#both legitimate and ridiculous

[twilight-deviant]

[princess-ibri]

You have any ideas for Governor John Ratcliffe in the Disneyverse?

Not really? I'm perfectly happy to leave his racist murdering self in prison where it belongs. Don't have any plans for a backstory either tbh. Rich, self obsessed colonizing creep, what's to know?

[bougiebutchbitch]

knock out has major switch energy some ppl just dont appreciate smh. its not about starscream not being a beefcake its about being tantalizing and cunning and also breaking so many rules of ethics but who cares. also, ONLY knock out could find the gay baby jail armor fuckable.

yeah yeah yeah

look I'm not gonna lie I really like top!dom Knock Out with Breakdown especially because just... tiny sadistic medic who completely wrecks his big hot assistant? That hits many of my buttons. There's TRAGICALLY LITTLE of it around, but I greatly appreciate the few fics out there!

Like... Knock Out is canonically a big ol' sadist...... even more than the average Decepticon. There's so much you can do with that.......

:makes grabby hands at the fandom:

but also the thought of KO getting turn’t at the sight of the gay baby jail armour is never going to leave me now and I hate it

[cesium-sheep]

just my two cents on the whole lockheed thing: some folks have a lot of fuckin trouble seeing that individuals in a system, especially at the lower levels of authority, are not inherently at fault for the entire system. it's exhausting and dangerous.

there are many many reasons someone might be in jobs that relate directly or tangentially to the systems you want to tear down, some of them sympathetic, some of them grey, some of them shitty. but if you turn your back on all of them, you’re actively casting all of them out rather than trying to forge alliances where you can.

alienating entire vast sections of working class people, the ones you supposedly prioritize over all else (since I’m seeing this fuckin wildin absolutely most commonly and most ubiquitously from the “communist” types), makes you look like a fuckin clown, and does direct and material harm to both the folks you’re scapegoating and your own cause.

and make no mistake, it is scapegoating. it is picking an easy target because conceptualizing the actual power structures at play is a tall order. there is technically an argument to be made, but where does it end? maybe my grandfather was complicit for growing the grain to feed the people to work in the factory to build the parts to build the weapons to arm the soldiers to follow the orders to fight the wars. she swallowed the spider to catch the fly. if you want the fly dead, target the fly directly.

[knighthelmetgirl]

I DID EVERYTHING RIGHT

WHY DO I FEEL SO BAD

[apas-95]

As it apparently needs to be restated - race, ethnicity, and nationality are not themselves the basic drivers of history. Political-economic class is.

The European practice of placing African people into chattel slavery was not carried out on the basis of any innate characteristics of 'blackness' or 'whiteness' - those categories did not exist before the slave trade, they were created in support of it. Europe at the time found it would be beneficial to have a class of slave workers for its colonial projects, and it had the military, political, and economic might to subjugate Africa and African people to that end. Had you asked a Prussian and a Scotsman prior to the institution of African slavery if they were both members of a common 'race', they would have found the idea ridiculous - and yet, transport those two ahead in time, and perhaps to settlements in the Americas, and suddenly they were both Whites. Whiteness (and its necessary counterpart, blackness), then, is not some intrinsic quality based on the tone of someone's skin, but a political and economic category constructed to differentiate between those people that could be oppressed and made chattel by the slave trade, and those that could not.

This is true for all these systems of oppression - though they may be divided on supposed lines of biology or locality, they are not inherently based on biological factors, those are functionally coincidental, and are constructed as justifications for a system necessitated by purely political and economic reasons. Nazi oppression of Jewish, and Roma, and Slavic [and etc.] people was not fundamentally based on any inherent quality of e.g. Judaism, but on the economic needs of German capital under the burden of postwar reconstruction and 'war reparations' paid to the victorious powers. It was not blind hatred, but the inevitable result of a society built in pursuit of profit - one whose ruling class held a cold, calculated need to expropriate wealth, weaken worker organisation, and seize and depopulate land to strengthen the composition of capital. It was still necessary for this system to split the population into one group of 'legitimate targets' for victimisation, and one of reassured, protected accomplices, though there were no obvious physical, 'biological' features to base these on - so they were constructed, both through propaganda that exaggerated physiology, and through the appending of obvious badges and marks onto those targeted. Again, these were sets of features, and categories, created to support a system of oppression and exploitation, not the reasons it came into being in the first place.

Again, these are fundamentally political and economic categories, and can only be properly understood as such. If not properly understood as being based, first and foremost, on material interests of classes, then any analysis of them is unstable. For example: appeals to the supposed ancestral claim of zionists to the land of Palestine, and thereby to indigineity, can only be refuted with an understanding that indigeneity is a political and economic characteristic, of relation towards the oppression of a settler state, and not some characteristic of where one's ancestors were born. None of this is to say that race, nationality, etc don't function as axes of oppression - but that they must be understood as manifestations of the existing political and economic material interests of classes that drive the development of history, if they are to be fought against.

[neil-gaiman]

Hi Neil,

I hope this doesn't get buried in the ask box, but if it does, I'll still be glad I sent this, just to know this little lengthy slice of complement and thanks existed in your inbox is enough. I apologize for the length, I am pretty sure the grammar is in tatters...and probably just the general awkwardness in advance.

Frist of all, congratulations for Good Omens Season2, it's a roaring success even here in this...I don't know, bottomless pit? I myself and some others fondly call it the PRC. The show didn't made pass the firewall officially, neither was Prime Video. People still managed to watch it eventually by VPNs, shared accounts and when times are desperate...sorry, piracy. Chinese fans, including myself, using every tool in the shed to try to fool Amazon™ and our goverment, just to watch this on Prime and try to help to manifest S3, is one hell of an experience. This kind of experience is pathetic, ridiculous....and somehow hilarious in a dark, gallows humor way, almost like some bad spy comedy, I just have to share it. Worth all the trouble by the way, the reward at the end of the back channel is...well, some divine comedy to say the very least. All in all, it's a brilliant show and a solid job well-done.

Then some of my personal gratitude. They say good art resonates with your soul, I now know this is just as true as matter and gravity. Since I know Good Omens certainly resonated with mine. I'll redact the typical "depression and anxiety reduced me to a husk, a shadow of my former self" story and get to the result for brevity's sake. I can't write anything meaningful while I know I took joy in writing, I can't finish reading anything longer than a brochure while I know I was such a bookworm in the past. Then I was compelled to get up in the middle of the night, wrote a full 5000 character long analysis after marathoned S2, and then write even more analyses in both Chinese and English. I picked up American Gods because I know I need more Neil Gaiman in my life and then impressed by myself for actually finishes it the second time 5 years later. I didn't know how exactly that happened through one watch of a TV show, but I know I am changed for the better. I grasped life again, and can start living again, somehow. The resonation just keeps on giving.

This is a quiet, gentle and romantic story, it is soothing, accepting, filled to the brim with love and kindness, and it makes me feel safe and accepted and loved in a way I never felt before. I thank you for it, and hope thart I may have the privlige to witness more of this miracle. Thank you Neil, Sir Terry Pratchett and the team for this miraculous book and this miraculous show.

谢谢。(I just had to say thanks with my mother tongue, it feels more earnest this way)

Thank you so much! I'm impressed by everything you and your countryfolk have gone through to watch it as legitimately as you could.

[gffa]

When it really comes down to it, no, I don't think the Star Wars prequels were "better" than the originals (if we absolutely must pit them against each other), I don't think the prequels could have legitimately Changed Everything in the genre in the same way that the originals did, I don't think the prequels were as polished and well-done in the same way as the originals, but I also think the prequels tickle something in my fandom brain that the originals can never hope to replicate. The worldbuilding and themes of the prequels have so much crunch to them that I want to chew drywall about the smallest of details, I've got it so bad for the prequels that I have listened to every George Lucas interview I can get my hands on because I want to know what was going on in that three-ring circus brain of his, every ridiculous choice and every brilliant choice he made and hell I even want to know about every mediocre choice he made and the bad choices he made, I want to know the narrative intention of Star Wars because it enhances what was shown on the screen, that it threads the needle between being a fairy tale and something with solid political and thematic foundations that are actually being woven into the storytelling of the prequels. The originals are a foundation and frame to build a house on that the prequels can never compare to, but the prequels are adding in architectural structure and decorative setting that's the stuff I'm actually going to stare at every day for the rest of my life and constantly fiddle with, in a way that the originals can never reach the same heights of. They both fulfill a function that the other can't, that without both of them I wouldn't be here, but also that's why I spend all day talking about one more than the other.

[sidsinning]

Thinking about the parallels between Alastor and Lucifer

Lucifer is a total goober who basically wears his heart on his sleeve. The best mask he can muster up is awkwardly trying to interact with Charlie's friends after being isolated for so long.

He has no need to put on an intimidating facade bc he is so ridiculously powerful he doesn't need to fear anything. What scares him is the loss of the relationship with his family, bc that is something that has nothing to do with his power or rank. It's something he has to repair on his own. His wife and daughter are what he holds dear, so he doesn't care about his reputation being good or bad in the end, at least in terms of being Hell's ruler.

He comes off as fumbling and cute which is why when he finally unleashes his power it is so shocking

Meanwhile Alastor

He is someone who quite literally never stops wearing a smile no matter what situation he is in

He wants everyone to know he is someone to fear, someone to never mess with, someone who is always in control of whatever situation he is in. He is always elegant, precise, and composed- when he's not going on some kind of demonic rampage ofc

He puts this intimidating mask on bc he is actually very aware of how weak he is despite his power as an Overlord. He has something to fear. He has an image he needs to project onto others so no one thinks they can mess with him. He LOVES showing off how badass and powerful he is

He comes off as an insanely overpowered, incredibly intelligent being who can never be bested.

-When really he is actually arrogant to the point of nearly causing his own death (bc he wanted to show off his power to Adam without the help of an angelic weapon), insecure whenever he isn't the strongest being in the room, incredibly tempermental when anyone tries to belittle him, and overall barely keeping it together at his worst.

Both characters are very fascinating to compare after their rivalry in Dad Beat Dad bc of their relationships with Charlie.

Alastor and Charlie are far from friends, with Alastor being quite blunt in his flippant intentions with helping her in the first place- and yet she finds him reliable and a good mentor in his own way? He sets out to do what he promised which is helping her with maintaining her hotel and guiding her spiritually throughout the process. He doesn't believe in redemption, but if Charlie wants to try a method out he will not sabotage her and legitimately sees it through. He will give her good advice and connections so she can accomplish her goals, especially during the finale episodes.

Meanwhile her own dad, due to his own mental health reasons, has not been there for her for this whole endeavor. He can't talk to her easily, doesn't help her in the way she asked, doesn't believe in her, and does nothing but talk down on her dreams, saying they aren't worth the effort bc of his own attempts in the past at the same thing. But despite all this, unlike Alastor, his immense love and affection for her are limitless and true. He legitimately wants to be there for her, but isn't. Not until the end of the episode where he still doesn't exactly believe in her dreams of redemption, but he sits back and helps her in any way he can- like Alastor has been doing

Both seem to have something the other envies

Alastor wants to be untouchable and all powerful like Lucifer

While Lucifer very obviously wants to reclaim the fatherly position in Charlie's life away from Alastor

By the end of the finale he definitely has lol, but Alastor is still stuck in turmoil over this mysterious deal that is restricting him in some way

[leclsrc]

see it through ✴︎ cl16

genre: friends to lovers, fake dating au, fluff!, humor, slight angst, slow burn-ish, yearning

word count: 9k

“It’s a proposition for the fans.” She smiles. “It’s a fake relationship.” Or: you go from social media manager to girlfriend in under a day. Keeping up appearances for Charles’ family isn’t easy, until it is – and until they’re not really appearances anymore.

notes... internet translated italian ahaha

auds here... this fic is quite long! i hope you all like it. title from this bee gees song which reappears in the fic later. few music references here so if you like to listen to music, just look for the titles, they’re famous!

You’d gotten the phone call on a Saturday morning.

Barely morning, you realized when you were digging for your phone in the sheets, half-asleep—it’d been five minutes past noon. You’d swiped, pressed the phone to your ear, and waited for the other end to speak, eyes shut.

“Good morning,” a vague voice had said on the other said, distinctly American. “This is Jenna Griffin, newly appointed PR specialist for Ferrari. Your boss told me you were free for lunch on Monday, so can I pencil you in for a one-thirty meeting?”

You click your tongue. “Um, yeah.”

“Wonderful. Monday, one-thirty. Apologies for the weekend call, it’s for Mr. Leclerc.” The line buzzes dead after, and you flop backwards onto your bed, confused out of your mind.

Your job for Ferrari was simple—create social media content, do the occasional damage control, have a pre-interview discussion with journalists, and generally stay out of everyone’s hair. It’s not a high-maintenance job, but it pays well, and you get to travel; plus, you’re young, and you figure this is just a stepping stone for a more legitimate post. Your point is, you’ve never gotten into trouble before, and are only at meetings to take minutes or get assignments.

Which is why a Monday lunch meeting—on your vacation, nonetheless—seems so out of the ordinary. And arranged by a PR agent from Ferrari? Last you’d heard, cars were objects and didn’t need publicity. The whole affair gives off a vibe of semi-mystery, almost, like you’re in the MI6 and taking lucrative calls in alleyways. 

You feel through your bag for your hotel key card, wallet, and phone, and finding them all there, you leave and make your way to the restaurant. You’re not too nervous; you’ve had to have your own sit-down talks with higher-ups and even Charles or Carlos before, but none of the “you’re fired” variety. 

The restaurant isn’t far from where you’re staying, so you shove sunnies on and trek there, managing to make it inside unscathed.

Table 17, the text reads, and you’re quickly ushered into a private section of the place. It’s empty, save for a couple and a far-off table seating one guy, whose back is to you. You realize it’s Charles when you squint your eyes harder. The waitress doesn’t give you much of a choice and seats you across him, promising to return with noontime champagne.

You slide your sunglasses onto your hair and look up. “Hi,” you say politely.

“Hey,” Charles says back casually. He wears a Richard Mille and a few other bracelets, a linen blue polo, and jeans.

“New PR thing?”

Charles smiles, shrugging. “Man, I’ve no idea. Wake up on Saturday and I’m due for a meeting. Is this for social media?”

Huh, so he doesn’t know either. “I don’t know. It was a super random call for me, too.”

He shrugs. “Both clueless.”

“Right. So, to be clear, we’re waiting for—”

“I am so sorry I’m late,” a woman says sheepishly, her heels clicking along the tiled floor. She definitely looks the part for a PR officer: pantsuit, heels, a blond bob, ridiculously expensive handbag, eccentric sunglasses. “Scusami, really.” Her Italian apology has an American twang.

“All okay,” says Charles with a small smile. “We were barely waiting, no?”

You nod, offering a tight-lipped smile of your own. “Yeah, don’t worry about it.”

She slides into the seat beside him and waves a waiter over, ordering in quickfire English; clearly, she’s been here before. Absently, you wonder if her previous affairs in this restaurant were also to have clandestine meetings. Your reverie doesn’t last long, though, because immediately Jenna’s starting her agenda. “So, are introductions in order?”

“I, um,” you say, “I’d say so, yes.”

“Alright, spectacular. I’m Jenna Griffin, just moved to Monte Carlo after living and working in SoCal. I’ve been appointed as a PR manager for Charles here, but don’t worry. You’re in good hands. I’ve handled three Kardashians, two NBA players, two One Direction members, and a lot of nepo babies.” 

“Wow,” you say, nodding.

“Cool.” Charles says, clearly impressed.

Jenna’s gaze flits between the two of you, both smiling at each other. “Right,” she says. “Let’s get down to business.” She clears her throat and pulls out her phone from her handbag, scrolling for a few moments. While the silence settles, you steal another glance at Charles, and hide a chuckle when you find his eyes already glancing back at you.

“Aren’t we waiting for Carlos?” He asks, taking a sip of water. 

His PR agent looks up briefly, then answers. “Actually, it’s just you two today.”

You nod slowly, burrowing even further into the confusion you’d been feeling since Saturday. It wasn’t like you were expecting Carlos, per se, but a meeting with just you and him—now, that’s a bit strange.

“So, I know this is all very confusing. But it’s happening for a reason,” says Jenna. “Charles—and I really only feel qualified to say this because I’ve done my research—has been on a streak of…erm, well, lady-related scandals lately.”

“Oh, God,” Charles groans across you, and you chew your lip. You’ve seen the headlines, but you’re still clueless as to how this concerns you. 

“As a PR agent, I think it won’t do good for his public image to be seen as somebody who sleeps around.”

“It was two headlines,” Charles cuts in with a laugh. “And they were both fake. Please don’t misunderstand.”

Jenna clicks her tongue. “Yeah, the public definitely has some thoughts.” She turns to her phone and reads off of it. “‘Charles is a playboy and not a driver’, ‘Leclerc is too busy pulling girls’… times ten thousand. So, yeah, it’s a bit of a smear.”

“Right, okay. Listen, I’m not sure I understand,” you say with a stuffy laugh. “What has all this got to do with me?”

“Everything,” she answers with a smile. You raise a brow. “Well, you see, we PR managers always have a network. We keep tabs on who’s who, and who needs what. As a new manager, I need to implement some of my strategies around here. Go digging, you know? Find something good. And when I found your pretty little face in the background of many of Charles’ paddock photos, I realized you could help create something newsworthy.”

“Are you talking about a PR stunt?” You ask, your frown deepening. 

“Well—virtually, essentially, yes.” She opens her mouth to explain but is interrupted by the serving of champagne and appetizers. “Okay. Don’t think this is a haphazard decision. Naturally, we had to find out if this would even be a good idea…”

“Which it’s not,” you say, taking a swig of champagne.

She nods. “The thing is, your bosses and I really did go over several scenarios, and this one seems the most likely to keep your fans engaged. This way, the appearances won’t look so staged.”

“—Jenna,” Charles says, clearly having detected your hesitance, “I don’t think she’s interested.” 

“It’s fine,” you say, but you still sound off-put. It’s not fine, not really. “I don’t see how this is going to help Charles, though. I’d think the idea of him being committed to somebody would just further alienate his fangirls.”

Jenna chuckles. “While that is, to some extent, true, the number of fans who would go gaga over the two of you far, far outweighs the opposing population. This is a special case. A girl next door social media manager with a social media presence—and a wildly popular, totally charming Formula One driver? I mean, talk about Harry and Meghan! Everybody loves love. And, might I add, Charles’ male fans might actually like seeing you two together.”

You sigh, a quick huff of frustrated air. “So, what is this then?”

“It’s a proposition for the fans.” She smiles. “It’s a fake relationship.”

You reach for champagne, but find you’ve totally drained your glass. The room falls into muted silence, and you can’t bring yourself to look at Charles. You didn’t expect this on a Monday afternoon. You thought maybe it was a job termination. Or a leaked text message. Somehow, this is the strangest of all possibilities.

“So, good?” She chirps. “I’ll send you the primer.”

You both stare at each other. “We’re not actually going to. Right?”

“Right. We are not dating.”

—

“We’re dating!” You chirp, practicing your appearances in front of Carlos and Lando, who had visited the former.

“You two look like two people dating pretending to be friends,” Lando observes.

You grumble. Many of your shots had been staged pap photos outside his apartment, or fans happening to catch you two together; no official statement had been released, according to Jenna’s “masterplan.” For the most part, it was a good dynamic of putting up a façade for the public and settling back into a platonic relationship within minutes.

Nothing really goes wrong at first—and then Charles ruins it.

It happens after a Ferrari event in spring. You’re in Monza again, weather humid when you re-shoot the fifth TikTok for the day with Carlos. There are celebrities to and fro, even more journalists and a shitload of fans crowding the perimeter of the area. You’ve successfully pulled off the fake dating stunt, keeping a lowkey profile and doing your job.

There’s a green room for the drivers and close managers to wait and rest, where you stow yourself away to avoid the crowds. You review the reels and stories for the day, and cap it off with a “goodbye, Tifosi!” post with Carlos that’s enough to quell the many notifications.

Granted, many of the said notifications are of the speculative nature. Some are wondering if it’s you posting or if a new hire was underway to make room for the new couple. You ignore them anyway and take a seat on the couch across Carlos, sighing with exhaustion.

“Where’s your boyfriend?” He teases.

“Ha-ha,” you say, unimpressed. You gesture to the TV behind him, showing a live feed of Charles’ last interview of the day with Natalie Pinkham. Once this is over, you’re free for the week: free of social media manager and fake girlfriend responsibilities. The thought alone makes you well up with relief.

You and Carlos both watch intently as Charles answers several event-related questions that, to your horror, simmer into personal ones. Natalie sounds excited when she goes, “Any plans for the week with a special someone?”

Charles has no thought behind his eyes, a muted wave of panic coming over him as he fumbles for a response. “My family’s staying up in Tuscany, in a farmhouse we own, stay in for spring and summer. We are actually visiting them for the week.”

We are actually visiting them for the week. Your look of pure, unadulterated shock doesn’t go unnoticed by Carlos, who’s quick to snap pictures of you on his phone. What the hell is Charles talking about? Tuscany? No, family? 

“I take it you didn’t know about this,” Carlos says with a laugh. 

“You think?!” You holler, still appalled. Charles has a lot of gall to spin this without your permission, or Jenna’s for that matter. You know she’ll love it, though; it’s really, mainly, you who has a problem with it. Anxious, you get up and watch the broadcast end; not a minute later, Charles enters and offers a can of sparkling water to you.

“Thirsty?” He asks casually.

“Very,” you pipe, taking a gulp.

“You’re welcome,” he says teasingly.

“Oh, thanks! I think I’ve been busy thinking about the fact that I’m meeting your family!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” He yells, trying to match your agitated volume. “I didn’t know you were watchi—I was nervous! I didn’t know what to say anymore! And—you kno—well—and Natalie kept asking a ton of questions!”

Your face of disbelief matches his of sheepish apology, facing each other frozen. Across you, Carlos lets out an incredulous laugh, mumbles something about wanting popcorn. You honestly can’t blame him. Had you been an outsider, you would’ve relished in Charles’ slip-up, too. Instead, you’re the one who’s apparently going to Tuscany on Friday to meet the extended Leclerc clan.

“It’s fine. It’s gonna be”—you attempt to find an appropriate adjective—“bearable. At least we don’t need to keep up appearances there.”

You’re met with disagreeable silence. When Charles doesn’t chime in with an agreement, you turn slowly back to him. “No.”

“It’s only for a week—”

“No!”

“A week!” 

You’re both standing up, pacing around the other frantically. Pretending to suddenly be bumped up from social media manager to Charles’ girlfriend was a daunting enough proposition. Getting hate mail and death threats was enough incentive to let you want to leave. Timing exits and entrances was difficult. And now, pretending to be together in front of his family? His family. 

“Why can’t you just tell them we’re not actually dating?!”

“It’s just—it’s complicated having to explain why.” You remember his assortment of man-whore scandals and realization sinks into you. You sit on the arm of the couch, deflated and contemplative. Despite your own knowledge of the scandals being totally baseless and false, you understand it’s difficult to explain the lengths of tabloids and online rumors to older family members.

You might have to grin and bear it.

“Fine.” You digress. He cheers silently. “One week. Once our quickie breakup is finalized, you’re telling them it ended well. I don’t want to be in anybody’s bad graces.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay.”

Tuscany won’t be so bad, you think. What’s the worst that could happen?

—

Charles’ extended family greets you at their farmhouse when you arrive heaving two pieces of luggage. It’s populated by two aunts, three uncles, and two younger cousins, and their hospitality is contagious. They all somehow remind you of Charles, their faces, their laughs, their easy attitudes.

His aunts, Mia and Giulia, are the first to pull you in for a hug and inspect your face. Good eyebrows! Good lips! Healthy attractive child for you both!

You have to pry yourself off of them with giggles and smiles and pretend the kid comment was never uttered for your own sake. They’re kind, ushering you inside and serving dinner immediately, inquiring about the drive and if it was bad, if Charles had spotted any dead sheep or cattle on the way (none.)

His cousins are both little boys, eleven and six, shy and with thick accents. Charles’ smile is huge when he speaks to them in Italian, eyes comical and animated. His three uncles all eat fairly quietly, talking about politics, or racing, only when they feel like it. 

They ask many questions, and tell so many stories, over limoncello and rigatoni that leave you stuffed after two platefuls. You didn’t think you’d be satisfied so soon after the drive, but you’re grateful for it. His uncle Giorgio leads the tour of the house, his voice slow and constantly sliding into Italian, but Charles is quick to supply a translation into your ear. Lit by terrace lights, you get a night view of the house, surrounded by the hills, the lemon trees, and a swimming pool in the back. Further back, there are two horses for riding, and bicycles for easier transportation.

A vineyard borders the other side of the hill, owned by a different family. You can’t digest the beauty of this place, even without the sun to provide a better view. You’re back inside, being shown the rest of the wide dining room and kitchen that lead out onto a balcony-terrace area, and then clambering the stairs to be shown your room—a beautiful one on the second floor that overlooks the hills. 

“This is so beautiful,” you say honestly. “Thank you so much. And Charles will be staying…?”

“In my childhood bedroom!” He quips excitedly, already halfway out the door to review his living situation.

Giulia and Mia share a look and then the former goes, “Wait, Charles!”

He slows to a halt and turns, awaiting their words. “Ay. Bambino, because you have been in Monaco so long these days, and we have gotten a lot of stuff, your childhood bedroom is now more of a… storage room.”

“A storage room?!” He sounds scandalized.

“Bambino, mi dispiace,” she continues. “But—let’s not be conservative! You two have been dating now for a year, correct? Surely, you’ve slept in one bed.”

Your face grows warm. “Um, actu—”

“Shh,” Mia says kindly. “No need to make excuses. Charles, stay with your girlfriend. And we will wake you both for breakfast. Ciao!”

You barely voice your assent, managing to wedge in a thank you! before the door closes and leaves you and Charles alone. 

In a room without a single couch. The only non-bed “resting” space is a single chair, and as much as you want to, you don’t want Charles to break his spine trying to sleep on it. The situation is clear. You need to configure the bed.

“We cannot sleep on the same bed.”

“I’ll take the floor.”

“No! I mean—ugh. I don’t want to risk you pulling a muscle. Also, more importantly, if any of your family walks in and sees you sleeping on the floor, they’re going to think we’re freaks.”

“The bed is big enough for us both,” he says, gesticulating. You narrow your eyes. If you’re going to be avoiding physical contact, it definitely isn’t. It’s like the gods had decided to bless the room with a bed perfect for two people snuggling.

You place your hands on your hips, analyzing the best way to tackle the situation. You won’t lie, you’d thought about the possibility of sharing a room—but a bed was completely different. You’d expected a couch, a loveseat of some kind, both of which are woefully missing. Thinking fast, you take the three decorative, cylindrical pillows and place them vertically on the centre of the bed.

You step back. “Okay. That’s our boundary.”

Each side is a bit small, but it’s the price to pay, you think, taking a long look at your handiwork. Beside you, Charles snorts. “That is not going to work.”

“I’ll bet you it will,” you say matter-of-factly, retreating to the bathroom to get ready for bed. When you emerge, Charles is fast asleep, half his body on your side of the boundary. You have to pour water on his face to shoo him away, and that’s when you’re positive your creation will work.

You place yourself gingerly on your side of the border, remaining perfectly still as you drift off to sleep. You wake up the next day on Charles’ chest, pushing him away before admitting you’d been in that position in the first place. 

You slide him five euros over breakfast. 

—

Charles is a good driver, skier, and biker—you can attest to this from being by his side, reviewing pictures and videos of him for a living.

But there’s one thing he absolutely sucks at, and it’s teaching. You thought you’d never have to attest to this, but here you are, with scraped knees and a smudge of soil on the hem of your shorts, on your sixth attempt to learn how to ride a bike.

It’d been his idea, like many of the odd things you’d gotten yourself into. “Let me make up for dragging you along,” he’d said, and then proceeded to commit attempted murder every time he sent you away on the bicycle. Five tries did you no good; Charles’ directions contradicted each other and came much too fast, causing you to crash into the grass or skid yourself to a halt, your sneakers coated in a light layer of dust.

“Why are we still trying?” You ask woefully, examining the scratches on your calf. And to think you would’ve gotten to go truffle hunting with his uncle had Charles not swept you away to bike.

“It is an important life skill. Just—don’t look at the ground. Okay. Andiamo!” He sends you off again, watches as you twist and careen into a bush. Again. Your groan of pain matches the ooof he lets out, jogging to help you up. You turn away from the ground and toward his face. His laughing face.

“Ow. What?” You ask, raising a brow. You flex your fingers, waiting for him to pull you upwards. 

“You smashed into a bush and a berry’s all over your cheek.” He says, still laughing when he helps you up. You hold the tip of your pinky to your face, press down, and sure enough, when you inspect it again, it’s stained a dark berry color.

“Is this toxic?!” You ask, agitated.

“Che? Toxic? No, no. It’s a juniper berry.” He reaches over and swipes his thumb across your face, sending you into a frozen state. Your hands remain at your sides while he focuses on wiping the rest of the fruit off of your cheek, showing you his stained finger afterwards with a proud smile. “All gone.”

You turn and pick up the bicycle. “One more for good luck,” you say, shaking off the nerves and gut churning feeling deep in your stomach. You situate yourself atop the bike, trying to remember and re-remember all the tips Charles had given you. 

“Don’t look down, just breathe, keep your eyes trained straight. If you crash, on the grass always. Better than this path.”

“Got it,” you say breathlessly, determined. You take off, eyes trained on the landscape in front of you, leaving the house behind and gliding quickly downhill. It takes you a beat to realize, however, that you’re not falling. You’re doing it—properly. You turn to voice your pride, but that’s what gets you caught in your thoughts.

Charles is cheering behind you, but once he detects you’re stumbling, he runs the few metres over. Still, he can’t catch you fast enough; you do manage to turn right and land on the grass. In his own rush, Charles trips on the horizontal bike, and lands right beside you, atop your arm.

Eventually you’re both doubled over laughing, your fingers finding purchase on the blunt grass. You both only quiet down when you hear his aunt’s car, old and rickety, grow louder. You look up to find Giulia peeking out of the driver’s window, her face as amused as it is confused.

Beside her, Mia yells. “Buon lavoro, Charles!”

“What’d she say?” You ask, still half-laughing.

“Good job,” he replies, entertained. “She said good job.”

—

Charles takes Giorgio’s Vespa and rides you both to town two days later, even with the offer of a car. He claims the motor ride is the best way to experience Tuscany at its finest. Nothing about the two-seater bike on the pebbly road feels fine, though, and you’re seriously contemplating broken ribs when he makes a sharp turn. It’s only a ten, fifteen-minute ride, but the downhill slope makes it seem faster—and more dangerous.

Your grip on his waist had gone from loose and hesitant to tight and anxious, your voice a mantra of possible death in his ear. He can’t help but laugh, revving harder and chiming in with a biting remark of his own.

“You know who this is named after?” He shouts over the wind whipping both of you.

“Mmm?” You ask.

“Apollonia, from the Godfather.”

“Oh, Christ. The girl who died?”

“Hey, she was beautiful! My uncle loved the movies so much, his Vespa had to be named after her.” You lean onto his back for purchase, still unused to the speed at which he zips through the countryside. Eventually, after a few turns, the terrain turns from rough to smoother, and he parks at the busy-looking town square, populated by locals and tourists alike, but not with the traffic of more popular cities. Alleyways lead to smaller corner stores and cafés; a chapel overlooks the area, and a market populates the centre.

“What would you name your bike, if you had to?” You ask as a follow-up, removing your helmet and shaking your hair out. You pull at your dress to straighten it out.

“Well…” He takes both your helmets and stores them in the bike, leading the way toward the bustle. “My uncles, and my father—they always say we name our most precious things after beautiful women. Apollonia. My other uncle, Leo, he named his sailboat after his mother, Bianca. Even my dad would name few objects after my mother. It’s a way of honoring them, you know?”

You nod, stopping at a produce stall and examining a bunch of tomatoes. “I think that’s sweet.”

“Yes, so I guess… well, I don’t know, really. My mother’s name, maybe?”

“She’s got a beautiful one,” you comment offhandedly.

“Yeah. Or, if we go by appearances, I suppose your name.”

You ignore the flush of nerves that well up in you and turn back to face him, confused and amused. “My name? Why’s that?”

“I mean,” he coughs, crossing his arms and smiling, “people think we are together, so if I get a bike, and they ask for her name, I must say yours, no?”

“Only if you want to,” you chirp back, amused. What had possessed him to suddenly bring you into the discussion? Neither of you are pretending for all these strangers. Here in town, you’re friends again, browsing the market, walking around stalls, eating free samples of pesto and cheese.

“I do want to,” he says. It’s a joke, you’re sure. Half-sure. It’s a joke.

The town square’s noise begins to die when the sun sets. City-dwellers leave to take trips back to main hubs of Italy, and with no nightlife in the area, many in the square are families or couples sitting down for dinner. The ride back, while short, might be dangerous in the dark; you tug on Charles’ sleeve to relay your thoughts.

“Don’t worry,” he says dismissively. “I’ve biked here past midnight.”

“What were you even doing in town at midnight, hmm?” You tease lightly, following him around. There’s not much to do except eat at this point, judging by the way you’d both exhausted the stalls in the afternoon. He rolls his eyes, mumbling excuses. 

“You womanizer,” you whisper in an exaggerated scandalous tone. You poke his bicep. “Bedding the locals.”

“I was not, ay!” He defends. You’ve noticed his accent is so much thicker here, where he has to speak Italian all the time, except with you. It sounds nice. “I would come to smoke weed.”

That’s even funnier, you think, throwing your head back to laugh. Thoughts of teenaged Charles, tinged pink and tan from summer, on a momentary break from a junior racing career, biking fast back and forth—for a joint no less—are both funny and endearing. “That is so cute, Charles. Drug virgin.”

“Don’t speak of those when we’re in front of the house of the Lord,” he says sarcastically, gesturing to where your cyclical walking had landed you: back in front of the town’s chapel. There’s a pot of holy water by the front doors and a rack of candles for lighting and offering. Besides that, there’s a coin drop box being manned by a priest.

In silent agreement, you walk in sync to the candles, lighting one each and whispering brief intentions. You’re not religious, you’ve never been; a church seemed foreign to you, always. But you figure there’s no harm in a candle and an offer to the big guy, if he’s there.

There’s a mural painted by the doors, which you observe silently while Charles goes to drop donations into the box. You catch bits of their conversation. Good evening. Are you a tourist. No, we live up the hill, visiting for spring, yes. 

The rest you don’t catch, turning to Charles and watching him talk, animated as he is solemn. The priest smiles at you politely, turns to Charles, goes, “Siete qui insieme?” You rack your brain for the Italian you’d picked up recently but can’t match it to anything.

Charles nods. “Qui per cenare, ed esplorare.” Esplorare, explore? You fail again, but continue listening anyway, occupying your eyes with the mural.

“È la tua ragazza?” The priest asks with a soft chuckle.

“Oh, sì, sì.” Charles looks very sure of himself when he says so.

The priest nods once. “Se ti sposi, allora dovrebbe essere qui, no?”

Charles turns slowly, looks at you, then smiles. “Okay,” he says, still looking at you. “Farò in modo che accada.” Then they’re exchanging quick Italian goodbyes and he’s walking back to you, guiding you to a nearby restaurant for dinner.

“What was that about?” You ask, the curiosity getting the best of you. You don’t remember what they said, so you can’t plug it into Google Translate; your last hope is getting Charles to translate it for you. You figure it’s no problem. He’s always translated for you during your stay here so far, word-for-word recounts that have you feeling fluent in the language after decoding them. Whether it be a family anecdote or a market transaction, the language has never become an issue for you.

You walk beside him, awaiting the translation that never comes. Instead, he smiles, shakes his head, and says, “That was nothing.”

—

Your first, last, and only close call happens during a wine and poker night with Charles’ uncles and aunts. You’d spent the morning semi-cuddling (to beat the early a.m. cold, you both insisted), and then a majority of the afternoon in the nearby vineyard volunteering to help pick grapes, and they’d offered to let you wind down for the night inside.

It starts off well enough—you and Giorgio best the first two rounds, much to everyone else’s chagrin, and you rest on the sofa, reading Giulia’s cookbook with a glass of wine. At quarter to midnight, Charles’ six-year-old cousin, Marco, comes inside and slots himself beside Charles, eyes sleepy.

“Cugino,” he says. Cousin. His voice is squeaky and childish.

“Yes, Marco?” Charles asks, preoccupied with his cards.

“Put me to sleep,” he says in accented English.

“Later. You should wait.”

“Can she do it?” A chubby hand rises and points toward you. You offer a small wink, sipping wine.

“Only if she wants to,” Charles says, turning to face you. You chuckle.

“I’d be happy to, Marco.” You smile.

“Cugino.” Marco tugs on Charles’ sleeve to regain his attention. “What’s her favorite color?”

Oh, shit. Neither of you had really thought this would come up, so you hope Charles can fake it well. While you know everything about him, he knows not much about you, especially little niche facts like this one. Charles clears his throat and goes, “Blue.”

“Favorite song?”

“Uh. Marco, aspettare. OK?”

“Why should he wait?” Giorgio asks, gruff. “Your aunts and I are curious, too.”

Charles meets your eyes, and you try to signal for him to lie, which he ends up doing. “It’s Take a Chance on Me. ABBA, zio.”

You do know that song, but it’s definitely not your favorite. You close the cookbook and get up, pacing onto the seat beside Marco and leaning against it, smiling and nodding. Beside Giorgio, Mia asks sweetly, “Do you have any tattoos, dear?”

Just you, or are Italian aunts ridiculously straightforward? You open your mouth at the same time Charles does, and that’s what leads to your downfall. Yes, one, you say. No, none, Charles says at the same time. You both look at each other, eyes wide.

His uncle grunts. “Bambino, do you know nothing of this lovely girl?”

“You misunderstand,” Charles says. “I thought she wouldn’t want to share that yet, zio. I tried to cover for her, but, er—she seems okay with sharing it.”

It’s a flimsy excuse but it seems to work, and the poker game resumes without any more questions about you.

Still, you grow nervous, frustrated a bit, and, once you spot Marco asleep, you take him into your arms and mumble a polite goodnight, carrying him upstairs. The call was just too close. Why did Charles feel the need to interject like that? Had you been caught in such a lie, you’d need to reveal everything.

Something else tugs at your chest, but you refuse to admit it incites an unhappy feeling out of you. Charles’ lack of knowledge about you did nothing but remind you that in the end, he did know nothing about you, and this was just contractual and obligatory and for the press-turned-for the family. You pat Marco’s forehead, sighing. You shouldn’t be so upset, but you are.

You know a lot about Charles, but it’s a cold fact that he can’t say the same about you; at least, not to the extent that you know him. The doors and staircase creak, signifying the game’s end and everyone’s retreat to bed; you await Charles’ entrance, which comes after you hear him opening your room, finding it empty, and then—

“Sorry. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you say, hushed. You get up and walk past him, crossing the corridor and opening the door halfway into your room. 

He says, then: “You really never tell me anything about yourself.” 

You freeze, turn, suddenly frustrated all over again. Suddenly sad. “Yeah. You really know nothing about me.” It’s exaggerated, so it cuts deeper.

He’s upset, you realize. “Do I have to beg for these sorts of basic facts? I wa—I…” He pauses. “I want to know you more. I’ve always wanted to.”

“You didn’t even think to—to ask me the most basic questions before we got here.” You’re aware he didn’t owe you this, but your irritance doesn’t quell. “My favorite song, my favorite movie, color, anything. I could name all that on your behalf.”

“Every time I ask, you deflect. You never told me, either,” he says defiantly.

You scoff and ponder for a minute before shaking your head and clambering down the steps. You need some fresh air, having gotten mad so quickly. You know it makes no sense—he never needed to ask about you. Prior to last week, you worked with him. Still, everything’s changed now, and it feels hurtful knowing he can’t name these things about you.

You take a seat on the terrace chair, pretend not to notice when he sits beside you, separated by a table.

You hug your arms closer to yourself, sigh. “It’s, a koi fish on my hipbone. Hurt like a bitch.”

He looks at you, curious. You continue.

“My high school superlative was ‘most likely to be elected president’—embarrassing, I know. I won the local spelling bee. Thrice in a row. I love the color green, and the movie Fantastic Mr. Fox.”

You pretend you’re not feeling anxious from the sudden sharing, clearing your throat and keeping your gaze trained on the landscape of houses and hills around you.

“I love crosswords to a worrying degree, I’m a dog person but have never owned one, and my favorite song is Don’t Go Breaking My Heart. I kill it on karaoke.” Finally, your eyes slide slowly over to look at Charles. He’s already looking at you, smile soft on his flushed, pink face.

“I didn’t think of you as much of a singer,” he says, eyes crinkling from the size of his smile.

Huffing and stifling a laugh, you cross your arms defiantly over your torso. Your lips melt into a pout, and you flip him off in an attempt to stave him off. He just laughs harder, gulping the rest of his wine with ease.

“To be fair, I think I dance better,” you respond proudly. “It’s still bad, but it’s better. Better than you, anyway.”

“Is that a challenge?” He asks, mouth half-open, still caught in a laugh. “Wow. Okay, d’accord. It’s on.”

“It is most certainly not a challenge, Charles!” You object frustratedly.

“Challenge accepted!”

Against your vocal protests, he gets up from his chair and reenters the house, exiting with his phone in one hand and the rest of the wine in the other. He browses his selection of songs, humming until he seems satisfied with one of them. He pours you both a glass of preparatory red, a grin lighting up his face. 

You burrow into the chair, unrelenting when he stretches out a hand to invite you to dance. You only end up giving in when you’ve successfully finished your wine, getting up and straightening out the wrinkles in your dress.

Your hand is still loosely clutched around his when he plays the Bee Gees song he’d queued up, and then both of you start dancing.

It’s a bit fast-paced, but you catch up well, letting yourself move fluidly to the song. All the while, your hand remains looped around his, like an anchor, a saving point. You shut your eyes to immerse yourself in the song, a smile on your face. When you crack them open, you watch Charles dance goofily, with moves you’d be totally embarrassed by otherwise. This time, you’re strangely endeared.

Where you expected yourself—the both of you, really—to be stiff and awkward, you’re both loose and easygoing, chuckling and laughing as the song progresses. Your dress swishes by your knees softly when you move, letting go of his hand momentarily. It flexes with the feeling of his absence. Charles dances like he has no care in the world, with movements that would rival a fifty-year-old’s. You find that you don’t have a care in the world either, watching him with a stupid grin on your features.

Your heart swells and seizes, and you swallow, not wanting to realize why yet. He reaches for your hand again, seeks it in the evening light. You give it to him easily, cut his search short. You’re what he looks for.

He lifts your linked hands right as the song starts its ending, and you realize you’re supposed to twirl around them. With a laugh, you follow, letting your arms stretch out when you’re done. He pulls you back, with strength that sends you barreling into his chest. “Dude,” you mumble, giggling. “Charles, you ruined my flow.”

You both part, but barely; your hands are still clasped, your distance barely increased. You stare up at him when the next song clicks on.

It’s slower this time, a song you recognize from films and novels. You remember this specific rendition from two years ago in Silverstone, when Charles had shared over a meeting that he’d been busy teaching himself the piano—specifically, The Way You Look Tonight.

The song continues, your hands still together, your eyes boring into his. The moon makes his light eyes a different shade, all green and soft edges rivaling the intensity of his stare. “Come on,” he says. “Why stop, no?”

He raises your hands, guides his vacant one to wrap around your waist. It’s warm there, secure, belonging. With all the hesitance in the world, you wrap a hand around his upper arm. Your gaze is unbreaking.

“Thank you,” he says, steering you both into a slow, easy rhythm. The nerves melt away slowly when you continue to sway. You cock a head to the side in a silent request for elaboration.

“For sharing.”

“Oh. It was only right,” you reply. “Considering you know nothing niche about me.”

“Tell me…” He starts, but the words tangle in his throat, lodge themselves there in a fit of nerves. He breathes, breaks the gaze. “I mean, I wouldn’t mind… if you told me more.”

A brief shine of surprise passes through your eyes, and you nod. “Alright.”

“Alright.” He smiles. 

“Do you think, ” you say, swallowing the sorrow, “we’ll need to keep doing this when the week is ov—?”

“Let’s not dwell on that,” he says quickly. He sounds—sad, almost, at the thought of this being fake. In the days spent here, picking grapes, drinking wine, going on bike rides and practicing Italian, it was easy to let the lines blur. Perhaps he’d forgotten.

You realize, when he leans forward and slots his chin atop your head: you’d forgotten, too.

—

Despite the tension, the next day goes fairly normal, and Charles takes you to town on Apollonia late at night. The Tuscan air is crisp and clean when he parks by a pub, loud not with techno music or hip-hop, but Italians singing. Inside, it’s not so crowded, populated by regulars, few tourists, and several older people.

Charles orders himself a beer, and a cocktail for you after you request something sweet. The bartender gives you an extra one on the house, and you and Charles seat yourself in front, watching people sing on the stage.

“Vi piace cantare?” Someone asks, and Charles quickly supplies: he’s asking if we like to sing.

You wave your palm back and forth. So-so, you signal. Charles, of course, ever the social butterfly, slides into a natural conversation with him, about Italy, pubs, beer, and singing. The guy introduces himself as Antonio, owner of said pub and a man who is apparently more than happy to clear the queue of singers for you two.

“Wait, seriously?” You ask. Antonio nods, clapping Charles on the back. You’d have thought they’d been friends for years or something.

You immediately turn down the request, but Charles scrambles onstage, having downed two bottles of beer. You’re overcome with horror as you watch him walk across the small stage to the side of it to request a song, encouraging whoops from the crowd.

“Ohhhhh. Oh, no. This is not a good idea,” you say, gulping. “Plus, I’ve had a lot to drink. Your aperol spritzes have so much alcohol in them.”

Beside you, Antonio laughs. “Non si preoccupi—do not worry. He seems to be a confident guy. You’re in good hands.”

“Am I? He didn’t even ask if I wanted to sing. I don’t even know what to sing.” You watch him whisper a song to the guy in charge of the pub’s ancient karaoke system, half-sure that the song archive stops after 1990. The stage creaks when Charles reaches for another mic and then stretches his arm out to offer it to you.

You muster your best angry face, but he just laughs. “Come on. You will like it.”

Gulping the rest of your cocktail, you accept the mic, and then his hand, strong in yours as he helps you climb onstage. The crowd of locals and few tourists cheer for the both of you, and you don’t do much to hide your stage fright; even the buzz of alcohol can’t help you. You hope (and know, deep down) that Charles will.

“Buona sera a tutti,” Charles says, met with more raucous cheering. “Io e il mio amico cateremo per te stasera.” He bows, and you follow a bit stiffly, not knowing what he’s saying.

“Amico?” Someone jeers from the audience. “O fidanzata?!”

Charles laughs, and you know he’s truly entertained because his eyes crinkle the way they do. You fiddle with your dress, your hair, anything to channel the nerves. He waves the crowd off with a shush motion and then turns, gestures for the song to start. He catches your eye, anxious, quells your nerves by taking your hand and squeezing it. Don’t worry, he mouths. I’m here.

You identify the song before two seconds of it even play, and the realization is breathtaking: your favorite. You shut your eyes and let a huge smile come onto your face, laughing. You almost can’t believe him for this.

He starts off the song, taking your hand and leading you into a dance. Don’t go breaking my heart.

You twirl around him, exaggerating your movements and smiling. I couldn’t if I tried.

Somehow, you find dexterity, flow in the movements, the words. Maybe because you love the song so much. Charles matches your enthusiasm, singing loudly and exaggerating his accent to incite laughs from the onlookers. When he speeds up, so do you, allowing both of you to join in an upbeat rhythm that leaves you panting.

Ooh-hoo, nobody knows it, you both sing, laughing and shimmying toward each other. You both point and laugh, joining hands again when the chorus ends to sing your lines all over again. Charles always leads you well, alert as he is excited, letting you melt into him, adapt to the dance. You feel like you’re floating. 

Don’t go breaking my heart, he sings. 

I won’t go breaking your heart, you sing back, ducking underneath your hands, laughing.

The tension, warmth, spark between you grow as the song begins to close, your words breathless, faces flushed with alcohol and semi-exhaustion. Even if your face seems to show it, though, you find you’re not tired at all, smiling as your heart beats faster. You pull away, dancing to the last bits of the song, having let go of all your worries, nerves. Why were you ever nervous? You always trusted him.

The song fades to an end when you pull together, faces as close as they’d ever been. You’re both breathing heavy with the intensity of your dance, smiling. You shut your eyes, laugh, with the ecstasy of this moment. From the crowd, the bartender yells: “Ora bacia! Kiss!”

Both you and Charles turn to the crowd, who quickly cheer him on, and laugh. But they’re not kidding, you realize—they’re all yelling kiss in unison, intermittent whoops and cheers joining the chant. It’s like a rural Italian version of an MLB kiss cam.

You turn back to Charles, who’s looking at you already. His eyes dart to your lips. You’d never done it before—appearances never went that far—but the crowd is unrelenting, and you nod back when he cocks his head to the side in silent question. Like always, you’re nervous. And again, like always, he helps you through it.

Warmth blossoms through your chest when he leans in and presses your lips together.

That would’ve been enough to satisfy the crowd, you think, but neither of you pull away. Sparks ignite your stomach, your hands looping around his neck, his around your waist. You kiss him back effortlessly, like you’d done this a million times before. You feel him smile against your own smile, laugh when you laugh. 

The kiss is nothing if not dizzying, the perfect kind, the kind of the fairytale variety. His lips are soft, a bit chapped, against yours; when your tongues meet, they taste like aperol spritz and beer. Your hands tighten around his neck, like you need him still against you, when you both pull away for air. The crowd cheers.

You barely even hear them, staring into his eyes. 

—

The night becomes cloudy, raining softly over the hills when everybody’s done singing; Charles boards Apollonia and like always, you wrap your hands around him, leaning against his back. You’re a bit tipsy, but above all, you’re utterly conflicted with how everything’s seemed to turn in on itself within the last few days.

The rain only grows as Charles revs harder, and the Vespa skids to a screeching, horrible stop. Thankfully, you’re not far from the farmhouse, so you don’t walk much; still, both of you are drenched, Charles’ arms stained with motor oil that drips off with the force of the rain. He stows away the bike, turns back to you. You’re looking at him expectantly.

“What is this?” You demand, raising your voice.

“Rain,” he replies blankly.

“This.” You wag a finger in between you both. “We kissed in Antonio’s pub, Charles. And we might—we might tell ourselves it was because of the crowd’s pressure, but we know. We both know that kiss was for nobody but us.”

He wipes a hand over his face. “What do you want it to be?”

“I don’t know,” you say honestly, sighing. Your hair is dripping with rain. “I really don’t.”

“I’ll tell you what I want,” he says. And he pauses, like he always does when he’s unsure, nervous, bumbling, and then blurts it out. “You—I want you. I was a fool to realize it late. But years of being with you, around you… I should’ve known earlier, I—”

“Charles,” you cut in, not expecting the sudden rawness. “No, no.”

“You’ve got to realize,” he says desperately. “I do. I constantly think of you, feel for you, look for you, look at you. I’ve known you for so long, I always end up liking you all over again. Everything comes back to you. Seeing you here, a place I love—seeing you love it here—listening to you sing, dancing with you—don’t you—haven’t you gotten it yet—?”

You stare at him. 

You’re faraway, on the clouds, dry from the rain, when he says it. I love you.

—

The morning after is quiet, muted. You drown in your own overbearing thoughts.

“Got a lot on your mind?” You emerge from them quick, eyes darting over to Charles’ two aunts leaning by the doorframe of the dining room. You offer a polite smile, hoping it hides the conflict in the recesses of your mind.

“A bit,” you reply. 

“Come join us,” Mia offers. “We will pick lemons outside. For lunch.”

You take a basket from the entryway and follow them through the front door and onto the yard, matching their slow pace, relishing in the morning sun that hasn’t yet grown too hot.

Tuscany is beautiful. Despite your best efforts, you’d grown to love it here over the course of the week. The hilly terrain, the fruit, the constant goat sightings, the bike rides to town where you clutch Charles’ shirt out of fear you might fall off. 

They seem to spot good lemons within milliseconds, balding the branches in minutes. Perhaps because of your own cloudy thoughts, or maybe their breakneck speed, you fail to catch up, and they notice.

Mia again brings you out of your thoughts, guiding you three to the next tree. “Are you upset, bambina? Is Charles being a pest?”

“Oh, God, no,” you say with a laugh. “We—he’s a great tour guide. I never explored Italy before, and it’s beautiful here. He bikes me to town, because I can’t, uh, ride, unfortunately. He transacts for me, because my Italian is hopeless. He buys wine and cheese and lets me pet sheep when we bike past them on the hills.”

“Bambini innamorati.” Mia sighs fondly. “What is it you like about Charles?”

You hum, thinking. There are lots of things you like about Charles, but surely his family share the same sentiments. What’s unique? What about him is just yours? “His humor, I suppose,” you say. “He finds the fun in everything, even in competition, in boredom. Everywhere else, his good traits—everyone knows them. A stellar driver, charming, kind. Good-looking. But his humor, I think… I think he reserves his weirdest jokes, his best laughs, for the best people in his life. I’m just glad I’m there.”

Giulia is the next to speak, slow and encouraging, prompting you with a question you’d once dreaded but now feel excitement to hear: “Tell me again, how you and Charles met?”

It’s a rehearsed story, with bits of lies that you and Charles had to insert to make it appear more romantic and less coworker-esque. But you’d only told the short version before. To some journalists, to his cousin. You figure you’ll lie less and tell a more unabridged version. “Oh, okay,” you say, nervous and collecting your thoughts. 

“I work with Charles. I was spending time with him a lot, so naturally, we became somewhat friends. Not very close, but comfortable enough. I had to take pictures and videos for him and his teammate, so we really were together a lot. I suppose that’s how we met. How we became… something more, is a totally different story. I think the best thing about it was that neither of us were looking for it.”

You breathe, pausing. “It simply happened—despite both of us not expecting, not needing a relationship, it happened anyway. Almost funny, how young people like myself look for the moment of love at first sight. The staggering moment of eye contact and realizing you’ve met your soulmate. But—it wasn’t like that for me. It happened slowly, like I had to dissect what I felt. Like my heart had always known, so I had to catch up with myself and realize I…”

You pause. You really aren’t lying. “…I’m in love with him.”

Giulia and Mia exchange a knowing look over the branches.

—

“So, are you dating?” Natalie asks. It’s the first race of the season, and everyone’s excited—but this interview moves slowly, Charles dictating the flow of it himself. He smiles.

“Yes, we are.”

“Well, there’d been rumors a few months ago that this was a PR stunt, calculated by your new officer, Jenna Griffin. So, tell me again, are you dating? For real?”

Charles seeks you in the crowd of the meet-and-greet fans, finds you in the front row. You roll your eyes when he smiles fondly at you. A Tuscany trip and several months later, he thinks, has changed everything.

For the better. “For real.”

[bro-atz]

miscommunication [trope — yeosang]

inspired by: friends — sitcom

word count: 2.1k

content: angst, smut, miscommunication, bedroom sex, (unintentional) infidelity, unprotected sex (pls remember to wrap up irl!), completely consensual (sex)!

trope masterlist

You were waiting for Yeosang at the restaurant. You both agreed on the time and the place earlier in the week, and yet, he was still late. He was always late. The only time you ever saw him on time was the very first date you went on with him, and he was early for that because he was nervous. Now? Now he was late.

If it was only by ten or fifteen minutes, you would’ve been okay with it. However, it was never just ten or fifteen minutes. It was hours. Once, he kept you waiting at home with a home-cooked meal you put your back into for three hours. The worst part was that he always had an excuse, and his excuses were legitimate. Honestly, you wondered why you were still torturing yourself with the guy, but then the second you saw his face, the second he showed you the love that you oh so desired, you forgave him. Just like that.

This time, however, you were not going to do that. You were going to let him have it, and you were going to end it.

“Yeosang… You did it again," you uttered the second Yeosang arrived wheezing and panting.

“I’m sorry, baby. I really am,” Yeosang apologized earnestly. “I just forgot that we switched the location, and then time got away from me—”

“How many times will you use that excuse?! This is the third time this month! And I even texted you this morning to confirm, and you replied saying that you got it, so what the fuck?!”

You slammed your hand down on the table and got up. Yeosang grabbed your arm, but you snatched it away immediately and stormed out of the restaurant. He followed behind you shortly, and he walked behind you as you continued to walk away. Unfortunately for you, the light turned red, and you were stuck at the intersection, allowing him to catch up and pull you into a tight hug.

“Yeosang, let go of me,” you said as you fought to get out of his ridiculously strong arms.

“No, I’m not going to,” Yeosang responded, his embrace tightening. “Baby, I’m seriously sorry. You know I’m just really bad with these things—”

“You say that all the time, and nothing’s ever changed!”

“Let me make it up to you.”

“How are you going to do that this time?”

“Move in with me.”

Your eyes widened. You leaned away from him and looked into his eyes, yours darting back and forth as you tried to make sense of the situation. He seemed to be very serious about his proposition, and the thought of moving in with a boyfriend, not going to lie, scared the complete shit out of you.

“Or, if that’s too daunting,” Yeosang quickly added. “I want you to have a key to my place, and you can stay whenever, sleepover whenever— I just want you to know how serious I am about you. Please, baby.”

“Yeosang, one of these days, you either need to get it together, or this isn’t going to last,” you warned him.

“I know. I will. I’m sorry. Please.”

You knew that it wasn’t going to be so simple, that Kang Yeosang was incapable of changing so easily, but you loved him. You were going to make it work, right?

“Alright.”

The two of you went back to his place so he could give you the set of spare keys, but that never happened. Instead, the second you got there, Yeosang pinned you against the front door and kissed you passionately. Both of his hands cupped your cheeks, his palms resting on your cheeks while his fingers supported your neck. He was kissing you earnestly, as if he was trying to prove his love.

His hands worked on getting your clothes off as the two of you remained in the foyer, his impatience getting the better of him. He traced his hands over your bare shoulders and down your arms, the feeling of his hands alone enough to cover your entire body in goosebumps, the sound of your mingled gasps and breaths adding to the effect.

You were completely stripped down to nothing when Yeosang turned you around and pressed you against the door, his hand tracing the curve of your waist before grabbing your ass cheek tightly and pulling up on it, the intensity turning you on quickly. He continued to grope your ass and used his other hand to play with your breast while his mouth planted on your neck and left little pink marks scattered along the side of your neck and on your shoulder.

When he turned your face, he kissed you passionately again, completely distracting you as he, too, stripped down. He slipped his hand down to your neck, and his other hand began stroking your cunt, the tips of his fingers teasing you by scratching in lightly. You shared soft, breathless moans that melted into your endless kisses, the sound enough to turn you on so much that the second Yeosang’s finger brushed past your clit, you felt your insides clench, your eyes rolling to the back of your head as you came.

Without giving you so much as a moment to prepare, Yeosang slid his cock into you, making you moan so loudly that it echoed in the foyer hall, overpowering the loud smack of his waist against your ass.

“Yeo—” you calling his name got cut short when he rutted into you suddenly, his thrusts short and sporadic. “Yeosang… N-Not here…”

You were honestly waiting for a verbal confirmation from the man. Instead, he quietly pulled out and turned you so that your back was pressing against the door. He stuffed you full with his cock again, a muffled cry leaving your pressed lips. You were honestly so worried that he was going to fuck you into the door, letting his neighbors hear every single thing the two of you were doing, but instead, he cupped the underside of your thighs and lifted you.

Your legs were wrapped tightly around his waist as he walked you into his bedroom, his cock still deep inside you. He brought his head up and connected your lips with his again, his tongue teasing yours. When he got to his room, you thought he was going to drop you on the bed. Instead, he remained carrying you, his ridiculously strong arms lifting you and dropping you quickly on his cock, the sheer speed and impact making stars appear in your eyes.

“Ah— Yeosang! P-Please don’t drop me,” you begged as you clung to him tightly, your nails digging into his back muscles as you pressed your head into the his collarbone.

“Don’t worry, baby. I’ve got you,” Yeosang uttered, his lips by your ear.

You continued to moan as Yeosang moved you even more forcefully, the slapping of his waist to your ass reverberating in the room. You felt like you were starting to slip, making you hug the man tighter. Not only did your arms get tighter, but so did your walls, his dick feeling the intensity of your clench. Yeosang’s breathing hitched, and he let out a low groan as he came. He held you in place and let his cock twitch inside you, his cum just filling up to the point where it was leaking out of your cunt and onto the area rug in his room.

After he had cum completely and started going soft in you, Yeosang moved you to the bed. He pinned you down and gazed at your face with love and affection as you blinked the tears away from your eyes. He tucked a stray piece of your hair behind your ear and kissed your temple softly, his eyelashes fluttering against your skin and tickling you.

“I promise, baby,” he whispered, his low voice making your knees tremble. “I’m going to make it up to you all night tonight.

“I cannot fucking believe this, Kang Yeosang!”

You were screaming at the top of your lungs as you stormed around your apartment, your boyfriend’s eyes following your every movement.

“Y/N, I said I was sorry—”

“You keep fucking saying you’re sorry, and I keep fucking falling for it! Just stop apologizing, and just say that you don’t love me anymore, Yeosang!”

“You know that’s not it—”

“No, but it is because you do this to me every single time without fail!” You slammed your hands down on the kitchen countertop and kept your head down, tears threatening to slip out of your eyes. You sniffled and wiped your tears before yelling with a wavering voice, “How can you fucking forget Valentine’s Day of all days?!”

“It just… It just slipped my mind.”

“Right. Because the day that is literally the national sex day is something that can slip out of your goddamn head.”

“Well, yeah!”

“Yeosang, there are hearts and flowers and reds and pinks in every single fucking store, every single street and alley, and I even asked you about it yesterday!”

“Y/N, I’m sorry, okay! But what should I do about it now? Also,” Yeosang shoved his arm forward, revealing the big bouquet of flowers he got you for the holiday. “I did get you flowers! All I did was forget to book a table at the restaurant, and I definitely did not forget that it’s Valentine’s Day— I’m saying that the reservation slipped my mind!”

“I asked you about it yesterday. You didn’t think to tell me yester-fucking-day?!”

“I am sorry! What more do you want from me! I can’t undo the entire day and restart! We’ll just do it properly next year!”

“Next year?” your heart sank, and your tone dropped. “You seriously… You seriously think there will be a next year, Yeosang?”

Yeosang’s mouth was open, but not a sound came out. He wanted to say something. He really wanted to say yes, that there would be a next year, but based off the way you said it, he wasn’t sure.

“I think… We need a break.”

“A… Break?”

“Let’s take a break,” you said. Let’s take a break— as if you were Ross and Rachel. “Let’s take a break.”

How long are breaks supposed to last, anyway? It had been weeks since you spoke to him. You wondered if he expected you to reach to him, but there was no way you were going to because it was his fault. He should apologize to you and come crawling back to you, right?

So then why the fuck was he sitting in a café across from another girl who was clearly laughing and flirting with him? What was supposed to be a detoxing shopping trip quickly turned into high anxiety and stress the second you saw him sitting there, the biggest smile on his face as he let that girl touch him so familiarly, and it took everything in you to keep from storming in and grabbing that bitch by her hair.

Well, you stormed in, but you didn’t grab her by her hair. Instead, you stood right before him, your eyebrows knitted together as you stared at the situation in complete confusion.

“Y/N?” Yeosang sounded surprised to see you— not shocked or worried; simply surprised.

“What the fuck is this?”

“What do you mean?”

“This!” you pointed at the girl. “Who the fuck is this?!”

“A girl I’ve been seeing—”

“What do you mean a girl you’ve been seeing?! Why have you been seeing someone?! What the fuck is wrong with you?!”

Patrons of the café were definitely staring, and while you would’ve been embarrassed normally, you were too fucking pissed to give a shit about who saw your dirty laundry.

“What do you mean?” Yeosang stood up, the two of you locking eyes. Without so much as even a stutter, Yeosang continued, “Because we broke up, remember?!”

“What the fuck?! I said let’s take a break, Yeosang! I just needed time for myself!” You were damn near tears and were barely able to choke out, “I never wanted to break up with you!”

That was the thing. You never wanted to break up with him; but, seeing him in the café with another girl just a mere couple of weeks after declaring you needed a break, seeing him move on so fast without even bothering to check on you, without even thinking he should clarify what the status of your relationship with him was, was enough to show you how he really cared. You weren’t going to fight for him, you weren’t going to beg for him to come back, and you certainly were not going to just let him be without a final confirmation. You grabbed one of the drinks from his table and poured it on his head, the man gasping and hunching his shoulders in shock as the coffee trickled down his face and absorbed into his clothes.

“Consider yourself dumped, Kang Yeosang,” you bit out. “We’re definitely broken up now.”

trope masterlist

trope taglist: @eyeryis @sinnarols @k-hotchoisan @aaasia111 @sunshineangel-reads @hwallazia @dazzlingstarrs @hyukssunflower @yunhogrippers @oreoqueen @xhexy

network: @cromernet

apply for the taglist here!

[pessimisticpigeonsworld]

Rhaenyra's Victory

The "nobody won the Dance" argument is so ridiculous and just flat out wrong. Certain fans (read TG stans), constantly argue that, because Rhaenyra and Aegon both died, the Dance had no victor. GRRM clearly disputes this in both F&B and ASOIAF.

In F&B, the end of the Dance is clearly in favor of the Blacks, despite Rhaenyra's murder. Cregan Stark and the rest of the Black forces took KL, forced the last of the Green supporters to surrender, and placed Aegon III (Rhaenyra's oldest surviving child) on the throne. After that, the last of Aegon II's line died with Jaehaera, leaving Rhaenyra's as the only legitimate and surviving royal line. That means, in simple terms, Rhaenyra's family won the war. They were the survivors of the war and ruled for the rest of the Targaryen Dynasty.

Speaking of the rest of the dynasty, there's a second way GRRM makes Rhaenyra's victory clear, and that's through Daenerys Targaryen. Despite the Blacks winning the final conflict of the Dance, male primogeniture was accepted and reinforced throughout the following kings' reigns. Baela and Rhaena were passed over as options to be Aegon III's heirs before his marriage to Daenaera. Daena and her sisters were passed over in favor of Viserys II and his children. Vaella was dismissed in favor of Aegon V. The first woman to be named heir to the IT since Rhaenyra was Dany, something done purely because she was Viserys III's final surviving relative (no, the relatives in other houses don't count).

No matter the reason Dany was named as heir, she eventually succeeded her brother as the head of House Targaryen and the rightful ruler of Westeros. After becoming the head of the house, she awoke dragons from stone and became Khaleesi of her own Khalasar. Dany then began a conquest across Slaver's Bay and eventually conquered Meereen and became its queen. Thus she became a conqueror and queen in her own right.

Despite House Targaryen embracing the sexist Andal traditions about succession, the future of the house now rests on the shoulders of a woman. Dany is the final ruler belonging to the house, a queen regnant who overcame every man who stood in her way. Not only that, but she awakened dragons from stone, thus beginning to heal the damage done by the Dance and the greens' misogyny.

Dany, a woman, is the savior of House Targaryen and arguably one of its most powerful rulers to date. She not only is continuing its legacy, but is bettering it. Rhaenyra's legacy is her female descendant who will save not only the house but the whole goddamn world. Dany enacts radical social change in Essos, rules her city well (as much as she can with the slavers' interference), and brought dragons, the key to defeating the Others, back into the world. Daenerys is Rhaenyra's final victory over the greens' misogyny and treason.

[takeme-totheworld]

I don't have the energy right now to try to recreate the post I accidentally yeeted into the void, but I've been having lots of feelings about the ongoing fandom discussion of Aziraphale's decision at the end of S2.

I wasn't surprised by his decision at all. The minute he said "I think I might have misjudged the Metatron" I had an immediate, overwhelming feeling of "OH NO" because I saw exactly where the scene was going. And I was right! I felt zero surprise when the episode ended the way it did. (Devastation, yes. Surprise, no.)

Not only that, I was shocked at how shocked everyone else was. Because I grew up in a toxic religious community, of which I was a very devoted and enthusiastic member until young adulthood. So I have firsthand experience with that kind of indoctrination, and know exactly what a mindfuck it is.

Look, it's possible that there's something else going on under the surface, that Aziraphale was being coerced or that he was lying to Crowley in order to protect him or that he was trying to send Crowley a coded message and it failed or whatever. I'm not the creator of this story, I don't know. But what deeply distresses me is how often I've seen people say that it has to be one of those other things because if it isn't—if Aziraphale made his decision of his own free will because he actually believes that Heaven is the side of good, or at least that it once was and will be again if it can just solve the whole bad leadership problem—that means he's either unforgivably cruel or unforgivably ignorant or both.

It's a painful reminder for me, every time, of the fact that if you are the victim of this type of indoctrination, a lot of people will assume that it's your own fault for being gullible enough to believe such obviously ridiculous and wrong things. (Hint: it's only obvious from the outside! Because if you're on the outside, you are not having your mind directly and repeatedly fucked with!) Or that if you've been exposed to contradicting information, but you still continue to believe the things that were indoctrinated into you, it's because you're willfully choosing to stay clueless.

And that is just not how that works. Yes, some people cling to their indoctrination because they're genuinely happy with their lives as part of whatever institution, because it stacks the deck in their favor in some way, because they like having a respectable-sounding excuse to be bigoted jerks, or whatever. But there are also lots of people who have just legitimately had their minds twisted into pretzels by years or decades (or in Aziraphale's case, millennia) of mental conditioning and manipulation.

You can generally tell the difference between the two. At least, if you come from the kind of background I do, you can. But I imagine that even if you didn't, it's probably fairly obvious once you get to know people who is a shitty person using their religion as an excuse to be shitty, and who is a fundamentally decent person who has just had their mind so thoroughly fucked with that they've been manipulated into believing total bullshit.

And breaking the latter group out of their conditioning isn't as simple as just "show them information that contradicts what they've been taught," as much as we all wish it could be. It's a long, messy, and traumatic process. Your entire worldview falls apart and it's terrifying. You lose a community and an identity in the process. And there's often debilitating guilt afterward, about the person you were and the things you did and said while you were still in it.

So I watched the ending of S2 and my reaction was, "Well, of course Aziraphale said the things he said and made the decision he made, he's not free of his programming yet." It made all the sense in the world to me even as it was excruciatingly painful to watch, because there was a time in my life when I made decisions every bit as jaw-droppingly fucked up and incomprehensible to outside observers, decisions I look back on now and still want to shake my younger self by the shoulders and scream "WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU??" And the end of S2 took me right back to that time in my life, when my head was so thoroughly messed up that I made terrible decisions that hurt myself and alienated the people around me, all while wanting nothing more in the world but to be a good person and do the right thing. And I imagine that when Aziraphale finally breaks out of his own indoctrination he is going to be horrified and devastated by a lot of what he did and said, not to mention the betrayal of how thoroughly he was manipulated and gaslit.

Yes, I am projecting hard onto Aziraphale. Yes, this is just my own theory about the final 15. But I don't see anything in the story that flat-out contradicts this reading of his character. And honestly, I care less about the veracity of my interpretation than I do about the fans saying things like "I can't take the final 15 at face value because it would make Aziraphale a terrible person," or "If he really believed that stuff he was saying, Crowley should make him beg and grovel for at least a century before taking him back" or even "if he really believed that stuff, he deserves to have Crowley never speak to him again."

Just...as a person who used to be heavily indoctrinated and has to live with the memory of who I was and what I believed back then for the rest of my life, it's incredibly distressing.

[plantsjustwannahavefun]

"Izzy Canyon dwellers just want to turn him into an innocent victim who did nothing wrong!"

Actually my problem is that, in hindsight, Izzy didn't do enough wrong to justify the common interpretation of his relationship with Ed. In my book, the first time in the series he legitimately crossed over to villainous antagonist territory - someone you actually loved to hate for it even if you understood his reasons - was when he set the British Navy on the Revenge. That way he not only betrayed his integrity as a pirate by consorting with the common enemy of all pirates, but risked Ed's life too - cause, like, come on, that "plan" to send CJ to convince Ed to leave Stede was so far-fetched it barely counts as a plan. I don't buy Izzy ever looking at CJ and going "yep that seems like a smart, responsible, trustworthy man I could rely on for a delicate mind games operation like this". It was an act of sheer desperation on Izzy's part, but he still chose to do it. IMO this was actually worse than what he said to Ed in S1 finale. Although of course that was very nasty, too.

But the thing is, we don't actually have any info on what their relationship used to be like before S1. We were only ever shown, not told - and both times from Izzy's perspective: the first time in S01E04 during his resignation rant, which was very heartfelt and I'm sure a lot of it was true, but it's still one-sided, and the second time during his deathbed speech, which was, again, one-sided and this time biased in another direction - instead of airing his pent-up grievanced Izzy was putting most of the blame on himself.

Other than this, the entirety of Ed and Izzy's pre-S1 relationship gets extrapolated from one single episode, S01E04. The narrative itself seems to want us to see it as a microcosm of their usual long-standing dynamic, at least on the surface. We see Ed being depressed and suicidal, trying to open up to Izzy about it, and Izzy shutting him down and making him act like Blackbeard again. Since it's already clear that Ed and Stede are the main characters, we're primed to see Ed as the victim here and Izzy being an annoying, insensitive nag.

Except the context of those interactions changes everything. The context being that they are literally about to be attacked by the Spanish - something Ed knowingly brought on them with his decisive power as captain - and Ed is deliberately withholding crucial information from his own first mate and the rest of the crew, making them all think they're going to die and he isn't doing anything about it. Izzy wasn't just being a boring buzzkill not being excited for Ed when he showed him that ship model. He was actively panicking and trying to do his job asking Ed for orders so they don't all get slaughtered.

So, yeah, those are some very exceptional circumstances that don't say anything about their typical day to day interactions go when they're not in immediate mortal peril due to lack of communication. Was this the first time Ed ever told him about not wanting to be Blackbeard anymore? Izzy didn't seem very surprised, so probably not, but we don't know, and if Ed had confided in him before, we don't know how Izzy reacted - but I'd like to point out that this time he didn't ridicule Ed in any way, he simply pointed out that they were about to die if Ed didn't do anything. Does Izzy usually indulge Ed in the stuff he finds fun when they're not about to be killed? Again, we don't know, but Izzy's playfulness during that first confrontation with Stede in S01E02, and his whittling and jokes in S2 showed that he wasn't always as grouchy and joyless as he's made out to be. We actually saw him smile when Ed got excited about Buttons, too. Pretty sure if Izzy always shut him down about things like that, Ed would have stopped trying to share it with him long ago.

And, finally, there's one piece of this puzzle that doesn't seem to fit in with the rest at all. The show both told us and implied that Izzy couldn't let Blackbeard go because his own identity was too tied up in it, and because he idolised the glory of violent pirate lifestyle. But if that's the case, then why did he have no problem with Ed wanting to retire? Izzy literally gave him an enthusiastic thumbs up on the whole "kill Stede and steal his identity so he could live the rest of his life as a rich aristocrat" plan. If Izzy only admired Ed as a pirate, and was so hell-bent on keeping the Blackbeard persona alive, why was he ok with Ed retiring? How does this square up with the idea that Izzy had been keeping Ed chained to piracy?

I'd honestly hoped we would get some flashbacks of the two of them in S2, and then S3 before that hope died too, because there's still so much we're missing.

[cathrrrine]

came across this screenshot of a tweet on pinterest and i couldn’t help but headcanon making it through the twd apocalypse because of a painfully obvious crush on daryl.

twd headcanon: obviously crushing on an oblivious daryl dixon.

giggling in the distance while daryl dixon is in the middle of killing walkers, “ugh he’s so cute when he does that”

kicking your feet sitting up in a tree going “hiiiii daryllllll! <3 whatcha doinnn” and he’s like “???” cause you’re legitimately surrounded by now dead walkers and covered in blood

very sunshine x grumpy coded

whispering to maggie “oh my god do you think he was checking me out?” in the middle of a battle

“does this top look cute on me?” “what do you think is his type?” “should i maybe start smoking so we can go on smoke breaks together”

reminding yourself you’re a grown woman with composure and dignity when you find yourself wanting to scream into your pillow, because this daryl crush is so frustrating and he’s just so hot and his arms are so perfect and the way his voice makes you want to climb him right then and there-

wanting to be all mysterious and cool around him but it’s like the spirit of your teenage self possesses you whenever he’s around

subtly standing riiigghhhtttt behind him so rick pairs you together for supply runs then fist-pumping to yourself when it works

rick pretends not to notice. he pairs both of you up on purpose everytime

if he helps you up, you hold on to his hand for longer than you need to, in what you think is a subtle way but everyone notices

while almost dying, “fuck, can someone make sure my hair looks good before daryl sees me? rosita PLEASE im your FRIEND stop messing with my wound and fix my HAIRhdhwhrjue”

“maggie if i pass out can you please do me a favour and make sure daryl is the one who carries me? <3 oooh do you think he knows how to do cpr-“

*in the middle of killing walkers* wow daryl!!! *slash* that was *stab* a great shot!

daryl being ultimately clueless about your flirting and genuinely just thinks you’re being friendly

carol having to tell him “daryl she’s in love with you it’s so obvious”

and he denies it “nah she acts that way towards everyone” even if he secretly wishes it was true

carol wanting to smack him on the head because everyone knows you’re head over heels for daryl dixon except for daryl dixon

when you’re caught in a herd, you force yourself to keep going because there’s no way in hell you’re going to die surrounded by walkers. in your dazed state you’re thinking “fuck this shit im tracking dixon down and im gonna use my last breath to tell him i love him”

and maybe dying in his arms sounds better than being ripped apart by reanimated corpses so you keep pushing yourself

when you make it home you basically just throw yourself at the gates and everyone rushes over to get you to the infirmary

you could’ve sworn you heard maggie yell at daryl to carry you but you’re too out of it to process the thought

bleeding out and feeling yourself fading but then you hear daryl’s voice

“come on, y/n, you’re a fighter. you gotta make it through this. i know you can. please, you have to.”

it’s a miracle how instantly that makes you open your eyes when you were seconds away from death just before that

bringing you flowers and random little gifts while you’re healing up in bed but only putting them next to you when you’re asleep because he’s too shy

him not used to the days being so quiet without you being two steps behind him

finding himself missing your ridiculous quips when he’s on a supply run killing walkers and having to fill the silence with your voice in his head, recalling all the things you regularly say to him, because it feels too weird without you

being so attentive to your needs when you feel good enough to be out and about

daryl feeling much, much better when you’re back to being yourself and the days feel normal again with you going “hiiiiii darryyylllll <3”

carol: she’s in love with you.

daryl: she ain’t. stop it.

carol: fine! but you can’t deny you’re in love with her

whole thing is very reminiscent of a high school crush; innocent, bashful, endearing. everyone’s so entertained by The Daryl and Y/N Show

they have a bet going on to see who asks who out first

daryl asking maggie if what carol tells him is true, trying and failing to be casual about it

very shrill “he WHAT?!?” scream heard from your room, just minutes after the exchange

“TELLMEEVERYTHINGHESAID-“

[pixiemage]

I legitimately think a lot of people get too hung up on how other people write or draw characters (both in MCYT and outside of it). I sometimes feel like there's so much bitterness towards fellow fandom members just because they've chosen to enjoy a character or corner of the fandom in a different way. Do you picture the characters the same way the creators are IRL? Fun! Do you have a much more fanonized interpretation because you want to separate the characters from creators? Great! Do you tend to lean toward one kind of design overall in your art because that's just how you enjoy the act of creation? Fantastic!

Short, tall, thin, fat, human, hybrid, something entirely undefinable - every single option is correct. Every single option is right. That's the point of creativity and creative liberty. That's the point of fandom and the whole reason why fan art and fan fiction exist - to take what canon gives you and make something, whether that something clings to canon's every note, or if that something turns canon on its head. Especially if it turns canon on its head.

This is a vast fanbase built upon a sandbox game, and any creations we make should be treated the same. It doesn't matter if it doesn't fit the bill for what someone else thinks, and it doesn't matter if it doesn't fit some standard mold. If everyone else views Grian as a parrot avian, but you love writing him as a cod? Do it! If a lot of folks depict Tango as a blazeborn, but you fucking love the idea of him being an android? Well, for god's sake, what's stopping you? Make him an android! Does everyone else write Bdubs as short, but you think it'd be really funny if he was taller than half the hermits, so the short jokes are even more ridiculous? Then, holy shit, I wanna see that!

But to roll back to the point, fan creations is meant to be fun. And all of you out there being picky? As a viewer of other peoples' art and writing, don't go telling people they're "doing it wrong". Don't be critical. Don't tell someone they need to "do better" if their portrayal doesn't line up with what's in your head. There's no rules here. And similarly, there's no quota we need to meet on variety. There's no law someone is breaking if they're not following your expectations. If you're a viewer of art and fics, and you're pissed at someone because you believe they don't draw or write someone tall enough or short enough or thin enough or fat enough or young enough or old enough - make it yourself. Don't detract from someone else's joy just because their version of having fun in the fandom doesn't line up with yours.

People are going to create what they love. People write and draw from a place of inspiration and enjoyment and fun. If they choose to share it, they're doing that for free and of their own free will. They didn't share it for you. Fan artists and fan writers aren't here to be your dancing monkeys, we're here to just have fun. If you aren't seeing enough of whatever you're expecting to see, then don't demand it from other people who were proud enough of a piece of art to share it with the world. Make it yourself.