles says gently, nearing you. “Mate, none of us are actual players.”

You wipe sweat off your forehead. “Right. Désolée. I’m just—I’m in the zone.”

“Ouais, I get it. Relax, m’kay? We got this.”

You shake yourself off and hop a few times, skirt bobbing by your waist as you go. Your braid bounces on your shoulder and you nod, turning your racquet over in your grip. 

Charles pings the ball hard and it soars over to land just shy of the line, seemingly scoring a point for you two and securing your win. Giada and Joris chime in with protests, claiming that the ball’s out. You throw your hands up in question.

“Okay, what? That was clearly a point!”

“Snoops, I think they might be right. The ball looked out to me,” Charles says, wrapping a sweaty arm around your red shoulders.

“What are you talking about, Charlie? That ball was in! I saw it!” You elbow yourself out of his grip, aghast.

“How about…” He suggests quietly. “We let them win? You did win the last”—he pauses to count—“five sets. Come on, Snoops. They need this. Bitter with the—”

You take a deep breath, staring into his eyes. “Fucking sweet, right, okay. Fine, fine.” 

Charles thinks he’s in the clear and he’s managed to extinguish your flames of frustration—that is, until you walk into the Leclerc household for lunch an hour later and, after greeting Pascale and Hervé, you point squarely to the jar on the kitchen counter. “Five euros.”

He splutters. “Five? Wh—non, non! I was trying to calm you down.”

“You were blind and gave Giada and Joris a fake win,” you say playfully.

“Saluuut,” Lorenzo greets, sitting at the stool beside yours. “Quoi de neuf?”

“Charles has five euros for the jar.” The jar, the infamous jar, sometimes dubbed the Dumbass Jar when Pascale’s out of earshot. It was Lorenzo who first made it up after three straight instances of Charles pulling a push door (three different establishments).

Arthur’s joined in at this point, but its biggest indirect donors are definitely Lorenzo and Hervé, who view it as just about the funniest thing in the world. Out of pity, you don’t call dumbass too often, but the tennis loss is bruising enough that you warrant the usage.

“You heard Snoopy. Five euros. We’ll be able to get milkshakes with this money after next week.” You high five. “At this rate, Charles, you could open a restaurant in Paris.”

“He’s going to race,” you correct. You both watch a begrudged Charles junk a bill into the nearly-full jar. “What race driver is going to open a restaurant?”

—

You meet Yuki Tsunoda on a flight to Nice. You’ve seen him several times before, not too frequently but enough that his name and face are familiar on your mind. Also a personality trait that Pierre would bring up in fond conversations with you and/or Charles: he loves food, apparently.

“Yuki’s volunteering AlphaTauri to be your hideout,” Pierre tells you and Charles, across him. 

Turns out, the hardest part (insofar) of this whole schtick: the officially appointed paddock photographers are being extra sneaky with it, finding the best vantage points to snap pictures of an unwitting you and Charles.

They’re like hawks, watching for even the slightest glimpse so they can post the photos on Instagram and get clicks.

So, just a few hours earlier, Charles asked if there was a place you and him could talk if needed where photographers wouldn’t be awaiting you already, and this was the answer.

“If it’s too much trouble, feel no need to… you know.”

“Nonsense.” Pierre smiles goofily and Yuki pokes him to stop, pausing his session of eating a quesadilla (where he’d even acquired it, you’re clueless). “Yukino would be happy to.” 

The flight lands and the drive to Monaco is infected with notoriously slow traffic; you pop an Advil to try and alleviate the motion sickness. Pierre and Yuki, it seems, have joined you even outside of the flight. They’re in the backseat offering bits of conversation.

“Oh, mate, we should totally play tennis while we’re here.” Pierre sighs. “Didn’t you guys play before?”

“Mmm, yeah,” you mumble with a lilt of amusement at the memories from basically a decade ago. “At the country club. Doubles always, otherwise I’d knock Charles out of the park.”

“Hey, I won a couple times!” He protests weakly. “Like… twice.”

You laugh out loud. “Anyway, Pierre, do not bring me into tennis. I get all competitive and develop anger issues.”

“I had to calm her down twice a set,” Charles says; you swat him lightly to silence him. “Still do.”

“You know, if the Dumbass Jar still existed,” you say cuttingly, “I swear I’d be able to buy off Ferrari with that money.”

—

Monaco is swelterinly hot today. You know this because you know the weather here, you know the curves and ups and downs of it—this is your home. And today is hot. Every few minutes a breeze filters through the air and you can hear journalists or PAs sigh a collective breath of relief before they’re all subjected to the inane, high-degree weather again.

It’s also, according to Arthur, a good day to kiss in front of the cameras. He says it easily over a plate of sliced kiwi, with a devious smile, because he assumes your friends-with-benefits arrangement equates to constant kissing. But the truth is you’ve never kissed Charles, and it intimidates you.

“Do we have to kiss?” You play with his bracelets, sitting beside him on the sofa. The talk of kissing entertains the thought of sex and you can’t help but mentally complain at the remembrance that you haven’t gotten laid in weeks.

“If you don’t want to—”

“I do.” You splutter, eyes going wide, face warm. “No! I mean I don’t mind. If it sells the thing.”

“D’accord, then we will.” He smiles. “That okay?”

“Sure. First kiss,” you say. Your voice feels as clammy as your hands.

“First.” He looks away.

You take your woes off the kiss by playing a friendly round of tennis with your favourite opponents, Giada and Joris. They bemoan your competitive nature (that, to be fair, allots you and Charles three straight wins), and Giada incites a protest for a girls versus boys round.

You both embarrass Charles and Joris, heckling them as you win another two straight games. Charles runs over to you when you throw up the L sign on your hand, lifting you up and making you squeal.

“Put me down, loser!”

Giada and Joris exchange a look. Amused, knowing. “Charles! You’re such a cunt.” You kick hard, and manage to snag his abdomen, so he gently places you onto the clay again. He laughs and paces back over to his side, and you play with the tail of your braid as you watch.

You play set after set, but the kiss comes anyway. When you know photographers can see you—by the entrance—and it happens faster than your mind can muster. He’s leaning in, you’re reaching up, and your mouths slot together. It’s—and it feels crazy to say it, but—

It’s perfect. It’s lovely. You smile against his lips like they belong there and like they’re familiar and yours and like maybe this is all you’ve ever wanted, and like they deserve the smile, because they do. You feel your need to pull away before you can’t help but keep him tethered to you always. It’s strange and it’s not platonic—you’re mature enough to admit that, but not enough to label exactly what it is.

You spend the day with your fingers pressed to your lips, like you’re sealing the memory. Hours later, Charles wins. There’s massive uproar and you’re in the crowd when it happens, in the sea of strategists going to congratulate him on winning Monaco, which—that’s—it’s winning Monaco. Your ears ring by the end of it and your throat’s dry from your own cheering. Carlos comes in second, and the outlook for their team is going much better than it’d been at the start of the year, so there’s a lot to celebrate.

And celebrate you do. It starts with being pinned up against the door, hungry kisses along your jaw and neck. One kiss, it seems, has broken the dam from the few years you’ve spent abstaining from the kissing. He’s just finished interviews. He’s only just changed into his polo, and now he’s tugging it off again, feverish.

This is rushed and dirty, down low and dark. Only one light’s been switched on and he’s hiking your dress up, panties down with one hand to tug his cock out with the other. He’s kissing you—kissing you stupid, almost. Like he’s waited forever to taste your lips and now he’ll starve if he’s away for just a moment. He needs you. So have me, you want to say, all of me, push me up against the wall again and cover my mouth with your palm. Or don’t, don’t—so everyone knows I’m yours.

He presses your chest against the wall so your back’s turned to him, thrusts in with a breathless, throaty grunt. 

“S’ big,” you’re saying, clawing at words the pleasure bars you from finding.

“Barely even in,” he whispers. “Slow down, baby, come on, take it.”

Your toes curl. You’re high on the win, on the kissing, on Charles, on the slow delicious stretch of his cock. “I’m taking it, I’m taking it,” you say, shaky. He thrusts, slow and deep and dirty, until he’s bottomed out and you’re tiptoeing from the overwhelm.

“I feel you,” you’re whimpering, moans and gasps leaving your mouth. You blindly search for his hand, find it against your hip, drag it to your abdomen, under your dress that he hasn’t even fully removed. “I feel you there,” you say, an edge of teasing to your voice.

His cock’s bulging, almost, out of your stomach, and it’s getting you both all lightheaded. He thrusts harder, a devious smile felt against your neck.

I need it, Charles, you plead, please, please fuck me harder. You feel it coming, the familiar pleasure intensifying so quickly—you don’t usually cum so early, he’s always making you wait for it—pussy squeezing around him.

Jesus, already? He’s groaning but a laugh escapes, breathy and amused and taunting. He’s fucking you harder, faster. It’s so good, each hit getting you closer. Taking me so well, you’re bruised all over now, baby. You hate how well he knows what turns you on; memories of mornings post-sex spent inspecting the purple marks on your hips flash through your head and you’re even closer now, shaking, whimpering, begging.

You’re half-sure someone can hear, but it doesn’t even phase you. Harder, deeper— and you’re collapsing, legs spasming uncontrollably, orgasm so intense it’s on the brink of totally hurting. Tears roll down your sweaty face and he kisses them away, cumming onto your back to wipe off in a few minutes.

“I never even”—you pant, tired—“got to say congratulations.”

“That was more than enough.”

—

Charles is elated when you tell him his family has thrown a party for him the day next. He’s boyish in that way, optimistic and kiddy, the kind of person who’s up at five-thirty to announce their own birthday. 

He drives you both to his childhood home, a route so familiar he could drive with his eyes closed. (“I hope you’re not driving closed-eyed,” you’d warned.)

Even if he could, anyway, he’d rather not. The scenery of Monaco is stunning, ever-changing, and he never tires of it—the buildings, the skies, the trees and shrubbery, stores lining the streets, clean entrances. 

And you—in the passenger seat, humming softly to a song of his choosing. Drives are always better when you’re in the passenger seat.

The turnout is generous: extended family, and several friends from school. There’s bowls of fruit, salad, plates of salmon and racks of lamb, knobs of butter with warm bread. Pascale commands the kitchen—visible in how she leaves it cluttered with bowls, ingredients, whisks still dripping with syrup or batter, spoons licked for tasting. The good kind of clutter.

Lorenzo has also taken reign of the AUX, because it’s 70’s music playing, which is what he’s fond of for family gatherings like these. It’s My Cherie Amour now, Stevie Wonder mellowing across the lawn and into the house.

Charles knows you love the kitchen as much as his mum does, so when you get to the house, he’s not surprised to see you leave him in favor of checking out what damage has been done to your favorite marble countertops. He watches Pascale turn from the gas range, her eyes lit when she sees you, inviting you into an embrace. 

You look like the song playing, pretty and lovely, breeze in the summer. He almost loses himself in thought before his great-aunt Eden places two bony hands on his arms and greets him in feeble Italian.

He flits his eyes away from you, if just briefly, and faces the woman with a smile on his face. “Ciao, zia,” he says, voice buoyant, happy. “You came here to see me, no?”

All five-foot-one of her shakes in disagreement. She wags a finger for extra measure. “No,” she says. “Sono venuto a vedere la tua ragazza.”

His eyes widen. “She’s—” He pauses. He debates telling Eden you’re not actually his girlfriend, that this was a setup to appease Pascale and, by extension, tifosi. But he backtracks.

He shouldn’t, but he gives in, lives out his dreams for a bit. “Ah, she’s over there, zia. Con mamma.” He points to the open door, and to you on the far end of the room inside, holding a spoon. “Beautiful, yes?”

“Molto,” she says proudly. “You marry her?”

Fact: his great-aunt has the worst memory. She forgot Charles’ name twenty times, let alone niche facts like this one. Another fact: she rarely shows up to family events. Maybe now, because it’s a racing thing; but baby showers and funerals, she’s at home. So he indulges a bit more.

“Si, we’re engaged. But—it’s a secret, zia.” He grins. “Non dire a nessuno. Okay?”

“Sei fidanzato?!” She claps once, excited. “Ay, Charles. I waited my whole life for this moment, si?” And she’s wobbling away, still muttering under her breath.

—

“How is my son?” Pascale’s voice is teasing. She sighs happily. “For years I wondered if this would happen. And it really is.”

“Oui, sure is,” you sing-song, laughing a bit awkwardly. “We’re—he’s okay. We’re great. In love.”

“Oh, in love,” she swoons. She leaves you, after fifteen more minutes of detailed discussion, with half a spoonful of vinaigrette to taste-test, departing to check on the guests for a few minutes. In her place arrives Lorenzo, already bearing a shit-eating grin. “Saluuut.”

“Mmm, good to see you, too.” You taste the liquid and add lemon to the bowl. “How’s wedding planning?”

“Think we’ll throw a shower. Is that pretentious?”

“No,” you say, mulling over it. “Sure, a bit. But just don’t make it a whole thing, you’re golden.”

“I see.” He sighs fondly. “You know, many a conversation we’ve had right here at this counter. About anything.”

—

You loosen your school tie, slicing an apple like you so often do, waiting for Charles’ karting practice to end. Pascale had fixed you a bowl of something, Hervé a glass of orange juice. And somebody else would always, without fail, steal your food. A hand swipes two slices form your chopping board and your head whips up.

“Lorenzo!” You stomp your foot. “Stop stealing! That is my apple.”

“You mean the Leclercs’ apple.” He laughs, pops another slice into his mouth, smiling. 

You roll your eyes, shaking your head. The braid beside your head shakes with it as you continue slicing it into perfect quarters. He pipes up again: “How was school?”

“Shit, as usual.” You lower your voice and smile, leaning in. “Pascale scolded me earlier, for saying that word.”

“Did Papa?”

“Obviously not. He fist bumped me.” You share a laugh, both chewing on apple slices now. “Anyway, I aced a math test, had aubergine for lunch… got driven here by Charlotte’s mum.”

“Charlotte?” Lorenzo hums conspiratorially, making a mmmm sound. You look up from the yellow chopping board, furrowing your eyebrows. He persists: “Mmm. Cha-r-lotte.”

“What’s up with Charlotte?” Bit impolitely, you ask, in-between chews.

“I think she likes Charles, a little.” You nod slowly, trying to follow. Charlotte liking Charles. Your Charles. Wait, no. Not your—or nobody’s, really. Just Charles. Yeah.

“What? Bull!” You narrow your eyes. “Says who?”

“Why do you care?”

“Wh—I don’t!” You squeak, caught. “Just… I think I’d know, Lorenzo.” You make a tch noise, crossing your sweater-clad arms. “So—says who?”

“I saw her leering at him during his birthday party.” 

“You’re wrong,” you say, but you don’t really know who you’re convincing. He reaches over for an apple slice, and you move the chopping board out of the way sharply.

“Mon dieu, you’re snappy. Fine, fine. I might be wrong,” he relents, shrugging. He gets up and slides beside you to be able to acquire more slices. “I talked to her during the party, too.”

“Weirdo,” you tease, allowing him to take a few more. “About Charles, yes?

“No, about her brand new dress.”

“You’re the funniest Leclerc brother, I assure you.”

“She told me…” He says, louder this time, shushing you effectively. “She told me she ‘finds Charles cute.’” Air quotes, shrug. “But that they ‘probably won’t’ date.”

“Huh. Did, um. Did she say why?” You play with the tail of your braid, shuffling back and forth on your flats. You don’t know why you’re so fidgety—you aren’t nervous, you don’t think.

“Because…” he says, chewing to allow for a pause. “She said every time she looks for Charles to try and ask for time alone, or on a date, or something, he’s already following you around like some puppy.”

—

You comb your hair into a bun and venture into the patio, having avoided a good chunk of the noon heat. You greet some relatives politely along the way, and receive a hand squeeze from great-aunt Eden. At one of the tables is Charles, beside Joris and another friend, and Giada and Charlotte across them, an empty seat beside the latter.

You seat yourself in it and Giada kisses your cheek. “Hey. Ça va?”

“Fine,” you say, smiling. Then you lower your voice to a whisper. “Do you remember when I told you about my crush on Charlie? For the first time?”

“Yeah,” she whispers back. “Around… 2013.”

“Ouais. And… and it disappeared after that,” you say. “Right?”

“You said it did,” she says. “A year later. When we were sixteen.”

“Right.” You think. Seventeen onwards—you’d never formed a full-fledged crush on Charles. “Okay. It’s nothing. Just a memory. I was just. Yeah, oui.”

“Oui, let’s eat.” The memory fades and so does your running mind. Charles’ eyes meet yours across the table, and suddenly you feel a little less like your thoughts have ripped you open.

—

When you and Charles were younger, you adopted the adage “bitter with the sweet.” Charles will have people believe it was made by the both of you, with philosophical minds stretched so far beyond their years. Well, revisionist history. The truth lay in the Carole King song of the same name you’d heard on the stereo.

Those are the exact words Charles tells Ted when he’s interviewing for the Spain Grand Prix. It’s a hot day and you’re especially doubled down on by the fact that he’s finished ninth. 

You’d been fake-dating for the cameras all weekend. At all costs, you try and avoid interviews, but the damned Drive to Survive producers insist on a soundbite and start following the two of you around everywhere (only to find your conversations sound very weird and niche, and not scandalous or sexy).

Pascale also called—Charles first, and when he didn’t check his phone, you. You spent an hour on the phone just talking about the race. About the penalties and the nasty headlines that followed, and just everything.

“I’m glad you’re there,” she says. “God knows he needs you.”

You end up biking to try and relieve the stress, posing with fans for pictures.

“I’m such a big fan. I stalk Charles’ Insta like, all the time, and it’s crazy how you guys are dating.” A teenaged girl laughs nervously. “Where’d it happen?”

“Texas!” He, again, tries out the bit to appease the fans but you have to extinguish the flames of his blatant lies.

“He’s kidding,” you interject. “It’s just—it just happened, really.”

How does something just happen? Someone told you once, in a Paris bar, that love is like an echo. It’s always there, in the underbelly, underneath it all, and then one day it echoes, like a bass drum or a cymbal. And the echo—the echo is you feeling it. You feel the echo, the all-encompassing echo, even if the love itself’s been there all along.

With Charles, it’s out of the question. You love him. He’s your best friend. You trusted him before you even learned what trust meant, for Chrissake.

How could you not love him? That seemed impossible. The love was there. The love’s always been there and it’ll never go away.

It echoes at half-past-two in Barcelona, when he whips past you on his bike and says on your left. The breeze pulls your hair to the left, covers your face, and when you rake it away he’s stopped to check if he accidentally bumped you in his rush to look cool.

You’re creepily observant; you’ve been told this many times before. What people don’t know is with the observance comes even more questions. Ifs, whys, wheres, whens, hows, God the hows. The questions keep coming because there’s never an answer.

“Are you okay?” He asks. Green eyes glittering like a lake. Smile like the sun. Hair curly at the ends. “Did I hurt you?”

Then you realize. In the matters of love, every question—every single question. Every single one. The answer is Charles.

“Of course not,” you say. And you smile.

—

You almost drop your book in your rush to scurry past the paparazzi. They’re still busy on the two figures (Alex and Lily, you think) on another end of the paddock, which allows you only a few moments to try and evade them.

Others are stationed near the Ferrari hospitality, which means you’re going to need your hideout. Yuki had texted Pierre who had texted Charles who had told you that it was all clear to go there for a few minutes while waiting for the photographers to clear out.

Hurry, Charles is saying. Laughing. His hand’s gentle in yours. You want them there forever. You want to drag the tip of your nail over the barely-perceptible grooves of his fingerprints so he knows how much you need him.

The days post-Spain were spent biking, watching shows, listening to music, eating food. The travel to Canada—long, cold, compression socks. Pascale had called mid-flight to check on her “favorite pair”—you maneuvered yourselves into a much more cuddly position to appease her, and her giddy smile was incentive enough to stay that way for ninety minutes.

You’d been in a weird mental state trying to grapple with your rapidly returning and intensifying feelings for him, which have dawned on you all at once.

But he makes it better. You’re still laughing when you wedge yourselves in, eyes meeting.

And then you’re quiet.

The gaze you share is intense, but almost unsure, like you’re supposed to be looking away anytime now. You step backward shakily, and his hand moves from your waist to the small of your back to keep you from stumbling any further. You’re closer now. But this shouldn’t feel as strange as it does when you two have been in much more scandalous positions before—what’s different?

He’s so close, so so close, his green eyes looking right through you. You lean closer, ready to kiss him like you have before, ready to feel his mouth slot softly over yours, comforting and safe and Charles.

Funnily enough, it’s then that the illusion breaks, his grip loosening and the distance between you increasing. He coughs twice, awkwardly.

“Shit—sorry,” you say profusely, clearly having read the moment wrong. Embarrassment wells up in your system, warming your face. You laugh to diffuse the tension but it barely does anything.

“No, don’t—” He exhales, squeezes the bridge of his nose, trying to find words. “It’s not that I don’t want to kiss you. I do.”

“So kiss me,” you suggest simply, looking around for anything that might stop him. The embarrassment ebbs away, replaced quickly by confusion. 

“I don’t want to kiss you in an AlphaTauri stock room,” he mopes, burying his head in his hands in clear frustration. “An AlphaTauri stock room.” He repeats it in a hushed whisper, disbelief etched all over his pretty face.

“Charles,” you begin, smiling already, the quaint way that makes his knees go weak every time. “You’re acting like you and I haven’t kissed before.” 

“This is different.” He says firmly, looking away lest he lean in involuntarily. He interjects with conviction, not realizing what he’s implying until the implication’s hanging in the air. The longing kills him softly, and he feels if he looks at you a second longer he’ll kiss you anyway.

It’s a wonderfully confusing feeling. You open your mouth to respond but you can’t; your brain tacks itself onto his sentence, the division created between the kisses before now and the kiss that might happen anytime soon.

“H…” you trail off, throat drying. Blinking, you try again, “How different?”

He looks up, eyes conveying all the things his lips never will. This is different. You know it. I love you this time.

The answer is exchanged and accepted wordlessly. You slip out of the room when Pierre tells you it’s okay to, and it’s only then—only then—that Charles’ hand leaves your body. You seem to burn alive with its absence.

It’s a Ferrari 1-2. You snap a thousand pictures with Isa and Carlos holding Carlos’ trophy while Charles is doing interviews, and they invite you to join them for the break. You’re open to it—the win, the good standings, they definitely warrant a celebration for the few weeks’ break. So your original itinerary is Portugal—beaches, coasts, food—but the jet re-charts a route and the flight is cut much shorter because you’re in New York City.

—

Somewhere in Manhattan, a wedding shower is thrown on an outdoor rooftop. “This is one hell of a wedding shower,” you squeal excitedly when you spot him, bringing Lorenzo in for a hug. Your yellow dress flows in the wind. “I thought you guys were going to throw it in Monaco?”

“Yeah, well… why not here, right? It’s beautiful.” He gestures to the skyline, smiling. “Plus, Charles, Arthur, and Mum were already near the country for work, so we got ahead of it. Everyone was happy to fly out.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, I love it.” You beam. “I can’t believe it, either. When’s the final date?”

He opens his mouth to reply, but the wind is knocked out of him by Charles barreling into his arms for a hug. You roll your eyes at the latter’s childish behavior, smiling despite yourself. They part and Charles finds his place beside you, arm snaking around your shoulders. “What a wedding shower!”

“Don’t flatter me, dipshit,” Lorenzo jokes.

“It’s a lovely one.” Lorenzo thanks him. “An amazing shower. You know, it’s a total golden shower!”

You purse your lips. “Charles—”

“A golden shower, mate. Absolutely.”

That garners at least three odd looks and you calmly place a hand on his chest to whisper don’t ever fucking say that again it means something completely different please don’t embarrass me or your brother. 

For all your embarrassment, you make up for it in having the literal time of your life. The food is good, the city view is amazing, the weather is fair and the music—Desafinado now—is amazing. “I could see myself here,” you say offhandedly to Charles, who nods back with a faint smile. He’s half-distracted.

“You look beautiful, by the way,” he says, squinting from the sun in his eyes. “Very.”

You part ways at some point—Pascale whisks him off, no doubt for another long round of questioning about your relationship, and you meander around with a glass of champagne.

You’re halfway through swiping a mini quiche when a hand wraps around your wrist and squeezes to get your attention—Charles’ great-aunt Eden. She speaks only intermittent English, and your Italian fails to carry you through well enough, but you smile and greet her. “Ciao, Eden!”

“Ciao, bella.” She smiles. “Flight was long.”

“Oh, yeah. New York’s far. I might work here someday. I’ll hear results in around two weeks, but I’m hoping for London instead.” You slow your speech.

“When will you two wed?”

“Wed?” Your face warms and you stutter through a giggly mess of a sentence. “Oh, Eden—zia—no, no! We’re just friends.”

“My Charles told me you two are to be married.” You both crane your heads to the right, where Charles is leaning against the terrace railing talking to one of your friends, Matthew, animatedly. He meets your eyes, sees Eden beside you, and seems to connect the dots.

Jokingly, perhaps, he raises his hand and wiggles his empty ring finger. You can’t help but smile as you turn back to the old woman. “Oh, did he, zia?”

“Si, he did.”

“Well, we’re just going to let it happen, then. You’re invited. Front row.” You kiss her cheek and she smiles, wobbling off to drink more wine before any of the adults can stop her.

It’s announced then that the dance floor is open, and many of Pascale’s friends filter through to show off their moves to the 70’s music. You watch, amused, at the display of dexterity to Frankie Valli and Aretha Franklin. You cheer them on, content to watch them against the backdrop of the New York sunset.

When Ain’t No Mountain High Enough plays, the dance floor grows, because nobody can resist the song—not even Charles, apparently, who takes your hand without preamble and takes you, squealing, to the centre.

You sing each of the parts, like you always do when the song comes on. It’s semi-tradition at this point: you take Marvin Gaye’s, Charles takes Tammi Terrell’s. You both exaggerate your dance moves and pretend you’re performing.

His hand’s in yours, winding you around and pulling you close. At some point he starts robot dancing to entertain you. It works—you laugh out loud, your eyes half-shut and faced to the stars above. He could write a poem about this. Or a song.

The song ends and you lean onto his shoulder to take a breather—then the photographer swoops in and takes a picture. “That’s going into the RSVPs!” He says, accent unmistakably American.

“Does he know we’re not the couple here?” You ask.

Do we know we’re not the couple? Charles asks himself.

The night escalates as the “oldies” leave, and Matthew, Joris, and Giada join you both for one last round of drinks again. You’re all standing at the exit making conversation; Lorenzo attends to his friends at the other end of the terrace.

“I feel young again,” Matthew says, liberated by Tito’s vodka. He takes another swig and pulls his coat on.

“You’re twenty-five, calm down,” you joke. “Dodged that bullet.” You’re poking fun at the semi-massive crush you had on Matthew in secondary school, and a laugh passes through the four of you. “Anyway, you three be careful. No driving.”

“Jesus, but really—I haven’t been this drunk since you”—he points at you, laughing—“turned seventeen at that club, Amber? No?”

“Oh, God. Y’know, same.” You fail to notice Charles and Giada share a look. “I remember nothing from that night! Or, like, the first two hours at least.”

“I remember drinking my body weight because of heartbreak,” he jeers. 

“Heartbreak? Were you—were you with anyone?” You ask, confused.

It happens before anyone can stop it. “No, when Charles kissed you. And you kissed him after. Alright, night mates! Lorenzo—merci!”

Oh, fuck, you hear in the back of your now-muddled brain. Giada’s voice.

You open and close your mouth. “Ch—wait, he—what?”

“I—let’s talk here,” Charles flounders, dragging you to a more secluded spot and facing you. The three of your friends exit; Giada waves, apologetic. “When… we were at Amber… and you were absolutely hammered, we kissed. It was twice—just twice. And you didn’t, um. Remember a thing.”

You’re unsure. “In Amber?” You blink, confused. “What do you mean?”

“We… I don’t—I mean, I understand why you don’t remember. We kissed that night.”

“So that’s… Charles… You didn’t tell me.” Your voice quivers, like a wire flicked. “Why didn’t you say it at the time?”

He doesn’t give you an answer. He just looks at the counter, imagines the way your eyebrows furrow, your lips move, eyes glitter. He can’t give you one. He doesn’t want to hurt, disappoint, sadden you. He wants to get on his knees and root you here, so he’ll have all the time in the world to come up with an answer.

“Charles.” But he loves you, and he can at the very least be honest for you. “Look at me.”

“I was scared.” His eyes gravitate to yours.

“Of?”

“It felt stupid, is all. That you didn’t remember, and maybe you did but you were pretending you weren’t. I didn’t—it didn’t—sorry.” He laughs, stutters. “I convinced myself it didn’t mean anything because we didn’t have feelings for each other.” He pauses. “Then.”

“Well,” you say, slow. Eyes stuck to his. “How about now?”

“Now?”

“I love you, now. I mean, isn’t that all this is? Loving? Even if? De—despite of?” 

And this—God. This is how it feels. He’s looking at you and you’re telling him you love him because you do, and finally he’s been over with reassurance.

You love him, too. That way. He trembles with it. His hands are shaky when they lace into yours, like you’re a shrine, a prayer, and he feels like maybe these are the emotions that swirl through the human body when one wins the lottery and gets struck by angry lightning at the same time.

This is it, he thinks. Profound and lovely and an echo of sweet memories. He’s yours. Here in a city unfamiliar to both of you, yet to be conquered, your fingers lace lightly and you smile, smile, smile at each other, as if you’re the last two people on Earth. He’s yours, so foolishly in love with you.

Even far from home, you’re both filled with warmth, with longing. Extended stares, pits of your stomachs welling up with something lovely in between homesickness and nostalgia. Here again, you again, us again—it’ll always be us again, your heart seems to say, surrounded by the same love the same hurt the same sad the same everything, you and me, all the love in the world, all the confusion, we’re here. It’s never over.

Across the terrace, Lorenzo watches. Two figures, laughing, emanating happiness, gentle unkowing love. You two have finally made it here, after what felt like a thousand trials and dreams and stories.

So even if you’re taller, in high heels and a yellow dress—and Charles is broader, in a suit and tie—Lorenzo thinks he can blink and see the two little kids who hosted a tea party in the backyard. He can blink again and see you hugging, eyes shut, his lips pressed to your forehead to convey the intimacy nothing else will do as well. 

“So what now?” You ask. Again with the questions. In your defense—it begs so many follow-up questions. A love so many years in the making—layer after layer after layer—of course it begs all the questions, almost to the point of overwhelming capacity. What’ll we tell Pascale? The fans? The family? Everyone?! 

But one look and he makes it better. His green eyes, bright against the deep black of the skyline. You’ve grown. You’ve done it. You’re here. “We’ll figure it out.” He smiles. “We deserve this kind of ending, don’t you think?”

—

“He has my name.” A tubby finger points to the boy on the greeting card. “That one.”

“And who’s the dog?” Asks the girl beside him, hair wound into a plait. She likes this boy. He’s cute. She plays with the end of her braid and stares, eyes flickering in-between him and the card they’re staring at.

“The name’s right there. They’re best friends.”

“Okay, that’ll be me.”

“So that’s us.”

“Oui.” She smiles. “Charlie and Snoopy.”

–

read an omitted scene here :)

[acrystalwitch]

DEITY GUIDE

(From research but also from my own workings with her as my matron. This isn’t meant to be strictly historical this is more for pagans wanting to work with her. There will be a lot of UPG or SPG)

Selene is a Greek Titan (I call her goddess because I find it honoring but she is a Titan) She is the moon incarnate. The embodiment of the moon itself in spirit form. I believe to look up at the moon and call it beautiful is to call her beautiful as well.

Her parents are Hyperion and Theia and her siblings are Helios (The Sun) and Eos (The Dawn)

She is ever changing and ever shifting.

The myths of her have a lot to do with a man named Endymion. There are many versions, but my favorite take I’ve ever heard is that he was a human she fell in love with. She knew that he would die one day and couldn’t bear that. So she requested to Zeus that when it was his time to die, he’d go in his sleep, and he’d instead just sleep forever, preserved and immortal. She visits him every night and has many children with him. (I like to believe the version that this was all consensual and that Endymion would’ve wanted it this was as well)

What working with her is like?

She is as ever shifting and multifaceted as the moon itself. She is a sweet mother, and a firm scolder.

She is the only deity I’ve had who has set off my fire alarms (it was a very normal glass candle with no herbs or extras 😅) and a second time she melted a pillar candle of hers onto the floor because she got very excited that there was a lot of love in my household that day.

She doesn’t put up with me wallowing, she wants me to confront my issues head on. Has tried to work with me on emotional problems and addictions. She’s a fierce protector of women and I’ve found that she will even look out for my girlfriend’s emotions as well, though she doesn’t work with her.

She is a strong mother figure, loving yet stern. She also can go quiet for long periods of time. In my experience prefers meditation as communicating, or the moon oracle deck I have.

Offerings for Selene:

(What I personally have given her or known others to say that she likes! Feel free to add your own id love to know!)

Physical offerings:

- moon water

- moon stone

- selenite (named after her!)

- amethyst

- moon imagery

- grey candles

- white candles

- jewelry

- silver coins

- flowers that bloom at night

- white flowers

- imagery of white horses (she has a chariot)

- the moon tarot card

- the lovers tarot card

- the chariot tarot card

Devotional offerings

- look up at the moon! Call her beautiful

- learn about the moon phases

- look after yourself and your health

- meditate with her

- draw pictures of her/the moon

-write songs/poetry

- don’t be afraid to feel your feelings!

Personally, though she is my matron I have some of the most difficult times connecting with her. It could be due to my issues with my mother and seeing her as a mother figure. But, I’d say if you want to work with her be prepared for it to be a bit different than most deity work talked about.

She’s quiet and confusing at times and requires a lot of work. But she’s also patient and forgiving and loving. All in all if you feel a pull to her, I’d say go for it! Just be very respectful of her!

[bonefall]

Better Bones Profile: Houndleap

"The horrifying eldritch fallen angel likes ME best because I'm hot"

[ID: The Better Bones AU version of Houndleap from Warrior Cats. He is a black-and-white tom with ginger flecks in his black parts, and a fluffy white tail tuft. His ears are burned away, and he has orange, swirly keloid scars. He also has a heart-shaped paw pad.]

Here by popular request! Holy MOLY you all jumped on the offhanded manwhore comment lmao.

Houndleap's a great example of cats who are in the Dark Forest for breaking non-violent commandments. The only thing he's killing is the gene pool, with his 6 known mates and the 16 kittens between them all. No, he wasn't in love with them all either, he just liked to play the game.

He is as close to the ideal Clan cat as one can get, and he knows it, and flaunts it. Tri-colored with beautiful ginger flecks, he fell victim to a terrible moor fire and came out with severe burns. His surviving was already a great mark of strength, but then he became even luckier when his shiny scars raised, and slightly spread from the initial injury.

Clan cats didn't have a word for keloids, they only knew it was gorgeous. As if StarClan had given him a scar that dances and shimmers.

Houndleap "abused" this gift, seeing as many cats as possible and cheating on his 'official' mate back home. In the modern era, he might have just been a very popular Honor Sire, but this was before the Queen's Rights and the Aftergathering. He was eventually caught, and after his death, he was banished to the Dark Forest for violating the Law of Loyalty on more than 5 counts.

Yes. More than 5 counts. StarClan was able to see that he had even more than 5 halfclan mates (and they're not even counting the wife he cheated on) but only 5 got pregnant.

Alignment: Dark Forest, ex-WindClan

Time Period: Skyfall Era

Relations: Too fucking many

Houndleap's addition to the Dark Forest is Lover's Beck, a twisted, romantic version of a spot in the Gorge where he used to meet with his secret lovers. It's his worst memory because he planned poorly and two of them showed up at the same time and that's how he got caught.

More trivia below!

Canon said he's solid-colored and I said no. Pretty boy.

There are several minor features in his design that will be seen in modern family lines. I won't point them out but there's 3 total (so far.)

I decided to use him as an example of nearly ideal beauty standards in BB, since I famously overhauled them from canon. He is brightly colored with complicated patterns, slightly chunky, and has a HUGE scar on the face.

Personality is slut. He just wants to flirt, man. Theme song is Mambo #5 he's just like that.

He works with Tigerstar in OotS mostly because it's not like there's anything better to do. Plus some of the trainees are hot, "hellooooo Ratscar"

When Antpelt dies, Houndleap is one of the cats who needs the most convincing to come back into the alliance. It's one thing when it's funny haha Attack And Dethrone God or whatever, but PERMAdeath??

Thankfully, Hawkfrost is a fantastic diplomat.

Generally, Houndleap is motivated by whatever's fun. He was one of the first to fall in line under Ashfur and will do basically anything if he's bored.

"We're teaching people how to kill? sure lmao. Oh we're attacking the living? Ok cool. Guard the prisoners? Not like I had plans anyway. Anyway wanna get evil dinner later, handsome <3 ?"

Likes drama, tea, stories, games, anything that brings him a little excitement really.

He can usually be counted on to join whatever silly project the group's up to this time, like catching Shrewpaw's Pheasant.

I cannot stress enough how much of a normal Crummy Dude he is. He's just some standard jerkwad guy. The Dark Forest in Better Bones contains several people like him, who might be sleazeballs or jackasses, but we would generally agree don't deserve Hell.

When canon comes up with a Houndleap backstory, I'll consider what to do with it. But for now we only know that Hound came from WindClan, which I've included.

[keyotos]

hello! i saw your music event post and i wanted to request a welt fic about him and the readers first kiss, id also like lover by taylor swift to be the song paired with it. no pressure and i hope you have a good day :)

have i known you 20 seconds, or 20 years?

summary ⎯ anxious and anticipating: that's how you felt when welt yang was around you. you knew there was something in the air between you two, but you just didn't know when you were going to confront it. not until now, anyway.

tags ⎯ first kiss scenario. pining. no angst!!!!!!!

tana's words ⎯ thank you for requesting!! hope you enjoy.

keyotos music event

you haven't seen welt all day. not once in the morning, not once in the afternoon, not once in the evening. it was getting worrying at this point: where could he be if not the astral express. if stelle, march, and dan heng were all back on the ship, where could welt be?

you've been waiting in the lobby for hours. when anyone (himiko and march) asked you about it, you just said you liked lounging in the lobby. you didn't. you were just waiting for welt to return back. it sounded pathetic, and to some extent it was pathetic, but in this case it was rather urgent for welt to be back on the ship.

you see, the other day, while still on the luofu, welt had said something over the phone. it sounded like thought that was meant to be kept in, but slipped out anyway. it was private, secret, and probably not meant for you.

"i can't wait to see you again," he muttered in a tired daze. welt was too exhausted to even realize what he just said. it was until you muttered a few words to yourself (in awe), that welt registered his secret confession.

you always knew there was something going on with you and welt. even if it was unsaid, you knew there was at least something in the air. was it admiration? awe? or maybe, and this is a stretch, love?

with that, welt apologized profusely, even when you reassured him that it was okay. but the tension between you two remained. you two still communicated, however it felt more strained than before. and now, welt was nowhere to be seen.

"is he dead or something?" you mumbled whilst picking fluff off of the couch. this behavior was not unnoticed, especially by himiko.

"thinking about welt?" she asked, teasingly raising an eyebrow.

"more like worrying," you huffed, "is he planning to stay there forever?"

himiko narrowed her eyes, studying your expression. your lips were slightly pouted and you looked extremely bored. she wondered why you looked so troubled. surely you would've seen welt's text from earlier, right? unless he had said something wrong, then himiko would have to chide him.

"didn't you see his text?" himiko asked, eyebrows furrowed.

"what text?" your eyebrows shot up. you checked your phone, realizing it had died. oh. "my phone died..."

"yeah," himiko winced. this was one of the worst cases of miscommunication she's seen in a while.

"how long ago was the text?" you threw your phone in your pocket, attention fully glued on himiko.

"ten minutes ago? maybe fifteen?"

oh. that means you probably left welt on delivered for more than a few minutes. troubling on his end, but it did make for good payback. after all, he did leave you on "delivered" for a good portion of the day.

"do you know what he said?" you peered over himiko's shoulder, looking at her messages. he sent himiko one text. very vague, no details.

tell yn to meet me in exalting sanctum.

well. that sounds very ominous. either way, you were dying to get some answers from welt. where has he been the entire day? what has he been doing? what were you two? the last one was probably not as important as the first though. whatever it was, you bid goodbye to himiko and made your way down to the exalting sanctum.

luckily, welt spared you the difficulty of navigating your way through exalting sanctum. he was waiting for you in the middle of town, repeatedly checking his watch and checking his surroundings. when he noticed you walking up to him, you saw how he straightened his posture and cleared his throat.

"sorry i didn't get your text. my phone was dead," you started off. you sounded so peaceful and nonchalant when you said the first half of your sentence. the next half goes as follows, "where the hell where you all day!" you slapped his shoulder, "you had me worried. i thought you died. i wish you had died instead of sending me that super ominous text."

"didn't you say your phone died?" welt teased.

"okay, well, himiko. but the message was directed to me," you flicked his shoulder. "but seriously, where the hell were you today? i was getting worried."

you missed the blush welt wore on his face when you told him you were worried about him. he hid it, placing his glasses lower down his face, "i had a surprise made for you."

your eyes widened, "surprise?" your face scrunched up, "i didn't need a surprise?"

"you know yn, you shouldn't argue with the man who's giving you a surprise," welt jokingly shook his head.

"okay, well, surprises can be good or bad. how am i supposed to know if it was a good one?" you retorted.

"because i'd never do anything to hurt you," welt started walking, back turned towards you.

you sped up, "okay, fine, whatever. let's go," you looped your arm around his. welt tried to ignore the fluttery feeling in his stomach due to your close contact. his attempts at ignoring his feelings ended up unsuccessful.

welt lead you somewhere quiet and serene. it was quite contrary to the bustling and busy plaza of the exalting sanctum. the scenery was gorgeous; beautiful trees with flowers and colored leaves; fish in ponds; lotus flowers blooming all over the water. you two have been on countless trailblazing missions, but none can top the scenery of the xianzhou luofu.

and then you realized it. the waiting for you, the scenery, the surprise. was this a date? or at least something romantic? and with what welt had said a few days earlier: had he come to realize his feelings as well? is this really happening? out of welt's sight, you pinched yourself in case this was a dream. it was not.

"wow," you said in awe. your eyes wandered around the location. you were aimlessly walking around. in a second, you lost your footing, nearly falling into the water. if it weren't were welt catching you, holding you, you would've fell into the water. his hands were on your neck and waist, carefully holding you over the water.

once you regain your footing, welt let go (much to your dismay). he cleared his throat and straightened himself up again. he was nervous, and you were too (now that you've realized).

"i have something i would like to say," welt stood tall, rolling his shoulders back, "when i said i couldn't wait to see you again, i meant it."

your silence aided him in his speech, urging him to continue with your curious eyes. welt took a deep breath, "i hope i will always get to see you. but i don't want to miss you any longer. i want you with me. you've been with me since the very day i joined the express. and, throughout the days where you haven't, i've come to realize that you mean so much to me. and i just now realized the extent of my feelings for you."

"the extent is beyond me. it turns out my feelings for you are more stronger than i thought. and i brought you out here to ask⎯" welt paused, preparing himself for the big question, "would you like to be my partner?" he paused, then added, "not just in express relations, but romantic relations, i mean."

you let out a brief chuckle. it was airy and soft, much like you. "i know."

there was a prolonged moment of silence between you two. from when you felt anxious and anticipating, welt now feels the way you felt. you fidgeted with your hands before walking a few steps closer to him.

"how could i say no?" you beamed.

and that was all he needed. though he said he was being truthful about his comment the other day, he did not say the full truth. he couldn't wait to see you, but he also couldn't wait to have you. welt couldn't wait for when he would finally be able to kiss you; couldn't wait until he could wrap his arms around you and finally call you his.

you smiled into the kiss, so benevolent and sweet. your hands made their way into his hair, most definitely messing it up. his hands trailed down to your waist, pulling you closer into him as the kiss continued.

when you two finally broke apart, both of you slightly panting, you laughed.

"what?" welt asked, smile not leaving his face.

"do you think they'll be worried?" you had your arms wrapped around his neck, smiling into his shoulder.

"himiko's up there," welt reassured you, "she'll manage, she's the boss. we can stay right here."

"good," you leaned it, "i wouldn't have it any other way," you smiled once more, locking your lips together with his for many times to come.

[laurenscharhagwrites]

RIP Louise Gluck. Your voice will be sorely missed. This is my favorite poem by her.

Persephone the Wanderer

In the first version, Persephone

is taken from her mother

and the goddess of the earth

punishes the earth—this is

consistent with what we know of human behavior,

that human beings take profound satisfaction

in doing harm, particularly

unconscious harm:

we may call this

negative creation.

Persephone's initial

sojourn in hell continues to be

pawed over by scholars who dispute

the sensations of the virgin:

did she cooperate in her rape,

or was she drugged, violated against her will,

as happens so often now to modern girls.

As is well known, the return of the beloved

does not correct

the loss of the beloved: Persephone

returns home

stained with red juice like

a character in Hawthorne—

I am not certain I will

keep this word: is earth

"home" to Persephone? Is she at home, conceivably,

in the bed of the god? Is she

at home nowhere? Is she

a born wanderer, in other words

an existential

replica of her own mother, less

hamstrung by ideas of causality?

You are allowed to like

no one, you know. The characters

are not people.

They are aspects of a dilemma or conflict.

Three parts: just as the soul is divided,

ego, superego, id. Likewise

the three levels of the known world,

a kind of diagram that separates

heaven from earth from hell.

You must ask yourself:

where is it snowing?

White of forgetfulness,

of desecration—

It is snowing on earth; the cold wind says

Persephone is having sex in hell.

Unlike the rest of us, she doesn't know

what winter is, only that

she is what causes it.

She is lying in the bed of Hades.

What is in her mind?

Is she afraid? Has something

blotted out the idea

of mind?

She does know the earth

is run by mothers, this much

is certain. She also knows

she is not what is called

a girl any longer. Regarding

incarceration, she believes

she has been a prisoner since she has been a daughter.

The terrible reunions in store for her

will take up the rest of her life.

When the passion for expiation

is chronic, fierce, you do not choose

the way you live. You do not live;

you are not allowed to die.

You drift between earth and death

which seem, finally,

strangely alike. Scholars tell us

that there is no point in knowing what you want

when the forces contending over you

could kill you.

White of forgetfulness,

white of safety—

They say

there is a rift in the human soul

which was not constructed to belong

entirely to life. Earth

asks us to deny this rift, a threat

disguised as suggestion—

as we have seen

in the tale of Persephone

which should be read

as an argument between the mother and the lover—

the daughter is just meat.

When death confronts her, she has never seen

the meadow without the daisies.

Suddenly she is no longer

singing her maidenly songs

about her mother's

beauty and fecundity. Where

the rift is, the break is.

Song of the earth,

song of the mythic vision of eternal life—

My soul

shattered with the strain

of trying to belong to earth—

What will you do,

when it is your turn in the field with the god?

[jmdbjk]

Sooo, Tae's Fri(end)s...

...here's my mind-numbing ramble about it.

In the teaser short film: Images of an apple, alphabet cereal (SIREN), crossword puzzle with the word "feed", glass of milk?, the word "dine" made of ice? (I see no "dumpling" here. Where's the dumpling?) Not looking good for Vmin-ers. Again.

Along with upside down "friends", and the newspaper headline that seems to read: "...ationship becomes eternal by e..." and you can't see the entire thing but the next word created by red thread is "desire".

The red thread being pulled undone.... Red thread of fate which supposedly means: The two people connected by the red thread are destined lovers, regardless of place, time, or circumstances. This magical cord may stretch or tangle, but never break. This myth is similar to the Western concept of soulmate or a destined partner.

But the red thread is broken and we end up with just the word "end".

Sooooo.... let's extrapolate (come up with plausible explanations from what we know):

APPLE: friends>end>friends>dead

CROSSWORD (left-handed person): 35 across = feed

BLACK MAGNETIC POWDER (commonly used for fingerprinting): friends>end

BLACK BALLOONS: friends>end

FLASHCARDS: upside down friends>right side up end (Stranger Things?) and then the words flashing

ALPHABET CEREAL: siren>end

GLASS OF MILK with fingers in it (ew?): friends>end

ICE: dine

CROSSWORD with one word (again a left-handed person): 1 across = end

NEWSPAPER STORY (front page?) with image of what looks like Tae in a dark room: apparent heading of the article: "relationship that becomes eternal by end of ___(fill in the blank)___"

It's a love song so perhaps the heading says something like "relationship that becomes eternal by end of wedding vows"

The subheading appears to be the same words used in the initial Weverse notice about the release of Layover: "... in total - five tracks and a bonus track. To fully appreciate the album’s flow, we recommend listening to it in sequence from start to finish."

RED THREAD on white fabric: the word "desire" which remains embroidered and the word "friends" which is pulled apart to leave only "end."

FRIENDS END FRIENDS DEAD FEED FRIENDS END FRIENDS END FRIENDS END SIREN END FRIENDS END DINE END DESIRE FRIENDS END

I have no idea what that means.

The colors...

Pink... it was pink with white text at first but then a broken phone is in the mix (makes me think about all that photo-leaking mess when we first got wind of Tae and Jennie) ... and now Pink... and black... HMMMMMMM... black and pink... hmmmmm?

iPhones are notoriously difficult to hack these days. I wonder if one of the photo leakers is one of the subjects of the photos... just sayin'...

Could this "love song in the Pop Soul R&B genre," as it is described, be about, you know... Jennie? Black... pink... I know what we've heard but seriously... who really knows anything? Not I. But I have eyes and a brain.... that over thinks.

The funniest thing is if any of his solos or especially the cult show up at the party event and adhere to the dress code... HAH! Tae, you clever little devil.

Release date: March 15 which is not White Day in Korea but more historically infamously known as the Ides of March. Is the song about Brutus and Julius Caesar? Friendship gone wrong? Maybe that's too plebian of me... anyway...

So I will be here waiting to find out if Fri(end)s is another invigorating song that will let us experience the full breadth of Tae's charms just as Seven was described as the full breadth of Jungkook's charms... *ahem*... or if it's something completely different. We'll see!

[vxserii]

*door-to-door salesman voice*

hello tumblr user vxserii i hear you're a hozier fan. do you like talking about song analysis? id be stoked to hear any thoughts you have about verse 1 of First Time, how Abstract (Psychopomp) uses the theme of its circle, a persuasive essay of any kind on why i should enjoy Anything But. or, like, what you thought about any hozier song ever

(ive never created a tumblr ask whats the social etiquette i should use again. i feel like im raising my hand in class)

first of all, im so so sorry that this took me literal eons to reply to

second, YES YES YES i love talking about song analysis!!!

third, i will in fact be doing all of these requests (in parts, though, as to avoid overwhelming my blog with a million words)

the first verse of First Time holds such a dear place in my heart (though that could be said about literally any hozier song ever). the way he's fucking yearning right off the bat?????? on my knees.

"remember once i told you about how before i heard it from your mouth, my name would always hit my ears as such an awful sound."

WHAAAAAT

i feel like this verse is fairly straight forward, but incase it's not! he's literally saying that he's always hated the way his name sounds and to him, it's always been a rather horrid sounding word.

though, when his lover says his name, the word changed into something meaningful; something worthy of falling from their lips.

"and the soul, if that's what you'd call it uneasy ally of the body it felt nameless as a river undiscovered underground"

he addresses the soul as something he's unsure about, as though it's something foreign to him. and instead of just ignoring it, he says "if that's what you'd call it" as if speaking to his lover again, asking what to call it because they'd know - therefore insinuating that their soul is likely bright and vibrant and very much there.

uneasy ally of the body is to say that his soul doesn't match his body / appearance. aka he feels uncomfortable in his own skin, which is likely tied to the fact that he doesn't like his name.

because one's name is meant to reflect all that they are. and if he doesn't know who he is, how is to expected to trust his name to embody that? exactly. he can't.

now, the last two lines don't exactly make sense until i talk about the following verse. it's addressing the river lethe - which i'll explain shortlyyyy

"and the first time that you kissed me, i drank dry the river lethe"

okay okay

so

the river lethe is also known as 'the river of forgetfulness'. it's renown in greek mythology of being one of the five rivers in the underworld (and we know from talk and sunlight that hozier def likes to reference greek mythology). this river is used by the souls of the dead to drink before entering the paradise of the underworld (the elysian fields). the water from the river makes them forget their past life, which allows them to start over in the afterlife. because, if they were burdened by memories, they'd likely be unable to move on. so, honestly, this was an act of kindness.

hozier saying that his first kiss with his lover was akin to drinking this river dry is so, so, so very significant. he's saying that the kiss was so puissant that it could be compared to a rebirth, turning him into a new man.

in just that one stanza, he's transformed & that's what makes this song so beautiful.

it starts off with him as a man lost in the space between soul, mind, name, and body. then, from naught but a kiss, he's reborn into a whole new being entirely.

oh to be loved by andrew byrne.

like i said, though, i'll take any excuse to talk about this man so i'll be replying to this post with more answers on the next questions

[jazzthatonewriterchick]

I'll Show You "Uptight" (18+ Fic)

Pairing: Adult!Bakugou x Black!Fem!Reader (Coworkers to Lovers)

Synopsis: In which a very pissed and very emotionally frustrated Bakugou decides he’s not going to let you get away with your lip that easily and pays you a visit one girls’ night to prove to you that he is, indeed, able to be “looser” after you make a drunk comment about his introverted and uptight personality to your mutual friends and Kirishima “accidentally” spills the beans. 

Story Warnings: Smutty smut (MINORS DON’T READ), 18+, AgedUp!Bakugou (he’s 25 years old), Swearing, Grinding, Public Displays of Affection, Mentions of & Consumption of Alcohol, Consensual Sex w/ Verbalization, Foreplay, Public Kink, Manhandling, Mild Degradation, Praise Kink, Daddy Kink, Spit Play, 69ing, Facefucking, Safe Sex (WRAP IT BEFORE YOU TAP IT), Edge Play, Spanking, Mild Choking, MULTIPLE Positions, MULTIPLE Orgasms for Reader, Aftercare, Reader is black-coded but anyone can read this 

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters mentioned in this fic. However, as this is my writing, I do not give permission for my work to be reposted on any other sites that are not from my own accounts. Thank you! 

Writer’s Note: Double update for y'all this week! The next chapter had me SWEATING so I hope it'll make y'all wanna touch some grass too lol -Jazz

Ao3 link here!

Chapters: One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven.

**********

Chapter Three 

It wasn’t hard for Bakugou to find what club you and the girls were at.

Damn Mina put everything online. They were at one of the hottest clubs in downtown Musutafu, known for playing reggaeton and dancehall that had the entire club moving as soon as Bakugou and the guys stepped through the double doors. The bodyguard standing at the doors outside didn’t ask for IDs, recognizing the faces of the pros…and because Bakugou slipped him a $100 tip.

See? He wasn’t that much of an asshole. 

The club was packed to capacity when he stepped in, bodies occupying the dance floor, the lounging areas situated on the side of the dance floor, and the upper balconies above the first floor. The lights flashed with the beat of the song playing, washing Bakugou in a golden light.

He already felt out of place, feeling tense, and awkward. At least he dressed the part–after arguing with Denki, he decided on some regular ripped jeans, sneakers, and a red V-neck that hugged his upper torso instead of the regular hoodie and sweats he initially wanted to wear. 

But he reminded himself he was here for a reason and he didn’t want to look like a slob or appear to be out of his element when he finally found you and got his hands on you…literally.

“So what now, genius?” Sero asked above the music. Kiri was already feeling the music, swaying his hips as he grabbed two full shots off of a tray a bottle girl walked around with, offering them to anyone who wanted them. 

“I’ve got a few ideas,” Denki hummed suggestively, eyeing a group of girls sitting a foot away from him, all laughs and mini skirts. 

Bakugou ignored his friends as he scoped you out, looking for a flash of that gorgeous skin and pretty smile. What he found wasn’t you but he knew you were close by when he spotted Jirou and Momo sitting at the bar staring dead at him.

“Wait,” he told his friends, already moving through the maze of the club to make it to his other set of friends. While Momo looked terrified to see him like he was the big bad wolf, Tsuyu didn’t look shocked to see him and Jirou was cool as a cucumber. 

“Where they at?” he grumbled immediately. 

Jirou popped a cherry from her cocktail in her mouth. “Hello to you, too.” Kiri gave each girl a squeeze while Denki wedged himself between their stools, wrapping an arm around each of them. “Ladies,” he purred. “Both looking lovely this evening. Especially you, boo.” 

“Here to harass us?” Jirou asked after pecking Denki’s cheek. Sero snickered, sitting down beside her. “Not you,” he replied. 

“Where’s Y/N?” Bakugou asked, not up for beating around the bush right now. Jirou shared a look with the girls and the guys who attempted to hide their smiles. “Dance floor,” she answered with a smirk. “But be gentle with her. She’s had some rounds.” 

‘Yeah, I bet,’ Bakugou thought, eyeing the empty cocktail glasses and a tray of discarded shots. He wondered how much you’ve had to drink and if you had been drinking water in between, but he made a mental note to ask you once he fucked you up.

With a determined stare shot toward the dance floor, he downed his own shot of tequila, tossed the glass aside, and he left his friends in search of you. 

“Be nice!” Kiri shouted after him, even when he never turned around. Once Bakugou was farther away to not hear, he turned to his friends with a grimace. “He ain’t gonna be nice.” 

Momo noted the way Bakugou stormed away, fists clenched and chest heaving. “Is he okay?” she asked nervously.

Kiri was more than happy to fill her and Jirou in, to which Momo got even more worried. “Um….should we stop him?” she worriedly asks. 

Jirou shook her head, smirking at Bakugou’s back. “Nah. I wanna see this unfold.” She turned to the fellas, offering them one of the tequila shots from the tray. “Shot?” 

“Please!” Denki chirped, gratefully taking the glass from her as the rest watched the dance floor, anticipating the drama that was soon to unfold like a soap opera. 

Meanwhile, Bakugou stood on the outskirts of the dance floor, ignoring anyone who recognized him, and gaped like he was a zoo animal. He wasn’t worried about these extras. He was worried about you. His eyes scanned the sea of moving bodies until he spotted Mina in her blue romper that made her pink skin pop and hugged her body. Uraraka was in front of her, back against Mina’s front, moving her hips in her yellow top and skinny jeans. 

And then, like a moth to a flame, his eyes were drawn to you. As soon as he saw you, his heart lurched and his pants got a bit tighter, captured by the way you moved in that damn dress that hugged your body the way he wanted to hug you.

His eyes went right to your waist, watching the seductive way you swung your hips and winded that ass. That damn ass. You must’ve loved dancehall. Bakugou has never been to a dancehall club before, but if it meant seeing you dance like this, he’d take you to every single one he could find…if you’d let him. 

Not to mention how your skin looked under the golden wash of the lights and how gorgeous you looked in braids. It had to be a crime to be this gorgeous. This sexy and alluring. Bakugou felt like a panting dog and he had to wipe the sweat on his hands off his jeans to avoid blowing the place up.

What the fuck was your problem? How dare you make him feel this way? 

Your words drifted back to him and he clenched his fists, more than prepared to make you eat them. But as soon as he caught sight of you, someone else did too. From behind you, as you obviously whined to the music, the stranger parted through the maze and loomed over you, all greedy eyes and pointed teeth directed at you. His girl. 

‘No,’ Bakugou thought to himself. ‘No, no, no, fuck naw!’ 

He then realized that it wasn’t him who was the dog. It was the motherfucker looking to get himself some of your ass.

And Bakugou decided that if this bitch was a dog, he was gonna be the motherfucking big bad wolf. 

[harringtown]

this town’s for the record now

a/n: what’s that? the Hawkins train station I created for fic convenience once again making an appearance? absolutely. and yes this is another prompt from that childhood friends to lovers post cuz it has me by the throat. special shoutout to Noah Kahans new album, if I could have id just list every single lyric in that album as the fic title lmao. 

pairing: eddie munson x fem!reader

summary: ‘we’ve been friends since childhood, and I’ve accepted that we’re just not meant to be. I’ve moved on and encouraged you to follow your dreams. I didn’t know that your dream was me.’ from this prompt list (aka the reader moved out of Hawkins, eddie didn’t, and it takes coming home to figure out what they left behind)

wc: 5k

warnings: alcohol/drinking

-

By midnight, the only people left at the house are a handful of stragglers seeking lost jackets, the poor host and his box of trash bags, and you and Eddie. No one bothered to shut off the boombox inside, and the music filters through the open windows onto the back porch where the two of you sit at the end of the deck. Eddie’s legs are longer, and his sneakers hit the dirt of the yard below, but you swing your ankles, bobbing them against the wooden deck slats.

Eddie lifts the bottle of malt liquor to his lips, taking a burning drag before he hands it off to you. Despite your proclamation that the two of you could never get through an entire 40oz, this is the second bottle of the night.

It’s getting late, and Eddie knows he should offer to walk you home, but he doesn’t want to leave yet. Leaving means going home, and falling asleep, and waking up tomorrow.

Tomorrow. The day you climb into the car—the one Eddie spent all day helping you pack up—and drive off to college. The day you leave him and Hawkins behind.

He’s known this day was coming since you were both fifteen—knew you were destined for more than this shitty town and its shitty people—but knowing doesn’t make it hurt less. Sometimes it does. And sometimes, knowing is slamming a door shut, right into your own damn fingers.

You set the empty bottle of Jager down on the deck with a clank.

“Another one down,” you say.

Eddie waggles a brow. “Told you so.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“What can I say? I know my alcohol,” he says.

“Because that’s something to be proud of.”

“I bet I can scrounge us up at least a can of beer or two, if y’want.”

“Unless you want to carry my drunk ass all the way home, don’t you dare.”

“I’ll carry you anywhere, gorgeous,” Eddie says, leaning back onto his elbows. The crumbling deck is certainly going to leave him with splinters, but he likes this view. You, and the trees, and the stars.

“You know how I feel about that nickname,” you say. “It’s not funny.”

“Who’s joking?” Eddie asks. He’s inching past the line he already dances along every day.

You shake your head. Let out a sigh.

Eddie almost pushes. Anywhere else, with anyone else, he would. That’s what he does. He pushes and pushes and pushes until finally, the levee breaks, and he’s alone again.

He can’t decide if he hasn’t pushed you hard enough, or if he’s just not brave enough to try.

The upbeat song on the boom ends, and the notes of the next begin, slow and steady.

Right Here Waiting by Richard Marx. Not Eddie’s normal style, but the last few years have acquainted him with any song about loving things, or people, he can’t have.

He has to swallow a bitter laugh. Of all the songs, on all the nights.

Good one, universe.

Eddie pushes to his feet more unsteadily than he cares to admit, and turns, holding out a hand.

Still sitting on the deck, you lift your chin and cock your brows in question.

“May I have this dance?” he asks.

“Are you serious?”

“As Sisyphus.”

“I think you mean syphilis.”

“Same difference.”

“It absolutely is not.”

Eddie rolls his eyes. Wiggles his fingers.

You purse your lips, but a tiny smile overtakes them. You take his hand, letting him pull you up to your feet. He doesn’t release your hand, threading your fingers together, placing his other hand on your waist.

He thinks it should feel more awkward, or uncomfortable—it shouldn’t feel like Eddie has finally found the balance he’s been trying to find his entire life. You fit effortlessly against him.

And you dance. It’s hardly a complicated dance, no waltz or tango. Just two very drunk teenagers, clumsily moving around a rotting deck.

The chorus makes you both a little brave, and Eddie releases your waist, sending you out into a twirl. But you’re both hammered, and you catch your foot on a missing chunk of deck, and all Eddie can do is haul you into his arms to keep you from slamming into the wood.

Your laughter sends out plumes of white air, like the universe itself is trying to cling to the sound the way Eddie is. He has the vague thought that he wishes he had a tape recorder, to catch your laugh, to hold onto after you drive away tomorrow.

You slip your arms around his neck, and he winds his around your waist once more, a little tighter, his half-assed attempt to keep you steady—when it’s always been the other way around. Your head finds his shoulder, and Eddie can feel the thrum of your heartbeat against his own.

“I’m gonna miss the hell out of you, gorgeous,” Eddie whispers, the words escaping before he can stop them.

Your fingers curl into the collar of his vest, and your knuckles graze the back of his neck, and God, what he wouldn’t give to trap this moment like a spider in a glass.

“I’m gonna miss you, too,” you say. Your breath is warm against his collarbone.

The song’s last notes trickle out, and the only melodies left are the crickets and your heartbeats.

Eddie lifts his head at the same time you lift yours, and only then does he realize how close you are. Your nose bumps his.

Maybe he’s feeling brave, or cocky, or he’s just too aware of the time running out on the clock, but he tilts his chin up, closes the distance between you. Kisses you, the way he’s wanted to for years.

And you kiss him back. Your lips part against his, and your hands climb up his neck to tangle in his hair, and he has no idea if it’s you or the cold making him shiver, but he doesn’t care.

Someone pulls away to catch their breath—maybe him, or you, or both of you—and then…

The rest of the night turns to black. Already, the kiss is patched in darkness, a drunk brain struggling to hold onto a treasured memory.

Eddie doesn’t remember how the two of you got home. He doesn’t remember much of anything, except for that snippet on the porch.

But the next morning, when he knocks on your door with two coffees, you proclaim that you can’t remember a second of the night before, and Eddie realizes that the kiss, the confession that lived in it, didn’t make it to morning.

And he knows he could remind you. He knows it would change everything, or that it could.

In the end, though, he doesn’t say a word. He lets you go, because it’s the right thing to do—and because he’s a fucking coward, but he likes to pretend it’s only the first thing.

Because your dreams have always been bigger than Hawkins, and bigger than him. Even if his dream has always been you.

-

You think it should feel different, stepping off the train at the platform in Hawkins after all this time away, but it doesn’t. It actually feels like you never left at all, and the last nine months were nothing but a dream.

The only thing that’s different is you. And this version of you suddenly can’t remember why the hell she agreed to getting picked up by Eddie.

You should be excited to see your best friend of a decade. You are. And you’re also kind of dreading it.

But it’s a late train, and your parents have work in the morning, and you didn’t have an actual, believable reason to say no.

You roll your shoulders and grab your suitcase’s handle, dragging it behind you into the train station’s parking lot.

The black van you expected to find idling at the curb is nowhere to be seen, though. The only car that’s even waiting in the station’s lot at this time of night is an unfamiliar beat up blue pickup truck that’s at least twenty years old.

As you enter the lot, its headlights shut off, and the door creaks open. A familiar silhouette hops onto the concrete, and your stomach flips.

Eddie strolls across the lot, meeting you halfway. He looks almost exactly the same as he did when you left him. Something in the way he holds himself is a little stiller, a little calmer, and there is a seriousness to his expression he never had, but he’s your Eddie.

“There she is,” he calls, a wide grin on his face. He pulls you into a hug that ends too fast, but he doesn’t release you entirely. He’s warm and sturdy, and he still smells the same, and God, you really  missed him. “How you been, gorgeous?”

Heat flushes your cheeks, and you lightly push him off, shaking your head.

“Same old, same old.”

He rolls his eyes.

“Nice try. If you think you’re getting away with four words after almost a year, you lost your mind out there.”

He opens the passenger side door for you, and you climb in, waiting for him to go around to the driver's side and get in before you say, “It’s college. Late nights, homework, and a newfound love for coffee. I really thought I’d make it through at least a semester before giving in, but I bought a coffee pot in week two.”

“The coffee thing isn’t love. It’s Stockholm syndrome.” He shakes his head. “But god, what a sexy captor she is.”

“Ah, you’re familiar with her?”

“Familiar? We’re deeply intimate,” he says. “Met at the library on the morning shift and haven’t parted since.”

“The library?” you ask. “Eddie Munson, professional deviant, works at the library?”

“People can change,” he says, but it feels like a double entendre. Though you’re not sure what the other meaning is—not now, not after so much time away. “I don’t know if you remember Robin Buckley. Two years under us when we were in school.”

An odd, sour pit forms in your belly. It’s an old sensation you thought you left behind when you left, but you’re back in Hawkins now, and that feeling is, too.

Or maybe it’s not Hawkins. Maybe it’s him.

“Yeah, I remember. What about her?”

Eddie starts the engine. It seems to protest its very existence, grumbling and rumbling until it finally turns over.

“Well, apparently, she and the big honcho librarian, this lady named Miriam, are tight. She got me the gig.” He drums his fingers against the wheel as he pulls out of the lot and onto the street, and your gaze lingers on the rings; a few are the same, a few are new. “I’m pretty much just restocking shit, or helping old ladies find gardening manuals, but I haven’t managed to fuck it up yet.” He flashes you a grin. “Granted, it’s only been two months, but hey. Baby steps.”

You can’t help smiling back, though your chest pulses with a year-old ache. You don’t have the right to mourn anything that happened after you left this place, but you still do.

“Never pictured you as a library boy,” you say. “Next, you’re going to pull out a pair of reading glasses.”

Eddie snorts a laugh and swipes the hairs out of his eyes. He’s in dire need of a haircut. It’s been years since he’s let it get this long.

“Yeah, well, it pays the bills. And it turns out, when some ancient English teacher isn’t forcing you to read them, some of those books aren’t half bad.”

You chew on the inside of your cheek for a moment before saying, “I heard you finally walked across that stage. Let me guess, you framed and hung your diploma in the living room?”

He laughs again, but it isn’t a happy laugh. It’s laced with something sharp.

“For a while, I didn’t have a living room to hang it in.” He licks his lips. “The earthquake took out our trailer. Wayne and I are in Cheery Oaks, now, which is a hell of a lot less cheery than the name suggests. Pretty sure the diploma never even made it into a box.”

“I’m sorry,” you say. “I heard about the earthquake. I wanted to come visit, help out, but…” But. But finals, but you had created a beautiful, perfect bubble of a life, but you were afraid that coming back here would pop it.

“I don’t blame you for staying away. There’s something about this town that just makes you want to run the fuck away from it.”

You’re not sure what to say to that. Because he’s right, and you did run, and most importantly, you left him behind when you did it.

“I’m proud of you.” He darts a glance your way, confused. “You know. For graduating. For the job.” For everything. For continuing to survive in a place you swore you’d always face together.

“For getting my shit together?”

“You know that’s not what I mean,” you say.

“It’s all good. I get it.” He shrugs. “Not like it’s a lie.”

You open your mouth to speak, and promptly shut it. Before you can decide what to say, Eddie reroutes, flashing an easy grin.

“You hungry? I know you’ve been missing the shakes from the diner.” He reaches out to flick your shoulder, and you can’t help but smile.

He’s right. When it comes to which you missed more, Eddie or the milkshakes, Eddie only barely tops it.

“You don’t mind?”

“You kidding?” Eddie shakes his head. “If you asked me to drive you to New York and back, I would. I can manage a milkshake detour.”

Again, with one of those big statements that mean more than one thing. And a year ago, you might have easily caught onto the truth under his words.

“As long as you’re buying, obviously,” Eddie says.

You force a smile, hoping he can’t tell how much ache sits behind it.

The short drive to the diner proves one thing. That Hawkins hasn't changed. It’s more rundown, packed with construction and rebuilding, but it’s still your Hawkins.

It’s you and Eddie that changed. And unlike the rest of your lives, you didn’t change together.

That fact hurts more than the rest.

-

You pull away to catch your breath and curse your own humanity and its incessant demands. What you wouldn’t give to just stand here and kiss him until the world caves in.

Eddie tips his forehead against yours. You sway, and his hands hold your waist steady. His fingers nudge up the hem of your shirt and graze the skin above your hips, making you shiver.

“It’s never a joke,” Eddie hums, so close you swear you can taste the words on your lips.

“Hmm?”

“It’s never a joke,” he repeats. “You are gorgeous. So gorgeous it hurts.”

“You’re drunk,” you whisper.

“Your point?”

“People say shit they don’t mean when they’re drunk.”

“And they also say shit they do mean,” he says. Bumps his nose with yours. “And fuck, I mean it.”

He has to stop saying that. He can never stop.

God, you really shouldn’t have agreed to that second bottle.

Your memory goes hazy after that. You don’t know how you or Eddie got home, just that you did.

And the next morning, when Eddie shows up at your door with coffee to usher you off, grinning and cracking a joke like nothing happened, you realize that he doesn’t remember. The moment you’d been waiting for for years, and he had no idea it happened.

It’s kind of a relief, in a way. Makes leaving a little easier.

It still breaks your heart to go, though, and take the secret of that night with you.

-

As you push out of the diner into the warm summer night, two milkshakes in hand, you find Eddie with the truck bed ledge down, sitting on the edge, swinging his legs back and forth.

At your approach, he hops down. It could be the dark and it’s mirages, but you’d swear Eddie clutches at one side of his torso. But by the time you reach the truck bed, he’s back to himself, smiling and holding out his hands for the milkshakes. He waggles his fingers like a hungry toddler. You oblige him, handing over the milkshake and hopping up to sit on the ledge.

Eddie sets his shake aside and peels his black hoodie off, and the tee underneath gets caught halfway up his stomach. The sight of a half shirtless Eddie Munson alone has always been enough to catch your attention, but it isn’t what holds it now.

It’s the scars. So many of them you couldn’t even begin to count. Small, like bite marks, but not from any animal you’ve ever seen, littering his skin. And if it was an animal, it wasn’t just one, it was a horde.

They still have that angry, bright pink sheen that means they’re freshly healed.

A wave of regret slams into your chest. What the hell happened this last year? What happened to him? While you were staying up late with friends and cramming for classes, Eddie Munson was injured badly enough to leave this much of a mark. And he didn’t tell you about it.

“What the fuck?” You ask. You set the milkshake aside, forgotten, and hop onto the asphalt.

Eddie freezes. Looks down. Red climbs up his neck and over his cheeks as he yanks the tee shirt back down. But without the hoodie, the elbow-length sleeves showcase the same scars on his arms.

“What’s up?” Eddie plays casual.

You shake your head. Stomp toward him. Wrench up his tee shirt.

“Jesus, dude. At least take me out for dinner first—“ He begins.

He tries to yank the fabric now, but he’s too late. You saw it. All of it. Scar more than skin.

You bring a hand to your mouth, inhaling sharply.

“Eddie. What the hell is this?” You ask. An icy feeling trails down your spine.

“It’s nothing,” Eddie snaps, stepping back and out of your reach, like he’s expecting a full body pat down. And you’re about five seconds from giving him one.

“Nothing? That is not nothing. What the hell happened to you?”

“I said it was nothing. Just—forget about it, okay?”

“I can’t forget about it.” You take a step toward him. “Eddie, those scars—I had no idea. Did something happen?” It’s a stupid question, because obviously.

“Yeah, nine months happened.”

You sigh. “Don’t evade.“

“I’m not evading,” he says. He’s throwing everything he has into a facade you still have some ability to see through. And his bullshit meter is off the charts. “Got pinned under some debris during the quake. Don't worry about it.”

You fold your arms and lift your chin. “No way. Those aren’t ‘pinned under something heavy’ scars. Those are ‘something tried to eat you alive’ scars.”

Eddie shrugs noncommittally.

“Something happened,” you say. “Why won’t you just tell me what it is?”

“Because it’s not a big deal.”

“Oh, really? Because I seem to recall at least twenty separate occasions as kids you called me simply because you were bored. Nothing was not a big deal.”

“Yeah, and people change. Life goes on.”

You stiffen. “What the hell is your problem? I’m just asking a question. Since when are you this cagey and—“

“You don’t get to do that,” Eddie says, shaking his head and jabbing a finger at you. “You don’t get to be pissed at me for not giving you a day-by-day update of my life after you walked out of it. You’re the one who left this town.” He shakes his head. “No, ran away. With your tail tucked between your damn legs.”

“You told me to go!” You exclaim. “I was going to stay behind another year, and take a few classes at the community college, and wait for you to graduate.”

It was a promise made by firelight and cheap beer at fifteen: the two of you would escape together.

“What, and I was supposed to just let you do that? Throw your life away to wait around for me to maybe get my shit together, so we could what? What did you even think would happen?”

And there it is. The one piece of your childhood plans neither of you spoke about.

What came after. What the two of you would be.

“I never would have left if you hadn’t pushed me.”

“No shit, I pushed you,” he says. “What, am I not supposed to? Did you honestly want me to tell you to flush all your dreams down the toilet and wait around for me?”

“That’s not the point.”

“It is the point,” Eddie snaps. “From the second I met you, you were talking about getting out of this town, making a life for yourself. You know sure as shit that wasn’t going to happen here. So, yeah, I pushed. Screw me for trying to help you achieve your dreams, yeah?”

“My dreams?”

“Yeah. How many times did you tell me? Good job, apartment, dishwasher, dog.” He uses his pointer finger to tap four of his fingers on the other hand.

It occurs to you suddenly that the two of you are having it out in a parking lot, but fortunately, it’s late enough that the whole town isn’t here to witness the argument. Another few minutes, though, and you’ll certainly have an audience.

You huff a breath. You only now realize how close the two of you are, and you step back.

“Don’t act like this was some… some big selfless thing.” Your voice is colder than you intend, but you’ve cracked open a cavern of anger towards him. Because you did leave. But he also didn’t ask you to stay. “Don’t pretend that your encouragement was anything but your last-ditch attempt to push me away. It was a test. And I failed.”

And for the first time in your life, you render Eddie Munson speechless.

“What?” he asks, as if he doesn’t know what you’re talking about. As if you haven’t hit the sharpest, tallest nail right on the head.

You shake your head, snatching your half-melted milkshake off the truck bed.

“Forget it. Can we just go?”

You don’t look to see if he’s moved as you loop the side of the car and climb into the passenger seat. After a long ten seconds, the truck bed’s ledge cracks into place, making the car shake. Eddie pops open the driver side door and hops in. He doesn’t say anything as he starts the grumbling engine, or as he pulls out of the lot. It’s just you, him, and two melting milkshakes that sit untouched between you.

Eddie keeps sneaking glances, like he’s considering saying something, but he doesn’t.

And eventually, he just starts flipping through the radio, bouncing and bouncing the way he’s always done when he’s nervous—he’s the same with the television, and had remote privileges permanently revoked. Then, he stops flipping. Turns up the volume.

It takes a moment to recognize the song.

Wherever you go

Whatever you do

I will be right here waiting for you

And suddenly, it’s a year ago, and you’re on a rickety porch, and you’re drunk enough that standing is a little hard, but Eddie is there to hold you up. He’s always there to hold you up. And you have no idea how you’re going to stay steady when he lets go.

Eddie—this Eddie, the one with scars and secrets—starts to hum along. You’re almost surprised he knows the song.

Unless, he does recognize it. Unless, he remembers that night.

Your head snaps his way, and you find him already looking at you. He says nothing. He’s never been able to keep his mouth shut, except when it really matters. When you really, really want to hear him speak.

Eddie pulls onto your street, putting the car in park to idle at your curb. He clears his throat. And still, doesn’t say a fucking thing.

You’d forgotten this about him. There was always a wall to slam into.

You undo your seatbelt. Sit, for a moment, leaving him one last chance. But he doesn’t take it, so you climb out of the car, retrieving your luggage from the bed and setting it on the sidewalk. Just as you turn to head up the driveway, you stop. Turn. Approach the passenger side and meet his eyes through the rolled-down window.

Screw it. Maybe he doesn’t have the courage to speak up. But you’ve kept quiet for too long to leave it like this.  

“You know, you were right. My dream is a job I actually like and an apartment with a dishwasher and maybe a dog,” you say. “But you were wrong, too. Because you’re missing one of the biggest pieces. You were in that apartment. You had that dog on your lap, asking me how my day at work was.” You shake your head. “You were my dream, Eddie. And I kept waiting for you to figure it out, and that night, at Georgie’s party, I thought for a second that maybe, I was your dream too. I guess I was wrong.” You step back and grab your suitcase handle. “I may have left, Eddie, but you never once tried to stop me.”

And then you turn, marching across the sidewalk and toward the driveway.

A metal door whines open, and a heavy pair of boots smack the pavement.

“Wait,” Eddie calls. You pause. “Just—shit, please wait.”

You turn, folding your arms over your chest.

“What?” You ask.

“You weren’t wrong,” he says. He draws a hand down his face, like he’s trying to peel something away. “I was… testing you. And I didn’t even realize I was doing it, which is stupid, because I should have. Because that’s what I do. I push, and people leave, and I blame it on them. And I tried so damn hard to push you away, but you stuck around, and I think it—it scared the shit out of me.”

You’re not sure what to say, because you know all this, have known it for years.

“I spent so long thinking I was pissed at you for leaving, and maybe I was, but I was more pissed at myself for letting you go without telling you the truth.”

“The truth?” you ask.

“Yeah.” Eddie sighs. Shakes his head. “The truth. And the truth is that you were my dream, too. No, screw that. You are my dream. You have been since we were kids.”

Your heart hits the concrete at your feet, and you ask, gently, “What are you saying?”

Eddie takes a few steps toward you. He lifts his hands to your cheeks, giving his head a little shake.

“I’m saying I fucking love you,” he says. “And I never should have let you go.”

There are a thousand things you could say. I told you so, for starters. But there will be time to say all of those things.

“No,” you say. “You shouldn’t have.”

His brows twitch, and a smile ghosts his lips.

“Think you can forgive me?”

“I think it’s a possibility,” you say. “With some convincing, of course.”

Eddie grins as he bends toward you and tips his forehead against yours. Your eyes flutter shut.

Eddie tips his chin up, presses the gentlest of kisses to your lips.

“Gorgeous,” he murmurs, and you can’t decide whether to laugh or cry or kiss him again.

You settle for all three. You don’t even try to push down the tears pricking at the backs of your eyes, and you’re mid-laugh when you catch his mouth in yours.

His fingers trail down the sides of your neck, down your arms, and he loops his arms around your waist, drawing you flush against him. His tongue flicks against your teeth, and he tastes like vanilla, and he smells like herbs and aftershave, and if that first kiss on that porch was a spark, this one is a wildfire.

It’s all been leading up to this, you realize. Maybe you needed to leave. Maybe Eddie needed to let you. Maybe you both needed to see what the world looked like without the other to realize what a shitty image that was.

Or maybe there is no destiny or fate, and it’s just a matter of timing. Luck. Maybe none of that matters now.

Because for a second, you can see the younger versions of you and Eddie, tipsy and curled together on the grassy lawn outside Eddie’s trailer. You want to tell them, as they collaborate and make plans and dream of a perfect life, that none of it is going to work out how they think. That the plans and dreams crumble or change or disappear altogether.

You want to tell them that it won’t be what they expect, but it’ll still be good. And it’ll take you two longer to get where you need to be, but you will get there. And you’ll do it together.

Moving out of Hawkins wasn’t the end like you thought it was. Or maybe it was. It was an end, but not the end.

This isn’t the end, either. This, the two of you, kissing under a flickering streetlamp, is a beginning.

 -

taglist: @milkiane​ @robiin-buckley​ @copycatkillerfics​  @robinbuckleyssgf​ @isshecrazyorissheclever @peanutbutter-y-jams​ @hellfire1986baby​ @minksblog @comfortcharactercraze​ 

[silverstonesainz]

to me frat!lando is very best friend to lovers coded and after hearing ‘you are in love’ tv i can’t stop thinking about frat!lando and reader who went to high school together. who ended up at the same college. who have stuck through thick and thin.

lando invites reader to all his frat events bc if he ain’t getting with a girl at least he’ll have his best friend to keep him company. he always runs through new mixes and sets for her first. his eyes always spot her no matter where she is in a crowd and he convinces himself it’s because they’re just such good friends who’ve known each other for so long. anytime anything happens she’s the first he tells. no one bats an eye whenever she’s around the frat bc everyone just knows ‘she’s with lando’ even if he does have a girl he’s hooking up with at the time. bc everyone knows that there’s nothing romantic between the two of them.

until that one day. that one night after a party where lando and reader are tipsy. giggling together as they chill outside, heads resting on each other. lando starts to notice the small details, really notice them. they’re not just her routine, they’re her. the perfume she uses at an event as opposed to every day. the way her makeup has slightly changed to fit the vibes of the party. which rings she always wears and which ones she changes. the necklace hanging from her neck he bought when they were still teens. the way she shivers at the slightest breeze. how her voice sounds when she’s tipsy. how she’s a lot more affectionate after a couple drinks.

he starts to really notice her and once he starts he can’t stop. he can’t stop but look at her, really look at her now. when did her beauty start making his breath hitch? when did her laugh start to sound like his favourite song? when did her touch burn like a fire within him he’s never felt before? when did her entire being become so consuming that he can’t breathe, he can’t think, he can’t even stand when she’s around. can’t sleep without her plaguing his dreams.

when did he start seeing her face in all the past girls he got with. when did he start noticing their mannerism were mirrors of hers. when did he start to notice that all this time he’s been chasing what has always been stood next to him. when did he realise all this time he was deeply in love with his best friend.

(sorry this was so fucking long and probs not what you imagine frat!lando to be but i just went on a tangent and had to get my thoughts out)

god nonnie why did this make me tear up?? im soooo in my lando era rn and this. THIS.

honestly frat!lando could go in so many directions, i think it just depends on the girl. like he's a whore and can be arguably one of the worst people you encounter in the frat. BUT when we consider girl best friend, this is so him coded. i think like you go it all so spot on i dont think i have anything to add???

also having that relationship with a fraternity? where they don't question your presence at the house/at events/etc?? its so sacred bc i had tht relationship (and id like to think i still do to a certain degree). theres just a different level of respect fr.

[kolektsiakomah]

FIONNA N CAKE RANT spoilers ensue

can i just say how wonderful this was . im dying im dead im flying out the window . enemies and lovers bubbline ¿¿¿ sign me the fuck up . marcy was so beautiful in vampireworld . every 1 of her outfits was magnificent and . i just love her ¿¿¿ evil bisexual goth w a pretty laugh what more could you EVER want . shes literally a princess im all for it . also i agree w cake the vampire king is kinda hot . BONNIE THOUGH ⁉️⁉️ W A BADASS HAIRCUT and huntress wizard and martin oh my god . MARTIN WHY DID THEY HAVE TO KILL MARTIN OFF god fucking damnit 😭😭😭 this wlw mlm different universes parallels had me at the edge of my seat the falling scene and gumlee running away ............. amazing . god i love it . gumlee have known each other for 3 days if im not mistaken and yea maybe the development was a little fast but holy shit im not complaining ¡ who am i to forbid them from kissing in the elevator after running away from marshalls evil mom

fionna and cake tho ¿ the way their friendship persists even thru all these horrors theyve witnessed makes me warm inside. they are so besties forever and truly no amount of fionna messing up and cake getting arrogant will ever change that ♡♡♡ i was so worried for fionna this time tho =<:((( this poor girl. all her dreams abt adventures and heroism are being crushed before her very eyes. when she ran out of the lab crying my stomach turned she was so relatable for that. i really hope she gains some confidence in herself fionna deserves the world <333 THE PETRIGROF JUICE OH MY LORD. THEY MET AT A NERDY CONFERENCE AND SHE AGREED TO GO ON AN EXPEDITION W/ SIMON AND SHE DIDNT EVEN KNOW HIM. SHE DROPPED EVERYTHING JUST TO HANG OJT W/ THIS MAN. THE LETTER. THE I WANT YOU TO BE BY MY SIDE. THE FIREFLIES. THE SONG. THE NOSTALGIA THE WAY SIMONS FACE LIGHTS UP WHEM SHES TALKING ABT BETTY. imma die

orbo being voiced by dave mccormack is the best thing ever id recognize that voice ANYWHERE 😭😭 also this was a delight seeing scarab again hes so silly. ive seen ship art of them and prismo on tiktok and their shipname is prohibited wish <333 idk bout you guys but im so on it prismo x scarab for the win ¡¡¡ also when orbo was talking abt 'THE boss' who did he mean. god ¿ like The God who made the whole place ¿ anyway i really want to see them. we probably wont get this chance tho but still

was so good to see bmo <333 this lil puter will always live in my heart. thank you for your sacrifice little 1 ♡ i get so sad thinking abt how they were living all alone in this desolate place w/ only jerry to talk to. and we dont even know if jerry ever spoke to him ¡ goddamit i hope every version of bmo goes someplace sunny and calm

lich was so fucking creepy ¿¿¿ jesus fuck i felt genuine fear when he spoke. 'cease.' WHOSE FUCKING SCARY DOG IS THAT. goddamn hes just as scary as he was before.....ALSP BETTY. BETTY BETTY GROF MOMENT. AT THE VERY END. she wished to keep simon safe. AND ITS WORKING. WHAT THE FUUUUCK IM SO HYPED THIS WAS SUCH A RIDE

[jeonginssa]

front row faeries | the seelie collection

a/n: this is a work in progress so please be patient with me 💜

word count: 853

pairing: yoon jeonghan x reader

genre: idol jeonghan, fashion designer reader, forbidden romance, slow burn, ?enemies? to lovers

warnings: brief mention of champagne

taglist: @junhour

Models, make up artists and hair stylists scurried around you at a frantic pace. Luckily for you, you were too busy to even have a chance to panic. A count began and the first model was cued to the catwalk. This was it! Your first, hopefully successful, fashion show. You had spent the past two months surrounded by mood boards, fabrics, sewing needles, and just about every pearl you could get your hands on. You had sacrificed countless hours of sleep and relaxation to see your vision come to life and here it was. The Seelie collection. Thirteen pieces of your blood, sweat and tears were being showcased to the world, well, to Seoul. The collection was inspired by the Scottish myths about faeries, specifically a group of faeries known as the seelie court. They were beautiful but they didn’t live by human laws, instead having their own code of conduct which made them fascinating yet dangerous.You had taken inspiration for this collection from a myriad of places but this was the key element that tied everything together.

As the show came to a close it was your turn to walk the catwalk with your models and take a bow. You couldn’t help but let your eyes stray to an impeccably dressed man in the front row. He must be a model himself, his perfectly tousled hair allowed one strand to hang strategically over one eye, a leather jacket was draped over his shoulders and he was smirking. Wait, why was he smirking? Crap. You were staring. You dragged your eyes away from him and took one final bow, before exiting the stage with your models.

“You were all amazing! Thank you so much for being a part of my fashion debut, I couldn’t have done it without you all! As a way to say thanks I’ve arranged an after party, I’ll kakao you all the address. Attendance is completely optional, I just wanted to show my gratitude. Anyway, I’ve rambled enough! Hopefully, I’ll see some of you there otherwise that’s a lot of champagne for me to drink on my own.” You laughed, somewhat anxiously, the nerves having their chance to be felt now the adrenaline of the show was wearing off.

A lot more of the models, hair team and makeup team attended the afterparty than you were expecting which was a welcome relief from the fear that you’d be stood alone in an empty room with no one to celebrate with. Perhaps sensing your introspection Song Yerin, one of the more experienced models in your show waltzed up to you with a grace that still shocked you after a week of rehearsals.

“I just wanted to tell you that your garments were really beautiful and given the opportunity I’d love to work with you again. That was one of the most exciting shows I’ve been a part of, you really paid attention to every detail and I’m really lucky to have been a part of it.” Her smile was warm and genuine in an effortlessly beautiful kind of way.

“You flatter me Yerin, thank you. I’d be thrilled to have you on my team in my future shows, you’re a wonderful model.” Her eyes sparkled with appreciation and you felt admiration that someone as used to receiving compliments as Yerin still seemed as down to earth as she did.

“Speaking of attention to detail,” Yerin paused and wiggled her eyebrows as your eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “I noticed some eye contact with a certain idol out on that runway.” She winked at you and you felt warmth rush to your cheeks at the memory.

“Idol?”

“Oh my God, do you not know who you were locking eyes with?!” Your baffled expression answered on your behalf. “This is perfect and you don’t even realise how perfect. You know… I could get his number for you, if you wanted.”

“I think I’ll remain blissfully ignorant on this one, Yerin. I don’t have time to entertain the idea of dating.”

“Shame.” She crinkled her nose slightly in friendly disapproval. A chuckle left your lips and you couldn’t help but notice how ordinary she looked in that moment. Not ordinary, real. “Anyway, I’ll stop monopolising your attention, I’m sure there’s a lot of other people in here dying to ask you about your collection. Good luck with everything, call me if an opportunity comes up… or if you decide you want that number,” she winked playfully and strode off as elegantly as she approached.

The rest of the evening was a sea of platitudes and networking but you didn’t mind. Truthfully, it was a pleasant change for everyone to be praising you for once as opposed to the other way around.

Your car keys skidded a short distance as you chucked them onto your kitchen counter. You flicked a light switch on and flopped onto your sofa fully dressed, too tired to change into pajamas or stumble to your bed. Sleep found you almost immediately, not even leaving you as your phone pinged over and over again with congratulations from everyone you know.

previous masterlist next

[pabloalaalatoa]

Welcome to Aurora Bay @aurorabayaesthetic, [PABLO ALAALATOA]! I couldn’t help but notice you look an awful lot like [DIEGO LUNA]. You must be the [FORTY-FOUR] year old [OWNER OF AURORA'S CANDY PARLOR]. Word is you’re [THOUGHTFUL] but can also be a bit [DIFFIDENT] and your favorite song is [JESUS, ETC. BY WILCO. I also heard you’ll be staying in [SEABROOK QUARTER]. I’m sure you’ll love it!

Name: Pablo Alaalatoa Age: 44 Faceclaim: Diego Luna Height: 5'10 Pronouns: He/him Sexuality: Gay Relationship Status: Married to Luano Alaalatoa ( @luanoalaalatoa ) Occupation: Owner of Aurora’s Candy Parlor Vices: Red wine & cigarettes Favorite color: Olive Green

Biography

Born Pablo Padilla, he was the youngest of six boys. Growing up in a big household meant it was very easy to slip into the shadows especially because his oldest brother (eighteen years his senior) was Jose Padilla, a baseball player for the San Diego Padres from 1984-1990. Baseball was obviously a very big part of his family’s life growing up. At the age of five they moved to San Diego to be closer to his eldest brother and be able to catch all his home games. Despite all of his brothers being into sports, Pablo always showed very little interest letting his brother’s baseball fame to be his own. He’d rather stay at home with a good book or help his mother out in the kitchen. Pablo had always been closest with his mother in his family and was a mom’s boy up until the very end.

From an early age he showed interest in the culinary arts and that was the career path he sought out on after high school. He went to a culinary school in San Diego but quickly fell in love with the pastry program more specifically when it came to working with chocolate and confections of all kinds. When he graduated from his program he got a small loan from his eldest brother to open up an artisanal candy shop in San Diego. Opening the candy shop opened up the next chapter of Pablo’s life. It was through his candy shop that he found the man he would spend the rest of his life with. Luano Alaalatoa owned a neighboring business nearby and the man instantly caught his attention though it took some time before the two started a relationship. Pablo found his match in Luano and the pair have been together for eighteen years having spent nine of those years as a married couple.

The older Pablo got the more successful his business became but life comes at you fast. His mother was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s and Pablo took it upon himself to care for her right up until the end allowing his business to take a back seat. The loss of his mother still weighs heavily on Pablo to this day and it was the motivator for him and his husband to finally move away from San Diego and they settled in Aurora Bay five years ago. He opened up a new candy store in town and has been making a go of it in Aurora Bay ever since.

Quick Facts

Pablo’s a lover of music and he’s almost always got something playing and was a big concert goer back in the day. However, he kinda fell off the wagon listening to newer music and his tastes haven’t changed since 2010. He still plays the same mixtape CDs he made for his previous shop in his new business.

He’s very generous. Whenever Pablo is working in the candy store he’s almost always offering some sort of sample or discount. He also allows employees to eat as much candy as they want on their shift.

Aurora’s Candy Parlor is bigger than his first shop and he’s expanded to have employees many of the candies are still made by Pablo. He’s the only one who makes their signature Dulce De Leche truffles that are known to sell out on busy days.

Pablo is very technologically illiterate. He does have the newest iPhone because his old dinosaur of a phone finally died on him and he barely knows how to use it. He’s often calling one of his nieces or nephews to help him troubleshoot an issue. He also never remembers what he sets his Apple ID password and has to reset it every time he needs to use it.

Usually unwinds after dinner with a glass of red wine and a cigarette on his porch.

He’s a pretty avid baseball fan and still has allegiance to the San Diego Padres because of his brother. Occasionally he and his husband will travel to San Diego to catch a game a couple of times a season.