#cricket trousers

[verticalplane]

king four and fool five!

doctor who is just about having fun and playing dress up

[weedle-testaburger]

this was extremely real of him. but he forgot to mention this part:

[theonekierce]

playing w these designs a bit more before i start trying to use them in actual comic pages, so firstly a redraw of my favourite one of the og illustrations from Ides of March <3

(under the cut, along w an alt version of mine)

[stoookes]

How have I obsessively watched Headingley 2019 as much as I have and only just seen that Ben's trousers are translucent and you can see the word 'Smuggler' on his arse? 😂

[billysgun]

teasing

billy the kid x cowgirl!reader 18+| being on the road means no privacy, and billy takes that risk with you against a random barn |

you stumble over the grass, giggling as Billy drags you to the desolate barn. It's probably around midnight...you two were riding for hours, horses tied up somewhere as you recklessly abandon them

"shh, love!" he chuckles, you only nod as you try to seal your lips from the laughter that's bubbling in you. the crickets sing as you make it behind the barn, he presses you against it, hand still in hand.

you squeal at the motion, he bites his lip back at your noise before pulling his gun out and looking side to side

"don't make me gag you, dear" he playfully warns, again, you nod.

this obviously isn't your barn, and there are obviously people inside the farmhouse a few feet from where you stood. but billy is a risk-taker, and you can't wait to figure out the reason why you two are here

"now, be quiet" he says with a grin before dipping down and kissing you, his tongue is hot with whiskey, and his hands are traveling lower, and lower

he unzips your trousers, fingers pulling your panties aside as the excitement of your sneaking is basically leaking out of you, but you still warn him..

"we're gonna get caught!" you whispered on his lips, the thought of an old man stumbling out of his home with a shotgun and a good aim being a heavy thought of yours but billy just shrugs it off

"we can wait till we're in town tomorrow" he says, fingers still bunching up the fabric between your thighs and you feel like tomorrow would be century-long travel

"damn, you mr. bonney" you whisper and he grins, fingers quickly moving to your center as he rubs your clit expertly and his mouth landing on your neck

"don't worry, I'll get you goin' quick. then it's back to the horses" he kisses your collarbone, finger slipping inside of you as you begin to squirm in his grip

you whine softly as he pumps his finger, his concentrated eyes darting to you as he raises his gun to his lips

"still being quiet"

another finger as you sink your teeth into your lips, you taste the blood pool when he curls his fingers

"don't hurt those pretty lips, mrs. bonney" he teases and you stop yourself from smacking his arm, getting lost in the pleasure as he watches your face contort for him

"doin' so good, darling" he whispered praises, kissing your cheek as your legs began to buckle

"that's it" he encouraged as you became undone, orgasm twisting your limbs as he proudly watches

he selfishly pumps a few more times before taking his hand out of your pants. you stood there huffing as he cleaned his fingers with his tongue

"now, let's go back before we get shot!" he grins before taking you hand in hand and tip-toeing back to your horses

an: thank you for all the support 🥺🫶 it truly means the world to me

[froody]

Making Sherlock Holmes OCs is so fun. Take for instance his paternal grandmother, Mémé, the illegitimate half sister of Horace Vernet. Her favorite grandson is AJ Raffles, the cricketer and socialite, child of her youngest daughter. They have the most in common. She is incorrigibly MEAN. She has taken several lovers since the premature death of Holmes’s grandfather and they’ve all been women. She is an accomplished artist in her own right. She is a chainsmoker. She is well over 80 and has just started wearing trousers. She speaks English perfectly well and with perfect diction but refuses to understand and speak English while around her grandchildren because she thinks they should speak French. She bullies Watson and he takes it because he is not sure how to fight back against the verbal jabs of an elderly widow. She is a genius with rapier wit and an independent spirit.

[violentdelightsandviolentends]

Someone Borrowed, Someone Blue.

an engagement party, your childhood best friend, one too many glasses of champagne. what could go wrong?

pairing - childhood bestfriend!steve harrington x female reader

warnings - smut. cursing. cheating. alcohol mention. so much angst… i’d apologise but i’m not sorry.

word count - 3.7k

author’s note - get it? like, something borrowed, something blue… because it’s a wedding… I was half asleep when that popped into my head and I thought it was perfect, personally. I don’t condone cheating irl, but also… it’s your life, do what you want ;)

as always, reblogs are the only way to circulate my fics!! so, if you enjoyed, please consider reblogging. thanks, angels <3

masterlist. inbox.

The moonlight shines down, glinting off the diamond ring settled on your left hand.

Everyone's dancing, singing, laughing, enjoying each other's company in a rare moment of complete happiness. People keep grabbing you, hugging you, reaching for you to offer their congratulations.

Isn't it just so wonderful? Two people completely in love. Ah, to be young again.

The fairy lights twinkle where they're hung across the garden, acres of grass just begging to be decorated. You'd initially protested this venue - a huge country house in the middle of nowhere, with countless rooms and a huge courtyard.

It's just our engagement party, not our wedding. We don't have to be so extravagant.

This isn't extravagant - not for my family, anyway. Just say yes. I'll plan the entire thing, you don't have to worry.

And so you did. Say yes. To his proposal, the venue, anything he suggests. You can't find it in you to say no, to argue, to fight for what you really want. It isn't worth it.

"There you are, my soon to be wife!"

You take a deep breath, pretending the sound of his voice doesn't make you feel sick.

"My soon to be husband."

He can't see the grimace on your face, even though it's there, loud and clear. He can't read you, has never been able to.

"A car has just pulled up. You expecting anyone else?"

You are, but you won't let yourself get your hopes up. So you lie.

"Don't think so."

"Okay, well... you'll save me a dance, won't you? My mom wants to take some pictures."

You nod reluctantly, patting his arm with as much affection as you can muster.

"I think your brother is calling you."

You direct his attention to where his frat boy siblings are, hollering and yelling for him to come over.

"My guys!"

He departs as quickly as he came, leaving a wave of too strong cologne in his wake.

You take a walk from the garden to the front of the house, curiosity peaked. You scan the parking lot, and your heart stops when you spot the car in the corner.

A burgundy 1983 BMW 733i.

He's here.

You spin on your heel, searching almost frantically, when you hear someone clear their throat. You turn around, and there he is.

Leaning against a pillar, stood in a dress shirt and tailored trousers, hair perfectly styled.

Steve Harrington.

You're half convinced you're dreaming. The world moves around you in a daze, crickets chirping and wind blowing gently. You lock eyes with him, and can't fight the grin that spreads across your face.

“Don’t fret, baby. The life of the party has arrived.”

You scoff but almost run towards him, tripping over in your heels. He meets you halfway, arms snaking around your waist to keep you steady as you wrap yourself around him.

He smells the same. Cologne, spearmint, a faint note of diesel from the car. He smells like home.

Past home, you remind yourself. Not anymore. You have a new home now, with a soon to be husband that doesn’t understand you and a soon to be family that is built on morally questionable money and fake niceties. Steve’s a person of your past, a distant memory, a fading dream.

Except he’s stood right in front of you.

He's staring at you with a look in his eyes you can’t quite place. You’ve never seen it before.

"I didn't think you'd come," you whisper, begging yourself to pull away from his embrace. He doesn't let you go far, keeping his arms around your back as if he's worried you'll bolt at any given moment.

"And miss my best friends engagement party? Never."

"Best friends. We're not five anymore, Steve."

You roll your eyes, punching his arm lightly.

"What, I can't call you my best friend anymore?"

He picks you up, spinning you across the gravel of the parking lot. You're dizzy with it, the world passing by you in streaks of shapes and colours.

"Steve!"

"What?" he laughs. "You don't like this, best friend? What's the problem, best friend? Are you dizzy, best friend?"

"Put me down!"

Steve throws you over his shoulder as you both spin, strong hands preventing you from falling.

"Put me down, Steve, please - okay, okay! You're my best friend! Call me best friend all you want, please!"

Steve's crying with laughter, out of breath and rosy cheeked. He places you back on the ground, smoothing your hair down with rough palms.

You inhale carefully, grabbing onto his biceps as an anchor as you gauge your bearings. You look up at him, and lose your breath all over again.

Chest heaving, tongue darting over his bottom lip, hair mussed but still perfectly styled. He looks a picture, an ancient painting, a statue carved from the finest marble.

"I never want you to stop calling me your best friend," you whisper, so quietly that the breeze takes it.

"Then I won't."

Your hand slips down Steve's arm and into his, fingers linking gently.

"I missed you."

"I missed you so much, Birdy. You have no idea."

The childhood nickname shoots a lightning bolt through your heart, shiver running up your back involuntarily.

The two of you would sit and watch cartoons for hours on the floor of Steve's living room, pressing your little heads together to see the TV better. He'd joke that you sounded like Tweety Bird, all sweet and lispy. The nickname was born that day, and stuck ever since.

"How was California?"

"So good. I'll tell you all about it later. How's your engagement party?"

"It's good."

You try to sound convincing but your voice cracks, giving you away instantly. Busted.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. There's a few people you know back there - from school, the neighbourhood, family. They'll all wanna see you."

"I'll socialise later. Wanna talk to you first."

The intensity in his voice makes you nervous. You realise you're still holding his hand, so you drop it, crossing your arms over your chest.

"You didn't RSVP."

"Didn't get your invite. Travelling."

"I called your mom. She said she'd tell you."

"She didn't."

"She told me she did."

The crickets continue to chirp, gentle breeze blowing your hair into your face. You look at Steve pointedly, unwilling to be the first to break.

"What are you doing here, Steve?"

"It's your engagement party."

"So you've said."

"I haven't seen you in months."

"I tried to call, but you stopped answering."

"Birdy-"

"I'm just saying, Steve. We haven't spoken in months, I feel like you've been point blank ignoring me, I've had to come to terms with the fact that you probably wouldn't be at this party or the wedding and then all of a sudden you just show up? Unannounced?"

"I know how this looks."

"Do you?"

You're not entirely sure where all of this anger has come from, but you can't seem to tamp it down. It's bubbling, simmering, threatening to spill over the surface dramatically any second.

"I wasn't sure I could do this. Any of it."

"Do what?"

"Stand by and watch you make a mistake."

You scoff, laughing at him in disbelief. He's never been one to sugarcoat things, and usually, it's one of your favourite things about him. But not today.

"Don't you fucking dare, Steve."

"Birdy, be real. The guy is a prick. And you want to marry him? You're a smart girl, the smartest person I know. You've got to see that none of this makes any sense."

"So you showed up here to yell at me? Criticise my life choices? Thanks, Steve. Thanks a million. Some best friend, huh?"

"I've done nothing but support you."

"You ran away! Across the country! How is that support?"

"Fine, maybe I can't support straight up stupidity!"

"Am I smart or am I stupid? Which one is it?"

Steve sighs, running his fingers through his hair as he watches you pace the gravel in front of him. You're vibrating with fury now. It's something he's seen before. Something he knows how to navigate better than anyone. He knows you. He knows you need an outlet here.

He also knows that you're never more hyperaware than when you're mad. So, he takes his opportunity.

"I came here to tell you not to marry him."

You stop dead in your tracks, shaking your head in denial.

"...Why, Steve? Why would you say that?"

"You know why."

"No."

You take a deep breath and will yourself not to cry. In the garden, you can hear people laughing, singing along to some 70s pop song you've never liked. You pray silently that no one comes looking for you.

You take a step closer to Steve, standing up straight.

"Say it."

He looks at you incredulously, shocked by your sudden defiance.

"Say it, Steve. If you came all this way to say it, then fucking say it."

Steve steps into you, closing down the space. You don't move, determined not to back down.

"You're going to hate me if I say it, Birdy."

"I don't give a fuck anymore. Say. It."

Steve runs his tongue over his bottom lip, never once breaking eye contact with you. The silence seems to stretch on infinitely, thick and blanketing like fresh snow falling.

"I'm in love with you."

You feel like you've been punched in the gut. You take a deep breath and try to stay on two feet, wobbling where you stand. Finally, you find your voice.

"Fuck you, Steve Harrington. Fuck. You."

He laughs, but there's no humour in it.

"Yeah."

"How dare you? How dare you come to my engagement party and start confessing your feelings? You could have told me anytime, but you chose today?"

He goes to interrupt but you hold a finger up, effectively shutting him up.

"How long, huh? How long have you been in love with me?"

Steve's trembling, chest stuttering with the force of his confession.

"For as long as I can remember."

You haven't looked away from him once. You're frozen in place, suspended in the moment.

"No you haven't."

"You're gonna tell me how I feel now, Birdy?"

"Yeah, Steve, I am. Because I don't believe you. You're King Steve, ladies man, notorious player. You were never seen with the same girl twice in high school. Don't you remember? Sneaking into my room at night, whispering under my blankets about your latest hookup, telling me all the dirty details?"

"I remember," he whispers, voice laced with something like sadness. "Of course I remember."

"You don't get to tell me this now. It's not fair, Steve."

"Why not, huh?"

"Because I've always been in love with you! Always."

Steve stumbles backwards, dizzy and disorientated.

"No you haven't."

"You're gonna tell me how I feel now?" you laugh in disbelief. "I've always been in love with you. Everyone knows it. My parents, your parents, all of our friends... I think the goddamn mailman knew, Steve!"

"I didn't."

"Blissful ignorance," you chuckle humourlessly.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I knew it wouldn't change anything."

Steve's eyes go wide as he keels over, as if the wind has been knocked out of him.

"Wouldn't change anything? Birdy, it... I-I can assure you it... It would have changed everything."

You both look at each other, breathless and riddled with confusion. There's something flowing through your veins, something unintelligible, something unrecognisable.

"Why would you do this today?" you choke out, sobs threatening to break free. "Of all the days, Steve."

"Because I'm going insane!" he yells, voice raising. "I can't sleep, I can't eat, I can't function knowing that you're going to marry a man you don't love. It's ruining my life, Birdy!"

"You don't think it's ruining mine? Huh?"

You take a breath, very aware that if you shout anymore, multiple people are going to come running from the garden.

"This is selfish, Steve. And you're not selfish."

He looks down at you, bottom lip wobbling.

"I am when it comes to you. Always have been."

"You're breaking my fucking heart, baby."

You choke out the words before bursting into tears, sobs wracking your frame. Steve grabs your hand and guides you to the stone steps, sitting you down next to him. Against better judgment, he slings an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close.

He smells so familiar, so comforting, that it only makes you cry harder. You bury your face in his chest, fingers tangled into his dress shirt, holding on for dear life.

"I'm sorry," he's mumbling. "I'm so fucking sorry. I had to. I really had to."

"I know," you're muttering back. "I know you did. I know."

You lift your head to look at him only to find he's crying too, years of emotion dripping down his face. You wipe his tears with your thumbs, your heart shattering at the sight in front of you.

Steve's only made you cry once before. In ninth grade, you'd stupidly assumed that the two of you would go to the prom together. Steve had made a joking comment about always being your date, and you hadn't questioned it. Then, one Friday night, he'd snuck into your room to tell you excitedly that he'd asked Lizzy Buchanan to the dance, and she'd said yes. You'd burst into tears immediately, much to your teenage embarrassment, willing yourself to play your cards closer to your chest. Steve had crumbled instantly, crying because you were.

That's how it's always been. He cries, you cry. You cry, he cries. He's just not usually the cause of the tears.

"I'm sorry, Birdy," he chokes. "This was the only way."

"I know," you soothe, rubbing circles into his wet cheeks with your fingers. "I know. You're not the villain here, Steve. You never were."

His eyes are trained to yours, silent communication passing back and forth. The two of you have always had the ability to practically read each other's minds.

You're not sure who moves first - perhaps it's the universe, pulling you together by the strings woven into your chests - but suddenly your lips are melded together, moving as if it's the easiest thing in the world. Steve's clinging to you as if you're his life source, a man in the desert without water.

You tangle your fingers into his hair to tug him impossibly closer, eyes fluttering when he groans, deep and visceral. He spreads his legs and pulls you between them, both of you slotting together like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. Your tears are dancing onto each other's cheeks, mixing like rain water and gasoline.

Suddenly, you yank yourself from his grip, standing up and smoothing down your silky dress. Steve prepares himself for the yelling, the screaming, a slap that he most definitely deserves.

Instead, he's met with you, chest heaving, skin warm, eyes heavy. You're looking at him expectantly.

"Come with me," you croak, voice hoarse and untrustworthy.

You grab his hand and slink through the front door, up the grand staircase and into a room with a heavy oak door. He follows you obediently, confused but completely trusting.

It's your hotel room. A marriage suite. A spacious, windowed room, with makeup scattered across the vanity and suitcases half unpacked on the floor. The bed is still made, which makes Steve breathe a sigh of relief. He hasn't had you here. The room isn't marred.

The minute you shut the door you're back on Steve, shoving him up against the hard wood. He grabs handfuls of your ass and spins you around, backing you into the cold surface behind you for stability. He lifts you easily, wrapping your legs around his waist as he kisses you again.

Steve trails his lips down your neck as you rock your hips, desperate to find some friction. You whine gently, fingers tugging at his hair a little rougher than intended to get your message across.

"What do you need, honey?" he murmurs, afraid to disrupt the atmosphere.

"You."

Steve throws his head back as he groans, exposing his throat to you. You waste no time in nipping up the expanse of it, sinking your teeth in with no regard for the consequences. You're too far gone now, not worried about looking back.

Walking backwards, Steve tosses you onto the bed, chuckling when you almost bounce off of it. He unbuttons and strips his shirt, pulling his belt from the loops as he goes. You can only lie there and watch, wondering when your best friend became less of a boy and more of a man. He's all corded muscle and tanned skin, freckled and perfect.

Steve crawls between your legs, kissing you tenderly.

"Wanna take my time with you," he murmurs between kisses. "Can't right now. Will, though. Promise."

You feel as if there's electricity crackling across your skin, pulsing and alive. It's never felt like this with anyone. It never will again.

"Promise?"

You can't help the slight insecurity that colours your voice, young and unsure.

"I promise, Birdy. Cross my heart."

He takes your hand in his and places it over his chest, as if to solidify his point.

You nod and kiss him again, desperate to have every inch of his skin on yours.

Steve shimmies your underwear down your legs, tossing them behind him somewhere. Shucking his trousers off, he pushes your dress up and around your waist, groaning when he gets a good look at you.

"Prettiest girl in the world. He doesn't deserve you. Never did."

"And you do?"

"I'll spend every day for the rest of time proving that I do."

With that he's pushing into you, sliding home with one smooth thrust. Both of you gasp, grabbing onto the other person to use them as an anchor.

"Please, Steve," you're whispering. "Give me everything. I want it all."

"You've got no idea how long I've been waiting for this."

"I do," you laugh, "I do. Because I've been waiting just as long."

Steve chuckles and leans down to kiss you, slipping his tongue into your mouth to memorise the way you taste. There's remnants of champagne on your lips, along with the minty lip gloss you've loved for as long as he can remember.

He wastes no time setting a steady rhythm, thrusts deep and measured. You rake your nails down his back, clawing at this skin, praying silently that you leave your mark. Little do you know, you staked your claim on him a long, long time ago.

"S'good, Stevie," you whine. "Fuck, so good."

"Does he make you come? Does he even try?"

You shake your head frantically, closing your eyes when Steve laughs dryly.

"Didn't think so. He can't make you feel the way I can, baby. He'll never be able to."

His words are only pushing you closer and closer to the edge, red hot heat building at the pit of your stomach. Steve places one hand at the base of your throat, the heavy weight of it causing your eyes to roll back.

Your sweat slicked skin is plastered to his, every inch of you pressed together. Steve leans down to rest his forehead against yours, panting into each other's mouths.

"I love you," he breathes, hips getting quicker. "I love you. Fuck, I love you."

"I love you," you sob, back arching as you find your release. Stars dance across your vision as you tighten around Steve, nails leaving crescent moons on the skin of his shoulders.

Steve's right there with you, back flexing and fingers leaving their prints on your hips as he groans. It's the prettiest sound you've ever heard. Your mind loops it for you, playing it on repeat as he collapses his weight on top of your body.

"I meant it," he mutters against your damp chest. "I do love you. Always have."

You kiss his forehead gently, smoothing the hair away from his face.

"I meant it too. I love you. You taught me what love was in the first place, Steve."

He leans up to press his lips to yours, tender and honey sweet.

You realise the gravity of the situation all of a sudden, your heart rate increasing in Steve's ear.

"Hey, hey. Birdy. Don't panic, okay? We'll figure this out."

You think for a moment, weighing up your options in your head. Unexpectedly, you're jumping out of bed, fixing your dress and slipping on your underwear and heels.

"What are you doing, babe?"

You adjust your hair and swipe your fingers under your eyes to salvage your makeup in the mirror, turning to face the man who's now dressing himself frantically.

"Have you had a drink tonight?"

"No, I drove here."

"Perfect."

You grab your purse and stand by the door, waiting for him to follow. When he looks at you in pure confusion, you chuckle.

"Let's run away."

"Birdy... what?"

"Steve. You heard me. Let's. Run. Away."

He scans your face for any sign of hesitation, but all he finds is love. Adoration. Assuredness. That's all the confirmation he needs.

He runs at you, picking you up and spinning you around. Grabbing his hand, the two of you sneak down the stairs, slipping out of the front door as quietly as possible.

You throw yourself into the front seat of his BMW, vibrating with adrenaline as Steve starts up the engine. It roars to life, and you're very aware that people are going to come looking for you.

But you don't care.

Steve links your fingers, resting your intertwined hands in his lap as he reverses. You go to look back towards the garden, but you stop yourself.

"Can't move forward if you're always looking back, right?"

Steve laughs, leaning over to kiss your warm cheek.

"Truer words have never been spoken, Birdy."

He brings the car to a stop before you begin down the winding driveway, looking at you carefully.

"You ready?"

You take a deep breath, grinning at him.

"I've been ready since we were five years old."

He smiles at you, bright and blinding, and there's no doubt in your mind that you've made the right choice.

Can't move forward if you keep looking back, after all.

@enigmaticloki @joekeerysslut @s-trawberryv-eins @wintressoldier36 @mangomastani

[bangtanficsforyou]

Hello, Love! (JJK)- 01

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader

Genre: fluff, angst, probable smut (we don't know yet lololol)

Rating: 18+

Summary: You had a plan when you returned home, seven years later. However, falling in love with your sister's fiance wasn't it.

Word count: 2K (approx)

Warning: mentions of drug addiction, familial neglect.

The ring fits Jungkook as if it was meant just for him. Not one bit tight nor is it one bit loose. Snug around his finger as if it has always belonged there.

A round of applause breaks out and he looks at the smiling faces of his family and that of his soon to be in law's. 

As the cheers and claps die down, he takes it as his queue. His hand makes it’s way to his pocket. However, when he is not met with a small square jewellery box, he immediately checks his other pocket. That pocket, too, disappoints him. 

He looks up awkwardly at his fiancee and tries to give her a reassuring smile. Now checking for the pockets of his trousers, he fumbles around to somehow make the box appear out of thin air. 

Realising that he is running out of time, he turns towards Jimin. “Jimin, did I not give you the ring box on our way here?” 

Jimin looks at Jungkook with eyes wide like that of a newborn baby. “No, you didn't.”

“Yes, I did,” Jungkook claims with more surety than he actually feels inside. 

“When?!”

“When we were outside–”

“You were talking on the phone—”

“And, I gave it to you while—”

“Here,” Riya offers, with the small red box resting on her palm. Before Jungkook can ask, she answers, “I found it lying on the floor of our balcony.”

Jungkook gives an awkward chuckle in response, trying to play it off. “Jimin has become very careless these days.”

Before Jimin can protest and defend himself, Jungkook shoots him a look that somehow shuts him up. 

Jungkook doesn't waste another minute before taking the ring out and putting it on Riya's fingers. The sooner it is done, the lesser are the chances of running into any other bumps on the road.

Another similar round of applause breaks out and Jungkook heaves a sigh of relief. 

The engagement is done. 

“Dad,” Jungkook greets cheerfully as he takes a seat.

“Hmm,” his soon to be father in law doesn't bother looking up as his eyes remain occupied with the official documents he's currently working on. 

Jungkook remains unfazed by the lack of enthusiasm and continues. “You know I'm currently discussing a project with Mr. Elgin, right?’’

“Hmm.”

“And well I was telling him how I'm about to marry your daughter Riya Roy.”

“I see.”

“Do you know the praises he sang for you?”

Now that somehow catches his dear soon to be father-in-law's attention. 

“Did he?” He interlaces his fingers, and relaxes against the chair, temporarily discarding the documents in the process.

“Yes!” Jungkook nods excitedly. “He was telling me how well you would display and advertise your designs to potential investors during the early business days.” 

“What else did he say?” he muses.

“He also told me how well you have single handedly managed the business. How you started it from scratch and made it what it is today.” 

The older man lets out a chuckle. “It doesn't sound too odd for someone to praise me for advertising my clothes in a clothing line business or for working hard when I am the one who started it.”

There's a brief pause where Jungkook seemingly processes the words.

“Now tell me, how much money do you need?” 

Oh. 

Now, it's Jungkook who lets out a chuckle, albeit an awkward one. “You haven't even listened to what he said on learning that you're planning on expanding your business.”

“Trust me, I don't need to know,” comes the reply. “You tell me the amount, I need to get back to work.”

Jungkook considers his options then in the blink of an eye, his whole demeanour changes. “You know how I almost have the contract for this year's cricket world cup?” 

Much like earlier, the man hums. 

“However, suddenly, they have raised the bid by six million.” 

“So you need six million dollars?” 

Jungkook nods, hoping that the amount doesn’t sound as big as it is. 

There’s a pause and then there’s a low hum in response. “Did you return the one million dollar you had taken from Riya?”

“Well I almost have. There’s only a little left to pay back.”

“How much are you yet to pay?”

Sometimes, Jungkook wishes he knew how to read this man a little better. His father in law, undoubtedly, is every bit of the businessman you’d think of him to be. He thinks like a businessman, walks like one and talks like one in every sense possible. 

Jungkook knows that one would never find this man speaking one word, that is not required. And that just makes it all the more difficult to ever get a hint of what his father in law is thinking. 

Sometimes, Jungkook thinks speaking to this man is the equivalent of playing chess with a computer. You’d never know what the next move will be but you can rest assured, that you'll never outsmart them. 

“Some two hundred thousand.”

“That’s the amount you are yet to pay?”

Jungkook pretends he hadn’t heard the question properly, the first time. “Uhm, no that’s the amount I have paid.”

“So what’s the amount you are yet to pay?”

“Eight hundred thousand—,” he replies and then quickly adds, “—but I will pay everything back as soon as the contract is finalised.”

“Sure,” his father in law nods, not buying his words. "I'll need some time to think about it."

“Listen, no matter what, I anyhow, need a meeting to be scheduled with Mr.Shro—I don’t care what his manager is saying about him being busy.”

The wind blows at a steady pace and somewhere in the lobby, a toddler shrieks in joy. 

“Mail his manager as many times as you need to. Just refuse to accept no as an answer.”

Poor Sam, Jimin thinks, pitying the poor boy who didn’t know what he was signing up for when he agreed to be Jungkook’s manager. 

“Yes, yes! Mail them again—not now Jimin!”

Unfortunately, Jimin doesn’t seem to catch the hint and taps him on his back, again. 

“What is it Jim—”, only it is not Jimin. “Sam, I’ll get back to you later.” 

“You asked dad for money.”

Uh oh. Jungkook could tell Riya wasn’t in the brightest of moods, but nothing could have prepared Jungkook for this. 

“Riya why don’t we take this inside?” Jungkook suggests, keeping his voice soft and calm. He hadn’t thought much of it when he was screaming at his manager left and right in the balcony, for everyone to hear. But an arguement between the freshly engaged couple, might just not be that ideal.

“Jungkook, do you not have any self respect?”

I do, in fact that is why I am asking you to move this inside, Jungkook thinks to himself. Instead of speaking the words out, he again, mildly tries to guide her inside a room. 

Riya, however, remains adamant on not cooperating with him. “You tell me, Jungkook, how can i respect a man who has zero self respect?”

“You do—”

“You know what keep your ring, I don’t want it.” In the blink of an eye, the ring that had almost managed to cause a commotion merely a few hours ago, now rests on Jungkook’s palm, again. 

“Riya, what is your problem?” Long gone is the calmness Jungkook was trying so hard to keep. Now, he sounds extremely confused and perhaps frustrated. 

“My problem is the fact that I cannot marry a man who has zero self—”

“It’s not self respect that I lack! Its ego!” Jungkook snaps. “If I know asking for help could get me the opportunity that I have worked so hard for, why shouldn’t I? Plus, it’s not like I have ever failed to pay back.”

There’s a beat of silence, where Jungkook tries to regain his composure. “I don’t understand Riya, the years when you were struggling to make it into the industry, I supported you in every way I could. So now that I'm the one who’s facing struggles, why can’t you find it in yourself to do the same?”

Something in Riya softens at the mention of all the times, Jungkook stood by her side like a rock. Every penny Jungkook earned was spent on Riya���s then struggling career. Lord knows, there were times when she felt like giving up but Jungkook wouldn’t let her. When she lost faith, Jungkook would believe in it for both of them. 

She inhales shakily and looks at the ring and it somehow manages to ground her to why she said yes to Jungkook in the first place. 

“And if it bothers you so much, I won't ask dad for money.”

She nods and then gently takes the ring from Jungkook. It's in that gentle touch of her's that Jungkook knows things are settled, at least for the time being. 

“I'll go look for Mili aunty, I heard she was looking for me,” Riya says, and somehow the abrupt end of argument doesn't surprise Jungkook, in the least. 

As Riya walks back inside, Jungkook releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He finds it a little difficult to believe that Riya almost broke off the engagement. Although he probably shouldn’t be so surprised. 

Over the years, Jungkook has become very familiar with Riya’s habit of breaking up with him at the slightest inconvenience. Now that they are engaged, breaking up means...well, calling off the engagement. 

Arguments with Riya are always like this, short lived but very frequent. Riya would state the reasons why she thinks this won’t work and all the reasons why Jungkook is wrong and then Jungkook would have to remind her of all the reasons as to why the both of them have stuck together for so long. 

Maybe it has always been like this, be it for Riya’s career, or for their relationship, Jungkook has always kept faith on behalf of the both of them when Riya couldn’t. 

Perhaps securing the deal he's currently working on, would finally give Riya the reassurance that she's looking for. Well, he sure hopes so because if this contract doesn't, Jungkook doesn't know what will. 

Getting this deal has the potential of turning you into the equivalent of Leonardo DiCaprio of the event organisation industry. There's simply no looking back from then on. You'd have career stability, money and a reputation among your peers. 

It's probably everything a woman looks for in the man, they are marrying. 

So yeah, he genuinely hopes that he can prove himself to be capable and can put rest to this constant breaking up and patching up cycle the two of them have found themselves in, for years. 

And he's definitely going to give his best, even if that means being rude to his innocent, sweet, doe-eyed manager. 

Chapter two will be up on my Patreon on early access by the end of this week!

[theostrophywife]

style | the slytherin boys.

author's note: just a silly little post about what I personally think each boy's aesthetic would be.

TOM is dark academia.

blazers, houndstooth vests, tweed jackets, oxford shoes, classic white button ups, plaid trousers, tortoiseshell glasses, and tailored coats.

REGULUS is light academia.

white billowy shirts, wingtips, slim fit trousers, uni jumpers, suspenders, silk button downs, argyle vests, and family heirloom necklaces.

MATTHEO is soft grunge.

tattered band tees, classic chuck taylors, faded flannels, shredded black denim jeans, leather jackets, cargo pants, beat up doc martens, and chunky rings.

THEO is indie skaterboy.

oversized patterned jumpers, carhartt jackets, vintage graphic tees, baggy jeans, chunky chain necklaces, high top vans, beanies in every color, and tote bags.

DRACO is old money.

tailored suits, perfectly pressed dress shirts, italian leather shoes, silk pocket squares, neutral turtlenecks, expensive wristwatches, dark dress pants, and family heirloom rings.

BLAISE is preppy athleisure.

rugby shirts, cricket sweaters, new balance trainers, fleece sweatpants, puffer jackets, monogrammed socks, functional fanny packs, and bucket hats.

ENZO is cottagecore.

chunky knit sweaters, floral print button downs, denim overalls, pastel vests, gingham shirts, corduroy pants, crochet scarves, and homemade friendship bracelets.

[paraphwrites]

oh, to be sixteen forever, differently. to ride on thrills and excitement. to collect patches on your favorite jacket. to flirt with every cute girl you see. to never cry, no why would you cry when you can laugh! to wear trousers that are a couple inches too short. to rest your hand on your best mate's shoulder. to not know your left from your right, or your red from your blue. to listen to loud music, the punk rock type. to kiss someone even when you can't feel it. to wear your jacket collar flared. to spend hours on your curl routine. to know what your best mate's collar bone feels like. to keep the spirits up. to carry around a cricket bat even though you don't know how to play. to slip on wet grass in loafers but wearing them anyway because they look brills. to use outdated slang. to solve mysteries. to own seven versions of 'clue.' to laugh as your friends bicker because they're just so damn similar they can't help it. oh, to be sixteen forever.

[preciouslittle-bhaalbabe]

"Little Dove"

As Astarion makes love to Esme once again after weeks of bonding, she says something that stops his simple plan in its tracks.

Smut, angst, feelings, guilt, fingering, PiV, soft domming, nice simple plans falling apart. ~2k words.

It had been a while since he drank from her last. Since before the intimate night they spent together. The scars were beginning to fade. He kisses her neck softly for a while. Lightly grazing it with his fangs, then biting into her tender flesh as gently as possible. He wraps his other arm back around her, reaching his hand up under her nightshirt, and resting it against her chest to feel her heartbeat. Esme stops painting and humming her tune, sets her brush down and relaxes into him, running her hand along his right leg at her side. Feeding sessions were never really sexual with them before. But he can't ignore the tightness he feels in his trousers with her warm body pressed up against his like this, and her soft hands running up and down his leg, sending chills down his spine. Soft moans escape from his throat against his will as he feeds. It had been a few weeks since that night in the woods. Neither of them had really spoke of it since. There was just a comfortable silence about it. An unspoken bond shared between stolen kisses when nobody was looking, and sleeping in the same tent most nights after everyone else went to bed. He craved her once again, and that was something he didn't plan for.

Esme was sitting cross-legged on the floor of her little tent with her easel lowered to the ground; painting the night sky by candlelight. A half empty glass of wine set on a wooden crate next to her. She hums softly to herself, as she does often. The sounds of the summer night; the crickets chirping, the water of the nearby lake lapping softly against the rocky shore, the crackle of the fire burning low outside, the sounds of her companions sleeping soundly in their tents, it was peaceful. She loved the night and the time she gets to spend under its celestial canvas.

She hears some rustling coming from Astarions tent across the way, and notices he seems to be blowing out the candles in his own little nook. The small flap seperating his space from the rest of the camp opens and he makes his way towards Esme's tent, holding the book he was reading. She smiles to herself then pretends not to notice him coming. Carrying on with her painting and continuing to hum her little tune. Astarion lightly taps on the tent wall and pokes his head in.

"Good evening, little dove" Astarion purrs. "Can't sleep either?"

"Oh! Hello Astarion. Was I being too loud?"

"Not at all, in fact I think your little melodies have lulled everyone else to sleep" he says fondly. He invites himself into her tent and closes the flap behind him.

"I hope you don't mind if I join you?"

"Of course not. You know I always relish your company" Esme says with a sweet smile. Astarion sets his book down on the nearby table next to the half empty glass of wine, walks over to where she's sat on the floor and sits directly behind her. He spreads his legs to either side of her and wraps his arms around her, nuzzling his head into her neck.

"What are you painting?"

"The view of the night sky from atop that temple of Selûne we encountered. The one that's now a goblin camp." Esme says sadly. Seeing the temple dedicated to her goddess defiled like that was a somber sight, and Shadowheart wasn't exactly comforting.

"You're making it look so beautiful. Like how it did during its prime." Astarion says.

"Mhm...Darling, are you hungry? Is that why you came here?" Esme asks.

"I came here because I missed you. But yes, a little. That might just be because I'm sitting behind such a decadent creature though." Astarion says, clearly smiling into her neck.

"You can feed on me tonight, if you'd like" Esme says, continuing her painting. She starts humming absent mindedly once more.

"Thank you darling." Astarion sits there for a few moments, holding her. Listening to her hum that sweet melody and feeling the vibrations from her voice radiate into his body. He adores how soft she is. How safe she feels. How she is the ultimate comfort of his racing mind and yet somehow the very cause of it as well.

Astarion gently moves her silver hair to the side with one hand while keeping his other arm wrapped around her waist. Exposing her pale, slender neck. She was ethereal, with pure white skin and light blue freckles peppered across her soft and kind face, making their way down her body like little stars. Pearlescent white scales lined her cheekbones up to her temples. Indicating her ancestry isn't purely elven. Cold pale blue eyes; curtained by soft, long white lashes, were focused intently on the canvas before her. She looked unlike anything he had seen before. Like she was sculpted from the moon itself.

Astarion focuses on her neck. Flawless for all except the two small puncture scars that indicated past feedings.

He tentatively moves his hand from her heart to her right breast, massaging it. Esme reaches behind her to run her hands through his hair. Breathing slowly. After a few moments like this, she lightly taps his arm to indicate that's enough. He unlatches his fangs from her neck. Licking and kissing the wound gently.

"You alright?" Astarion asks in between placing soft kisses on her left shoulder and tracing against her skin with his hands.

"Mm, mhm" Esme says.

"Oh, already speechless are we?" Astarion purrs.

"No it's just- your hands against my skin. It feels nice. Relaxing even."

"Mhm" Astarion hums, his mouth pressed against her shoulder still. He continues to trace his fingertips against her soft skin, exploring every curve he can reach. Esme seems in almost trance. Her heartbeat slowed and her breathing deep and low. Resting fully with her back against his chest. He moves both hands to her breasts now, tracing around her nipples as he watches them pebble under her nightshirt. His nightshirt actually. But he has let her keep it and he hasn't seen her sleep in anything else since.

"Darling, how would you feel about a little death with me?"

Esme opens her eyes and sits up to turn and look at him. The sudden loss of her warm skin on his makes him almost whimper. Without her, the night feels cold. Esme looks at him with an intense look of lust and desire in her eyes.

"I was wondering if you wanted to do that again" Esme says.

"Of course I do, that time was very special to me" His voice sounds almost desperate. He needed to feel close to her again. He craved it.

"And you, you were lovely". He takes her hand and starts kissing each fingertip. Then he guides her hand to his face to bring her closer. She understands and cups his face with both of her hands and presses her forehead against his. Closing the gap between them once more. Astarion crosses his legs and Esme climbs onto his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck. He places his hands on her hips and starts kissing her softly. Astarions trousers now showing a large and obvious bulge. He moves his hands down to her bottom and grips her flesh. Causing her to move her hips against him. She gasps and grabs the back of his head with a newfound intensity that he hasn't seen from her yet. He wonders how long she had been waiting for this. Not wanting to keep her waiting any longer, he pushes against her, signaling her to stand up with him. Once standing he removes his shirt and trousers. Tossing them to the side.

"Hm" Esme chuckles, eyes full of fondness. "You're a work of art, Astarion".

"I was just going to say the same thing about you, my little dove". Astarion approaches her once again and lifts his nightshirt from her frame. Revealing that she was wearing absolutely nothing underneath. No undies whatsoever.

"Well now, is this a regular habit of yours?" Astarion purrs.

"What can I say? I don't like wearing undergarments" Esme laughs.

Astarion walks over to the small bed Esme has in her tent, climbs onto it and sits down, legs spread.

"Sit in front of me, love. Just like before".

Esme walks over and does as he asks. Sitting cross-legged between his legs on the bed. Astarion begins with placing his hands on her breasts like he was before. Massaging them gently and squeezing her nipples between his fingers. Then, with his left hand he slides down to her sex, already aching with arousal. His cock pressing against her back needily.

"Lean back against me and lift your hips, please".

She adjusts herself accordingly and Astarion slowly slides his fingers down to her clit, rubbing it gently. She's sopping wet already. So he wastes no time in inserting his fingers into her enterance, causing a soft moan to escape Esmes lips.

"That's it, sing for me, little dove"

Esme lets herself go and comes undone as Astarion teases her nipple and fucks her with his fingers. Her voice soft and gentle. He times his breaths with hers with his mouth pressed against her ear. The cold air sending shivers down her spine. He wishes she would scream his name loud, let the entire camp know she was his. But that's not like her. Everything about her is soft and quiet. Docile as a lamb. Her legs shake and her hips buckle as she rides over the edge of bliss. Astarion holds her against him tightly and bites into her shoulder, causing a slightly louder moan to come out from her. He didn't bite her to feed, he wanted to mark her. This sudden possessiveness coming out of seemingly nowhere. Esme collapses against his chest, breathing heavily. Astarion then adjusts positions so she is on her back on the bed and he is on top. He presses himself against her and kisses her deeply with a new hunger he can't quite place. He cradles her head in his hand and spreads her legs open with his knees. Propping himself up with his knees and elbow. Their tongues dancing together in unison. He then sits up for a moment, taking her in. Her eyes wide and wanting, her lips parted slightly and her chest rising and falling with every breath. A faint purply-red flush fills her face and the tips of her ears. She looked just as hungry as he was.

"You are absolutely beautiful" He says, breathless. Esme smiles wide and gestures him to come back to her. He returns to the position he was in and lines his hips up so that his cock is just coaxing her enterance. He moves the head of his cock back and forth along her slit to get the surface as slick as he can. Then pushes himself in. Esmes head reels and her back arches. Astarion runs his free hand along her spine and nuzzles himself into her neck once more. Only he gets to see her like this. His little moon maiden. His quiet and reserved angel. Only he gets to watch as she comes undone by his touch. He feels her walls clench then relax around his newly inserted length. Then he starts rocking his hips slowly. Relishing in every moment inside her. He has made love to countless people but even that first time with her, it has been different. All the time they've spent together. The late nights talking, the random gifts and gestures of affection, the stolen kisses and holding hands when they're alone. All of it was different. These past weeks with her have been nothing but pleasant. She is lovely and treats him with such kindness and care. Even though he lied to her and snapped at her and caused her pain. She has never once stopped being caring and kind. It's driving him mad. He just wanted safety and now he can't imagine life without her.

His thrusts become deeper and more passionate. Causing Esme to moan with that sweet voice he adores so much.

"Mmph, Astarion I-"

Oh gods no. Don't say it. He thinks.

"I love you"

Shit. Astarion whimpers and moans into her neck as those three little words send him into a frenzy. He thrusts into her with all the feelings he has. Anger, lust, guilt, grief, adoration. He pours it all into her. Before he knows it they're both reaching the edge together, and he's cumming harder than he can remember ever before. He falls into her and she wraps her arms around him. Lightly stroking his back with her fingers.

"You don't have to say it back. I just wanted you to know" Esme says sweetly. He can do nothing but hold her. No words come to him. He wants to tell her everything, that he had a plan, that she fell for it, but now things are getting complicated and he doesn't know what to do. He doesn't know what else he can be for her. But none of that matters right now. He can only think about how nice it feels to be held after sex. To not have someone ripped away from him never to be seen again. To have sex because he wanted to. He feels truly loved and cared for. And has no idea what to do about it.

[thevalleyisjolly]

Fourteen and Fifteen each having half of the costume is very funny, but also, I just want to applaud the effect of which items of clothing they decided to give to Ncuti and David each. Giving Ncuti the button-up shirt and the undone tie evokes the aesthetic of previous regenerations, cementing that he is the next Doctor and not a clone or metacrisis (since Tentoo regenerated completely naked). At the same time, the lack of trousers serves to demonstrate his gravity and confidence both as an actor and as the character. Usually a character being in their underpants is played for comedy and embarrassment. However, Ncuti plays Fifteen with such assurance and authority that you never even pay attention to the lack of trousers except for a few jokes about whether this means Fourteen is going commando; we're on the edge of our seats seeing what this new Doctor is going to do next. It's a subtle but also effective demonstration of both Ncuti and Fifteen's command of the scene that your focus is on them before the fact that they're half-dressed.

Meanwhile, David has the suit vest over the undershirt, and it really serves to emphasize the Doctor's vulnerability and exhaustion by literally stripping away his outer layers. The most iconic parts of Ten's costume were the long coat and the skinny suit. Take away the silhouette of the coat, the respectability of the collared shirt, tie, and suit jacket, just leave him there in his undershirt with only the vest remaining, and you create the effect of someone barely keeping it together, who perhaps struggled out of bed in the morning (or never went to bed properly at all) and had just enough energy to put on trousers and a vest.

A theme in the episode was, when you take away all the outward things that you associate with the Doctor, then what's left? The Doctor's costume is always a defining visual in every Doctor's identity, both in-canon and outside of the show. We remember Four's scarf, Five's cricket uniform, Six' rainbow coat, and each of those things says something about what type of person that Doctor is. In the past, the Doctor has changed outfits before or worn variants of their iconic look. But take away the costume altogether and you're confronted with the question of who this character is when they're not performing for anyone at all. And the answer here is, a deeply traumatized character who's never been able (and never allowed themselves) to slow down and process all the hurts and fears they're running from.

TLDR Everyone met Fifteen and went, "Oh, you're beautiful, Doctor." Meanwhile, Fifteen looked at Fourteen and went "Don't you think we look tired?" And they were all right.

[dearheartdont]

Fic snippet, Charles backstory : "At least twice a year Charles and his mum packed their cases and caught a train to Birmingham to visit relatives, leaving his dad behind with a freezer full of carefully labelled Tupperware."

Note: Canon-typical mentions of abuse. Use of a racial term now understood as offensive.

Charles’ mum never tried to leave his dad. Not when he smashed her Ashe Bhosle records. Not when his dad used a belt on Charles for the first time. Not even when a neighbour called the police after hearing an argument through the walls (is it an argument if there’s only one voice shouting? His mum had learned to hold her tongue and at thirteen Charles knew how to brace for a blow). The WPC turned up at the door the day after, asked Charles’ mother questions in an even voice, and left alone after finishing the tea his Mum served on their best bone china.

But at least twice a year she and Charles packed their cases and caught a train to Birmingham, leaving his dad behind with a freezer full of carefully labelled Tupperware.

---

His auntie’s home in Birmingham was packed and lively. His auntie, uncle and his two cousins, Priti and Hari, all in an end of terrace house. There was a constant hum of noise there– Hari playing ska records on his record player from his bedroom; the clatter of pots and pans from the kitchen where his mum and auntie would congregate; the stamp of Priti’s feet up and down the stairs as she rushed around getting ready to meet friends.

His mother had a voice in her sister’s house. Charles woke to the sound of her and his auntie talking each morning. She called Charles beta here. At home he only remembers her calling him that once. Charles had been very small and full of chicken pox. His mum had sat on the floor next to his bed to stop him scratching, her hand smoothing though his sweat-soaked hair. She’d sang to Charles to lull him to sleep. In Birmingham, she sang every day.

---

When Charles grew enough not to be a complete liability on the cricket pitch, Hari took him along to play with his friends.

“I’ve got a friend like you who’ll be there. Aidan,” Hari said as they cut through the back streets to the playing fields.

Aidan wasn’t like Charles in appearance or manner. He was broad chested, with dark, tightly curled hair that showed a reddish tint when the sun hit it. He cuffed his trousers like Hari did, and his Docs were brightly shined. His short-sleeved shirt was a maroon and white check, his braces thin and black. He looked sharp. He wasn’t like Charles at all, except that he was half-caste too.

“Jamaican dad, Irish mum,” Aidan said, offhand, when they were introduced. “Saves you asking later. Hari always get it the wrong way round.”

“Indian mum, English dad.” Charles replied, and then tagged on, “I’m Charles.” Aidan smiled then, like they’d just shared a joke.

“He can be on my team,” Aidan told Hari, and grabbed Charles’ shoulder to guide him to where there was a gap in the team’s fielding cover.

As Hari walked over to the other team by the stumps he shouted, “Don’t show me up,” to Charles’ back.

“He says that like he’s any cop himself,” Aidan muttered into Charles’ ear, and told him the story of Hari falling into the wicket just the week before.

At the end of that week Charles left with a ska mixtape from Aidan, and two Fred Perry polos that Hari had outgrown.

---

At 15, his older cousin, Priti, snuck Charles out with her to a daytimer.

In the queue, Priti swiped and smudged kohl under Charles’ eyes. “Gotta hide that baby face,” she said and pinched his cheeks. She made him promise, yet again, that he’d keep his gob shut about the daytimer from his mum, her parents and most especially Hari. “He’s such a grass,” Priti said. He could already hear the hum of music leaking out from inside the converted warehouse.

He let out a huff of breath when they got past the bouncer and the ticket table, and Priti laughed. “If your parents could see you, such a naughty boy!”

Priti’s friends ran to meet her and pulled her onto the dancefloor to dance in a swirl of long hair and fruity body mist. Charles waved off their beckoning hands and watched the dancefloor heave with bodies. The music was a strange mix of familiar and unfamiliar: bouncing synths with Indian strings overlaid, all underpinned by the shifting rhythms of dhol drums. The vocals singing over the top sounded joyful and yearning by turns.

By the end of the afternoon, Charles had joined Priti and her friends on the dancefloor where they taught him dance moves, taking the piss at every misstep he made, but cheering him on when a girl asked him to dance with her.

When Charles broke away to visit the loos he looked at himself in the mirror. His curly hair was frizzy with sweat, his eyes dark with the smudged kohl. He looked different. He didn’t look tougher, or more like his cousins. But maybe, sweaty and happy with his eyes traced in eyeliner, he looked more like himself.

On the way home, Priti sent Charles into the chippy with a fiver while she changed and scrubbed off her make up in the public toilets. They unwrapped the newspaper when she finally emerged and walked slowly back to the house, eating. The vinegar the chips were doused in stung Charles’ sinuses. At the top of the street, Priti stopped and rubbed a screwed-up hanky across Charles’ cheek. “I’m not explaining how you got that lipstick on you,” she said.

She left the kohl alone.

---

Charles says the food he misses is spaghetti. But sometimes he thinks about the smell of vinegar rising from fish and chips and being fed dhal on a roti by kind hands.

---

(Notes: I chose Birmingham as the home of Charles’ relatives as it’s a multicultural city with an established East Asian population. It was also a hub for the English ska scene.

Ashe Bhosle – famous playback singer for Bollywood movies.

WPC – woman police constable

Daytimer – a rave that played bhangra music. Held during the daytime so that British South Asian kids could go without parental knowledge.)

[orgasming-caterpillar]

F1 Drivers As Desi Boys

A.K.A. The F1 grid as Indian guys

Also, I will be writing an entire chatfic about this AU on ao3, so stay tuned ;)

Charles Leclerc — “Charlie”

I think he would be from Mumbai. But like, he lived in the very high-end part of it so it's very hard to know right off the bat.

I just KNOW he studied abroad, okay? Italy or Canada I think. Look at his face— you just know he's the kinda guy people see on the street and think “angrej”

Speaks Hindi with a subtle but insufferable white guy accent. He can't even help it, that's just how he speaks. He once called Max “bhenchod” with the most authentic, desi accent when he was mad and they have all beaches in that high ever since.

Dropped out of university in his last year and came back to India to handle his dad's business after his dad's death.

Fell in love with the hot employee and made him the manager. Everyone knows Carlos got the position by sleeping with the new young hot boss but they stay silent to avoid getting fired.

Now lives in the same complex in Mumbai as Carlos, Max, Lando and others. Lives with his mother, two brothers and a dog.

Leo is a recurring guest in every society event no matter what. Shanta aunty ki kitty party? He's invited. Children playing cricket below? He is the referee. Security guard's dad died? Arthi Leo hi utha raha hai.

Best friends with Pierre. went to the same school as him in his childhood.

Not friendly at ALL with Max.

Carlos Sainz— “Mirchi”

Marathi Mulga for sure

Maula Mere Maula king of guy

His ass should be in a TV serial

Was a regular office worker before he fucked down his boss and now he's the manager. And, well, a win is a win, right?

His parents were kind of homophobic before he became the manager. It's hilarious, actually.

He has such a good voice. If you catch him singing one of the old bollywood songs of Lata Mangeshkar or Muhammad Rafi, consider yourself blessed by the gods.

Knows how to cook since he lives alone

Literally the guy every aunty dreams of marrying their daughter to. Manager of his office. Cooks. Cleans. Respects his elders. Funny. Charming. Every time he and Charles go out at least one middle aged person has asked Carlos if he's married yet and frankly, as his boyfriend who's Right There, Charles is pretty offended.

Have y'all seen the pictures of him in those button up shirts and trousers? The eyes that make Rahat Fateh Ali Khan songs play in your ear every time you look into them? So desi husband material

Best friends with Lando, basically brothers with his they are with each other

Like any best friend, he does NOT like Lando's boyfriend

Max Verstappen— “JATT DON'T CARE 💪🔥💯”

From Haryana

The M in Max stands for Mharo Balam Thanedar Chalawe Gypsy— jkjk

Some say he's aggressive, hot headed, quick tempered; some say he's just Haryanvi.

Is in a psychosexual homoerotic rivalry with Charles and is in denial because of his internalised homophobia.

His dad and Charles’ dad were business partners and now they're always wanting to one up another in the family businesses.

Talking about his father— his dad is very rich and also a typical Haryanvi dad. Bapu sehat ke liye haanikarak type shit.

His father made him do kushti when he was younger and Charles still teases him about it

Will randomly infodump about his father whenever the opportunity presents itself

Married

With how he usually is and what his childhood was like, you'd think he'd be a horrible father but you're WRONG

Everyone loves his daughter Prithvi, or P, for short.

They love spoiling her. Every year on her birthday she gets so many gifts it takes her two days just to open them.

Funnily enough, she once “betrayed” him by saying her favourite was Charlie Uncle.

I just think it would be so funny if he drove a Toyota Fortuner.

Lando Norris— “Lassan 🧄”

From Bangalore

Youtuber. Makes videos for every one of his channels religiously. Has a channel for gaming, another for vlogs, another for shorts and somehow manages them all while uploading reels and posting on Instagram???

He's a university student but nobody knows it because he's always posting videos so they just think he's a full time youtuber

“Shares a room” with Oscar, who is his boyfriend, by the way. You'd never guess. (that is a fucking lie. If you watch even one of his livestreams you'd know that they have explored each other's bodies. He's always “dekho guys Oscar aa gaya 😄😄😄” bro you're not fooling anyone)

Has his own merchandise. His designs are always so cool that they sell out before they're properly out.

Will probably make his own content team when he graduates

He once slipped on the desi toilet while travelling and Carlos made a reel about it. It is one of his most famous reels and Lando will absolutely ignore you if you talk about it.

Kinda fuckboyish???? Like he gives off the vibes of the kinda boy that only texts you past midnight and says shit like “what are you wearing? ;)” Like thank god he has a boyfriend or he would single handedly destroy the faith in love of every girl in a 5 kilometre radius

Oscar Piastri— “gora pakora”

From Goa

Frequently shows up on Lando's videos and livestreams

Studying engineering and living with Lando, basically taking care of him because of course he is

Regular victim of Lando's youtube shenanigans. Gets pranked one too many times every other day.

Has this kind of dead stare where he's just 😐 until Lando comes and annoys (see: kisses or pranks) him

Gets asked “bhai tu kabhi kuch bolta kyu nahi hai” so frequently he should just write “pata nahi yaar” on his face.

Has strong beef with Carlos. Do not talk about that man in front of him. Now this is really inconvenient because Carlos is Lando's bEsT FrIeNd iN tHe WoRlD

There beef started when Lando cried because he missed Oscar and Carlos showed up to Oscar's parents house asking him to square the fuck up. His parents —poor them they don't even know their son is gay— were left to wonder why their son was on a video call with his roommate OUTSIDE in the middle of winter vacation while a strange man cussed him the fuck out.

Lando can and will and DOES make him do silly dance trends with him on Instagram reels

Best friend is Logan, who studies engineering with him. You don't know how much you can depend on someone else until you're an IISER student and they're the only good friend you have.

Daniel Ricciardo— “Paaji”

From Chandigarh

Y'all remember Sodhi from Tarak Mehta Ka Ulta Chashma? Yeah. Him.

No one knows how he's able to control Max. Literally his best friend. Max will always have a resting bitch face but when Danny paaji is there he's all “😆😆😂😂🤣🤣” like bro 😐

I just know he would randomly say “oye balle balle balle balle balle” for no reason other than to annoy people. I just know it.

Actually works very hard and always helps people, but he's such a troll that people just think he's some unemployed youtuber with a prank channel

Absolute party animal. Do not ever in front of him mention that you're free that night.

George Russell— “nazuk kali”

From Delhi

Graphic designer. Edits Lando's videos for nim. Studies computer science.

Shared a room with Alex Albon and Logan Sargeant. Their relationship status is very complex. I'm not saying that they're a throuple, I'm not saying that they're friends. What I'm saying is that they're so dependent on each other I don't think they could function alone anymore. These three idiots make a full functional human being together. George cleans the house, Alex does the cooking and Logan does the laundry and the dishes. They manage, thanks.

George Russell is the type of guy to say “ghar pe maa behen nahi hai kya?” When he sees a girl getting catcalled.

George Russell is the type of guy to say “aapko kahin lagi to nahin?” When he bumps into someone.

George Russell is the type of guy to cover his mouth and say “uff” when he eats something spicy on accident.

On that note, George absolutely cannot handle his spice. Never bit into a raw green chilli willingly in his entire life.

You just know he eats the meethi pani puri with the red chutney and all.

Thinks momos are better than pani puri (he's wrong).

Closes his eyes and covers his ears when a condom ad or a spicy movie scene comes on the TV

Very pale because he rarely leaves his room (which— he's a computer science major, come on)

Lewis Hamilton— “dac saab”

From Kozhikode (Kerala)

Fashion influencer, gets brand deals all the time. Always promoting this brand or that.

Also actually a veterinary doctor with his own dog clinic.

Has a youtube channel where heostly makes affordable fashion tips etc but also posts the dogs at his clinic from time to time.

Spent a lot of years in South Delhi where he fell in love with a guy when he was a teenager but when he eventually moved back to Kozhikode they fell out of contact. Now he’s moved to Mumbai as he opened up a new clinic there and doesn't even know that he actually lives in the same goddamn building as the guy he fell in love with 20 years ago back in South Delhi.

I think y'all can already guess who the guy was, but if you can't (shame on you) it's Nico Rosberg.

Had a wife but she cheated so they divorced or something idk how do you justify a 40 year old guy being unmarried in India?

Loves his dogs more than anything, if there's a dog at his clinic that he can't save he will be sad for days.

Speaks Hindi in a voice that's like three octaves lower than his usual voice. Thinks he sounds bad but he sounds so damn hot.

Nico Rosberg— “thi ek.”

From South Delhi

News anchor for sure. Has a sadness in his eyes that makes you wonder if he ever got over the heartbreak he had at 19 (he did not)

Most people think his hair is dyed (it is not) because he's a chapri (he might be)

Legends say that the only time he has been seen with a smile on his face on TV was when he was talking about his childhood best friend.

The reason he doesn't anchor for any of the big or daresay political news channels is because they don't like how he compares international disputes to the fight he had with his best friend when he was 19.

Regularly travels to other metropolitan cities for news coverings (mainly sports) but lives in Mumbai for majority of the time.

In fact, lives in the same building as Lewis. The fact that they haven't run into each other in the elevator yet is a miracle (or a curse).

Will talk about love and heartbreak to anyone who would listen. You know those boys who say “thi ek” whenever someone tries to talk to them about love? Yeah that's him.

Married and has two daughters that he loves very much.

No pets because they remind him too much of Lewis.

Sebastian Vettel— “Chacha”

From Delhi

Lives in Mumbai with his wife.

Best friends with Lewis, knows everything about him and Nico.

Kind of a father figure to Charles.

The beloved colony uncle that always has the wildest stories ever. Catch him at the tea stall and just get him talking— you will be a changed man when he is done.

“Aur phir uska accident ho gaya aur usne apna haath kho diya, to uski manghetar ki family ne unse rishta tudwa liya. Jiske baad uski manghetar ki sagai mujhse hui aur phir hamari shaadi hui or shayad aaj bhi wo akela hi ek haath se apna hila raha hai bechara”

“...”

You would think considering how sweet he is, he was always this sweet but NO, this man was a MENACE.

Everyone who knew him before he got married wants him dead even now after all the years.

Fernando Alonso— "Kaka"

From Jaipur

The exact opposite of Sebastian.

The old man you see on the side of the road with paan in his mouth and a gaali on his lips

Also tells you stories from his youth and they're just as interesting but he's so arrogant about it that you're no longer interested in listening five minutes in no matter how interesting the story is

The kind of old man who sees children playing in the streets and starts acting like an overly invested referee for no reason.

Goes to the park in the morning at the same time as Sebastian but unlike him, Fernando does not let the joy and whimsy of life have any effect on him making you wonder why he's there at all

Lance Stroll— “vegan wali diet almond wala ghee 😌💅”

From South Bombay

Ameer baap ki bigri aulad

“What do you mean I can't buy the whole store?”

Y'all remember that “Mawn, terew paaw ki jewtie maawwww” girl??? Yeah

Sonam Kapoor is jealous of how much better he is at being a nepo baby

Logan Sargeant— “ye bhi thik hai”

Lives with George and Alex

From Goa

Thank god he does because he would not be surviving otherwise

Might have feelings for his roommates but all he knows how to do is wash the dishes and the clothes and he doesn't wanna die of hunger so he's silent.

Except maybe in front of Oscar but that's his best friendddd

Studying computer science too

Alex Albon— “dhokla4lifer”

From Gujarat

I might be projecting a bit but as someone who fucking LOVES dhokla, I don't see any reason as to why Alex should not.

Cooks for his two roommates, and always cooks so good.

Dhokla on Sundays and a tiffin box full of thepla and aam ka aachar whenever one of them is travelling home

Studying history and geography

Yuki Tsunoda— “momo wale bhaiya”

From Dehradun

Do not call him momo wale bhaiya. He can and will kill you.

Actually does love cooking

Has his own restaurant near the university campus

Pierre Gasly— “tantar mantar”

From West Bengal

Tired of everyone's “kaala jaadu” jokes.

Charles’ best friend and confidante.

Gossip girls. They have all the tea on everyone in the uni.

“Bokachoda”

Does sports.

Final year law student

Esteban Ocon— “Pierre's ex (he is NOT)”

From Odisha

Has beef with Pierre.

Will argue about anything from the origin of roshogulla to the state's contribution in the fight for freedom of the country.

Also final year law student

Extras—

Sergio Perez from Bihar

K Mag from Kashmir (haha get it? Because he's a track terroris—)

Nico Hulkenburg from Kashmir too

Valtteri Bottas from The Andaman Nicobar islands or something idk he shows so much ass it's unreal

Zhou Guanyu from Meghalaya