#th. <- which i find pretty boring

[leclsrc]

has yet to pass ✴︎ cs55

centre image by tony belobrajdic

genre: exes to lovers, slow burn, fluff, humor, slight angst, yearning, some sexual tension

word count: 12.5k

Four years after an angry breakup, the universe is bored enough to nominate Carlos Sainz for GQ Sports’ Man of the Year and assign you to be the writer of his profile.

notes... internet translated spanish lol

auds here... requested, this fic is long! i hope you all like it apologies for the inactivity </3 exes to lovers we have a very love/hate relationship but this was a pleasure to write

You’re half sure your head is about to pop out from how annoyed you are.

At the office, mornings move slowly in the very corporate-desk-job kind of way, but today is notably slower. Your boss had called you in an hour earlier to discuss important matters, and this is your third hour waiting already. Either your boss is a dumbass, or you got the wrong email, which both essentially mean the same thing anyway.

The time on your Panthère tells you you’re curving into the three-and-a-half hour territory, and right as you’re about to get up to get a glass of water, the large wooden door swings open and your name is called through the crack in it. Suddenly the irritation dissipates into nerves, and because Jonathan didn’t specify anything in the email, you realize you could be wading into anything right now. Termination. Promotion. A brick to the head.

“Morning,” you offer once the door’s been shut behind you. 

“Sorry for the wait,” he says politely. “We’ve been in discussions with GQ Sports all day. All night last night, too. It’s all proper boring.”

You nod, remaining fairly quiet and waiting for him to break the news to you. He clears his throat, places his hands on his hips and exhales.

“Right, so this is all related to GQ, actually. They’re doing a Men of Sports segment and they asked us to assign one of our writers to an athlete. You’re our best right now, really—your article turnout last year was absolutely stellar. So, there’s, ah… there’s tennis, yeah, there’s footie, obviously, and—under usual circumstances, you’d get to choose one of either. But we actually really wanted to cover racing this year.”

The cloud above your head carrying the dreams of interviewing Leo Messi or Roger Federer pops dismally.

“Racing.” You repeat curtly.

“It’s gotten proper viral this year!” He smiles, gestures to nothing to prove his point. “Every teenage girl’s got a crush or other on a driver. Anyway, we set you up with the racing category, and the segment comes out in around six months.”

“I’ve got a tiny bit of a qualm about th—”

“So it’s decided. GQ’s going to pick out the driver for you, and you’ll be introduced at a gala next week.”

“Wait—” you laugh uncomfortably. “I’m thankful for the opportunity, and wow, thank you for choosing me, really, but do I not get to pick my own driver?” You clear your throat. “I mean, I’m spinning the story.”

“I know,” he sighs. “But this deal moved pretty quick, so a majority of the leverage goes to them. Don’t worry, though—a lot of the drivers will have great stories, I’m sure. You’ve got Lewis, you’ve got the Verstappen guy, you’ve got the Rosberg fellow…”

“Rosberg retired in 2016.”

“Oh, fuck, seriously? Well. Hit me with a brick then.”

—

The gala is a fundraiser to celebrate the season kicking off, you realize when you step outside the car and read the navy blue banner across the entrance to the carpet. It’s all fancy fonts and table placements, but One look at the watches and earrings in this place will tell you there’s more than enough funds already. You digress, anyway, walking inside to find the only one person you’re familiar with in the world of racing.

“Lewis,” you mutter when you locate him, voice dry with dread (and lack of alcohol), “kill me now.”

“On the off chance you’re serious—I’m actually willing to do so.” You slap his arm and he scowls.

“I’m supposed to meet the driver I’m writing about tonight, but the GQ guy hasn’t texted me. Christ, I hope it’s you. At least I have years’ worth of blackmail on you to really sell the profile.”

He only laughs, guiding the both of you to a champagne tower and offering you one. You down it in seconds, suffocated by nerves and the curiosity blooming inside you. “You don’t think it’s…?”

“I think they keep track of those things,” he replies, but his voice is only half-sure. “Conflict of interest and that. But Jonathan did say it was a quick deal?” You nod. “So it’s not impossible, I suppose.”

Big help, you chirp sarcastically, eyes perusing the large room. There are tables populated by celebrities, by politicians, and of course, by drivers. You keep scanning, squinting to chisel your search further, but it’s cut off by a tap of two fingers on your shoulder. 

“Hi. I’m Nick, the GQ rep, and I believe you and I have a meeting,” says the man behind you with an excited smile. “Why don’t we…?”

He gestures to the expanse of the room and you nod, falling into step beside him. He introduces the article, the concept of shadowing the athlete to achieve a more immersive piece of work as a result, something novel and innovative.

He’s right in the middle of talking about Jonathan when he stops at one of the cocktail tables and stations the two of you there. “Okay. You’re one of the biggest names in sports journalism right now, so it means a lot for you to want to represent racing. Especially because both Neymar Jr. and Nadal expressed bids to get you to write their segments!”

“They wh—”

“Right, here we are. Meet your shadow—or, subject—for the next six-ish months.” He places two hands atop your shoulders and wheels you around, so your eyes meet those of, “…Carlos Sainz Jr.!”

Yeah. This is fucking rich. 

Nick is talking but none of it falls right on your ears. Everywhere in your mind, alarm bells ring at full volume, alerting you to the danger present, almost. You plaster on a fake smile to acknowledge his presence, but his outstretched hand goes unnoticed. Clearly picking up on the tension, Nick gives a sheepish giggle and ducks out of the exchange, leaving the two of you woefully alone.

“Carlos,” you say politely. “What a nice surprise.”

There is a limited amount of phrases that are considered acceptable to say to an estranged ex of four years. There’s oh, what a surprise!, didn’t expect to see you here, you look well. It’s limited because nobody ever thinks to run into their estranged ex of four years, and even then, any sane person would do well to avoid interaction at all costs. So you’re really the luckiest son of a bitch in the world to be situated with a stuffy public interaction, under the guise of professionalism, with your ex-boyfriend.

Your history is heavy in the air. The last time you saw each other, things had been a lot different, but now you’re two professionals. Really. You really are professional.

“I refuse to be within ten metres of the guy,” you say, on your third martini. Lewis faces you with poorly hidden concern, and beside him, roped into your lovelorn matters, so does Sebastian Vettel. “Ten metres. Actually, no. Make it twenty. How can I be arsed to write an all-over-him feature about a guy I absolutely hate and haven’t seen in four years?! I had it all sussed—get assigned to Lewis, write the best feature, then restore his eighth world title.”

“—She’s joking,” coughs Lewis.

“Oh, but now? Now, it’s get assigned to my ex, write like shit, never get recognized for a good piece, and die hungry and alone on the streets of London. You know, I should just call Jonathan and tell him I don’t want this. I’d rather go back to writing normal articles.” You pry your clutch open but a hand stops you before you can.

“Don’t.” Sebastian’s voice is gentle, but firm. “This is a test of character, don’t you think? More than that—it’s a test of how good you are as a writer.”

“True,” interjects Lewis, chewing on a quiche. “If you can write a stellar profile about an ex, I mean—you’re just proper talented. But it’s also about how strong you are now, morally. Emotionally.”

“I’m perfectly fine emotions-wise, thanks,” you retort. Both men shrug, backing off, and you feel like you should be smug about it—but your mind is stuck on the topic even as the night passes.

You end up deciding when you’re kicking your heels off in your flat a few hours later, giving Jonathan a ring despite the late hour. It takes a while for the man to pick up, but he does eventually, with an excited tone colouring his voice—“How’s my star writer? Sainz, huh? Real eye candy.”

“About that…” you start, walking over to your bookshelf and chewing your lip, trying to think of the right way to decline the offer. Your eyes land on one of the several awards you’ve garnered in your profession—in fact, the very first one. Most Promising Journalist, it reads, embedded into the front’s frosty surface. 

Four years ago. And you’ve proven it since, if the crowd of glass around it is anything to go by. Why let a petty ex destroy what could potentially be one of your biggest gigs yet? Your segue outside of sports journalism?

“Earth to—yeah, hello? About what?” Jonathan’s voice breaks you out of your thought train.

“… I just, uh,” you say, nodding, “I wanted to say I’m really excited.”

— 

Carlos Sainz Jr., 27, is on the rise as one of Formula One’s most talented drivers… (add more info��) His smooth driving style and charm has led him to become one of the most popular figures in the sport, both on and off the paddock. He is also a huge, absolutely irritating, cannot for the life of him be humble!!!, SON OF A BITCH, PRICK, ASSHOLE—AND THE BIGGEST WANKER ON PLANET EAR

“The team will be here in just a minute,” says the lady who’d ushered you into this meeting room in Maranello. You half-shut your laptop in fear she’ll catch sight of your brief Word document meltdown, but she doesn’t seem to notice, setting a glass of water beside you and you stare idly at it while waiting for the rest of the room to enter. You’re expecting Nick, Carlos, Mattia—the boss—and Charles, his teammate. Jonathan’s already beside you playing Candy Crush on his phone, as per boomer law.

This meeting is pointless. You’ve already exchanged the bare minimum pleasantries with Carlos, anyway, and you cannot for the life of you decipher why there needs to be a whole new corporate clash just for this. But here you are anyway, awaiting your ex-boyfriend’s arrival into the room and back into your sweet life.

He enters with everybody else, his hair half-damp and his eyes meeting yours almost immediately. You clear your throat and turn away, standing to shake hands with Mattia. He’s pleasant about it, expressing excitement for the final output and commending your earlier work as a writer. You offer the polite small talk back, discussing plans for the article and the release date.

“Over at GQ Sports, we’re really trying to make this concept as immersive as possible. That requires the writer to shadow the athlete at almost all times, maybe taking a couple days off if needed. That might mean she gets a paddock pass, and things like that.”

“That’s no problem,” Mattia says. “Anything for the article.”

You end up being introduced to Charles, too—Charles Leclerc, who wears a contagious smile and won’t stop letting his eyes frolic in between you and Carlos, like he can sense the history. You suspect Carlos brought him up to speed, anyway, but it’s still a bit amusing. While the meeting carries on, Charles chips in with a joke. “Hey, if you find this guy irritating, you and I are going to get along.”

You laugh a bit, but remain mostly quiet for the sake of being professional. You miss the way Carlos’ eyes linger on you a second too long, focusing on the tail-end of the meeting so you can, for lack of better word, get the fuck out of here.

Of course, though, you’re stopped in the middle of the parking lot by Carlos himself, whose apologetic face is the first thing you see when you turn around with a huff. You’d already known it was him—he was calling your name loudly as he jogged over to you—but it’s still a sour surprise.

“What?”

“Let’s”—he pauses to take a breath—“talk. Listen, I know it must be an imposition for you to write about this, about me. Let me make it clear that I’m 100% okay if you choose to switch athletes. And if you needed any background information, I’ll be willing to give you that.”

“I don’t care what you’re okay with,” you say blankly. “And I’ve got Google.”

“Right.” He stares. “Um. Okay, well, let’s—can we agree, then? To be civil, for the period of time this article will be written?”

You consider the truce. As much as you’d like to be snarky with him and make your disdain all the more clear, you’re also not interested in making a scene or causing any type of fuss around his—and your—colleagues. The glass awards on your shelf flash through your mind, and you inhale softly. “Okay.”

He smiles. This seems a bit more difficult than you thought, for reasons you didn’t even consider.

“Forget anything ever happened,” he says when your hands meet. Something jolts through you.

Yeah, you’re fucked.

—

Your introduction to the actual sports part of the profile goes well, with a flurry of chaos in Bahrain.

Despite Jonathan’s texted reminder from Friday morning (Stick to Sainz the whole time), you find yourself staying in your comfort zone, ergo following Lewis around nearly the entire weekend. Granted, you are itnroduced to a few more drivers—Mick, Esteban, Alex—but also Lando, one of Carlos’ closest friends on the paddock, who makes dirty jokes from the get go.

Still, even Lewis has to remind you you have another driver to actually cover, so you reluctantly detach from him on the race day and begin your search for—

“Carlos,” you utter, breathless from exhaustion when you finally locate him inside his room at the motorhome, which you swear you checked twenty minutes ago. Either he’s avoiding you or he’s truly impossible to find. He adjusts his suit and looks at you with an unreadable expression.

“Yes?”

“I need a couple of words from you.” You smile politely, taking a seat on the couch armrest. “Like, pre-race nerves, jitters, routine. Anything?”

“I have a playlist,” he says, humming. “I like to call family, have a talk with the engineers.” He says it like en-yi-neers, but you already anticipated it. You’ve known en-yi-neers for years. You know how he talks, pronounces everything. “And I say a prayer, trust the car.”

“Trust the car?” You type the last few words onto your laptop, which you’d been toting around all day. It balances on your lap. “Any follow-ups to that, considering there’s been some chatter around the car this year and its supposed faultiness?”

“I just do what I do best,” he replies, steadfast. “The rest is a gamble I’m willing to take.”

“Perfect.” You finish. “That was a great line. Thanks so much, really.” It’s your reporter voice, the one you use for just about everyone else on the paddock. He nods in response, and the room ebbs into silence again. It’s awkward, when you excuse yourself and exit, already planning exactly how you’re going to tell this to Lewis. Halfway out the door, you purse your lips, turn, and then:

“Good luck, by the way.” Your voice falls soft. 

He looks up, momentarily surprised. “Thank you.”

You nod a little, smiling as you shut the door.

Carlos ends up getting second place—you’re beside a zealous Ferrari engineer when it happens, walking along the pit lane. Compared to your stoic smile, their reaction looks like the pinnacle of human emotion. Your turmoil is all inward, a melting pot of emotion for the driver. Would it be weird, you think, to feel proud? To feel happy? When things have ended?

Much later, when you’re wrestling for comfort in the throng of cheering Ferrari engineers, you squint to find Carlos on the podium.

You’re aware there are photographers everywhere, with high-def cameras that rival your natural eyesight, even, but still you tug your phone out and snap a few shitty zoomed-in pictures of him in second place, smiling and sprayed with champagne. You think of the profile, of the words you’ll use to capture this moment, the season kickoff. But most of all you think of the way his eyes seem to search for something specific in the mass of people, or the way you wished for them to meet yours.

—

Sainz, a self-proclaimed music lover, loads a pre-race playlist that changes every few locations. He names some of his favorite artists and songs as sources of motivation.

You climb into the passenger seat of his Golf when you finally find him, after a half hour of asking around everywhere. First, it was “in the motorhome,” then it was “in a meeting,” then it was “hanging out with Charles”—none of which ended up being true, anyway. He doesn’t question your presence (he hasn’t much, lately), just lets his eyes wander over to you briefly before you begin asking questions.

“Favorite song?” You get straight to it, stressed over the article. Jonathan has been on your ass about missing a deadline and causing the third world war in the process, or something or other. You sigh when you settle into the seat.

“Not even a hello or a buenas noches,” he says as he pulls out of the parking lot to drive the both of you to your hotel. “What’s this for?”

“You already know,” you say, humming as you sift through notes. “Listen. You did an interview before with Toro Rosso, right? Where you said your favorite artists were Muse, Kings of Leon, and The Killers. Right?”

“What the—you are a serious stalker.” He laughs out loud, eyes still on the road ahead.

“It’s kind of my job, Carlos,” you say, smiling and gritting your teeth. “Just answer.”

“Sí, sí. Yeah, I like that genre. I like rock, I guess… rock, indie, 80’s. You’d be surprised how little of an effect music has on my pre-race routine, though, even if I have a playlist.”

“Tell me more,” you muse. Your laziness to retrieve your laptop results in you scribbling soundbites onto your notebook instead. 

“Music is an escape for me, you know? I like it a lot. So as long as something gets me going, I’m good with it. It doesn’t have to be by a favorite artist, or a famous one, or a Spanish one. Though I have been listening to Shakira a lot lately.” Obsessively listens to Shakira, you write. “It’s just release. Lately, I’ve been listening to the same few ones on loop.”

“Care to share?” Music = release. Same songs looped.

He presses something onto the centre console, and music flows throughout the car right after. “This.”

Baby I’m Yours by Arctic Monkeys, you write, and then, all at once, you slowly realize exactly what you’re writing. You stare at the scrawled-on words, the song bleeding into your ears and saturating your brain. You’ve always thought of this song with a weird feeling, one in between nostalgia and hurt, and now it’s on full blast. In Carlos’ Golf, no less, which happened to be the venue for many of your listening parties back then.

Back then—when nobody knew much of this song and it hadn’t yet become an indie anthem. It was just another cover by your favorite band in 2015. It became your song, the song for kitchen dances, the song for long car rides, the song for the red lights, the song for the morning routine.

But now it’s just a song.

“Carlos,” you say. It’s supposed to sound strict, firm, even a little angry. But you’re so affected, it leaves you quietly instead, weakly almost. “Come on.”

“Do you remember when you first showed me this song?” He responds instead, the volume still loud. You allow yourself to smile a little, leaning your head back and watching the cityscape of Bahrain whir past. In a foreign city, you think, you feel more at home than ever.

“Yeah,” you profess. “On my iPhone—what was it then? iPhone 5, or something.” You both laugh a little. The dam has broken, it seems, and topics of your past relationship seem to now be open to discussion. But it doesn’t feel alien, or weird, or uncomfortable. Carlos laughs, makes fun of your old lockscreen, and all is well.

A lot of memories have unwittingly attached themselves to this song. It’s the kind of song where, even in the opening notes, you’re already stunned with the myriad of them. There are the obvious ones: first finding the song, first dancing to it. But it trickles down into the smaller, more niche ones.

The time you got a busker in London to perform it for you both, and danced like idiots at ten-thirty in the evening, while some onlooking geriatric couple watched with mild entertainment. The time you got him a vinyl record of this EP, and left it in the cab before you were supposed to give it to him, leading to you crying on his sofa while he cuddled you and fed reassurance into your ear. The time he attempted to learn the chords to it and broke the string of your decorative guitar.

Like always, Carlos drives one-handed. He’s usually responsible, but if he’s cruising, or driving at a relatively slow pace, he likes to lean back and use his left. His right lays, unmanned, on the centre console of the Golf. You don’t notice it’s there until you finish writing a sample line on your notebook and you lower your left hand absentmindedly, brushing a finger against his in the process.

Your instinct is to jerk away, but Carlos is calm, humming to the song and reading road signs. So you let it rest there, in part to show yourself you’re capable of relaxing, but—and it feels like a heavy thing to admit—also because you like the feeling.

So your hands are there, just shy of each other, barely touching. His pointer finger twitches, almost like he’s trying to hold it back from inviting yours to wrap around it. You let yours brush over them a little bit, pulling away. Then he coughs, and lifts his hand to make a right turn, so you resume writing, eyes downcast. 

—

You’d spent the Saudi weekend less with Lewis (in a bid to follow his advice) and socialized a bit more with Lando and Charles, who both proved to be pleasant company. They played table tennis with you and even shared a good chunk of grid gossip.

“Pierre and Yuki have soooo done it,” whispers Charles, scandalized, sipping a G&T from a decorative polka dot straw.

“Shut up!” You clap a hand over your mouth. “I mean, I had my suspicions. But really? They’ve shagged?”

“Oh.” He pauses dumbly, scratching his head. “I meant they’ve done marijuana.”

“Damn it, Charles,” bemoans Lando. “You’re a sodding buzzkill. We’ve all done weed, this is not news. The gay sex would’ve been.”

The afternoon progresses into night, and you seem to be on a roll with the sports component—Carlos gets to P3 in Saudi Arabia. You travel to his motorhome room after the debrief, where you hope he’ll be, and find him packing shit up inside.

“Good work out there,” you say, and when he looks up he finds himself meeting your eyes in the mirror. He fumbles with the zip of his suit and you walk a little closer.

He huffs out a polite thanks, tugging on the zipper harder. The cloth’s eaten it, a problem that’s been plaguing his race suits as of late—a problem, according to his engineer, easily solvable if he’d just be more patient with tugging it downward to loosen. A problem you’re familiar with as well, from his Toro Rosso days of ranting to you about zippers and sewing.

You lean against the wall and maintain safe distance. “I’m going to ask you about the race later.”

“Alright. What specifically?” He begins the mental Spanish-English translation in advance. 

“Whatever you can give,” you reply, nonchalant. “Maybe more on the feeling while racing. The different perspectives of P3? Sort of like—yeah, you’re on the podium, but it’s not P1.”

“Thanks for the reminder,” he laughs a little, a bit embarrassed he hasn’t fully undone the zipper yet. “Um, sure. I’ll meet you outside afterward.”

“Thanks. And—” You stop yourself in your tracks, still facing him in the mirror. His eyes find yours again, eyebrows raised from the unfinished sentence. “—Be patient with the zip.”

He chuckles, memories surfacing like bubbling lava. “Right. Bueno.” He turns and throws his hands up, looks like he’s surrendering almost. “Help me out?”

You’re incredulous—it’s a highly compromising position.

But he’s not really smiling, and he seems to be seriously asking you to please help zip him up, so you nod. Nod once then twice, walking slowly over to him and placing two fingers on the zipper. You don’t notice how shaky your grip is until you see the way your hand trembles.

Slowly, you tug. Upward, then downward, then upward again, to loosen the stubborn thing. Your eyes move until they meet his, and you realize how close together you are. From here you can see the faint pink indents on his face from the balaclava, and you wonder almost how it’d feel to stroke over it with your thumb. It twitches on the zip and you remember to yank it again.

“Just give me a second,” you say, but you’re not even paying attention to the zipper.

Just him. Just the proximity. The thoughts of what if—what if you leaned closer, right now? Closed the gap, shut your eyes, let your finger trace over the shape left behind by his balaclava, zip forgotten?

“Take your time.” His voice is deep, gentle. 

His eyes pierce yours, the tension growing in between you until you can barely breathe.

You pull and finally, it gives, unzipping the whole way. You blink, breaking eye contact and stepping backwards so fast you almost trip. “I’ll be outside.” The door is shut, the noise damning behind you as you finish an entire cup of water in what you genuinely think to be record time. 

—

“Fine. Fifty euros.”

“Fifty?! Cheap trick. Make it two hundred.” 

“If you’re in the hundred territory, might as well make it five hundred. Turn this into a serious thing.” 

“Deal.” The Brit and the Monegasque clap their hands together in a firm handshake. “Let’s talk terms.”

Charles recites his end of the bet, as clearly as he did when this was first wagered just ten minutes ago. “She and Carlos will start dating before the article is even published.”

“They’re exes, innit?” Lando laughs. “You’re wrong, Charl-ito. They will never date, ever again. Exes don’t date.”

“Unless they’re soulmates,” he reasons.

“Psh, what do you know about soulmates?” The younger raises a condescending brow. “You dated a girl and then her best friend.”

“Back off,” insists Charles petulantly, watching Lando messily write down the evidence of their wager on a small slip of paper. For proof, he’d said, before slipping it into the back of his opaque phone case. He waves it around. “We shall see.”

“You will definitely be paying me up,” Charles says proudly. “Just you wait.”

—

“Care to listen to me?” You hoist yourself onto the stool of this hotel bar, ordering yourself a martini.

“Always,” says Lewis, immediately facing you. He’s always been one of the kindest, most genuine people in your life. He’s known you forever, and he’s the only person here who really knows the extent of your history with Carlos, all the layers, all the fights, all of it.

You sigh and lean against the backrest, deflated. “Carlos and I… I don’t know if this is going to work.”

“The article?”

“Being with him.” You pause to reword it. “Around him.”

“I see. Hasn’t it been, what—four years now, though?”

“Yeah, but…” But why does it feel like you both want those four years gone? The car ride with the song, the eye contact, zip situation after Saudi. You lick over your lips and sit a little straighter.

“Lew, it’s just—and you should know this—when you break up with someone, you’re forced to unlearn all the things you knew about them.” You sigh. “All the… just all of it. The habits, the quirks, the favorite words, the way they like their toast and eggs. And if you can’t, then fine, it’s still okay, because why would you ever need it again? But I haven’t forgotten anything, and now he’s back in my life.”

Lewis stares, with eyes that convey solemnity and a little sadness. He seems to understand, watching you intently, the way your eyes are glassy with unshed tears.

“So now I see him, and it feels like he’s like”—you inhale—“this sounds… bad, but like… I’m… like he’s a lover, kind of. In disguise, a little bit. I don’t know. Like, I have to pretend I know nothing about him, like every little fun fact is a new thing for the profile… but I know everything.” And what a heavy burden it is.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. 

“No, don’t be. I’m pretty sure this is all one-sided.” You take a long sip. “That’s the price to pay for ending on bad terms, I suppose.”

“Just think,” he muses out loud. “When this is all over and you’re accepting your Pulitzer, you won’t even be thinking of him one bit.”

“Right,” you say. Carlos, Carlos, Carlos. He’s the only thing on your mind. “Right.”

You find a working title for the article later. Carlos Sainz, it reads on your Word document. On racing, gracious defeat, and life’s driving forces.

—

Like every other sport, Formula One drivers have their share of bad competition days. Sainz recalls a time his car failed and caused him to DNF—racing vernacular for “Did Not Finish,” a damning phrase for any driver on the grid.

A double kill vibrates through Carlos.

It’s a consecutive hit that’s both professional and personal, and greatly affects the momentum of the profile you’re busy writing. In Australia he’d been reserved, eyes stormy, walking alone but not angry. He’d congratulated Charles and everything, even offered a few words for the article. The last you saw of him was with a beer, brows knitted together.

Tonight you’re in Imola. He’d been okay after the race, the usual silence that comes with a bad result.

No hard feelings, he’d said. This is the business. Hugged Danny, excused himself; nobody said anything. It’s a normal response to a shit day. You spend the post-race buzz with Lewis and Sebastian this time, but you manage to congratulate Lando on the podium finish when you catch sight of him.

“Maaate!” He cries gleefully when he sees you. “Where’s the muppet?”

“Mourning,” you drone. “Reasonably so, I guess.”

“Tough crowd,” he says, kissing his teeth. “But, yeah. Hey—shots on me!”

“Tempting offer.” You eye the bunch of tequila on the table. “But I think I’ll retire early. I need to send a draft pretty early tonight.”

“All good. Have fun being a loser,” he says, watching you leave.  

The hotel, it turns out, is not nearly as fun as the party. Which is common sense.

You spend time writing and rewriting a few paragraphs of the article, stuck on the title of it and honestly wishing you were with Cuervo and vodka right now. You suppose you don’t need one just yet—they usually come to you late, anyways. Jonathan sends you three follow-up emails regarding a draft, so you send him the latest version and read over the file, reciting favorite lines under your breath.

In the middle of reading on the Bahrain P2 and a little segment on Sainz’s favorite Ferrari moments, somebody knocks on your door.

It’s a surprise—you don’t spend much time with people on the paddock, and only few of them know your room number, which leads you to narrow down the person on the other side to a select group. There’s Lewis, most likely of them all. Charles, who you’d grown much closer to as of late. Level with him is Lando. Then maybe, just maybe, Sebastian, to offer late night advice.

It could’ve been any of them, but it’s not. It’s somebody else.

“I’m sorry.” His voice threatens to break. “I didn’t know who else I could talk to.”

“Carlos?” You blink. 

You usher him in after, and you hope his mind is anxious enough that it doesn’t pay much attention to your hideous pajama situation (old hoodie, souvenir L.A. pajama pants). You end up on your balcony, both of you facing the frigid nighttime air. It freezes your cheeks, casts your hair backwards. Your eyes slide to his stoic figure, the way even his hair is blown back by the wind.

He’s quiet, but more relaxed, less stiff. “Sorry, again.”

“S’okay.”

You duck back inside and return with two cigarettes and a lighter. “Wanna?”

“Awful habit.” But he accepts it anyway, sticking it in between his lips. It bobs as he speaks, still unlit. “I need this, though.”

“I don’t do it regularly,” you defend, pressing the flame to the cig. He exhales. “Some situations call for them.”

“This definitely does. Bit of a slap to the face, you know?” You nod. “I’m sorry.” The apology carries more weight than it should, and you know why. 

Like it’s the most difficult thing in the world, you breathe a few times before you respond in a hushed tone. With your words comes a huff of smoke. “Don’t beat yourself up over it. You gave it your all, took a risk, it went to shit. But you gave it your all is what matters in the end. You put heart into it, which is something not everyone does in sports these days.”

“I feel… complimented.” You both laugh at the lack of good phrasing, so he rewords it. “I meant, I feel, how you say? Touched. It means a lot to be praised by you.”

“Does it?” Smoke again, another whiff of it.

“They only ever want to praise the podium finish, the P1, the title holder.” He lets the words fizzle. “But here you are praising a driver who finished like shit twice in a row. More people should be like you, paying thanks to the underdogs.”

It’s not the underdogs, you think. It’s just because of you. 

“More like the shit drivers,” you say instead, in a low rumbling voice. He laughs, calls you stupid in Spanish, and it’s a dead issue.

Later, before he leaves, when the room’s much darker and less bathed in moonlight, you whisper goodbye to him through a small crack in the door. He smiles a bit, and you catch it even with the lack of lighting.

“Thank you.” He says. He means it. You catch his perfume when the door swings closed. It smells like wood.

—

Sainz has off-grid hobbies, one of the most notable of which is cooking. He claims to have a good hold over the kitchen, and cooks several of his favorite dishes on the rare weekend off. Blah blaaahhhh, cooks well. Usually wears funky apron. WRITE THIS PROFILE ALREADY STOP EATING PASTA YOU DIPSHIT

Lando had invited you all to an Airbnb owned by a friend in Umbria, a two-ish hour drive from Imola.

With two free days, you’d followed a small group of drivers—Carlos included—to soak in the rest of Tuscany. Charles and Lando, however, left as soon as you arrived, to check out the last few hours of the farmer’s market. Alex had met Lily at the Eurostar station and they’d gone biking together.

This effectively left you and Carlos alone, which was not an unusual occurrence, but still proved to be a bit tense. With the kitchen free and the fridge stocked, Carlos suggested he cook for you both. Despite your best efforts, you ended up at the island writing and taste testing sauce, chicken, anything he slid over to you on a saucer with a tiny fork beside it.

“You’re going to give me cholesterol problems,” you quip. “This pasta is too good.”

“Cacio e pepe.” He twirls some onto a fork, straight off the pan, and shoves it into his mouth, a low mmmm leaving him once he gets to chewing. You laugh, a stifled sound through the noodles in your mouth at the exaggerated show of delicious food.

“Any favourite food you think is notable enough for the profile?” You type again, backspacing your harsh reminder. Makes a mean cacio e pepe (look up translation later). “Like, food you cook yourself, or even other recipes.”

“This,” he says, pointing to the pan. “This is fuel.”

“Amen.” Loves cacio e pepe.

“And it’s good with chicken.” He points to the oven, where he’s been baking chicken for a bit now. The kitchen smells of it, of the rosemary and oregano and pepper. “Oh, and put that I cook with music on. Let me connect my phone.”

Cooks w/ music. “Why do you need to mention that?”

“Ladies love a chef,” he says simply, letting a familiar song thrum into the woody kitchen. “And I love ladies.”

“Okay, slag.”

“Fuck off!” He begins shimmying all across the kitchen island, cranking open the oven mid-dance to check on the chicken, then continuing to clean the counter. Still he dances, and not very well, either—he always claimed singing was a stronger suit of his, so you allow the fool to be a fool.

Back when you two were still together, Carlos already had a preference for 70’s disco in the kitchen, saying it brought out the dancer in him. Nothing seems to have changed in that department, and you smile with mild embarrassment and amusement watching him dance across the kitchen, using the kitchen towel as a prop and swinging it around.

Loves dancing to The Communards while baking rosemary chicken. “Let me taste the chicken, by the way,” you ask when you finish typing, hopping off the stool and walking to the oven. He continues dancing, hips cocking poorly from side to side to the old song. He retrieves a fork and cuts a piece of chicken, reviewing its doneness briefly before turning with a piece of it stabbed into the utensil.

“Open,” he says. “It’s hot.”

It’s too natural, the way he slowly feeds you the piece. You don’t even realize it until you’re chewing, and by then he’s back to dancing to the song that’s now reaching its end. “It, uh,” you stutter, a bit nervous, “it’s really good.”

“Of course, I cooked it,” he says smugly. You grab a lime from the fruit bowl and throw it, hitting him in the back of the head in retaliation. He turns slowly, still dancing, lips stretched into a challenging smile.

Lando and Charles walk in ten minutes later to Carlos and you, yelping and chasing each other around the wide counter, chicken left atop it and forgotten in favor of the tag game. Charles, toting bags of fruit, faces Lando with a victorious expression. Pay up, he mouths, cocky.

—

It’s much too hot in Miami, but you appreciate the heavy beach culture and the even heavier nightlife.

You work on the profile until your fingers hurt from typing, sending Jonathan another draft for approval. Charles joins you on a cocktail taste test at the open bar until your tongue tastes like gin and your head is a bit spinny. Both Ferrari drivers end up having a shitload of pictures of you sleeping on the leather couch, enough that Lewis ends up getting ahold of them, too.

It’s a 2-3, in the end, with P1 going to Max. The latter throws a party at some place along the beach strip, invites you in one of the only conversations you’ve ever shared with the guy so far. He seems a bit unfriendly, but when you walk into the exclusive club later that night, you find him doing a handstand in front of a beer keg, so that’s that.

FUCK YEAH! Max hollers, following it with a howl so happy it reverbrates in your ears. It’s crowded everywhere, and you’re pretty sure Lewis isn’t here, so you spend a few minutes roaming around, getting a good grip on the vibe of the place.

It’s Carlos who finds you in the middle of the dance floor, nursing yet another drink to aid your lack of social skills. His voice is rough in your ear and it smells like a Jägerbomb, a low laugh escaping it right after. “All alone?”

“Unfortunately,” you tease, turning to face him. “Man, I thought guys were confident in Florida.”

“Cuidado,” he warns, smiling. “This dress is pretty difficult to resist.” His tongue’s definitely been loosened by shots, his eyes half-lidded and looking you up and down. You laugh, raising one eyebrow at the sudden flirty tone, but welcoming it nonetheless, depositing your now empty glass on whatever cocktail table is nearest. Who said you were sober? 

“Nobody’s inviting me, so why don’t you and I dance instead?”

He licks over his lips—he never seems to keep his tongue in his mouth—and winks, nodding.

And here in Miami, through the strobing purple lights of this ridiculously expensive club, you wrap your arms around his neck and dance to whatever Calvin Harris song is blaring through the bass.

His hands are all over you, loosening your stiff stature; they wring into the fabric of your obejctively too-short dress, raking it up a bit. You lean back and he leans forward, following you, drawn into you, your noses pressed together and your eyes meeting. Your breath heightens, holds, your fingers moving to his long hair and holding him close to you.

His hand moves over your ass, pulling you in. He smiles, pokes his tongue into his cheek, and you giggle, almost causing your lips to touch. Your mind is haywire from the alcohol, but you can’t really bring yourself to care. The warmth grows between you, closer and closer, the dynamic easy—

And then someone spills their drink on both your feet, causing you two to break apart and laugh off the tension instead. You’d almost fucking kissed. However you’re going to tell this to Lewis, you don’t even know.

And you’re not entirely sure, you think as you rinse whiskey and bile off the tip of your heel in the bathroom, how it sounds like to write Sainz and I almost made out in public on the GQ profile.

—

Nick emails you directly to ask if Carlos can do some test shoots in Miami for the profile cover.

You convince him to agree, even if he thinks he’s no good in front of a camera, and you two show up to a mostly empty warehouse studio. There’s a white backdrop situated toward the back and a tiny-sized crew of people working.

“Hi. Is this for GQ?” You ask the photographer. “Test shots?”

“Oh, hi.” He stands and shakes your hand. “I’m Luke. Big fan of your work, by the way. So the concept today is just plain shirt, long hair, gorgeous face, white background. Good?”

“Bueno,” Carlos says behind you with a smile.

You sit on a chair a few metres behind Luke while he works, watching the shots pop up on his screen every time the shutter clicks. As it turns out, Carlos is a brilliant liar, because every single shot—even one where he was fixing a wrinkle in his tee—looks perfectly usable anyway. Sainz is a natural stunner, you jot down.

It’s a bit awkward to admit you can’t help but stare, but his face is undeniably handsome, especially when he’s in front of the camera. Thankfully for you, and heavily owed to Carlos’ natural skill for modeling, the ordeal’s over in less than thirty minutes, and you begin preparing your stuff to leave.

“Oh, crap. I forgot I had to do a test bridal shoot for R&B’s wedding anniversary in September.” Luke sighs, clicking through the photos rapidly.

“R&B. The… music genre?” You ask, confused and toting your bag on your shoulder.

“Silly! Ryan and Blake. As in, Reynolds and Lively? They plan their photoshoots way in advance, and they always need sample poses to choose from.”

“Oh, I get it.” You smile. “Well, we’re sorry for keeping you.”

“You”—he stops both you and Carlos, pacing in front—“you two wouldn’t… mind, would you?”

“Mind… mind what, now?” Your eyes flit toward Carlos’ and you both laugh nervously.

“Being my mannequins for the bridal shoot!”

Both of you balk, making up all kinds of excuses, but as fate would have it, Luke is very convincing and you’re against the backdrop after five minutes of persuasion. He directs you into different silly, quirky poses—a piggyback ride both ways, smiling goofily, the like. Carlos can’t stop laughing every time the shutter clicks, at how silly the two of you must look. 

Luke plays some music to get you both looser, and directs you into a few mocking dance poses. Then he directs you in a partners-in-crime pose, which you love the outcome of. Okay, last one, newlyweds, he says. Carlos, why don’t you get behind her and wrap your arms around her waist?

You clear your throat, letting him do so anyway, his hands big around your frame. “Careful,” you whisper when he’s right behind you. Luke raises an inquisitive brow behind the camera, watches your chemistry unfold through the viewfinder. Your breath hitches a little, but you swallow the nerves.

Look into his eyes, Luke says. So you do, meet them, force yourself not to look away for once and just stare. It’d been easy to do this, because you could just as easily break the stare, but now it’s different. Your eyes flutter, and his stay unblinking. 

It’s like that for a minute, just staring, like all the things you want to say can communicate themselves through eye contact alone. Another twenty seconds pass before Luke coughs, breaking the moment.

“I said we were good like a minute ago, guys,” he says knowingly, packing up with a smirk.

—

Lewis advises you to avert your pent up “romantic” tension to another boy. It’s difficult, but you challenge yourself to find somebody anyway, maybe outside of racing, to use your extra paddock pass (courtesy of Mattia) on. The guys in your DMs are all skeevy, or you’ve unfortunately ghosted them, so they’re all out.

After some searching, you end up using your extra pass in Spain, and for James, a Sky Sports sound editor for streamed football games. He’s British and a huge Tottenham fan who you met during drinks with a few reporters the month prior. Not bad, but not necessarily your type; at this point, though, you’ll take anybody above the bare minimum. And James is above it—a gentleman, kind, funny in the quaint English way. He could be taller, but you find him charming enough.

Noise flows through the paddock, chatter and cheering and interviews. “This is so cool,” says James animatedly. “I feel like a regular Schumacher.”

You give a phony, flirty laugh and enter the Ferrari hospitality, raking your hair backwards. “I’m going to get something real quick, okay? Stay put…” You point at a lone chair. “Over there.”

“Alright,” he says with a smile. “I can’t roam arou—?”

“No!” You say, a tad too quickly. “I mean, sorry. Don’t. Just. I’ll be back really quickly.” Before you can even retrieve your phone charger from Carlos’ room, the owner himself walks into the area, squirting water into his mouth and furrowing his eyebrows together when he sees you standing beside a stranger.

“Hi,” Carlos says, a bit bluntly. His eyes are darting everywhere but at you, lingering a bit too distastefully on James’ timid figure. “You are?”

“Her date,” James says with a nervous laugh, pointing a thumb towards you. “James. Huge fan of you. Of the team.”

“Sure.” He offers a tight-lipped smile, hand meeting James’ outstretched one to form a polite handshake.

It’s awkward, is what it is—awkward and stuffy and Carlos won’t look at you. He clenches his jaw a little, smiles, looks up and down. “You, uh… how long have you guys been…?” He waves a finger in between the both of you, almost fearfully, like the answer will cast him into ashes.

“Not—not long, really.” James laughs again to relieve the tension that seeps across the room. “A month?”

“A month?” Carlos repeats, arms crossed.

“We haven’t even, like, had se—”

“That’s—” you cut in, sharp and apologetic, “wow, that’s plenty. Thanks, James. Could you get us some drinks? I’ll have a beer.”

“It’s one-thirty,” he says.

“Yeah,” you respond. “A beer.”

He leaves you both alone sheepishly, and you turn to face Carlos’ intense expression.

His arms are crossed and he rakes a hand through his hair—but he doesn’t say anything. Why should he, anyway, he thinks to himself, staring at you. You wore your hair in a ponytail today, so he sees more of your pretty face. Oh and so does James. Pendejo.

“Are you okay?” You ask, even if he knows you know what’s up.

“Totally. Muy bien.” He shrugs, drinking water again. “Should I not be?”

“Never said that,” you say, raising both eyebrows. 

“Okay. Well enjoy the beer.”

So he’s jealous. Fine, sue him. He’s jealous of the British gangly guy you thought was good enough to invite onto the paddock. Barely even made a lasting impression. He gives a small, phony smile and walks back, meeting Charles along the way.

“You look like you’ve just seen a ghost, mate,” says the younger, slinging an arm over his shoulder. “Maybe the ghost of James?” He flicks the guy’s forehead, laughing.

P4, it ends up being. Not nearly good enough. But James is the first to say, “Congratulations, hombre!” in a God awful accent, so it becomes ten times worse, really.

—

“Alright guys, Carlos and I here today with some members of our team, and we’re going to play some fun trivia games.” Charles’ eyes read from the signboard behind the camera, his amusement wholly unscripted as he looks from you to Andrea and back to Carlos.

You honestly don’t know why you agreed to this. It might have been Lewis’ gentle persuasion or your boss’ overenthusiastic persistent voice, or the sleepiness that’s been wearing you down and boggling your mind lately, or—and it’s probably this—the fact that James ghosted you after Spain, because you “clearly have a thing with Sainz, and I don’t wanna be a homewrecker.” Whatever it is, you’re apparently a guest on the C² Challenge segment. 

Today is a trivia game against Charles and Andrea, and you’ve all been given a general guide to what the questions entail—math, music, general knowledge, and one scripted Ferrari question at the end. The structure is fairly basic; each team member gets to answer one at a time, both contributing to overall points—and no coaching allowed, for some odd reason.

Charles is a little shit, so he’s made an off-camera bet: loser should treat winner to a round of shots at the next afterparty/get-together. And—who are you kidding, really—Carlos is also a little shit, so he’s game for the bet and has fired you both up to win, spouting Ferrari trivia in your ear should it come up.

“I got it,” you say snappily when he hasn’t stopped pestering you for five straight minutes. “I got it.”

“Oh, did you got it?” He asks sassily. “Okay. When did Ferra—”

“We’re starting in three,” says the cameraman in Spanish, Italian, then finally English.

He holds three fingers up and you hug your tiny dry erase board closer to your torso, readying your camera smile. The video—and the game—start off well enough, a quickfire competition developing between the two teams that infects you and Andrea quickly. 

“Stay calm and collected,” Carlos proclaims, lips stretched into a proud smile. “Our team motto.” He elbows your side and you roll your eyes with a smile, teasing. 

“I think it’s, ah, always—always cheat, mate,” Charles protests, pointing an accusatory finger. 

“You are soooo—tch, I propose we kick Charles for poor sportsmanship,” retorts your teammate, laughing. The force of his laughter shakes the stool he sits on and you bite back a smile, remaining relatively quiet like you’ve been since the start of the video.

The remainder of the game passes with Carlos and Charles neck and neck, you and Andrea working overtime to make sure your teams don’t lose the bet. Eventually it boils down to one question, which Carlos is in charge of answering. Behind the camera, the producer raises a signboard and reads it out: We all know C². What is eight squared?

What a relief, you think. They’ve basically handed the win to you and Carlos on a silver platter. You wait, bumbling in your seat and raising an L sign toward Charles, who sticks his tongue out in response. Excitedly, you watch Carlos cheer for himself and finish writing, turning the board inch by inch until you all see the answer he has written on it.

Everyone stares. Then: “Team Charles wins!”

“Que?!” Carlos blinks, scandalized and a bit amused. He stares at the question then at his answer then, as if dreading the laser eyes, at you. Your eyes narrow, disappointed.

“Carlos. What is eight squared?”

“Eight squared. Eight, and you take another eight, and—it’s right here.” A tan finger points firmly at the number written messily, square in the middle of the whiteboard.

16

“Eres un tonto,” you quip, remembering bits of teasing you’d used on him years before. “Carlos, it’s 64. Eight times eight, not eight times two.”

“Ay, puta—” He shuts his eyes and laughs. “Lo siento! Sorry, sorry. Sorry! I cost us the win.”

Across you, Charles is coaxing a much more begrudged Andrea into a childish victory dance, pulling his arms up and down to convey the joy of winning. You sigh exasperatedly, but smile . For what it was worth, you had a great game anyway. The noise grows, and you watch the producers pack up, the cameraman parting from the camera for a moment to converse with one of them.

Left alone with you for a bit, Carlos lets his voice slip into a quieter one. “Sorry again. I forgot.”

“Forgot?” Your brows furrow, confused. “What?”

“That, you know”—he points at the lonely 16 on the whiteboard he holds—“it’s supposed to be 64.”

 “Oh.” You laugh, a light sound. “Whaaat?! It’s not that deep, Carlos. Seriously, don’t worry about it. It was all fun.”

“Well, I’m glad you had fun,” he says softly, smiling.

“Yeah, me too,” you say, unable to hide your smile. You stay like that for a bit, something blooming in the pit of your stomach you can’t—and refuse to—name.

—

You get two days off, and Charles had suggested you all go to Paris before you go to Cannes, where the Ferrari team is apparently expected for a meeting before Monaco. You’re the one who’d said yes first, even if Carlos seemed to hesitate; he had asked why, to which you responded you’d never been before.

You’d read about it, watched about it, and like every other human on Earth, seen pictures of it. But you’d never been to Paris; work placed you mostly in London, sometimes South America, other times Italy. But Paris was never a destination. So Carlos allowed the greenlight and you flew, with Lando, Pierre, and Esteban tagging along for shits and giggles.

“I’ve waited my whole life for my Eiffel Tower moment,” you say, not even trying to hide your wonder. Carlos got the best room for himself, but invited you in, for the view. He doesn’t tell you he went through hell and back to get precisely this room, so you could peek inside and see the tower.

“Well, you’re here now.” He wedges the hotel balcony door open and walks toward the railing. You follow suit, arms crossed over your torso, eyes stuck on the view. “How is it?”

“It’s as beautiful as I imagined it to be,” you confess honestly, eyes still stuck on the tower, the way it stands alone and glittering against the black of night. Cliché as it is, you feel like you’ve checked one huge box off your bucket list, staring at the landmark like it’s going to evaporate into thin air. 

Beside you, Carlos hums in agreement, but his gaze is stuck on something else. “I know.”

“Oh, do you?” You laugh. “Are you in the business of admiring beautiful things?” You tease, looking up at the stars.

Sensing his eyes on you, you slowly avert your gaze until your eyes meet. The light reflects in his eyes, and they meet yours blindingly, beautiful, luring you closer. The joking tone of your words is caught in your throat, desert dry, your lips parted to spout words you’ve now forgotten, lost track of.

Your silhouettes dance against the lights of the city below, two figures admiring the other. His eyes flicker down to your lips, linger there a second too long. You stumble closer, your foot touching his.  “…Paris.” The words struggle to leave but they do, quietly, an admission of guilt. “It’s always reminded me of you.”

 “Not Spain?” He asks, leveling your volume. You’re closer, so close you feel his breath fan soft against your own face. His voice is deep, accented so thickly, the way it is when he talks with you because he falls into a familiar rhythm of knowing you’ll decipher whatever he has to say.

You giggle, a low, breathy sound. A barely there shake of your head. “I… love it so much, is why. Always have.”

Had there been a pedestrian across the street who looked just a few floors upward, they would’ve found the both of you there, smiling foolishly, blanketed by the night sparkles of the Eiffel Tower and the rest of the city. They would’ve seen the way Carlos leaned in, his eyes on yours and then on your lips, the way you nodded in silent, warm invitation. Come closer, you seem to say. Don’t stray any further.

A lock of your hair touches his jaw, from how close you two are. So close. Everything smells like him, like the musky woody perfume he wears, the detergent he uses. All of that, and everything underneath. The scent of him. Just him. 

You hold your breath when you both lean in, eyes fluttering shut and waiting, waiting for his lips to meet yours.

The door shakes with several knocks, Lando’s voice seeping from the other side of it. “Mate, we’re gonna be late for dinner!” He says boredly, letting his fist collide with it a few more times for good measure.

Instantly, you and Carlos separate, both of you clearing your throats, rushed flimsy excuses escaping your mouths at the same time. You’re warm all over, the excitement, the nerves, tapering off into nothing as you walk back inside the room, busying yourselves with anything. Oh, I need to check if Jonathan’s emailed me. Oh, let me go answer the door.

Lando is waiting, expectant, on the other side when Carlos pries the door open. “Mate! Dinner! I texted you like twenty minutes ago and y—oh.” He spots you sitting at one of the lounge chairs in the room, and immediately his brows raise. “Hey, dude. You’re here?”

“Yeah, to, uh—to get Carlos to OK some edits,” you say with a smile, hoping your nonchalance isn’t too shaky. “I needed to get a draft in by three hours ago, so.”

“Oh. Right, obviously.” His eyes narrow a little, but he doesn’t relax much, gaze suspicious and a bit beguiled. “Well, if you’re not busy, we’re having dinner?”

“I’m good,” you decline, a touch too quickly. “It’s getting late.”

“Alright, well it was a courtesy invite, you dipshit,” Lando teases, and everything feels a bit more normal. You just flip him off, and Carlos retrieves his coat, eyes still not meeting yours when you all exit at the same time. Lando makes up for the hole in the conversation, droning on and on about the restaurant they’re going to, and how good it seems to be.

The elevator ride is equally charged, and you spend it humming and interjecting Lando’s words to come across as unfazed, even if you’re so totally not. Once you’re alone you finally let big exhales leave you. You don’t know if it’s from the anxiety of almost being caught, or the anxiety from the kiss unfinished.

—

LOVE the latest draft, Nick & I both. Could we get a deeper angle? Something re: regrets? Would really tie it together! Best, J

“Huh. Do you have any regrets?” You ask, tearing your eyes away from the short email. Next to you, Carlos nods his head slowly. You’re on the beach in Cannes, taking time off before the meeting and people-watching. Charles had joined you for a good half hour before leaving to sleep in the hotel instead, leaving you two to bask in the now setting sun.

“Everyone does, no?” He stretches a bit. The topic is tense. “But yes, I have some specific ones.”

“Like?” You ask weakly.

“I was stupid when I was younger. More immature, more forgetful. You grow older and you think of all the things you could’ve done right, years too late. There’s a proverb I heard once that goes—camarón que se duerme se lo lleva la corriente. It means to—to stay alert. Don’t let things pass you by.”

“And do you think you followed that advice?”

His eyes meet yours. “Do you?”

—

It’s quiet when Carlos walks inside your flat, and already his heart begins to drain, filling with guilt.

He steps over the creaky floorboard, notices your car keys on the table, your jacket haphazardly slung over the rack, your Chanel bag half-open on the dinner table beside an empty wine glass and a sweaty bottle of Cheval Blanc. The bedroom door’s half-open, light bleeding into the dark rest-of-the-place, and when he gently pushes the door to get in, the sight he faces is crushing.

“…Estás bien?”

You face the window, your back to him, in a beautiful, beautiful black dress. Your hair had been up, but it’s unpinned now, falling in loose, messy waves. You hiccup, and then tense. Feigning nonchalance, you croak out, “Yeah, yeah.”

“I’m sorry,” he says honestly. “I didn’t know the thing was earlier.” His eyes hover to the glass award on the bed, one you’d hoped he would watch you receive tonight.

“I said I’m fine,” you say. “Just”—you sniffle—“it’s fine, Carlos, just get out.”

You’re standoffish, and cold, but Carlos knows you’re incredibly hurt. In an attempt to try and coerce a conversation, he stays. “Let’s have dinner tomorrow,” he suggests in a low voice. “On me. Right? To celebrate.”

“Leave me alone, Carlos.”

“I wanted to go,” he insists. “I had a meeting that ended late, and—”

“It doesn’t fucking matter,” you assert, turning. You’ve clearly been crying hard, your face flushed and shiny, a few rogue tears still on your chin. “Just go.”

“I know how much this mattered to you.”

“And yet you didn’t go.” You sniff, wiping fruitlessly at your face. “Carlos, just…” Your voice sounds thin, heartbroken, worn with pain and real tiredness. 

“Cut me some slack.” Carlos argues softly.

“No, I just… I don’t even know how things got to this point, Carlos. We used to be so much happier. But now, it’s like I have to demand for your time like everyone else does. Now, I—I cook, I plan dinner, I put my own career on the back burner so I can spend more time with you even if I’ve gotten calls, promotions that you don’t even ever… ever ask about, just everything. I don’t think… I don’t feel you love me that way. Care for me, that way. You’ve never shown it, not lately especially.”

“You should’ve told me,” he says, hurt.

“This kind of thing, it…” you shake your head, wiping your clammy hands on the black silk. “It doesn’t need to be said.”

“Let me make it up to you.” He steps closer but you’re quicker, almost stumbling in your rush to avoid him.

“No,” you protest, “just go, Carlos, just go. Get out and close the door.”

“Cariño—”

“Go,” you say, voice hard with contempt. You refuse to meet his pleading eyes. “Go, Carlos.”

So he does.

He passes by, again, your handbag, with the sleek travel-sized bottle of Santal 33 you keep with you always peeking out, and the Cheval Blanc he’d bought you a few months prior, and the jacket you’d bought with his approval almost a year ago. He lingers in his car for a minute, the rain pelting the Golf noisily. 

He drives off, wiping tears from his own face.

And maybe, had he stayed a little longer, he would’ve seen you tearfully emerge from the elevator, into the lobby, then out into the rain, still in your black dress, and let yourself get soaked waiting for him to come back, refusing to believe he’d even let himself leave you so broken.

—

You play Uno to pass the time, your last night in Cannes.

He’s won two games in a row at this point, and you’re almost 100% sure he has a plus four card in his hand, so you play a bit more deliberately, eyeing him with a challenging glint in your eyes. You’re a bit watered down by your earlier conversation, but you feign nonchalance anyway.

Blue 2. Blue 5. Green 5. Then finally, he slaps it onto the deck—a plus four card. “Oh, come on, Carlos,” you say, almost actually irritated.

“I’ll kiss it better,” he says. Suddenly overwhelmed, you push yourself off the counter and storm out.

He follows you, stumbling into the empty balcony and softly shutting the door, voice still colored with laughter. “I’m sorry! I didn’t know you’d be so upset about the—”

You barely hear the rest of his clearly half-hearted, humorous apology. It doesn’t matter to you.

What does matter is everything from the years past crashing on your shoulders like debris, like rain, finally giving under the weight of being so close to him again. Everything. The tangled fog of your relationship, the start, the middle, the terrible end neither of you wanted. You pulsed with want, with yearning, with sadness.

So you ask yourself why? Why? Why? Why couldn’t he have come back? More importantly—why did he let you go so easily?

The truth is, you’ve drowned yourself in work so long you’ve forgotten what it’s like to feel, to be felt. And if Carlos is doing this, all this, all the touching and the tension and the debris and the rain that crash on you like a bruising, torrential storm, for his own pleasure, like this is all a game, then you’ve yearned for nothing.

“This isn’t about the game, Carlos!” It heaves itself out of you in a half-sob, carried by the wind.

He stops—stops walking, stops smiling. Just stops and stares, brows knitted with concern. You refuse to look at him, staring instead at the skyline, arms crossed. The view blurs with tears, lights meshing together prettily.

He stutters your name out in a feeble response. It’s mortifying, the way you start to cry when it leaves his mouth.

You turn then, willing your lips to stop quivering. “Good for you,” you say shakily, “you can—you can fool around, kiss me like it’s nothing, pretend like we never even mattered so you can make jokes about how we’ve ended up here again, back, together.” You inhale, but it’s no use; you’re crying even as you speak. “And I’ll laugh, because it can be funny, you know, fuck it. But… I’m so—”

The wanting shows, in moments like this. Wanting love, wanting comfort, wanting warmth, an escape from work and stress and life. You know how it feels, to be loved. You’d been familiar with it, at some point. You want it again, the ache, the kiss, the pain of it all. More than that, you want him. For just a moment. But all this wanting is so exhausting.

You want this profile to be over. You want to pull him close and tell him how proud you are, but also how hurt you are. You want Spain. You miss Paris. Everything, everything, every memory, every single painful loving thing bursts inside you.

“—tired.” You nod your head, licking tears that have perched on your lip, smiling humorlessly, shrugging. “I’m—I’m tired, and lonely, and being around you makes it worse. Being around you hurts me. It hurts you. This profile was a bad idea, and I should’ve trashed this the moment I learned I’d be covering you. Because I knew then it would’ve turned to shit, and I was right.”

He stares, unmoving. He remembers, too. He’d tell you everything if the words clicked just right. But they never do; they tangle like cotton balls in his throat before he can kneel and name everything he remembers, everything he loved about the two of you. Cariño. Just be mine, tell me everything, tell me you love me.

You wipe a hand over your face. “Let’s just let this go already. You know, we really were good for a while. This… this is maybe just one of those things where we made it in another life, but not this one.”

At his returned silence, you nod, then walk quietly past him and back into the room.

It’s just as empty as you’d left it, dim and lit only by the warm light above the kitchen counter. Your forgotten Uno game lies on the same spot, beside the two empty wine glasses. You stare for a second. Life had been different when he’d lay down his cards just minutes ago.

A coat is tugged from in between couch cushions, your heels from by the door hastily pulled on. Every movement feels heavy, like sandbags are tied to your limbs, your tongue, your eyelids. You turn, one last time, to see the moment suspended in time—and you meet his eyes. Even across the room you feel like you’re drowning in them, dark and solemn. 

“Wait,” he says, and even with just one syllable he’s managed to stop your world from turning again. “You’re right. Everything you said. When I’m around you, I hurt. I’m reminded of how awful I was then. It’s painful to be together.”

Eyes meet, eyes blink, eyes close.

“But you didn’t trash the feature. And I still enjoy your company. You could be covering Rafael Nadal or whoever right now. I could be in a jet to Japan. But you and I are here, are we not?”

Only you. It’s only you.

“I’ve missed you.” It rips through him. “I want to be here with you. I want to make the pain go away, so let me.”

“It’s useless,” you protest, tearily. “This won’t work. I’ll get mad, you’ll get fed up, I’ll get bored, you’ll put work before us.”

“Okay.” He paces toward you, nearer and nearer, closing the distance between you both. “I’ll make it work.”

“Carlos,” you weep, “I don’t know why you don’t get it. Life sucks. And all we get are little moments where things are… are good. So don’t waste the moments like this. Let’s not waste the moments on this.”

“You’re not a waste,” he says—and you crumple into his arms, worn, exhausted.

A knot in your heart is slowly unraveling itself. You’ve waited, yearned for so long, and finally you’re in his arms again, with the kind of quiet resolution only he would understand. You left the lights on for him. You’d do it again, but you don’t have to.

You bury your head in his chest, a chorus of apologies leaving him. I’m sorry, he says. I’m sorry, I love you. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Everything.

I love you, you say weakly. I love you, that’s enough. I waited for this to leave, but all it did was hide. The love has yet to pass. It never will.

—

“Yours really is the best selling one!” Nick pulls you in for a hug. “We have Nadal and CR7 on the roster, but Sainz’s is selling like crazy. Your writing is just—” He kisses his fingers. “You are amazing.”

“You flatter me,” you reply gracefully, letting him pull you into another embrace but prying him off a bit faster. You don’t need another Jonathan-esque freakout in the middle of the room.

The GQ party, six months later, almost a mirror of the fundraiser just a few months ago. Only this time, you’re not tacked onto Lewis, and you’re not buzzing with nerves (as much). You had run into Lewis when you entered, and Charles too, and Lando when he spotted you, but none of them are your plus ones to this event.

Your profile is the talk of the journalism scene. Nobody can shut up about it, and it thrills you, excites you, to be witnessing your work be recognized beside Carlos himself. He brings you a glass of champagne and presses a kiss to your cheekbone, smiling against it.

Neither of you notice Lando and Charles behind you, watching like hawks. The elder cackles, presents his hand like a sacrifice and turns to the Brit. “Aha.What did I tell you, chat?”

“Five hundred euros,” moans Lando, slapping a bunch of bills onto it. “You’re an intuitive prick.”

“Those two are soulmates.” They stare at your foolish figures, smiling like idiots, high-fiving even. “The kind that’ll always, always find their way back to each other. Always.”

Lando shrugs. “Hey, honestly, for once, I’m glad I lost a bet.”

“I look great on the cover,” Carlos says, both of you staring at the screen’s display of it. 

“Shut up,” you smile, interlocking your fingers. “Well, my writing looks great inside.”

“Really does,” he says. “I’m so, so proud of you, cariño.”

“Proud of me?” You tease, staring up at him. “You made the last minute title change that caused fans to go crazy.” You both turn to stare at it displayed on the screen, smiling fondly.

Carlos Sainz—on racing, gracious defeat, and refinding love.

[dannyboy-writes]

Running away

After fleeing the Fire Nation's land you found yourself in a small fishing village. Filled with flowers in spring and sunlight in the summer, with piles of leaves in autumn and a tad of snow in winter. Just a hint of whiteness. 

The last thing you would've expected from your travels was to end up here, having somewhat of a normal life, filled with joy. The only thing you would've changed was your last conversation with a certain someone. 

“You used to have long hair,” a familiar but distant voice said, as you turned around. 

"You used to be shorter," you said, face as serious as you could.

With a still straight face she said, "I could have you executed for that."

"Only if you can catch me," you finally broke a smile.

"True," Azula said, smiling as well. 

"What brings you to this lovely and remote area of the world," you asked, pulling some things off the table.

"I was searching for someone. They owe me a goodbye," she said playfully.

You put some water in a kettle, "I believe they said goodbye already."

"Did they?"

"I gave you a letter, it's more than I did to most," you defended. 

"You didn't give me a letter." 

"Well, I hid it in your room. You found it, you can't lie to me Azula," you laughed. 

She tried to maintain a serious face but dropped it soon as well, "I did find it." 

"I couldn't exactly leave it laying around, not with everything that was happening."

"I understand," she nodded. "I just wish you had given it to me." 

"I thought of it, but it was late. I had to ninja my way for it, I'm very proud of that," you said.

"Because of the guards?" 

"Yeah, that and the fact that everyone had my face in a reward poster…" 

She clasped her hands together and nodded. 

"Why are you still standing, Zula?" You said bringing a kettle of tea to the table and sitting down. "Get comfortable, do you want anything else?"

"No, it's fine," she said, shifting in her spot. 

"Is everything okay?"

"Of course. Why wouldn't it be," she asked in a paranoid tone.

"No reason," you said as she sat down. "Did you really come all this way just to get a goodbye?"

"Don't be silly, y/n. It's on the way in my travels," she lied. 

It had been too long since she last saw you, and the way your voice strained in your throat took her off balance. Perhaps this was how you'd always spoken, but she didn't think so. Maybe she had just grown too paranoid.

"Where are you going?" You asked. 

"Oh, let's not speak of that. How are you?" 

The question rocked you off your place, but you managed not to show it. 

"Well, I'm doing well. There's not much to do around here but fishing, so I do that, and sell that as well. I'm growing this tree in the back, it used to have a torn branch and it was falling off, but now it's looking good," you explained. "Sorry, you're probably bored by this." You said, knowing Azula wasn't one to be interested in the common occurrences of life.

"No, continue," she dismissed. And as you raised your eyebrow asked, "Please." 

"Well, there is also a small dragon-moose that comes around every now and then, searching for food. I tend to leave a pot of fresh water and some leftovers for him." You paused to sip on your tea, "Other than that it's all pretty calm. There's mostly old people here, so no one asks many questions. They usually tell stories to me, not the other way around, which is good." 

It was good, Azula thought. If you were still in hiding, even if you weren't in Fire Nation soil, it was good for people not to ask many questions. 

"How do you know it's the same dragon-moose?" She found herself asking, much to her own surprise.

You were taken a bit aback by the question but answered anyways. "Oh, he has a little white spot in between the eyes. Plus he always waits for me to sit down before he eats the food. I don't know why, really."

She smiled, again to her surprise. How simple your life was, and how content with it you sounded. All you did was fish, feed animals and listen to old people's stories, and yet you looked like the happiest person in the world. 

“It sounds wonderful,” she simply replied.

“Yeah… You sure you're fine?" You asked, concerned. It had been some time since you last saw her, but she didn't use to ask this many questions. 

“You have nothing to worry about, y/n. I promise," she nodded.

"Okay… Do you plan on staying?" 

"Would you like me to stay?" 

"I'm asking so I know how much food I should make, you don't have to stay."

"If you want me to stay I'll stay," she stated.

You blinked in surprise, not expecting that. "Uh, yeah, I would love that," you smiled. "That would be great." 

She nodded once again, this time with a smile plastered on her face. She thought about staying there, in your little house by the sea. 

Things would be so easy if she just had one more chance with you.

But she had Zuko and his friends on her heels, and it was better to leave you out of Fire Nation problems. One last dinner with you, that was all she needed.

When you woke up next morning with the house silent you knew she was gone, and when you walked into the kitchen and saw the note you hoped she was safe.

A little ‘thank you’ was all you had, and it was all you’d need.

[wynnyfryd]

Trailer park Steve AU part 60

part 1 | part 59 | ao3

cw: reference to canonical minor character death

Max slams the phone down, knocking her forehead against the wall. Sixteen calls in a row and still no answer. “I give up,” she sighs. “You should just go.” “Seriously?” Steve protests. “And just leave you here? Alone? After—?” After all that? He throws his hands out like an umpire calling a safe. “No. No way.” “Look, my mom will be home soon, you can’t—” “—I’m not letting you get hurt—!” “—What are you gonna do? Fight my nightmares for me?”

“Maybe I will,” Steve mutters under his breath, pissed off and replaying the conversation on repeat while he gets ready. Feels like a psycho for doing it; feels certifiably unhinged just going about his evening after everything that happened, putting on a clean shirt and choking himself in a cloud of Farrah Fawcett spray so he can go pick up the sweet-but-stupid girl named Brenda he promised to take to the game tonight; so he can go cheer in the bleachers like he didn’t almost die.

(Or like, very vividly hallucinate his own death, which... Yeah. Doesn’t feel any less horrific.)

But whatever. Max is right. Without El, there’s really nothing to do but wait. Hop’s dead, Bob’s dead, Joyce is thirty hours away. Owens is off the table, too. What’s Steve gonna do? Call the government and tell them to come nuke the boogeyman? He doesn’t have any proof. 

He also doesn’t want to freak Dustin or any of the other kids out without knowing for sure what’s going on and what, if anything, can be done about it, so...

Fuck.

Fuck!

He gets dressed; he goes out. Picks up Brenda and does his best to be nice to her even though she gets on his nerves the moment she gets into his car, and he buys them sodas at the gas station and doesn't say a word when she spills Sprite down the side of his passenger seat.

The school is packed when they show up — the crowd in high spirits, the marching band leading chants. Nancy's reporting from the sidelines, Lucas is laughing with his teammates on the bench, and Steve leads Brenda toward the bleachers and does his best not to think. Not about the graveyard, not Max, not the looming threat of cosmic terrors. Not about the fact that Eddie is somewhere in this building, probably looking all hot and menacing while he leads tonight's campaign. Probably perched on a prop throne drinking Mountain Dew from a painted chalice like a fucking dork; probably making it look sexy, anyway. Tight jeans, legs spread, an air of casual command…

Steve could go find him. He could make everyone else leave; he could get on his knees and crawl between Eddie's legs—

"Does it bother you that we might win the championship, like, right after you graduated?"

Reality comes back like a slap in the face. "Yeah, that's an excellent question, Brenda, thank you so much for bringing that up."

They get settled into their seats, and Steve wishes he were more excited when the ref throws the jump ball, but he mostly just wants to go home. ("You always want to go home," the Robin in his head reminds him, and the Robin in real life throws him a weird look when she catches him snorting to himself about it.) He's just tired. Worn down in his bones, hollowed where he thinks his marrow should be, and he's clinging to normalcy with a sort of sweaty desperation that he’s pretty sure Brenda can smell on him because the date just sucks; it’s so bland, so mutually boring and bored. He spends most of the night mouthing stupid shit at Robin or keeping a sharp eye on the court — anything to ignore his proximity to Eddie; anything to drown out his messed-up head and heart. 

When the game finally ends Brenda gets a ride to a party with some friends. Steve goes back to Dustin’s place and paces a hole into the carpet. Stays up until 3 A.M., humming a Fleetwood Mac song.

In the morning, he tells himself as he drifts into fitful sleep. 

In the morning it’ll be fine. 

In the morning Max will come by the store like she promised, and they’ll keep trying until they get ahold of El, or Owens, or someone, and that someone will know what to do and how to help.

—

In the morning the TV tells him there’s a dead girl in his house.

—

part 61

tag list in separate reblogs under '#trailer park steve au taglist' if you'd like to filter that content. if you want to be added please comment and let me know (must be over 21; please either verify in the comment or have your age visible on your blog)

[devildom-moss]

idk how to verbalise this idea properly so bear with me but: mc whose entire logic in life is 'fuck it we ball' including when it comes to romance, so they just completely go along with any attempts at flirting in a sort of "yes, and-" fashion

which probably only encourages said suitor and then mc has the Audacity to be surprised when it gets intense enough for them to realise they're actually being seduced lol

gn mc with just the brothers for now pls!! thank u for your services

Hopefully this request is what you were looking for. Honestly, I had a bit of confusion while writing, but I tried. I went with headcanons because that seemed like the best fit. Thanks for the request.

gn!MC who casually flirts back with the demon brothers headcanons

(and then has the audacity to be surprised that they're being genuinely pursued)

(Suggestive)

Word Count: +2700

Lucifer

Lucifer is an awful flirt, trying so hard to fluster MC and convince them of his dominance. (Where’s it at though? I don’t see it.) His flirting is so suggestive that it’s actually pretty easy to just assume it’s a bit of playful teasing between friends.

For MC, it plays out like those posts that say something and then escalate immediately – something like “Kiss your homies goodnight. Kiss them with tongue. Eat their ass.”

Having an MC who flirts back with him can be a bit embarrassing, and it gets Lucifer’s hopes up so much. (“Could you pour me another cup of coffee, MC?” “Third one this morning, Luci. Not sleeping well?” “I’m afraid not. Perhaps you should come over and help – but then again, we might not get much sleep if you do.” “Aw, Luci, do you want me to fuck you senseless to help you fall asleep?” “If you’re offering, who am I to refuse.”)

He’ll be frustrated that MC keeps flirting with him, but they never follow through.

Lucifer is so horny that it’s absurd. MC could be completely normal, and this man would be thirsting. (“I really don’t want to do this lesson. This chapter is so boring.” “Normally, I wouldn’t use positive reinforcement, but if you complete your work, I’ll reward you.” “What kind of reward?” “Come to my room tonight and find out.”)

Poor MC doesn’t realize they’re being seduced until Lucifer has dragged them into his bed.

“Sleep with me.” “I’m not really tired, Lucifer.” “Good. Then you’ll have plenty of energy to make out and maybe even fuck me – if you want.” His touch would be so intimate – rubbing their inner thigh or groping their ass. “IF I WHAT?!?”

Lucifer would turn pink up to his ears. Part of him thinks MC is just teasing him again, but he would quickly realize that they’re being genuine. He’d feel absolutely humiliated. Did they not want him at all? Did all of that flirting mean nothing?

Before he could die from the shame, Lucifer would manage to blurt out, “Do you want me or not?” He wants some honest commitment in return for his affection, and if MC won’t bring that, that’s unacceptable. Of course, there is some thrill in a chase, but in that moment, Lucifer won’t have it in him. It would be a battle to fight some other day.

If MC tells him no or gives a half-hearted response, he will ask them to leave his room with one hand covering his blushing face. He wouldn’t even be able to look at them as he closed the door – and he’d probably avoid them for a day or two. (Also, he might cry a little after the door is locked).

If MC insists that they do want him, he’ll be especially needy while also acting all sadistic – attempting to tease them to distract from his own embarrassment. This poor loser will require so many kisses to reinflate his ego.

Mammon

To be fair, Mammon would bring this upon himself. He loves to act like he’s uninterested – constantly interrupting his fawning and puppy-like following of MC to save himself from the absolute humiliation of being *gasp* honest about his feelings.

I can see Mammon regularly initiating flirting, but this man can’t follow through to save his own life (maybe to save the life of someone else, though). An MC who reciprocates his flirting would leave him a blushing, flustered mess. Most of the time, his embarrassment cuts the interaction short.

“Ya just can’t get enough of the Great Mammon, can ya?” “Of course not, you handsome devil~” “I- uh! Hmph! Damn right!” he’d say it, crossing his arms and avoiding eye contact while the blush rises in his cheeks. How is MC supposed to respond?

If they tease him further and flirt more, he’ll just yell and tell them to knock it off. If they just shrug it off and move on, Mammon will be too flustered to make another move on them that day. The flirtatious spark just kind of fizzles out like a defective firecracker.

It takes a lot of boldness on Mammon’s end to get MC to realize he’s being serious. And honestly, Mammon is so adorable, MC may have the opportunity to take the initiative and push things a little further first. (You want to tell me most MCs could just flirt with Mammon, reducing him to a blushing, aggressive mess, and go back to watching that movie or playing that video game upon Mammon’s belligerent demand, and not want to kiss his face? Okay, sure.)

But let’s ignore that thought and say MC follows Mammon’s flirting in the “yes, and” fashion. After Mammon continuously sabotages his own chances, eventually, he’s going to get so frustrated that he will smother his own shyness long enough to get what he wants.

He’ll get MC alone and string together some make-shift confession – a plea for more. “Ya know, if ya wanna kiss the Great Mammon or somethin’, I’m not gonna stop ya – like, I mean, I want a little more outta ya. So, don’t hold back just cause ya think I don’t want to or nothin’.” (translation: Please kiss me. I know I act like I don’t want you, but I really, really want you to kiss me. Please, please, please.)

His face will burn, and a blush will work its way up to his ears. It’ll be hard to deny the intensity of his feelings, and it will weigh down on MC – a truth previously held in a bag on their back, tethered to dozens of helium balloons that disguised its weight, and then suddenly found every string cut loose by Mammon’s admission. He really loved them. For his confession, all Mammon would get was a stunned but heartfelt “oh.”

He gets so upset and embarrassed that MC didn’t realize he was being serious before. He went on a rollercoaster of emotions; meanwhile, this whole time, they hadn’t even taken his advances in earnest. It’s practically offensive.

The only remedy for Mammon’s bruised dignity is for MC to immediately hold and kiss him until he’s temporarily satisfied. (“Ya owe me big time for not takin’ me seriously.”)

Leviathan

I mean, he kind of has to flirt before MC can flirt back – unless we’re going to count accidentally blurting out his innermost perverted desires as flirting. Sure, I suppose it’s basically flirting to tell someone “It’s sexy when you tell me what to do. I can’t stop imagining you doing that in other settings.”

He’s so bad at flirting that nothing will happen for a long time after he realizes he’s head over heels. Levi is fine spending the rest of his (or at least MC’s) life pining for them – or at least he believes that. But the longing and desire will start to creep in, and he’ll wonder how much he can ask from MC. Friends can hold hands and maybe even cuddle, right? Maybe even kiss? Could they even –?

The thoughts eat away at him until he can’t wait for MC to make the move anymore. It slips out of him like some mating request written by Dr. Suess: “Would you –? Could you –? With an otaku? A gross, disgusting one, too?”

Levi is so visibly flustered that he doesn’t leave much room for ignorance. Even the most extreme masochist wouldn’t subject themselves to the furiously blushing, trembling state that Leviathan had worked himself into. He’d be on the brink of tears. All his hope in the world would be precariously perched on a ledge, awaiting your response.

I can’t see MC not knowing that Levi was attempting to seduce them, but perhaps the timing of it came as a surprise. Or perhaps they had never taken his affection seriously. He has so many favorites that he can’t pursue; just because he has a massive crush on MC doesn’t mean he had plans to act on it.

He will get even more embarrassed and down on himself to know that MC didn’t take him seriously at first. He understands, but that doesn’t make it any less hurtful.

He will require physical reassurance – as much of it as MC is willing to give him. And honestly, if MC doesn’t end up kissing him until he forgets how to think after his confession, he’ll probably hide in his room for a few weeks purely out of shame.

Satan

With an MC like this, the back-and-forth flirting goes on for an inordinate amount of time. Satan is not a flirt by any definition, but when there’s someone he likes, he knows how to turn on the charm. He’s smart, passionate, and mentally quick on his feet; he’s a natural charmer for the right audience.

Satan moves pretty slow when romance is concerned. If Levi wasn’t such a hopeless cause (affectionately), Satan would probably be the slowest to escalate a romantic relationship. He and MC will have a dozen dates under their belts before the desire for more had become an unbearable burden for Satan to silently ignore.

Eventually, Satan would find himself reading in his room with MC, unable to hold back anymore. He would ask, “Would you mind if I kissed you?” “No, I don’t mind if you want to.” “Could I kiss you now?” “Eh, sure.”

Everything up to that point could have been misread as platonic or some casual interest – maybe even curiosity on his end.

But he was serious, and it was evident in the way he approached MC to collect that kiss. He would straddle their hips, set their book aside (face down to mark the page like a real gentleman), and lean down for the kiss. Then, his lips would move against theirs, and the smallest sigh would escape him like a quiet release of sexual tension that had pressurized his entire body. Then, it would all click for MC.

Surprisingly, he wouldn’t be upset or humiliated if MC hadn’t taken him seriously before. In fact, he sees it as more of a personal failing, and in a low, seductive voice, he would tell them, “Allow me to prove how genuine and deep my feelings are for you.”

Asmodeus

He flirts with everyone, so how was MC supposed to know??

He asks them on dates so often. He’s probably the only one who could make out with MC and they’d still think, “yeah, we’re besties” because when Asmo pulls away with a giggle and a grin, telling them how much fun that was, it doesn’t feel serious.

It would take a moment of angst – either Asmo feeling like MC doesn’t take his advances seriously enough (and they don’t) or MC getting down on themselves – for them to realize.

Asmo would pull them into his room and leave small kisses all over them, peppering in compliments. “You’re so gorgeous, and I adore looking at your face.” Then, he would kiss their cheek. “You’re such a sweetheart.” Then, the other cheek. “I always have so much fun when I’m with you. I don’t ever want you to leave my side.” He would kiss their forehead. “I want you to feel confident; you’re such a wonderful soul.” (He would probably add more compliments if MC was feeling self-conscious.)

His words would get sweeter and more honest. “I feel seen in your eyes – like every part of me is accepted. I don’t have to play it up or try.” He would work his way down their neck with soft pecks to their skin. “I want to share everything beautiful in this world with you.” In part to avoid meeting their gaze. “I want to make you smile with everything I have.” And in part so he could whisper the words into their ear. “I want to help you whenever you need me. I’ll sit right next to you through any pain and hardships you encounter.” No one else had earned the right to hear his praise and affection. “I want to be a comfort for you – someone you can return to like a home.”

Finally, he would face them with a striking affection. “You know I’m in love with you, right? It’s not just lust and fun. You’re everything. You matter the most – after me, of course. It’s me and you and everything else.”

Asmo seduces everyone. That isn’t shocking. But this was more than seduction. It was genuine courtship. He won’t fault MC for being surprised. It caught him off guard too.

Beelzebub

Beel is not super flirty, but he makes it known that he cares through his actions. So, there aren’t many opportunities for MC to “yes, and” flirt back with him.

He asks them out to get food often and brings them snacks, but that doesn’t signal any romantic intentions. Sometimes he might stare at MC affectionately or admit how happy he is to spend time with them, but it’s nowhere near intense.

Sometimes, he asks for something more selfish. It starts small: petting his head, holding his hand, hugging him. None of those register as seduction from Beel for MC, especially compared to the affectionate nature of his twin. In fact, no one would fault MC for thinking these were platonic wants. After all, Beel has been through a lot. Sometimes this sweet, big baby boy just needs physical affection.

Then, he would get a bit bolder with his requests: “Could you feed me?” “Can I feed you?” “Would you hold me?”

As innocent and platonic as Beel may seem, he makes a lot of off-hand remarks that sound a bit perverted. “I bet MC’s lips would taste good.” “I wonder what you taste like.” “MC has nice hands. I bet they would feel good…” These comments could open the door for some flirting from MC, though. “Wanna taste me, Beel?” “Should I give you a massage? Or maybe something more?”

MC flirting with him would make his heart race. Even if MC didn’t follow through with their flirtatious offer, it would encourage Beel to keep pushing his luck.

Finally, he would ask, “Can I kiss you?”

Beel would look so shy and embarrassed, holding his hands awkwardly to his chest, that it would be hard not to take him seriously. The question – and his desire – would be a slight shock. Beel wouldn’t mind that MC was surprised, although he would be disappointed if he was turned down.

If MC takes him up on that offer, they will come to realize that his ravenous hunger showed itself through a kiss, too – as if he had been starving for MC’s touch and affection.

Belphegor

He’s so affectionate and cuddly. In that way, he’s similar to Asmo; it’s pretty hard to tell how serious and intense Belphie’s feelings are. He’s just kind of like that.

It’s common for Belphie to ask to be spoiled with affection – head pats, feeding him, hugging him, sleeping together, going out with him, praising him, holding his hand, being his pillow, etc.

His need for attention doesn’t cover up for how flushed his face gets when MC is the one to give him affection. His neediness doesn’t explain how much he clings to MC or how he blushes and tells them not to stop touching him.

So, actually, he’s less flirty than he is demanding of attention. Going along with his demands only encourages him to vocalize and act on more of his desires. He’d even ask permission to kiss them and to be kissed.

MC probably wouldn’t figure it out until Belphie starts sleepily trying to make out with them.

“Belphie, are you half-asleep?” “What? No. I’m awake. Why?” “That was a really heated kiss.” “Of course it was. Can we keep going?” “I’m sorry, what?”

“Don’t you like me back? We sleep together, go on dates, cuddle, and you even let me kiss your face and neck whenever I please. Don’t you want to go further?”

It hits them. Belphie can read the look of surprise on MC’s face, and it makes him pout. MC really should have known how he felt by then, but he’s confident that his affection is reciprocated before MC even responds.

“Sheesh. You’re really difficult, you know? I’ve had to do a lot of the work here because you’re so dense.” Belphie would straddle MC’s lap and take off his shirt. “I’ll let it go this time, but you better start putting in more effort from now on.”

A/N: Only about 1 hour left to vote in the poll. And we just got to 100 so y'all are getting 2 posts this month. Genuinely, I typed this a/n up, talking about only needing one more vote, checked it again, and the one vote is no longer needed. Good job, y'all. I swear if there are ties...

[silverwhittlingknife]

the reason why nu52 Dick is so simultaneously messy and yet boring is because they don't let him be bitchy enough whilst simultaneously making him a little bitch

sdfsdfdsfs I don't totally understand what this means and yet I feel like I agree with the spirit, anon <3

Outsiders 21 - preboot Dick yelling at Bruce my beloved

Yeah, caveat that there's plenty of nu52 Dick stuff that I haven't read and I don't think it's all bad, but also... man, he is not for me. As far I'm concerned, the main good thing that came out of n52/Rebirth is some setups for sad!Dick fanfic. And yeah, "Dick is not bitchy enough" is actually a pretty good summary of my complaints sdfdsfs

The thing is, nu52 Dick has some similarities to preboot Tim, in that he'll sometimes be insincerely fake-cheerful even when actually upset, plus he periodically seems uncomfortable with direct confrontation so instead he lies to avoid confrontation. And mmm I mean, I like these qualities in preboot Tim, so it's not like I think these are terrible traits to have!!

BUT :

1) Preboot Tim has no authority. But preboot Dick does, and it's frustrating to take it away from him in nu52.

There's some post-2011 panel where Dick lies to Batman and is cheery about it, a la Tim bragging to his friends about lying to Batman in Teen Titans, and I had to stare at it for ages trying to figure out why it felt like such a record scratch moment to me.

But it's because there is a huge difference between a presumably independent superhero lying to another superhero vs. a sidekick and his sidekick friends secretly joyriding in Batman's car.

Like, Tim lies to authority figures more-or-less constantly, because he doesn't want to be told what to do, but also because - importantly!! - those authority figures reasonably assume they have authority over him that he has to evade. Of course he tries to avoid direct confrontation with the JLA / Batman / Red Tornado / Starfire - they're not his equals and a direct confrontation would end badly!

Whereas Nightwing lying to Batman feels like putting him in a subordinate position in a way that preboot Dick never is. Preboot Dick always tells Batman off to his face, because preboot Dick cares about being equals and refuses to accept being subordinate. He doesn't sneak around behind Bruce's back - he fights back! If he doesn't agree with Bruce's position, he tries to argue Bruce into his own. He'll do stuff without asking Bruce's permission, but he won't conceal it; he'll make a point of making sure Bruce knows what he did and also that he isn't sorry.

2) Preboot Tim's lying / tendency to be fake with people is a consistent personality trait that's also consistently problematized. nu52 Dick's characterization is wildly all over the map.

In preboot, Tim is a liar and obsessive compartmentalizer, which is both a strength (disguises, sneaking around authority) and a problem (loved ones who are hurt by it). He's self-aware about his lies, periodically resolves to lie less, and generally fails at it.

Tim's consistent enough that you can track this character trait in all his relationships: he lies to his dad. He lies to Batman. He lies to his girlfriends. He refuses to tell Babs his real name for ages for basically no reason. He stalks Dick and then tries to run away from him in his origin story and then tries to avoid telling Dick his name. And this evasiveness consistently causes him problems!! Dick's suspicious of him. Ariana's suspicious of him. His dad is suspicious of him. Young Justice and Steph get annoyed with his secret-keeping. Young Justice want him to take off the mask. Steph wants to know his real name. When she finds out and calls him by his real name, he has a panic attack and literally runs away. When upset, he insists he's fine and fake-smiles at people. In Teen Titans, when Tim's busy being fake-cheerful and Conner is startled to see him there right after his dad died, Tim gets upset and angry at Conner and demands that he not tell anyone about Jack. Fine, Conner says, I guess it's another secret. In AC 3, he's lying to Conner again and Conner accuses him of having an insincere "Starfire voice," which is a hilarious callback to Tim being fake-agreeable-yet-secretly-bitchy at Kory when he first meets her. I feel like I get that the lying is a Tim Character Trait which is sometimes endearing and sometimes less so and which all the people who love him are gonna have different feelings about.

By contrast, nu52 Dick spends a ton of time lying but it's hard for me to model his characterization in the same way? He's sometimes fake and ... sometimes that's totally cool and sometimes people punch him! also, does it say something about him? ehhhhh maybe? no? who can say!! At the end of nu52 Nightwing, he doesn't want to go undercover and Bruce beats him up, but then in Grayson he seems totally on board with his mission and willing to actively lie to everyone, and then in Batman and Robin Eternal he carries out a whole secret mission behind nuTim's back because he thinks nuTim is maybe a spy and is scared (?) of confronting him directly, but also he's so sloppy about it that he gets followed and the bad guys find nuTim's parents. Oopsie! He represents The Heart and is super-caring but also somewhat ditzy with a tendency to leap before he looks, and also he's very very very goodlooking and Grayson would really like you to know that.

You can try to make sense of this character's internal motivations and I have read various enjoyable fanfics that do, but in the comics I don't feel like he's clearly characterized.

3) Dick should be a convincing team leader

I know I kind of talked about this earlier but it bothers me SO MUCH that I have to talk about it again dsfdsfds

Preboot Dick is a natural leader: he seizes control of the feuding personalities in the Fab Five; he does the same thing in the NTT; he stands up to Bruce. He can overrule strong personalities like Pantha and Roy; he can hold his ground against the Outsiders. He doesn't back down and he doesn't quit. He's got instinctive authority, and he's a forceful and aggressive enough leader that he can lead teams even when his teammates are feuding or difficult or arguing with each other. Sometimes he's a little too forceful and it backfires on him, but for the most part, it works!

By contrast, nu52 Dick often comes off as kinda... hapless? He's definitely not a force to be reckoned with.

Like, just to take one small example, in post-Crisis's Red Robin 14, Tim and Damian are fighting and Dick wants them to cut it out, so he throws a batarang at Tim's staff and snaps at him, and the fight stops immediately. By contrast, in nu52's Batman and Robin 10, Tim and Damian are arguing and Dick wants them to cut it out, but nuDick is incapable of confronting anyone over anything so he just sighs about it, passive-aggressive and ineffectual.

And "ineffectual" is too often the vibe I get from n52 Dick in general. You put that man with Pantha, and he'll probably be bemused, but he won't be able to make Pantha do anything, and he wouldn't be able to make Danny Chase do anything, and he can't or won't stand up to Bruce so he has to lie the way Tim does, and he would never have a fistfight with Roy over the proper way to lead a team.

And in a lot of ways this makes sense, because n52 Dick isn't a team leader, because they've deleted the Titans. He's just a guy. He's nice, I guess.

But even though he gets all kinds of excellent woobie plotlines that I'd normally enjoy (an evil organization is stalking him personally! his dad is beating him up and forcing him into becoming a spy! he's losing his memory!) his personality is usually so far off from the character I like that I struggle to get invested.

Because the thing is, Dick's leadership instincts aren't incidental to what I like about him. They're all wrapped up in his outsized sense of personal responsibility and instinctive belief that if anything is going wrong anywhere near him then it is his obligation to handle it and if anything goes wrong then it's his fault if he was involved and also his fault if he wasn't involved and actually if you have ever gotten within five feet of him and unrelatedly something bad happened to you then it's probably his fault and he FAILED. This belief gives Dick a lot of control issues and makes him bitchy sometimes and is not great for his mental health, but it's also very endearing and an outgrowth of how much Dick cares!

Anyway, re:bitchiness, I have similar feelings about various choices in Batgirls and in Tim Drake: Robin and in current Nightwing; like, I don't think any of these stories are bad ipso facto, I don't begrudge anyone who likes them, and I certainly enjoy fluffy fanfic sometimes - I don't always want the same things in transformative fandom that I want in canon.

But in comics, I often want the characters to have a bit of edge, to be cranky and difficult and just... y'know, clearly the kind of people who would choose to be vigilantes. I want them to care enough to be bitchy about it. And I often feel like I'm missing that, post-2011.

[jeankirsteinsgrlfrnd]

Hii i saw you have requests open and I was wondering if you'd write about DILF!Jean falling for his son babysitter (he's divorced already and he was when they met) or DILF jean headcannons in general

Hope u can and if not it's okay,have a nice Christmas!! Take care♡

pairing: dilf!jean x fem!reader

word count: 1.3k

content + warnings: nothing really. just fluff & some kissing.

a/n: this was sooo fun to write tbh! thank u for ur request!! i hope you had a nice christmas!!

not too long ago, you started working for jean kirstein. well, more like baby-sitting. jean kirstein was a rich, recently divorced dad of one. he had a son who was about two years old and cute as all hell. despite jean not needing to work one more day in his life, he chose to. he wanted to set a good example for his son and quite frankly, he’d be too bored sitting around his house everyday. that’s when he found you, a nice young girl who had experience in babysitting.

when jean first met you, he could tell you were an ideal hire. you were well dressed. you weren’t wearing anything ‘slutty’ or too comfortable. plus, you were easy on his eyes. and his son had taken an immediate liking to you, which was the most important thing to jean. he didn’t hesitate to give you the job and he promised to pay you handsomely. hell, even if he didn’t pay you, you’d consider the job due to the fact of how good looking he was. you thought every woman in town should be jealous of you.

as time went on, you and jean developed a more than professional relationship. you two became friends. he liked you particularly because you’d listen unlike all of the douchebags at work. he liked that he’d come home to a clean house, a fed and in bed baby, and a pretty girl, although he told himself he’d never admit that to you. jean appreciated that you never complained about the hours and always offered to help out with other things around the house. jean knew he could count on you.

there became a time jean started looking at you differently. you weren’t sure quite when it started. the first time you noticed was when you were doing the dishes after you and his kid had just finished dinner. jean had gotten home early unexpectedly. you didn’t hear the front door open due to the running water. the sound of jean clearing his throat was enough to make you jump and drop a dish in the sink. luckily for you, it didn’t break. you turned the water off and turn around to find your boss leaning against the counter, with his arms crossed.

“I’m so sorry. I wasn’t expecting you.” your words fall out in a rush. to your surprise, jean just laughs. his eyes are shimmering with something you can’t quite put your finger on. that was the first night you suspected something was up with him.

after that, jean started paying you more. you weren’t going to complain. jean kept that glint in his eyes, at least whenever he was around you. you couldn’t help the feeling that his eyes were always on you when he’d come home. then, he started having you help out with his son when he was home. he said something along the lines of, “i want to work from home more to be more available for my son but that doesn’t mean i can always keep the best eye on him. i’d appreciate your help more than you’d know, (y/n.)”

how could you say no when he’d say your name like that?

eventually, staying during the day turned into staying for dinner. jean’d cook and you’d watch the baby while he did. jean’s son was an easy baby and you were grateful. you were being paid a lot more than you deserved. you liked staying for dinner. you liked playing housewife even if your fantasy was just one sided. or at least that’s what you thought.

you and jean continued on with this charade for a few months, blissfully unaware of the other’s feelings. you wish you could be with him. you’ve seen the type of man he is. he’s thoughtful, caring, a great cook, a great dad and incredibly handsome. the list goes on. on the other hand, jean was noticing all sorts of things about you. like the way you’d tie your hair up before getting a head start on the chores. or the way you’d blush when he’d pull a chair out for you. or how natural you looked holding his son.

everything changed one night. you had stayed extra late this particular night. jean had meetings all night long. he was doing them virtually but insisted you stay incase his kid woke up. you obliged, secretly hoping he’d ask you to stay. eventually, you pass out on the couch with the baby monitor on the coffee table in front of you.

you wake the next morning to find a blanket covering you. you start to panic, realizing you had fallen asleep on the job, when you were supposed to be keeping an ear out for cries. you dart up, looking for you phone to look at the time. it’s bright in the room and you know it’s the next day. you wander in the kitchen to find jean sitting at the table, reading the newspaper with a cup of coffee sitting in front of him. he’s wearing a black t-shirt and a pair of flannel pajamas. you had never seen this look on him and quite frankly, he looked as good as ever.

he set the newspaper down at your arrival. immediately, you began profusely apologizing for your carelessness. jean smiles.

“i wouldn’t have let you stay if you weren’t wanted.”

these words make you blush. they make you realize how bad you want him and how you’d do anything to be his wife. was there a chance he wanted you too?

jean got up from his chair and pushed it in behind him. “you don’t have to apologize. you aren’t in trouble. the boy was just fine all night. it was unfair of me to ask you to stay so late.” he admitted, leaning against the counter next to you. “truth is, the real reason you were here is a little…selfish.”

your heart was beating so fast. your ears couldn’t believe what they were hearing. and god, your eyes could not stop looking at him. his kind, hazel eyes. his messy brown-blond hair. and his scruff. and his pink, perfect lips. “why was i here?” the words somehow find a way out while you hope you know the answer.

“because i wanted you here.” he moved closer to you. your stomach was in knots, twisting and turning. jean reached a hand up to hold the side of your face. your cheek where his hand rested was burning. you weren’t sure if it was you or him that was so warm. you can’t find anything to say. there’s nothing moving around in your brain except for him. “(y/n,)” he started, brushing a thumb across your cheek. “why do you think you’re here so much?”

“to do my job.”

“no. try again.” jean whispered.

“i don’t know.” you whispered back.

“i think that you do.” jean leaned closer, his forehead resting against yours. instinctively, your hand went up to grip his wrist. he was looking right into your eyes. his gaze never faltered. it was that look again. the one from all those nights ago. he pulled away. jean turned his head away and sighed. “(y/n), don’t make me say it.”

“you’re falling for me.” you whispered, your forehead and cheek still burning from his gentle touch. he turned his head back to you, eyes now filled with hope.

“are you…falling for me?” he asked but it came out as more of a plea. you nodded your head. you couldn’t believe this was happening. you were sure you were still asleep and going to wake up soon. “you’re certain?” he tilted his head.

“yes.” your voice still came out as a whisper, afraid the moment would end if you spoke any louder. this was all the confirmation jean needed to hear. it was music to his ears. he took a step closer. you’re afraid your heart might actually beat out of your chest.

jean’s face was leaning in towards yours. you closed your eyes, afraid but wanting. needing. his lips met yours. they are soft and gentle. they’re warm. you felt jean’s hands wrap around your waist as he pulled his mouth away from yours. you opened your eyes finally.

“i’m a cliche, aren’t i?” he asked. “falling for the babysitter?”

you can find my jean fic by clicking here

[azzifuddworlddomination]

casual pt. 3

paige x azzi fic

yall already knowwwww i did not proof read

this is mostly filler

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“No… no… no…” Colleen replies mindlessly as Azzi holds up different shirts, “Az, I seriously don’t think going to Montana is a good idea. How did you even get your parents to agree to this? They take holidays pretty seriously.” Azzi takes a breath, “I told them I’d spend the entirety of Christmas break with Jon and Jose.” “Yeah? Until Paige comes over,” Colleen says under her breath. “Are you gonna help or no?” Azzi asks her. “Fine,” Colleen says as she settles back onto Azzi’s bed. 

Azzi stands under the awning of their dorm building as Paige pulls the car up. Its cold Connecticut morning and the snow is falling in thick and heavy flakes. After what seems like a very cold forever, Paige pulls around and parks. Hopping out of her car, she goes around to open the trunk. As her hand lands on Azzi’s suitcase, she’s met with resistance. Azzi tugs the suitcase from Paige’s hands, “I can put it in myself y’know.” Paige gives her a confused look as Azzi doesn’t pay her any mind, instead going around to get in the passenger’s seat. “I turned the heated seat on for you, I know you like that,” Paige says, as Azzi stares out the window. 

Azzi doesn’t want to be mad. She would be thrilled to be going to spend Thanksgiving with her girlfriend’s family. But that wasn’t the case. She was going to act as a buffer between her best-friend-turned-friends-with-benefits-in-hopes-of-them-being-together-one-day-in-the-future-but-one-of-them-pretty-much-ruined-that-after-acting-like-what-they-had-was-not-worth-actually-pursuing-and-they-are-just-casually-hooking-up-otherwise-known-as-a-situationship and her mother, who albeit is caring but struggles to connect with her daughter. To make matters even worse, Paige’s mom doesn’t know they’ve ever been anything beyond friends. She figured if Paige could bring her best friend, it would make Montana a little less boring. 

After an uncomfortably quiet ride, which luckily Paige just chalked up to Azzi being tired, they arrived at the airport. Paige watched in the mirror as Azzi grabbed both bags and mumbled something under her breath before she closed the trunk and gave Paige the go-ahead to go park. After finding a parking spot Paige noticed that Azzi had forgotten her unicorn neck pillow on the seat. She reached over and grabbed it. It’s the neck pillow she’s had since high school. Paige had seen it on more flights and bus rides than she could count. And on each on of those flights and bus rides without fail Paige had talked Azzi’s ear off as much as she would let her. Even though Azzi would tell Paige to just shut up and close her eyes, she never stopped listening until Paige stopped talking. She was such a good best friend. After enough reminiscing, Paige grabs the pillow and reaches for the car door. 

Azzi sits near the airport entrance as she toys with the tags on Paige’s bag. Azzi thought having multiple tags on her suitcase was a little redundant, but as she flipped through the tags she stopped at the one with the Hopkins High School logo on the back. It still had Paige’s old Minnesota address. Azzi reminisced on the times that she had gone to Minnesota to visit her, or the times she had traveled to see Paige play for Hopkins. Azzi started to look at the tag with the UConn logo on it, the address almost identical to hers. Only the room number differed. Azzi thought to herself for a moment, what it would be like to finally live together. Would their bedding be pink or purple, or maybe they’d mutually agree on a different color or a mix of the two? It was dumb, Azzi thought, it wasn’t worth wasting her time thinking about. You wouldn’t know how stupid she finds it, if you knew how much she thought about all the hypotheticals in her in Paige’s lives; all of the what ifs, all of the far-off futures, all of the daydreams, and delusions. Azzi flipped to the deep purple tag, it listed her Maryland address. She remembers Paige’s face when she told her that she finally wouldn’t live so far away. She could barely contain her excitement. Finally, Azzi flipped over a pinkish-purple tag, listing Azzi’s house under the address. It was from when Paige stayed with her and her family during covid. She couldn’t help but feel a little sentimental over all the milestones she’s been through with Paige. 

“Stalking me or something?” Paige laughed as Azzi looked up at her like a deer in headlights, “you, uh, forgot this in the car,” Paige says as she hands Azzi the neck pillow. “Thanks,” Azzi shortly responds. Azzi feels caught in the act, wondering how long Paige saw her looking at the different tags she had on her bag while Paige wonders if Azzi can feel that Paige held onto the neck pillow a little longer than she should’ve and reminisced over all the places they’ve been together.

“You know, flying back from Argentina was probably the best flight I’ve been on. To this day,” Paige admits. “Really?” Azzi looks at her. “Yeah, a hundred percent. I’d do a twelve-hour flight with you any day, over a one-hour flight with anyone else. Azzi starts to wonder how bad it would be if she opened up an emergency exit would be, like who says that???? A few beats too late, Azzi responds, “Me too.” As the captain prepares the cabin for take off Paige looks nervously at Azzi, “you know I’m still scared of take off right?” “Still?” Azzi looks at her? “Yeah, still,” Paige responds. Azzi uncrosses her previously crossed arms as she allows Paige to slink her hand under her own and intertwine their fingers.

Paige squeezes her hand as they take off. Azzi squeezes it back as a sign of reassurance. Even as they finally reach their cruising altitude Paige doesn’t remove her hand. As the flight goes on Azzi feels Paige’s hand go limp as she drifts off to sleep. Their fingers intertwined until they touched down in Montana, Azzi couldn’t make up her mind if this trip would be her saving grace or her biggest regret. 

[atthebell]

do you have any recommendations/resources to learn spanish?? i've been using busuu for about 104 days now, imo opinion it's actually pretty fun and i like it but i think my main problem with it is that it goes too fast?? it's hard to explain. it's also started to feel kinda repetitive to me. i still love busuu and i'm going to continue with my course, but it'd be nice to also have something else. like, preferably not an app, maybe a textbook or a website or something :D i don't really WHERE to find resources for language learning, despite being bilingual, i never really had to look on the internet to learn the languages i speak now, i picked it up from the people around me you know?

i've also been ''using'' duolingo but tbh, i really hate it. it feels boring to me, everyday it's ''ok what sentence am i going to be forced to write for the 40th time today?'' the single 'square' has 5 lessons and a 'unit' has around 10-8 of those squares and to finish a 'unit' you have to do about 50-45 of those lessons, which is shit because a 'unit' is only going to teach about 3 sentence structures and if you're lucky maybe 5. it's so shit, those greedy fuckers basically made it unusable. i've been using for about 140 days now, every single day i take at least one lesson, and it STILL has not taught me a SINGLE spanish tense. btw, i even had an entire phase where i would finish UNITS in about an hour and a half (1 min or less for every lesson) and still not a single ''pretérito Indefinido'' actual pain 🫠🫠 one day ll delete that app, one day (i guess that's why i like busuu in the first place, it actually teaches you these tenses and even some slang while duolingo makes you write ''papá, quiero visitar a nuestra abuela'' for the 700th time this week)

i want to watch vods and stuff, but tbh, i feel way too embarrassed? like, i don't know enough spanish to really understand them and even when they say basic sentences that i understand, i still have to listen to it multiple times and slow down the clip for me to really get it. the thing with spanish is that i'll understand the meaning of the words being said but i need to take a second or so to really comprehend what they mean together you know? i don't want to have to watch the stream slowed down because that would definitely make me feel stupid 😭 maybe when i have better spanish i'll start watching vods. although i do listen to spanish songs sometimes, it's fun :D

first thing: you don't have to feel embarrassed about needing time to process things/needing to listen to things slowed down. language learning is difficult and there are a lot of obstacles for many people; this is something i do understand and want to stress that i get that it's hard. you are not a bad person or an idiot or whatever for having a hard time understanding things-- you are still learning, and besides that, sometimes hearing things isn't someone's strong suit (it absolutely did not use to be mine, but i've practiced a lot and gotten much better at it. i'm still much much better at reading text in other languages, but it is something you can always improve on). if you need to take extra time to watch things, that is not a personal fault of yours nor does it make you stupid. everyone has different skill sets, and you can always practice to get better.

second thing: my own criticisms of both busuu and duolingo, along with their strengths. duolingo first, because i've used it since like. idk like 2016? not consistently but i've used it far more over the years and i'm very familiar with various changes they've made and the esp, ptbr, and french courses. busuu ive only been using for a few months

to get it out of the way, the recent change to laying off translators and using more AI in lessons. this sucks, obviously, for a myriad of reasons. machine translation cannot match with human translation, and frankly never will be able to. there are vast amounts of nuance and cultural context necessary for translation, along with the fact that an AI led course does not actually hit on all the things someone needs, particularly on a basics/foundational level. and from an ethical standpoint, laying off a ton of human translators because you think you can replace them with inaccurate machine translation sucks and is why so many people have dropped duolingo, myself included.

duolingo also has limitations in terms of format-- it gamifies language learning, which can make it feel more accessible to people and makes people want to open it and practice every day. however, most people use duolingo to do one lesson once a day and that's it. they're not getting in practice from lessons previously completed, they're not drilling vocab or conjugations, they're not actually maintaining or even remembering what they've already learned. obviously there are people (like myself, when i still used the app) who practice far more than that and continue to drill previous lessons, but that's not the majority, and it's not incentivized by the app. the paywalling of completing certain lessons and being able to drill error words also sucks for this reason. basically duolingo is not an ideal setup for actually maintaining knowledge once you go through it the first time and also the way the courses are laid out just. does not, imo, actually make sense. they rarely actually explain what they're trying to teach you and they don't get into enough detail on most concepts. and there is no incentive to review, which is hugely important. not an ideal situation for language learning, especially on its own.

my pros for duolingo: it gets you to practice daily. this is honestly what i use busuu for at this point-- when i get a notif for it, i open it up and flick through a lesson, but i also pull out a textbook or two to look at things there and practice stuff. if whipping out duolingo every day helps you practice a language, that is, at bare minimum, something. preferably you should be studying for at least 15min if not up to an hour or more of a language a day in order to really pick things up and maintain them; you can absolutely use duolingo or busuu for that (busuu i think is far less well formatted and oftentimes the lessons are very specific vocab, at least in the later courses).

for busuu, my issues are like. it's a poorly made imitation of duolingo, aside from a few things. the community aspect is something i REALLY like-- being able to send an exercise to a native speaker and get feedback on what to work on is great, especially with how it's a short answer question that lets you form your own sentences and try out vocab in context. that's a wonderful feature, and i really think it gets at something duolingo is completely missing.

but yeah like i said in terms of the lessons, busuu has very strange ways of teaching things. firstly, it's usually super specific topics and vocab that aren't paired with anything conceptually that helps you progress. usually in a language course, it's best to pair a concept you're working on with either relevant vocab or something that can be used to talk about similar subjects/in similar ways (for instance, subjunctive with food/restaurant vocab, so that you can build sentences both with the new vocab and using the new verbal form in ways that make sense, i.e. "I'll have whatever she's having, If I were to order the pasta, I would get a salad too," "If I were richer, I would always order filet mignon" (side note subjunctive is very difficult for eng speakers so idk if these examples actually make sense 😭))

also busuu will repeatedly teach me something phrased one way or with a certain word and then mark me wrong and insist i use a completely different word/phrase. i cannot figure out why it keeps doing this it's very frustrating. and it has recently been teaching me some european portuguese which is not what the course is supposed to be so i'm just baffled by what's going on there.

another positive for busuu, at least in contrast to duolingo, is it teaches you the vocab and phrases before quizzing you on them, which duolingo does not do. this is like a positive and also an "eh, idk" because i get why duolingo does that-- it's trying to throw you into using surrounding context to figure out what a word means, and that's a very good way to practice, but i think it doesn't necessarily achieve it well and sometimes will just spring random words on you without enough context for you to know what it's referring to without just clicking on the word anyway.

also neither app are good at teaching you verb conjugation or tenses which is really unfortunate for spanish and portuguese in particular, as they're both languages where verbs are really really key AND where understanding tenses and their names are important, particularly for native eng speakers who never got taught tense names or like. any terminology for languages in english 🙃

also here is a thing i wrote up complaining about duolingo & verbs ages ago: Duolingo does not teach you things explicitly. It expects you to pick them up in a semi-immersive style, which works okay most of the time for most people but for many people makes actually learning and understanding parts of a language very difficult. For instance, it won't teach you the exact difference in usage between ser and estar, in Spanish or Portuguese. This difference is something I spent weeks on in Spanish class in high school and continued to review the rest of my time learning Spanish in an academic setting-- it is a key element of two of the most important words in the language. Duolingo also doesn't explain stem changes or irregular verbs and their typical endings-- it simply expects you to pick these up and memorize them through sentence usage. Basically it's very obvious Duolingo was created by english speakers who were never taught key elements of their own language (this is not a dig on their personal fault; i was also never taught any of this shit about english) and don't know how to go about teaching a language, and the limited format doesn't help.

third thing, finally getting to what you actually asked: there are a lot of resources for learning spanish online! i'm not as familiar with them as i'd like, as i learned spanish in an academic setting, but i'll do my best to list some things out and anyone else can feel free to add on. i've been meaning to make a language learning advice post for literally ages and i guess this is going to become it lmao.

here is a video explaining how to make duolingo work for you along with other resources: A Linguist explains how to make duolingo actually work (tl;dr pair duolingo with conversation partners, textbook work, listening to music, watching movies, etc. etc.)

i've tagged this with my language learning tag, which has a bunch of resources including some specifically for learning spanish.

tumblr user salvador bonaparte has a drive of free textbooks you can check out here, including a ton of spanish resources. i also recommend looking around the internet/specifically linguistics tumblr to find more resources as well as looking at used bookstores/amazon/etc. for spanish textbooks to use, as that will provide a more thorough foundation along with other programs/types of learning.

i've never used babbel or any other online program like it, but spanish tends to be one of the more resource-heavy languages because it's so widely spoken, so typically spanish programs on various apps/sites are REALLY thorough (duolingo's spanish program is by far their best course, with a ton more resources than most other programs. you can go up to the equivalent of at least c2 on there i believe, versus many other languages where they don't even list the CEFR levels)

finally, the not-so-online answer: if you're in college/have a nearby community/junior college, consider taking spanish classes there! this option probably costs the most out of any others, but i genuinely think an academic setting is the a great way to learn a language for many people. if you're not one of them, that is totally fine, but an actual spanish course at a college is likely to be the most thorough way to learn the language. also many CCs/JCs offer spanish classes online, so if you can't drive or for whatever reason can't go to in-person courses, you'll likely still have options.

this is everything i can think of right now but i also want to add once again that learning a language is difficult!!! i know that, and i know that i complain a lot about monolinguals, but i am specifically complaining about people who refuse to engage respectfully with languages that are not their own and dismiss anything they don't understand as being stupid/not worth their time/culturally worthless. i am not complaining about people like you, who are trying really hard to engage with non-english content AND are trying really hard to learn another language.

i also think learning languages is one of the most incredible experiences there are and that expanding the kinds of cultural and social boundaries that you engage with is a really important facet of humanity that i wish more people would participate in. i get riled up because this is something i'm really truly passionate about, not because i think anyone is stupid or whatever for not learning. i want people to just try it and give it a chance, even if it's hard for them, and i'm glad that you are trying, anon. <333

[justporo]

A much better gift

A/N: We have a second giveaway fic! And this time it comes with Gale - and smut! This one is for @85blackcat and includes her wonderful OC Bellamy. I hope you enjoy your fic! Also I cannot help it apparently to make Gale at least somewhat lightly dominant...

Warnings: explicit sexual content, vaginal sex, light dom/sub dynamics, clothing kink, thigh riding, creampie

Summary: Bellamy prepares a gift for her wizard's birthday - which entails a silk robe and lots of delicate lace.

~~~

Having to spend days and nights with companions didn’t allow for much privacy. Specifically not for a slowly budding romance and relationship. Gale and Bellamy had barely taken the first few steps together as the party had arrived at Baldur’s Gate. But their adventure was still far from over. And while each of them wished for nothing more than to be able to spend time together and get lost in each other as often as possible, duty kept knocking on their door - that and Shadowheart when she felt she had to remind them of how thin the walls were at the Elfsong.

So, how do you figure out a life together when constantly being watched by at least five other people? Some of which - on top of that - couldn’t keep their godsdamned mouths shut. Astarion especially didn’t let a single opportunity slide to throw in a sassy remark about the wizard and druid growing closer. And while Gale had resorted to answering a snarky remark with another one Bellamy didn’t feel particularly keen about having her relationship to the wizard so on display.

But quiet moments these days were rare. And to be able to share them as just the two of them was even rarer.

But tonight, at least tonight, Bellamy would make good use of a special occasion.

It was Gale’s birthday. Nobody besides her knew since Gale had figured there wasn’t time for such “profane nonsense”, as he had called it.

But Bellamy wouldn’t let the opportunity slip away. For days she had been turning around ideas in her head about what she could possibly do for her wizard.

But what gift could you possibly give to a prodigy wizard who apparently already had everything?

In the end the answer had been easy: time - and herself. A private evening together. Maybe a little sneak-peek into what could be once they got past all of this.

And so Bellamy had used utter caution to prepare for a wonderful night together: she had arranged for a special dinner and wine at the Elfsong to be brought up to their room. She had sneakily asked the favour of all of her friends to not disturb them - at least for this one evening. Surprisingly, even the vampire had quickly agreed. With a raised eyebrow and mocking smirk playing around his lips, but still.

And then finally: Bellamy had sought around the tailor shops in the city to find the perfect wrapping for her gift, so to speak, made of delicate lace and shimmering silk.

Now Bellamy was perched on their joint bed in their room at the tavern. The day had thankfully been pretty boring all in all. For hours the party had walked around the city to investigate - and found out nothing new. So they had called it early for that day and Bellamy had snuck up to Gale’s and her room under the pretence of an oncoming migraine. When Gale had looked immediately worried she had felt a twinge of guilt for misleading him. But she’d make it up for him later.

She was waiting for him to come up and check on her as she knew he would certainly do at some point. The wood elf had draped herself on the bed in the lingerie and silk robe she’d gotten specifically for this. Two glasses of wine were already poured and the light from outside was already dim.

Bellamy’s heart was pounding as she waited for her beloved to discover this special kind of gift. And as she did so, watching how the low orange light of the lanterns threw dramatic shadows on her silken robe, she felt nervousness creep up inside of her.

But as she pondered if she should have just gotten him a tome at Sorcerers and Sundries, her thoughts were interrupted by the door opening.

Gale was in his normal, comfortable camp clothing and had his nose in a book, just like usual. That was probably also why it took Bellamy softly clearing her throat to catch his attention and look up from his reading as he closed the door behind him.

He almost dropped the small book he’d held as he was met with the sight of his lover sprawled out on the end of the bed and precariously clothed: dark hair cascaded over her shoulders like a waterfall of velvet right to where the delicate silk robe was opened just enough to allow a peek of the lacey secret lying beneath.

“Well, that’s certainly a kind of headache you must be having, my beloved,” Gale remarked as he couldn’t rip his eyes away from the surprising sight in front of him. The book in his hand was loosely dangling from his fingers now, the literature momentarily forgotten.

“Happy Birthday, Gale,” the druid whispered softly and moved slowly to get up. She felt the robe slide over her body as she did so, revealing more of what lay beneath. Gale’s eyes sparked at her, lips parting slightly at the sight of it.

“So you tricked me, Bellamy?” he murmured with a slight tease and in a low voice as the druid gracefully slid off the bed and stepped over to the wizard, delicately wrapping her arms around her lover’s neck, fingers combing through soft brown hair.

“It appears so,” she whispered back with a teasing smirk spreading on her lips. “And now you’ve walked right into my trap. You have no choice but to celebrate your birthday with me now.”

Their faces were so close now, the tension created between them already palpable as they shared conspiratory glances at each other.

Bellamy felt Gale’s warm hands slide under the hem of her robe, his fingertips wandering over her hips until they met lace. When he found it, a strained groan slipped from his lips as his warm eyes took on another quality. There was real heat in them now.

“Well, if I am left without a choice,” Gale started softly, his lips not an inch from hers now. His voice was low and promising. Bellamy felt his fingers digging into her hips, making her gasp from how the slight pain sent jolts throughout her body. “I think I’m going to start by slowly unwrapping my gift. If I may-”

Gods, wasn’t she glad she hadn’t just gotten him some dusty books.

The wood elf arched her back a little so her boobs squished against Gale’s chest and bit her lip. The friction made Gale groan again and had her pressing her thighs together.

“I’m all yours,” she answered breathlessly, staring up into the eyes of her beloved wizard, almost desperate already for him to make his words come true.

“Marvellous!” was the last thing he said before he finally pressed his lips to Bellamy’s.

Immediately, there seemed to be no space between them anymore. Gale’s tongue slipped into her mouth, swallowing the moan coming from the druid directly from her open lips. She felt the definite proof of his desire for her as he pressed his groin against her, fueling the heat between her own legs. Hands tangled in hair and delicate fabric as they stumbled backwards until Bellamy’s legs hit the edge of the bed. Almost stumbling onto it, Gale’s arms around her made sure she stayed as close to him as possible. His hands were cupping her behind now as he made his knee slide between her legs.

Almost in shock she tore away from him as Gale used his leverage to make her grind against his thigh now while he held her - trapped between the edge of the bed and his own body. She whimpered at the delicious friction as he made her slide along his leg, knowing that he must feel her heat and that the delicate lace lingerie would do nothing to keep her slick from spreading all over him.

“Is this your equivalent of shaking the gift box to guess what’s inside?” Bellamy burst out as she clawed at his arms for balance as he had her almost on her tiptoes and fully at his mercy.

His eyes sparked and he grinned as he made her grind against him a final time: “Maybe it is, I’m always up for a good game of guessing.”

Bellamy huffed, Gale softly chuckled.

Then he leaned forward until it was inevitable for Bellamy to let herself fall onto the bed. With his hands on her waist Gale quickly lifted her up onto the bed and followed closely behind.

He didn’t give her much of a break, daft fingers from spellcasting quickly unlacing her robe and tossing it off to the side to reveal what was waiting underneath. Only then did he pause shortly, observing how his beloved writhed beneath him in nothing but lacey swirls and flowers that barely left any room for imagination.

“Gods,” it spilled from his lips as his eyes wandered over her body and he used one hand to run it through his hair.

Coquettishly Bellamy let her hands roam her own body for a moment as she gave her lover ample room to admire her: “I hope the gift is to your liking, Gale, I don’t think there is a way to return it.”

The wizard’s gaze snapped back to hers. Bellamy could see how his eyes softened, how love entered the delicious cocktail of emotions in his eyes. There it was again, this warmth and this genuine smile.

Instead of answering he leaned forward, kissing her again, incredibly gently this time.

“I’m so glad you don’t have a return policy,” Gale mumbled against her lips in between kisses, softly lowering himself onto her and tangling his limbs with hers. Bellamy simply laughed as she felt the same warmth Gale was so obviously experiencing spread through her chest.

But the heat quickly rose from a simmer to a boiling point again, the fire rekindled, as they kept kissing. Their hands wandered over each other’s bodies. Bellamy made quick work of the wizard’s clothes, teasing him for how he had to keep up with her. She gasped when she had finally freed his aching hardened length and was rewarded with a rumbling groan as she began stroking him.

She was compensated in turn by Gale’s hand sliding between her legs as they kept kissing. His fingers quickly pushed the soaked lace to the side and began teasing her. Without hesitating Gale’s index entered her while his thumb found her clit.

If she had thought she was a mess before the wizard quickly proved her wrong.

Breaking the kiss she almost unwillingly arched her back until it was painful beneath him as Gale fingers started pleasuring her. She stared up at him, mouth open in a soundless moan and unable to do anything more but clawing her fingers into his arm.

A second finger entered her as he pressed the pad of his thumb to her sensitive bud and had her eyes roll into the back of her skull. There were no coherent thoughts anymore, no clever plans or teasing remarks - only boundless lust and the desire to feel more of it, all of it.

“Gale,” Bellamy pressed out as she bowed her body to the wizard, the need for more primal inside her. “Please,” she pleaded, digging her fingers into his arms a little harder, her back almost lifting off the bed as Gale’s fingers plunged into her again.

Thankfully, he understood. The wizard withdrew from her, making her almost sob at the sudden loss. But Gale was quickly on top of her hands, gliding over her body, squeezing her tits, before journeying over her arms and then pressing her hands down on each side of her head. Meanwhile, his hips ground against her, his dick rubbing against her heated, slick core. He kept going like this for a few more strokes until he finally entered her effortlessly, all while his eyes bored into hers and he filled her to the brim.

“Gods, you’re truly a gift sent by the heavens,” it burst out of Gale once he had adjusted to the sensation of being inside his lover.

Bellamy threw her head back in a laugh. “Can you believe I almost just got you a few boring books?” she asked, ending the sentence in a breathless gasp as she felt Gale withdrew and then slowly and forcefully thrust into her again.

“Oh thank goodness you didn’t,” Gale groaned and began picking up a steady pace, rolling his hips into her, each time a little harder. “As much as I enjoy theory, the practicality of things is often much more enticing. This is a much better gift!”

Bellamy could only helplessly stare at him for almost holding a lecture while fucking her.

But further conversation was futile as they moved together now, staring into each other's eyes. Bellamy’s legs wrapped around Gale’s hips as he kept fucking into her, his pace becoming more ragged quickly.

Then Bellamy fell first.

She felt the tension in her body snap as she arched her back into the oncoming wave of her orgasm. In the back of her mind she noticed Gale forcefully twitch inside of her as he joined her in her fall and spilled inside of her.

They rode out the waves - Gale resting his forehead on Bellamy’s chest and her arms now softly wrapped around him. Both of their chests were heaving as they recovered slowly.

Then Gale softly mumbled something into her chest, still inside of her.

“Hm?” Bellamy simply made, too lazy to bother with actual words at the moment.

Gale lifted his head, looking at her with a smile playing on his lips: “I asked if I could wish for the same gift for next year, my beloved Bellamy.”

The wood elf simply laughed and grabbed his face for a kiss.

“For the next and every year after, my beloved Gale.”

[sweetlikehoneystingslikeabee]

This is a weird question but do you have any hcs about what the rogues wear to bed? I can picture what the Gotham City Sirens would wear but not the male rogues.

Does Two-Face have custom pajamas sewn together? Can Black Mask just throw on a t-shirt, or are his pjs as dressy as his regular clothes? Are all of Riddler's pjs green? What the hell would Scarecrow even wear?

The people need to know!

"Pajama Party" Rogue Party

Quick picks!

TW: None

Riddler

They are not all green, but green shows up often even in his out of work clothing. Either as trim or the spare speckles of paint or markers he's used. His pajamas are not free from this.

He likes soft, but also good-looking pajamas (in case of guests). However... does he wear them? On the occasions he actually goes to bed and doesn't just pass out over an invention or plans, yes! Otherwise...

Penguin

Silk. Monogrammed. Paid way too damn much for them but they're also perfectly tailored to his... proportions. He figures it's not that dissimilar to how he has to have his suits customized. The soft feeling of them against his skin is blissful. Makes him feel rich.

Mad Hatter

Has multiple nightshirts in a variety of colors and patterns. He doesn't actually like full two-piece pajamas because they remind him far too much of the scrub-like outfits he was made to wear in Arkham.

You could 100% get him on wearing kigurumi onsies if they were cute enough.

Scarecrow

He has a similar habit to Edward in that he falls asleep working pretty often. When he sets aside to actually go to bed, he wears a lot of old t-shirts with sweatpants. Many of them are from his days of being a professor (bought from the college store) or ones he came across over the years.

Music Meister

Buys cheesy print pajama sets on sale at like Kohl's or target. Multiple have music notes or even musical puns on the shirt. One shirt just says "I wish I lived in a musical" and he answers the door holding a yellow mug with the word "playbill" on it.

Victor Zsasz

Sleeps in whatever he's wearing that night or the nude. Have fun finding out which one when he gets in bed with you. Sometimes has the decency to pull off clothing that's caked with blood. At minimum he won't wear clothes with wet blood on them to bed! The bar is low but it's still a bar, right?

Killer Croc

There's a fair amount of times he sleeps in the nude simply because he already has a harder time finding clothing in his size. If he does wear something out of respect for whatever current company, it's a tank top with the largest sweats he could find. They're still stretched out from being over his thighs.

Harley Quinn

Oversized t-shirt or tank top with pajama shorts. She has a couple cute kigurumi onesies (including a hyena set to match her babies) for in the winter that she adores. Ultimate comfort creature when it comes to bed time.

Poison Ivy

It depends on if she's expecting to "impress" anybody. If she is, it's straight up lingerie that compliments against her green-hued skin. Teddies, corsets, whatever is going to make her target that much more susceptible. If not, it's a light silk robe where shes' still very attractive, it's just for her and not anyone else. Harley bought her a flannel set during a particularly harsh winter that she still pulls out when it gets too cold.

Two-Face

Jokes on you, it's not a pajama set split in the middle! ...It's actually a robe set along with rabbit slippers that are split in the middle. One white rabbit slipper, one pink and several multicolored robes sewn together from pairs. Harvey is kind of boring, he likes either monochrome with no pattern or stripes. Harv's side is leopard print or something else showy.

Black Mask

When he was growing up/a young man before the Incidents, he would wear five-hundred dollar minimum pajamas that had designer names on them. He still owns some of those sets so he does in fact wear them from time to time. However, his are more likely to have a fancier aesthetic than him spending that much money still.

Mr. Freeze

Due to the temperature requirements of his body, there are times he'll sleep in the suit. Is it good for him? Absolutely not, it does murder to his back. Plus the suit is a bit heavy for a mattress... he does have a sleeping chamber set to a low temperature where he'll effectively sleep in trunks on the bed with only a sheet covering him.

Ra's al-Ghul

Usually sleeps shirtless in a loose pair of cotton pants when he's closer to home where it's much warmer. In Gotham, though? In the winter? He'll wear thicker robes that will actually keep him warm.

Bane

He wears boxers to bed. He'll combine it with socks in the winter. It doesn't get more complex than that, honestly.

[nervosims]

my gameplay rules

I constantly allude to the existence of gameplay rules, but I've never outright made a dedicated post about them... so here it is! I'll make a dedicated video for this at some point, but enjoy this lovely wall of text <3.

link to the dedicated video: here!

general gameplay style

I'm quite fast and loose with my gameplay. I'm primarily wants-based, but sometimes I want sims to do certain things so I'll just make it happen. If a sims doesn't roll a want to do certain things, however, then I won't make them do it (i.e going to college). If they roll the want to skip work, sometimes I'll let them do it 'cause it brings chaos.

So, basically, if anything sounds fun, I'll probably do it. I find it hard to stick to rules that are too strict, so most of mine are general rules of thumb. If I ever find myself getting bored, I rarely ever blame the game. The game is pretty kooky, so if nothing crazy is happening, it means I'm simply not allowing anything to happen.

I play with 7 day rounds! Using this mod that makes seasons 7 days long, I just play the whole week. Plus, any holidays I may want my sims to celebrate will be on the Sunday!

🧓 aging and death

Marticore has a great video on Sims 2's aging system, so I pretty much abide by that. Aging sims up when they receive that one day until their birthday notification. I use the Nice Lifespan mod, which adds a bunch of days and makes things make a bit more sense. I also edited the mod to age them up at midnight (because 6pm aging makes no sense).

Because my lifespan is so much longer, I recently started playing with slower skilling all-around. Using the 6-hr version of this mod.

Also, a higher a witch/warlock's alignment is, the longer they live (with the help of BO's slow aging controller). That's why Olive is still very much alive in my game, she's max alignment so she ages once a week.

When a sim is nearing death, I keep in mind inheritance. I use SimNopke's Inventory Inheritance to give away any stray items to their next of kin. If the sims owns a house, then the ownership goes to the child with the highest relationship. If the sims doesn't have any kids, then it goes to their spouse. If they aren't married, it goes to a very close friend. If they don't meet any of those requirements (bro how?!), then I sell the house and give the money to the orphanage.

I also really like playing with trans sims! I'm nonbinary myself so I need to project, obviously <3. So I roll a 5% chance of transing their gender... as a little treat. I'm still in the process of figuring out this mod, that'll let me have the memory of transitioning.

Death is also final in my game (with some extreme caveats). So, sims can't get resurrected unless the sim resurrecting is lvl 10 paranormal, and max witch alignment. And, anyone who's besties with tha sim gets to resurrect a sim of their choice. It's sort of a punishment for letting a sim die.

🌠 aspiration and personality

Sophie the Puffin has an absolutely killer aspiration calculator. I calculate everyone's secondary aspiration, and usually set them. Though, this can change depending on how I'm feeling. If I feel like it doesn't suit them, then I simply just won't set it.

I use the aspiration calculator to age up sims from child to teen as well! Using this interest age mod, it allow child sims to have more varied interests. I kinda stick to their secondary aspirations, because I can't be bothered to change it.

💼 career, education, and finances

I tried using Edukashun is Gud and… it just doesn’t make sense that I can’t be a Lvl 10 Criminal because I don’t have a degree. Like, that’s so silly. So I use Doctors Need Degrees that’s way more detailed. 

Unless a sim wants to go to college, I won’t make them go. They need to roll the want on their birthday (or the day before). Once they do roll that want, I note down the day they moved out and play the family as normal. I play a whole round before I move the sims back in, to simulate time passing while they were in college. College is free, because you should never pay for education, but accommodation isn’t so sims will probably need to take out loans (4% interest rate)  to pay for bills and the like. If my sims don’t want to pass the year, they won’t (but if they roll a fear of failure, they can pass). I just play it by ear.

Of course, semester changes is used… I’m not a lunatic.

No 20k handouts is an absolute godsend, so that’s an absolute must for me. Usually, graduates move out into apartments, but with the Tenancy and Landlord mod by Monique, I can have them rent out a house. This is what I’ve currently been doing with my La Fiesta Tech grads.

Child support is also a thing! It’s super handy, and also adds some challenge to managing finances.

👨‍👩‍👧‍👦 family

Romance sims have a 35% of giving their child up for adoption (or giving their child to their partner). They don’t wanna get bogged down with responsibilities! Similarly, they can’t try for baby (unless secondary family). Unless they roll a fear for having a baby, I won’t put them on birth control. And I’ll only take them off of birth control when they roll a want to have a child. If they roll this fear while pregnant, I terminate the pregnancy (1st trimester only).

I also nabbed this rule from a reddit thread:

Though, I’ll still give the child away, family sim or not. I think it’s pretty realistic to feel in over your head with something as major as a child.

Getting your child taken away is also harder in my game, because I play with kids and pets unattended. You actively need to be evil for your kid to be taken away.

Aliens can impregnate/be impregnated regardless of the situation. They’re aliens! Don’t think about it!

I don’t have a hard and fast rule for number of children permitted (how dystopian), but I have a general rule of thumb. A romance/pleasure sim won’t want to have 3 kids probably, so 1 or 2 is alright.

No super fertility because I love my life! And I play with a quads mod, so I truly do not need it.

And if a gay/infertile couple want a genetic child, they need to either be lvl 10 of the science career (or be best friends with someone who is).

💞 romance

ACR my beloved &lt;3. And romantic standards! I find ACR makes everyone horny freaks, so having romantic standards adds some challenge. Plus, it makes it much harder to just force a relationship. I don’t play with teen/adult romance — nor do I play with teen pregnancy. There’s no rush to have kids! They have the rest of their lives.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

Anyway hopefully this adds some context to what I’m thinking of when I play the game. Maybe you’ll adopt some of these rules too? Maybe I’ll add some more? I’ll be sure to update when I do!

[pancakes4lifer]

Miss Circle x Daughter!Reader

Repost! Because why not?

~Re-blogs would be sweet~

Warnings: Possibly a little violence (Angst)

Hc:

(Y/n) calls Miss Circle by her teacher name (Miss), not by mother, mom, or anything like that.

(Y/n) looks very similar to Miss Circle (Claws, etc)

MISS CIRCLE / Daughter!Student READER

“Please.. I just need one mor-!”

. . .

(Y/n) fiddled with their pencil, narrowing their eye(s?) at the question.

‘Didn’t I practice on this..?’

‘Mother wouldn’t hurt me.. Right-?’

(Y/n) sighed, scrawling down a random answer.

‘Right. She won’t.’

RIIIINNNG!

Everybody’s head’s snapped up, including (Y/n)’s.

“(Y/n)? Your test, please.” 

(Y/n) turned around, looking at Miss Bloomie with alarm.

“But..” (Y/n) sighed yet again, handing over the unfinished test with a trembling claw.

Miss Bloomie snatched up the test handing (Y/n) another sheet of paper.

“I expect you to turn this into your mother.” Miss Bloomie replied sternly, tapping the paper with her claw before turning away.

(Y/n) let out a breath of relief as Miss Bloomie walked back up the classroom to yell at Abbie, who looked horrified.

‘Poor Abbie. He tried.’ (Y/n) sniffed, turning the paper over, their eyes widening in horror at the words across the sheet.

F, I expected more, (Y/n).

(Y/n) slammed the paper on its front faster than they could process. 

‘Not again-! She’ll kill me!’ (Y/n) dug their claws into their head, frustrated. ‘I need to hide it before she can see.’ (Y/n) sprang up from their chair, raising their claw(hand) in the air.

“MISS BLOOMIE! I NEED TO USE TH-”

“GO AHEAD!” Miss Bloomie screeched back, seeming ticked off at being interrupted. (Y/n) nodded quickly before tucking the paper underneath their jacket and hurrying outside.

‘Her office is somewhere down to the left..’ (Y/n) made a sharp turn. ‘She should be teaching now, right?’

(Y/n) looked down briefly, fumbling with the key she was given to enter the office. As soon as (Y/n) got a firm (well, firm if you had a claw of the hand) grip on the key, they slid it into the lock, stepping inside the office nervously. (Y/n) blinked, taking out the sheet of now-crumbled paper and gently placing it underneath all of Miss Circle’s documents.

‘There, that was way easier than I thought.’ (Y/n) rubbed their claws together in excitement, dashing out of the room right after. ‘Mother will never find those..’ (Y/n) tipped their head, forcing a smile. ‘..At least not for a while. I’ll explain to her later.’

~Short time skip, maybe a week?~

(Y/n) sat next to Engel and Claire, the new student. 

“Of course! This place is pretty nice when you get to know everybody!” (Y/n) said cheerfully, taking a bite out of their apple. ‘How strange.. Claire seems to only be paying attention to Engel.’ (Y/n) put their head on their backpack, bored.

“May ‘(Y/n)’ please go to Miss Circle’s office?”

 Miss Grace’s voice rang throughout the school, sending alarm through (Y/n). (Y/n) quickly stood up, looking nervous.

“..Are you ok?” Engel asked nervously. The boy had looked quite startled by the sudden call.

(Y/n) smiled bitterly, starting to walk away. “I’ll be fine.” Engel nodded at those words, watching closely as (Y/n) left the cafeteria.

‘What could mother want from me now..? I completed all those quizzes already.’ (Y/n)’s thoughts wandered around as they made their way into the office, where Miss Circle was waiting.

“(Y/n).” Miss Circle’s voice was almost... Soft, as she looked at them. “Please, sit down.”

(Y/n) froze, their eyes widening. “Mo-Miss Circle? Is something wro-?”

“I SAID. Sit.” Miss Circle banged the compass(her hand weapon thingy) On the table, denting it.

(Y/n) yelped in fear and sat down quickly. “Ok, ok! Please..” (Y/n) trailed off under Miss Circle’s glare.

“Explain this to me.” Miss Circle held up a crumbled sheet of paper, which had a huge ‘F’ written on it.

“OH-I um.. It’s not mine..?” (Y/n) stuttered, quivering. “I don’t kno-”

“(Y/N). DO. NOT. LIE.” Miss Circle raised her voice, agitated. 

(Y/n) wilted, looking down at their claws. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to get.. That.. grade.” (Y/n) shut their mouth as Miss Circle continued.

“You already know what we do to failing students.” Miss Circle scrowled, dropping the paper. (Y/n)’s stood up, taking a few steps back. “Wait-! Mot-Miss Circle I-I can-” (Y/n)’s sentence turned into a scream of fear as Miss Circle brought her compass down next to her, narrowly missing. 

“I can’t excuse anyone from a failing grade, especially not in this school!” Miss Circle screeched back. “Not even my own.. Daughter.” She muttered, her angry expression turning briefly into one of.. Guilt? Remorse? It didn’t matter. (Y/n) had to die as her punishment for hiding a grade that terrible. 

(Y/n) let out a sound of protest as they tumbled back into the wall, shivering. “Mother, please! Give me one more chance!” (Y/n) wailed back, covering her face.

It didn’t help. Nothing could have helped as the sharp needle crashed into (Y/n). 

Soon enough, it was all over. Miss Circle stared at (Y/n) (what was left) with a sharp gaze. 

“It was your fault. Not mine.” Miss Circle said quietly, stepping back from the scene. “It was your… fau…” She couldn’t take it. She killed her own daughter just because of a grade..? ‘It was the right thing to do.. Right?’ Miss Circle looked away, beginning to walk. 

“It was your fault.”

“I had no choice.”

“You brought this upon yourself.”

Oh, how haunting this would be for the rest. of. her. life.

and done! Thanks for reading! (reblogs would be super cool)

[trohpi]

@microficmay • day 10: rise & fall • 869 words

cross-posted on ao3

In Marlene’s humble opinion, there are only three known constants in this ever-changing world: Chocolate is the superior ice cream flavour, Joan Jett is cool as fuck, and Regulus Black is one regrettably attractive poncy bastard— one that needs to get knocked off his high horse. Desperately.

Seeing as Madam Hooch had banned Marlene from speaking during the start of their games many moons ago following some titillating banter with the Black brother in question, they can only hope that the challenging glint in their eyes is enough to send the intended message.

You’re going down, Black.

The other Seeker merely raises his eyebrow, all haughty and aristocratic as if to say, That’s what you said last time.

By Merlin, does Marlene hate him.

All too soon the shrill blast of Madam Hooch’s whistle rings clear, and the game begins. Within moments, they’ve risen into the clouds as their eyes scan for the ever-elusive glint of gold. Across the pitch he sees Regulus doing the same which only fuels the flames of his stubborn resolve.

Marlene will catch the Snitch before Regulus does, if only so they can rub that sweet Gryffindor victory in his annoyingly pretty face.

“Oi, Marlene!” someone calls from some feet away. They drag their eyes away from Regulus and look over to see Sirius, Beater’s bat held loosely in his fist as he hovers nearby. His narrowed eyes bore holes into them.

They level him with the blankest of stares. “What?”

Sirius huffs and turns to fly off, but not before he calls over his shoulder wryly, “Stop ogling my brother and do your job!”

“Oh, fuck you, Black!” he calls after his friend, his face burning.

In the end, it really doesn’t take long for them to see the Snitch, nor does it take long for Regulus to take notice of their sudden burst of flight as they hightail it across the pitch. Within seconds he’s right behind them, and the race to win officially begins.

If Marlene had to choose their favourite part of Quidditch, it would be this. There’s nothing quite like the exhilarating rush of speed, the bobbing and weaving through the air as they push themself to the limit, the thrill of racing against fellow Seekers. The thrill of racing against Regulus, who is one of the most skilled players Marlene has ever gone up against— not that they’d ever tell him that.

Marlene’s heart races as they push forward, the Snitch tantalisingly close. Scooting higher on his broom, reaching out with his right hand, he can almost taste victory in the air.

That is, of course, until the Bludger.

Regulus shouts out as the bewitched ball flies in between the two Seekers, crashing into the tail end of Marlene’s broom. It tips over, and everything seemingly stops.

Their heart stutters as the freeing feeling of weightlessness disappears, replaced by heaviness as their broom slips from their fingers and gravity takes over, dragging them down.

Marlene gasps as they plummet.

“Fuck!” they hear Regulus cry from above, and they barely have time to ponder how odd it is to hear him curse before he is diving after them.

It feels like eternity, but it must be only moments before his slender fingers grab them by the wrist and catch them from midair. He grips onto them fiercely as he slowly descends to the ground.

“Merlin, Marlene,” he gasps as they touch down, immediately tossing the broom to the side as he cups their face in his hands. “Never do that again.”

“Never do what, get knocked off my broom? Not like I can bloody control that,” they say breathlessly. His hands are cold on their face, and they find that that’s all they can really think about.

Regulus decompresses, sighing shakily. They hesitate before clearing their throat.

“Is now bad timing to tell you that I caught the Snitch?”

Regulus hands fall from their face in shock. “You what?”

“Right before I fell,” Marlene says, opening his enclosed right hand to showcase the Snitch lying within. Distantly, he hears the crowds go wild as the commentator screams about Gryffindor’s victory. Regulus blinks in astonishment.

“Guess this means I can add another point to my wins column,” they add smugly. Regulus hums, disagreeing.

“I’d beg to differ. I won today.”

They splutter. “Wha— You absolutely did not!”

“I absolutely did,” he says calmly.

They wave the Snitch in front of his face. “I literally beat you!”

“And I literally just saved your life,” he shoots back.

Marlene groans dramatically, deflating. “I hate you so, so much.”

Regulus opens his mouth to reply, but he’s cut off by the sudden loud exclamation of, “What the actual fuck!”

Sirius throws his broom onto the ground where he just touched down, storming over to them.

“You fell! You seriously fell!”

“Well spotted,” Regulus quips. Sirius ignores him.

“Does your weird flirting with my brother have to include nearly falling to your death?” Sirius demands, throwing his arms up in the air theatrically.

Regulus’ lips twitch upwards and Marlene’s face heats even as he scowls.

“Shove off, Sirius. Don’t you and Crouch have your own brand of weird flirting to do?”

“Touché, McKinnon. Touché.”

[thepenultimateword]

Please, please, please continue Protective, I wanna know how their date goes!

Part One, Part Two

Villain tugged at the strap of their denim jumper. No matter how they tightened it, it always seemed to make a dive off their shoulder at the most inopportune times. Which was why they only really wore it on special occasions, times when appearances prevailed over their need for comfort.

They pressed their knuckles into their forehead. Oh geez, they'd dressed up for this. They probably came off as so desperate. Like they were leaping at Supervillain to want them. Once they really got to know them and all their weird behavior, they'd probably end this whole deal.

"Villain?"

"Huh?" Villain said, shaking themself out of their self-deprecating stupor.

Supervillain stood at the cafe register, chin turned over the wool collar of their denim jacket—as if they’d matched on purpose. “Did you want a waffle? With your lunch? It's probably early for dessert, but they're very good."

"Oh...um...I guess?" They fumbled for their wallet. "How much--"

"I've got it," Supervillain said, waving them to put their money away again. "Regular, banana, blueberry, blackberry, or strawberry?"

"S-strawberry."

"Toppings?"

Villain rapidly scanned the list, a bit of nausea rising in their stomach as they felt several pairs of eyes from the cashier and the line behind them boring into their head.

"Cream and condensed milk drizzle?"

"Excellent choice," Supervillain nodded, somehow making ordering a waffle feel like a major accomplishment. "And the sandwich right?"

"I can--" Villain started, reaching for their wallet again, but Supervillain promptly interrupted.

"This is a date, Villain. Let me spoil you."

Villain's face felt ready to catch fire. They knew what Supervillain had said about liking them and wanting to protect them, but it still struck them as too surreal. This was a real date with special treatment and respect and everything. And Supervillain was really just going to blast it out to the room like that? Without a care?

"Th-thank you."

Supervillain handed them the table number. "Why don't you find us a seat while I get drinks."

Villain nodded dumbly, walking numbly toward the seating area before Supervillain could even ask what they wanted. Maybe if they messed up on one thing Villain wouldn't feel so out of their depth.

They chose a little window booth that looked out on the cafe's beautiful, landscaped garden, complete with koi pond and mini waterfall. They followed the floating lilies with dreamy eyes, how they bobbed and rotated in a lazy circle, sometimes getting so close to the waterfall's flow that it seemed inevitable they'd be forced under, only to sail free just in time.

"They're pretty,"  Supervillain's voice mumbled in their ear.

Villain gave a little leap, bumping against Supervillain's chest and finding themselves bracketed in by Supervillain's long arms, one on the table, the other on the back of Villain's booth seat. Their chin hovered just above their shoulder, matching their gaze level with Villain's.

"Sorry." Supervillain smiled and slid into the opposite booth.

"That's ok!" Villain blurted a little too loudly. "They are...er...pretty."

They ducked their head and fiddled with the end of their nails. Why couldn't they ever just be normal? Why did they have to be an awkward mess every second of the day?

"Could we take a picture together?"

Villain's head shot up.

Supervillain stared across the table with a soft, hopeful smile.

"S-sure."

Supervillain immediately got up and slid into the booth next to them. As they held their phone out in front of them their other arm circled around Villain's shoulders, pulling them close.

Villain went rigid, every brain cell immediately rushed with panic. Where did they put their hands? Where did they put their head? How were couples supposed to pose together? And why did they smell so good? Did Villain smell good? They hadn't showered since last night. Oh gosh, they smelt like Supervillain's shampoo, didn't they? Was that weird? Supervillain told them to use it, but maybe they should have put something on to mask it. And Supervillain was probably used to their own shampoo anyway, if Villain really wanted to be noticed they needed a more unique scent. Wait. Did they want to be noticed? Well, they had agreed to this whole thing, so they supposed they liked Supervillain at least a little. And they did make them very nervous and their face was pretty and--

Click.

Villain blinked at the sound of the camera shutter, and suddenly became aware of the selfie in front of them. Supervillain, grinning and suave, them pale-faced and gripping the table.

"Let's try another, hm?" Supervillain said, so friendly and calm one would hardly know that Villain had just ruined their picture.

"Ok..."

They tipped their head in Villain's direction, taking their hand in their own and guiding it to their arm. "Why don't you hold here?"

Villlain jerked their chin up in surprise, ready to confirm it was really ok, but found their faces inches away from Supervillain's chiseled one. On impulse, they jerked their head back down again.

"That color will help too," Supervillain chuckled. "Don't think too much. Just smile."

Villain hugged tighter to Supervillain's arm for balance and forced a wide grin.

Click.

Before Villain could think too much about what they were doing the shutter went off again and a new picture appeared, much better than the last one. This one actually looked like a photo of a date instead of a hostage situation. Though Villain’s smile still came off a little awkward.

“Cute. I’ll add this to my date post when we're done," Supervillain said, gently unhooking Villain's fingers and moving back to their own booth.

Villain stared at them in flushed awe. They might have even choked out some stupid attempt at flirting like "I’ll add you to my date post" if the food wasn't blessedly placed in front of them in that same moment.

They barely stopped their jaw from dropping at the sight of the thick slices of freshly baked bread, stuffed to the seams with peppers, cheese, and steak, the scent of black pepper and olive oil wafting up on the steam. Next to it sat a great pink waffle the size of the dinner plate it was on, topped with a pile of minced strawberries and cream, drizzles of condensed milk gathering in a pool around the waffle’s circumference.

Supervillain took a picture of both their spreads then aimed the camera at Villain again. “I promise this won’t be all our dates. I just need a lot of pictures to make our relationship clear.”

Villain nodded. “What do I do?"

"Just take a bite."

Villain stared between their waffle and sandwich for a full minute before deciding the waffle would be more prim. They cut off a less drippy piece and opened their mouth wide.

Click.

Their ears went warm.

Click.

Supervillain grinned down at their screen and turned it around for Villain to see.

"Oh no," Villain groaned as they caught sight of their pink ears. "Please don't post that."

"No worries, this one is for social media--" They showed the previous picture, still a little awkward mid-bite, but at least not blushing.  "--and this one is for me. Oh! That is if you'll let me have it."

"I-it's fine." At this rate Villain was going to combust.

"We'll take some pictures at the lighthouse for your account. We don’t want everything to be exactly the same.”

With that Supervillain pocketed their phone, and those intense, cutting eyes were all on Villain. 

“How’s the food?”

Villain took another hurried bite. “It’s good! Thank you! Is yours, er, good?”

Supervillain cut a much more careful bite off their own powdered sugar blueberry waffle and nodded. “Very good. Tell me about yourself.”

Villain fllinched at the sudden personalness. They didn’t do this sort of thing. Friends. Relationships. Because no one really wanted to know them, and Villain already knew they weren’t worth knowing. As futile as it was, they really didn’t want to scare Supervillain off too early. 

“Like what? Like…hobbies?”

“Anything your comfortable sharing.”

“Um, I got into villainy about 6 years ago. I’m estranged from my family because of…reasons. And um, I like sweets. What about you?”

“Been in villainy for 10 years, starting out as a henchman for some other villain. My family life is probably as good as you can get as a supervillain with moral civilian parents. And I also like sweets.”

Villain couldn’t bear their gaze anymore and took a sharp gulp of their drink. Cherry limeade. Curse it all, they were perfect!

“You’re sweet,” Supervillain added with a smirk.

Villain choked, coughing so violently they sent a blushing cherry spray all across Supervillain’s food and face. Red droplets dripped off their jaw and stained their white wool collar.

“I-I…” Villain couldn’t get it out. Cold horror gripped them by the intestines and gave them a savage shake.

Supervillain blinked the soda out of their lashes, squinting open one dark eye at a time. 

“I’m so sorry!” Villain finally blurted. “I’ll…I’ll replace your food! And your jacket! I’ll–”

Supervillain burst out laughing.

Villain blinked. Blinked again. Trying to make sense between their eyes and their brain on what was happening. Supervillain…wasn’t mad?”

“If I knew you were going to react like that, I would’ve let you swallow,” they said, wiping at their eyes with a napkin.

Villain’s heart sank again. They were laughing at them. Another reguritative reaction. Just like the heroes and civilians made fun of. Was this a trick afterall? To make it all worse, their shoulder strap chose that exact moment to slip again.

“Hey. hey, what’s wrong?” Supervillain reached across the table, laying their hand across Villain’s wrist. “It’s fine. It was cute.”

“It’s not funny!” Villain burst before they could filter themselves.

Supervillain sobered a little, fingers closing instead of just resting, their thumb stroking Villain’s racing pulse. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to embarrass you. You’re right. It’s probably not very funny from your end.

For about the billionth time this afternoon, Villain’s body rushed with heat, but this time it was accompanied with a surge of hot tears that threatened to spill over their lashes. They stared stubbornly at the ceiling, wishing they could just evaporate from existence.

“I just…it was so unexpected. And it was such a lame line on my end, I felt embarrassed. So for you to get so flustered… I suppose it set me at ease.”

“You’re not nervous.”

“Oh, I promise you I am.”

“But you’re…you.”

Supervilllain smiled, this one weaker than the grins from earlier. “I don’t have people who care about me. Not all of me. My reputation may be impressive, but I’m not the sort of person people want to get close to. Maybe that’s why I was drawn to you. I saw a little bit of myself. And I wanted to protect you, like I wish someone would protect me.” They stirred their straw in their drink and slowly raised their eyes. “You’re also really cute.”

Villain pressed their lips together and gave Supervillain’s hand a quick pat. “Y-you too.”

They hastily pulled out of Supervillain’s grip and started on their sandwich, wiping unshed tears on their arm as they chewed,

“I’m sorry about your jacket.”

“It’s just a jacket. And it’s easy to wash.”

Villain forced a laugh. “Apparently, I’m here to dirty all of your clothes.”

“Ah, well then, please feel free to do it again.”

Villain’s body still felt filled with leftover jitters, but surprisingly, they almost felt better now than when they’d arrived. At least Supervillain felt a little more real.

When they finished eating, they started for the pier. Villain half-expected Supervillain to jump them there, but in the end, they ordered a cab.

Villain shielded their eyes as they stepped out onto the sandy pavement and cranked their head toward the tip of the tall, red and white painted lighthouse. They ducked their head as a strolling couple squinted in their direction, but then Supervillain was grabbing their hand, fingers rough and warm, pulling them down the path to the beach.

“That patch of rocks right at the base is my favorite spot.”

Villain scanned the empty beach doubtlfully. “There are really crabs here?”

“They’re most active during the night, but I’ve found I can lure them out in the day with a little food.” Supervillain pulled the wrapped remains of their sandwich from their jacket pocket, and tore out a couple slices of meat. “Here.” They folded the cold ham and chicken into Villain’s palm. “Start sprinkling this among the rocks.”

Villain had little time to respond before Supervillain was tearing their own slices of lunchmeat into bits, and throwing them into the spaces amongst the stones. Villain watched them a moment before carefully balancing atop one of the rocks and plopping a large chunk of ham into the sand. When nothing immediately immerged, they began hopping from rock to rock, tossing meat as they went. 

“There!” Supervillain cried.

“Where?” Villain hopped back toward Supervillain, catching themselves on their shoulder before the could topple from their perch. 

Supervillain pointed to gap in the stones where Villain had left their first ham piece. Sure enough what looked like a little brown-grey rock on legs was mincing up the lunchmeat in its claws.

“It’s so cute!” Villain gasped. 

“There’s more where that came from.”

 Supervillain slowly stepped up onto the rock beside them, and together they carefully hopped and picked their way across the beach, now viewers to the numerous crabs skittering from their hiding places for the free food.

Maybe it was the excitement or the need for balance on the rocks, but somewhere in between Supervillain had found Villain’s hand again. Their hands were as strong and protective as they’d been last night. Usually when Villain was with someone with such an obvious imbalance of strength it made them uneasy, but in this case it felt nice. They didn’t dare loosen or tighten their grip even a fraction in case Supervillain suddenly realized what they were doing and stopped.

“Hey, we should take those pictures,” Supervillain murmured. “Before it starts getting too late.”

Villain nodded, and thankfully, Supervillain didn’t let go, instead helping them pick their way back to open sand. 

“Let’s do one together first.”

“Ok, but you have longer arms so…” 

Villain held their phone out to Supervillain and the taller criminal broke their grip to accept it. Luckily, the handholding was replaced with another circling arm, this time around their waist instead of their shoulders. Villain tried to match their hold but mostly ended up gripping to the hem of their jacket. But at least they didn’t look as tense as in the cafe pictures. 

“Want one of just you?” Supervillain said, pulling back their warmth.

“Um, sure!” Villain scrambled back a step and waited for Supervillain to back up and get into position. As they stared straight ahead and held up a last-minute peace sign, they noiced something several paces down the beach from Supervillain. 

Another person. No. Two other people. Both with drawn phones pointed directly toward them. 

Click.

Villain flinched at the camera sound. 

One of the figures peeked around their phone ande matched gazes, making Villain’s innards coil.

“Hm, let’s do another one, you’re kind of frowning.”

Villain stalked forward and grabbed Supervillain’s arm. “Let’s go.”

“What? Why?”

Villain nodded in the direction of the strangers. “They’re…they’re taking pictures. Or filming. Or something.”

Supervillain glanced back at the pair. “Yeah, they’ve been there for a little while now.”

Villain gaped. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because isn’t it a good thing? Part of the point of going out was to be seen. It will  spread much faster if other people get involved.”.

“But they’re going to make fun of me!”

Supervillain squeezed their clenched knuckles. “Not while I’m around.”

“Not now! Online!”

They felt sick. Not as bad as last night, but definitely not in picture taking health.

“Hey,” Supervillain leaned in closer. “It’s going to be ok. None of what they say matters anyway.”

“It matters to me!”

Oh, man, they were feeling dizzy.

“Villain, you’re pale.” Supervillain began guiding them back up the path toward the street and sat them down on the curb. The back of their hand pressed against their clammy forehead. “Alright, let’s go. But I’d like to see you inside your apartment to make sure you’re alright.”

“C-can you jump us?”

“Doesn’t it make you uncomfortable?”

“I just want to go home.”

Supervillain hesitated but nodded, wrapping Villain in their arms once again and riiip, tearing back the world. It wasn’t so scary this time. Actually, it was sort of nice. No people. No cameras. No world. Just comforting black void as far as the eye could see.

Villain blinked, and they were back on their street, directly in front of their door this time.

They fumbled for their keys and quickly slid inside, opening the door wide for Supervillain to enter. 

“I’m sorry that–”

“Don’t apologize,” Supervillain interrupted as they stepped in and gazed around. “It was perfect. Now let's sit you down.”

Part Four

Master Taglist:

@moss-tombstone @crazytwentythrees s @just-1-lonely-person @the-vagabond-nun @willow-trees-are-beautiful @cocoasprite @insanedreamer7905 @valiantlytransparentwhispers @whovian378 @watercolorfreckles @thebluepolarbear @yulanlavender @kitsunesakii @deflated-bouncingball @lem-hhn @office-plant-in-a-trenchcoat @ghostfacepepper @pigeonwhumps @demonictumble @inkbirdie @vuvulia @bouncyartist @lunatic-moss-studio @breilobrealdi i @freefallingup13 @i-am-a-story-goblin @ryunniez @rainy-knights-of-villany @distractedlydistracted @saspas-corner @echoednonny @perilous-dreamer mer @blood-enthusiast @randomfixation @alexkolaxe @pksnowie @blessupblessup @wolfeyedwitch @thedeepvoidinmyheart @cornflower-cowboy @bestblob @a-chaotic-gremlin @espresso-depresso-system @prompt-fills-and-writing-spills @paleassprince @takingawildbreath @yindo @psychiclibrariesquotestoad @harpycartoons @pickleking8 @urmyhopeeee

[kamiliora]

Too people who want to get "prettier" and have a "glow up" Do NOT expect it to go over night.

Plenty of people believed that you just become pretty with no effort like you see on TV. It's never that easy. It takes steps, processes and Discipline. Always start with the basics like :

Hygeine

Make a skincare routine for your skin

Know your skin type and build you skincare routine from there

body care for the entire body

Scrubs , lotions and body butters are a must

Exfoliate 1-2 times a week

haircare (hair is everything even if u have a hijab hair care is still possible)

Oil train your hair and know you hair porosity to know what products to use

Use a non sulphate or silicon shampoo

Conditioner and a hair oil of your choice based on your hair problem

Hair mask 1 times a week

Know ur hair pattern to be able to use the right products and not damage your hair pattern

Do not straighten your hair everyday!!!

Use Silk pillows and silk scrunchies instead of elastics!!!

Getting a closet and hair cut for you

Find your best colors and body type

Therefore you would know which colors make you shine the most as well as

Find your seasonal color and which fraction ur in (like winter bright , summer light and etc)

Find which type of hair cuts and bangs suit your facial featured and face shape most

I recommend looksmaxing or the Yt channel Dear Peachie to help you including makeup tutorials, which archetype you are and which closet you can do

Look for styles that match your personality and makes you stand out

Build up a hobby

like sports photography, drawing, crocheting, dancing, and etc.

Doesn't have to be time consuming just something to do when ur bored or free even

Also depends on your time to be careful on what you commit to

Try to explore more options without much costs before fully committing to something that isn't for long-term

Exercise ( unless you already do)

Exercise requires discipline for you to be able to do it continuously for progress

If you can't afford a premium membership take a walk/jog/run around the block,street,park

If you feel unsafe you can do a YouTube work outs as they are effective depending on your goal

I recommend channels like :Madfit ,Hinafit, Shirley kim, April Han, ema wong, and Chloe ting

Take time for yourself (not all the time)

If you dont have time for yourself your body and brain will get stressed (from experience)

It can be as simple as drinking your daily detox water, green juice, coffee, tea or reading a book

Get 8 hours of sleep

Make sure not to stress for something so complete a task when given no matter how far the deadline is!!!

Reduce screen time to 3 hours a day (outside of school/work related stuff)

Diet

Never go too extreme like you see those people online do

Unless you are talking to professionals such as dieticians, Nutritionists and etc. (Bc most public figures do have professionals that they seek help too for these types of situations)

stick to a healthy diet like the 80/20 method

Or you can also do keto/greek/high carb or protein just never go extreme as it will slow down your metabolism

Find who you really are and trying to be better

People never really open up to try different things you should try more to find what you like most or which you are most stable with

See the perspectives on how you act im different situations and see what your mistakes are to try to avoid doing them again

Fix your mentality (watch wizard Liz, Song Jia,) and read quotes to inspire you to do better and the most you can

Always Analyze the situation before commenting or doing action unless its an emergency

Do not let people decide for you or get to your head it is their opinion not yours. You opinion is never invalid and justified in your perspective

Confident vs Arrogant vs Egoistic

Confident people never brag nor do they drag people down. They know they are THAT person and will NOT care about your opinion of them.

Arrogant people like to Brag about something that they have and thinks their all That. They bring down people for not having the luxury they have. But when someone has more and better than them they always try to avoid them, argue with them or get annoyed by them as They want to show supremacy

Egoistic people tend to make fun of people. Self-centered people that only think about themselves without knowing or thinking that they hurt others. Their too preoccupied with themselves to think of others helps or needs

(Sorry its so long and unorganized I made this at 2:30 am bc idk and these are just some tips)

[morroodle]

The Ninjago Battle Box: the best investment of my life

A reveiw

A few days ago I got bored and made a somewhat impulsive decision to buy the ninjago battle box which I've been wanting for a while and it finally arrived today so I'm gonna reveiw it cause I haven't seen like anyone talk about it. It dosent even have its own wiki page even though it is chock full of fun facts and information and pictures

Contents:

A 2 sided map - one side is ninjago city while the other is ninjago as a whole (kinda)

Book of battles

Ninjago world guide

30 cards

Lloyd minifig

Garmadon minifig

The map:

HOLY SHIT THIS IS COOL. As far as I'm aware this might be the most detailed map of ninjago we've ever gotten and no one is even aware of it! What I think is the most interesting and what makes me question how cannon this is is that the main map of ninjago only covers like... 1/4 of the whole ninjago island? Kinda odd how like all the locations are in this tiny chunk when they have a whole island they could cover but hey its still a super cool map and an amazing piece of art!

The book of battles:

Kind of a weird thing and I couldn't find any information on what it was until I got it. Basically each page is a rough (and not 100% accurate) summary of one of the battles of ninjago, a vague but still pretty obvious clue about where the battle took place, a prompt to play and a neat art piece based on the battle. It's not so much a history book as it is a book of play ideas, your meant to use the clue to find where the battle took place on the map and then use the little battle dojo, the minifigures and the cards to play out the battle however you want. Very cute and I love it. One weird thing I found though: in one of the battles it calls the serpentine the serpentai? It's done 3 times so I don't think it's just a typo. Don't know what's going on there but its cool. Here's an example of the best page, they're all formatted the same

It only has a handful of battles, not nearly all of them, but that's to be expected and it's still great

Ninjago world guide:

It's like a little encyclopedia of heros, villains and artifacts. It includes the main ninja, the elemental masters, all the villains (up to season 15 and strangely excluding the overlord), and a bunch of non people important things like the bounty and the realm crystal. Pretty much nothing I don't already know but still neat! It's kinda cool how it's split into 2 sections, one half being heros and good artifacts and the other being villains and bad artifacts. I don't know how to describe it but theyre kinda facing different ways? It's like 2 books in one, both starting on the outsides and meeting/ending in the middle like so.

Here's Morro's page (again most of the pages are formatted the same):

Cutie pie <3

The cards:

I wish I could show off all the cars but sadly tumblr has a limit to how many pictures you can have in one post. Cards include heros, villains and artifacts, similar to the world guide but not quite as many things, just the important ones. Theyre pretty simple, with just the name/title and a drawing of the character/item. Theyre meant to be used to play the battles in the book of battles. Morro's is the absolute best one look at this little cutie pie!

Hes so sweet and adorable he has never done anything wrong in his life and I love him

The minifigures and the box itself:

Nothing really special about the minifigs just a basic Lloyd and Garmadon. Interesting to note that despite wearing his season 8 gi Lloyd has his legacy hood on. Not complaining, I hate the smooth round hoods.

The box that everything came in doubles as the little play area :D its a little dojo setting with some cute nicknacks scattered around. It needs a bit of encouragement to stay flat though. Oh also here's the outside of the box

Conclusion:

The best $25 I've ever spent. I can't believe almost no one knows or talks about this! It's from 2023 and covers up until seabound. I might have to see if I can add this stuff to the ninjago wiki, more people should know about it. If anyone else is interested in getting one (you should be) it's on the scholastic website for $17.99 + shipping, not the actual lego website.