#or also how many times will i change the design before i can play him

[caemidraws]

[---]

[ventismacchiato]

RAFAYEL HEADCANONS

canon complaint, established relationship

sorry guys, can u tell i have a favorite

matching everything. phone charms. earrings. nails. socks. you name it, he’ll buy everything in two.

begs you every other day to get a matching tattoo with him. he’s even drawn up multiple designs for you to choose from and will keep asking you until you eventually agree, how could you refuse?

hates cats, says he’s allergic (he’s not) but will run out the room when your cat walks in when he’s staying over. one time you asked him to feed it when you were away on a mission and you watched through your cat cam as it took him fifteen minutes to get the bravery to even get five feet near your cat.

so very chronically online. he’s a certified yapper. you’re his only follower on his private twitter and best believe he’s posting every single thought he has, and he expects you to reply to every single one. also asks you to match profile photos, but he has commitment issues so you guys change them almost every week.

you usually wake up to at least one voice note from him, minimum of five minutes long. you got used to playing them as podcasts as you got ready for work.

honestly he already probably gets his nails done, but will let you do them for him. more so force you, he’s lazy. but if you like to have yours done he would be able to do the prettiest designs for you.

aquarium dates are his favorite, no need to get a guide because rafayel will talk your ear off the moment you’re inside.

boy who cried wolf. fakes being sick for your attention so much so that you don’t even believe him when he actually is. not until thomas tells you that rafa has been whining about missing you in bed.

clearly has abandonment issues and gets upset when you don’t let him know where you are or if you’re okay. he’ll show up at your apartment the few times you pass out from a mission and forget to reply, ready to be mad at you. but the moment he sees your wounds and tired eye bags he loses any ounce of anger he once had.

love language is quality time, doesn’t matter what you’re doing as long as it’s together. he’s the type to tag along when you need to go grocery shopping or pick up something. he just likes to be beside you.

he is a brat, so he’ll laugh as he watches you struggle to carry all the groceries back inside. but it’ll only last a few seconds before he scoops them from you. if you guys go to a carnival together his immediate thought is to win every prize there. it’s only when he’s sucked the poor booths dry is when you have to tug him away.

claw machine dates are weekly and mandatory, but if you think you’re getting a turn think again. he gets too into it and forgets to share. you’ve come to learn you just need to pry him away from it

always follows the sidewalk rule but in return will make a big deal out of you opening doors for him since you’re his bodyguard. he’s the girlfriend in the relationship fr

that’s not the entire time though, when it’s just you two and he’s all worn out from being annoying all day his tone will go softer and his gaze warmer. he loves you he really does he just showcases it weirdly

constantly asking, morelike begging, you to stay the night. even if you have work the next day he says he needs you to fall asleep. it’s happened so many times you eventually brought one of your uniforms over and some clothes so you could spend the night and still go to work. it’s hard not to give in to him.

loves pda. if it was up to him he’d have his hands on you constantly. will get sulky if you don’t hold his hand when you go out.

much like xavier i don’t think he would enjoy working out. but if you need to go to the gym to train he’ll sit on a yoga ball beside your treadmill and talk your ear off. he’ll spot you on the machines but won’t go near anything. he will offer to sit on your back as you do push-ups though. you decline.

nsfw

probably a switch but after seeing his tipsy invitation and ebb and flow scenes he’s giving he prefers to be on the bottom. probably bratty at the beginning but he according to the cards he gives in pretty easily, letting mc tie him up and referring to you as master likeeee. i feel like he just wants you to enjoy it more than he wants to enjoy it. gets off at seeing you get off type of deal.

he’s giving pillow princess vibes but if you ask he’ll give you the same treatment but tease you the entire time tbh he’s sooo bratty but i can’t see him being a hard mean dom. like he’ll give into you but make you work for it. edging kink all the way

“hmm, should i stop? i can’t let you finish this quick.”

“wow i didn’t know you were so sensitive here.”

“i haven’t even used my fingers yet and you’re already this wet.”

100% down to try any sex toy can you imagine him buying some sort of tentacle dildo as a joke cus he’s a mermaid but then you end up actually using it on him one night

[superectojazzmage]

My Adventures With Superman is honestly a really impressively good example of how you can make an adaptation radically different and new while still doing justice to the source material by just approaching said source from a place of love and respect. The show is unabashedly and upfrontly meant to be a very explorative and experimental take on Superman that does the classic premise in new ways, revamped for another time and medium.

So many of the characters, designs, aesthetics, and world feel so extremely unfamiliar and unlike “traditional” Superman. But it still FEELS like Superman. The core, the spirit, the SOUL is absolutely and unmistakably there. The characters are all incredibly in-character and instantly recognizable. The plotting and writing feels straight off the page of the comic.

Even with major reinventions, this is so obviously and clearly Superman. Not some hoary “deconstruction” or obnoxiously self-aware “parody”, it’s just unabashedly honest-to-God played absolutely straight Superman. Even through all the changes, it’s that same classic, undistilled, nostalgic vibe of a Superman comic with Clark as a lovable, goofy guy with powers trying to be an example to the world, fighting crazy bad guys, helping old ladies across the street, and winking to the reader after Lois and Jimmy fail to see through his disguise yet again before cringing because Perry yelled at him for calling Perry “chief” again.

Hot, overeager tomboy Lois Lane is a bit different from usual but she’s so clearly still that same gorgeous would-be star reporter that every Superman falls in love with. Jimmy has been reimagines as kooky conspiracy buff, but he’s still ultimately Superman’s Pal who gets into wacky situations by virtue of being Superman’s Pal. Perry, Lombard, Ronnie, and Cat are all very different from the comics superficially — hell, Ronnie has had his gender flipped — but they are all still instantly recognizable as the same eccentric bunch of newsfolk they were there. Livewire and the Intergang members are all totally changed but at their center, they’re the same; same powers and gimmicks, etc.. Dr. Ivo is now a douchey techbro and yet he’s still fulfilling the very same role he does in the comics as a self-centered mad scientist who creates things that spiral beyond his control. Even Parasite, the most radically altered of all to the point of no longer being sentient, is still identifiable as his core concept of a monster that feeds on the lifeforce of others and becomes more powerful as he does, while also weakening when he can’t do so.

I really, really like it. It’s a wonderfully imaginative and well-put-together take on a very old series that really brings the concept into the modern age in a way that hasn’t really been done successfully outside the comics since the DCAU back in the 90s and early 2000s. People writing Superman or just superhero fiction in general should absolutely take notes from this show.

[kaicubus]

Dating Rodrick Heffley

₊˚⊹♡ ∘₊ ───────────── ₊˚⊹♡ ∘₊ ─────────────── ₊˚⊹♡ ∘₊

warnings ✩° : fluff headcanons, cursing.

pairing ✩° : rodrick heffley x fem!reader

authors note ✩° : this is so random but i was on tik tok and i saw an edit of him and i was slapped in the face with this idea!! yiPEEEEE!!!! this is the content i intended on posting when everything settled.

────────────────────────────────────────────

Your parents are convinced that Rodrick is a bad influence on you, and they're right. Being with Rodrick has changed you for the worst and for the better, he’s seen you at your lowest and your highest. But he’s proud of you no matter what happens. In fact, he’s your biggest supporter.

Being over after school every day means you bond really well with his family, and they love you since you seem to have a better influence on him than anything else. I mean, ever since you two started dating, he’s actually been doing his homework and his attendance has significantly improved. That being said, you are definitely a celebrity to Rodrick’s little brother and his friend, Greg and Rowley.

Speaking of the two, you're like their saving grace when it comes to shielding them from the teenage angst that is Rodrick—or in their eyes, the biggest bully they've ever encountered.

There have been many times where Greg tries explaining to you just how bad of a brother Rodrick is, but he never gets farther than a few words before Rodrick slams the door in his face or spills some drink he’s holding onto him.

He’s not that open to listening to your kind of music (if it’s drastically different than the kind of stuff he would listen to) but in secret...in secret he kicks his feet and twirls around imagining you doing the same thing to all the lyrics. He’s a cutie patootie when he’s not being a resentful menace.

Despite that, you spend most of your after school days in Rodrick’s bedroom, garage, or his van just talking about things or listening to him play. He plays a kind of music you never thought you’d listen to before, but have grown to like because not only does he have CDs of all his songs burned into them, but plays other music similar to that genre.

He makes multiple efforts to teach you the guitar with you on his lap and the guitar pressing you both together, but all those times Greg comes in because he wants to try and get on your good side.

If you're not there at band practice, like how you normally are, Rodrick makes all these mistakes and fumbles with playing. Since you're the designated band girlfriend, it’s pretty much a necessity for you to be around him when he practices, otherwise he gets nothing done. Sometimes it’s a problem, but for the most part, you’re like his buff.

Rodrick’s banned from your house because he tried sneaking in your room through your window, but he ended up landing on your mom’s patch of freshly bloomed flowers. When she found out, she wasn’t happy, and even though she tried so hard to excuse his looks, his lack of direction, his rebellious nature, she just couldn’t excuse the sad death of her flower children. So she banned him. Now you guys have to meet in secret or at school or his house, just anywhere not near your house.

He still makes an awkward effort to get your parents to like him, but it never really works out. He either shows up late or shows up with half his clothes missing or drenched in strange fluids because of pranks pulled by his little brother on his way out.

“Mrs. and Mr. L/n—”

“Lime green paint...on my white porch. Can you believe it, honey?”

“Just go, kid.”

“Alright!”

He gives you rides to and from school in his janky ass van, but it’s your only form of transportation so you don’t complain. Everything pretty much happens in that van. Everything.

His form of PDA is wrapping an arm around you loosely and just walking with you, not so much holding your hand. He also really likes just resting his arm on your head or squishing your cheeks together to make funny faces even if it pisses you off sometimes, he thinks it’s cute.

Free band dates!! Meaning that, you get free access to Löded Diper gigs, and the best seats watching your boyfriend and his band mates thrash around. You also get free merch...teehehehehe...

Oddly enough, Rodrick ends up turning soft for you and doing things no one in his family would expect out of him. Like taking you out on drive in dates, or getting you flowers, or just smiling more. Not saying he’s emo or edgy, but he is pretty punkish and reluctant to show any sort of affection. It certainly is off putting to Greg at least. 

He asks you to do his eyeliner because you have an unlimited supply of it, and at least he doesn't have to use his mom’s anymore. People can usually tell when you do his eyeliner and when he does it himself; it’s pretty easy to differentiate.

If Rodrick doesn't want to be someplace and is dragged along by his family, the mere mention of you attending the same event makes him suddenly excited to be there. More excited than the planner. He’ll go on tangents about you, and it really doesn’t matter who’s listening. He looks all bad and mean, but as soon as someone talks about you, his face changes completely.

[jj-one]

WIPS ✩°̥࿐

I guess I’m a sucker for the forbidden love type tropes LOL, so I’m doing some fics surrounded by that idea. I’m not exactly sure when they’ll be posted but I’ll try and make updates when I can !! **Pls note that all of these will include NSFW/18+ themes.

[Tags] Less than 5k words: ❦ More than 5k: ❣︎ Fluff: ✰ Angst: ✽

𓊆ྀི SHADES OF COOL 𓊇ྀི | HAN JISUNG

Stoner/Emo!Jisung x Popular It Girl!f!reader, will include things such as: drug use & heavy/dark themes. [❣︎✰✽]

To the outside world, you’re always perfectly poised, well spoken, and labeled as the sweetest, prettiest girl in town. On the inside, however, you harbor many secrets— some of which that could potentially ruin your squeaky clean image that you’ve worked so incredibly hard to preserve. If anyone found out the most popular girl of the whole university is having a secret fling with Jisung— known around campus to be nothing but a troubled kid with a dark past, it can have a negative impact on your reputation. Rumors have already started spreading when ‘someone’ caught you two leaving out of the janitor’s closet around the same time…

𓊆ྀི THE ART OF ELEGANCE 𓊇ྀི | KIM TAEHYUNG

Ceo!Taehyung x Sugar Baby/Employee!f!reader (will be guaranteed to have 2 parts), this one’s based off a request i got on my old acc and asked for ceo tae so shoutout to that random anon LMAO. Will include things such as: age gap relationship, dd/lg themes, and mentions of a toxic work environment. [❦✰✽]

You and him both know how risky of a game you two are playing, sneaking around to see each other in private hasn’t been the easiest task at hand— especially since he’s your boss. Pretending not to know each other has only become more challenging as time goes on, it’s only a matter of time before someone accidentally slips up... Will you be able to maintain your elegance or will your differences cause a strain on your professionalism?

𓊆ྀི CLOUDY PINK SKIES 𓊇ྀི | BANG CHAN

Piano Instructor!Bang Chan x Pianist!f!reader, will include things such as: age gap, mentions of toxic/abusive parenting, may also include some dd/lg themes but haven’t decided yet. [❣︎✰✽]

Since birth, your parents had a set and stone plan of what they envisioned for you. There was never a point in life where you had a choice, everything was up to them. Your lack of autonomy has made you hold inner resentment towards them, forcing you to become a pianist (though you enjoy it and have mastered this skill with your heart and soul), you just wish you had the ability to make your own decisions. That all comes to a halt once your parents hire a new instructor, a mysteriously handsome man who was much older than you…

𓊆ྀི SWEET AS SUGAR, BITTER LIKE COFFEE 𓊇ྀི | JEON JUNGKOOK

Older Sister’s Boyfriend/Model!Jungkook x Fashion Designer!f!reader, will include things such as: age gap & toxic/abusive behaviors. [❣︎✽]

Rivalry can lead to several factors… envy, vengeance, betrayal, those are just a few to name. You’ve always been in competition with your eldest sister who’s always trying to overshadow your designs and one-up your work ethic. She’s been the kind to play dirty and uses cheap tricks to knock you off your pedestal, even going so far as to dating your crush, a famous model who you’ve been dying to work with since you met him once while on a business trip to Milan. But all is fair in love and war, you’ve grown tired of her tasteless antics. So you plan the ultimate way of getting back at her and ending her reign of terror for good.

**These are not in order of when they’ll be released and may be subject to change if in case I wanna remove or add something >.<

[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.

[moonjella]

MASQUERADE — 00 LINE

pairing || 00 line x fem!reader

synopsis || it's your first halloween at this prestigious school and with it is your first annual halloween masquerade. it's elegance and classiness mixed with the spirits of the young and drunk — a party like no other. but there is one rule : do not remove your mask. easy enough in theory, but in practise you find yourself to be the only prey in a room full of predators.

content || mature, minors do not interact! alcohol consumption. explicit smut — gangbang, unprotected sex, pulling out, cumming inside, cunningulus, fingering, blowjob, doggy style, riding, double penetration (spitroasting), anal play, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, petplay, petnames, degradation and praise, dom/sub dynamics.

word count || 6.9k

author's note || for @underworldnet’s halloween event — day eight : costume.

“A bunny?” you scoff. “Really?”

“It was the only thing left in your size.” Shotaro explains. And in all honesty, it looks like the dress is two times smaller than anything you’ve worn before.

“I’m sure the fancy dress store would have had something better.”

“And I’m sure you know that this isn’t a party for five–year–olds. This isn’t fancy dress, it’s fancy dress. As a member of the committee, I can’t allow you into the party with me if you don’t follow the rules.”

“Maybe that’s the point,” you snatch the dress from his hands and throw it onto the bed. But you pick up the glamorous mask from the box he’d opened for you. This, at least, was something to admire.

A bunny mask, white with gems and lace dotted delicately across it with two white feathers poking from the top to act as ears.

“Come on,” he whines. “You promised you’d come this year.”

“I know I did but now that it’s a few hours away, I’m beginning to think it’s okay to break some promises.”

“You’d really break a promise with your best friend?” he gasps. It sounds like he’s only kidding when he fake sobs but it’s Shotaro and you know it means something to him deep down.

He’s your best friend, after all.

You tut and let out a quiet exhale.

“I’ll go,” you say to him. “But is there really nothing else I can wear?”

“I spent all day shopping to find your costume…” he pouts.

“Fine,” you huff. “Is there a reason I’m bunny?”

“Didn’t I tell you this year’s theme is animals?”

“I thought it was masquerade.”

“Every year is masquerade, dummie. But the theme changes every year, not many people go with the theme anyway. But I thought it would be fun for us to do it, since it’s your first time.”

“What’s your animal?” you ask him.

“I’m an otter.” He says with the biggest, dorkiest smile ever.

“An otter?”

“Yeah!” his eyes close up from how much he’s smiling and you can’t find it in yourself to question his choice further.

“This party’s a big deal, huh?” you mutter to yourself.

“I’ll pick you up at nine, ‘kay?”

You nod and wave him goodbye while he runs out of your room. You know in the few hours until the party, he’ll barely have enough time to get ready himself since he’s part of the committee.

Neither you or Shotaro were party people, but the annual Halloween masquerade is something he takes pride in — mainly because him and a bunch of his friends host it every year, but also because he loves the spooky season.

Though, you can imagine there’d be little festivities happening tonight.

With the kind of crowd at your college — a prestigious and expensive kind — the partygoers only care about drinking overpriced champagne and showing off their designer outfits.

It’s not that you never attended by your own choice. Shotaro invited you every year but last year you fell sick and the year before you were behind with assignments.

You feel worried, in a way. Sure, you’ve been to your share of parties. But this is the biggest party of the year. And your outfit seemed lame.

Tonnes of people go as bunnies, and the number of bunnies would be higher since the theme is animals. Oh well, you trust Shotaro’s choice.

You sigh as you look over the items on your bed.

The white dress, the embellished mask and a pair of white kitten heels — Shotaro knows you wouldn’t be able to handle stilettos for an entire night and you silently thank him for taking note.

You remind yourself to pay him in return for going shopping on your behalf as you get in the shower. Playing your favourite songs, you get ready with a bit of a lighter mood.

Since you’re wearing a mask, you don’t go too heavy on the eyes and instead focus on picking out the perfect shade of lipstick. And then you move onto your hair.

When you’re done, you slip into your dress, fumbling with the zipper as your arms reach around your back to pull it up. You put on your shoes and straighten yourself out in the mirror.

You look… beautiful.

White never looked so good on you.

No one in the entire campus has seen you show so much skin and you begin to tremble with bad nerves but a knock on your room door grounds you.

“You look amazing!” Shotaro looks you up and down with a huge smile.

He is donned in a brown tweed suit. His hair is slicked back and the upper half of his face is covered with a mask — rounded eyes and rounded ears and brown fur.

“Mr. Otter,” you greet him. “You’re late.”

“Only by two minutes,” he grins and picks up your mask before tying the ribbons around your head, making sure to not spoil your perfectly styled hair. “How are you feeling?”

“A little nervous, but I’m starting to feel excited.”

Although the pit of your stomach is a little wobbly, there is a thrilling sensation in your chest that outweighs it. it’s safe to say you’re not as reluctant as before now that Shotaro is here. He’s so happy to see you.

You can only imagine how excited he is for you to finally attend his party.

Maybe it’s the excitement of Shotaro escorting you, or the fact that it’s your first time going, but when you look in the mirror while he fixes your mask, you feel like a completely different person. And you like it.

Maybe just for one night, you could be someone else.

“Ready to go?” he asks.

Your hand slips into his naturally. “Yeah.”

“You remember the rule, right?”

“Don’t take off your mask.”

The party is everything you imagined it to be, and everything you didn’t imagine it to be.

You’re in awe at the sheer elegance of it.

Sure, you’ve heard many stories about it. You never attended but it was no doubt a hot topic of conversation for days afterwards and people began looking forward to next year’s party immediately.

As you stepped into the hall, it feels like a new age ballroom for modern teens.

Like the old days of high society somehow met with drunken teen spirit of the twenty–first century.

You would be lying to say you aren’t impressed when Shotaro asks you.

Staring up at the dazzling chandeliers, Shotaro’s arm slips from your hold as he hugs some random guy. You don’t recognise him because of the mask he’s wearing, but he’s all green. His suit a dark shade of emerald velvet while his mask is a few shades lighter with textured snake skin.

His smile, on the other hand, is charming and completely unalike to a snake.

They exchange chatter and you don’t pay attention to their words until Mr. Snake lays his eyes on you. His pretty smile widens to show a perfect set of teeth.

Before he can introduce himself, you’re met with a handful of girls who’ve been excited to see you since you announced to them you’d be at the party. They whisk you away and you give a sorry wave to Shotaro.

You didn’t want to leave him so early but he cheers you on with raised fists.

You’re rushed onto the dance floor but you want nothing more than to peel away from the crammed bodies. For a few moments, you blend in on the border of enjoying dancing but you’d need a few drinks to loosen up first.

You escape the grasp of sweaty bodies wrapped in expensive clothes and slip away to the side.

If the party is this hyper right now, you certainly don’t feel excited for how much louder it will get in a few hours.

But then again… tonight’s all about letting go, right?

It wouldn’t hurt to join in with the chaos for one night.

Everyone’s wearing masks and you can barely recognise who is who unless you know them personally.

There’s a hint of fun among all of this.

The hairs on the back of your neck stand up and a gentle shiver runs down your spine. It’s thrilling. And you feel like everyone is watching — your body grows a little to elated to what you’re used to.

Backing away from the crowd, you walk over to the punch table.

You sniff it before drinking, registering a hint of alcohol hidden among the fruity taste.

If you wanted to get completely wasted, you’d have started with the champagne on the other side of the room but you settle with some surprisingly good punch for now.

You just needed easing up a little.

And it works pretty fast. Your shoulders slowly relax and the dancefloor doesn’t seem so daunting now.

You feel a timid buzz in your body and it becomes stronger when someone joins you at the punch table.

He leans his butt against it after pouring a cup and sips it while looking you up and down.

You feel yourself burst into flames under the gaze of… a bear?

“Bunny?”

You nod.

“Nice,” he smirks. “You’re missing a tail, though.”

You roll your eyes and sip your own drink while his eyes slip down your back to your butt where he would expect to see a plush ball of white fur. You didn’t think about it until now, but your mask and ears are enough to let others know what animal you are. A missing tail isn’t a big deal.

But the way Mr. Bear looks at your body is.

It’s a new feeling; you like it, but you also don’t.

Discomfort floods your body but at the same time, you don’t want the feeling to go away. You can feel the walls of your comfort zone breaking away little by little.

You sigh at the thought. You’re doing this for Shotaro, remember?

Speaking of, you glance around the room and spot him surrounded by a group of people. Always the social butterfly. You feel proud of him in a way, but it didn’t help that you’re too awkward to speak to anybody else in the room.

Small talk has never been your expertise.

“Enjoying the party?” Mr. Bear asks.

“Sure.”

“Just sure? Not this is the best party you’ve ever been to?”

“It’s not the worst,” you shrug.

He chuckles and takes another sip of his drink.

“You look like you don’t go to many parties.”

“I don’t.”

“Then why are you here?”

Now, who does he think he is interrogating you for no reason, hm? His bear mask is less than intimidating, but the smirk on his face when he sees you firing up is enough to unsettle your nerves.

He’s here to piss you off on purpose.

There’s no need to give him what he wants.

Just finish your drink and go to the dance floor, maybe find Shotaro and dance with him for a bit before leaving.

“It’s rude to ignore people. It would be a shame to see a cute, little bunny get into trouble with the big, bad bear.”

He scoots over to you as he says it and he makes sure to whisper it right into your ear.

You swallow, ignoring the way his breath floats over your skin and causes goosebumps to rise. You curse the dress for not being long enough to hide how your body reacts to him.

“Big and bad, my ass,” you scoff, hiding your nervousness with an attitude. “You’re as intimidating as my little toe.”

You roll your eyes. When is this loser going to leave?

“You here with anyone?”

“What?”

“Did you come here with a date or are you alone?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Just curious if you had an invite.”

“First of all, I was invited. And secondly, if I didn’t, I wouldn’t choose to spend my night breaking into some dumb party.”

“You sound angry,” he hisses. “Maybe you should leave if you don’t like it.”

“I would but some asshole bear keeps trying to talk to me.”

He’s silent for a moment before asking, “Who did you come with?”

Your grit your teeth. All the work the alcohol had done to relax you had failed the moment this pretentious ass came along.

“I came with Shotaro,” you tell him.

“Shotaro?” he laughs. “You gotta be kidding. Do you really expect me to believe that?”

“Why not? Is it so hard to believe?”

“A little,” he admits, clearly becoming agitated with you. “How about I call him over so you can say it to him?”

“What are you—”

“Relax, Haechan” Mr. Snake appears in true snake fashion. He attempts to rub away the tension in Mr. Bear’s shoulders. “She’s with Taro. I saw them come in together.”

The bear bites back a remark and finally shuts up.

With the snake dude is another guy — dark hair and piercing eyes. It takes you a while but you realise his mask depicts a wolf.

“You’re YN, right?” he says. “Taro talks about you a lot.”

You nod silently.

“Shit… you’re YN?” Haechan brings his fist up to cover his mouth. You don’t know why he’s so shocked but him being stunned to silence works for you.

“I’m Jeno.” Mr. Wolf holds out his hand but you don’t take it.

He retracts it slowly and you look to Mr. Snake again.

“Jaemin,” he introduces himself. “And you know Haechan already, I see.”

The four of you fall into silence. After learning their names, you can’t say you know them. You don’t recall ever having classes with any of them.

“Are you enjoying the party?” Mr. Snake slash Jaemin asks.

“It’s fine,” you say plainly. “The company, however, is not.”

Your words cut through the air between you like a knife and you can tell they’re all taken aback. You’re not sure where this fieriness has come from but it feels exhilarating. Seeing them all look at you in surprise while at the same time, their eyes travel up and down your body.

Being set on fire by three different gazes is new but addicting.

You direct your attention to tracing the shape of the pumpkin on your cup of punch while they begin chattering to one another. It’s a little awkward and you’re about to leave before you’re knocked into.

Thankfully, your white dress doesn’t get stained but the white shirt of a tux turns red with the punch.

“Aww, man, my shirt!”

You step back immediately, not wanting any of the stains on you.

“I told you to watch it,” a familiar voice whines. Renjun appears donning a fox mask while patting down YangYang with some napkins. “Oh, hey YN. You look… good.”

You don’t miss the way his eyes stick on your body before looking away.

“Th–thanks…” you mutter.

Renjun is a quiet friend, but he always goes out of his way to speak with you. You have a few classes together and you get along well. But one thing you’ve always wanted to ask him is why he hangs out with YangYang so much.

Renjun is a sweet, calm and mature guy. YangYang is nothing but trouble. He’s loud and grabs attention wherever he goes. You try not to question their friendship much but as Renjun tries to clean the stain on the latter’s suit, you really wonder how their friendship came to be.

YangYang wears a mask with a pointed nose and eyes — an eagle.

Interesting choice.

Being surrounded by them all — all of whom are taller than you — makes you feel intimidated. They share glances between themselves; it’s awkward but no one says anything.

Renjun continues to help YangYang clean himself, Haechan starts whining again and thankfully, it’s not to you. And the other two, Jeno and Jaemin, deal with both Haechan’s annoyance and YangYang’s carelessness.

While they’re distracted, you take the opportunity to slip away and scour the floor for Shotaro. He’s further away now and you don’t look forward to fighting your way through the dancefloor to get to him.

You pull your phone from your purse and send him a quick text message. He checks his phone straight away and his eyes search for you as soon as he sees it and you give him a little wave. He smiles back in acknowledgement before his attention is stolen again.

The message reads: gonna head to the private room for a bit. I’ll come back soon

You head to the said room, looking back to ensure nobody saw you slipping through the back door of the hall and down the empty corridors of the building.

When you reach the room, you close the door quietly behind you.

The lights are already turned on, albeit dim. Somebody probably forgot to switch them off, maybe Shotaro.

He showed you his “secret” room a long time ago but you never visited it frequently until recently. He used it to plan for the party while you studied sitting next to him. No one else ever came when you were alone so you assume it’s an unused room.

Shotaro told you he sometimes comes here alone when he feels stressed, and asked for you to use it freely.

You collapse onto the soft couch; the plush, velvety material drags you deeper while you take off your mask and fling it onto the coffee table.

“So much for getting out of my comfort zone.”

You scroll through your phone until you’re bored and then spend the rest of your time laying in silence staring at the decorated ceiling.

Shotaro probably won’t have much time to come see you away from the party so you decide to head back.

But as soon as you stand, you hear voices growing louder. You stop a few feet away from the door, waiting for them to pass so you can leave only for the door to your room to swing wide open.

You jolt slightly, heart racing for some reason.

“Another shirt ruined. My mom’s going to kill me.” YangYang says as he enters first but stops in his tracks right in front of you.

The others bump into him subsequently.

“YN,” the wolf — Jeno — says. “What are you doing here?”

“I… I was just leaving.” You duck to the side to make a narrow escape but a big, tall bear stands in your way.

“Not so fast, little bunny. You know this is our room, right?”

You clench your jaw. What is it with this guy and trying to cause you problems?

“I didn’t know.”

“So you just go wandering into any room you like?”

“I…, no. Shotaro brought me here. He said I can use it whenever.”

“Oh, he did now?”

“Yes, he did.”

“Now, now children. Let’s not start getting into it again.” Jaemin says.

The others step further into the room and you try to leave again but Haechan still stands in your way.

“You gonna move or what?”

“Would you look at that?” he scoffs. “Bunny’s got a bite.”

If he doesn’t stop, you might actually bite him.

He steps closer and you stand up straighter when he looks down at you. He’s only inches away; he feels… addicting.

“Don’t act so brave, little bunny. Or the big, bad bear might gobble you up whole.”

You scoff.

“Not likely. The majority of a bear’s diet consists of vegetation.”

“Bunny’s got a brain, too.” Jaemin says from the couch. Your back is facing him so you don’t see him picking up the bunny mask you left on the table and waving it to the others. “But not a big one, apparently.”

The rest of them have settled comfortably in the room and before you know it, Haechan is grabbing you by the wrist and dragging you to sit with them.

“What are you doing?!”

“Can’t let you go back out there when you’ve broken the rule. The little bunny needs to be punished.”

“What rule?” you huff. “Let go of me.”

You’re more than surprised when he places you in his lap. Freezing up immediately, your eyes widen but the rest of them act like this is just a normal day.

“Did Taro forget to tell you?” Renjun asks, and then explains, “You’re not allowed to take off your mask.”

“What—”

“Be quiet. You’re annoying me.” Haechan says.

And that’s exactly why he has you in his lap, isn’t it? Being stuck here is definitely a punishment.

They begin yet another conversation, complaining about how exhausted they all are from organising the party.

“Wait, you guys are on the committee?”

“Duh.” Haechan mutters beneath you.

“We all host the party with Shotaro,” Jeno explains. “Every year.”

You take in the information slowly. Maybe you should have thought twice before dissing the party to them earlier. No wonder the man beneath you got so pressed.

Stuck in your thoughts, you fall into silence again before a tickle against your leg stirs you. Jaemin’s fingers trace little patterns into your skin. He meets your eyes briefly before giving his attention back to the others as if nothing happened.

They continue talking but you feel both Haechan and Jaemin growing closer to you.

Haechan’s breath flutters over your skin. He places his chin on your shoulder and teases you ear with his lips. Your too stunned to comprehend his whispers and Jaemin snakes his way closer to you.

The others are watching as the two slowly break down your walls and every nerve in your body is on high alert.

Jaemin’s hand travels past the hem of your dress and you gasp as Haechan’s lips finally touch your skin. He’s soft, gently breathing onto the skin of your neck before biting down.

“Ah!” you yelp.

Your body is hot while the others watch Jaemin rubbing your thighs and Haechan leaving marks all along your shoulder.

“What are you doing?” you whisper.

“Hm? Don’t you like this?”

You bite your lips. You do, but it feels so wrong to admit it.

The desperation takes over, and you nod eagerly. This punishment doesn’t seem bad at all.

“Use your words, bunny. Tell us you want it.”

“I want it.”

“What do you want?”

“You. I want all of you.”

“Fuck…” you hear Jeno chuckle behind you. “Who knew Taro’s girl was this desperate?”

“I…I’m not…”

“Don’t give us that crap,” YangYang butts in. His legs are spread wide on the couch and his arms across the back of it. “Why don’t you come over here?”

“Hey, I had her first!” Haechan whines.

“Fuck you. You’ve had her all this time. You wanna know how hard my dick is from watching?”

“Not my problem.” Haechan says and grabs you by the cheeks, slamming his lips onto yours.

Your mouth opens to his immediately, letting him inside and you feel warmth in every part of you, especially in your core. You rub your thighs together, fidgeting in his lap and ensuring you rock your ass against his hardening cock.

Jaemin is exploring you with him. His hands have snuck under your dress, cupping your ass while he attacks your neck with his lips.

His mask grazes against your jaw and his dark eyes look to you through narrow slits.

There’s something exhilarating about his face being hidden, all of theirs. Maybe it was a good thing you were the only one to break the rule.

Haechan lifts your hips and situates you exactly how he wants.

Your ass presses right onto his dick while Jaemin helps him spread your legs wide on either side of him. He drops to his knees, kissing his way up from your ankles to your inner thighs.

His lips tickle you and your core tenses.

“Mind if I take ‘em off?” He notions towards your white, lacey panties.

You nod, swallowing nervously as he peels them away. You can feel the arousal on the material when it parts from you.

“Fuck, you’re so wet…”

“Of course, she is,” Haechan kisses your neck. “She’s a slutty little bunny. Ain’t that right?”

He nudges you and you nod quickly.

One of his hands cups your breast while the other pulls your dress up, holding it against your stomach so no obstacles are left for Jaemin.

“You sure you want this?” Jaemin asks. You appreciate his sentiment but you’re too desperate for his niceties.

“Yes, please…just touch me!”

A filthy grin finds its way to his face before he dips his head and attaches his lips to your pussy.

“Ah!” you whimper.

Your back presses into Haechan as it arches and your ass grinds against his cock while you rock your hips back and forth against Jaemin’s face. He grabs your thighs, holding them tight around his neck while he licks and sucks.

He drags his teeth over your clit gently, causing you to cry out from the feeling. And then he rubs his tongue up and down, electrifying your entire body.

You feel your orgasm approaching when he shoves two fingers into your pussy with ease. You’re so fucking wet and he spreads you open while tasting your sweet essence.

Pleasure hits you, blinding your senses and your body trembles in Haechan’s embrace. You’re gasping and crying, begging for Jaemin to not stop and finally your hips stop moving.

You collapse onto Haechan and catch your breath. Upon opening your eyes, you see them all staring at you with mouths wide open.

“You sound so pretty…” Renjun mutters.

Some of them stroke their boners over their slacks, others watch quietly, waiting for the next move.

“My turn.” Haechan flips you onto the couch. Your shoulders meet the cushions while your ass bends upwards. You shuffle into a more comfortable version while Haechan rips off his belt and pulls out his cock.

He hisses when he strokes it a few times.

“God, you’re so hot…” he whispers. “Gonna fuck you so good.”

You moan into the cushions while he prods your entrance.

“Wait,” Jeno calls.

“The fuck do you want?”

You turn your head to see Mr. Wolf reaching into his pocket and making his way to you. He talks directly to you, ignoring Haechan completely.

“Now’s a good time to tell you about the little gift Shotaro bought you.”

He reveals a fluffy white ball. You’re not sure of its purpose at first until you see the rounded metal hidden beneath all the fur.

Your eyes widen in shock.

“Shotaro got me that?!”

“He pussied out last minute and gave it to me instead. But it was meant for you.”

“Why the hell would he give it to you?” Renjun asks and Jeno shrugs while the others laugh.

You swallow grimly, eyes not leaving the toy.

“How about we give our bunny a tail?” Haechan grins.

His voice is so sickeningly annoying but you can’t get enough of it.

“What do you say?”

You purse your lips in thought.

Did Taro really get you that?

What did he mean by it?

Does he… want to have sex with you? Or was it only meant to as an accessory to your costume?

You don’t have time to think about it and you brush the notions away quickly with a nod.

“Bunny wants a tail.” You whine cutely, pouting your lips as you look up at him.

You hear one of them groan and Haechan grabs handfuls of your ass, spreading your cheeks and spitting between them. His fingers rub gently, spreading his spit.

Meanwhile, Jeno bends down to your level.

“Open wide.”

You part your lips and stick out your tongue, letting the saliva dribble. He rubs the metal part of the ball up and down, coating it in saliva before ordering you to suck on it. Whispers of curses fill the room as you make the most needy face you can while sucking on the toy.

“Good girl,” Jeno strokes your hair, tickling your scalp with his fingers.

The plug pops from your mouth Haechan holds you open while Jeno slips it in your ass.

“Relax, baby,” he rubs your body to ease. “There we go. Almost there.”

He teases it in and out of your hole until you’re ready to take it fully and then he pushes it in. You whine from the sensation but the feeling of being filled is incredible. You shake your ass teasingly and both of them grab it, leaving a red mark from a slap.

Haechan wastes no time in fucking you. He pushes into your pussy, guiding your hips onto him with eagerness. His cock spreads you open and he stutters vocally.

“Ah, you’re so fucking tight…”

You whine in response and push your hips back and forth with him, allowing him to dive in deeper. Your walls wrap around him and he stills for a moment when he’s fully situated.

“Fuck, Haechan!” you cry. “Feels so good.”

“Baby, I’m not even doing anything.” He chuckles and the others laugh with him. “You’re such a little bunnywhore, ain’t ya? So desperate for my cock.”

“Yes!” you cry out. “Please, Haechan, want you to fuck me so good.”

“What was that? I don’t think the others heard you.”

“Please! Fuck me real good, Haechan. Wanna be fucked like a little whore!”

He drags his cock out slowly before slamming back in.

“What a slutty little bunny.”

You moan into the cushions, not caring if they become covered with your drool and makeup. You can only feel Haechan’s cock driving in and out of you and the heated gaze of everyone else on the two of your bodies.

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum already.” Haechan says and you clench around him. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

He thrusts a few more times before pulling out and jerking his cock over your ass. His hot cum hits you in spurts and you wiggle your hips side to side while he groans and empties his load on you.

“Fucking perfect…” he whispers and falls onto the couch.

“Who’s next?” Jeno asks.

You rise up on trembling arms and all of them are silent, but expectant. You crawl over to the one closest to you, Renjun.

He seems nervous, swallowing loudly when you touch him.

“Renjun…?”

“You… you don’t have to YN.”

“But I want to.”

You kiss his ears, his neck, his lips. Your hands sneak under his blazer and trace his hard body over his shirt. He nods shyly.

“What do you want me to do?” you ask softly.

“You…” he gasps and throws his head back when you squeeze his cock. “Your mouth. Use your mouth.”

You fall to the floor immediately, held warmly between his legs and he helps you remove his cock from his boxers and pants.

You stroke him gently, feeling him harden even more.

An experimental lick swipes its way up his cock and you eye him, watching him unravel from the warmth of your tongue. When you reach the tip, you take him past your lips. Little by little, teasing him and admiring the way his chest rises and falls rapidly.

You make sure to stick out your ass for the others while you suck Renjun’s cock and in no time, his cock hits the back of your throat from his hips thrusting up.

“God, YN!” he moans.

You suck tighter, bob your head faster and when you see his fists tightening by his side, you remove him from your mouth completely.

“Ah!” he gasps loudly. He reaches for his cock to reach his high but you hold them back. “YN, please!”

“Don’t you want to cum inside your little bunny?” you whisper.

He stares at you, mesmerised.

“Renjunnie… cum inside me… please?””

He nods gently.

“Are you sure it’s okay?”

You bite your lips, telling him that it’s more than fine. You want nothing more than to be filled up with him, with all of them.

To your side, YangYang has his cock out, stroking it up and down while his head rests on the back of the couch watching you. Haechan is still blissed out but watching intensely and the other two sit quietly, waiting for you to finish with their friend.

You climb onto his lap, a thigh on either side and press your lips to his while sinking down in his cock. He moans into your mouth and you mix them with your own. He holds you nervously, unsure where to touch you as you rock back and forth on his cock.

His fingers dig into your side and you reach a hand between your bodies, meeting with your needy clit. You rub circles, causing you to clench around his cock and the feeling of his cum spurting into you tosses you over the edge.

You bounce quickly, not wanting to slow down the orgasm anymore and allow yourself to be taken over with another. All the while, Renjun moans and moans until he’s fully spent inside of you.

You feel your ass clenching around the tail and you feel so full being stuffed again and again.

Renjun is on the border of passing out and you jump from him.

YangYang reaches his arm out to grab you but you find it entertaining to tease him and you slip from his grasp, making your way to Jaemin and Jeno.

“Hey, bunny,” Jeno smiles.

You smile sweetly, wobbling on your weak legs and he pulls you into his lap.

“How about we take her together?” he asks Jaemin.

“Sounds good to me.”

He lifts you with ease and lays you gently on the couch they were sitting on. He gives your tail a little tug, causing you to yelp but you all giggle together after.

“Has anyone ever told you how cute you are tonight?” Jaemins strokes your cheeks.

You shake your head, melting into his touch.

“Hm, we could tell her,” Jeno suggests. “Or we could show her.”

You whine, feeling your pussy flutter with excitement as if it hadn’t already had enough.

“I think she wants us to show her.” Jaemin smiles and you feel yourself drift to cloud nine when they both look down at you between them.

Jeno places himself between your legs, pressing a long kiss to your ankles before placing them on his shoulder. Jaemin, on the other hand, unbuckles his belt and pulls out his cock. He lets it hang freely, waiting for you to grab it.

A groan escapes him and his knees tremble when you begin stroking. You pull him closer, letting your tongue taste his precum.

“Ah! Fuck, bunny. You’re such a good girl.”

You squeal when you feel Jeno pressing his cock into your sopping hole. Your pussy flutters around him as he pushes his way in. You’re so overwhelmed yet you keep wanting more.

You take all of Jaemin into your mouth, moving your head as much as you could in this position and Jeno thrusts deeper, slow and hard.

You moan around Jaemin’s cock, vibrations running through his body and when he can’t take it anymore, he grabs a handful of your hair before thrusting into your mouth.

His cock hits the back of your throat, bringing tears to your eyes but you blink them away, not wanting to distort the image of the two men using you like their personal fleshtoy.

Fuck, you feel so hot.

Your core is so tense and you can feel every ridge of Jeno’s cock in your pussy. He slams harder, faster, pace picking up and rhythm growing messy. He’s close.

“Fuck!” you mumble around Jaemin’s cock.

They both groan, griping onto anything they can and you’re about to cum all over Jeno’s cock when he pulls out. You whine but he uses his fist to empty his load all over your pussy.

Your muscles twitch endlessly and Jaemin pulls out of your mouth only to push Jeno out of the way and replace him inside of you.

“Fuck, you’re so dirty,” he groans. “But so fucking cute.”

He thrusts into you and you let your entire body relax in his hold. His arms wrap around your waist and he kisses the exposed skin of your chest and neck, using his hands to grope your tits.

Your walls flutter around him and you feel the sting of pleasure once again.

“Harder!” you cry.

He heeds your demand and fucks you relentlessly, letting his cum spill freely in your pussy.

“Oh my god!”

You cum together and everyone groans with you. Your head digs into the couch and your hips rise up to meet Jaemin’s until he holds you both still together, brushing your hair away from your sweaty face.

He shushes you and guides your breathing until you’ve come down from your high once more.

Then he takes your hand and lifts you into an upright position, placing a gentle kiss on you’re forehead.

“Did so well, bunny. You okay?” he asks gently.

You nod, slowly and completely exhausted.

Everyone has collapsed onto their backs, letting the couches swallow them whole.

It must have been quite the show.

For all but one.

“Got one more for me?” YangYang smirks.

You crawl over to him, collapsing on his lap with your thighs on either side. His cock is already out and he’s lining it up with your entrance immediately.

He leaves a small kiss in the crook of your neck before sinking you down on his cock.

You rest your head on his shoulder while he lifts your hips up and down on his lap.

“Oh, my god!” he groans. “Waited so fucking long but it was worth it.”

You don’t register how fast he’s slamming you on his cock, nor how hard his fingers dig into your flesh but you use whatever energy still existing in your body to move your thighs.

“That’s right, bunny. Show me how good you can bounce.”

His words spur you on and the raspiness in his voice elates your heartbeat despite it being impossible to beat any faster.

You feel yourself clench one more time and you spill all of your juices onto him. It’s too much, you can’t hold anything back despite having nothing left to give.

“Fuck, she’s squirting!”

YangYang lifts his hips up when he brings you down on him and you feel him reaching even deeper.

“Ah!” you cry. “Too much!”

“Finally had enough?” he growls into your ear.

You nod desperately.

“Can’t take my cock anymore?”

“It’s too good!”

“Fuck, do you want me to stop or not?”

“No! Don’t stop! Please, don’t stop!”

YangYang thrusts harder and he bites into your shoulder. You’re amazed at how your dress was able to stay on this whole time but it slips down further and further, not exposing your chest fully but showing just enough of your tits to drive them all crazy.

One look at them bouncing is enough make YangYang lose all of his control.

“Ah! I’m cumming!” you cry, letting one more, and hopefully the last, orgasm wash over you.

“Fuck! Me too!”

His hips tremor when he pushes himself balls deep in you. They remain flush against your pussy until you feel his cum stop pouring out.

And when he pulls out, his cum drips out of your pussy and back onto his softening cock.

They all groan as you fall to the side, spreading your legs to show them how all of their cum decorates your body.

You’re so fucking messy, sweaty and covered in cum but you don’t care.

All of you sit quietly for a while, not a word spared between you until you’ve caught your breath and attempt to sit upright.

Jaemin and YangYang aid you and help you stand on wobbling legs.

“Are you okay?”

“I think so…” you gasp as you feel the cum dribble down your legs.

“That was fucking amazing…” Haechan says.

And the others agree with him. Renjun just hums in his blissed out state while YangYang strokes your thighs from behind.

“You were amazing. How did you even handle all of that?”

“Because she’s such a good bunny.” Jeno teased but leaves a sweet kiss on your cheek, and Jaemin beings you some tissues and helps you start wiping yourself.

Only now do they remove their masks and it feels refreshing to finally see their handsome faces.

Your entire body trembles gently while they take care of you, making sure to compliment you at any second they get. But a loud click catches everyone’s attention and your body jolts when the door opens.

Terrified of being caught, you grab onto Jaemin and pull him in front of you, but you freeze upon seeing who entered the room.

“Shotaro…” you gasp and pull down your dress as if it would hide the fact that you just fucked all of his friends.

“YN?”

He looks somewhat disheartened as he walks deeper into the room. Music still beats through the walls and your heart hammers with it.

As he gets closer, you see his eyes swim with emotion. And to your surprise, his entire demeanour changes from his usual softness to something dark and dominating. You’ve never seen him like this before but the numbness in your body slowly fades, replacing itself with excitement.

The room is silent as he guides your chin upwards to look him in the eyes.

His warm fingers caress your cheeks and as he stares deep into your soul, his hands slide down to your hips, pulling you so close to him that you can’t escape.

“Looks like someone’s been a bad bunny.”

[spookberry]

Shadow High series 3 my new beloved

I didnt even like most of em until i saw them in person, but the knowledge that they'll probably never be in the show has my brain in a "well its free realestate" kinda mood

Random list of information cuz ive been plotting out friend dynamics and background lore

-i like to pretend Rainbow High/Shadow High are actually Rainbow University/Shadow University cuz im in art college Right Now and i think it makes more sense with the whole dorm room situation. And also major makes more sense than focus IMO

-I changed Pinkie's major from film to just undeclared. I think she eventually does land on Film. She just has a lot of interests! Her dream has always been to one day direct films, and I think she comes to love them even more while developing ideas her with the group as she winds up in a Director/Producer position for most of them. BUT also every time she takes a class in a different program she cant help but fall in love with that way of making art too. So she has a hard time picking for a while and changed her major a couple times before landing on Film.

-Pinkie and Berrie bond a lot over a shared interest in vocal synths (tho Berrie knows more about them than her).

-The two made Pinkie's vtuber model together!

-the fandom wiki says PJ is from germany?? Idk how canon that is tbh but ive decided to embrace it i guess

-Rooney's canon name is Scarlet Rose, but i thought it was kinda lame especially when Rosie Redwood is also in this line sooo I renamed her! Stuck to the color name puns tho. Mar Rooney. Maroon. Haha

-Speaking on her though i love that shes from texas and likes writing scifi mystery type stuff and that being said i just Know deep in my bones that she was a Voltron Legendary Defender fan and Keith was/is 100% her favorite. She has a continued fondness for mothman specifically cuz of this.

-PJ and Rooney actually talk about fandom and shows/movies ALL the time. They dont have a ton of overlapping interests, but where they do? The two literally never shut up.

-Rosie is such a random character, like outside of her design she feels very poorly considered. So I scrapped the cosmetology thing and made her an illustrator instead! I think it works better with her love of making art in nature. I can see her being really into illustrated guide books. I think shes a bit snooty when it comes to art too. It takes being friends with other artists to become more open minded.

-I like the idea that Rosie is mainly friends with Rooney and Berrie ontop of that. The three of them often tag team storylines and how theyd interpret them into different mediums. Rosie will draw up a bunch of concept stuff while Rooney writes up a pitch bible and Berrie will start making shit move and throwing in her own ideas on camera angles and character designs.

-as an animation major Berrie was required to take a sound design class early on, which is where she met Oliver! Hes very laid back, and likes to go with the flow, but functions a little like the "mom" of the group. Often reminding the girls to take breaks, drink water, stop looking at their screens lest they get eye strain etc. He's multi-talented tbh but Music is his one true passion and he likes how the girls are always giving him collaboration opportunities.

-Oliver and Rosie like to talk sports a lot, both having played a bunch when they were younger and throughout high school.

-Lavender Lynn is Oliver's number one "person who needs constant reminders to settle down" she is in a constant buzz of trying to get the best shots and is utterly obsessed with the process of artistic documentation. Everything must be documented.

-the whole school loves her for this actually, she has a whole side gig where other students hire her to help photograph their projects. She saves everything she earns from this for her future dream plans to visit paris. She has it set really, many of the artists who she helps photograph now will remain steadfast clients of hers forever onward.

-PJ and Lynn actually took a print media class together at one point. Which didnt at the time spark an everlasting friendship. But it did give PJ an easier in to ask for Lynn's help documenting a project the group was working on. One of Lynn's first times photographing them work happened to fall on a day where Rosie had planned to trick everyone into going on a nature walk sans devices... Lynn wound up really appreciating this outing and decided to continue hanging around the group even after that project had ended.

[justmeinadaze]

Take It Out On Me (Steddie X Plus Size Reader)

A/N: *melts into goo* I swear the vibes I get from this story and where I can go with it are a mix of Ariana Grande's "Dangerous Woman" and "I Didn't Change My Number" but Billie Eilish lol That lost song is actually where I got the title because I saw a TikTok where some did the Steddie AI followed by the lyrics "Take it out on you...and your best friend to."

So this is set in the 80s and I chose to make the reader plus size because I haven't done it before with these two and because we plus sized babes are sexy bitches ;). (All you souls, no matter your size are beautiful. Never forget that <3)

Warnings: Dominate Steddie and Sub Reader, she's not a virgin but she's definitely new to this. Everything in this story is consensual! Even though they are rough with her they do come up with a safe word and tell her she can stop if she wants (and they would! I would never write a version of these boys who wouldn't.)

There is degrading (mostly about how the reader wants to be used), spanking, choking... rough smut for sure but followed with aftercare.

Word Count: 3953

This wasn’t normal for you. You never got in trouble at school but today was just one of those days. Carol was picking on you again because of your appearance. Every day it was something different. Your hair looked flat, your clothes were hideous, or something you were reading at the lunch table made you “a dork”. 

Today, it was how fat your ass looked in your jeans. You slammed your locker shut as you turned to face her. “At least I have an ass, you ugly bitch!”

“Y/N Y/L/N!”, Ms. O’Donnell scolded. You hadn’t even noticed she was there. She sent you to the principal’s office where he gave you a week’s worth of detention after school. 

You were surprised when you entered the designated classroom to find it empty except for the teacher in charge. 

“Ah Miss Y/N, I presume. In for offensive language and bullying a fellow student. Come in and have a seat. I’m waiting on two more.” 

You flash him a soft smile as you slide into the desk in the front corner. The door opens again and fear dances through your eyes as Steve Harrington saunters in and throws himself down in a desk in the middle of the room. 

“Our very own basketball and swim star himself, Steven Harrington. Currently in detention today fooooor…”, the teacher looks at the papers in front of him. “Being caught in the girl’s bathroom. Huh. Did you get lost?”

Before he could respond, the final student entered loudly swinging the door open as he flew in. “Hey! Mr. C! How are we this fine afternoon?”

“Mr. Eddie Munson. Always a pleasure, sir. What are we in for today?”

“I may or may not have caused a disruption in the lunchroom today.”

“Mhmm. Well, since everyone is here, we can start. Detention begins at 5pm sharp and if you aren’t here on time, I do get to tell the principal who will do with you as he will.”

“Sounds sexy.”, the metalhead grins as he sits on top of a desk and crosses his legs. 

“Mr. Munson, I know you’ve heard this many, MANY times but for the new prisoners can you please…shut up.” The boy salutes him as the teacher continues. “The majority of the time, you guys will be here, SILENTLY, doing homework or reading, I really don’t care. Just be quiet. Depending on what is going on that day this week we may help out with things. The theater kids have a play on Friday and need help with the sets. As I’m sure Mr. Harrington knows, there’s also a game so the pep squad may need stuff set up.”

“Other than that, let’s just shut up and get through the week, okay?”

The first twenty minutes go by extremely slow as you try to focus on the homework in front of you. After a while, you felt someone watching, turning your head to see Steve staring at you. Something in those admittedly gorgeous brown irises sent a tingle through your body. It felt like he was trying to read you with the little information he had in front of him. 

You jumped as a loud beeping echoed through the room and a small devious smile spread across his face. 

“Shit.” The teacher pulled his beeper off his belt, furrowing his eyebrows anxiously. “That’s my wife. I’m going to make a quick call but if I come back and I catch you all talking or fucking around…” He points at the metalhead accusingly as he runs out the door. 

“Jesus Christ. I thought he would never leave.” Eddie sighed as he got up and slid into the desk in front of Steve reaching out to high five him. “Harrington. What are you in for?”

“Fucking Tammie told Ms. Luhrmann I was hiding in the girl’s bathroom.”

“You pervert.”

“It’s not what you think, ok! I left Nancy a note but she never showed up.”

“I told you, man. You need to stay away from those good girls. Speaking of…” Eddie swivels around on the desk to face you. “What are you in for, sweetheart?”

You curl a bit into your body, hoping they’ll just leave you alone. You don’t belong here. This isn’t normal for you. You just wanted to get through the week and never think about this again. 

Two hands, one of them covered in rings, come into your field of view in front of you as they press against your desk. “I asked you something, princess. Don’t be rude now.”

You closed your eyes at the deep tone of his voice. He sounds so sexy…

“She can definitely speak. Talked back to Carol today. It was amazing.”

That grabbed your attention as you turned to look at him. When you yelled at Carol, he wasn’t in the immediate group but he must have been nearby. They were his friends after all. 

“What did that bitch say?” Eddie asked Steve but his eyes never left you. 

“Said she had a fat ass.” The other boy rolls his eyes. 

“And what did you say?” He asks, speaking to you again. 

Your eyes found his before they left to scan you lips, down your curvy body, and back up to your face. 

“Boo!” Eddie shouted as he slammed his palms on the wood in front of you, making you jump again. He and Steve both chuckled as he sauntered away, back to his friend. 

“She commented on the fact that Carol lacks any kind of an ass and then followed that up with the word ‘bitch’.”

“Ooooh, you bad girl. You’re not wrong. That evil little person has nothing behind her. I prefer a girl who has some extra umph you know? Plus, their pussy always tastes the sweetest.”

You exhaled shakily at his words, having only heard or read them in stories. You definitely weren’t a virgin. You had been with men and had boyfriends but none of them ever spoke like Eddie had. They were always extremely shy type guys who had no idea what they were doing on top of you.

“Mr. Munson!” The teacher came back, sighing with his hands in the air. “Really?”

“Sorry, Mr. C. I had a question for the pretty girl but she doesn’t seem to be capable of speech.”

“I don’t blame her when it comes to you.”

################

The next day, you became more aware of Eddie and Steve’s presences. You didn’t realize you actually had a couple of classes with Steve and lunch with both he and Eddie. The metalhead’s eyes watched you walk past the Hellfire club table as you tried to ignore him and the other boy constantly turned to glace at you as he ate with his friends. 

At the end of the day, you filed into the detention room, surprised to find both boys already there and seated in the front row, much closer to you than they were yesterday. 

“Ok troublemakers, collect your things, we are headed to the theater room.”

“I believe thespians refer to it as an auditorium, sir.” Eddie replied in a comical voice that made you smile but only Steve caught it.

“Yeah whatever. I don’t care. Just paint and behave. I’ll be right back there watching so no funny business.”

“Can we talk, Warden or is that still a no-no?”

“Yes, Mr. Munson. You can speak as long as you paint.”

You descend to your knees and they both follow suit. Steve reaches over for the paintbrushes but as he leans over towards you, he lifts it out of your grasp and hands it to his friend. 

“Oh, I’m sorry. Did you want something? You gotta ask for it.”, he smiled over at you as he waited. “No? Ok then.”

“Please.”

They froze as he sat back to look you over. “Please what?” He laughs as your face scrunches in disgust. “I don’t know what you want unless you ask me for it.”

“Please, Steve…can I have a brush?”

He nods as he passes it to you and you immediately duck down again to focus on the task in front of you. 

“Your voice is pretty. You should talk more.” Eddie’s eyes remained on the board as he painted. 

“It’s not that she doesn’t want to talk. She just doesn’t want to talk to us.”

You don’t know why but hearing Steve say it like that made you feel bad. It wasn’t exactly that you didn’t WANT to. You just didn’t trust or know them. King Steve was close friends with the people that tortured you daily and Eddie was the resident bad boy your parents warned you to stay away from. They both intimated you greatly not just because of their air of dominance but because you wanted them to wield it on you. 

You wanted them to use you until you or they couldn’t take it anymore and that scared the hell out of you. You were so inexperienced when it came this stuff plus…how do you explain that to someone? Shouldn’t you want to be wined and dined? Yes, you did. You absolutely did but you wanted to be fucked senseless first.

“I do want to talk to you.”

“Then why don’t you?”, Eddie asked.

“You scare me.”

“Well, shit, sweetheart. I’m not a fucking devil worshipper like these asshole people think.”

“It’s not just you and that’s not why.”

“I’ve never made fun of you, Y/N.”

“Oh, hey. She has a name! Steve, you should have told me.”

“Yeah, you never made fun of me but you never stopped them either. You laughed along with them while they picked on me and degraded me in front of the entire school. You’re just as much an asshole as they are.”

“Y/N!”, the teacher hollers from his seat. “As much as I am enjoying watching you tear the king of Hawkins high a new one, I don’t see much painting happening.”

Blinking, you shut your mouth and begin moving the brush again. 

“If you ever talk to me like that again, I don’t care where we are or who is in the room, I will throw you over my knee and punish you. Do you understand me?” You turn to look him, finding his angry eyes penetrating yours. “I said, do you understand me?”

“Steve, come on.” Eddie rolls onto his back as he stares up you. “She doesn’t play like that. Do you? Probably still a virgin.”

“I’m not a virgin.”

“I see. Ok, not a virgin but definitely not a hardcore kind of girl, right? You like the missionary, vanilla, candles by the bed, listening to slow 70s tunes. Am I right?”

“You don’t know me. Jesus, no wonder you two are friends.”

“Oh wow, Eds. Look at her. No, she doesn’t like that at all. I mean, on some nights yeah, but you prefer being told to shut the fuck up and do as your told.”

“N-n-no. I don’t.”

Your answer makes them giggle. “I would not have pictured that. You like being used?”

“Edward Munson! I swear to God. If I have yell at you guys one more time, we are going back to the classroom to sit silently.”

As detention came to a close, the teacher asked if you wouldn’t mind staying a little later to put everything away. You agreed especially since he told the guys they could leave. You needed that space away from them. 

When Steve scolded you, you felt your panties dampen but you meant what you said. He never did anything to keep the popular kids from picking on you. You saw him laugh with them multiple times. Thinking about Eddie asking if you liked being used, had your pussy clenching around nothing as you rubbed your thighs together. You didn’t know enough about him to really form an opinion. The town talked about him a lot and his club he had at school but you two never crossed paths. 

You kept thinking about them as you collected your things and headed down the hallway to leave for the day. Suddenly, a hand covered your mouth as arms lifted you by your waist into a nearby open classroom. 

“Hey, sweetheart. Steve and I wanted us to finish our conversation. Now that that asshole isn’t here, we can!” Your eyes widen as you listen to Eddie speak. His tone light but there’s a strength behind it that frightens (and excites) you. “Now, where did we leave off? Ah, yes. You were just about to tell us if you liked being used.”

Steve lifted his palm from your lips, resting it gently against your throat.  “Please.”

“Nope. We already had that discussion. You have to say what you want to get it.” Eddie sighs as you push back against the man behind you and he quickly tightens his grip on your neck. “Sweetheart, give me a word. Any word you feel like you’ll remember in any…overwhelming situation.” His eyes seductively raked along your body. 

“Vanilla.” You aren’t sure why that’s the first word that came to mind but it was the only thing you could think of as Steve loosened his grip and your head fell back against him. 

“If there’s one thing you are not, baby, it’s vanilla but… that’s fine. If at ANY point during our little talk here you feel unsafe or you want to stop just say that word. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, I understand.”

He steps forward, running his thumb along your bottom lip. “Good girl.”  His fingers trailed down to your shirt, grinning before he roughly ripped it open exposing your bra covered breasts. “Now…I’m only going to ask one more time. Do you…like…being used?”

“I-I-I don’t know. I want t-t-to be.”

His eyes widened in genuine surprise. 

“You said you’re not a virgin, right?”, Steve asked and you shook your head. 

“Aw, Harrington. What she’s telling us is she’s never been fucked properly. Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“Yes, Eddie, that’s right.”

The metalhead rolls his eyes in frustration and takes a few steps back. Steve flips you around and slams your upper body down against the desk, reaching around to unbutton your pants as he pulls them below your ass. You hear the sound of a lighter being closed before the echo of his palm slapping your skin reverberates through the room. 

As a handcuff belt buckle places itself in front of you, the smell of smoke fills the air. 

“Sweetheart, this would go a lot smoother if you just listened and did as you were told.” He bent down on his heels so his face was level with your own. “Yes. What?”

“Yes, Eddie, I’ve never been fucked properly.”

“That’s better.”

Steve’s hand moves to hold your face flat to the wood and your arms reach to claw in front of you. You whine as he spanks you again. “Stop moving!”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m…” Your apology trails off as the tears start to fall down your cheeks. 

Eddie balances the cigarette between his fingers as he runs his thumb under your eye. The gesture was sweet in contrast and he noticed you begin to settle. His eyes flicked above you and a few moments pass before Steve slides his hand off your head to between your shoulder blades. 

“You said you were afraid of us. Why?”

When you don’t immediately answer he sighs and the other boy delivers two hard slaps to your bottom. Instead of pushing back or fighting underneath the weight of his palm holding you down, you laid still, accepting it. The only movements you made were with your face as you winced at the feeling.

“Why?”, he repeats. 

“Be-be-because of… how you m-m-make me feel.”, you whisper. 

“Did you hear that, Stevie?”, Eddie smirked up at him.

“Just barely but yeah. Y/N, I was there when you shouted at Carol, remember? I know you can speak louder than that.”

Your face scrunched at his words and the metalhead held his chest as he laughed.  “It kills you doesn’t it, princess? To both hate someone AND want them at the same time.”

Suddenly, you felt yourself being lifted as Steve tugged on your shirt and adjusted you so you were facing him again. “You hate me, Y/N?”

When you took too long, his fingers pinched your cheeks roughly as he tilted forward till his nose was touching yours. “I asked you a question. You fucking answer! Do you hate me?!”

“Yes! You fucking asshole! I hate you!” You defiantly glared at him as you screamed at him. 

“His friends kind of suck. They don’t even know about me. Do they, Harrington?” Eddie snuffed out his cigarette, tossing the butt in the garbage. “I mean it’s fine. I don’t care. What I do find fascinating through is this electricity between you two even though you both hate each other.”

“I don’t hate her.” Your eyelids fluttered at his admission. Why did you torture you with his friends if it wasn’t because he didn’t like you? “If I hated her, I wouldn’t want to make her cum right now.”

Eddie pressed himself to your side as his lips hovered over your ear. “Has anyone ever made you cum before?”

You couldn’t tear your eyes from Steves and you didn’t even both trying. “No. No one has ever made cum.”

“Good girl. See? She’s learning. I knew you were smart.” Eddie’s palm slid along your shoulder, bringing your bra strap down your arm. His fingers, almost delicately, freed one of your breasts from its confine and you panted out a silent moan as the pad of his thumb grazed your nipple. 

“Do you want Steve here to make you cum?”

You couldn’t help it. Your hand wrapped around the back of the other boy’s neck as you brought his lips to yours. The first thing you noticed was how delicious he tasted. You felt like you could orgasm just from this alone. His hands remained still against your hips except for the little twitch of his fingers when your mouths connected. 

Your bliss was short lived as a hand abruptly clung to your neck and violently shoved your back flat to the desk. 

“Did I ask you if you wanted to fucking kiss him?!” You trembled as Eddie angrily shouted in your face. His gripped tightened against your neck for a brief moment before he let go and you turned to the side as you gasped for air. 

“Munson.” The metalhead glanced at Steve realizing quickly the man was gone. His eyes were black with lust and need, practically hyperventilating as his hands dug into your meaty hips. “Jesus fucking Christ. Fine. She said she wanted to be used. I guess we’re doing it this way since someone can’t fucking listen.”

Steve hastily unbuckled his belt, pushing down his pants just enough to free his cock before spitting in his hand and stroking it along his length. You gasped as he breached your entrance, giving you no time to adjust to the size of him as he stretched you open. He was much bigger than anyone you had every been with and you cried out as you reached out into the air, grazing your hand along Eddie’s shirt as you grabbed the fabric. 

“How does she feel, Harrington?”

The man’s grunts filled the room as he slammed his hips into yours. “So, fucking tight. My god.” He slowed his pace as he craned his neck to watch between your legs as his dick disappeared inside of you. 

As you continued to moan, you focused on Eddie as he unzipped his pants and pulled out his own cock, pumping it with his fist. “Open your mouth, princess.” You did as you were told as his fingers tangled in your hair, pushing you lips to length. “Good girl. Fuck me…” His teeth bit into his bottom lip as he slowly thrust hips. 

The feeling of you moaning around him causes him to wipe his head towards Steve, watching as the boy pressed rapid circles into your clit. With both of them inside of you, you were quickly hurtling toward that ledge. 

“Yes, pretty girl. Take it. Fuck…your mouth feels amazing.” 

Both boys thrust into at a fast pace, Steve slamming his hips into yours so hard the desk underneath you began to shake. You started to gag and gurgle around Eddie’s cock. 

“Wh-what, baby? You gonna cum? That’s right. Just let go and feel it.”

He pulled himself out from between your lips, continuing to pump himself as he watched you. Your body shook as your back arched and you came.

Steve murmured obscenities under his breath as your pussy clenched around him. 

“God damn. That was so fucking sexy.” The metalhead shoved his cock back into your mouth as they both chased their highs.  

Steve came first, pulling out of you just as he released ropes of his seed on to your stomach. Eddie soon followed, holding your head in his firm grip as he came down your throat.

You laid flat against the desk, staring up at the ceiling as you tried to catch your breath. As you heard them pull up their pants, you half expected them to leave you there having got what they wanted but were startled when you felt a napkin being run along your stomach. 

“Geez. Always so jumpy.” Eddie gripped your arm as he helped you sit up so he could adjust your bra and shirt. “Shit.” You followed his eyes realizing what he did; that when he tore open your shirt a lot of the buttons flew off with it. On impulse you covered your chest with your arms as you tried thinking of excuses to give your mom when you got home. 

While his face furrowed in thought, Steve lifted you off the desk and guided your pants up your legs before buttoning them back up. 

“I got it.”, the metalhead snapped his fingers as he tugged his shirt over his head. Gently, he removed your blouse, handing it the other boy before throwing his own over your head. He smiled in triumph at himself as he walked around you both towards the student desks and put on his leather jacket. 

“Do you drive here or…?”, Steve asked. 

“Yeah, my car is out front.”

“Good. Come on. We’ll walk with you.”

As they started to head for the door, you reached for Eddie’s arm, turning him around, and yanked him to your body as you leaned up to kiss him. It startled him at first but after moment he keened into it as his hands cupped your cheeks. He definitely tasted different than Steve but you still wanted more. You could kiss him all night if he let you. 

After pulling away, you pushed past them and headed for the parking lot, feeling their eyes watch you as they followed. When you guys got to the parking lot, you were thankful for the slight breeze as it cooled your still somewhat sweaty skin. 

There were only three cars remaining; yours, the BMW you assumed was Steve’s, and Eddie’s van. Steve reached across you, cutting you off as he opened the vehicle door for you. You paused for a moment before turning to look at them. You weren’t sure what you were expecting but the soft eyes that looked back at you were completely different than what you had experienced these last two days. 

You wanted to say something but weren’t sure what. Thankfully, they understood as Eddie stepped forward, placing his hand on your shoulder as he guided you into your car. 

“See you tomorrow, sweetheart.”

#################

@sidthedollface2 @luna-munson83 @devilinthepalemoonlite @corrodedcorpses

[deerspherestudios]

Hi! I played your game and really, really like it, I am a huge fan of slow burn - combined with Yandere too? That's kinda rare nowadays, haha. Thanks for making it and creating Mychael, I love his design. Two questions: How many days are planned to be playable in the full release?

And

Since in just one day Mychael feels very friendly towards us (according to a post you made with where his feelings are based on a meter) does that mean he's very clingy??? Like, in just one day he feels like our friend. What little effort and words will it take for him to go from crush, to love, to whatever yandere thing he might be??? Like, is he okay??? Should I be worried???

This guy? Clingy? Nahhh. Nothing to worry about, anon :-) 🍄❤️

As for the game, long (!!!) answer below cut: might be spoiler-y might be not.

For context, here's the post mentioned above.

I'm still not sure how many days it will be, but it's definitely ranging between 4-5 days. Granted it'll be a while before the game is finished finished but I think progress will pick up as I complete assets that will be reused. I'm writing Days 2, 3 and 4 simultaneously (anyone who writes can probably relate to wanting a specific thing to happen in the story but dread writing up to it, so I skip around in order to keep my motivation and interest up)

As for relationship progression, slow burn usually means a long time passes before anything develops. But this is a VN and I'm a solo part-time dev so the scope still has to be small 😔 That said!

Mychael, as a person, is quite solitary in nature; he likes being alone and you'll find out why. He does however desire company and he's only realized just how pleasant having someone around can be (hence his reaction for the Bad Endings in Day 1 if you wish to leave/run away)

Although I'm not a fan of the 'you do one (1) nice thing any decent person would do and yandere is already head-over-heels for you' trope, I do have to make use of it but, drip-feed style? You grow closer to Mychael as you hang out with him and do little things that he appreciates. (Honestly I just realized I'm describing the typical visual novel experience just without the yandere beginning-- go! figure!!! /lh)

Example: the first thing that boosts you to immediate friend status is your willingness to accept his physical looks, something that's never happened to him before. (I know my artstyle makes him a yassified pretty boy but imagine genuinely meeting a sentient creature in real life with patchy green skin, a dextrous tail and four blinking pitch black eyes, I think I'd freak too haha) Little things like that mean a lot to him and motivates him to prolong your stay.

In a way, the MC is written to be more kinder and open-minded (at least outside of Bad Ends) than the sweet/sour personalities that come in a VN, so (for narrative AND coding purposes) I can't really diversify it much. I hope that's okay ¯\_(; v ; )_/¯ If Mychael met a more grouchy/mean MC on Day 1 he'd probably not be as attached. He'd just save you, feed you and send you home when you ask hahaha. Of course this will change as he gets to know you better, at that stage he'll be willing to overlook your flaws like any upstanding yandere

Phew this was a lot to dump in an ask but I did wanna explain my vision for the game! I enjoy yandere VNs as an escape fantasy, but it's common they start out with the yan already being invested in you or fall for you too fast!!! if that makes sense. I'm interested in yanderes in the aspect of how love (romantic or otherwise) starts from innocent affection and spirals into dark obsession!!! It's also compelling as to why a character is so devoted to someone, in this situation the MC, and I wanna write the kind of person Mychael would fall for. And personally 'love-at-first-sight' as a reason just doesn't do it for me 💔

(Disclaimer!!! I'm not saying my game is any more original or better than the other wonderful yan VNs in the works, but hopefully with Mychael as a character I can deliver that 'slow-burn-and-yearn' storyline I'd like it to be. As my itchio profile says: I make games I thirst for in secret but are sadly lacking around the internet 💔 )

Thank you for the ask!! :-D

[cherllyio]

The Warrior of Flower Fruit Mountain

This is Macaques design from my Moana AU.

He is currently an enomurs and terryfing Shadow Monster, but he was once Sun Wukongs old "friend", and travel buddy on their many voyages together in the past.

Why is he like this? Well i made little angsty backstory, with clues to what happend to the once great Warrior.

You can read it either here, or on A03 where i also posted it (here)

The Voyager, The Sun and The Monster

Chapter 1 (Prolouge): Drowned by your Love

There is a small island, somewhere in the Pacific Ocean, where both terrifying demons and small monkeys live together. One of these creatures inhabiting the Island, while just as much monkey and demon as the rest, stand outs quite a lot.

He has beautiful silk white hair, six magical ears, that can catch the wind flap of a bird thousands of miles away, and a pair of radiant golden eyes, that will pierce through anyone who dares come near.

His name? Liu Mihou. Also rightfully known as “The Warrior of Flower Fruit Mountain”

On normal circumstances The Warrior would be either be training, gathering food supplies for him and the other monkeys, or making his presence known, to any hostile idiot, dumb enough to try and challenge him. 

But not today. Today, you can find The Warrior in the early morning light, preparing for voyage he is not sure when, or if he will ever come back from.

Yet... The Silk Monkey knows it will be worth it. For the person he is looking for is worth everything, and more, that can be worth something in this world.

 “The King of Flower Fruit Mountain!”, “The great sage equal to heaven!”, “The Monkey King!”. Or, as Mihou knew him: “My Sun”.

Just a few hundred years ago, these two celestial monkeys were sailing through all the great oceans together. Battling through storms, strong enough to destroy entire islands, becoming more powerful than the other demons could ever hope to become, and at the same time forming a bond strong enough, to become something greater than friendship.

Except…that all changed when Sun Wukong started playing against a power, he was not prepared for. The power of the Jade Emperor.

This traitorous act against the emperor, would ultimately end in the great sage’s downfall, where he would be catched and imprisoned by the Buddha himself, and pinned down by his very hand. And now, he was now trapped under “Five Element Mountains”, until an unknown destiny would free him.

Nobody, not even the wisest of the immortals, knew when that day would come.

It’s been 500 years since the great sage’s new destiny, fell upon him. Yet now... he has disappeared.

Mihou didn’t know how or where, or if it was done by fair means or foul. He solely knew that the once immense mountain, that had once sealed away his sun, was now only rubles and ashes of its former greatness.

Initially Mihou had been exited, ecstatic even, about this news. However, he quickly realized that like mountain, the King too was gone.

No messages, no clues, no anything. He was truly… gone... But he wasn’t "gone, gone" that would be crazy! "Sun Wukong, The Great sage equal to heaven" could never, would never.... Yea... His sun is fine, he will surely find him!

Plus, Mihou got all the things he needs to find The King, his magic ears being a big part of it. And then… they can be together again, and everything will be balanced, just like before! After all, how can a moon shine without its sun?

He confidently looks down at his own reflection, his silk white hair and shining ears animated in the cold and radiant water below. Everything is going to be ok.

But then he notices the dark roots crawling up his hair.

Dark roots that are slithering its way inside his silk white hair, like an infection, and turning it as dark as a burned corpse.

And nearly, one thirds of his entire mane can’t reflect any of the suns glow back anymore. And it will never be able to do it again.

For a second, it catches The Warrior off guard, but he really shouldn’t haven’t been surprised by this.

These dark roots have slowly been taking up more and more of his silk white hair, for well… Mihou keeps failing to remember that, but it was before his sun disappeared, he knows that much.

Mihou closes his eyes, trying to push the thoughts back. But instead, an old memory creeps up, and fills his soul with dread.

...

A demon. It attacked them.

They were young, stupid and furthermore in love, and together, they thought nothing could stop. Neither in celestial realm nor on earth.

Sure, Mihou was barely half the power of his counterpart, but that didn’t matter. It never really had mattered. The only thing Mihou and Wukong had ever cared about was each other.

Except, this time, it DID matter. Because… Wukong got hurt. Badly hurt.

There had been so much blood… Macaque could barely look at him… and Mihou had started panicking… while a piercing cry had cut through the air, when his Sun was impaled… The world turned around… everything had become so awfully quiet.

And Mihou had just been STANDING THERE. He had done nothing, but tremoring in horror over the cursed remains that was his dying sun. And then that awful, awful demon that had HURT HIS SUN, started whispering terrible, terrible words in his all too powerful ears…

“Oh, how sad” … “did he mean much too you?” … “What a pity…” … “you should have protected him better then…”

And… He listened. For wasn’t it true?

Wasn’t he the one who now stood beside his fading sun, that could barely light any brighter than the flickers of an ending campfire? Wasn’t he the one who had just been standing by his side, while his sun had worked so hard for everyone. Worked so hard and continued getting stronger. To get strong enough to protect his people. To protect Mihou. And he is now dying for the sake of a six eared demon, that would never be able to pay him back. Mihou hadn’t earned any of that. Wukong hadn’t deserved that. Mihou was a traitor.

The demon didn’t even notice, before it was too late. The demon didn’t even notice, before his insides lay before him, and he lied next to it. The demon didn’t even seem to notice Mihou’s scream of agony and pain, before his soul had already left his body.

Everything after that was a blur.

A blur filled with small glimpses of his dying sun, while an unworthy Warrior had desperately tried to save him.

And when the world finally came back into the view, his sun… His sun was ok. His sun was ok. His sun was ok.

“Sorry I scared you so badly there, my dear moon”, Wukong had said with a sad look on his face. “I must admit, he wasn’t as strong as me, but he sure was clever.” His sun had said with a grin on his face.

And oh… How Mihou could have looked at that smile forever. Yet… he was constantly reminded of what had happened.

If that demon… If that god forsaken demon had been any stronger, just a bit, Wukong…

Mihou couldn’t risk that… Never again would he look at his dying sun, covered in his own torn open flesh and shattered bones. Never again would he hear, Wukong’s breath draw close to its final limit. Never again would The Great Sage be betrayed by his own Warrior, who he thought he could trust to always protect him.

For in The Warriors own eyes, he was a traitor. A foul soul who would simply overserve as a prejudiced destiny would drown out the only spark of hope left for their island and its people.

Hence why Mihou did, what he did next.

On the darkest day of the year, where the shadows rosed higher, than their own creators, Mihou stood in the middle of an abandoned Island. He was hoping for someone who could help. And soon enough, someone rose up. The silhouette of the darkness. A spirit. One made of magic not seen quite often.

“The six eared Macaque asks for my help. Don’t you have enough assistance from the king already?” the spirit remarked in a gravelly, judging, voice, whilst turning itself into a clone of The Great Sage to prove its point.

“Yes, please, I need your wisdom…”

“My wisdom… Well, there sure is a considerably amount of that, you will have to be more specific…”

Even though he knew exactly, what he had been come for, it still took Mihou a few seconds, before he finally answered:

“How do I protect someone, who is stronger than me? How do I make sure, I can help someone, when I barely have the strength of the wind, against a storm coming their way?”

Mihou could feel small tears starting to pierce through his eyes, yet he did little to stop them. “How do I make sure, I don’t betray the people I love, when they need me the most?”

The silence after that was barely enough time for the water to hit shore in its never-ending rhythm. Despite that, it had felt like millions of winters and summers had already passed, by the time the silhouette finally spoke again.

“There is one way….”

Mihou looked up.

“However, as all things, it comes with great consequences.”

“I will do anything, please! Just tell me what I need to do!”

The silhouette seemed to watch him like a hawk.

“You are more stupid than you look, Warrior of Flower Fruit Mountain.”

The shadow started morphing into something else.

“Liu’er Mihou, for my power you need to know. This power requires the utmost control. One step aside could lead you drowning in its pit, leaving you only as host to submit.”

The shadows showed The Warrior consumed by shadows, until there is no light left in him.

Mihou took a deep breath.

“How can I control it then?”

“Warrior, only destiny will be your reaper.”

It morphs back into its normal silhouette.

“Now… do you accept this power?”

Mihou, looking back, should probably have thought it more through. But back then, the guilt and love for his Sun had been so strong, it had almost blinded him.

“I do, I accept it.”

And then everything went black.

...

Hundreds of years later, Mihou still doesn’t know, how or when he ended back on Flower Fruit Mountain.

But that didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered then, was the power he had now. The power to protect the island, its monkeys and… his sun.

Wukong was skeptical at first, luckily the King had always been more of the oblivious type, so he quickly started to pride the new power as much as Lihou used too.

The newfound power Liu’er Mihou had gained were shadow powers. He could manipulate, create or absorb any shadow as he pleased.

This power also made it easier for him to learn the “72 transformations”, which Wukong had already learned hundreds of years ago, since Mihou could “copy” them using his shadow powers, until he didn’t need Wukong by his side anymore to do it.

Though, as all things, it wouldn’t last long until he learned the consequences of his choices firsthand.

Wukong and Mihou had been fighting a demon, who was stronger than what they were used to, but they had been fighting a lot of them recently, anyway. However, for just a second, Macaque had become cocky, and his let the shadow powers run free to devour their enemy whole.

Expect, after the fight was over, Macaque noticed the dark hair for the first time.

It had been small at first, barely noticeable, but with every “slip up” it had gotten more and more noticeable.

It wasn’t just if he got cocky in battle. If something had hurt him mentally, it would also grow. Which, when Wukong got trapped under the mountain… The infection had grown to the length of two small snakes crawling up his legs and arms in just a few hours.

Moreover, when they got into a fight while Wukong was trapped… The fur on his legs was almost completely black.

So, the 500 years that had slowly been passing by had been both a physically and mental war in his head, that from each day that had went by got closer and closer to winning…

The lack of a king also meant that more demons had started to attack Flower Fruit Mountain, therefore Macaque had to use way more power than usual, which would just make the curse worse...

And then every night, if it was a quiet one, he would cry himself to sleep, in his now empty nest.

Yet, as the black fur was getting dangerously close to his heart, which Mihou did not want to find out what happened if it reached it, there was… hope.

Wukong was free now after all!

Mihou was so sure, that as soon as they found each other again. When he could finally embrace that golden fur again, everything would be fine.

And as Mihou looked down the boat, now ready for the long voyage ahead, he felt A hope rise in his chest, for the first time in these 500 years.

Everything will be ok; nothing bad ever happen anymore.

Wukong is waiting for him after him after all!

…

Right?

[bajuuuu]

Rewatching some favourite TOS episodes of mine. And this thing at the end of The return of the archons (s1,e22) stuck out to me. This whole episode is about how a computer can’t run a society even if programmed by a human. Because it’s missing something… innate… human. A “soul” Jim calls it.

The episode ends with Jim talking the computer into self destructing (as usual) stating that it has no creativity, that it’s killing the humans it’s designed to protect. This isn’t the only time Jim makes a computer realise that it is and never will be a human and is therefore lesser than the human which created it.

But after that. After they return to the ship Jim and Spock have the classic end of the episode conversation. “I prefer the concrete, the graspable, provable.” Spock says after Jim brings up the soul argument. “You’d make a splendid computer, mister Spock” Jim replies with a smile. He means it well. Spock raises an eyebrow at the remark and thanks his captain for the compliment. ”That is very kind of you captain.”

Kind. In the episode where a computer is talked into subordination, told that it is lesser than humans. It is kind of Jim to call Spock a computer. I can’t be the only one seeing this irony.

Do you think that any time Spock gets compared to a machine, he thinks back to this moment? Do you think that any time he is asked to do some computations instead of asking the computer (because said machine is unavailable) he compares himself to the machine he is substituting?

Spock gets called many quite ugly things throughout the series, some of them are reprimanded (the episode where an ensign is made to leave the bridge after not trusting Spock with a decision because he’s a Vulcan). Some go unnoticed or are ignored due to the episode plot being more important (The Galileo 5 where he has to constantly prove himself to be capable of doing his damn job even though he’s the superior officer). And then some are played off for a laugh, a joke and harmless little quarrel (any time Bones and Spock are on screen tbh).

There’s also The day of the dove. An episode where Scotty (influenced by an alien but still) tells Spock to “keep his Vulcan hands off of him. Just keep away. […] you green blooded half-breed”. Spock (also influenced by an alien) goes to punch Scotty in the face (which… fair) but the way Jim stops Spock (only Spock not Scotty who started the whole thing) from doing so is by yelling “you’re half human”. Which does the trick by the way. Later on he goes directly to Spock, lays his hands on his shoulders and asks him and no one else “Have we committed race hatred against the Klingons?” He asks Spock because at least unconsciously he knows that Spock is the one who would notice. Who would know.

I just wonder, how many times can you be called a pointy eared bastard, a devil, a computer, an alien before you start to believe it. Before you start changing yourself to be more human. To fit in. Because Spock does change throughout the seasons, he becomes more open, allows himself to be both human and Vulcan at the same time. And of course he does, he is surrounded by people! Of course it will rub off. Especially if these humans continuously tell you that you will never feel love (a very human emotion in Bonse’s opinion) because it isn’t written in your inheritance (The paradise syndrome).

He changes, I just wonder if it is for the better. Or if.. perhaps. The first thing he does after the 5 years on the Enterprise is go back to his home world and tries to purge himself of all emotion. To kill off this human thing in him that his friends tried to cherish.

Does this have a point? No? Not really? Just… thoughts.

[d0g0r0t]

Random Band!Mizu hc

Her Bass

This bitch plays bass change my mind

She played acoustic guitar first but liked the way electric bass sounded more

Her bass was a hammy down from Eiji

He taught her a little but told her "if you do not learn from your mistakes, you have learned nothing" and left her to it

She started when she was 14 and the first day she played after 15 minutes she yelled "I GIVE UP!"

Then the next day she played again

Then did the same thing

Over time she got really good at it but she played differently then others because she had no help involved and learned what was best for her

She snapped one of her strings once and thought she broke the whole thing. She didn't even know they COULD break

She ran to Eiji having a whole break down and he just laugh

She got it fixed and felt like a dumbass

Her bass is this matt navy blue color and has a Japanese wave design strap.

Reference ⬇️⬇️⬇️

The Band

She joined after meeting Ringo. He saw her bass in the corner of her room and bombarded her with questions and if she would join his band. She was anxious but said sure

But her first practice when she saw Taigen she wanted to break her bass over his fat ass forehead

Taigen is lead guitar

Ringo is lead drummer and side singer

Akemi is lead singer and plays the piano in some songs

First practice she spent it learning from Taigen which was super fun to watch

"So then it's a E string-" "Taigen for the last fucking time I play bass you idiot" "WELL I DONT OK GIVE ME A FUCKING BREAK!"

Akemi record so many fights between them its insane. She could ruin both their careers if she wanted to

She HATES being in the spotlight and thank God Akemi and Taigen take it.

She never liked being seen and normal stands near Ringo, away from the light.

And yet people still make edits of her

First time they played was for one of Akemis friends, birthday

Taigen got drunk before hand and almost ruined everything but some how it went well

Mizu dragged his shit after

Band members

Ringo

He has special prosthetics for his drum sticks so he can easily snap them in. He uses thicker drum sticks so they fit better

His drums are a mix of things friends gave him and his first drum kit. He likes the different colors of his drums, he uses the symbols from his first kit because he likes the sound more then new symbols

Akemi

She plays a shit ton of things that her father wanted her to play, but when she was alone she learned she could sing

Her dad HATES that she's in a band that isn't basic. But Suki always supports her

She has a more higher pitch voice a bit like younger Billie Eilish but she sings like Lacey Sturm from flyleaf ⬇️⬇️⬇️

Taigen

He learned on acoustic first like mizu but he stuck to it

He started playing when he was 12 after finding his grandpa's old guitar in his garage and kept it ever since

Although he prefers acoustic, he plays electric for the band

His acoustic is this basic beaten tan colored guitar with old strings and a basic strap

His electric is this gorgeous shiny sage green color with a dark green strap

Reference ⬇️⬇️⬇️

I disappeared again guys mb

Also if you guys want a bass player! Mizu x reader just ask and we'll see what happens 👍

[iheartzegras]

different type of love -jack hughes

request: @your-mom369 14 and 18 with jack?

prompts: “i don’t want to be just friends anymore” and “what’s the matter? you can tell me”

requests are still open, and my prompt list is pinned!

——————————————————————————

you and jack had been best friends since the first grade. inseparable really. you both never left each others side, no matter the distance between you two for hockey, you still talked daily.

it all started when you had moved to toronto during the summer. you just so happened to become neighbours with the soon to be familiar boys. as your parents were taking the boxes inside from the van, you saw jack and his brothers playing outside. jack particularly caught your eye because of his energy. you were normally a shy girl, but he really did look like he would be a fun person to stick with.

a couple minutes later you felt a tap on your shoulder. standing behind you is the boy that interested you the most. he held out his hand and introduced himself. “hi. im jack, i live next door!” he said while grinning like a fool. “hi, im y/n” you shyly said. “it’s okay, don’t be shy! wanna be friends?” “yeah sure!”

that one small introduction, lead to a lifetime friendship. after that day, the two of you, occasionally his brothers that you found to be quinn and luke, would always play after school. even at school, the two of you would stay by each other’s side the whole time.

fast forward until now

ever since you and Jack became best friends, his family invited you to the lake house every year. this year in particular you were extra excited because you got to see jack. you hadn’t seen jack since he moved to new jersey for hockey.

after packing your things, you began your drive to the lake house. it was quite a long drive, so after making some stops on the way there, you finally arrived. it looked just the same. the deja vu coming back every time you came.

waking inside you were greeted by luke and quinn who both yelled “y/n!” at the same time. although your bond with jack was seemingly better, you also were incredibly close to the pair of brothers as you practically grew up with them. you were like a sister to them, and they were like your brothers.

as you walked into your designated room, it was refreshing. everything still in its place from last summers events. this space was your comfort place. the smell of the room just like your perfume. you plopped right on your bed, and before you knew, you were dead asleep.

you were harshly awoken by a tall figure jumping next to you on the bed. with your vision blurry you tried to see who it was. looking a bit closer you realized, it was jack. oh how you missed him too much. you practically jumped into his arms and giving him the most loving hug you’ve ever given.

“jack!” “y/n!” the two of you yelled in synch. you both dove into another hug, but this time with passion. that was new. to say that you haven’t thought of you and jack being a couple, was a lie. you definitely have, but you brushed it off because you felt as though it would never work. maybe some old feelings were being brought back up.

later on, after dinner, some of the other friends showed up. trevor who you had grown close with greeted you with a big hug and then whispered something into your ear. “so, you and hughesy? i think you’ve got something going on” to which you replied with “what, where did that come from? and no, we’re just friends.”

all of you were sitting by the fire roasting some s’mores. everyone was busy, but you couldn’t help but replay what trevor said to you earlier. could jack feel anything or was he just joking? do you like jack more than a friend? too many things crowded your mind as you tried to relax but couldn’t. you needed to be alone to gather your thoughts.

“hey guys, im gonna head off to bed. goodnight!” you announced and hugged each of them. when you got to your room, you had changed into some shorts and an old t-shirt. you got into your welcoming bed and tried to doze off.

after hours of trying to fall asleep, you couldn’t. you had been restless all night and nothing helped. you decided to sit on the deck to see if the cool night air would help.

opening the door to the deck, you stepped outside and quietly shut it. you took your favourite seat that you had claimed to be yours, and sat down. you had gotten all trapped looking at the stars that you hadn’t noticed that someone had joined you. “what’re you doing out here all alone?” jack asked. “nothing, just couldn’t sleep. that’s all.”

too much silence had been happening for your liking. you look over at jack and said something truly bold. “have you ever thought of us as something more than friends?” you asked. he responded with “yes, actually. why? what’s the matter? you can tell me.”

after more silence you quietly said “i don’t want to be just friends anymore” “pardon?” he asked you to repeat. “i don’t want to be just friends anymore” you repeated louder.

jack was astounded. he wasn’t upset though, because secretly he had felt the same way all along. he paused for a minutes before responding again. “thank god. i couldn’t deal with the pain of being just friends for any longer. i’ve liked you since we were sixteen and skating laps around the rink holding hands.” he admitted. “really?” “yes. y/n, this is a big question, but will you be my girlfriend?” “yes of course jack!”

the new couple sat happily next to each other before jack took you inside to get some rest. the two of you cuddled for the rest of the night.

your childhood friendship had blossomed into something much more passionate and loving. as a small child, you would have thought such love would be intimidating and gross, but now, you feel so much more. it’s indescribable how much you feel for the man you love. it had only been a few minutes since he asked you to be his, but you already knew, he was the one.

——————————————————————————

ahhh, omg! im in love with this fic!

this was one of my longest pieces (i’ll still try and write longer in the future)

hope you all enjoyed! 🫶🫶

[zalia]

Experiencing Destiny 1 as a D2 player

I picked up Destiny 1 in a sale recently despite being told a lot about its problems, and honestly I'm really enjoying playing it! I feel a bit like a time traveller visiting important places and events from the past.

I also have friends who played Destiny nearly from the beginning and it's fun to go back and go 'ooooh that's what they were talking about!'. I am also very aware that if I had started playing it without already being invested, I would be having considerably less fun. (Also, being fair, much of the fun is doubtless novelty after playing *mumbletymumble* hours of D2 over the past couple of years).

But it's genuinely been really interesting from a design and narrative perspective going back to it and seeing where the story began and how things have changed and I wanted to ramble about it. Full disclosure, I have played up through the first couple of missions of The Taken King. There are also things I can't comment on such as Crucible (because getting enough players for a match has not happened yet), events (no longer happening) etc. Also haven't managed to run a raid yet but hopefully will eventually!

I will start with the bad, to get it over with. A lot of stuff here will be well known and honestly it's probably less interesting than the good/thinky stuff.

The Bad

Oh boy I have maligned D2's New Light introduction so badly since it is miles ahead of D1 just by merit of actually having one! D1 gives you the opening run through the Cosmodrome where they tell you what buttons to use and then refuses to explain anything ever again. (This very definitely ties into it being a game I enjoy now but would probably not have enjoyed if I wasn't already invested)

You don't realise how many QoL improvements D2 has until you have to go to orbit and select a new destination every single time. Also no fast travel points. And no you cannot just look at a map of the place you're traversing. Fashion is difficult too.

Up until Taken King, I am not sure why they bothered hiring voice actors for anyone except Ghost, Elsie Bray, and maybe the Speaker. And I have no idea why they hired Bill Nighy for that part (I mean I do, it's because they wanted to use Big Names for marketing but still...). The Vanguard could easily be replaced with cardboard cutouts because they are basically uninvolved in anything until Taken King begins. I know they aren't involved in every seasonal plot now, but they do appear and develop.

The story and writing is... well, it makes an attempt to exist. It does not succeed until The Taken King. I went in knowing what happens in the story and I'm still not actually sure what happens in the story because it is basically someone's pre-first draft bullet points of a narrative. The only reason I knew I was starting different storylines is because the mission popup tells you which storyline it is. 'I don't have time to explain why I don't have time to explain' is a meme for a reason, but another bit which I think illustrates the point well is from House of Wolves. Petra tells you that Skolas has entered the Vault of Glass and this is bad so you need to stop him. It is never explained before then what the Vault of Glass is, what it does, why it would be bad for Skolas to be in there, or... anything. While D2 can be obtuse, and sometimes leaves important info in easily overlooked lore tabs (or in vaulted content), it at least tries to tell you what the story is. I feel like D1 actively resents that players do not read the bullet points and fill in everything the writers had in their heads. Another example is the Devil's Lair strike. it's the first one you take on in D1, and after doing it in D2, I was expecting backstory and build up. Nope, you just get sent in with nothing to really explain what is going on, who the House of Devils are, what a Servitor is... I know it had troubled development and the story got torn apart and remade very close to launch, and it really shows in the early stuff. It's a series of missions that were made and then had to be strung together with the thinnest of threads. It gets better in Taken King, but at times is still not great. You first encounter the Taken on Phobos, I think Ghost asks about what they are. I was expecting more discussion about them and what they are and how horrifying it is. But nope, they just exist now and we're all fine with that.

So. Much. Grinding. The pinnacle grind was annoying in D2, the grind to just get your light up in D1 is so much worse. You will be doing bounties desperately to try to get your rep up with the various groups just so you can actually get fragments of story and quests. You will be grinding just to level up your subclass and it takes ages.

The places you visit are very expansive - even the Cosmodrome is significantly larger - which is great when they're used well, but a lot of the time they feel very empty, there to make you play for longer to get between areas than because there is anything to do.

The Good

The game is gorgeous! I'm loving getting to see Venus and Mars and the Dreadnaught. They're beautiful environments. Everything feels very expansive which can be very cool (as above, it can also be less good). When used well, it feels like there are so many mysteries and secrets hidden in this abandoned world. There are hidden bunkers and spaces, huge Vex structures and ruined cities, tunnels burrowed beneath the Cosmodrome and the Taken King's dreadnaught. It's genuinely fun to explore (up to a point).

It does an excellent job of making you genuinely feel like it's post-apocalyptic and the existence of humanity is precarious. And you, the Guardian, are brand new and everything is trying to kill you. You don't have multiple gods stored in your vault in the form of guns! Everything feels more dangerous. For example, I think if D2 is your intro, you look back at the Great Disaster and the first Crota fireteam and go 'but how did that happen when I go onto the moon and take out ogres with a single punch? The biggest threat in the Abyss in Crota's End is falling into a pit or getting hit by a pendulum! Yeah no I get it now. In D1 you are much less powerful and it makes swarming thralls and normal enemies much more of a threat. Things feel dangerous in a way that D2 rarely manages. I'll talk about this a bit more in depth later.

By making your supers and abilities less powerful, they have weirdly made them more useful. In D2 I usually save mine for bosses since it feels like a waste to use them on normal enemies. In D1, it makes absolute sense to use your abilities basically as soon as you have them. You should absolutely use your Golden Gun on a normal Hive Knight or Fallen Vandal!

There's some great atmospheric touches. I love hearing the snippets of distorted music when I'm near a Rasputin bunker. Going into some of the ruined buildings on Mars or Venus where it's dark and suddenly seeing so many red Vex eyes staring back at you is chilling.

The opening mission of Taken King is fantastic. Genuinely creepy and the Taken in general in D1 feel much scarier and threatening than in D2.

All the different enemy factions are different colours and designs! I love that!

Weapons still go brrrrr in a very pleasing way. And getting new gear feels genuinely satisfying in a way that it rarely does in D2. I junk 99% of the armour and guns I get in D2, in D1 I end up being much more considering of whether something is useful. Legendary weapons and armour feel precious!

I keep picking up random Warmind weapons to turn into Banshee that I know lead to an exotic quest and I am enjoying the feeling of that being another Secret Thing I am discovering.

Honestly, I really like Banshee's weapon bounties - you get given a prototype weapon to test out and gather data by doing certain things (killing X number of a certain enemy etc.) and that gains you rep. And you can then order a legendary version of the weapon from him to be delivered the next Wednesday.

Thoughts/Observations

Knowing that the 'original' story was seemingly going to focus more on Rasputin, and an exo version of him getting stolen by the Hive makes the appearance of some of the Hive areas on the Moon make more sense. There's some bits that are high tech in a way that feels very at-odds with what we see of the Dreadnaught and, other Hive locations which lean much more towards the organic and magical.

Similarly, Rise of Iron feels a lot more hard sci-fi than much of what Destiny has become, and has such a huge Rasputin focus. I believe it was partially developed by an outside studio, so I do wonder if it was based, at least in part, on the 'original' story of Destiny, and was either too far into development, or the other studio just never got the memo about the change in tone.

Vaguely related to the above, but way more speculative, I wonder if Banshee was originally meant to be a Rasputin exo, then that story got shifted to Felwinter, but the seeds were used for the story of Banshee having been Clovis Bray.

Honestly while it's fun to think about, in general I find the obsession parts of the Destiny community have with 'the original story' (of the 'maybe they're finally going back to the original story!' type where the unspoken idea is that this was the perfect undiluted pure story that was 100% planned and set in stone) to be fundamentally misunderstanding how creating stories work. I can guarantee that even if that first story had been used, after 10 years of multiple writers etc. it would still be in a very different place than where the people who came up with it initially thought it would go. It would have evolved and changed and shifted, even if it was following the same vague plan. That's just what stories do.

Oh wow, suddenly all the Nightmare Hunts in Shadowkeep make way more sense! I get it now!

Actually I get a lot of references now XD

Oh wow Shaxx sounds so depressed. I guess this was before he started therapy.

So many identical caves...

Thoughts on Power Creep

D1 leans much more into the post-apocalyptic setting and it does an excellent job of making the existence of the Last City, humanity, and Guardians feel precarious. Everything seems more dangerous, more of a threat. You really are part of the last bastion of humanity. And there's a few ways this is done.

First, you are much less powerful. Yes, you have supers and grenades, but they do much less damage (and are much less flashy) than in D1. There has been a huge amount of power creep! You won't be one-shotting bosses, even normal Vanguard Strike bosses with golden gun easily.

Legendary weapons feel rare and special, and I am still using Blue weapons at times because sometimes I have to just to get the higher light level. I have reached level 40 and have only just got my first exotic armour pieces which I bought from Xur! They are FR0ST-EE5, an exotic I have never bothered with in D2, but in D1 the recharge for abilities when sprinting is genuinely handy. I don't have any exotic weapons at all yet!

It leads to a very different playstyle - I play much more carefully because I cannot just charge in with something like Osteo Striga and wipe out a room with a few shots. In D2 we have killed multiple gods, taken down an Empire, and forged alliances. In D1, we're just some random Guardian and the gameplay reflects this.

And I hate to say this, but I also kind of get the YouTube/Stream BNFs who complain about things not being hard enough. It's just... they're completely wrong about the reasons and the solutions.

They seem to think that what is needed is more enemies with higher health, and nerf Divinity because it makes it too easy, and everything should be designed to stop normal players being able to do it. And it... it doesn't work? Ghosts of the Deep was fun, but holy fuck the health bars on the enemies make it feel grindy and dragged out. Legend Avalon was a slog because there's Too Much - too many elements at the same time so it's just overwhelming instead of fun. (Starcrossed on legend is tough, but feels more enjoyable and managable. I'm looking forward to doing it again instead of dreading it).

More difficulty isn't what makes D1 feel harder, being weaker is what does this. I have no doubt that if I could put my D2 stuff against D1 enemies I would decimate them. But in D1 I am a lone Guardian with scavenged gear and yes, I have the Light and can be resurrected, and it gives me an edge vs normal humans, but not a crazy amount.

In D2 I have so many exotics and weapons that I can just throw them away. I can have intricately crafted builds to take on any enemies! I am basically one of the most powerful entities in the solar system.

And that's not something you can really scale back. They did it with Red War at the start of D2. Maybe they could do it as a result of Final Shape and do smaller stories focused on Earth and recovery and what you even do after your purpose for fighting for so long is gone (and I think there is value in those stories! I would love it personally). But uh... I don't think most people would actually be happy having everything nerfed on such a scale. Give up your 999,999 Celestial Nighthawk boss damage, for a Golden Gun that with a bit of luck might one-shot a yellowbar?

Give up a lot of creativity in terms of what you use and how you play, in exchange for a tougher game with way less choice for builds, but one that is potentially more atmospheric and in-keeping with the post-apocalypse and the dangers of the solar system?

I don't have an answer for that! And it's not even the most important thing. Gamer BNFs gonna always want to prove that they're better than everyone at pressing buttons, and forget that the majority of players are casuals. But it's been interesting playing a different type of difficulty, rather than the forced difficulty of insanely high HP and Too Many Things.

Power creep is a real issue in a lot of long-running media (just look at superhero movies, or many many monster of the week TV shows). You're in a position of feeling like you need to one-up yourself every time. Every new villain has to be the biggest and baddest, and so you have to become more and more powerful to combat that, which means the next villain has to be even bigger and badder.

With Destiny we've gone from a scrappy underdog, to a god-killer.

I'm reminded of Osiris talking about Saint in The Sundial lore.

'I watched him grow from neophyte to demi-god'.

King of fitting for us to have done the same as Saint's inspiration.

[themissinghand]

Genshin Impact: The Overworked God

Summary: In which one of the lore writers who help write the world of Genshin Impact was suddenly thrusted in the very world they created. He doesn't know how this happened and the way home seemed like a pipe dream.

Well, testing characters is one thing, but playing God?

Oh boy.

Note: SAGAU if you squint but not really. Mainly fluff and healing mainly between a tired worker and the oldest Archon.

Male OC!

Warning: Genshin themes with mentions of war, and death. And OC needs some rest.

"Good morning, your Grace." 

"5 more minutes..?" 

"You are the Creator."

It took approximately one hard pinch to the elbow and 55 seconds later that Kai decided (albeit begrudgingly) that this was his reality.

Always negotiate the terms and pay for any job.

Payment is obviously going back home, but also monetary compensation, enough to retire early as a billionaire. And maybe a nice villa. Or bed.

Until Kai goes home, he might as well get an easier life here.

Which clearly did not go as intended.

"I will not be the babysitter for any Archon." Kai already has countries to run, royal families to manage, and human relationships are ever so complicated. He doesn't have the time nor desire to babysit gods for goodness sake.

And besides, the 7 Archons comes so much later in time! 

He's a game writer, not a politician or babysitter! It's only because he played kingdom simulation games before and read too many fictional works that he could figure things out. 

Celestia is supposed to be his assistant since he's the Creator, but isn't he working too hard!? At this point, he's gonna retire early! 

"But your Grace, you cannot manage the world yourself. Archons can help manage them for you!" 

Yes, Celestia gave up in speaking in elegant and ambiguous ways after their first negotiation session. 

Kai thought about it for a bit before agreeing, anything that spelled less work for him, he'll take it! 

"But, I'm not going to be a babysitter!" 

Archon war? 

Stop making me do more work! 

What happened? It was peaceful for such a long time! 

Was it because there were too many gods or powerful creatures? Damn Celestia, you're supposed to keep it under control! 

Kai has a migraine everyday, so this wasn't surprising, but did the gods have to fight each other, just so only 7 left?! 

Celestia!

"It must be done your Grace! Isn't this what you and your team wrote?" 

"Well I changed my mind." 

"Your Grace! If you go out there now, they will use you and your powers!" 

"But I can't watch people die just because some stupid god or creature that wants power!"

Celestia remained silent at his outburst. 

"Tempus. It's too late, it had already begun." 

"Celestia!"

"Everything is your will after all. You wrote the story, didn't you?" 

It was then did Kai realize that Celestia didn't follow him, but rather the words and designs set by his team in the real world. 

Celestia is like an AI robot, one that only acts in accordance to the wishes of it's Creator. 

But isn't he the Creator right now?! Does this mean he needs more power to be recognized, or overthrow the set system? 

Kai stomped out in fury and for the first time, not as Kai, but the God of Time and Creation. 

Tempus.

Tempus never thought he would play God, but here he is, relying on his godly powers to save what's left of his creation. 

"Tempus." 

Kai sent his final message to his country's royal family before turning to greet the rude guest.

"Morax." One of the 7 victors of war, a newly appointed Archon, entered without announcing anything beforehand and immediately strides towards Kai. 

When Morax stops in front of him, there's an awkward silence between them, and Kai knows this man is waiting for something.

"No." But Kai declines. He's got why too much things to deal with and he's not going to do something he's done too many times. 

"Guizhong is dead." Kai frowns, ah, of course. 

"Please." Morax pleads, and Kai is put at odds when seeing the Lord of Geo so weak, so desperate.

"Morax. You know I cannot."

"Kai." He almost hisses, and Kai could care less.

"I'll do anything to bring everyone back."

"They will die no matter what."

Because I wrote it.

"Shut up!" Kai does not flinch when the God of Contracts claws at him. He simply stares into those golden eyes of fury and desperation.

"Turn back time! Do it!" The entire world quakes at his call, and Tempus is stuck. 

Stuck between pity and reality.

"If I do, what will you do? What can you do?" Tempus responds, tired of this entire show. He groans when he felt strong claws around his neck.

"I'll save Guizhong! I'll stop the Archon war!"

"You'll only suffer and regret." Like him.

"I will not." The resolve in his voice is undeniable. 

"If only you had been there with me then Guizhong-"

"Will die. If not by the war, then by her people."

"What?" Morax freezes, and Kai could hear the bitter realization hit him. 

"If not by her people, then by fate. If not by fate, then by Celestia, by YOU! You of all people know even Gods die, Morax. It's a war." Kai is sick of it. 

Tempus tried everything, but he is a powerless, useless god against his own pen in his home world. 

Morax inhales, then exhales.

"Do it. Turn back time."

Tempus sighs, a distant memory of a determined, hard-working, and adorable adepti resurfaced in his mind. 

He remembers laughing and writing Zhongli's character-

"One chance." Then the Lord of Geo lets go and bows.

"Thank you." Tempus puts a hand on Morax's bloodied shoulder and closes his eyes. 

This conversation turns into one of the past.

The Archon war occurs, and Tempus watches Morax fail.

If he prevents one red flag, another arises.

Everything repeats, like a never-ending cycle of torture.

"Morax." 

"Tempus." The God of Time stops behind his sitting figure in front of Guizhong and many of his colleagues' graves.

Tempus puts a glazed lily on each of the graves and offers his own condolences.

"Morax. It's over now. Return."

"And where would I return?" Tempus holds out his hand. 

"Then, come with me." 

Morax accepted and followed. 

For some reason, Morax holds onto his hand like his lifeline, and Tempus allows him.

Just like that, the two Gods made their way to Temporium, a land where time moves differently than in the rest of the world. 

Temporium is a wonderful nation.

Old as time, this country is the first nation Tempus raised from the ground. It is also the country that he chose to call "home". 

The royal family is the one that manages the country and Tempus is merely a guide and protector, helping them navigate the dangers of the past and the future.

His protective shield around this land slows down or speeds up time within the shield, creating a safe haven that is immune to any outside influences. 

Kai wants to make this country similar to his real home. 

Before he was thrown into this madness. 

Tempus leads Morax into a transparent dome known as a green house and stops. 

"Morax. Time is limited. So cherish it."

Surrounded by flowers and greenery, there stood a woman with a gentle smile.

"Morax?" 

Tempus watches them reunite and thinks that losing sleep is worth it. 

Looking up into the skies, Tempus thinks that since he was able to change fate, just slightly, it means Tempus is stronger, but not enough. 

Celestia is wavering. 

But he's too late.

Too many died, and too many suffered due to his hand. He can't just turn back time, for he will also revert to the past "him".

Nevertheless, Tempus swore to change the plot, and maybe, just maybe, end this never-ending madness. 

Seeing as to how Morax and Guizhong are fine, Tempus disappears and reappears under a cherry blossom tree.

There was another person he saved, a sister and leader to many. There, two sisters cried in each other’s arms like no tomorrow.

Tempus watches solemnly, and repeats the same disappearing and reappearing, many times.

Tempus shouldn't be at this tea party. 

"Morax. Let's rebuild Liyue."

"Guizhong. They betrayed you." Morax clearly looks like he was withholding his rage. 

"I know." Guizhong acknowledges, but isn't afraid. 

"But even so, I understand their reasons. To protect their land from an unwanted war."

Her kindness knows no bounds. Truly, no one deserves her. 

"Thus Morax, this time, we will rebuild Liyue with the adepti, and we will stand together. As always."

"Guizhong. I...cannot afford to lose you again." She smiles wistfully, and then looks at Tempus. 

"I too am afraid of disappearing, and without Tempus, perhaps I would have perished. It was he who saved me and led me to his realm to heal. For that, thank you." 

Morax too bows in gratitude.

"I apologize that I cannot save everyone." 

"That would be too much to ask from you, Tempus. For you are not an omnipotent, omniscient or omnipresent God." 

For the first time, Tempus feels slightly relieved at someone's words. 

"I'm sure you did your best and already changed so many people’s lives."

Huh. A soft smile blooms on his face and the two seemed surprised. 

Truly, no one deserves her.  

Eventually they leave, and Tempus, sends them off peacefully, wishing them the best.

Then, Liyue is built once again.

This time, they build the foundation and protect the city together.

But again, even the gods cannot go against time.

When Guizhong dies, she dies as she scatters her wisdom all over Liyue, to her people, to her country and to her loved ones.

This time, she dies without regrets.

This time, she dies because Celestia told her it was time.

There was no forewarning, but it looked like she knew. 

She spent the last of her time with Morax and Tempus before she fades and flutters away like dust.

Again, Morax receives a stone dumbbell, challenging him to unlock.

But this time, there was one thing that changed.

"Morax, I hope you can befriend Tempus. He's the oldest of all gods, the one who has drifted the longest among all. Yet, he is perhaps the one that is the loneliest and wisest, or perhaps that is why he acts the way he acts." She says after she gives him her dumbbell.

"If I have one regret, it would be that I have never gained his trust."

"Guizhong, that's impossible-"

"Morax, he has never shown us more than courtesy and kindness. Maybe I am greedy, but I want to become a friend to all." She smiles.

"That is why, I hope you can be his friend in place of I."

"Of course. By your gift, I pledge to fulfill your will." Morax holds her hand as she disintegrates.

"Thank you Morax. I hope only happiness and prosperity follow you."

Like dust, they slip through his fingers and disappear.

Like all of his comrades, friends, and loved ones.

And Tempus could only watch from the distance like a powerless God he is. 

"The loneliest and wisest huh..." 

He could only laugh bitterly.

"Tempus."

"Morax." The god replies with a low hum, "What brings you here?"

"I want to give you my gratitude."

"No need." Tempus does not turn to greet him, but simply continues to write. Morax watches him write with a mysterious utensil, a pen.

Tempus truly is worthy of being called a genius amongst geniuses.

A god who built a country, and protected his realm despite the Archon War, and survived. No wonder he is heavily respected and worshiped by his people.

"Teach me."

The god stops.

"What are you talking about?"

"Teach me how to build Liyue."

"It's already built."

"How to govern as a God." Without Guizhong and his friends, Morax is incapable of running a country. His hands were made to fight and seal monsters, not to care for people. 

"You do not need to govern a country. Barbatos-"

"He's a fool." Morax heard a muffled laugh.

"But his country is still functioning quite well isn't it?" Tempus turns around, his azure eyes meets his golden ones.

"Tempus."

"What will I get in return? God of Contracts?" Tempus smiles before he stands.

"What do you need?"

"Trade." Morax blinks.

"Free trade amongst civilians. No taxes or barriers." Morax doesn't quite understand his terms, but he's willing to learn.

"I accept."

"You don't even know what I said didn't you?" Tempus crosses his arms and shook his head.

"I believe you are a fair person and one who will teach me what I need to know.”

“Just like old times isn’t it?”

This was Morax's first contract, and certainly won't be the last. 

Time passes quickly, and soon, Morax and Barbatos become the two of the original seven left. 

Despite this, Tempus does his job as both a Creator and babysitter job well. 

He ensures Gods fulfill their duty and if they need help, they can seek him out. If Tempus ever saw something worth his time (which is like...every time), he too would interfere, gaining the Archons' favour. 

He realized the power of the butterfly effect. From saving Gods such as Guizhong and Makoto, even with what little power he had during the Archon War to extend their life, it played an immense part in changing the Archons themselves.

Again, too much work, and too little time. 

Even if he slows down time, he could never get enough sleep. 

It's also blatantly obviously the Archons are treating him too well, but he originally thought it made sense with all the effort he put in to change the plot. 

But their affectionate gestures increased after they found of he was the Creator.

Tempus really shouldn't have told Morax this a while back and allowed him to tell the other Archons. Luckily, he prevented them from telling anyone else under the pretense that it was his order. 

Even so, Kai finally feels a little more at ease. He could finally get some sleep. 

Could he really complain about the children (Archons) when they gave him the most premium material to sleep on? 

Or hear a private concert from a certain bard?

Or try out the best food in the jungles?

Or let him sleep under the giant cherry blossoms whenever he wants?

Or take him out to a hot springs in Liyue?

"Kai. How are you feeling?" Zhongli asks from behind him, who is washing his long, long hair. 

"Good...Thanks...Zhongli."

Kai can finally relax a bit and it’s well deserved. Taking care of kids is hard. Much less 7 at once.

At least they’re paying him back with interest.

Zhongli couldn't help but smile proudly when the sleepless God fell asleep in his domain.

He'd be sure to brag about this at their next Archon meeting. 

Not knowing it would be their last.