#i will elaborate tomorrow (with pictures)

[hellpuffin]

roshuto cringe comp part 4

also roshuto and toichiro making out under the cut

[friendlyneighbourhoodelf]

thinking about padmé and gender. femininity is a performance and she’s winning

[and-corn]

Opinion on Waluigi?

So one year when I was in college, all my friends went home for a long weekend but I decided to stay on campus, so naturally when everyone was gone, I went to the library and used the school printers to print out a picture of Waluigi onto 15 pieces of paper, which I then taped together to create a near life size portrait. I then waited outside my friend’s dorm for like an hour until someone let me in the building, and I taped the 5 foot tall Waluigi to the door of his suite. I waited until my friends came back after the weekend and when he showed up he was like “someone waluigied my door” and I said, “what does that mean?” And he said “someone put a giant Waluigi on my door. Was it you?” And I said “how would I have even gotten into your building?” And he didn’t question that at all so he thought that some random person was enacting a guerrilla Waluigi graffiti campaign on him specifically. Then one of my other friends took the Waluigi down from the door and put it in the shower of his suite, which we only realized when it was already too late because my friend came into the common room the following day and said “I think Eric [his suite-mate] showered with Waluigi.” Which is objectively the funniest thing someone can say and by that point we were like, “well, we might as well just leave it” so Waluigi stayed on the shower wall for the entire semester. And obviously I had taped the entire surface to functionally laminate it, so Waluigi survived and thrived in pristine condition as a shower companion for 3 months. Finally at the end of the year I decided to reveal the big mystery, so I created an elaborate scavenger hunt with like 10 different clues taking my friend all over campus to find out who put Waluigi on his door. It took him almost two hours to do the whole thing, but it led him straight to me, and he was like “I should’ve been studying for my exam tomorrow” and now he blames me for getting a C on his bio final.

anyway Waluigi is fine. Certainly not my first pick for Mario kart, but the way he’s animated in Mario and Sonic Olympic Games is pretty hilarious

[harrysfolklore]

I’m cracking up at the thought of Oscar accidentally seeing a nude of his sister in Carlos’s phone

HELP I HAD TO ELABORATE ON THIS

read little bitch here

Hotel rooms are boring. There's nothing else to do other than lay in bed and shower.

You regret telling Carlos — because now he's your boyfriend, and you share hotel rooms with him, how wild — that you wanted to stay in bed all morning and not join him for practice sessions because now is nearly midday and he's not back yet. And you're bored.

Not finding anything else to do, you open your suitcase to put together your outfit for Quali tomorrow, you laugh when the first thing you see is a McLaren cap and a Ferrari one packed together. And to think that next year you'll be adding a Williams one to your suitcase for race weekends.

As you move a pair of jeans, you come into view with something you didn't even remember you packed — a red lacy set of lingerie.

You decide to put it on, after all, you don't have anything better to do.

Meanwhile at the Zandvoort Circuit, Oscar, Carlos, Lando and Max are lounging at a hospitality area. The sessions and meetings for the day were over, so they were just waiting for the call to head out.

"Lando, can I borrow your phone? Mine is dead and I want to check Lily's flight, it's supposed to land soon," Oscar says from his place on the couch.

"I can't mate, I'm sexting right now," Lando replies, making the group laugh and Oscar roll his eyes.

"Take mine, it's in the table," Carlos says, fixing himself a cup of coffee from the small station in the room.

"Thanks," Oscar grabs the device, failing when he tries to unlock it, "What's your pass code?"

"Your sister's birthday," Carlos says casually, stirring his coffee.

The room erupts in a chorus of groans and laughter.

"Oh my god, Carlos," Lando exclaims, barely containing his giggles. "That's so cheesy!"

"Seriously, mate?" Max joins in, "What are you, a teenager with his first crush?"

Oscar looks at Carlos with mock disgust on his face. "My sister's birthday? Really? I don't know whether to be touched or grossed out."

Carlos shrugs, a slight blush creeping up his neck. "What? It's easy to remember."

"Yeah, sure," Lando snorts. "I bet your wallpaper is a picture of you two as well."

Carlos doesn't respond, suddenly very interested in his coffee.

"Oh my god, it is!" Max howls with laughter. "You're such a sap, Sainz!"

Oscar shakes his head, chuckling. "I can't believe this. My sister's turned you into a lovesick puppy."

Just as Oscar is about to search for his girlfriend's flight information, a text notification pops up. Out of habit and muscle memory, he ends up tapping on it, opening the message.

Oscar's eyes widen, and he lets out a yelp, nearly dropping the phone. "Oh god, my eyes!" he exclaims, tossing the phone back to Carlos as if it were on fire.

The others look at him, confused and amused.

"What happened?" Lando asks, trying to peer at Carlos' phone.

Oscar covers his face with his hands, groaning. "I just saw something I really, really didn't need to see. Carlos, mate, you need to put a lock on those messages from my sister."

With a frown, Carlos opens his messages, tapping on your contact and finding what made Oscar scream in disgust.

A picture of you wearing the lacy red set, with the caption "we need to put these to good use before we throw all the ferrari red away"

Carlos glances at his phone, his eyes widening slightly before he quickly locks the screen. He clears his throat, trying to maintain his composure. "Ah, I see. Sorry about that, Oscar."

Oscar is still covering his eyes dramatically. "I'm going to need therapy after this. Seriously, Carlos, password protect those messages or something!"

"Come on, what was it?" Lando tries to sneak a peek at Carlos' phone. "It can't be that bad!"

"Trust me, you don't want to know," Oscar groans. "There are some things a brother should never see."

"Look on the bright side, at least you know your sister is happy?" Max pats Oscar on the back.

"Not helping, Verstappen!" Oscar throws a nearby cushion at Max, which only makes everyone laugh harder.

"Sorry, hermano. I'll be more careful next time," Carlos says, putting on an awkward smile.

"There better not be a next time," Oscar mumbles, still looking traumatized. "I'm going to need therapy after this."

Oscar makes a mental note to never, ever touch Carlos' phone again, and Carlos makes a mental note to lock his girlfriend's messages. And put those lacy red sets to good use later, too.

[repulsiveliquidation]

For Club and Country || Alexia Putellas

warnings : smut (18+), Daddy kink, cunnilingus, strap-on's, throat fucking, choking (r giving + receiving), slight subspace, riding, fingering, spanking, rough sex.

summary : Alexia is on a hot streak, scoring stunner goals at the last minutes to send her country closer and closer to the finals of the Olympics but she needs her girlfriend to help her burn off all that excess energy the only way she can think of.

“What a goal scored by Alexia Putellas in the last seconds of the game to send Spain to the quarter finals!” 

The girls are overjoyed and your voice is hoarse from all the screaming you’ve been doing over the past few days. With your Alexia jersey on proudly, you’re sitting next to her mother in the stands hugging each other joyfully. 

Alexia comes over and climbs up onto the stands, hugging her mother. She smiles when she sees the look on your face, proud as can be of your girlfriend. Her mother shoves you into her daughter's arms and you cling to her tightly, telling her how proud you were of her in her ear. She sighs into your form, whispering a thank you as the whole stadium starts to drown itself out. 

You cup her cheeks and smile with tears, kissing her hard on the lips. She doesn’t care for all the cameras pointed in her direction, she was proud to show you off to them. 

“I love you,” she whispers when you hug her again, arms tight around your middle. 

“I love you too, mi reina,” you giggle, holding yourself back from jumping the stands. She doesn’t stop there, her arms that were tight around you haul you over like you weighed nothing, before yelling to her mother that she’d text them where to meet for breakfast tomorrow.

“Alexia! I can’t go in there!” you scold, dragging your feet like a toddler hoping she’d stop. 

“Don’t worry about it, it’s fine,” she grins, pulling you into the changing rooms. 

The girls don’t even flinch seeing you there, chucking out hi’s and hello's all across the room. You wait patiently, praying no one finds you in here and punishes the team for it. 

“Come,” Alexia calls, hand held out for you to take. 

“Alexia,” you start as you walk towards her cubby, “I can’t be in here amor, what if they penalize you?”

“Oh please, everyone’s brought their significant others everywhere in the olympic village, why the hell do you think they gave out condoms in the welcome bags?”

“Those condom wrappers were very cute though, don’t you think?” Laia inserts, pulling her shorts on after taking a shower. Alexia strikes up a conversation with her, agreeing that they were such a nice touch to the goodies. Ona grins at you and you sit beside her, elbows on your knees. 

“She’s been raving about you the entire time, you know?”

“Really?”

“La Reina isn’t as private as the world thinks.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Let’s just say the whole team knows what you’re in for and you’re certainly going to like it.” 

Just as you’re about to ask her to elaborate, you hear Alexia calling your name. You look at Ona suspiciously and she merely shrugs, going back to massaging moisturizer into her calves. 

“What are you up to?” you ask your girlfriend and she acts like you’ve asked her to give up football. 

“Nothing!” 

“I heard the girls talking.” 

“You only heard Ona talking and you know she’s a shit stirrer.” 

“Alexia!” 

She shoves you onto the team bus headed back to the village and you sulk, arms crossed over your chest like a child. Alexia takes a picture and sits beside you, a bag of peanuts in her hands that she’s already munching on. 

“What did Ona tell you?”

“She said you’ve been blabbing to the team about what you’re going to do to me all week,” you lean in, “you’re not going to murder me and leave my body in the dirty seine are you? It would certainly leave a bad taste in the triathletes mouths.”

“Madre de Dios, ¡no!” 

“Then? Alexia, if this is a shitty surprise, I’ll punch you!” 

She takes a deep breath and suddenly goes cold, leaning in with her lips pressed right against your ear. 

“Ahora escucha aquí, nena. He estado trabajando muy duro en los Juegos Olímpicos y necesito desahogarme. You're going to help Daddy do that, sí?”

You’re sitting and you still feel your knees go weak from her tone. 

“Yes Daddy,” you whisper and she smiles proudly, hand in your lap rubbing her thumb gently.

You’re sitting right in the front of the bus, feeling the burn of the girls staring at you hard. They all watched as you threw a little fit trying to figure out what Ona was on about but it seems like Ona wasn’t lying after all.  

Alexia stands up and you watch her with wide eyes as she goes through the analysis of the game with the team. Her mouth is moving but you can’t hear a thing. All you can think about is all the things you wanted that mouth to do to you. She noticed but kept it subtle, hand resting on your shoulder with a tight squeeze. 

As the girls begin to argue amongst themselves playfully, Alexia leans down and whispers one last thing before reaching the village. 

“Close your mouth darling, you’re giving yourself away to the girls. Wouldn’t want them to see how I'm gonna use that pretty mouth later right?” 

You close your mouth fast and wipe the corners with your hands, sipping deeper into your seat. Jenni, who’s sitting diagonally behind you, sees you reel yourself back. As the bus comes to a stop and the girls begin to gather their things, her tall self leans over and says something in your ear that gives you butterflies. 

“Be good for her, si? Your contributions to the team are greatly appreciated,” she tells you, winking as she steps off the bus. 

Alexia takes your hand and you’re a little startled, standing up and following her off the bus. You hear the girls begin to holler and it takes everything in you to not tell them to shut up. Alexia yells at the to calm down before disappearing into a different hallway to the rest of the team. 

“Why aren’t we with them?”

“I’ve got a surprise for you, mi princesa,” she tells you, pulling a blindfold over your eyes. You trust her to take care of you, feeling her press herself into you from behind to guide you. You hear a door open and the scent of lavender hits you; the sound of several locks being engaged behind you should not have turned you on as much as it did. 

“Alexia, what the-” 

“Surprise,” she says with a calm smile, hands pulling the blindfold off gently. She lets you take in the room, busying herself with the bags of goodies she’s brought in. 

There’s a table filled with snacks, oils and your favorite coffee. The bed has a huge towel on it and a diffuser already going on the side table. Alexia comes up behind you and smiles, hands resting on your hips. You lean back into her and smile, feeling her warm breath on your shoulder comforting. 

“I’ve been feeling so much energy build up over the past few days and you’re the only one who can help me, princesa,” she starts, turning you in her arms. “Will you?” 

“Yes Daddy,” you answer, letting Alexia do whatever she wanted. 

She starts by taking your bag off you, laying it carefully on the tv table. Her hands reach for her jersey on you, match worn by the way, and she gently pulls it off you. 

“This jersey looks so much better on you than it does me,” she whispers seductively, kissing your cheek as she comes closer to mess with your shorts. Her hands skillfully pull the buttons open and zipper down, pushing them off your hips eagerly. 

“Eres tan hermosa, mi reina,” she tells you, hands smoothly tracing your every line and curve. 

“Only for you, Daddy,” you whine, hand reaching back to cup her head as her lips begin to leave kisses all along your neck and back. 

She picks you up into her arms suddenly, the show of her strength sends waves of pleasure straight to your core. Your breath picks up and she notices, smirking as she places you down in the middle of the bed. She strips herself naked and you stare at her shamelessly, eyes ogled at her toned abs and violently perky breasts. 

She pulls her strap on and turns to face you, eyes taking in the look on your face. You’re still staring, face with a little look of surprise and desire. It sends pulses to her cunt that she rather enjoys, crawling onto the bed between your legs. She kisses you, the feeling of her soft lips gives you a sense of calm. 

Your breath quickens as her hands caress your thighs and she groans at the feeling of your warm skin. The soft flesh beneath her fingers makes her mouth water and she wastes no time in letting out her energy. Teeth sink into your thigh and make you moan, the sharpness of her teeth only makes you wetter and needier. 

Big, rough hands press your legs to your chest and have you in a vulnerable position, pussy clenching tightly as you feel the cold air on your leaking arousal. Your lips are already bitten, sore and swollen, breath hitching when Alexia practically bends you into half. Your knees reach your ears and air fails to reach your lungs properly, sending your head spinning in the most pleasurable way possible. 

“Hold them there,” growls Alexia, large hands spanking your ass as it opens up for her. Your pussy glistens at her and she smiles, leaving two more harder smacks on your ass. They’re red and it leaves a sting but you don’t move a muscle. 

“Feels good princesa?” Alexia asks, looking down at you. She grins when she sees your eyes slowly go in and out of focus as you nod, settling into a headspace that she absolutely loved. You were ‘pliable’ and trusted her to know what you needed though it was said to be what she needed; Alexia had always prioritized your pleasure over hers. 

She circles her fingers around your soaking clit; they’re slow and send pulses of energy right into your veins. You knew Alexia meant it when she said she had the energy to go on today, so you settled into your comfy space and let her do whatever she wanted. But you knew for her to do so, you needed to tell Daddy.

“Daddy?” you whisper, looking right into Alexia’s hazel eyes. 

“Sí, princesa?”

“Want you to use me, do whatever you want,” you whine, tears already prickling in your eyes 

“Oh sweetheart,” she states pompously, “I was already going to.” 

Her thick fingers have filled your pussy more times than you can remember but when you were lightheaded and a little oxygen-deprived, the feeling of them filling your pussy always sent you into hysterics. 

Your pussy swallows her fingers obediently and they’re just long enough to press into your sweet spot every time they pump inside. She spreads them and works on opening you up, free hand pressing your thighs open wider. 

“You take them so well, mi amor,” Alexia praises, eyes glued to your core. You stretch around a third finger that joins the two, sounds of your pleasure fill the room. 

You can hear how wet you are and you turn a little red with embarrassment. Alexia however, has her ego boosted when you begin to slightly cream around her fingers. She groans and fingers you faster, lips wrapping around your clit as she begins to suck hard. 

Her tongue flicks over your clit as she sucks, fingers pressing right into your sweet spot with every pump of her arm. Her free hand holds you down as you thrash about, pressure building up behind your belly button hard and fast. 

“Daddy!” you moan, cumming around her fingers and making a little mess on her chin. She pulls away grinning and licking her lips, fingers shoved into her mouth after to taste you. She moans and pulls your legs back down, crashing her lips onto yours. 

You kiss hot and hard, one breath shared between two. She pulls away and you fall in love with her all over again, hand grasping your jaw to pull you back into the kiss. You melt and tangle your tongue with hers, feeling her hands caress your body in ways only she knew possible. 

“Turn over, princesa,” Alexia demands, strong arms already turning you over. You push your ass up and arch your back as deep as you can for her, slipping a pillow under your head to hold onto. 

Alexia spanks your ass again, harder this time and it leaves a handprint on your cheek. She aims and spanks you again, hitting the same spot. Like earlier, the sting is pleasurable and makes your thighs shake, lips left whimpering for Alexia. 

“More Daddy!” you whine, and she gladly obliges. Five more spanks land on your ass, blood pricking underneath your skin. She’s aware of what you’re doing, knowing you’re really prepping yourself for when she’s seven inches deep inside and fucking you roughly. 

Alexia shifts her focus to the silicone dick she’s got hanging between her legs that seems to be neglected. She moves beside your head and you look up at her, clearly seeing that her oral fixation needed satiating. 

Your jaw slacks and she slips in, moaning when you take most of the toy down your throat. A loud gag rings in the room which only motivates Alexia more. She holds your hair in her hands, fucking your mouth hard. She groans and swears loudly, hips driving the toy deep into your cavity. She pushes your head down onto her cock and you gag noisily, before she pulls away and the mess you leave only spurs her on. 

She slaps your cheeks and kisses you sloppily, holding your body up like a doll. She presses you back down and slips into your mouth again, fucking your throat faster. 

“Fuck baby, taking Daddy’s cock so well,” she praises, “getting me all wet to fuck your pussy aren’t you?” 

She pulls you off her cock and gives you a stern look, your brain short-circuits as you struggle to form a coherent answer. Alexia chuckles. 

“Yes Daddy, all for you!”    

She lets you go and you flop onto the bed, her strong hands pressing your back into the deep arch she went feral for. She slaps her cock on your entrance and you beg for her to put it in you, voice breaking when she slips it in mid-sentence. 

“What was that, darling?” she teases, cock buried to the hilt inside you. 

“Fuck me!” 

“Don’t have to tell me twice,” she growls, fucking into you hard. The sound of skin slapping loudly you were sure could be heard throughout the whole village but you did not care. The pure ecstasy your girlfriend was administering at the moment brought fog into your brain. You were on cloud 9. 

Her cock slipped so easily into you, filling you deep and thick. Your walls gripped and she welcomed the resistance, hands grasping your hips as leverage to fuck into you harder. 

“Like this, bebita?” 

“Exact-” you choke, as she angles her hips to hit your sweet spot, “EXACTLY LIKE THIS!”

She pounds her hips up into you and you’re seeing stars, the tug behind your belly button starts to build up again. 

“Daddy!” you scream, feeling the dam break as you come again. Alexia doesn’t stop and you’re becoming delirious with pleasure. It’s red hot and almost makes you pass out, before Alexia stops. 

“Fuck mi reina, want you to ride me,” Alexia says, laying down as you climb into her lap. You’re absolutely soaking and sit on her easily, cock filling you up in a different way in this position. You slowly build up a rhythm, hands lightly wrapped around Alexia’s neck. 

Her eyes roll into her head and she grins mindlessly, hands tightly gripping your hips. You bounce faster and she feels the air slowly leave her head as you begin to grip her neck a little more. 

“Is this what you wanted, Daddy?” you ask cheekily, grinding your hips on her cock slowly. Alexia spanks your ass and suddenly tightens her already tight grip of your hips. 

“No, I wanted to do this.” 

She lifts you and fucks up into you with power you didn’t know your girlfriend had. Her cock reaches places inside you you had never felt before. She was rearranging your guts and it fucking felt amazing.

She turns you over and doesn’t lose an ounce of power, hips fucking into you so hard the bed was moving. She held your lower body up as she fucked you, your back arched off the bed so far that your shoulders were barely touching the bed. 

“You want me to cum in you, baby?” she grunts, panting hard but her hips never slow down or show signs of wanting to. Her hands wrap around your neck this time and squeeze hard, the pressure behind your navel goes from 0 to 100 in mere milliseconds. 

“Yes Daddy, YES!” 

You squirt all over Alexia which sets her orgasm off. She moans your name and your lips crash on hers, breathing each other in. She fucks into you slowly which gives both of you a nice, long high. You tuck your face in her neck and take her in, wrapping your arms around her sweaty skin. 

“I love you,” she whispers, holding you in her lap with her cock still inside you. 

“I love you too,” you whisper as she pulls out, kissing you one last time before carrying you into the bathroom to clean up. She carefully washes you clean in the shower, paying more attention to you than herself. You gently clean her up too, kissing loads and loads between scrubs. She does eat you out one more time before the water goes cold, one last cry of her name echoes in the room before midnight curfew. 

Back on the team bus the next day for training, you have her hoodie on and the hood pulled up, a slight limp in your walk. Alexia walks onto the bus as smug as can be, all the girls whistling like teenage boys as you try to negotiate with god to open the ground up to swallow you. 

“Daddy please!”  “Fuck me!”  the girls yell, making faces and teasing you the whole ride there. You’re blushing an undiscovered color of red, thoughts running a mile a minute as you replay the events of the night before in your head. You catch Alexia’s eyes and she smiles a knowing smile, putting one on your face too.

Ona coming up to you just as they start to get off the bus again. 

“Didn’t I tell you you’d enjoy yourself?” 

“Oh shut up Oni,” you scolded loudly before pulling her close enough to whisper in her ear. 

“Tell me everything she says about sex, will you?” 

“¡Vamos España!” she yells with a wink, leaving you giggling and excited for more. 

[st4rpiece]

sleeping separately after an argument pt. 1

SFW

characters: luffy, zoro, usopp, and sanji x fem! reader summary: how the strawhat boys would react to you sleeping alone after an argument CW: mainly fluff, slight angst others: not proofread, lowercase intended, and pictures found on pinterest

—————

Monkey D. Luffy

luffy doesn't handle conflict well, especially not one with someone he cares deeply about. after the argument you guys had earlier, he would never suspected that you would sleep else where for the night.

at first, he would brush it off, thinking you just needed some space and that you would return to your shared room soon. but, as the night wore on, he'd find himself restless. constantly tossing and turning unable to lay as comfortably as before now that he was alone. luffy would eventually get up and wander over to your old room.

knowing him he’d poke your face (gently of course) while whispering, "hey, are you still mad at me?" his big eyes would reflect genuine concern and confusion. but because you were asleep you couldn’t respond, so he would get into your bed and curl up next to you, determined to be close even if you were still upset. you’d wake up the next day to a goofy grin and a sincere apology, as he was eager to make things right.

Roronoa Zoro

arguments with zoro are often intense but short-lived. so when you decide to sleep separately after a fight, zoro (like luffy) would be taken aback. however he, unlike luffy, would initially be too proud to go after you. so instead he’d brood silently, replaying the argument in his head while sharpening his swords.

you were the dramatic one. right?

as the night deepened, his stoic façade would crack, causing the gnawing sense of regret to seep in. he’d eventually get up, quietly making his way to your old room.

“babe?” his voice was uncharacteristically soft cautiously enters the room. after seeing your sleeping figure his demeanor immediately softens.

without a word, he'd lie down on the floor next to your bed, his presence a silent apology. he would wake up before you like usual but after breakfast he would pull you aside giving you a gruff but sincere apology, his actions speaking louder than his words.

God Ussop

usopp is sensitive and prone to overthinking. after any argument, he'd probably be filled with anxiety and self-doubt. which would worsen after you decide to sleep separately. he'd pace around, muttering to himself and crafting elaborate scenarios in his head of what this could mean.

is this it?

do you not love him anymore?

were you going to break up with him?

eventually, he'd muster the courage to approach you, armed with a heartfelt speech. ready to kneel beside you and pour his heart out with the promise to do better. but after walking to your old room and seeing you sleep so soundly his resolve would soften. not wanting to wake you he would leave telling himself that he’d apologize in the morning.

instead of going to bed though he would go to his factory deciding to make you a small gift to show his sincerity. he would place that along with a short an apology letter by your door. hoping to give you a better apology in the morning.

Vinsmoke Sanji

sanji would be devastated if you chose to sleep separately after an argument. unlike usopp, he wouldn’t overthink it. he knows you love him just needed some space. despite thinking that, he would never let you go to sleep upset especially not at him.

so he'd spend the majority of the night in the kitchen, preparing ingredients for tomorrow and making you a midnight snack.

with a tray of food on hand he’d softly knocks on the door of your old bedroom, his voice both gentle and cautious. “my love? i brought food. can i come in so we can talk?”

your lights were on so he knew you were up, after waiting for a minute or so he would let out a relieved sigh as you opened the door and making room for him to enter.

you guys would spend the rest of the night talking about your argument except this time with a much clearer head. once he knew that you both were on the same page he would bring you back to your share room to sleep.

—————

hi guys! thanks for reading, this is my first attempt at writing hc so idk if i did it right lol but it was fun!! i also have a couple more characters in my draft using this idea. i’ll post them if this does well (fingers crossed).

part 2 is posted!!

[txttletale]

Ok so, let's assume there are 2 steps on how to deal with AI, which are:

give up on luddite dead end pursuits of turning back the clock to more indivualized production

put energy into productive working class organizing

Could you please elaborate who is even trying to do that thing you mention in step 1? Those in denial? I have yet to see anyone, all I see is people being upset and thus hating it, which is a natural reaction to having your art be stolen. Give it time, people need time to process this change.

And regarding your step 2, that's gonna happen either way? I mean, what choice do artists have? Same as all tech that those in power want to push, ai is gonna persist, it's inevitable, as is artists trying to adapt.

I genuinely see no sense in posts advocating for ai, like, it doesn't need that, it's doing good without you guys, it has a pr team working tirelessly trying to integrate it daily. What are tumblr users who advocate for it trying to accomplish here? Make artists hate it less? As an artist whose art got stolen, even if I do manage to successfully adapt, I will not stop hating ai and those behind it? Like, what's the purpose here 😭 Sorry this got kind of long

i mean i don't consider myself an 'advocate' for 'ai art'. generative visual art is an artform i personally have little interest in making. i think if openai went bankrupt tomorrow it would be awesome and very funny. you are making a classic mistake, which is to assume that every issue is like a splatoon splatfest with two clearly defined teams. i point out that the things that people frothed up into anti-AI hysteria say are at best untrue and at worst deeply reactionary, pushing right-wing social views about art or right-wing economic views about copyright because i think those things are bad.

i don't bother making posts pointing out that, like, @ApeHODL69Doge on twitter who thinks every movie will be ai generated by 2026 is moron because, very simply, i don't exist in a social environment where i run into that kind of guy or anyone who doesn't think that kind of guy is a moron, and also because liberals can and have done a pretty great job comprehensively debunking that type of guy's nonsense arguments and empty tech hype.

this does not apply to me but many users on tumblr who "advocate for AI art" are literally just defending themselves against vicious ableist harassment mobs who think it's okay to tell a disabled person their disablity isn't real or they should draw with their mouth or they're just whiny because they used the funny picture machine, so i think what those people might be trying to accomplish is to stop getting harassed, and i think that's a pretty admirable goal

my personal goal is to encourage people to think more critically about new technologies and understand that where these new technologies immiserate them it is because of the social structures and economic system under which that technology is deployed, not because of an evil devil curse lurking in the technology itself. hopefully this answers some of your confusion.

[fluentmoviequoter]

Tim Bradford x fiancé rookie!fem!reader please? When the reader is a rookie and she pulled over her fiancé. Cute fluff 😂

https://youtube.com/shorts/zGueyvDS8DI?si=NOJ5fjs6HqbNdwYD

I love this! I hope you enjoy!!🤍 Picture from Pinterest

Warnings: fluff, Nyla Harper (this probably doesn't need an explanation). rookie!reader, 1.8k+ words.

Flirting With Cops

“I’m sorry, I don’t- run me through this one more time,” Nyla says, somewhere between exasperated and interested. “You had a secret boyfriend that nobody knew about, and then you just show up with a rock after a weekend off? Secret boyfriend is now secret fiancé?”

“Kinda,” you answer, slowing as you approach an intersection.

“Kinda. Elaborate?” Nyla asks, leaning forward with wide eyes.

“I thought you didn’t like to talk about personal lives in the shop,” you argue.

“I don’t talk about my personal life in the shop. Right now, we’re talking about yours.”

You don’t answer, but Nyla’s eyes remain on you. Sighing, you make a right turn as you decide where to start.

“Secret boyfriend is secret fiancé now, yes,” you begin. “But he’s been secret fiancé for a while. I just forgot to take my ring off this morning. And I mean, I didn’t think it was a problem if I didn’t tell anyone I was seeing-“

“If you told me right now, would I be the first to know?” Nyla interjects.

“No. Grey knows.”

“Grey? Wade Grey? Sergeant Grey, Watch Commander-”

“Yes, that Grey. I needed an afternoon off to deal with some relationship stuff a while back, so I told him.”

“Then why won’t you tell me?”

“I don’t know how my fiancé would feel about that.”

Nyla sits back, quiet until she says, “He doesn’t get to decide who you tell about your life. How am I supposed to decide if he is good enough for you?”

“I thought TOs thought boots weren’t good enough, shouldn’t that be the other way around?” you joke.

Nyla says your name, and you immediately turn serious.

“Harper, I just- it’s not about him controlling me, and he doesn’t, I promise. I’m just not sure why it’s a problem.”

“Not a problem, just a trust and general welfare thing. I need to know that you’re okay all the time because your personal life impacts your cop life.”

“Got it. I will let you know if anything worth mentioning arises.”

“As your friend though-“

“We’re friends?”

Nyla says your last name, a quick warning. “As your friend, I want to know that he’s good enough for you because it’s what you deserve as a person, regardless of your career. Dating is a- there’s a lot that can and does go wrong in the dating world, but Los Angeles is a different animal. If you’re engaged, I’ll assume you know him well, but if or when you want to trust me with this, I’m here.”

“Thank you, Harper.”

“And tomorrow is plain clothes day, so if you want to talk about him while I’m not here, feel free.”

You chuckle, hitting the sirens and answering, “Yes, ma’am,” before calling in a traffic stop.

✯✯✯✯✯

“Hey,” Tim greets.

“I’m mad at you,” you reply, closing the door and moving around him.

“I’m sorry. Although I’d like to know what I’m sorry for,” Tim replies, his brows raised.

Setting your bag on the counter, you raise your left hand and look at him.

“I apologize for… proposing?” Tim guesses.

You sigh, dropping your head and your hand in tandem. Tim walks to you, and you let him pull you into a hug, putty in his hands as he holds you close.

“You- you put my ring on this morning before work and I forgot to take it off,” you murmur.

“So, our friends and coworkers know? Is that a problem?”

“Of course not. I’m not ashamed of you or trying to hide this or anything, Tim. I just- Nyla wants to know everything to decide if my fiancé is good enough for me.”

“And what will she find?”

“I’m honestly not sure,” you joke.

“Maybe I’ll tell her that it was a pity proposal. You’re a terrible fiancée.”

“I love you,” you reply, kissing his cheek.

“You’re a terrible fiancée… who doesn’t play fair,” Tim repeats, softening under your hands and kisses.

“What are you doing with your day off tomorrow?” you ask. “I know you miss plain clothes day.”

“I don’t know,” Tim answers, his hands sliding from your waist to the curve of your hip. “Rob a liquor store or something to see if you’re ready to ride alone, I guess.”

“Hmm. I was hoping for a real husband and not a prison husband.”

“Don’t start with me,” Tim warns.

“You brought up the liquor store!”

Tim’s hands tighten gently, his fingers pressing into you. You chuckle, leaning against him again as you sigh.

“You’re just going to sit here and miss me, I knew it,” you say against his shirt.

“You’ve got me figured out. Guess you’re good enough for me at least.”

“You guess?”

Tim doesn’t give you time to finish teasing him, pulling you impossibly closer as he kisses you to silence you. 

✯✯✯✯✯

“Just remember that I’m not here. Our shift got bumped so we’re working into the night, but don’t let that mess you up. You can do this as long as you remember what you’ve learned and apply it,” Nyla says, buckling her seatbelt.

“Nolan warned me that you were intense, but you’re really nice to me,” you reply.

Nyla doesn’t answer, invisible while you ride alone. Smiling to yourself, you wonder if talking about your fiancé would make her break.

✯✯✯✯✯

Thirty minutes after sunset, you haven’t done much on plain clothes day. Completed a few routine traffic stops, responded to two domestic calls, and narrowly avoided a flat tire, but nothing unusual or extreme. Your shift is nearly over, and while it’s too late to visit Tim, you’re ready to get home and rest before seeing him tomorrow.

Driving through Tim’s neighborhood as you finish your patrol, you hit the sirens when a blue pickup truck runs a stop sign. Nyla exits the shop as you do, standing at the back of the vehicle while you approach the window.

“Good eve-“ you begin, freezing when you see who is sitting in the driver’s seat.

“Can I help you, officer?” Tim asks, failing to hide his smile as he sits back in the seat.

“I, uh… you ran a stop sign.”

“Yeah,” Tim answers. “But, surely, there’s some way you can let me go. Right, officer?”

“It’s frowned upon to flirt with police officers during traffic stops, sir.”

You suddenly remember Nyla is behind you and glance over, unsurprised to find her watching you intently.

“Uh, Harper, would you give a fellow cop a ticket for running a stop sign?” you ask.

“I’m not here,” she reminds you, failing to hide that she wants to know who’s in the truck.

Turning back to Tim, you ask, “License and registration?”

Tim nods, pulling his wallet out and handing it to you. When you open it and have no problem finding both, Nyla begins fidgeting. 

“Whose car is this?” you ask quietly.

“Rental. My sister needed help moving something but my power steering’s acting up.”

Nodding, you hand his wallet back.

“I’m going to let you off with a warning, sir, but regardless of whether or not you live here and know how busy the intersection is, you need to stop.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Tim replies, brushing his fingers over yours.

He drives away as you and Nyla get back in the shop. Her eyes are on you, but she remains silent. When your watch beeps at the end of your shift, and you’re still two blocks from the station, she breaks.

“Who was that? You were flirting so I thought it was your fiancé or something but then you asked about a fellow cop,” Nyla says quickly, not taking a breath until she’s done.

“You weren’t there,” you argue. “You didn’t see a thing.”

Nyla groans. “I will find out. I know I told you it was your decision to trust me, but I need you to trust me. Please?”

“Maybe tomorrow. When you’re back in the shop with me. By the way, how’d I do?”

“You did great. Until the end. That last traffic stop was iffy but since it was a fellow cop I’ll give you a pass on that one. You did check everything and give a warning, so I can’t really ask for more.”

Sighing, you park in the station lot and turn off the ignition. 

“Thanks, Harper. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Oh, you most definitely will.”

✯✯✯✯✯

“This isn’t going to end well for me,” you whisper as you walk into the station.

“It’ll be fine,” Tim promises.

“You don’t have to ride with Harper after she finds out!”

“Hey,” Tim calls, gently hooking his fingers behind your bicep to pull you back to his side. “You will be fine.”

“I know. Thank you.”

A few minutes later, as you enter roll call, Nyla sits on the table in the front row.

“Spill,” she demands.

“Wait, what’s happening?” Angela asks.

“She’s dating a cop. Scratch that- she’s engaged to a cop. Pulled him over last night and got all flirty.”

“No ‘what happens in the shop stays in the shop’?” you ask.

“Nope. Now, do we know him?” Nyla asks.

You nod, and Angela asks, “Have we worked with him often?”

“Yes.”

“Is he in this room?” Nyla asks, looking over her shoulder.

“No.”

“Oh, thank goodness. I was having serious concerns about your taste in men,” Nyla sighs.

“Was he driving his own car last night?” Angela inquires.

“Oh, that’s a good question. I didn’t recognize it,” Nyla adds.

“No, it was a rental,” you explain.

“Just spit it out!” Nyla begs.

“Harper!” Tim yells, stepping inside. “Grey needs to see you.”

“He’s in the room now,” you whisper.

“Timothy Bradford?!” Angela yells.

“What?” Nyla asks, looking back and forth between you quickly.

“Tim and I started dating while I was in the academy, and we got engaged about a month ago,” you state. “And Grey knows because we had to tell him.”

“Wait, so you pulled over your fiancé last night?” Angela smiles at you before looking at Tim. “What did you do?”

“I ran a stop sign. Nothing you haven’t done. Don’t look at me like that Angela.”

“You’re dating a boot, I get to look at you however I want to.”

“So, Harper, is he good enough for me?”

Nyla purses her lips in thought. “Depends. Let me see the ring?”

You laugh, and Tim smiles before exiting the room, glad he can talk about you freely now.

✯✯✯✯✯

“Nyla wants to talk to you,” you tell Tim when you pass him coming out of the locker room. “Good luck.”

“Can’t be as bad as what Grey told me,” Tim replies, shrugging.

“What did Grey tell you?”

“Uh- well- I think Nyla needed to see me, so I’ll meet you at the truck in a few minutes,” Tim rambles, avoiding your question.

✯✯✯✯✯

“I’m glad we told people. Even if we were partially forced to,” you say, leaning your head against Tim’s shoulder.

“You want to show me off? I mean, I understand, but I thought-“ Tim groans when you hit his shoulder.

“I love you,” you whisper.

“I love you. Even though you’re a terrible fiancée.”

“Imagine what a terrible wife I’ll be.”

Tim tugs you closer as he responds, “I do. All the time. Especially when you pulled me over.”

[leclsrc]

more than anyone ✴︎ cl16

genre: childhood friends to enemies to lovers (a mouthful), smut, humor, Fluffff!!!!, angst

word count: 13.7k  

You moved out of Monaco at fourteen with an unrepaired friendship hanging by a thread. Ten years and a whole lifetime later, you’re forced to work with him confront it all over again.

auds here… hi hi hi!!!! HAPPY 4k to us guys!!!!! i am so insanely thankful for all of u and i will make this a longer note when i wake up tomorrow because i have so much to say but have this for now. i hope u like it,i love love love u guys forever also i changed the banner because i wanted to

nsfw warnings under the cut!

18+ because... penetrative sex, semi public sex, praise central, size kink (pretty tame smut in auds world)

You know it’s bad when your assistant-and-friend-aka-friendsistant (her vernacular) Rachel walks in with a free coffee without a quip about how dependent you are on this exact order of coffee (she’s a millennial, so caffeine and lack thereof are in her arsenal of Funny Jokes). You fear you didn’t correctly anticipate just how bad it was going to be when she stays instead of leaving to work on your schedule, combing a few fingers through her fringe and sitting herself on your couch stiffly. Maybe you’re intuitive, maybe you spend too much time with Rachel and you can spot the way she scratches at her eye, maybe both—but it’s bad.

You don’t take a sip from the Starbucks that sits idly on the coaster, opting to watch the latte sweat instead. You do stare, though, at Rachel’s stagnant posture, scrutinizing her every movement. She takes a few deep breaths and drops the bomb.

“David sent me to tell you he has good news. But there is, um. Bad news.” Dread writhes through you at the mention of your manager with bad news, and you clear your throat to compose yourself.

“What’s going on?”

She purses her lips. “He’s on his way over here. Just…” She cocks her head sharply to the glass door of your home office, expression antsy. “Sorry. Wait for him. I can’t tell you anything yet.”

You take a swig from the pity coffee. “Am I getting blacklisted?”

“God, you dumbass, no—” She makes an incredulous noise, but before she can open her mouth to elaborate, your manager walks in with an excited expression on his face, pocketing his Juul to take a seat by your table. His smile is the radiant one of a man over forty with a comical amount of Botox.

“Rachel told me you had”—you stifle the adjective—“news.”

“That I do, yes.” He hums, tracing the edge of your table. “Did you enjoy Paris Fashion Week?”

Beside the brash Frenchmen, God-awful timezone differences and consequent calls at half past three, hungover show attendances, posing for pictures until your ankles blistered, and a temporary diet of black coffee, cigarettes, and stale croissants—sure, it was fun. It was your job to attend anyway, your obligation to shake hands with important people and be photographed in designer clothing and benefit from the PR, but how often could people call work fun? 

“Sure.” You take another gulp off your coffee. “It was… fun.”

“Well, since your movie’s doing well,” David pauses and hums, “how do you feel about another few weeks of fun?” 

“Like Paris Fashion Week—weeks… this month?” You frown, eyebrows knitting together. Is this a new Vogue thing? You’re not sure how many updates they give the schedule, but you wouldn’t mind too much if you could travel again for a little bit. “So soon after spring? Did Anna want this?”

“Iiiit’s, er, Vogue’s new project. Capsule shows in Europe, coastal and summery. She wanted an exclusive guest list. She asked for you by name,” David says smugly. “Well, she called my office, granted. But to ask for you—”

“Are you fucking serious?” You stand up, and if you hadn’t had some fix of coffee you would’ve gotten dizzy. “David, tell me you’re serious.” Time seems to have suspended itself as you await his answer—which, if affirmative, would be a pretty big deal to you. 

“Yeah, I am.” He plays off a grin. “She loved your movie with Greta, and would love to send you to Europe to do PR on a few shows and pair up with some guests on a couple features. Exclusive stuff.”

You sit back down, mouth slack. “Oh, my God. I can’t believe it.” Your eyes dart to Rachel, who’s caught between a smile and an awkward purse of her lips. “Fuck! This is huge, David.”

“Yeah—okay, yeah, it is.” David shifts in his seat and crosses, then uncrosses, his legs, then his arms. He stutters for a second. “Good and bad news, remember?”

You blink a few times. You’d nearly totally forgotten the fact that this good news—and it is overwhelmingly good—comes with a bout of bad news, so bad apparently that it’s noteworthy enough to state alongside this massive deal. But it’s. Fine. It’s whatever. Worst case scenario, you’re going to need to fucking swim to Europe sans oxygen canister.

“So… the shows? Events, and shit?” He watches, waiting for you to signal that you follow. When you nod, he continues, averting his gaze to the face of his Patek. “They’re all in Monaco.”

Wrong.

“Monaco.” You repeat, deadpanning your delivery. It’s not out of the ordinary, the glitz and coast of the city being a perfect venue for high fashion. But Monaco is different for you, vastly different, and you tend to avoid the place to the best of your abilities. “Monaco. Are—you’re sure?”

“Mmm,” he hums in affirmation. “I know, I know you’re not exactly privy to Monaco because, bleh, childhood shit, whatever. But this—like you said, this is huge! And I don’t think we should jeopardize that.” He pulls a piece of paper from the folders tucked in his arm and waves it around.

“Well—yeah, I suppose. I’ll deal with it.”

“Yeah.” He sucks his teeth, eyes gliding over the scenery of L.A. that your window offers. “Okay, that’s it, so. Byeandhaveagoodlunch.” He slams the paper onto your desk, jostling you a little, but as he makes his exeunt, Rachel raises her arm to stop him.

“Is that it, David?” She asks, an edge to her voice.

You pick up the paper as they make hushed, stifled conversation, and find that it’s a call sheet of sorts, listing all the collaborators traveling to Monaco and what or who they’re in charge of, or paired up with, there. Models, athletes, celebrities, influencers—all making TikToks, or appearances, or brand deals, or interviews, or YouTube videos, the whole shebang.

“Yeah,” says David dismissively—nervously? “That’s it.”

You search for your name. “Okay. Um, hey.” Rachel turns to you, trying to catch your eye, which is busy scanning the sheet. “Did, um—did David mention you’re paired up with Charles Leclerc for a feature? Because you are. Paired up with Charles Leclerc for a feature, I mean.”

David sucks his teeth. “Thank you very much for graciously reminding me of that, Rachel.” 

Still half-distracted and growing increasingly worried with the exchange happening in front of you, you make haste in your search—eventually, you find your name, printed in plain letters beside one you’ve wished to never read over ever again.

“Wait, my Charles?” You pause and look up, suppressing a yell as your eyes widen, and you blunder over a pathetic self-correction. “I mean—no, sorry—Charles, as in Charles Leclerc? I can’t work with him, you know this!” 

“Wh—well, Vogue apparently wanted a really good Monaco-born pair and they seriously lucked out on you two. Also,” Rachel says, adamantly defending herself, “you’re always saying you can work ‘with anyone’!” She raises two comically vigorous air quotes to further her (moot) point.

“I didn’t ev—I never say that,” you lie straight through your teeth, mouth dry. You definitely do. You can place all the exact moments. “I would’ve known if I did. Rach—David—I cannot, absolutely cannot work with Leclerc. He’s my… we…” You shut your eyes and sneak two fingers upward to massage your temple, slowly caving into defeat.

David makes an oh well face and shrugs passively. “Fine. Then it’s either Anna Wintour’s special job that will help the Academy campaign or not meeting the ex-bo—”

“—friend.” You look up to cut him off, eyes narrowed. “Ex-friend.”

“Alright, kid. Suuuure.” David leans against the back wall of your office as Rachel comes to comfort you, her eyes already sympathetic and droopy. It shouldn’t be so bad, right? She asks sweetly, nudging the latte closer to your catatonic figure. You have seen him since, anyway.

With a despondent gaze, you just remain silent, refusing to state the negative aloud, opting to stare at the latte. At your disagreeable silence, Rachel continues, tone anxious: You have seen him since. Right?

You moved out of Monaco at fourteen, right after the school year finished and your father had gotten the opportunity to transfer out. The whole thing would’ve—should’ve, even—been a sentimental affair, full of tears and dramatic caresses of your bedroom wall, whispering thank yous to the city air in French and Italian, but it wasn’t. Months prior, you’d been preparing yourself for this kind of goodbye; but when it came to it, you merely kissed your extended family goodbye and slept en route to the airport, silk sleeping mask pulled taut over your shut eyelids. The only thing you left in the city was a letter written only to Gi and Cha about how much you’d miss them, with your email address scribbled at the bottom for an added touch, in case they felt like sending you longer messages.

“Do you two at least get along?” David asks, noting how genuinely aghast you appear.

“It’s not that simple.” You tap a nail against your desk a few times. “But I think it’ll be fine. I hope, at least. We used to be… good friends? As teenagers.”

You feel like an alien hearing yourself talk about it, talk about him and the whole circumstance a decade later. Your friendship with Charles was the only thing that mattered to your adolescent self, all lemonade stands and long car rides and stealthy conversations about your futures (racing and acting, respectively). It was happiness, in what you consider to be its truest form, it was lovely and real. And it ended abruptly, no goodbyes, no nothing.

“So it’s a no.”

“I’m just saying it’s impossible for me to work with him, and in Monaco no less?!” Your eyes are wild with frustration and anxiety at the prospect of your past whipping you in the face, full-fledged. “I don’t even talk about the guy or the city, how can I spend time with him there?”

“Are you seriously going to junk this amazing fucking opportunity just because of some petty childhood fight?” David’s tone is comparable to that of a dad’s, scolding and horrified, almost. “Look. If you don’t take this, career-wise, it doesn’t mean much. You get paid a shit ton, you’ll survive—you’ll do well. But emotions-wise? Maturity-wise? Be the bigger person and do it—I mean it.”

You stare back at him because you know he’s right. “Maybe it won’t be a big, long feature?” Rachel offers as some advice, some comfort. “If you reject it, his team will know, and so will he.”

And yes, you were fourteen, and yes it was petty and unexplainable even for fourteen—but there was a catalyst to all of this, a reason why the move became easy and forgetting childhood memories became second nature. A reason why you’re selective with who you make contact with from home. A reason why Giada and Charlotte are selective with topics they choose to bring up with you.

So, fuck it, really. That’s how you end up in Monaco, booked for the next three weeks, sharing a studio and public appearances and a 24-hour shoot with the last person you’d ever want to be in a room with. Ten years later—the person still is, and no doubt will always be, Charles Leclerc.

—

“MAMAN!” Charles’ voice was loud, loud, and so incredibly loud. You followed not far behind, legs running at full speed to try and leap onto his lanky figure and wrap an arm around his head to quiet him. It’d been futile: he ended up at the dining table facing his family with a victorious smile on his pink face. He breathed heavy, waiting for everyone to turn their attention to him.

“Charles,” you chimed in warningly, breathing even harder with the effort you had exerted to chase him from the sidewalk to here. “Don’t.”

“Guess who got the lead spot in the recital.” He slowly turned to point at to your angry face, and then bent, rifling through his already messy, grubby knapsack for something that he raised with glee: a headress that read…

“But-ter-cup.” Hervé sounded amused when he looked at your fuming expression. “You?”

“Yes, Papa! Maybe, just maybe,” he sing-songed, using the term wrong yet again, “she got the titular role!” He walked over to you and placed the headress square on your head, beaming. 

“There is no titular role in a school recital,” you seethed, burning with embarrassment. Your stellar academic record had apparently granted you incentive to be centre stage during the routine year-end recital, where years were lumped into twos or threes (in your and Charles’ cases, Years 8 and 9) and the student body would dance or sing a variety of teacher-selected music.

In your case, it was Build Me Up, Buttercup, complete with choreography you’d be practicing over the next month and a half. Charles laughed at your pouting expression, didn’t stop laughing even when you’d both sat down and twirled through forkfuls of spaghetti, didn’t stop chuckling even when Lorenzo got the turn to speak and he started talking about how Bringing Up Baby was his movie of the month.

You allowed him to laugh—even laughed yourself at some point—because all day, you’d been absently wondering how you’d break the news about your moving away to him.

—

Charles is not okay. He’d gotten off a red-eye from a short vacation stint, and now he’s back in Monaco, sleepy and a bit jetlagged, being briefed on brand deals and press junkets he has to accomplish by three p.m. today. “On the dot, sharp,” said his assistant, like the two didn’t just mean the same fucking thing. He’s patient, though, smiling through the exhaustion, through the dressing room, the tape around his waist and legs to measure clothes for this fashion… thing.

“A meeting for Ferrari, two TikToks, a vlog for your personal YouTube channel, three stories by noon… oh, and in the next few weeks, you’re going to film a Vogue-sponsored 24 Hours With… with—”

“D’accord, thank you,” he cuts in, already exhausted from the spiel alone. He’s a professional; no matter what people believed or what gossip rags liked to say about him, he maintains a well-kept reputation of being polite and kind to people he works with. Maybe it’s the jetlag, maybe it’s the lack of sleep, maybe it’s the heat outside, but today he just wants to close his eyes and sleep for days.

But the assistant follows, clipboard and Excel sheet and all, still spouting all his media obligations lest he forget (and mark his words, he definitely will). “Sorry,” he says. He’s new, probably assigned as a part of the Vogue team, lanky and tall and nervous looking. “I’m new. I’m Greg.”

Briefly, Charles is left alone to stare at his tired reflection while the assistants reconvene and connect. There’s several of them, each assigned or already committed to a different celebrity. Charles should know more details, but there’s only so much reading of a call sheet he can do before he’s conked out on Ambien; he trusts he’ll be around people much more famous than he is, probably American or English, actors and athletes alike. He’ll figure it out.

Yeah, she’s almost ready. Is Charles here? One of the assistants says, a bright-eyed American. They need to be introduced before 11. Her voice is quiet, quick and hushed, and Charles has to focus to hear what she’s saying. Greg chips in with something he can’t decipher; in response, the American whispers, Yeah, I’ll get her to sign it for you. Bring Charles out in five.

In five, he is indeed being brought out to the lobby of this hotel; the outdoor area is decked out with models, cocktail tables, Vogue signage and a carpet for pictures. It’s even busier inside, wait staff and event coordinators conversing in angry, aggressive French—table settings, mineral water, extra forks are needed. Greg keeps a steady pace transporting Charles through the indoor throng, and at 10:59, Charles is outside, by the pool.

“Um, right, yeah. Okay, uh—wait here. Your partner—not really partner, but like, mate? Fuck, definitely not. Um, partner. She’s on her way heeere…” He checks his phone. “Okay. You caught her name, right?” Charles nods to fend him off. “Okay. So, wait here.”

There are cameras taking pictures of him when Greg departs, some microphones waved his way; in the distance he spots fans waving crazily, sporting Ferrari merch. Charles is doing what he’s told (waiting, maybe posing a bit) when an even bigger crowd appears, surrounding one person; with their arrival, ameras click even faster, and an uproar follows. Greg waves him over, pointing at the person frantically, so Charles smiles, extends a hand, and when the crowd parts—

There you are, in all your glory. Pink dress, hair clipped into a bun, a tanline on your exposed skin, lithe hand coming up to shake his. Your eyes are flat but the lack of expression doesn’t inoculate them from beauty; they remain sparkling and pretty all the same. Cameras snap the interaction, seemingly innocent, seemingly the first.

He fights, he really does, to keep his hands shaking yours. He forces himself not to hug you, press a kiss to your cheek even if that might look friendly, caress a hand across your cheekbone, brush the tendrils of hair out of your eyes. It’s a valiant effort.

A valiant effort that pays off because, as soon as you’re ushered into a room by yourselves, your smile turns into a scoff; your hands are kept to yourself, slipping a pair of sunglasses on, and; underneath them, your eyes begin to roll. “I need a drink,” you huff, not even looking at him. 

You’re on two couches opposite each other, in what he assumes to be a foyer to a hotel room that’s much bigger than the one he was in earlier. A-list fame and that. The girl he’d seen earlier scurries off, mumbling something about a martini. Greg, beside him, goes: “Do you need a drink, too?” But he shakes his head.

“Are you voluntarily working for this guy, Greg?” You refer to his assistant by name, offering a sarastic, honeyed smile. You adjust the strap of your dress and he blinks his gaze away.

“Oh, no. I mean—yeah. Kind of. I was assigned to him.”

“It’s okay, I don’t expect you to do it of your own will,” you joke, crossing your legs.

Charles laughs dryly. “Who asked?”

“So he speaks…” You ping off his retort without missing a beat, a sardonic smile playing at your lips. 

“In the two minutes we’ve been around each other, you’ve insulted me and my assistant. I’d prefer silence, your highness.”

“Aww, did my joke and asking Greg a question piss you off?” You suck your teeth. “You must be fun at parties.”

“Do you two, um. I don’t want to, like, overstep, but do you know each other?” Charles notices that Greg’s forearm is signed by you and realizes he has no allies here, with an inward grimace. “Or if you don’t, like, are you two just… not in good moods or something?”

The girl comes in then, saying here’s the martini and catering you a sweaty glass with a smile. You offer up the empty space beside you, patting the white leather for her to sit down on. Your eyes meet his again briefly, catty and a bit challenging, before you turn back to the girl. “Sit.”

Maybe Charles spends too much time with Max, because he’s starting to become more and more inclined to getting the last word in lately. “Bossing people around, eh? Fame really does change you.” He offers a smile of his own.

“She’s my assistant, Rachel,” you say sweetly, but your smile is gritty. “We need to check my schedule.”

He wants to slap himself. “Too busy to open your calendar?” Nevermind, he’s a god.

Your sarcastic smile drops. “And what’s on yours? P6 this week, P7 next, DNF after?”

Fuck. The tension is so thick at this point, it’s almost steaming hot. Both the assistants stare at you, waiting for Charles to wedge something in, but he bites himself back. Thankfully, right as the silence just begins to settle like oil on water, the door swings open and one of the coordinators steps in, noisily rattling off the week’s plans and proclaiming you’re both free for the remainder of the day before things pick back up—Schiaparelli show at noon, both of you, front row—tomorrow.

The four of you filter out of the room, and you make a quip about your autograph on Greg’s arm, which grants your assistant some face time with Charles. She turns to him, combing a hand through her hair and furrowing her thick eyebrows. “Hey, I’m Rachel, by the way.”

“Charles.”

“I know,” she says sheepishly. “Listen. I know you two have history, she—we—she’s, um, told me about it before. I don’t know the whole story, and I’m not… like, I’m not saying I do, so I respect it, whatever it is. But I hope you can find it in you to work with her properly. It’s a huge gig for you both. So—yeah, uh. Great job, and good luck.”

She smiles with a nod before exiting the room, leaving Charles alone and stirring with thoughts and memories woken from wild unrest.

—

“Alors,” Charles had said, not turning from his position in front of your vanity mirror. He’d been picking at his face, stopping only when you tsked at him not to. “What is the problem?” His eyes flicked over to you, your lying figure on the bed exhaling little puffs of frustrated air to the ceiling. “Are you missing the recital?”

“Quoi? Non.” You gnawed at your lip, accepting your defeat. You couldn’t lie for much longer, not when you’d been keeping this under wraps for two months. “Listen. Charles.” He nodded, clearly preoccupied with something. “Charles.”

“Hmm?”

“Can you ple—look at me.” Your voice hardened.

He’d noticed it then, the curt cutoff of your voice, the absent look in your eyes. He knows you even through a mirror, even in the low light of your room. “Desolé. This pimple won’t go away.”

“Charles,” you said, groaning but allowing yourself to laugh. “Listen.”

“Okay.” He turned to face you, a spot on his chin red from how long he’d been scratching at it.

You shrugged then, suddenly scared to deal with the realness of it all. You didn’t understand why you felt so torn. “It’s something to do with me,” you said.

“Yeah.”

“I’m moving.” You rubbed at your nose, the cold draft coming in through the window causing you to sniffle. “Out of Monaco.”

A beat. “What?”

You closed your fingers around your necklace, scratching absently at the divots of the pendant. One, two, three little dips in the gold locket, tiny but comforting. “Yeah. In a few months, like, after school. It’s Papa—his job. It’s a whole thing.”

“Europe?” You shook your head. America.

“What… well, what does that mean, then?” His expression didn’t waver but if anything did, it was his eyes—desperate, seeking more answers, wanting them with a guttural, belly-deep desire. You’re his best friend, so if he has to let you go in this life, he at least needs to know everything about the move. 

“We’ll keep in touch,” you reassured, kicking your leg to further your point. “You were bound to get busy with karting anyway, so it’s like. Ça revient au même.”

“It isn’t the same,” he said, his voice thin and cracking. 

“You’ll be fine.”

“You have a very misguided idea of who I am.”

“Shut up. Come off it,” you laughed, sitting up straighter. “We’ll call everyday, and I’ll meet all the famous people who’ll get me a real acting job, and I’ll come for the holidays or summer or something. Things won’t change. Not that much, at least.”

“Maybe, just maybe.” He pauses. “Will you be here for my birthday, at least?” He’d made a big deal all year of his turning sixteen on the sixteenth.

“Charles,” you sighed. 

“No, yeah. I get it.” He looked down, rubbing his thumbs together, like he’s just been hit across the face. He will tell you one day it felt infinitely more painful than that. But at the time he shook his head and looked up at you, reached his pinky to yours, a thin slip of paper around the finger that matched your interlocked one, and didn’t say anything else.

Just: “We’ll be okay.”

—

You could pin a lot of adjectives on Monaco: picturesque, without a doubt; warm, glamorous, but you’d sooner die than pin the word home over it. The city is sprawling even with the little surface area it possesses, and only few things seem familiar. Your lodging is a hotel in Monte-Carlo, a penthouse suite that requires you to travel very little. It feels like a vacation.

And you embody the role of a vacationer very well—the first five, six days of your stay in Monaco went great, mainly appearances that lasted a few hours at most and several junkets to promote Vogue and your latest film, before you were free to do whatever you wished. You’d gone the touristy route already: shopping more times than you could count, trying your immense luck at the casinos, and eating at Michelin-starred restaurants; eventually all the fun blurred into each other and you found solace in naps instead.

Your troubles are not far behind, however, and they finally come after you on Day 7. The event coordinators had informed Rachel, who in turn informed you, that the first of next week’s agenda would be a photographed tour of the Musée Océanographique de Monaco, a grand seaside building right at the edge of the water. Today is, apparently, a day for you to “fraternize with” Charles, which meant you would once again need to put a façade over your less-than-kind appearance toward him.

Those are the concluding words of David’s very firm text, encouraging (read: coercing) you to settle things with Charles into some approximation of civility. You resolve things by calling him to skip over the awkwardness that comes with texting. It takes you all of twenty minutes and twice your body weight in courage to press the green telephone button.

“B’jour,” he goes, his voice quick. French people (he will hate that you called him French, even if it was just in your head; you relish in this) always talk rapidly. After some silence, he clears his throat: “Hello?”

Butterflies—some form of them, whatever—flutter in your stomach. “It’s me.”

He drops formalities and adopts a disinterested voice. “Huh. What do you want?” The butterflies have rotted to death.

“I need to talk to you.”

“To insult me again?” He sounds a little amused even over the phone, a breath of laughter landing in your ear. “Bah, I get it. We are enemies. You have no interest in reconnecting, et cetera. C’est tout ce que tu as à dire? I gotta go.”

Your face warms at his accusatory tone. “Wow, leave it to a guy to be charming, huh?”

“Why should I be charming with you?”

“At least be polite,” you taunt, but your voice lacks its usual edge. On the other line, Charles lets his own defiant tone ebb downward.

At least be polite. It’s the least he can owe you after ten years of forgetting. It wasn’t as if you two had a mutual agreement then, in 2013 when you moved away, to stop becoming friends. For months before you moved out, he completely stopped talking to you, like he’d forgotten you two were even connected, were even friends. What little words you two shared became petty and abrasive, and suddenly Monaco lost its color. The closeness you had with him, which for so long you’d convinced yourself was once-in-a-lifetime, was ripped from you, robbed from you—by him, no less, which hurt all the more. You’d given up on finding out why at some point. You waited for him to reach out. Maybe, you told yourself, just maybe, it would take a few months, a year.

Ten years of radio silence. He owes you that: politeness.

“It doesn’t matter,” you say to nobody in particular, in an effort to segue into the topic of your choosing. “Look, we’re supposed to be friends. In… on camera, at least. It’s disastrous if we look like we, you know, hate each other. We need to be professional.”

“For the cameras,” he says back, solemn.

“Yeah.” You wind a finger through your hair. “Just… for the sake of civility.”

You hear his little hums of consideration. “D’accord,” he says after a few minutes. “Truce, then.”

“Sure.” You smile a little. “I have to go.”

—

You were halfway through your mess of clothes when your mum peeked through your door, her hair held back by a headband. “Call you yet, poppet?” 

“Non,” you said, decimating your voice to a monotonous murmur. You looked up from the dress you’d been folding and offer a half-hearted, sardonic smile. “Je t’ai dit qu’il ne le ferait pas.” You were right: he wouldn’t call. What difference did a month make, anyway? This time, though, the usual victory of being right settled into an ugly disappointment in the pit of your stomach.

You wanted so badly to be wrong. To clamber to the telephone, to your Skype, to your cellphone, any of the three, and see his name flashed across the helm or his voice in your ear. Maybe he was dialing your number now, to ask if you wanted to grab dinner after the year-end recital, or to update you on karting, or to tell you Pascale wanted lunch.

She could tell, as all mothers can, that you’d been upset. The knit in your brows that didn’t go away, the bottom lip being chewed, the tight clutch of your fingers over the already-folded dress. She sighed. “I’m sorry, baby.” 

“It’s fine.” Your voice came out sharper than you intended and you have to roll it back, recede it, to sound more relaxed, more at ease. “It’s… fine. I’m fine.” She knew better than to pry, closing the door softly to continue packing up the living room.

You heaved a dry sigh to express the nausea that came with his absence. It began a month ago, two days after you first told him about it and poked at the zit on his chin. He’d buried his head in your shoulder until tears seeped into the cotton sleeve of your shirt, and you let him. You felt guilty, after all, for keeping it a secret for so long. You would leave in September, you told him. We have time.

Two days later he walked you home as always, on the “dangerous” side of the street, lanky legs skipping to the tree in front of your house. You pointed at the beginnings of clementines on its dewy branches, smiling, inviting him in, but he remained leaning against the trunk, playing with his mop of hair that covered his forehead.

“Bah, trop dramatique,” you said, poking fun. Lorenzo had showed you both some art house films he studied in class, and with the bout of French cinema, you and Charles had grown obsessed with making fun of overdramatic stills that often included the classic leaning-against-a-surface. “Come on, Mum made bouillabasse, I smell it.”

“We need to talk,” he eked out awkwardly. “I have something important to tell you.”

You dropped your knapsack, leather scratching against the concrete of the steps to the front door as you walked over to him. “Ouais?”

“I…” His lips moved, wobbled, but nothing left, so he shut them and his eyes, like he was considering something. His breathing slowed into one rhythm you find yourself unconsciously matching, just two kids looking at each other in the dusky breeze of Monaco, the orange sun casting shadows over the clementine tree. You closed your hand over his, a tight clamp over his knobby wrist with certainty. “I…”

“Say it.”

“I want to.” His eyes were shut. Exhale. Inhale, open. “I… I’m going… going home.”

You breathed out apprehensively and relaxed. “Oh.” You blinked. “That’s it?”

“Ye—ouais. Yeah. I gotta.” Already he was climbing to the gate, waving a half-hearted goodbye. “Save some for me, oui? Bye.”

“Charles,” you warned after him, voice tinged with concern. “That’s it, promise?” Your hand flexed around air.

“Cross my heart!” The last thing he ever said with any bit of something genuine.

—

You reunite with Charles at a meeting; under the guise of your truce, he makes the barely-necessary small talk. The rest of the staff file out of the restaurant in due time, but you both stay. You ask about Lorenzo and Arthur, leaving out questions you’d rather not listen to him answer, and he tells you they’re both alright. That his mum asks about you sometimes. That makes you smile. He asks if you’re still dating the guy you’d most recently been partnered with in Us Weekly.

“God, no. We never even dated, the… um, tabloids always make shit up.” You purse your lips. “Anyway. Is Lorenzo still in film?” You ask, turning your head a little. You don’t think you’ll ever forget his affinity for cinema.

“Not professionally, but I still sit through hours-long… you know, reviews, and stuff.” He laughs when he sees you laugh, eyes half-closed and meeting the ceiling.

“He introduced me to some of my favorite movies, especially when I got into acting and I was kind of… like, I wanted some inspiration, acting-wise. But not my actual favorite movie.”

“Which is?” He segues into a more personal topic. “Is it still Bambi?”

“Oh, it was, for the longest time!” You almost squeal with excitement. “Not anymore, though. It’s been dethroned, ha ha. I think it’s… I’d say it’s maybe Casablanca now.”

“How American.”

“Shut up.” Your face warms. “It’s so romantic. When he says—when he goes, um. We’ll always have Paris. And then, God—when Ilsa goes, I said I would never leave you—and Rick goes, And you never will… isn’t it so classic? Romance movies nowadays are—I, I, I… I get scripts sent to me that are just so bad, and they’re either too idealistic or too pessimistic, or too indie or too commercial, and.” You sigh. “It’s like nobody gets love right anymore.”

“Us Weekly disagrees,” he says weakly, after a period of silence.

“Stop,” you laugh warningly. “And don’t act like you’re not being paired up with different girls, too.”

For a minute you sit with the realization that you’ve both been keeping tabs on each other all these years, even just a little bit. It’s a bit jarring, it’s a bit warm, it’s a lot confusing. You make a move to ask for the bill but Charles is quicker, opens his mouth to implore your presence.

“Come see me tonight.” He says it like he didn’t mean to, like it escaped him on a whim, a blurted out confession born out of your memories and conversation. His voice is dreamy, faraway. “Earth to…?”

“Wh—sorry. Fuck.” You clear your throat and deduce your next words. “Where?”

“I’ll text you. A club, near your hotel.”

“Yeah… yeah, sure.” You hum an affirming noise. 

—

Your name is on the list, though you’re sure it doesn’t matter whether or not it was. No ID is needed, and paps catch a bouncer being dispatched to guide you through the nightclub toward the elevated area with significantly less people. It’s low-lit, smoky, vaguely blue and purple, smelling of flows of alcohol and fresh ice. An Azealia Banks song is playing, pounding through your head.

Tabloids don’t care about nightclubs. They care if you come out drunk or with a smidge of snow under your nose, neither of which have happened to you; entering is fair game, a fun affair, especially in a district like Monte-Carlo. You don’t have any explaining to do, not even to questions like are you clubbing with your professional Vogue collaborator, Charles Leclerc?

The collaborator in question is the first to greet you, getting up and approaching you with a smile so obviously tense. The picture in front of him is like if he’d conjured up a forlorn fantasy of his to life—your hair fell loosely over black lace, a hand pinched around the hem of your dress. “Hey.”

“Hi.”

“So.” He realizes he’s in charge of the socializing, and turns to properly introduce you. “Um, guys, this is my—friend—you already know”—he fusses over your name, which everyone in the world knows, anyway—“and these are my friends. Pierre, Alex, George, Lando, Daniel… you know Joris.” He points to each guy's face as he goes, eliciting a beam every time he gestures.

You wave with a polite smile before you station yourself beside the only one you know: Joris, with whom Charles shares a longtime friendship. He greets you first, with a side hug. “Long time.”

“Yeah, it’s been.” You watch him turn toward the low table, and back around with two shots, offering them to you with haste.

You thank the Lord that he makes quick, dextrous work of it, and before long you’ve downed a glass or three of some strawberry four seasons thing, socializing with the different people around the table. One of them, Lando, talks about your latest film for five whole minutes (“I rated it five stars on Letterboxd. I left a review, if you wanna see”) before he leans close and asks: “Are you his girlfriend?” His is obviously referencing Charles, and you pull back from the proximity to shake your head.

“No,” you holler to emphasize it. “We used to know each other. I grew up here.”

“Oh shit! Native!” He whoops, offering you another glass. This must be your fifth, maybe, fifth G&T or Cosmo or something or other of the night. You take it, drinking as you walk, planning to collect your bag to take with you to the bathroom—another hand takes yours, though, dragging you down the steps. Halfway through, you realize it’s Charles.

“How’s the drink?” He asks, brows straight.

“That’s all you wanted to ask?” You raise your voice above the bass. “Someone needs to teach you fucking… proper small talk.” A laugh involuntarily bubbles past your lips, eyes crinkling. 

He laughs, too, despite himself. “Non, I was—I was just asking. We should—I brought you over here to—so we could…” He realizes he’s been talking too fast without getting to the point and pauses, resetting himself with a pinched sigh. “Dance.”

Your heart pulses. Dance? You hear yourself ask. For wh…Why?

“For the sake of the truce.” His voice is light. “We should try being closer.”

“We were close once,” you say, loose. “Did you forget?”

He’s looking right at you, and you’re warm all over. “How could I?”

It feels too real. Not the words—yes the words—but the alcohol, the alcohol is what you’re referring to, and all those shots and drinks suddenly seem not as harmless as they’d seemed earlier. You scan the periphery for the WC sign and try your best not to look deranged on your way there, offering the same pretty smile to recognizing passersby. Behind you, Charles calls out; but you wave him off, heaving dryly.

The restroom is clean because the nightclub is outrageously expensive; you push yourself into the available stall that’s in your direct path and crumple above it. You heave. Heave some more. Nothing comes. The nausea rises and recedes, so you decide to wait it out.

The bathroom door hauls open, bringing with it a few seconds of noise before it swings heavily onto the frame again, sealing the sterile silence. The momentary return of the bass from the dance floor sends your head spinning all over again and you freeze, willing yourself not to wind up hurling your guts into the toilet. It’s a futile effort, though, because you’re feeling nauseated beyond your limit again, and you need water and maybe a salve or something.

“This stall is open,” somebody says, a chipper American voice that grows in volume as it nears you. A gasp follows, and then: “Oh, my God. Are you okay?”

You turn, your face flushed and lips parted. “I’m so sorry. I just—I’ve been nauseous all night.”

“I have water,” she answers, reaching her arm outward, as if seeking it. “Carmen, the water!” A bottle of Evian is thrust into her hand by another girl (Carmen, you presume), and she doesn’t hesitate to bend next to you to feed it into your mouth. She stares for a second, then goes: “On the off chance I’m lucky, and you’re the famous actress, by the way, I just want to say I’m a huge fan of your work.”

Eyes wide, you lock eyes with her and pull away from the water. “Oh, God. Yeah, that’s me. I’m so sorry—this is so humiliating.”

“It’s not—it’s normal,” she assures, nodding. “We’ve all… y’know, puked into a club toilet before.” From the stall doorframe, Carmen nods. “What’d you drink?”

“Fruity stuff,” you recall, eyebrows knitting at the memory. “And shots.”

They both grimace at the same time, knowing the exact feeling, the exact taste, it seems. “Are you heartbroken or something?” Carmen asks; Lily shoots her a look that can only really mean don’t ask the world-famous actress if she’s heartbroken. But you laugh it off, shaking your head.

“No. There’s a guy, though, and he’s… we’re… it’s a lot. I think I thought alcohol would absorb all of it, but… clearly, it did not.” Your lips simmer into a straight line and you’re quiet for a few moments before remembering you’re on a dingy club floor being supported by two nice girls who are strangers. “Anyway! Sorry. I’m clearly, um, delirious.” You get up on semi-wobbly feet, swallowing the nausea as you go. 

You walk to the sink, and behind your back, the girl and Carmen share a telepathic exchange (should we ask her to elaborate? Yes! Should we really? Fuck, no.) You rinse your mouth out, washing your hands and focusing on your reflection—your tired eyes, your smudged lip gloss, your fussed-up hair. You turn after rinsing, offering a small smile. “Thank you.”

“It’s nothing,” says the first girl, offering her hand and a tube of lip gloss. “I’m Lily, by the way. And just so you know—I’m so sure that guy has nothing on you.” Carmen, beside her, nods in solidarity, and your heart blooms.

Your smile grows as your hand shakes hers, accepting the lip gloss. “You’re too kind. Thank y—” 

“Lil? Baby, are you puking?” Comes a disembodied male voice from the door, ajar ever so slightly. Lily visibly cringes and walks over to the door, pulling it open further. On the other side—the detective of sorts—happens to be Alex, who you’d been introduced to a few hours ago. At the sight of you, his eyes widen with recognition. 

“We’re fine. Leave us alone,” replies Lily in a conspiratorial whisper. “Carmen and I have a new friend.” She doesn’t even need to drop your name; your face alone is enough to make people recognize who you are.

Alex, however, refuses to admit defeat. “Try harder next time.” He pumps his eyebrows. “We were introduced earlier.” He looks up and waves to demonstrate his truth; when you smile back, Lily’s jaw drops as she turns to her boyfriend again, aghast.

“What the hell? How?” A pause. “No offense. It’s like. Two levels of fame, right there.”

He makes a pinched face. “She’s Charles’… friend? I don’t—coworker? Something, something. They were both vague about it. Actually, George and I were talking about it, and we both think something is up. With them.”

“Wait—you might be right.” Her eyes are hyperfocused, and her voice drops to a whisper for a second. “Let’s talk about it at the hotel.”

You and Carmen watch their hushed exchange, and eventually Alex leaves you three alone again with a loud goodbye, which allows Lily to rejoin your conversation. “Sorry,” she says with a smile. “That was my boyfriend, Alex. I didn’t know you two were introduced! He told me you knew Charles?”

“Oh.” Your shoulders relax. “Yeah, um. We knew each other as kids, but I moved away and we kind of—we drifted apart, so. I’m here on a business trip, and he’s just welcoming me.” You try to reduce the decade-long mess into a sentence.

“So you’re friends?”

“Yeah.” You feel like vomiting all over again. 

—

The sky’s a searing blue at noon, silver clouds lining the horizon. Charles has to press a finger to the high point of his cheek to test if he’s sunburned from the heat, and the cameras catch it; he doesn’t doubt the fans will spin that into something cute later. You’re somewhere else on the property, this big, massive thing of a museum that’s crashed into by the waves.

He remembers Andrea first telling him about this whole arrangement. He and the team had deliberately left out any mention of you, like they could predict the immediate veto. He wonders if you knew, or if you, too, had been surprised when seeing him, a ghost of your past looking into your eyes. He wonders if you, too, are now in this endless emotional turmoil. Inside there’s a photoshoot ongoing, with you but also with some models in varying aquatic-related poses to convey the intent of the building; he’s done his share of pictures already, just needs to sit down with you for an interview. 

“And a B-roll of you guys, um, like, walking, like—around?” Greg’s voice invades his head again, the nervous man beside him running through a to-do list like this is boot camp.

You’d left him hanging at the club—he couldn’t blame you though. A truce hardly called for the bringing forth of memories you two are now supposed to have buried beneath you. Memories he buried first. But alcohol had loosened him, and maybe you had, too, your eyes in the vaguely bluish light and your smile.

He wishes to apologize. He makes up some excuse and finds you nursing an Evian by a faraway corner, against a screen of stingrays. Your eyes widen when you see him, in recognition. He waves and then, with a thumb, gestures to the catering outside.

You end up by the water eating one of the caterer’s churros, a recommendation he deems “very special.” (“Have you worked with these caterers before?” “No.”) It’s also his excuse to cheat on his diet and eat a churro or three—chocolate dip included, always. You rave over the taste, smile, enjoy the view. Charles realizes this looks deceivingly like a date, and at the same time realizes he would not stop to correct someone if they assumed so.

“Our truce seems to be working.” You say in-between chews, voice flat but eyes bright.

“It seems so. I owe that to my personality.”

You really laugh at that. “I didn’t know you had one. It’s very fit for someone as unapproachable as I am.”

“Who said that?”

“No, noth—nobody.” You comb a lock of hair behind your ear. “Aw, putain. I’m ruining my lipstick. Pat’s going to kill me. I look awful.” There are no reflective surfaces around you to affirm your statement, but you sound so sure of yourself.

He smiles. He enjoys the illusion, the mask that you two seem to wear, albeit involuntarily. The chocolate syrup he squeezes on your little paper box of churros. The muttered back merci when he’s finished. Your flushed face, eyes darting from the delicacy to the ocean, eyelashes fluttering, lips smiling, curving into a laugh at some random realization. Briefly he imagines what he might tell somebody if they stopped to ask if you were dating.

Some old woman, French accent and short in stature. You two are so cute. Si mignon! And she would ask how you two met. Charles would tell her the story. But that is imagination. He blinks out of it and focuses on the beauty in front of him, so very real.

“No. You are very pretty, you know.” He says then, and it’s taken him all his nerves and then some just to wrangle it out of his mouth and past his lips. Anticipatory, he watches you, waits for your response.

You comb the hair out of your face messily, licking over the cinnamon sugar on your lips; then you smile up at him, turning your head in question. “Sorry,” you laugh, and his heart’s frozen because it’s the prettiest sound he’s ever heard. “What did you say?”

The wind roars in his ears, so Charles barely hears himself when he says, stuttering, “What? Nothing, I said nothing.”

You make a face—confused, suspicious—but all your allegations quell once you bite into another churro, stepping yourself a path along the area. Having blocked off the building, production staff and models are all that populate your surroundings, big headphones and even bigger cameras, rolling around racks of monochrome and Hermés, Birkins to match Loro Pianas. It’s easy to get lost in a crowd—in a city—where everyone looks the same, and knows the other’s name. Perhaps that’s also why, even at fourteen, you were excited to leave, he thinks.

“The coast was always my favorite part about the city.”

He notices. The way your eyes have softened, become more fond than when you’re in the centre of it all, in the bustle. Here it’s busy, but less busy; the distinction, perhaps, matters. Your gaze is not one of distaste, of disdain. It’s nostalgic, homesick, yearning. He supposes he describes this gaze so well because it’s the way he catches himself looking at you over the week. 

“I wanted to…” He trails off. “I wanted to talk to you because, ah. I’m sorry. It was foolish of me to put you on the spot last night. I should’ve been more… yeah. I’m sorry. I hope you’re okay.”

You stare at the sea and nod quietly. Instead of responding, you launch a story: “I always…” You’re clearly lost in a different sphere of thought, and you have to fall quiet while finding the right words to say. “I remember, um. In Year 3, we—I came here with my mum. And I was super mad, because I got, like, three mistakes on my Maths paper?” You laugh and he does, too, but more because your storytelling is so effortlessly enthralling and funny and he needs to shut himself up.

“Anyway.” You pace around again, and he follows. “So, I’m mad, and she’s trying to cheer me up, buys me glace and everything, but no. So I go sit myself on a random bench. It must’ve been around here, I think.” You look around and point at an empty area. “There. But it’s—they must’ve ripped it out. Whatever. So yeah, I’m sitting there, and moping, and all of a sudden All You Need is Love by The Beatles comes blaring into the entire area.”

Charles’ eyebrows knit confusedly. “What, the bench area?”

“No—the whole pier, I guess? Like, it was loud, I almost jumped. And then this guy comes in holding this huge—this, um, board? Sign? Poster? And he’s got half the pier in on his whole thing, and I’m totally… it was just… yeah.” You smile. It’s the biggest smile he’s seen on you since you got here and the fact that he’s even around to see it gets him all warm.

“So what happened?”

“It was a flash mob. You know those—yeah, they’re usually insufferable, but that one was a little calmer. Nobody was, you know, dancing and yelling. It was just a bunch of people cheering and all, and the guy was actually proposing to his girlfriend. It was so cute.” You sigh a little, a brief exhale of air, and it turns into a smile. “I’d love that.”

He raises his eyebrows and, despite himself, laughs. “Vraiment?” 

You turn to him, ready to defend yourself, mid-laugh. “Heeey. Everyone says they find big, romantic gestures cheesy, but I think deep down, if you trust the person enough, you’ll like it. Maybe not a proposal, though—can you imagine the pressure?” You pause. “But I don’t know. There’s something so nice about just knowing that person loves you so much they think it’s worth it to share it to everyone around you. So even if it’s cheesy, I wouldn’t mind much. You?”

“It’s cheesy for me,” he disagrees, shrugging. “But I see your point.” Truth be told, he didn’t see you as a romantic type—but all he’s ever seen you do lately is work, and even back in childhood, all you ever did was study. He likes learning these little facts, ones you wouldn’t share in interviews—likes knowing you feel comfortable enough to share with him. “Dancing is a bit overboard.”

“Oh, definitely.” You throw your head back to laugh, eyes half-shut and crinkled and reflecting the sun. Would you look the same if he was dancing to The Beatles, proclaiming all the words he hasn’t had the courage to say?

—

Next question is who your first love was—we’re rolling in three…

“First love?” You laughed a little, facing the camera to continue your Screen Test interview with W. The questions had been candid and lovely, but they were about your career, which you answered with familiar ease. First love is different—uncharted, private territory. But you’d realized all this too late, and the director called go, and you let words spill out of you like a bag popped open.

“I want to be funny and witty and say acting, but that would be a lie. Um, my first love was a childhood friend. We lived near each other, our parents were friends, and I… I really did, I liked him a lot. But these—there were so many factors at tension with each other, like me moving away in 2013—that’s, what, six years ago now? And us being young and not really knowing how to communicate. When you’re a teenager, you’re kind of just like, oh, no worries, um, that’ll sort itself out, and then you grow up and look back and realize, these things never do. But I miss him a, a, a… a lot, and I think of him always.” Your smile didn’t reach your eyes when you looked at the camera again. “We learn a lot from childhood loves.”

Cut. Lovely. Just lovely.

“Thank you, Lynn,” you said with a small smile. A pause as silence creeps up onto the room, and then, quieter: “Could we omit that? I—sorry. I could answer anything else. First kiss, or something? I’m sorry, I just. Sorry.” For the first time in five years, you realize, you’ve conjured his memory again.

—

“Okay. What else do you remember?”

“I… do you remember the recital song?”

“Of course I do! The dance is… that’s a different story.” You’d been at Charles’ hotel room earlier to go over some video shoot regulations for a 24 Hours With video you’re doing in a few days. You stayed because—that’s beyond you at this point, and you’d rather not delve into the rationality of it all. You’re content with thinking about how nice this conversation is, a trip down memory lane.

“The dance, mon dieu, the dance.” He smothers a hand over his face, smiles fondly. “You were at the center!”

“Stop. Stop,” you protest, letting laughter settle into quiet. “It’s crazy, you know? How we… like, we share a life. Not—but like, we had a whole childhood together.” 

“And nobody knows.” It’s not something you keep a secret on purpose—it’s just that neither of you feel like name-dropping the other. Some stories have surfaced, but none of you have fully commented. Somehow, that’s a good thing for you.

“Do people ask?”

“People ask, yes.” His accent is a reminder of your past—you’d once had the same thick wraparound, the loose reign over English you’ve now grown to master. Now your accent is a lot thinner, to the point where it’s barely perceptible, and if it is, your coworkers and fans call it cute, chic, use it as a jumping off point to ask where you grew up. But in this hotel room, legs folded underneath you and glass of wine in hand, you have no coworkers or fans, it feels like; no one to perceive you but Charles. Charles and his accent, nostalgic and so very his, which you wouldn’t describe as anything but home.

“What do you tell them, then?” Quickly, you add: “The truth, or…?”

“That we knew each other as kids,” he says, smiling absently. “That is the truth, no?”

You cover a smile with the rim of your wine glass, nodding. There’s no revisionist history in that statement, but it hides a lot of the truth, the nitty gritty of it. You know it, he knows it, you both know it. “What would you want me to say?” His voice is soft and thin and imploring, so different from the boisterous voice he uses in public, from the slurred voice you heard in the club. This sounds real. This sounds like a conversation you would’ve had years ago in your childhood bedroom before everything went—

“Nothing, that’s fine.” You cut your own reverie off, clearing your throat. You even laugh, to alleviate the tension, but he sees right through you so many years later. “Unless you’re privy to telling people how we didn’t talk for months before I left.”

He blinks, smothers a palm over his face again, and sighs, eyes meeting yours. “I’m sorry. I don’t—I… I’ve wanted to bring it up.”

“I’m not mad.” It’s a half-lie. “Okay, no—I am, a bit. It just—it would’ve been nice to hear it two weeks ago.”

“I know.” He doesn’t even need to say it, but him saying it sends a low thrum of reassurance in you. Charles has found, in the two weeks of being in your company, that he accomplishes a sense of self—a sense of quiet, a sense of privacy—when he’s alone with you. Perhaps it’s your natural ability to bring out the best in people, to talk and loosen tongues and make everyone around you feel safe. Or, and this is on a likely front, maybe he misses being one of those people. 

He pretends he’s back to last week after another club rendezvous left you tipsier than the first time, dropping you off at your hotel room with two hands taut at your shoulders, one pinching a keycard. You’d been muttering something under your breath, stumbling as you went—you weren’t tripping too much, really; he didn’t need to hold you, but he told himself he had to—and leaning against the doorframe of your room, staring at him blankly. When he met your eyes, you said: maybe, just maybe. Just those three words. If he tries to remember right, you’d been smiling, but he was sufficiently tipsy, too, so he could just as well be wrong.

He does remember a few things right. The eyeliner smudged across your lower eye, lipstick smacked to a point where it looked like you wore none, beads of salt by your lip, your hand wrapped around your necklace. 

The silence is anything but awkward; still, he resolves to break it. “When you were drunk last week.” He looks up. “You said—you kept saying, maybe, just maybe.”

A laugh escapes you, stilted and a bit nervous. “Oh. That was—yeah, okay.”

“What’s it mean?”

“You seriously don’t remember?” You’re laughing for real now, your hair bobbing with it, eyebrows furrowed to emphasize your confusion. “Oh, my God. Charles, it’s all you ever said in Year… what, 7? I don’t… anyway. But when we were maybe twelve, I…”

Momentarily, you’re stunned by the memories of him—you’d forgotten they were even there. You press a few fingers to your lips and clear your throat. “Sorry. Yeah, I, um—I think you heard it in a movie or read it somewhere, and for ages it was your favorite saying. Maybe, just maybe.”

“I don’t underst—”

“—You were always just saying it,” you cut in, laughing, your voices layering as you discuss the origin of his former favorite term. “No, you really—”

“I don’t—I do not ever remember say—”

“—Well,” you say,  “I remember.” He stays silent for a few seconds, the intensity of your stare and the little smile on your face and everything beating down on him. For a split second he thinks of opening his mouth and getting on his knees and telling you everything, all the apologies, all the things unsaid in the months and years you became strangers. He seriously does. The pressure is almost physical, beyond overwhelming.

“I have to go.” You swallow the lump in your throat, disentangle your legs and clamber off the couch, setting the empty glass on his coffee table. “Good?”

“Yeah,” he says, blinking. “Yeah. Take care. Should I drive you?”

“God, no.” You laugh breathily. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

He closes the door after you leave, stares at it, as if that will conjure you back to him. It occurs to him, jolts him almost, that he’d almost let slip a quiet utterance of love you as you slipped out. His stomach boils. With thankfulness over not having said it, he wonders—or with regret?

—

“Best friends now, are you?” Lily, Carmen, and Rachel look up to the sound of your voice, their serious faces breaking out into smiles. If you could chart the time you spent here, there are definitely people you’ve spent the most time with—these three are at the top of the list. You hang your coat and drop your Chanel bag on the entryway seat, already picking up on the British noises of Love Island UK from the telly.

“Wait, so she’s hooking up with him?” Lily asks, confused; her train of thought is cut off by your flopping onto the bed. “Hiiii. Where’ve you been?”

Muffled by the bedspread: Charles’ place.

Silence. The television switches off and you hear the precarious preparation of three girls readying themselves for a debrief-or-sobfest of a lifetime, a noise you’ve heard and partaken in countless times over your life. You suddenly feel too watched, too spectated; you break the quiet by looking up, displaying your tear-streaked face.

“Talk to us,” Rachel encourages, her voice raspy with unuse (Love Island will keep one occupied and quiet for hours on end). Three of them are touching you in some way or other, reassuring grips on your hair or shoulders. “Did you two fight?”

And, oh Christ, fight? It’s not like you’re dating. You aren’t even halfway to that (not that you want to be, but that’s a discussion for another time). The idea of a fight with him is so terribly juvenile, so horribly reminiscent of secondary school and Monaco and being together and being friends. You can’t fight with a guy who’s not your boyfriend. You can’t fight with a guy you’re not close to, for Chrissake. You squeeze your tears out of your eyes and breathe hiccups out.

“Do you want gelato?” No, no.

“Love Island?” In a minute.

The truth is, you want both, but you really just want to sort everything out with Charles. It was no use—hating each other was futile, but pretending everything was fine in some pathetic attempt at a “truce” seemed even worse. You just want to talk everything out, even if it excavates feelings you’d once been able to suppress.

“What kind of crush doesn’t disappear after ten years?” You ask through tears. It’s almost funny, but the question comes straight from the heart. “I’ve dated guys, lived across the world, started a whole new life pretending he never—pretending we were—fuck. Pretending he didn’t exist. It was—I’m not lying, it was easy, pretending. But one glimpse—I see him one time and suddenly it feels like all of it was in vain. It’s the same crush I had before, coming back, like it’s never going to leave me alone.”

“Maybe it’s not a crush,” says Lily, slowly.

“So what is it then?” You ask, hopelessly. What is this—this revival of memories? This little feeling, this sense that no matter where he is or what he’s doing, you’ll be just as in tune when you reunite even if it takes a decade? A decade spurred by months of being given the cold shoulder? What kind of magic is that?

She doesn’t answer, because you already know.

—

“Hey Vogue—I’m here with Charles Leclerc, and we’re here to take you along with us on all our little adventures here in Monaco.” Your smile is rehearsed, the perfectly-orchestrated blend of fun and serious, and when the cameraman calls cut, it falls into a more natural resting face. It’s the one Charles turns to and observes for any signs of a grudge.

The day is busy, which is precisely why it was chosen as the film day: three shows in the morning, press junkets for your movie and Charles’ season in the afternoon, and then a gala in the evening, hosted and attended by Anna Wintour herself.

The day’s business is only trumped by its tension, which reaches its crescendo in the janitor’s closet of the fourth floor of your hotel. It’d begun with a fight over the color palette, then a fight over last conversation you shared, then a fight over him fucking up the color palette, and then kissing against the door. Ironically enough, this floor houses a fair number of honeymoon suites.

It’s ironic beause hardly anything about this is or should be romantic—it’s a temporary fix, a pause from the turmoil, his hand squeezing your thigh. He’s gentle but you feel his possessiveness, lingering longer, higher and higher up until he’s playing with the high hem of your skirt. You knot your fingers in his hair, smell the shampoo and hairspray and cologne in the wispy curls there.

He kisses your jaw, then downward, until he’s licking, nipping at your throat. Charles.

“Yeah?” His voice is rough against your pulse point.

“Make it—we gotta—quicker.” Your hands tremble, heart hammering loud and bold in your chest. His voice is sure, gravelly, quiet, and you have to focus on something—so you centre on his hands, up your thighs and slipping under the lace of your skirt, bunching the fabric up around your hips. His hands, big and calloused, fingers resting on your hipbones, on your ass.

He’s hard against your thigh, straining against his jeans. You could cry. “I want more.”

“I know, baby. I know.” The pet name, so new but so natural, sends you into a dopamine rush.

You squirm when he doesn’t let up on his touches, over every inch of your body, groping you. He wants to take his time—he hates that he can’t—and counts on the possibility of a next time. You pull him in for a spit-slick kiss, needy and whimpering, sloppy and tongues knotted. It feels good—fuck, it feels like this was all you were ever made for, his touch. 

You buck your hips into the air desperately. “We really—fuck. We don’t have time.” Cameras, a shoot, a video; reminders ring in your head like alarm bells. He nods, goes I know, and you pick up the strain in his voice as he tugs his jeans down just enough to rub his clothed cock under your entrance, hard and drooling through the fabric.

You moan softly. “Please, I can take it,” you breathe. You’ve never been this wet, this worked up, this teased. You need to feel him, be full of him; he presses you flush against the door with a hand at the small of your back to keep it from aching too much, and drops forward as he pushes into you. Your noses brush and he goes deeper, air thick and muffled with little moans and whimpers.

His mouth is against your jaw, thrusting slowly to get you used to the size of him. The angle gets you dizzy, draws a burst of wetness out and gets you clenching around him. You’re flushed and sweaty, moaning. Feels s’good. So good, Charles, so, so good. He fucks harder, the door rattling, dirty talk cooed from his lips to your ear: Yeah? Feels real good? You’re so good for me, baby, come on.

Your needy voice, needier movements, are driving him crazy, getting him to fuck you harder, licking over his lips as he watches you fall apart on his dick. Relax, he slurs. You squeeze around him and moan, wretched and raw. Oh fuck, fuck, fuck. You’re so big. You’re getting his dick wetter and wetter with every thrust, shiny and drooling with cum.

Yeah? He says it so well, the best kind of reassurance. Come on, we don’t have time, baby. Let me feel you cum.

I know— you whine. I’m cumming—it feels too good—

You cum first, thighs shaky around him and lip curling into your teeth. You lean forward, mouth to his shoulder, and bite at the cotton. Fuck, he grunts, and releases then, a groan spilled into your hair. You watch, laughing breathlessly, and feel the world click into something different. 

You two will do anything, apparently, but talk this all through.

—

The gala is big and extravagant and you’re seated not with Charles this time, but with a roster of celebrities straight out of an LAX red-eye. Anna is at the table adjacent, andy you were able to talk to her about the experience, though not without leaving out bits with Charles in them.

You’re beside Florence and she’s talking about something, about a new movie she’s working on, and you chip in with jokes and laughs but your smile doesn’t really reach your eyes. You’re still caught in a web of fragile confusion. “I need to excuse myself for a moment,” you say after a while, after you’ve done nothing but smile and push broccoli puree around on your plate.

Consolation comes with isolation, at least tonight, at least right now. You find an empty balcony on the third floor, stare into the black sea. You try and try to remember what life was like three weeks ago, but it’s irrevocable now, the change that’s come since then. You tap the glass of your beer bottle against the marble banister, solid and probably expensive—a match for the rest of the hotel, you realize. It’s starkingly clean and smooth, and white, the kind of things you’d only say about a marble banister when you’re trying to avoid an adult introspection.

Behind you: “Are you okay?” 

In response, you say, “We shouldn’t have had sex.”

Charles settles himself into a spot near you, not totally beside but not too far—he, too, holds onto a bottle of beer. There are fancier drinks around, but somehow the dry taste of ale is all that brings you comfort right now. Your gears turn and, without prompt or question, you spill yourself forth.

“It was hard, when you didn’t… when we didn’t talk, and you didn’t ever tell me why, so I didn’t know anything. I keep remembering it, even now, what—ten years later, ha ha, even after… I don’t know, after the fact. We’re supposed to have moved on from shit that happened to us when we were fifteen but I’m finding it to be the hardest thing in the world. It was so… like, I had no trouble saying goodbye to anything else but you. And I’m famous now, my life is a whole thing, a—this whole party, and I’m supposed to… fuck.” You shut your eyes, and you can feel, through the thick fog of embarrassment and delirium, the tears that stain your cheeks. “It’s like. You know when you’re a teenager and you see all of it in movies and TV, this, like, moment where you’re staring at someone from across a room, and you’re smiling and talking to other people and you’re happy because you know in a few hours, you’ll be with that person anyway? At home, rearranging furniture, feeding the dog, eating leftovers? That… I always thought you’d be that person for me. Maybe because you were the only—you know—the only love I ever knew, and now, what. Four? Boyfriends and ten years later, you might expect me to feel differently—hell I expect myself to feel differently, but, unfortunately for you and me, I don’t. Sorry. I’m not—I’m not drunk, or anything.”

He stares at you, his expression soft and unreadable. It feels like it’s just the two of you in the world today, twenty-somethings, ten years later, unearthing all you left buried. “I…” he says, before pausing. “I’m sorry for leaving.”

You nod in response. 

“I always thought you would forgive me.” His face is sullen and handsome and your heart seizes. “I wanted to be your person.”

“How could I forgive you without an apology?” Your voice comes out fragile. “I leave in three days. You’ve fu—you’ve… you’ve kissed me, had sex with me, flirted with me. You’ve done everything but that.”

“I did apologize. I don’t think it was enough, but—”

“But you didn’t,” you reply, a jagged response. “You never said anything.”

“I wrote you.” His eyebrows knit. “I wrote you.” 

“You wrote me.” You repeat, deadpan. Your head spins with it. “What, a letter?”

“An e-mail. Before your first film came out—2014? A year after you… yeah.” He’s quiet and timid and nervous. “I forced Gi to tell me your address.”

“I didn’t… I wasn’t using that e-mail anymore. I haven’t in years.” You pinch your nose and let the silence settle like fine dust onto the room, an unspoken bomb that explodes over the both of you, raining regret and unsaid words. “I have to go.” You push yourself off the banister, turning already to the doors of the balcony. He stops you before you can step any further, a hand closed over your wrist, rough and warm.

“If you find the message,” he says, “will you read it?”

“I don’t plan to,” you lie. “Goodnight.”

—

From: Charles Perceval Leclerc <cmhpleclerc@gmail.com>

Date: 14 October 2014

To: You

Subject: Urgent!

hey buttercup, I asked Giada for this email address. my bday in 2 days. Will you be home for Xmas this year btw? ill show you some new places that open ed + we can bike around. mum misses u a lot too. parfois je souhaite que tu ne partes pas… not sometimes but always. i think i need to edit this a little let me try ag

From: Charles Perceval Leclerc <cmhpleclerc@gmail.com>

Date: 14 October 2014

To: You

Subject: Buttercup

j’appellerais mais je ne pense pas que tu veuilles répondre. it’s been more than a year since you moved out, in two days i’ll be celebrating my second birthday w/o you. i’ve been karting a lot, things are looking up, just like we always said they would :) just want to say i miss you a lot, and i hope you’re doing good. i would say i hate radio silence but i know it’s my fault all this happened in the first place. i’m sorry i stopped talking to you last year when you were moving away. i was being childish, but the truth is it was the only way i could handle it - by pretending we werent friends at all… i don’t want to make you pity me or anything (ne pense pas que je suis) but yeah you’re my best friend and you always will be. i’m sorry for being a knot head.

i was always scared to tell you but it’s been there since forever: i love you. i should’ve enjoyed your months here instead of leaving you in the air. i know i ignored you but it’s the 1 thing i regret. should’ve done a lot more, i know.. but i didn’t. we have a lot of promises i broke because i was being selfish. i kept the paper ring to remind me. remember that? we had a “playground wedding” when we were 5/6?

tu ne me dois rien - i just want you to give me a chance to make you happy, even if it’s just in the way we’ve always been (as friends). if you write me back i’ll try and fly there. mum is always asking me if we’ve talked yet. if not, that’s ok. i love you all the same and i will love you as you reach your dreams. this will never change. 

charles

p.s: est-ce que je te manque?

p.p.s: call me if you can and wish me a happy birthday?

—

“Rachel, I would sooner die than wait another two hours for the tarmac to clear again.” You try to up the firmness in your voice but it fails, only serving to make you sound less angry and more agitated. When all you get in response is a muffled I’m coming! you grumble and hang up the phone. Your plane was delayed all of three times, and the instant it arrives and is scheduled to take off on time, your friendsistant is nowhere to be found.

Lily and Carmen had thrown you a goodbye party the night prior, with sprinklers and music and cocktails, and promised to be on the next flight to L.A. Vogue and David had emailed you for a job done spectacularly, and to watch out for the videos and interviews’ release dates. Twitter is raving about your movie. Everything should be good, and yet, it’s not.

You check your inbox. IM COMJNG LILTIERALLY IM RUNNING THRU AJRPPRT!!!!!! You scoff again, hoping the plane doesn’t somehow take off for the fourth time, and take a seat on the VIP waiting area sofa again, shaking your now-empty chai latte. The room, sectioned off from economy and business, is fairly full.

A woman paces over to you, a bright grin on her face. “Hi. I’m a huge fan.”

“Thank you,” you smile, despite your tiredness.

“This is so embarrassing—but do you happen to have the time?”

“Sure”—you tap your phone open—“half past four.”

“Great,” she says. “Thanks, Buttercup.”

You’re opening your mouth to say you’re welcome, but it catches like cotton in your throat. You watch her depart like nothing happened, a strange feeling settling in your chest. You have barely any time to answer it, because a flight attendant is tapping you on the shoulder, addressing you by name, thankfully. She maintains a tone of professionalism all throughout her announcement that the aircraft under your name will have to evacuate the runway in ten minutes or less.

“I know, I know—I’m just, um. I’m waiting for somebody. She should be near now, though.”

“Tremendous. Merci, Buttercup.”

“Wh—” You stutter, blinking and watching her leave. “What?”

She doesn’t turn, walking to the kiosk to exchange information with her coworkers. You look around the airport, for a camera hidden somewhere maybe. Perhaps you’ve been unknowingly listed in some Impractical Jokers skit.

Rach hurry you text instead, leaning back and hoping you’re in some grandiose delusion. Your phone dings. Omw promise! It reads. Then: Look up buttercup

Your head snaps upward faster than you can register what you’ve just read, matching the opening notes of a song you’ve grown all too familiar with in your lifetime. The opening beat to Build Me Up, Buttercup flows like honey through the room’s intercom and floods it with life.

Mouth agape, you watch as the staff and guests perform the routine you’d learned at fourteen, complete with hops and turns you were too embarrassed to do even then. They’re smiling and whooping themselves and each other as they go, finishing the entire first verse before turning collectively to the entrance of the room. There, in all his glory: Charles, wearing an entirely too-small headdress that reads Buttercup, worn dusty from years of being stored away.

He’s dancing, too, closer to you. You refuse to budge for the express purpose that he dance some more, which he complies with, though not without an eyeroll and an exasperated sigh. Your heart beats with something irregular and warm. You’d told him about this before. He’d listened.

The music settles for a little and the dancers do, too, so he takes the time to raise his sign. Will you forgive me? It reads. No pressure. Except kind of. You laugh, throwing your head back at the gesture, at this entire affair that must have taken some amount of effort to prepare. As the lyric comes on, so does his sign: I need you… more than anyone, darling.

He drops the sign when you approach him, arms crossed over your torso. He removed the headdress and places it gingerly on yours. “I believe that belongs to you.”

And, hyperaware of all the eyes and yet the complete lack of cameras—you’re grateful for it—you finally, finally, finally pull him in for a kiss. You’ve kissed before, done your worst, but still means volumes to the both of you.

In-between kisses and cheers (from voices belonging to Lorenzo, Rachel, Lily—so many familiar ones), he says it again: “I’m sorry. I’ll make it all up to you.”

“You better,” you tease into his lips, smiling. “I know. I love you.” Ten years later—your person still is, and no doubt will always be, Charles Leclerc.

[slowd1ving]

STRESS, STRAIN: THE TALE OF YOUNG MODULUS AND A FORLORN PHYSICS STUDENT ゜゜・BLADE DRABBLE

Dealing with a stalker roommate? No problem, Kafka's got the perfect solution: staying with the unapproachable and cold Blade. Teetering the thin line between sleeping on the streets and facing his rumored wrath, it sure is hard keeping your balance when the engineering student is anything but civil. gender-neutral, physics major reader paired with college au + band au (will come into play in another part I swear) see here for some basic designs for them warnings: some violence? consumption of alcohol, arguments, blade being a dick, college au wc: 6.3k

HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

✧ Perhaps it’s lucky that your acquaintance Kafka finds you at your most dire of moments, or perhaps it’s your Achilles-level misfortune finally catching up to you. Dorm changes aren’t particularly infrequent, sure—but dealing with a stalkerish, obsessive roommate is definitely story-material for when you’re downing shots. Literature major Kafka isn’t one to turn her magnanimous back on whom she considers a friend, even if said friend is currently wallowing their sorrows away by complaining about the lack of available dorms to make the switch and drowning in hard liquor.  ✧ Saviour Kafka, who plays for notorious metal group Stellaron Hunters (she’s a suave electric violinist), finds this a perfect opportunity to help out the cute guitarist from the rival Trailblazers! Her deft fingers are already sending a message to her pinned contact and drummer: Bladie, finally found you a roommate. Respond. It should be okay to put two college students (in bands infamous for their tense rivalry on– and off–campus) together in the proverbial lab rat cage; after all, neither of you are aware of who the other is behind the elaborate masks. It’s not like there’s a deficit of music groups at the Astral Institute—so who will ever know? Don’t ask how she knows the face behind the pretty Venetian mask. She won’t ever tell.   ✧ Honestly, she’s not sure how the bad blood started (she helped spread the rumours). All she cares about is doing you a solid!

“You think the streets will accept me for who I am?” Even with your head slumped over your forearms and the smell of cheap vodka clinging to your clothes, Kafka thinks you look naively charming in the dim amber lights of a bar pretending to be upscale. And by naive, she means very naive—for real, how can a physics major be so gullible as to not question their roommate’s deranged tendencies until it’s far too late? It’s hilarious. 

She’d dissect how this mood is perfectly, pathetically fallacious to your situation; yet her mind is too honed in on the buzz of her phone as Blade finally replies to her text. 

“Kafka,” you bawl into a stack of papers you’d salvaged from your ransacked dorm. “What if the asphalt doesn’t like me when I’m sleeping in the streets?”

21:48 > ok. 

Kafka, being an expert at metaphorical and allegorical interpretation, translates Blade-speak easily: let’s discuss this tomorrow, please and thank you. 

“Found you a roomie,” she murmurs delightedly, watching with her hawk-keen eyes as you sit up drunkenly. 

“That was fast, even for you,” you wipe your eyes cautiously—still wracked with the occasional hiccup. “Who is it?”

“Blade. You know him?”

✧ That sobers you right up.  Of course you know him. Nicknamed Blade for how cold and unfriendly he is, you’ve personally seen him in engineering lectures: making people shiver from just his gaze alone, and on one notable occasion, making his project partner cry after his infamously harsh criticism of her proposal. It’s common knowledge that he practises various martial arts, but the rumours that circle around him like vultures whisper of how he uses them on the streets. But whilst you doubt the reliability of the latter talk, it’s hard not to picture his hands dripping sanguine when his eyes glint the same shade.  ✧ Honestly, how bad could it be? It’s not like you have any other options unless you want to wake up with your roommate standing over you while you sleep again. After her, you doubt he’ll be any more of a walking nightmare.  ✧ Perfect!—Kafka is a bit too enthusiastic at your reluctant nodding, but you cast it from your mind as you pack your stuff with Caelus and Stelle standing behind you like a pair of twin guard dogs. One good thing about this is that you can finally take your guitar with you (rather than storing it safely at Dan Heng’s room) to the apartment—because of course he’s too good for the dorms. Though, after experiencing your batshit roommate, you really can’t blame him for avoiding this area.  ✧ Maybe, just maybe, the rumours about him being insane too are false and you can finally have a peaceful night’s rest without fearing for your life. 

Yeah right. You hate him. You genuinely hate the man over in the room next door. The passage of time on your phone indicates it’s only been a week since you showed up with five boxes of belongings and a nervous smile on your lips—but the agony you’re going through prolongs this mental period to eternity. 

Sisyphus embodies futility for evermore; as do you when you’re knocking on his door for the nth time to beg him to quiet down on his drums. The timings are so meticulous and calculative that you’re sure you could work out a linear sequence to this situation if you tried. 

Exhausted from the laboratory job you’re juggling on top of band practice and reading on Dirac notations? No problem—Blade’s busy expressing how you feel in terms of loud crashing and banging that you hate to admit is (very technically) skilled.

Recalling your first encounter—your nervous smile and his cold indifference as you moved into the room next to his—it’s not hard to imagine that he’d be inconsiderate of you. Those red eyes had slid right past you like oil on water: judging you to be not worth his time to even greet properly. In fact, it’s like he’s trying to chase you out so you leave him alone for good. 

The deep mahogany door swings inward, and you’re left facing an unimpressed, scowling Blade. With the way he’s clutching those drumsticks, you’d think he was about to skewer you—but you’re a bit too preoccupied with how he’s only sporting a pair of loose navy trousers that cascade languidly from his hips. 

“What do you want?” Laconic as ever, he gets straight to the point with his question—as if he can’t possibly fathom why you’ve come knocking. Just like this morning, just like last night, the night before, the night before yesterday’s—every damned night is a problem. 

“For you to invest in soundproofing,” you scowl back, too tired to keep up the fragile facade of politeness. At least when you practise with the electric guitar, you can easily hook it up to a pair of headphones and protect the sanctity of silence elsewhere. Actually, you don’t think he even knows your guitar exists with how considerate you are of your asshole roommate. 

“Why should I?” he crosses his arms, looking directly down at you. If you looked closely, the slight stretch of his lips resembled a smirk—but you’re definitely mistaken, since the man never so much as smiles. The cold expression accompanying his crude words sums up his thoughts: if you don’t like it, beg Kafka for whatever other solution she has. 

His inky hair sways from where it’s tied back, and you resist the urge to yank it until he sees sense. 

“For better quality of life,” you grit out. 

Those eyes turn into sardonic crescents. “I’m good.”

And the door is shut. 

✧ Fortunately, you’ve managed to fall asleep in the middle of the practise room before on countless occasions; tuning the heavy thumping comes easy after a while when you’re exhausted and practically dead on your feet. The problem is during the day—doing your assigned reading and writing up results from practical work comes much harder when you’re constantly accompanied by the rhythmic percussion of a madman who favours metal. It gets so rowdy that you seriously consider whether he’s part of the Stellaron Hunters and knows you’re a Trailblazer—it would make sense, after all, if he was just feeling extra spiteful. However, from the trembling students claiming to be his previous roommates, this is just common treatment: him basically telling them to beat it and never return.  ✧ Two can play at that game. Upon complaining to Kafka of his (rage-inducing) musical tendencies, she suggests that you get back at him with your electric guitar. Don’t ask her how she knows, no she’s not trying to instigate and watch the chaos—Kafka attempts to reassure you. You don’t trust the shady writer one bit, but both Data Analysis major Dan Heng and Environmental Studies student March 7th give the plan the go ahead. If you’re not mistaken, you can hear a touch of personal grief in the normally composed Dan Heng’s voice—something so poignantly irritated you wonder what the story between them is.  ✧ Contrary to his nonchalant attitude, it’s clear he’s annoyed by the loud chords that buzz through the apartment. As soon as he picks up his drumsticks, you plug the guitar to the amps and thoroughly mess with him. You know enough from Caelus’ repertoire to place each genre of music Blade starts to play (which is limited to metal). No problem—you play various styles that decidedly aren’t metal and are so discordant with his own tempo you can’t help but keep a grin on your lips. He’s much too stubborn to knock on your door, but the irritated twitch of his eyes in the kitchen belies just how aggravating this is. And when you know he’s scrawling down notes for his classes, that’s when you’re practising your metal riffs and playing around with the fretboard. If you’re feeling particularly nice, you’ll play along to some darkwave gothic music—something relatively more calm—but these occasions are few and far between. 

Chromatic eyes pierce your back while you deftly chop vegetables for your dinner. Really, now’s the best time to do work: when you’re busy with cooking and not insistent on plaguing him with jarring melodies. For someone so logical when it comes to his meticulous classwork, he sure doesn’t seem it as he leans against the counter on the other side of the kitchen—sipping water and just staring at you while you Julienne an onion. 

You shoot him a withering glance as you toss the slices into a bowl on the side, and he glares at you with a matched fervour. If it weren’t for the fact that you literally don’t have anywhere else to go—Caelus doesn’t even have a couch for you to sleep on—you’d have moved out a long time ago. 

It’s a rustic space: sage green cabinets filled with charming, mismatched plates and cups; glossy white counters that house various herbs and the occasional plant; a lacquered table in the middle that has a vase holding a singular dried flower. An orange lily—still retaining a vibrancy that conceals just how long it’s been there. You wouldn’t have expected this style of decor from him, but at the same time, you doubt it’s his influence so much as Kafka’s. 

“Do you have a problem?” you probe icily, turning back to where you’re slicing a carrot into thin matchsticks; if there was a god somewhere, you’d hope it could transfigure the man behind you into the root vegetable you’re enthusiastically chopping. 

“No.” And when he speaks again, he’s right behind you. There’s a sink to your left, but he’s much too close as his breath ghosts over the nape of your neck. Affronted, you turn around; only to watch as his eyes widen minutely, glass of water slipping out of his grasp and spilling down your front. 

“You dickhead.” Your hands angrily grab at his collar—unheeding or perhaps uncaring of his reputation for violence as you feel the cold seep into your skin. You’re seething; for someone with such good reflexes, this is a new level of low in attempting to chase you out. Or perhaps it’s revenge for finally getting under his skin. “You did that on purpose, didn’t you?”

It’s a little too late when you realise the position you’re in: skin showing through the translucent material, breathing shallow from your infuriation, face glaring right up at his. 

“Sorry.” His voice rings out insincere—and there’s that damn faint smile still toying at his face as he looks directly at you with that heavy gaze. “My hand slipped.”

You shove him back, too disgusted to acknowledge him any further. Maybe if you turned back around, you’d see the tiniest pricks of red on his face as you tossed your soaked shirt into the washing machine—leaving you in a damp vest while you continued cooking for yourself. Maybe if you looked back at least once, you’d see the amusement in his eyes as you maul the bok choy on the cutting board. 

Those are maybes.

There’s particular things you know for certain. One, you despise him and his existence. Two, he abhors you and your entire being—because why else would he be so insistent in making you leave out of your own volition?

✧ It’s the time of year that you hate: joint engineering classes so you can cover the materials aspect for your physics studies. Well, it’s not like you hated it from the very beginning—you’ve hated it ever since you realised that once again, you’d have to be in the incorrigible presence of Blade. While he did finally install some soundproofing in his room, he’s taken it upon himself to linger wherever you’re present. Typing up your notes on the deep maroon couch with a mug of lavender tea perched on the coffee table? He’s in the window seat, looking over a thick reference manual for tensile strengths. Going to meet bassist Dan Heng so the two of you can play around with various lines for your next song? He’s at the convenience store you briefly stop at, gazing at you before he glares at your friend. Practising a slow solo in the living room (it’s really got the best ambience)? He’s tapping out a beat that you can very faintly now hear—one that surprisingly goes with the electrifying chords.  ✧ Point is, you’re ignoring him and his presence—while he’s inching ever closer. It comes to a head at the lecture hall; you decide to sit in the third row, since it’s both far from the back (where he usually frequents) and it doesn’t make you look like a beg. When you glance at his predestined seat, it’s empty—unsurprisingly as he’s there usually a minute before the professor—while the seat next to him is taken by a girl you’ve seen before. Despite his horrible personality and the (probably true) rumours surrounding him, there’s a few stragglers who genuinely want him. And you genuinely want those people to seek help because it’s clear something went wrong in their lives for them to be thirsting over a man who looks like he eats cigarettes for breakfast.  ✧ He comes in late, as you expect, but you freeze as he places his bag down next to you. Aghast, you can’t help but stare; yet for once he’s not meeting your eyes, and it’s far too late to make a scene and move elsewhere—not when the professor’s just arrived and is keen to start the lecture for materials. He doesn’t talk much, but you’re so distracted by his presence pressing slightly into your sides that you forget that today the professor’s deciding on the pairs for your projects—mouth agape, you stare in shock as she assigns them based on who’s sitting nearby. To be generous, she says, yet there’s nothing generous about this arrangement as his mocking eyes meet yours. He knew, you seethe, storming out of the hall right as the class wraps up. 

“I hate him.” Your molars grind bone-against-bone as you harshly press angry chords into the fretboard. “I hate him so so so so much.”

“Who are you talking about?” March 7th—in charge of the synthesiser—glances first at the bassist to your side, then back at you. Her eyes are wide in sympathy, yet it’s useless in the face of your despair. 

“Blade.” Poetically, the word is accompanied by the deep twang of Smoke on the Water as your fingers move mindlessly on your precious baby. What, your roommate?—she queries. No, a pet fish—Caelus responds, but you tune them both out. 

“He knew the professor would assign groups like that,” you groan. “That’s why he sat next to me.”

“He’s definitely trying to get you to leave his apartment out of your own will,” Dan Heng’s smooth cadence is somewhat soothing—and his conjecture is one you’ve come to yourself—but the accompanying baseline he’s playing to the song makes his theory sound comical. “But he won’t screw up his own project like that.”

You sigh, and the melody falls apart as you bring it to a grinding halt. 

“Believe me, I know just how much he values his projects.” Your head throbs upon thinking about that poor girl sobbing, and the bassist coughs to stifle a laugh. 

“What did he say that one time? ‘Your vapid idea would be better used on death row than as a functioning building’,” Stelle—the vocalist and also the only Psychology major you know who doesn’t unnervingly stare at you—imitates the deep reverberations of his voice, and you’re astonished at how it’s recalled verbatim (down to the exact adjective).

“I’m surprised it got round that far,” you suppress a smile—after all, it’ll be your head on the chopping block next. “You should’ve gone into theatre like Caelus did.” 

What a waste of talent, you shake your head mock-ruefully, which quickly turns to true woe as you realise just the predicament you’re in. 

✧ It’s not a complicated assignment. Well, it shouldn’t be: designing a sound structure based on the whims of the architectural class (whom you loathe); except that Blade is notorious for being a severe critic for civil engineering partnerships—like seriously, out of all hills to die on and it’s civil engineering. You begrudgingly create a new contact for him in your phone; a digital space just for him, which almost makes you throw up at the thought.

(+2 unread messages) <Dickhead> (new contact) 10:11 > library.  10:11 > east block, 20 minutes.

You stare incredulously at the chat, which is neither phrased as a question nor a request but an encrypted demand. The fuck? Infuriated, you take the break between your reps now rather than later, swilling down water while you irritably type out a reply. 

No can do. < 10:15 I’m busy. < 10:16

The reply comes less than a minute later; three dots animating themselves into existence while you wipe the sweat off your face with a towel. This prick. Well, it’s not so much a reply as an acknowledgement of your words—because he doesn’t reply, but rather your phone starts buzzing and you fumble while looking at the expletive lit up brightly on the screen. 

You’re sorely, sorely tempted to press the red receiver on the device. 

“What do you want?” you scowl, and you hope it translates through your voice that you’re revolted by his mere radio presence. 

“Where are you?” He ignores your question; voice vibrating low through your headphones, and you can’t help but shiver, just a little. Even through the thick towel, you can still feel crescents being formed in your palm from your nails—you sincerely wish you were throttling him instead. 

“None of your business.” 

There’s a budding migraine blossoming to life in your temple as you finally hang up. You think that’s the end of it—after all, it was literally yesterday that the groups were assigned. 

But when you shoulder the gym door open—skin still damp and warm from your shower, clean clothes sticking ever so slightly to laved skin—there’s a sleek car parked outside, and you frown when Blade opens the driver’s door. 

“I’m going to report you for stalking,” you grit out, pressing your body to the cool glass of the building. “How the fuck did you know where I was?”

“Kafka,” he replies simply, and of course, that crazy woman was the one who viewed your private story and sent it to him. “I’m picking you up.”

“No you’re not.” Seriously, he thinks you’re that easy to convince—

“I’ll shut the fuck up with the drums for these two weeks.” 

It’s almost miraculous how quickly you slide into the passenger seat. 

✧ You’ve never been in such close proximity to him before (if you don’t count that day in the kitchen). At least, voluntarily. When you close your eyes and lean back against the headrest, you can smell the faint, woody scent of his cologne. It’s different from the putrid tide of Axe the average engineering student drowns themself in—rather, it’s got the deep undertone of oud and something sweeter. You don’t expect it; maybe if he smelled like first impressions, he’d stink of blood and a dumpster fire.  ✧ Don’t fall asleep—he remarks, and you can feel his eyes on you briefly. Eyes on the road, prick—you retort, but your own lids are still tightly shut. Therefore, you don’t see how his gaze traces the remaining water droplets from your shower: how his hands linger on his gear stick so he can feel the emanating warmth from your damp thigh.  ✧ He freezes. Gross. He doesn’t like anyone, and only tolerates the rest of the Stellaron Hunters since they’ve seen him at his lowest and yet still find ways to bug him. And you. He wasn’t expecting you to last as long as you have. He certainly wasn’t expecting you to irritate him in your own way, and actually manage to aggravate him enough to force him into soundproofing his room. Actually, he still doesn’t know why you did that. He doesn’t know why his heart picked up slightly at the sight of you in that soaked shirt. And in the end, he still doesn’t entirely know why he chose to sit next to you for that lecture instead. It’s to annoy you, he decides. No point in deliberating too much about it.  ✧ It’s surprising that the two of you don’t immediately argue over the project; some eco-facility for sports that surprisingly was chosen unanimously by the pair of you. Eyes flitting to each other and back, it was a miracle you both had the same idea somehow. And it’s surprising when despite your lack of experience in civil engineering like this (you usually opt for mechanical on projects like these), you carefully consider the missing parts in his outlines—security cameras, sound systems, and tiny edits to the structure to really amplify the architecture.  ✧ He doesn’t mind your presence. That’s what shocks him. As you doze off with your head pressed into the crooks of your elbows, he doesn’t reprimand you like he would with anyone else. Instead, he places the material reference guide down and stops considering cement foundations. Before he gets the chance to poke your forehead, your phone buzzes against the table—lighting up with a name he didn’t think he’d see.  ✧ Dan Heng. He knows you’re friends with the guy, but there’s a burning sensation as his eyes watch the pop-up turn into another message, then another. What does he want? In real time, there’s a particular irritation that blossoms with each new notification. 

<Dan Heng> 20:19 > Are you still up? 20:19 > My roommate’s going to move in with his girlfriend, so you’ll be able to…

The message is cut off, but Blade isn’t stupid. He knows exactly what the implication suggests, and there’s a certain coolness in his eyes as he stares the message down. Isn’t this what he wanted? Yes, this is precisely the ending he hoped for: you moving out and him getting his space back to himself. 

But the issue stems from Dan Heng. He can’t have that. He can’t have you moving in with that man of all people. Anyone else would be fine, he insists to himself. 

Dan Heng. Dan Heng. Dan Heng. 

There’s a certain hypothesis he’d like to test. With your guard down like this, he snaps a photo of you with the drool leaking onto your sleeve—sending it directly to you. Just like clockwork, your phone lights up once more with a message. It’s not ‘Blade’ that’s texting you. 

<Dickhead> 20:20 > [photo.jpeg attached]

He grits his teeth, clutching his textbook until his fingers ache from the strain. No, he won’t give that bastard the satisfaction of taking his roommate like this. 

He’ll play nice. When you find someone who works this efficiently with you, while managing to hold their ground under his intimidating gaze, it’s hard not to want them to not scurry away. 

Eat shit, Dan Heng.

✧ Somehow, mercifully, you manage to complete the project with that weirdo. It’s strange—he’s surprisingly more cordial than ever. And with his inky hair pulled into a loose bun, glasses perched on his straight nose—it’s hard to imagine he’d ever made that poor girl cry in front of everyone like that, but you’d witnessed it yourself. So with a sigh, you remind yourself that he’s just as much of an asshole as the rumours say. But, staring at him so relaxed like this, these two different Blades are hard to ever merge.

“Something on my face?” He’s still writing with his glasses sliding down his nose. He sounds irritated, as per usual, but the tiny smirk painting his face lets you know that no he’s not irritated, he’s just being an arse just as always. 

“Yeah, pen,” you mutter, looking away as he finally glances up at you. When you glance back at the desk where your laptop precariously shows the still-unfinished presentation slides, he’s gazing up at you with an indecipherable look in his eyes. 

It almost puts to rest the image of a dickhead. 

“There’s no pen, though,” he purrs, voice low while he rests the manual back on the table. “I’ve been reading all morning.”

Nevermind—he’s as much of an asshole as he regularly is. 

“Who knows,” you comment offhandedly, slowly sliding a blue biro your way as soon as he looks back down. There—you attempt to inch forward to draw on his face, but he catches your wrist from across the table between you. 

You freeze. Shit, you screwed up. With how relaxed he is, it’s getting easier and easier to forget the rumours of his bruised knuckles that follow him like a shroud. His eyes glance coolly at you, then at the incriminating weapon within your fingers. 

“What are you doing?” Maybe he’s the questions first, beat up later kind. 

“Getting revenge.” Shameless, you think, but definitely not as shameless as getting told to effectively shut up with the drums yet having the audacity to keep going louder. 

His lips part, and your eyes nearly stray to the pink colour of them. Then, he smiles—something so cynical and disturbing you can’t help but shiver and twist your arm out of his hold, all so you can watch him askance. 

“I can see why people find you scary,” you shudder, tapping your biro on a square notepad. 

“And you don’t?” An innocuous question, but one that almost sounds accusatory. 

“Nah,” you make a disgusted noise, like you’re trying to suppress vomit. “You’re just a prick.”

In the end, that same prick ends up rolling his sleeves upon your request so you can litter blue ink upon his forearms. With how pale he is, it resembles delicate ceramics painted with cerulean landscapes. And while you do include etched illustrations and swirling designs, you make sure to include several phalluses dotted around—just so he lives up to his contact name. 

“Wow,” he remarks sardonically. “Maybe you should quit physics and join the liberal arts programme.”

You ignore him, taking a few shots of your handiwork and sending them to Kafka, captioned I feel like this truly reflects his personality and making sure all the tiny dicks are in full focus. 

“Maybe I should,” you shrug. “Then I wouldn’t have to deal with you, at least.”

“Likewise,” he responds, but it’s not as satisfying to think about you quitting as he thought it would be. 

It’s stupid. He finds that he doesn’t want the ink to wash from his arms, not so soon. 

When you log into your account to touch-up the presentation, you spot the comment he left back in the library on the presentation slides—timestamped to the exact twenty past five. 

17:20 > Maybe if you stopped staring at me, we’d be done sooner. 

It’s the longest sentence he’s ever typed out to you—but that’s exactly what makes it so galling. 

go fuck yourself < 22:31

22:31 > ooh you want me so bad aha

You pause, staring incredulously at the text, then to where the bathroom’s situated. The water’s definitely running.

… < 22:32 damn this idiot’s really getting scammed and hacked < 22:33 crazy < 22:33 [feynman’s twin] sent laughing emoji < 22:33

22:33 > on the daily lmao 22:34 > same two old man passwords for everything

Types like one too < 22:34

22:35 > right?? 22:36 > we should be friends btw 22:36 > [Blade.] sent contact silver-W

Dang he really put a period after than name too < 22:37

22:37 > top ten edgelords 22:37 > [Blade.] sent laughing emoji

[feynman’s twin] sent laughing emoji < 22:37

It’s not until the morning when he’s looking over the (surprisingly well-done) slides that he finally notices the string of (highly unprofessional) messages that he definitely did not write. 

His head throbs and his eye twitches as he reads through them—burning holes through the wall separating him and you. He hopes you receive the subliminal nightmares he’s so graciously sending you. 

It’s a fiercely deliberated decision. With a heavy heart, he finally presses [backspace] on the typo next to his nickname. 

He only hopes you won’t notice. 

(Silver Wolf notices—immediately screenshotting the new handle [Blade] and sending it to you.)

✧ Good things come in threes. Getting through this project, not getting beat up by that nerd, and getting through the presentation smoothly. By that, you mean you do most of the speaking while Blade clicks through the slides. However, contrary to all expectations, his voice comes low and rich—neither stumbling through the knowledge nor forgetting the important parts. It’s so shocking you can’t help but stare at him; something he definitely notices, judging by the self-important smirk he sends you.  ✧ Perhaps a little too good. The pair of you leave the lecture hall separately—after all, it’s not like you want to be in his presence any longer, and he doesn’t particularly want to be in yours either. But you do want the sweet energy drink that’s been chilling in the shared fridge for the past few days: as tantalising as the very nectar of the gods.  ✧ It’s when you enter an alleyway shortcut that you witness her—your old roommate. Vaguely, you recall she used to have a crush on Blade (a match made in heaven if there ever was one); perhaps that’s why she’s inching towards you with a pipe that is tetanus’ wet dream—so grimy you think you’ll immediately die if you’re struck by it.  ✧ All this over him?—you think with disgust as you try back out of the alleyway, only to collide with the towering body of her boyfriend: some guy unfortunate enough to be entrapped by her pretty face and definitely not her personality. She doesn’t want you, and he (aforementioned: Blade) doesn’t want her either. It’s rather tragic, but woefully you can’t spare any pity for them: not when you’re about to get beat and for what? A successful presentation with Blade?  ✧ They’re amateurish enough that you manage to evade them for a minute, but the alleyway’s too narrow to slip past them, and you’ve never been in a fight like this.  ✧ You’re cornered when he appears: some twisted knight he is.

“You’re late,” you heave, bruises on your knuckles and that man’s face. 

“You…” Blade trails off as he sees the blood spatters on your clothes, and his expression twists into one he’s glad you can’t see—not when his broad shoulders face you in an impenetrable wall. The two idiots—Tweedledee and Tweedledum, judging by how disturbingly gullible they are—stiffen immediately upon his timely arrival. 

He’ll handle it like he always does. 

But it’s certainly strange. Why does he feel so much angrier than he does normally?

✧ It’s late afternoon: dusk barely kissing the rooftops of the city, stars just about peeking from the violet firmament. You didn’t ask questions when he made enough space for you to slip out the alleyway: heart lodged in your throat as you quietly sat down at the local café with blossoming pain in your ribs and fists. Stupid, you were stupid to think that crazed girl would ever leave you alone.  ✧ Maybe it’s counterintuitive to feel safe when he steps into the small building. He smells faintly of blood: a terrible, metallic odour spilling onto his clothes and flesh. But beneath that, there’s a lingering scent of that woody oud—you can’t help but sink into it.  ✧ They won’t bother you ever again—he murmurs as the door jingles behind both of you. You didn’t kill them, did you?—you mutter back, half-sarcastically. No, but it probably hurt quite a bit for them—he shrugs. “Let’s go home.” ✧ Home. He says that, but there’s still that offer from Dan Heng to move in with him—one you’ll probably accept. Blade may have saved you, but he’s still a dickhead who has made numerous attempts to kick you out. 

“Ow, fuck,” you hiss as he dabs antiseptic on the various cuts on your hand. It’s well into the evening now, and you’re currently sitting on the bathroom counter with your injuries on full display. 

So infuriating. You glare at the man standing in between your legs—unscathed completely. Worst of all, there’s a smug smile on his lips; whatever worry he might have had over you has completely dissipated. 

“You couldn’t let them hit you once?”

“Bitter much?” he returns easily, swabbing another cotton ball with alcohol and pressing it against the large cut on the side of your forearm. It stings, but you grit your teeth and bear it—much too annoyed with him to show any more pain. 

In this position, the resentment you feel towards him turns faint; a veil seems to obscure the burning sensation. 

“You talk too much,” you seethe. “What happened to the prick who kept his mouth shut and ignored me?”

Tendrils of his jet-hued hair brush your cheek as he inches forward. “If you like, we can go right back to that—playing at my whim included.”

He hasn’t felt like this in years—back when he was still a boy named Yingxing and unmarred by the burdens life would eventually place on his shoulders. 

“Let me do it myself,” you argue back. 

“Nah.” Silver Wolf will pay for calling him an old man. “You won’t do it properly.” 

Another brief kiss from the alcohol against your bloody knuckles, and this time you can’t hide the slight wince on your face. It takes quite a lot of self-restraint to not dent the tweezers—he should’ve done so much worse to the two who tried this, besides beating the shit out of them and getting Kafka to land them behind bars. 

“That rod probably had tetanus on it,” he shrugs, rummaging around in his disused first-aid kit for plasters and bandages.

“Yeah, I thought that too,” you shudder. It's this moment of casual, same line thinking that strikes you as being far too strange. He's so close you can feel each puff of air when he exhales: practically scalding the bare skin stretched over collarbones. Too close—and if he keeps talking like this, as if he’s no longer disgusted by your presence, you won’t be able to deal with it. 

“What’d you do to her?” he questions, but it’s not the ‘no wonder she attacked you’ tone—rather than that, it’s like he’s trying to prompt you into distraction. 

“This is actually your fault,” you scowl, irritably casting your mind back to when she used to talk your ear off about the man standing here. 

“How so?” Nonplussed, he starts rolling the bandage across your arm—evidently, he’s experienced with this sort of thing. 

Stalker roommate. Stalker roommate has crush on engineering maniac. Stalker roommate sees that your new roommate and engineering maniac are one and the same—you summarise, too tired to give the specifics. He sees the way your lids flutter closed from exhaustion; for once, he’ll use Kafka to get more of the information you omitted. 

“Honestly, you two freaks would be perfect for each other,” you murmur absentmindedly. At that, he pulls the bandage tighter against your skin and you draw in a pained inhale. 

“You should try stand-up.” His voice is thick with revulsion, and it’s quiet for a few brief moments as he gets started on patching up the scrapes left on your back. You’re sitting on a stool now: unable to see his face but awfully mindful of how his hands brush over the skin layered over your scapula. 

“You still haven’t thanked me.”

“Thank you, my aggravating saviour,” you say, much too insincerely. “But that reminds me that I’ve got good news for you. That should suffice as a symbol of my gratitude.”

What is it?

“One of my friends has a room free, so I’ll probably be able to move out soon.”

The worst part is, he knows exactly who this friend is. His hands freeze on the band-aid he’s smoothing on your skin; too absorbed in his murderous thoughts to notice how you stiffen at the prolonged gesture. He’s not jealous; these are merely stirrings of friendship—this ugly, amorphous thing writhing in his gut and condemning him to senseless anger. 

“That’s not good news,” he breathes, and it’s a little too quiet as he finishes wrapping the final bandage around your bruised ribs. 

For the first time ever, Kafka receives a text from Blade that doesn’t consist of just one word. 

<Bladie> 20:33 > I need advice. 

Oh, this is interesting. 

What are friends for?—she coos, making sure to show Silver Wolf the glaring achievement in Blade’s range of text vocabulary. 

He’s clearly been on the rear end of bad news; while for her, on the contrary, this just means her scheme is moving along very nicely.  

[theidiotwhowritesthings]

TAKE CARE OF YOU [8A]

Sugar Daddy!Joel Miller x Female!Reader

Overall Warnings: slow burn, angst/comfort, power imbalance, age gap, possessive tendencies, eventual smut, #daddyissues, independent reader learns to let go and relax, emotionally constipated Joel Miller learns to be vulnerable; (more specific warnings to be added to individual chapters if necessary)

Chapter Word Count: 12,502

Summary: You spent your entire adult life supporting yourself and barely getting by. It’s why a life of ease offered to you by a mysterious stranger sounded so foreign and unbelievable. Joel Miller, dressed in flannels that had seen better days, didn’t look like the kind who could promise you the world on a plate, but he seemed desperate to help out. All he asks is that you let him take care of you. That wouldn’t be so hard. Would it?

[a/n: part one of two! hope you enjoy, if you do let me know your fav part 😘]

Chapter Specific Warning: mentions of attempted sexual assault (not reader), mild violence, mentions of past significant violence, gambling

08: I KNOW HOW TO HANDLE TROUBLE

"the right person for you will be protective of your heart like it's second nature to them." -bliss

The Wynn resort in Las Vegas was a curved bronze hotel right on the strip. The hot Nevada sun seemed to make the building glow, and it only got prettier once you stepped inside. The entire space had glassy, marble floors decorated with splashes of color. Gardens sat inside with trees wrapped in lights and figures of flowers stood out. The atrium itself had spheres of flowers hanging from the trees and you found yourself in awe of the space. Joel had been right. You really liked this place. 

“Sugar.” You turned at Joel’s voice, tearing your eyes away from the view, and when you spotted Joel he stood a few feet away with his phone lifted and aimed in your direction. An amused grin flickered across your features as he hummed at his phone. “Hm, yeah. That’s a keeper.”

“You took a picture of me?” You chuckled.

Joel closed the space so he was beside you. “How could I not? You’re gorgeous.” You felt your cheeks heat at his words. Joel stuck his phone into his pocket before offering you his arm. When you looped yours through his, a familiar stance for the two of you, he began to lead you away. “They’re taking our bags upstairs.” He had already reassured you on the way here that though the two of you were sharing a suite it was one with two separate rooms for sleep arrangements. Just as you told Nima, you found yourself both relieved and disappointed. 

Feelings were confusing. 

“Hungry?”

“I could eat.” You nodded.

“Good. I know a place.”

Said place ending up being a cafe in the casino resort that served a late brunch. When Joel spoke to the host there was no need to ask for a wait time or place his name down. They gave him the choice of indoor or outdoor then walked you in immediately after he chose the outdoor option. The table they offered the two of you was a cute two person seating arrangement on the covered patio under a fan and in view of the elaborate pool. More gardens surrounded the pool itself in the forms of immense and impressive shrubbery and garden paths. The seating around the pool consisted of red and white chairs separated by curtain cabanas that you couldn’t even begin to imagine the price of.

“Do you come to Vegas often?” You asked after a waitress came by and took your orders.

“No. Just for this conference.” Joel shrugged. “It’s an annual thing.” You asked what the conference was about. In all honesty, you didn’t care too much about the specific lectures or meetings he had coming up, but you’d never pass on the opportunity to listen to him talk. “Mostly meetings between different companies. A way to network and bump elbows. A few lectures from some big names on the trendin’ topics in the contractin’ world.”

You beamed at him with a nod. “Very exciting.” Joel chuckled. “How busy is it gonna keep you?”

“Well tomorrow I’ll be busy for most of the mornin’ and afternoon, but I’m free in the evenin’. Then Sunday I have one last meetin’ in the mornin’ and I figure we can do somethin’ in the afternoon before headin’ back home on the jet.”

You leaned forward on the table, head resting on your fists, “And today?”

Joel’s lips curled into a smile that brightened all of his features. It was your favorite look on him. Forget the flannel or the expensive suits, it was that damned smile that put butterflies in your belly. You weren’t sure how a devastatingly handsome older man could also look so boyish and adorable while wearing that charming smile, but by God you were obsessed.

“Today?” Joel reached across the table and brushed his rough fingers against the side of your arm. In response, you let your arm fall from where it held up your head and tangled your fingers with his. Joel squeezed your hand. “Today I’m all yours, sugar.”

You liked the sound of that. 

The two of you just enjoyed your uninterrupted time together. When your meal was over, Joel rose and helped you up as well. He didn’t hesitate to pull you close, looping your arm through his, and leading you back toward the lobby. “So,” You leaned into him, “Do we have plans for today?”

“We do.” Joel nodded. “Startin’ with an afternoon poolside.”

Your eyebrows raised in excitement. “Pool?” He hummed in confirmation. You smirked, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were trying to get me in one of those new swim suits you bought me, daddy.” Standing this close to him, you could see the slight flush of red creep up from the collar of his shirt as he cleared his throat. Joel shot you a dry look. “What’s wrong? Are you getting a little hot under the collar?”

Joel cleared his throat, “You’re trouble, sugar.” He leaned in and suddenly pressed his lips to the side of your head. It was such a chaste and quick moment, yet it stopped your heart in your chest. He left his lips close enough to murmur, “Luckily, I know how to handle trouble.”

“I, uh, I…”

“What’s wrong?” Joel pulled back enough so you could see his smug grin, “Are you gettin’ a bit hot?”

You swallowed, involuntarily, and Joel took that as his victory. He chuckled and dragged you toward the elevators. Your suite was near the top floor of the resort, and when Joel pushed the door open for you the first thing that greeted you was the expansive window that made up the entirety of the wall. Your jaw popped open in shock and your feet carried you closer to the window. The room itself was gorgeous with decor of white and gold, you had never stayed in a hotel room that had an actual living room before, but you could only focus on the view of the Nevada mountains out in the distance. When you reached the glass, you peered down the dizzying drop to where you had a view of the pool and the golf course.

“So pretty…” You mumbled in awe. You spun in place to meet Joel’s gaze, “Isn’t this incredible?”

“Yeah,” Joel nodded. His arms were crossed and you could feel his eyes trace you from head to toe and back up. “Some view.” He kept his gaze on you for a beat while walking toward one of the side doors. Joel opened it and peered in then you heard him curse. “Fuck.”

Curiously, you walked around the couch toward him, “What’s wrong? Did they lose our bags?” You stepped beside him to see what it was that had raptured his attention the way it did, and your eyes landed on the singular Queen sized bed in the center of the bedroom. “Oh.”

“Son of a⏤ I am so sorry.” Joel said quickly before you could push out another word. “I’m gonna fix this.” He went further into the room and grasped the phone at the bedside to immediately bring it up to his ear. A beat passed and he was obviously connected to the front desk. “Hello?”

Your eyes drifted back to the bed and you felt your cheeks warm at the thought of sharing the same bed with Joel Miller. Speaking of the man, he was still arguing over the line and from the sounds of it the argument was not going his way. He seemed desperate to fix this problem and you worried that meant he was desperate to avoid sleeping in the same bed as you. 

“No, no, I⏤ I understand that. But I⏤” Joel paused, his jaw locked, and then he pinched the bridge of his nose with his eyes closed irritably. “I said I understand that. No, I⏤ Yeah. Thanks anyways.” He hung up the phone and turned back to face you entirely. You shot him a sheepish smile. Joel’s irritation melted into worry and he held his hands up. “I swear, this was not my intention, darlin’. I booked a room with two beds.” Your eyes widened in understanding. Joel was worried you thought he was trying to take advantage. It was a laughable thought that had never even occurred to you⏤ not Joel. Some would call you naive to have such faith in a sugar daddy you hadn’t known for all that long, but it couldn’t be helped. Somehow, you just knew. “The Wynn doesn’t have any other two bed suites available but we can try a different resort or⏤”

“Joel.” You interrupted his nervous rambling and reached out to set your hand on his forearm. “It’s okay. Accidents happen.” Joel’s shoulders seemed to relax. “And as for the, uh, bed situation… I don’t mind.” The words tumbled from your lips slowly, awkwardly even, and Joel just stared. Quickly, you tried to scramble and clarify. “I just mean, it doesn’t bother me to share. We’re both, you know, adults. We can⏤ We can sleep beside one another without issue.” Joel just continued to stare and you were beginning to regret bringing it up at all. You felt silly. In a poor attempt to break the tension, you joked, “I promise I don’t kick in my sleep. I think.”

Joel set his hand on top of yours and squeezed reassuringly. “Of course we can. But, I don’t want you to feel… pressured to just accept this situation.” He spoke firmly leaving no room for argument in his voice. “If even the smallest part of you feels uncomfortable in any way please tell me. We could go to a different resort or, I mean, if you really wanna stick with this place I could get us separate rooms.”

“Really, Joel.” You replied with just as much finality in your voice as he placed in his. “I’m okay with this. It’s not a big deal.” You motioned toward the bed in question. “It’s a big bed.”

Joel let out a small sigh and shook his head. “I’m a… big guy.”

Your eyes couldn’t help but trace Joel’s broad shoulders and tall frame. “As long as you’re comfortable with it too.” Joel held your gaze then gave a nod. A small smile filling his features. “Now, can we get ready for the pool?”

“Yeah. Course.” Joel chuckled and lifted your hand to press his lips against your knuckles.

You had only just gotten used to holding his hand without feeling flustered, and now Joel was pulling out the big guns with these chaste kisses. The smug son of a bitch knew it too based on the smile he wore. Joel handed you your bag and you carried it into the bathroom to change. In your lifetime, you had gotten ready for a pool day God knows how many times. This was one of the first times you felt so nervous though. You loved your body and felt comfortable in your skin, but at the end of the day you were still a human with anxiety. You still couldn’t help that you wanted Joel to look at you and like what he saw. 

At the very least you knew he’d like the swim suit itself since he was the one who had been there to buy it for you. Quickly, eager to get to the pool with Joel, you traded your travel clothes for the swim suit and pulled on the matching, thin robe-like cover that he bought with it⏤ leaving it open rather than tying it closed in the front. Then you spent another few minutes checking your appearance in the mirror and adjusting little things like your hair or where the swim suit sat. Finally, when you knew there was nothing left to check, or obsess over, you stepped out of the bathroom. 

Joel wasn’t in the bedroom anymore. You set your bag aside and wandered out into the living room following the sound of his voice. He must have gotten changed out in the bedroom while you were in the bathroom. Joel had changed into swim shorts and a white t-shirt. The shorts were dark navy at the top half and a pale yellow on the lower half. You found you couldn’t stop staring because with the way he lounged on the couch, legs spread wide while talking on the phone, you could see his thick thighs. The sight of a man’s thighs should not make you feel so feral, and yet… 

“No, the contract needs to be done by then. We can…” Joel’s voice trailed to a stop and your eyes snapped up from his thighs to see he was gawking at you. You bit down on your lower lip to try and mute the wide grin that threatened to fill your features. You raised a questioning eyebrow at him. Joel nodded. “You’re a goddamn vision, sugar.” There was no chance at hiding your grin now at his compliment. Joel jumped suddenly in surprise, eyes widening, as his attention went back to the phone he forgot he had been holding. “No, no. Not you, idiot.” You laughed and Joel’s cheeks burned. “Oh, bite me, Tommy.”

Joel hung up the phone and pointed it in your direction while standing up. “That’s your fault.”

“My fault?” You chuckled. “How’s that?”

“How’s that?” He scoffed, but his smile didn’t falter. Joel closed the space so he could reach out and lightly pinch your chin. “Walkin’ in here lookin’ like a work of art.” He shook his head. “Tommy ain’t ever gonna let me live that down.”

Joel’s eyes drifted down your frame again and you felt the back of your neck grow warm. You cleared your throat and his eyes snapped back to you. You smirked. “What’re you staring at, Joel?”

His hand fell away from your cheek to brush his fingers against the sunflower charm hanging from your neck. Joel hummed, “Just this pretty, little necklace, sugar.” You shook your head, amused. Joel stepped away to grab a simple back book bag that he slung over one shoulder. “Now, come on. Pool time.”

Rather than walk you down to the Wynn Resort’s pool, Joel led you to the neighboring resort’s pool. The Encore was identical to the Wynn from the outside and sat right beside it as its sister resort. As you traveled, Joel kept his fingers intertwined with yours. Every time he flexed his grip, you glanced down at where the two of you were connected. It was beginning to feel like your hand was shaped just to fit in his. 

“So how come we don’t just stay at the Wynn?” You asked.

“The Encore is newer, and I think you’ll like the pool better here.” Joel replied. You had no room to question his judgment. So far, he was spot on because the interior of the Wynn was much prettier than the interior of the Encore in your opinion. “Plus, this is an adults only pool so we won’t have to worry about any yellin’ or splashin’.”

The moment the two of you stepped outside, you were greeted by a more modern looking pool with chairs and decor in shades of white and a bold red. Palm trees decorated the area and the floor was painted with the design of curling sun rays surrounding the pool. There was even a second story of chairs and lounges. Honestly, Joel either knew you better than you thought he did or the man was a good guess because this was much nicer than the Wynn’s pool. Joel squeezed your hand and you turned to see him watching you. He raised his eyebrows in question and you laughed again.

“Alright, alright. It’s a nice pool but don’t look so smug about it.” You replied. You glanced over the space, “Do you see any open chairs we can grab?”

“Yeah, I do.” Joel nodded, “Come on.”

Unsurprisingly, the pool was packed with people and Joel pulled you closer to his side so he could set his hand on your back while leading you through the throngs of people. You tried to spot the chairs he spoke of, but after a beat you realized he was leading you to one of the fancy looking cabanas. It was an open room built on the lower floor of the two story piece right by the poolside. A red curtain was hanging and draped open and inside was a couch, flat screen television, and a cabinet with a bottle of champagne sitting in an ice bucket on top. There were even two lounge chairs that could be dragged out into the space directly in front of the cabana where the sun was shining. Your eyes widened, “No way.”

Joel let go of your hand to step into the cabana and set his bag down on the couch. You slowly drifted in behind him and realized the little cabana was even filled with cool air from a large fan overhead. Joel pulled the champagne from the ice and you watched as he cracked it open with ease. 

“How much was this, Joel?” You asked.

“Hey,” Joel chided as he turned with two flutes of cold champagne. He handed you one with a shake of his head, “What was the rule we talked about on the way here, sugar?”

During the plane ride to Vegas, Joel told you he didn’t want you asking how much anything cost during the trip. You chuckled and replied teasingly, “Sorry, daddy.” Joel lightly tapped the edge of his flute against yours and you followed his lead in taking a sip. “Mmm. That’s amazing.”

“Only the best for my sugar baby.” Joel replied, making you laugh.

You took another long swig from the flute then motioned to his bag, “Did you grab my sunscreen?” Joel set his flute down to dig through his bag then pulled out the sunscreen you had brought. You had asked him to toss it in with his stuff to keep from having to bring a bag of your own. “Thanks!”

Joel dropped down to sit on the couch. He rested an arm on the back of it with a content smile while staring at you. Biting back any nervous energy that bubbled in your chest, you shrugged out of your thin robe and began to put on the sunscreen. Knowing his gaze was on you, you rubbed it in methodically and tried not to let it be obvious that the butterflies in your belly were threatening to overwhelm you. When you got every spot you could reach with ease, you turned and held the bottle out to Joel, “Can you get my back?”

His eyes widened as if he hadn’t expected you to ask. Joel sat up and threw back the last of his champagne before taking the bottle. He stood up and you turned around. Luckily, not having to face Joel made the action much easier. Joel stood close enough that you could feel his warm breath on your neck and despite the hot weather you felt goosebumps rise on your skin. Joel’s hand settled on your lower back first and he was careful with the application. He rubbed it in your skin, but he did so in a way that made you feel like you were made of glass. You couldn’t even find it in yourself to complain because the more careful he was the slower he worked, and the slower he worked the longer you had his rough hands against your skin.

“There.” Joel hummed. His voice sounded more hoarse than it did when he started. “All protected, sugar.”

You glanced over your shoulder to meet his gaze, “Thanks, daddy.” You meant to say the words playfully, but instead they fell out in a soft near whisper. There was a beat of silence between the two of you and you forced yourself to shake out of the trance Joel had you in. “Um. Can you help me drag the lounge chairs out into the sun?”

Joel cleared his throat and nodded, “I can do you one better.”

He grabbed the back of his shirt’s collar to pull out of his shirt and your eyes involuntarily raked down his body. Joel was built strong. From his broad shoulders to the bit of belly he had, it all screamed strength and sturdiness. He tossed his shirt aside then grasped your hand to lead you out, but you dug your heels in to stop him. Joel shot you a curious look.

“You didn’t put on any sunscreen.” You said.

Joel furrowed his brow, “I don’t need sunscreen.”

“You don’t need sunscreen?”

“I’m a big, strong man.” Joel replied teasingly before trying to pull you out of the cabana again.

You tugged him back. “Hey, big strong man, in a fight against the sun you’re gonna lose.” Joel groaned and rolled his eyes in good nature but he allowed you to pull him all the way back in. You made him hold your flute so you could grab the bottle of sunscreen. Quickly, before you lost your nerve, you squirted a glob of sunscreen in your hand and began to rub it into Joel’s skin. He squirmed under your touch and you shot him a mocking glare, “Hey, stay still.”

“Bossy.” Joel snorted.

“Do you like it better when I’m bossy or bratty?” You asked with a cheeky grin. Joel’s lips pulled up into a smile, but he didn’t offer an answer. You used the last bit of sunscreen on your hands to rub onto his features and you finished with your hands on the side of his face. You squished his cheeks together. “There. All protected.”

Joel suddenly turned his face and playfully nipped at your hand with his teeth. You gasped in surprise and he laughed. “Now that we’re safe from the sun, let’s go.” He tangled his fingers with yours and offered you back the flute of champagne you hadn’t finished yet. With a sip, you let him drag you out into the sun. He walked you up to the poolside and stopped at the edge. In the shallow parts of the pool, sitting in the water, were circular cushioned beds with an umbrella situated in the middle of each one. By each beside was a circular stand where drinks could be placed to rest. You stared at, gaping probably, and Joel leaned in toward your ear. “That’s ours too.”

“Seriously?” You asked in surprise. Joel nodded. The urge to ask how much it cost came to mind, but you bit back the words and just grinned instead. Joel walked down the few steps into the shallow water and held your hand to aid you in. “You know,” The cold water came up just past your ankles and you waded with Joel to the daybed reserved for the two of you, “I could get used to this ‘having money’ thing.”

Joel chuckled and dropped down on the bed. He lounged on his back, hands folded behind his head, and stared at you as you settled in beside him. You chose to lay on your belly so you could continue to sip on your champagne. 

“Thank you. For all of this.” You said sincerely. Briefly, you chewed on your lower lip then gave a small shrug, “I haven’t had a pool day in nearly a year let alone go on an actual vacation.”

Joel shook his head, “Thank you for comin’ with me, darlin’. You’re doin’ me the favor.”

The two of you just relaxed, letting the heat seep into your skin, and when you were on your last sip of champagne a poolside waitress walked over with a smile to see if the two of you needed any drinks. Joel sat up and ordered two frozen drinks. You chuckled, “You’ve kept a drink in my hand since the moment we landed.” You tilted your head. “If I didn’t know any better I’d say you were trying to get me tipsy, Joel.”

“Me? Never. I’m a gentleman.” Joel shook his head. He smirked and nodded toward you. “Besides, you’ve already felt me up, and I didn’t even need to get you tipsy.”

Your eyes widened and you reached out to give him a light shove, “I was not ‘feeling you up’. I was saving you from a future of being a leathered, sun shriveled old man.”

“If that’s what you gotta tell yourself.” Joel shrugged. 

You laughed and Joel began to lay back down. Before he could get comfortable, you pointed to the umbrella, “Wait, can you close the umbrella?” Joel shot you a confused look as if you were crazy for asking. You shrugged. “I just want some sunshine for a little bit.”

“You’re all the sunshine we need right now.” Joel said and reached out to pinch your cheek.

“That is an adorable excuse.” You spoke despite him pinching your cheek, and Joel chuckled before reaching up to close the umbrella. Bright sunlight immediately rained down on the two of you and the direct warmth on your skin made you beam happily. As hot as it was, you probably wouldn’t be able to stand the sunlight for very long, but it felt nice for the time being. 

Joel grunted and rolled over onto his belly so he could keep the sun out of his eyes, “What do you say?” You slid a pair of sunglasses on and laid on your back while humming⏤ pretending to think of what answer he might want. Joel propped himself up just enough to rest one of his arms on your other side so he was leaning over you. You sucked in a sharp breath at his close proximity, and he raised an eyebrow at you. “Manners, sugar.”

“Thank you, daddy.” You cooed.

“Good girl.”

You tightened the fluffy, white robe that the Wynn resort left you in the suite’s bathroom then stepped out fresh and clean, “Joel! I’m done with the shower.” The two of you had stayed out at the pool until it closed. Being out in the hot sun the entire afternoon had wiped you out, but Joel told you to get ready for a night out and you found your second wind. Joel wandered into the bedroom, and you groaned happily, “You’re in for a treat because the water pressure was incredible.”

“I would hope so.” Joel chuckled then his eyes narrowed skeptically. “Do you have bad water pressure in your apartment?”

“Uh…” You paused in thought. You had a feeling that if you confirmed that information then Joel would try to buy you a new apartment or something equally as wild. “...no?” Joel shot you a skeptical glance that made it clear he didn’t believe you. He disappeared into the bathroom, and you quickly called out. “Oh, wait! Pick a color, Joel!”

Without hesitation, Joel replied through the door, “Red!”

Excitedly, you shimmed off the bed to hurry over and dig out the red cocktail dress Joel had bought you for Vegas. Of the newest additions to your wardrobe, the red dress you had picked out was one of your favorites. You wondered if he remembered that. While Joel showered, you pulled out the ironing board to smooth out any of the wrinkles your dress had gotten during transit. It didn’t take much and you were about to put away the iron when you paused. Joel’s suitcase sat near yours in the room. You bit down on your lower lip for a beat before walking over to find a shirt for him.

You picked out a black button up shirt to match the black blazer he had already hung up. The ‘black out’ look on him just seemed like it would be clean and handsome. Not that you could picture many looks not looking incredible on him. The bathroom door opened and Joel stepped out in just a towel. The back of your neck warmed and you tried not to let your eyes linger. Obviously you had seen him shirtless poolside, but this felt more intimate.

“Why don’t you get changed in the bathroom and I can get ready out here⏤” Joel paused and pointed to the ironing board. You finished the last few passes of the iron over his shirt. “Is that mine?”

“Well, it’s not mine.” You replied and picked up his shirt to shake it a bit. You held it out to him with a broad smile.

Joel took the shirt from you and you were acutely aware of his lingering touch on your hand. “This my color for the night, sugar? Black?” You nodded with a wide grin. Joel gave you a nod of confirmation and you scooped up your dress to head to the bathroom. “Alright. Black and red it is.”

You glanced over your shoulder to allow yourself one last look of Joel and seeing the bare expanse of his back made your heart flutter in your chest. The image of it lingered in your mind even after you closed the door. You made the effort to commit it to memory. 

It didn’t take you too long to get ready and it was in part due to how eager you were. Joel had been tight lipped the entire afternoon about the plans for the evening. No matter how much you pleaded or begged he wouldn’t even give you a hint. All you knew was that he had an entire night planned for the two of you. Not even accounting for the amount of money involved in all of this, the fact that Joel had the thought to plan a night for you was heartwarming. It was a reminder that your bar was set so low due to your last boyfriend. You had to plan nearly every single trip or date night, and you had convinced yourself you enjoyed it. Tricked yourself into thinking you preferred it that way instead of admitting that it was a problem. 

You rubbed your hands down the front of your red dress⏤ smoothing it out and giving you something to do with your nervous energy. You stepped out of the bathroom, expecting Joel to be sitting in the living room waiting for you or on his phone, but your feet faltered at the sight of him sitting on the edge of the bed. Joel ran a hand over his jawline, fingers dragging through his scruff. He stood up and the two of you spent a quiet moment just staring at one another. Just as you knew it would, the black shirt and black suit combo was deadly on Joel. This time you beat Joel to the punch.

“Hot damn, Joel.” You grinned. He cleared his throat and the look on his face could only be described as flustered. Eager to flip the table on him and do what he always did to you, you walked to him and reached out to smooth his lapel, feeling his chest under it, “This is a real good look on you, daddy.”

The sound that left him, almost a choking noise at the back of his throat, made you feel smug. He shook his head slowly and didn’t let his eyes leave you for even a second. “Oh, sugar,” Joel hummed, “I don’t hold a flame to you. I just don’t get it.”

“Don’t get what?” You asked.

“How every time I look at you, you somehow get even more breathtakin’.” Joel replied.

Heat rose in your cheeks and crawled up the back of your neck. Damn it all. Every time you think you had the tables flipped he managed to get the upper hand again. You let out a laugh and tried to hide how flustered you felt, “No fair.” Joel smirked as if he knew exactly what you were getting at. You gave his chest a slight push, but he caught your hands to hold them there. You shook your head, “Can you let me have the upper hand just one time?”

Joel breathed out a small laugh, and he opened his mouth to reply. However, he stopped himself and closed his mouth with an amused smile. You tilted your head curiously, but Joel just slipped his hand through yours. “Ready to go?”

“Do I get to know where we’re going now?”

“You’ll find out as soon as we get there.”

“Very funny.”

The same car that drove you from the airport to the Wynn also picked you up. When it came to the Vegas strip, there were some resorts that were within walking distance from where you were located, but Joel’s first plan of the night was not. You stared out the window marveling at the tall buildings covered in gigantic screens showcasing an ad or show. Even the sidewalks had plenty of things to watch. Tourists, showgirls, people performing, and some even dressed up in character suits. There was one rough looking Mickey Mouse the car passed that gave you a look into what the famous mouse’s life would look like if he got deep in the world of hard drugs.

“Oh,” You tore your eyes away from the window to look at Joel who sat beside you in the back of the car with his arm resting on the seat behind you, “Is that where they do that big fountain show?”

Joel nodded, “Bellagio. Yeah. We can stop and watch it later tonight. They do a show every thirty minutes I think.”

The car turned off the strip to a resort that sat just off it by a bit. The Aria. It looked as immense and fancy as any of the other resorts and was even shaped similarly to the Wynn and the Encore. Joel let his hand brush against the back of your neck and you knew he wanted you to stay in place while he climbed out. Seconds later, your door opened and Joel held out a hand to help you climb out. 

“What’s so special about the Aria?” You asked.

Joel laced his fingers through yours and pulled you toward the resort doors. The lobby was a large open space with pillars, and your eyes landed on a wave of hand folded origami flowers in a gradient of red, pink, and orange hanging from the glass ceiling. You paused, jaw slightly open as you admired the sight, and Joel just waited patiently. Finally, you tore your eyes away from the origami flowers to look at him.

“We have dinner reservations here.” Joel answered.

You raised an eyebrow at him with a smirk, “We came all the way here just for dinner?”

Joel didn’t give you a reply, and you noticed he looked excited. You squeezed his hand and let him lead you deeper into the resort. In order to get where you were going, the two of you had to walk through the casino and it was fun to see the flashing lights and general buzz of excitement. The air smelled faintly of cigarette smoke, and there were different degrees of yelling and cheering. You were so caught up in your surroundings that you hadn’t noticed Joel and you reached your destination until he came to a stop.

You glanced at Joel who continued to beam at you, and then looked forward to where a simple arch sat with the word ‘CATCH’ written in bright, glowing letters above the top. It was what laid just beyond the arch that had your breath catch in your throat. The arch was the entrance to a tunnel and even from where you stood you could see the entire tunnel was made up of different flowers and glowing lights.

Joel leaned over, his lips close enough to your ear that you could feel his breath fan against your skin, “It didn’t feel right not bein’ able to get you a bouquet of flowers before dinner so I thought I’d just bring you to ‘em.”

You felt a visceral reaction to Joel’s words. Your throat tightened, and a part of you wanted to cry. It took every ounce of your self control to not actually let any tears fall. It was just so sweet and you felt so seen and cared for. “Joel.” You mumbled and turned your head to look at him. He was still lingering close to where he had whispered in your ear which left you dangerously close to his face. You swallowed, “Joel, this is…”

His eyes darted across your features, lingering at your eyes and lips, “Wanna take a closer look, sugar?”

Your face broke out into a face splitting grin and you nodded. Joel hesitated in place, taking in a slow breath, before pulling away so he could drag you through the arch. He let his own steps slow while you continued forward a bit. Your hand fell out of his, but your eyes were taking in the hanging flowers overhead and the colorful walls on either side of you. The air was filled with a sweet, floral scent and a soft, golden glow surrounded the space from the lights buried between the flowers. It took half a beat before you realized Joel wasn’t by your side, and you quickly turned in place to look for him. He stood a few feet back, hands in his pocket, just staring with a small smile on his face. 

“What?” You asked with a laugh.

“Nothing.” Joel closed the space.

As soon as he was close enough, you looped your arm through his. The two of you took a few more steps down the wood panel path that led through the tunnel and a portion off to the side curved inward with a long half circle bench nestled against the wall and a wall of pink, orange, and red roses covering that indent of the wall. 

“Oh!” You pulled him toward the bench and dropped down there with him beside you. “Can we take a picture?” You pulled your phone out. “Please?”

“I can take your picture for you.” Joel replied.

You shook your head and held onto his arm. “I want you to be in it too.”

Joel looked skeptical for only a moment. He never seemed the selfie kind to you, but he leaned in regardless. You lifted your phone to take a few snaps. Joel had one arm around your shoulders during most of the pictures, but near the end he used his other hand to cup the side of your face to pull him closer. Joel turned and pressed his lips to your temple and you managed to get a few snaps of that as well. Your chest was filled with so much warmth and happiness that you didn’t have the room to feel flustered.

You stood up with Joel and he tugged you to the end of the tunnel where a maitre’d stood waiting. The first part of the restaurant you could see was a large bar surrounded by people. Joel had the two of you pause by the front desk. 

“Welcome Miller party.” The maitre’d asked. Joel nodded. “Your table is being cleaned off and prepared now. If you’d like to wait by the bar, your waitress will fetch you soon.”

“Thanks.” Joel dug through his coat pocket and you saw him pull out a few folded bills that he slipped into the other man’s hand. “And thank you for clearin’ the tunnel.”

“Of course, sir.”

It dawned on you then, and you glanced back to see the tunnel was now filled with small parties and couples. “Wait, did you pay him to let us be the only ones?”

Joel shrugged and rather than answer he stepped up to the bar with you by his side and ordered himself a glass of whiskey and your typical drink of choice. He kept one hand on the small of your back while you leaned against the bar. When the drinks came, Joel lifted his glass just high enough to allow you to tap yours against his. He winked as the glasses made contact, “Cheers, sugar.”

You moved to take a sip and your drink had only barely touched your tongue when a waitress came over calling out for Joel. He nodded for you to follow first so he could linger a step behind you with his hand on your waist. The table you were led to was a circular booth and it was one of the few tables decorated in excess. The booth looked like it was nestled inside a large bird cage with a broad open door, and woven between the metal bars were vines and string lights. You slid into the booth, setting your glass on the table to avoid spilling it, and Joel slid in after you. 

“Joel, this place is…” You let out a breath, unable to grasp a word immediately, “...amazing. Thank you.”

“Stop thankin’ me for somethin’ I like doin’.” Joel chuckled. He draped his arm on the top of the booth behind you and let his fingers brush lightly against your shoulder.

“You like spending absorbent amounts of money on me?” You teased.

Joel leaned over a bit and lowered his voice, sincerity in his voice, “I like takin’ care of you.” It should probably concern how easily Joel was able to make your temperature rise. Literally all it took was a look, the sound of his voice, or just being in near proximity. He straightened back in his seat. “Now,” Joel picked up his glass and took a quick sip, “Is there anythin’ you always wanted to do while in Vegas?”

You hummed in thought. The fountains had already been mentioned. That seemed like a staple Vegas activity. “I wanna see a show.”

“Already on the agenda.”

“Wait, really?” Your eyes widened. “What show??” Joel just stared at you with a smug smile. You rolled your eyes. “Yeah, yeah. It’s a surprise.” You took a sip of your own drink. “I want to gamble.”

Joel chuckled, “Gamble?” You nodded. “Gamble how? Slots or a table game?”

“I want to play the one where you throw dice.”

“Craps.”

“Yeah, that!” You nodded. “Everybody does that while they’re in Vegas, right?”

“Fair enough.” Joel said. “Anythin’ else?”

Another thought came to mind, but it felt kind of silly. “There was this one other thing…”

“Name it, sugar.”

You scrunched your nose. “Can we go on the gondolas? I know it’s probably dumb since it’s not even a real river and it’s just inside one of those big resorts, but I don’t know… It looked kind of fun.”

Joel let out a breathy laugh before dropping his hand so instead of soft brushes he was able to squeeze your shoulder, “We can absolutely ride the gondolas.”

You bounced in your seat, excited, as Joel shook his head in amusement. The waitress came back to discuss the specials of the night. After a quick discussion, Joel ordered for the both of you. It was something you learned early on with the man. He enjoyed leading. Whether it be the obvious thing like paying for everything or having you wait in the car so he could open the door for you or ordering your food and drink for you. Joel just liked being in charge of the relationship and you had no qualms with that. Especially considering how careful and caring he was in the action. He paid attention to you, the things you did or the words you said, in order to take charge accordingly. As sad and pathetic as it was, Joel remembered more about you and your preferences than your ex-boyfriend did at the end of your relationship with him. 

Content and at ease, you settled in your seat and let out a soft sigh.

The night went by too quickly for your liking. Dinner, just like everything with Joel, was easy. You had never met someone who made you feel so comfortable, so seen, so fast. And after he treated you to one of the best meals you ever had, the two of you traveled to the MGM resort for the show which turned out to be a show by the name of ‘KA’. Joel said he chose it off the recommendation of one of the business men he’d be working with in the morning, and it had been a solid choice. The show went beyond your expectations and you had already set them pretty high considering it was Cirque du Soleil and in Vegas. Then, rather than take the car, the two of you walked down the strip with your arm wrapped through his. The walk consisted of two stops, one at the fountains to watch the show, and the other at the Venetian resort to ride in the gondolas.

“Joel, this has literally been the greatest night ever.” You gushed while squeezing his arm. The two of you had walked from the Venetian back to the Wynn. His black suit jacket hung on your shoulders after he had given it to you during the gondola ride. 

Joel chuckled, “Literally?”

“Yes.” You said. “I am being literal, thank you.”

“Well, sugar, you know me.” Joel lifted one of your hands to press his lips to the back casually. “Always happy to provide.”

He continued to lead you into the resort without even realizing how earth shattering his presence was to you. Joel kept your arm wrapped through his with his hand intertwined with yours and held to his chest. It was such an intimate gesture that he did so casually⏤ as if it were second nature to him. The urge to stop in your tracks and pull him into a kiss was nearly overwhelming. In fact, if you had maybe even one more drink tonight it would’ve been enough liquid courage to convince you. However, anxiety still plagued your mind. Logic tried to reign in your feelings and remind you of all the reasons this was a bad idea. Even if you ignored the nearly two decade large age gap between the both of you, there were still enough reasons for your brain to try and stop you. 

If you could quiet your logical and turbulent mind for just a moment, just long enough to allow your heart to act, then maybe these fears and anxieties wouldn’t matter. 

The two of you were walking through the casino to get to the elevators that would take you upstairs. You continued to stare while focusing on the circles his thumb was tracing on the back of your hand. God, you wanted this man. If he could make you feel so happy, so good about yourself, in public with innocent touches and glances, you wondered how incredible he could make you feel behind closed doors. You craved his touch, his rough hands grasping at all of you, and you were desperate enough to trade your soul just to feel his hot mouth exploring your skin.

Joel’s eyes suddenly met yours and you sucked in a sharp breath of surprise. Heat flooded your cheeks in embarrassment as if he could hear your sinful thoughts about him. Joel gave you a quick wink and nodded, “One last stop.” 

He tugged you off the path that carved through the casino and onto the actual casino floor. The slot machines around you were a sea of colors, flashing lights, and whistling tunes. Servers drifted about bringing drinks to those sitting at the machines, but Joel led you past all of them. The two of you approached the section that had the table games, and you spotted the one with the dice.

“Oh!” You chirped in recognition. “We’re gonna play?”

“You said you wanted to.” Joel countered. The table wasn’t very crowded right now. Save for the casino employees, there was two other people standing around the table playing. You felt a sense of anxiety creep up your spine. You were vaguely aware that the rules for these table games were very strict and there were also unspoken rules of conduct. “Here.” Joel reached toward you and stuck his hand in the inner pocket of his jacket which hung off your shoulders. He fished out a few hundreds that you couldn’t help but stare at. Joel pushed two hundred dollars in your hand. “Just like me, sugar.”

He placed the bills on the table top with his ID card and you hurried to copy him. Between dice rolls, the man running the table pulled your bills toward him and began to prep your chips. You leaned over and whispered, “Joel, I have no idea how to play this.”

“It’s easy.” He reassured you. You glanced at the very confusing green felt covered in different words and numbers then back to him skeptically. Joel chuckled and tapped under your chin with his hand. “I promise.”

Joel began to point out different portions of the table, and between the warm honey tone of his words and the multiple drinks you had throughout the night, you were not following whatsoever. You stared at him, nodding every few seconds, while admiring the lines of his face. People wrote poems and sung praises about blue and green eyes, but you were convinced it was because those people were never blessed with the opportunity to gaze into Joel Miller’s eyes. There was a warmth in the dark color of his irises that felt like coming home after a long day in the cold. Your eyes flickered to a small bare spot in his scruffy jawline that vaguely resembled a heart and you resisted the urge to lean forward and place a kiss right there. Why else would the otherwise perfect man in front of you have that space in his beard if not for your lips?

“You’re not hearin’ a damn thing I’m sayin’, are you?” Joel teased.

You blinked in surprise and watched as his lips stretched into a bright smile, “Uh, I’m listening.”

“Right. What did I just say about the ‘Come bet’?”

“That…it’s… better than a ‘Leave bet’?” You joked.

Joel barked out a laugh and the sound made your stomach flip. He leaned forward and pressed his lips to your forehead. You were savoring the feel of his lips on your skin, when he turned you back to the table where a stack of chips were waiting for you. He slid two green chips into the box labeled ‘Pass Line’. You quickly mimicked his actions. Joel scooped up the dice, nodding at the man running the table, and then set them in your hands. “You’re the shooter, sugar.”

“Me?” Your eyes widened in worry.

“7 or 11.” Joel winked.

You took half a second to stand in shock at how your life had brought you to this point right here, and then you dove right in. You tossed the red dice and they bounced across the table before landing on a four and a three. The other two people at the table clapped their hands and Joel gave your elbow a squeeze.

The table slowly began to fill up, and you were a firm believer in the concept of ‘beginner’s luck’. You still only had a vague understanding of the game, but every time it was your time to be the shooter you were on a roll. It was exciting to have strangers cheering you on as well and as time passed you began to get more confident with how you tossed the chips around. Again, your knowledge on the actual rules were scarce, but you were pushing around higher number chips than Joel was. As the man running the table began to prep chips for a new player who settled in beside you, you turned to smirk at Joel.

“I’m doing pretty good.” You motioned to your decent stack of chips.

“Better than me.” Joel smirked.

Your pile was currently larger than Joel’s, but he seemed more concerned in keeping an eye on you than winning back his money. Teasingly, you leaned forward to let your lips linger by his ear, “If I win big, I promise to take care of you, baby.”

Joel laughed loudly and shook his head, “Just roll your dice.” You bounced in place just a bit before throwing the dice across the table. It landed on a total of seven which was not what you needed at the moment and it ended your roll. You groaned with the rest of the table, and Joel leaned into you this time. “Looks like I don’t need to worry none. Disappointed?”

“Nah.” You shook your head and locked your eyes with his. “I like being your sugar.”

“Good.” Joel’s dark eyes lingered on yours before dropping to your lips and bouncing back up. It was enough to make you release a small gasp, and he must have heard the sound because he smirked. 

Your elbow suddenly brushed against something behind you, and it broke the spell. Joel leaned back and it was only then you realized how close the two of you had drifted toward one another. You cleared your throat and glanced at the man on your other side, assuming you had bumped into him while getting lost in the tempting vortex that was Joel, “I’m so sorry about that.”

“No, no. No worries, sweetheart.” The man replied. He was probably a few years older than you, if you garnered a guess, and he was decent looking but certainly not anything to write home about. Absolutely plain standing beside someone like Joel. He lifted his hand to your face, making you flinch, and opened his fist to reveal the dice, “Blow me?”

“What?” You blurted in shock.

“Watch it.” Joel snarled from behind you. His chest pressed against your side, and when you glanced over you saw the warmth in his eyes had turned dangerous. Not a comforting flame in the fireplace after a long day, but a raging wildfire licking at the edge of the forest⏤ threatening to destroy. Joel glared at the man and if looks could kill then he’d be struck down by now.

“I’m just talking about the dice.” The guy chuckled. He winked at you, and you blanched in disgust. “Relax.”

The rest of the table, including a few of his friends on the other side of him, began to goad him into rolling the dice. Joel was still stiff, and you set a hand on his forearm in hopes to calm him. Joel’s eyes snapped to yours and you watched the anger simmer. You gave him a reassuring smile. One stupid jerk wasn’t going to ruin the night for you. Joel nodded once and began to move around you. At first, you thought he was going to place himself in between you and the guy, but instead he settled behind you. Joel pressed his chest against your back, setting a hand on your abdomen to pull you closer, and then let his hands fall to the tables’ sides⏤ successfully blocking you in. 

You couldn’t even focus on if Joel was still upset because every single ounce of your mind was redirected to keeping your body from spontaneously combusting. His stance around you was dizzying. Protective. Intimate. Possessive. Joel was stamping a claim on you, a warning to the man who accosted you, and you found it extremely attractive. Months ago, you would have firmly stated that you were a strong, independent woman who didn’t want nor need a man that took control or showed any signs of being overprotective. However, you would commit atrocities if it meant hearing Joel call you his.

Joel leaned his head down on your shoulder just enough to whisper, “You alright, sugar?”

Other than possibly going into a heart arrhythmia from his proximity, you were just fine, “Yeah. I’m okay, Joel. Don’t worry.” You felt him nod and then he leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to the side of your neck. You audibly gasped, “Oh God.”

“What was that?” Joel asked.

“Nothing.” You blurted. His head was still hovering over your shoulder and you stayed stock still to avoid accidentally brushing any part of you against him. You heard Joel chuckle lightly before he straightened his posture. 

With Joel nearly wrapped around your body, it was easy to fall back into ease as the game went on. You weren’t really winning much more money, but you also weren’t significantly losing either. Just bouncing back and forth enough to maintain the same amount of chips. Between that and the feel of Joel’s breaths on your neck, you were ready to call it a night.

You turned your head to speak to him and realized how close he still stood then. Your nose was only an inch or so away from brushing against his jawline. You swallowed the lump in your throat and found the courage to not pull away. “Can we call it a night? Go back to the room?”

Joel turned his head and the slow way his jawline ended up rubbing against the top of your nose softly seemed deliberate. He gave you a small smile and nodded. “Course.” Joel held his position for a beat more before pushing away from you so he could speak to the man running the table. “We’re out.”

You took in a shuddering breath as Joel got the chips converted to the highest amount possible so it’d be easier to carry. Your anxiety had a bad habit of making you overthink and underplay everything against your favor, but even for you it was difficult to ignore Joel’s behavior tonight. He seemed genuinely interested. Nima had encouraged you to chase what made you happy, and Joel made you happy. There was no doubt there. Anticipation began to build in your chest as you hyped yourself up to make a move tonight. You took a chance and said yes to being his sugar baby in the first place. 

You just needed to take a chance again.

Joel turned back to you and he slipped a few black chips into his coat’s inner pocket before wrapping his arm around your shoulders to tug you into his side. You mimicked his action, holding yourself close to him, and the two of you only got a few steps away before the same obnoxious voice from earlier wolf whistled behind you.

“Damn, look at that ass.” The guy from earlier stumbled a step closer as his friends behind him tried to reel him back desperately. “How much do you charge a night? I’ll pay double whatever the old man is paying you.”

You stiffened at the words. They hit a little too close to home. You usually were able to easily let the drunk, stupid words of some obnoxious asshole roll off your back. Unknowingly though, the man had dug a knife into an already sore subject in your mind. In your spiraling panic, you didn’t realize the man was reaching for you until Joel was suddenly gone from your side. 

Without a word, Joel slammed his fist into the man’s face then grabbed him by the lapels of his sport coat before he could collapse. The man’s friends were trying to stop the attack while calling out apologies, but their attempts were fruitless. Joel lifted the man up off the ground enough to throw him over the edge of the craps table, making chips fly across the green felt as others around the table screamed in alarm, and Joel punched the man twice more before security swarmed the scene.

“Joel!” You cried out and tried to reach him, but a man in a dark suit and badge held you back.

They separated the fight easily and when Joel was pulled back away from the now groaning guy who was still laid up on the craps table, you saw real rage burning in Joel’s dark eyes. You had never seen his features twisted in anger and loathing before. Security dragged the guy off the table and took him and his friends toward the front of the resort while ushering for you and Joel to follow them in the opposite direction. Joel’s eyes snapped to meet yours and you watched as his anger melted into worry and concern. He shoved a security guard out of his way to reach you and one hand shot up to rest protectively on the back of your neck as his eyes scanned your face.

“Hey, are you alright?” Joel asked nervously. Unable to find words, you gave him a meek nod and his shoulders sagged in relief. The lead security guard cleared his throat and Joel kept his hands on you while following after the man. When the small grouping of people reached the edge of the casino floor, Joel spoke up. “That piece of shit better be out on his ass.”

“He has been forcibly removed from our premises and I do apologize for the duress.” The lead security, his badge read ‘T. Gordon’, turned to you with a slight nod. “Are you okay, miss?”

“Oh, uh, I’m fine.” You replied.

“Good.” Gordon focused back on Joel. “As regrettable as this scenario was, fighting is strictly prohibited⏤”

“If you kept assholes like him from gettin’ so wasted then maybe I wouldn’t have had to start nothin’.” Joel snapped. “He was gonna try and touch her.”

“Right, and because of that we will not be restricting your access to the resort.” Gordon said. “That being said, I will have to limit your access to the casino floor. The Wynn has a strict policy. That gentleman will never be welcome on our property again, and you will be suspended for the next three months.”

“Fine. Can we go?”

Gordon motioned for the two of you to wait while he fetched some paperwork for Joel to sign. Your eyes darted down to Joel’s dominant hand, the one not wrapped around your waist, and it was still balled into a tight fist. There was a redness to the knuckles that made you gasp.

“What’s wrong?” Joel’s attention snapped to you in alarm.

You reached for his hand and cradled it in yours, studying the gash and early bruising, “You’re bleeding, Joel.”

“It’s not a big deal.” He tried to pull his hand away, but you held on tighter and he sighed. “Really. Doesn’t even hurt.”

Your thumb brushed the edge of the discoloration and his nose twitched with a slight wince. You shot him a light glare, “Liar.” Joel’s own lips curled into a small smile and you shook your head. “What? Don’t smile at me. I’m worried about your hand.”

“I know.” Joel replied softly. He turned his gaze away from you and his next words fell out in a slight whisper. “It’s cute.”

Gordon returned a second later and you were forced to release his hand so he could sign the paperwork stating he understood his punishment. You were just happy that the police didn’t need to be involved. Joel began to lead you toward the elevators, which weren’t far from where you stood now. It didn’t take long to get to the room, and the moment you stepped through the threshold you pushed him toward the couch to sit. Quickly, you shrugged out of his jacket and fetched a rag to run under cold water. 

Joel was slumped in his seat with his head leaning back and his arm draped over to cover his eyes. You sat down beside him, on his left and close enough that your thigh pressed against the side of his, then carefully pulled his arm away from his face so you could take his hand in yours. Joel blinked his eyes open at you while you carefully began to dab at the gash on his knuckles.

“I’m so sorry.” Joel sighed.

Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “Why are you apologizing?” 

“I lost my temper.” He shifted so rather than slumped back he was sitting upright. Joel’s fingers wrapped around the hand holding his up while your other continued to clean his injury. “I never wanted you to see me like that.”

“Joel…”

“When I’m around you,” Joel paused and took in a slow breath, “I get to be one of the best versions of myself. Carefree. Happy. That’s what I want you to see. Not angry or grumpy or stressed⏤ Just… I don’t want…” 

It seemed he couldn’t find the end of his thoughts. You paused in cleaning his wound to just squeeze his hand in reassurance. “I don’t want just the best of you, Joel. I want to know all of you. Good and bad.” Joel’s gaze softened and the way he stared at you, with blatant adoration even the worst of your anxiety couldn’t deny, made your chest fill with warmth. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“How’d I get so lucky to find you, sugar?” Joel asked quietly.

“Easy.” You offered him a smile and shrug, “You left your wallet at home, daddy.”

Joel laughed and the sound of it felt victorious. You liked being able to cheer him up. A knock at the door made you rise from the couch. Joel tried to stop you so he could go, but you brushed away his hand with a chuckle. At the door, a waiter stood holding a bucket filled with ice and a bottle of wine. You took it from him questioningly and walked back into the living space.

“What is it?”

You read the card tied to the side, “‘Please accept this wine as an apology for tonight’s disturbance.’” Your eyes widened and you stared at Joel in shock. “Seriously? You punch a guy and the hotel apologizes to you?” Joel motioned for you to get closer and you walked over to settle back in the seat you had been in. Joel pulled the bottle from the bucket to read it. “You rich people, I swear.”

“Wow. This is a pricey bottle.” Joel hummed. “I don’t know a lot of wines, but Sarah likes this one. I buy it for her every year for her birthday.”

You scooped up some of the ice to set in the rag, a smile on your features. You always loved hearing details of Joel’s home life. It wasn’t like he was hiding anything from you, he spoke freely about his daughters, but every little detail you learned solidified the image of the doting and loving father Joel truly was. You’d be lying if you said it wasn’t an extremely attractive trait of his.

With your makeshift ice pack, you shifted in place so you could settle it on his knuckles. Joel hissed at the cold and set the bottle down. His hand was resting in your lap so neither of you had to hold it up and his close proximity was making your heart race.

“You know,” You chuckled, “Nobody’s ever punched someone to defend my honor, like that before. Is it wrong that I kind of liked it?”

“Not wrong.” Joel shook his head. “But you’ve really never had to deal with an asshole like that before?”

You scoffed with a laugh. “I’ve dealt with assholes like him my whole life. I’m a breathing woman who lives in LA. I can’t walk down the street without getting catcalled or yelled at.”

Joel’s brows furrowed in confusion, “You were datin’ someone before me though, right?” You nodded in confirmation. “He never…?”

“Nathan wasn’t big on violence of any kind.” You shook your head. A memory tumbled out from your lips before you could even stop it. “I got groped once at a bar we went to. Some guy grabbed my chest and Nate scolded him and then the two of them started talking about some baseball game.”

“You’re shittin’ me.”

“Nope.”

Joel muttered under his breath a string of curses. His hand slid to rest on your mid thigh and he gave it a comforting squeeze. “I know technically the answer should be non-violence, so I’m probably the bad guy for sayin’ this, but I would’ve ripped that guy’s head off.” Based on what you saw this evening, you believed him, and still you only found comfort in it. “The world’s a goddamn mess and that kid you dated was a coward for not standin’ up for you. That’s the least a man could do for a woman he loves.” You felt your heart skip a beat at his insinuation. Joel didn’t love you. It was way too soon for him to feel any kind of way close to that, but to hear you were in the group of people he cared enough about to protect still made you feel some kind of way yourself. “Not that women can’t protect themselves.” Joel was near ranting now. “I made sure Sarah and Ellie could hold their own. Basic self defense, teachin’ ‘em how to handle a weapon, a kickboxin’ class here or there. But still… The thought that you got assaulted and your ex-boyfriend just thought to be chummy with the guy pisses me the fuck off.”

There was an edge to his voice, and you could see the haunted look of a past memory lingering in his eyes. You melted into the couch, closer to him, and Joel squeezed your thigh once more. “I’m okay, Joel. Everything is fine, and I’m safe. We’re safe.” You lifted the ice pack just enough to give his skin a break from all the cold. “Are you okay?” 

“Yeah, I’m alright. Just…” Joel shook his head. “Bad memory.”

“Want to talk about it?”

Joel hesitated for a moment before sighing, “It was a long time ago. I took the girls campin’. Ellie was fourteen. Just a kid. Not even old enough to drive.” His thumb was tracing a line back and forth against your thigh as he recounted his past. “We were settin’ everything up, I looked away for a minute⏤ just a minute⏤ and she was gone. I left Sarah with Tess, called the cops, then Tommy and I were tearin’ apart the woods lookin’ for her.” Joel carried a tension in his shoulders as he spoke and you leaned in closer to him to offer physical reassurance without interrupting him. “I heard Ellie scream. That sound… it’s carved into my very soul. I’ll never forget it. I found her in this beat up RV by the lake. Some sick son of a bitch had snatched her and was tryin’ to…” Joel locked his jaw. Silence settled between the two of you for a moment. Your heart ached for him and it ached for his daughter. You couldn’t even begin to imagine the horror. Joel shook his head finally. “Ellie’s a fighter. She always has been. Arguably to a fault.” He let out a sad chuckle at the praise, but it faded. “She had clawed his face up, broke his finger, hell, she even managed to bite off the upper part of the bastard’s ear… Ellie held him off, and I got there in time. When I saw him though…” Joel squeezed your thigh and this time he didn’t let up. “God, I saw red, darlin’. Ripped him off her and nearly killed him. I would’ve except I heard Ellie cryin’ and I stopped to grab her. Cops showed up around then. Sick bastard was lucky it was the cops and not Tommy. Tommy wouldn’t have stopped me. Not for that.”

“She’s okay? Ellie?” You asked softly.

“Yeah. She’s strong. Stronger than me even.” A flash of pride filled his features while praising his daughter’s strength, “She got that from her mom.” You knew that Joel wasn’t related to Ellie by blood. He had shared that bit of information with you early on when he first told you about his daughters. That was all you knew of the fact though. You didn’t know how Joel knew Ellie’s mom or how she came to be adopted by him. “Since then though, I’ve always had a hair trigger for that kind of shit. More so than I used to. Just brings up bad memories.”

“I could only imagine.” You replied. “I’m so sorry, Joel.” 

“No need for you to be.”

“Still…” You searched for something to say, but there were no words that came to mind. Instead, you rested your head between his shoulder and chest. Joel responded by letting the arm draped on the couch behind you wrap around your own shoulders as his right hand continued to reach across his lap and rest on your thigh. Softly, you spoke, “Sarah and Ellie are lucky to have you.”

Joel gave a small shake of his head, “I’m lucky to have them.”

“Well, then,” You lifted your head just enough to meet his gaze and gave him a tight lipped smile, “I’m lucky to have you.”

“Wrong again.” Joel chuckled and there was a softness in his eyes as he studied your features.

That didn’t feel true to you. It had been so long since you felt protected to this degree. For literal years, you only had yourself to rely on. Of course you always had Nima and Henry at the bake shop, they’d move mountains for you, but the thought of bothering them kept you from ever wanting to ask for too much. However, when Joel took care of you, it never made you feel like a burden. It felt like you could breathe fully and freely for the first time in a long time⏤ as if the concrete blocks once tied to your ankles were gone and you could now stretch your wings and be yourself. 

Your gaze found its way to his lips before bouncing back up to his eyes. The plan had been to gain the courage to close this gap and share that physical intimacy with him, but the two of you seemed to find a different kind of intimacy altogether. You leaned in and rather than kissing him like you had been craving all night, you lightly set your lips against his jawline, in that same spot you had admired earlier in the night, and then laid your head back on his shoulder. You curled in closer into him and Joel wrapped around your once more as if it were simply natural to do so.

“You’re a good man.” You mumbled and listened to the steady thrum of his heart under your ear.

You felt Joel suck in a sharp, shaky breath and hold it. Eternity seemed to pass before he slowly breathed out. Joel turned his head, you could feel him moving, and he pressed a kiss to your hairline⏤ lingering there with his lips to your skin as he mumbled, “No, sugar. I’m really not.”

There was an underlying tone to his words you didn't recognize, but there was nothing that could convince you otherwise of your beliefs. You were lucky to have Joel in your life, and he was a good man.

taglist (closed):

@weddingfairy @bfences @fairntonorth @jasminedragon @biwitchy @huffle-punk @shelbyteller @anoverwhelmingdin @aheadfullofsteverogers @stagerightlauren @basicoccult @rinnfey @boofy1998 @farintonorth @thepascalofus @amatis-gray @casa-boiardi @northernbluess @jettia @sapphicsoie @spidey-3 @camiali25 @hrtsforpascal @gingersince97 @sentients17 @bigboiseason123 @lunxramour @ktheunready @heyheyheygaypay @keepingupwiththeskywalkers @adoringanakin @come-hell-or-eldren-fire @cherriebat @whitewolfstar01 @alyssa121611 @asreadbyaj @painfullyandprettypoetic @cantobightcafe @hellooseulgi @str84pedro

[previous][next]

✨J.M. Masterlist✨

[gh0stsp1d3r]

Hi! I love ur fics <3 i was thinking maybe you could do a hobie brown/ spiderpunk x female reader where her and hobie r going to do yk- and the reader is insecure of taking off her shirt because of her stomach rolls but hobie shows her how to love her self while like doing it with her. So basically like a lot of praise and etc.

You can add more or not do certain parts, or do it how you like :>

A/n- Hi! I’m so glad you like my fics, and I’m so sorry this took so long anon ): . Also I cannot find any pictures to fit with this so the gif is gonna have to do

𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭.

18+, smut, minors DNI, praise kink, afab reader, p in v, unprotected sex

You giggled when he pushed you onto the bed, you weren’t thinking much then- and right after dinner too?

He hungrily kissed you, slipping his tongue into your mouth, your hands on his cheeks as you kissed him back.

He began to take off his jacket. That’s when you stopped him. That’s when the thoughts in your head raced.

“Uh, Hobie?”

“Yeah?”

“Can we.. uh, wait for tomorrow? I’m tired, and we just ate so….” You asked nervously, avoiding his gaze. You sat up on the bed.

He quirked an eyebrow, his hands on the bottom of his shirt now at his sides.

“So..?”

“I mean… I’m just.. you know…?”

“No, I don’t, might have to elaborate.” He sat down next to you on the bed, already knowing what was wrong.

You messed with the edge of your shirt now, stuttering over your words as you spoke.

“I just feel…you know, my stomach rolls and I’m just-“

He immediately interrupted you.

“What? That’s what you’re worried ‘bout?” He laughed, but stopped when he saw your upset expression.

“Love, you don’t have to worry about that. I don’t care. Everyone has them, I’m like the skinniest guy ever, I still have ‘em. You’re perfect.” He said, meaning every single word.

He was great with his words, and the way he spoke. In a way that makes you feel special.

He grabbed your hands, kissing them.

“I love you. I love every part.” He mumbled, you gave him a small smile and kissed him.

He gently laid you down on the bed this time, a new goal in his mind.

To make you feel better about yourself.

“You’re gorgeous. Seriously. Don’t know how everyone who looks at you doesn’t fall in love.” He said against your lips, you rolled your eyes and brushed off his words.

He grabbed your jaw when you looked the other way.

“I’m bein’ serious. I’m gonna show you just how much I mean it.” He said, letting go it your jaw, littering small kisses against your neck.

You watched him, and you moaned when he hit into the soft skin.

He looked up at you again, and he was suddenly off the bed.

He looked up at you, and grabbed your ankles, making you laugh quietly.

He moved his hands up your legs, to your thighs, and eventually your shorts.

“May I?” He asked.

You nodded, and that was all the confirmation he needed as he pulled down your shorts and then your panties, your panties which your arousal was clear in.

He collected your juices on his finger, toying with your clit, and enjoying the sweet noises you made when he rubbed circles on your pussy.

His fingers were quickly replaced with his mouth, making you quickly grab onto his wicks.

You moaned, he was good with his tongue. Flicking it and licking in all the right spots, and it wasn’t long before you came on his tongue.

He licked a stripe up your pussy, making sure to get all of your cum.

He looked at you again, with a large smile on his face, licking his lips.

He started to take off his shirt and jacket, then his pants. You watched him carefully as he was left only in his boxers, his erection straining against the fabric.

He then looked back realizing you were still wearing your shirt. He made his way back onto the bed, and he took it off, you raised your arms.

You suddenly felt self conscious of yourself, and you moved your hands to your stomach.

He grabbed them quickly, pinning them above your head.

“Hobie-“ you whined.

He clicked his tongue, sighing.

“I don’t want none of that.”

You didn’t say anything as he let go of your wrists, he slithered a hand behind your back, and unclipping your bra.

He threw it on the floor, along with the rest of the both of your guys clothes.

You both were now named when he took off his boxers, he stroked his hard cock a few times before positioning it at your entrance.

He slowly slid in, just the tip at first. You moaned at the intrusion.

He then slid his full length in your pussy, your walls clenching down on him.

He groaned, throwing his head back and he stayed still for a moment, letting you adjust to his size before sliding it out and slamming it back in.

His pace had your arms around him, you clawed at his back.

You both making the room echo with each noise and thrust, each groan and moan.

You closed your eyes.

“So gorgeous.” He mumbled, along with a few incoherent words you couldn’t make out at the moment, his cock feeling too good.

“Hobie, ‘m gonna-“ you started, but couldn’t finish your sentence because his thrusts were now even more relentless.

“I know, love. Cum for me.” He said, laying kisses on your skin as you let out a scream.

He smiled as he looked down at the mess you both made on the sheets.

He then pulled out, and with a few more strokes he was cumming on your stomach.

He laid down next to you. He turned his head to you, and you turned yours to him.

“C’mon. Let’s go take a bath, and then we can sleep.” He said, giving you a peck on your lips and standing up.

You nodded, he carried you to the bathroom when you struggled to walk.

————

Tag list:

Hobie- @enviinotes @rayis-psychotic @korizzybee @animechick555 @stupid-ninja @rreasonablydumbb @xxqueen-of-horrorrxx @spidypunkk @criodzasn

@techta @1eonk @chipstermation6 @whosace16 @ @l-pandamatic-l

@spider-phoenix @zebralover @my-melo-gf @wiz-te-ria @tzuyuzzs @luvsaluv @mxkn

@deputy-videogamer @666kpopfan @jared-oranges @likelilac @jjkclub

@kitty-kei @blaxk-widow @hoesindifferentshows @lavsluvsu @lampylamperson @notbluees @sp0kyzz @arlipooh @freeingrebels @ken-zah @blustalker @cursedbitchboy @romanoffswoman

@chaoticevilbakugo @hobiebrainrot @anonima-2 @melda0m3

[ateez-himari]

[240830] SLEEPY LIVE

● 민기 is live on TokToq now (1:27 AM)

● 76,019 active viewers

'She's (Himari) right next to me in bed right now, we went to visit my mom together because she wanted to see the two of us. They get along really well so I'm relieved, they met before but it was when Hima wasn't doing so well'

'They actually went to the hot springs together when I was out with one of my close friends, my mom really enjoys being around her, she told me that. She asked when our wedding was so I told her that it would hopefully be soon haha'

'No, I don't ever get tired of being with her...we actually see each other a lot less than you think. Members in the same dorms already don't run into each other that often because of different lifestyles so imagine how it is with us living apart, and with her schedule often being packed'

'We've been seeing each other every day lately because of the tour but it's different since everyone else is there too. Sometimes it feels nice to have just us two...more domestic you know ? Being idols is obviously something we love, but getting to live as normal adults feels great too'

'Honestly...no I didn't picture myself with her at first, to me it was just some silly crush because she was a girl I was regularly around. Then we fought before my hiatus...a really bad fight, and I think that was when I realized that maybe it was more'

'I won't elaborate too much on it but a lot of 'Tunnel' is kind of based on what happened back then'

'It might seem silly to some people but just seeing her smile makes the world stop for me, and the first time she was genuinely happy after being stuck in a dark place I never wanted it to start again. Atiny probably know this already but she's fragile...so you have to be careful with her okay ? Love her like we do'

'Haha you can hear her breath ? It's because she's very close to my phone since it's on my chest...I'm too tired to lift it in my hands, I'm scared it'll fall on my face'

'The position is a little uncomfortable but I'm worried she'll wake up if I move. It's the first time she's slept well in some time, because of the situation with her brother...she worries about people a lot'

'About an hour ago she was fussing over my throat because it's very sore right now, instead of doing her rehabilitation exercises'

'Rehabilitation yeah, she went through rib surgery after Coachella...so now there's titanium plates on the broken bones. The doctors said she would be okay without a hiatus so no one knew about it, well only the ones that heard it on her live'

'Atiny are really observant, you're right it's why I always hold her waist instead of her ribcage area like I used to. The size difference is very cute but I have to be careful because of it sometimes'

'We're actually leaving tomorrow afternoon, we booked an airbnb for the rest of our break, it's in a really nice location too, it's romantic'

'Yeah the dorms are empty for the most part but we wanted to be alone in a house, just live like a normal couple for a bit. Our manager helped set it up actually since we were working non stop'

'Ahh you guys want to see her ? I wish, she looks adorable like this...but I'm not wearing a shirt and I think the flash is gonna wake her up'

'Speaking of I think it's time for me to sleep too, I just wanted to say hello quickly. Sleep well Tiny, I'll come back soon'

Translation by 9024subs

[tatteredtoby]

Okay, first actual writing for somebody on this blog! (Had this idea from basically Aliamors entire page)

Case is asked on stream at one point, “Case you should play Genshin Impact”

He slams his palms on the desk and clasps them together, sighing heavily. “Chat. I will NEVER play Genshin impact.” And doesn’t elaborate the rest of the stream.

Later in you and hims relationship, you start streaming Genshin Impact in these extremely high quality cosplays you made yourself, your set up basically right next to his. You RAGE at one of the elemental cube boss’, yelling, “OH COME ON!!!! YOURE A CUBE!!!!! DISSIPATE ALREADY!!!”

He snickers, turning to his chat.

“See Chat, this is why I don’t play Genshin Impact.” He glances over at you, who was staring at him dead in the eye with a “are you serious right now?” Look on your face. “Chat, doesn’t he respond the same way I do to this as to Fall Guys?” You remark, leaning towards your mic, making direct eye contact with Case.

His chat is CACKLING, so is yours.

“AY WHATCHU MEAN BY THAT?!” He yells, spinning his chair to face you.

“You know exactly what I mean by that.” You joke back, looking at your nails in a sassy manner.

————————————————————————————

• I have a feeling he’d like, hang over your chair/lean on it, trying to tell you how to play the game that you’ve been playing for years, and he hasn’t played the game ever.

•He’d totally see something at like a store or something that wasn’t Genshin and go “Is this one of your genshin impacts?” along with a picture of a Hatsune Miku figurine or shirt. (He knows about every character and what it looks like because of you, he just likes to see the messages being like “NOO!!!! THATS HATSUNE MIKU!!!”)

•he totally has videos of genshin impact on his fyp and likes to inch over and show them to you, and he often asks what’s happening in the clip, and you excitedly tell him.

•literally the entire game is spoiled for him. Not like he plans to play it, but he loves listening to you yap about your favorite game.

•actually bans anyone who comments on how your cosplay looks in a sexual way. Doesn’t get a mod to do it, he finds the dude himself and BANS him.

•has to be extra careful near your setup, because if he like does his hand slam thing too hard one of your figures falls and you stare at him like “:c”

•You usually are closer to Kitty, so you and him have clips together of both of you saying “KITTYUH!!!!!” When she walks into the room.

•Off topic from this direct prompt but you force him to watch My Little Pony, but it’s not really forcing, he’s happy to watch it with you.

•He can hear the game through your headphones and a lot of the time, whips around because he heard the Lumine/Aether stretch audio, or a Venti Voiceline, or a Kaeya one.

•“HOW IS TWITCH ALLOWING THIS?!!??!?”

• “chat. Say another word about the cosplay, and I will end stream.”

Literally two seconds later.

“Alright. That’s the end of the stream. See you tomorrow.”

————————————————————————————

CaseOh silly, I love this guy!! I’m getting back into writing, so this might not be the best :)! Have a nice day or night!

[bad268]

Tonight (Colby Brock X Reader)

Fandom: RPF/ Sam and Colby & Co

Requested: Day 13 of Writing Inktober prompts instead of drawing!

Warnings:  Cancer, mentions death, it’s fluffy tho (COLBY IS NOW CANCER FREE! <3)

Pronouns: First person (I/me)

W.C. 370

As always, my requests are OPEN

MASTERLIST // HITLIST

Writing Inktober 2023 Masterlist

~~(^@/Colby's insta from February 7, 2023)

"What if tomorrow..." Colby choked out. He was throwing himself into a panic attack with all of these 'what if's.

"Don't worry about tomorrow. Worry about tonight. Right now," I comforted, holding his face between my hands as I wiped the tears that were falling down his red cheeks. "Whatever happens tomorrow is not our problem. Tonight is what matters."

"But they said the surgery could kill me," He struggled to get out as he grabbed onto my wrists, closed his eyes, and leaned his forehead onto mine. "I'm scared because what if it does? I'm not ready to go."

"That's a problem for the future, but tonight," I paused to pull his attention back to me, looking deep into his blue eyes, "We are going to make the best of it. We are going to do as many things as we want because I want you to let loose for tonight. Even if it is just tonight. I want you to live like there is no tomorrow."

"What would we do?" He whispered with a hint of a smile coming through.

"Anything you want, baby."

"Well, we're in Vegas," He chuckled, "If we're going to live like there's no tomorrow, let's get married."

"I would be honored to marry you on this fine night, Mr. Brock," I laughed, pulling him into a short kiss. As soon as we pulled away, Colby turned around to pull a ring box out of his desk drawer. "Oh, you planned this?"

"Not entirely," He chuckled as he go down on his knee, "The plan was to make a big deal but then cancer got in the way of that. You never left my side, and I don't want to leave your side either. You've been my rock, and you were fully ready to get married in the spur of the moment because I might die tomorrow, so I cannot see myself going on without the whole elaborate speech. Y/N, will you marry me tonight?"

"Of course I will," I cried, pulling him to his feet and kissing him passionately. Once we pulled apart, he slipped the ring on my finger. "We better tell Sam because we're gonna need pictures and a witness."

~~~~~

© BAD268 2023. DO NOT REPOST WITHOUT PERMISSION.

[flowercrowngods]

Loving Eddie Munson is a full body experience. Steve can feel the lightness in his chest and the heaviness in his arms, can feel his hands tingling and his legs itching — itching to stay, to follow, to buckle and fall and float.

Eddie’s touch leaves goosebumps on Steve’s skin, his smile leaves a giddiness, his laugh a shortness of breath because, suddenly, Steve is laughing, too. Because of Eddie. With Eddie. Forgetting to breathe because he takes it away with gentle touch and playful wink, rendering Steve useless and utterly devoted.

But even when his eyes closed and they’re not touching, Steve isn’t safe from feeling this love in his entire body. Because Eddie is there. He’s always there; in his thoughts, his memories, this week‘s calendar, yesterday‘s Polaroid picture, tomorrow’s dreams.

Or here, right now, in bed, so close that warmth is radiating off him, but not close enough to touch yet. But Steve only needs to reach out with his pinkie and he could wrap it around Eddie‘s. Only needs to shift his leg just so to brush his knee against Eddie‘s thigh.

He’s there, he’s here, and Steve can feel him. Can hear Eddie’s smile in the air, can feel the the love in the safety of their little box-spring bubble, can smell belonging in his own shampoo mixed with Eddie‘s scent, can taste the words still that Eddie pressed to his lips earlier.

Loving Eddie Munson is a full body experience. All senses and more. Past, present, future. It’s all there, in the centre of Steve’s chest, slightly to the left as if always reaching for Eddie, drawn to him. Like the Fates knew upon the creation of humans that Steve’s heart would long for Eddie’s. His body would defy the laws of anatomy if it had to, he knows.

It makes him smile. It makes him want to cry, too.

Eddie is so close, so warm, so perfect and so still for once. And Steve wants to cry because the lightness in his chest needs to be filled somehow.

“You have your thinking face on, Stevie,” Eddie whispers then before Steve can lose himself in it, before he can let go and fall; fall so hard, fall without a landing, and still have Eddie catch him.

Eddie always catches him. Even when Steve isn’t falling. That’s another thing about loving Eddie Munson.

He doesn’t open his eyes, leaves them closed, the dim light of the room painting the world behind his eyelids in a beautiful sepia tone. That’s what he wants his future to look like. Not bright and loud and colourful. Just like this. Calm, serene, quiet, and with Eddie by his side. He deserves it. They deserve it. After everything, they deserve a future that will become a sepia past, the kind that will make people feel it in their whole body, too. The kind of story that will make them smile and cry at the same time, the kind that leaves behind lightness and space and the feeling that love could conquer worlds. The story of Steve and Eddie. Sepia-pretty, full of love and adoration and tingling hands.

He hums. “Not my thinking face.”

There’s no elaboration; because while Eddie knows Steve loves him, is in love with him, irrefutably, and can’t imagine loving anything or anyone as much as he loves Eddie, Steve still can’t tell him this. It’s his little secret. His safety belt in a world that moves so fast outside of this bedroom, outside the dim light, outside the safety they’ve made for themselves and each other.

“What’s that face then?” Eddie asks, but Steve just smiles. Hums. Dismisses the question, locks away the answer.

It’s the face that says, I love you so much, I can’t even stand to look at the world because that would be one sensation too many and I would break. Surely, I would break.

Eddie, however, refuses to let him go that easily.

“Stevie,” he sing-songs, moving closer until warmth turns to touch and lips are brushing over his face in butterfly kisses.

Steve smiles, a laugh bubbling out of his chest that’s still entirely too light, and leans both into and away from the touch, shy and brave at the same time.

“Stevie, baby,” Eddie continues, brushing kiss after kiss to his eyes, his brows, the tip of his nose. So warm, so close, so much and yet not enough, but still the perfect amount.

It doesn’t make sense and it doesn’t have to, not when Eddie kisses his smiles into Steve’s skin and leaves them in his memory for all eternity. Breath has left Steve’s lungs and he only lives because Eddie kisses him, loves him, adores him so entirely.

“Tell me, tell me, tell me,” Eddie begs ridiculously — still smiling, still grinning, still laughing into Steve’s skin. Every time Eddie laughs, Steve feels so young. As though he were a little boy, because only children feel this kind of joy, this kind of safety and invincibility. That’s what people say, at least. They’re wrong. Obviously, they’re wrong, but Steve doesn’t fault them, because they don’t have Eddie Munson in their bed — and they never will.

So maybe it’s another secret of his now.

“It’s nothing,” he says, playfully pushing away Eddie’s face, only to chase after it just a second later, hovering above him. It’s Steve now who laughs into Eddie’s skin, who chases faint blushes on sepia skin with his lips and leaves a trail of kisses in a familiar path from his forehead down to Eddie’s lips; right into his heart.

He rolls his hips into Eddie’s and swallows the breathy sigh, the hum, the moan, only realising now that he was starving. He was bursting with emotion and still he was starving.

“Doesn’t feel like nothing,” Eddie breathes into his mouth, reaching for Steve’s hands with his own until their laced fingers rest above his head and he’s meeting Steve’s eyes with this rare look of quiet devotion. Staring for just one second. Two. Three.

It’s that look that makes Steve fall. It’s that look that catches him.

That makes him say, “I love you so much it’s like my body doesn’t know what to do with it.”

He doesn’t elaborate, wouldn’t know how even if he wanted to. But the way Eddie’s face shifts into something soft, something so vulnerable, makes Steve feel like maybe he’s not alone with it.

He swallows and buries his burning face in the crook of Eddie’s neck. Not shying away from vulnerability — not with Eddie, not anymore — but not quite strong enough yet to meet it head-on. Face first. Eyes open.

“That’s what that face was.”

Eddie frees his hands from Steve’s grasp only to wrap his arms around his middle, holding him tightly and securely. Like he’s loving him with his whole body, too.

“I love you, Stevie,” he says. Quietly, like it’s not for the world to hear, not right now. Like it’s only for him. Only for Steve. “So much. So, so much. I don’t even know what to do with it most of the time, either. You’re okay, baby, you’re so perfect. Don’t even have the words for it.”

“Words are overrated,” Steve says, lifting his face to press his lips to Eddie’s in a conquering kiss. Licking his way into Eddie’s mouth, he swallows any and all words that might have followed, just to make a point. But Eddie doesn’t seem to mind.

Steve pulls away just for a beat, his body still on top of Eddie’s, and rolls his hips once more.

“But you can show me.”

Oh, and Eddie does.