#yeah I used too many adjectives

[rattoenailclippings]

the people working on Nimona truly knew what they were doing giving this man those big wet soggy luscious gorgeous eyes

[masakia]

I'm technically fluent in english, but putting words together in too hard I don't like it.

Writing the babgfic and struggling right now, it's hard guys.

[leclsrc]

more than anyone ✴︎ cl16

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

word count: 13.7k  

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

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

nsfw warnings under the cut!

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

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

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

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

“What’s going on?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wrong.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So it’s a no.”

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Charles laughs dryly. “Who asked?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Charles.”

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

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

—

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

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

“Hmm?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah.”

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

A beat. “What?”

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

“Europe?” You shook your head. America.

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

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

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

“You’ll be fine.”

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

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

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

“Charles,” you sighed. 

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

Just: “We’ll be okay.”

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I need to talk to you.”

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

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

“Why should I be charming with you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Say it.”

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How American.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

“Hi.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So you’re friends?”

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who said that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So what happened?”

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

Cut. Lovely. Just lovely.

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

—

“Okay. What else do you remember?”

“I… do you remember the recital song?”

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

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

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

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

“Do people ask?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s it mean?”

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

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

“I don’t underst—”

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

“I don’t—I do not ever remember say—”

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

Muffled by the bedspread: Charles’ place.

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

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

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

“Do you want gelato?” No, no.

“Love Island?” In a minute.

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

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

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

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

She doesn’t answer, because you already know.

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

Behind you: “Are you okay?” 

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

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

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

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

You nod in response. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

Date: 14 October 2014

To: You

Subject: Urgent!

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

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

Date: 14 October 2014

To: You

Subject: Buttercup

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

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

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

charles

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tremendous. Merci, Buttercup.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[crumbledcastle28]

Joel Miller: Why Can't I Breathe?

Pairing: Joel Miller x fem!reader (afab; she/her)

Excerpt:

"You were a woman--a woman with a body, feelings, heart, and intellect way beyond his caliber. You were fiercely loyal to him, almost to a fault, never hesitating to stick both your neck and trusted knife out for him, but at the same time, you were kind. You had been so good to him, too good to him, and all the while looking like that.

As you ducked under the water once again, fully scrubbing your body of grime, he realized that you were nothing less than a belle, a seductress, a venus flytrap set just for him to fly into and crush into a million pieces, and he wanted it. He wanted you.

You were so goddamn beautiful, and you had been his this whole time, he was just too dumb and slow to realize it."

Warnings: minor finale spoilers, Joel gets harddd, bathing, references to nudity, guns, Ellie makes a cameo, descriptions of alcoholism, blood, knives, and Joel doesn't know what a feeling is.

A/N: Happy end of The Last of Us! Who can't wait for Season Two!? *salutes before falling backwards off bridge.* But seriously, thank you for all the love on Joel. I can't explain how much it means to me.

If you'd like to leave a like, ask, comment, or reblog, it would be very appreciated <3

Word Count: 1.5k

Pedro Masterlist

(gif credit to owner I cannot find your account for the life of me).

The first thing that hit the forest floor was your boots, bouncing off the swollen grass loud enough for him to hear. The next thing was your socks, based off of the slight grunt you gave when one got caught. Next was your jeans, indicated by the metal pull on the zipper of your crotch clanking down swiftly. You then paused with a huff.

"Are you sure about this?" you said from behind him.

He sighed. "Yes, for fuck's sake. You were just sayin' how badly you wanted a bath."

"Yeah but--" you sighed, frustrated. "What if somebody--or, something--comes along?"

He raised his riffle over his head in reply before settling it back in his lap, his fingers curved firmly around it, screaming try me. He was sitting on a rock, yes, but he was ready. His body always seemed to settle when he guarded you anyway. He tried not to think about that.

"You know what I mean, Joel," you replied. "My hearin' ain't what it used to be."

He hated the smirk that always managed to wriggle its way onto his face when you mocked the depth of his voice and the thickness of his accent, but in reality, it had been the first time he had smiled in a while. All he could do was shake his head in reply, his typical indicator of you win this round.

You sighed again, the running water of the stream behind you filling the air, before saying, "I'm just worried about her."

It didn't take a genius to figure out that the girl curled up in the cave ten feet away from him was the "her" you were referring to. She had been different, distant, quiet. Adjectives that had never suited her before, but after whatever the hell went down after Joel woke up, they all seemed to describe her perfectly. Her chest rose up and down in an even rhythm, indicating to Joel that she was long gone, but he understood you nonetheless.

"I know," he said in reply, a drop of unease in his voice, "but I've got her."

You took a deep breath, inhaling through your nose and out your mouth, before the scratch of cloth a shirt makes when it's removed filled his ears instead. "I'll be quick. Get me if she needs me."

"I will," he responded, "but take your time. Please."

He knew why he was delaying bringing her to the Fireflies, and he knew that you knew why he was delaying bringing her to the Fireflies, but like many things between the two of you, it remained unspoken.

"Alright," you said, and dropped two more pieces of cloth onto your pile before stepping away, down into the stream. Joel had never seen one quite like it. All the water flowed from a great waterfall at the end, the perfect place to rinse off after miles of hiking in a humid forest, and Joel saw in your eye how badly you wanted to wash it all away. He stopped the three of you and proposed an early dinner--rabbit, water, and chef boyardee--and Ellie passed out soon after, leaving Joel here, keeping watch for the both of you.

He would never admit how much he likes it--watching you both, keeping you safe, protecting his girls. It was something primal, but also something broken, desperate to be glued back together again.

You could recognize that in him, that need, but you weren't much different from him. Twenty years in an apocalypse, constantly watching your six, always on edge. You two were one in the same in that regard, so when your need for control would bubble up to your irises, he would gladly take the night to rest.

Unspoken, yet so not.

He didn't know when the two of you got so good at it, reading each other. Maybe it was back in Boston, the night you two made your first job together, or the night he blacked out from too much booze, only to find himself in bed under a blanket the next morning. He still didn't know how you managed that one. Maybe it was when he got cut clean through the knee, or when you got one through the shoulder, or when he finally explained what the scar on his face was from, or who the scar on his heart was from, or--

Suddenly, the whoosh of a large splash hit his ear, along with the gurgle of air bubbles, and modesty be damned, he turned around. His riffle was immediately pointed down at the water, ready to fire at will, or he would dive the hell down there.

Except, what exited the water was no infected, no raider, no hunter, and no slaver. No, it was you. Hair flattened by the stream, back dripping with droplets of water, tracing the line your spine made down your back. Your head tilted back in relief, free from the prison of sweat and heat, and your shoulders flexed downward, highlighting that fucking line down your back once again. The setting sun illuminated you, basking you in an aura of orange, as you walked underneath the waterfall. The water soaked through your hair and down your body, causing you to lift up your arms to work your hair away from your face and massage your jaw with your nails. Your waist was that much more accentuated, your throat was revealed just so, and the outline of your breasts taunted him against the stone of the stream.

He could feel his eyes dilate, his jaw go slightly slack, his gun practically slip through his fingers, and buttons on the crotch of his jeans pull slightly tauter than they were a few seconds ago.

He couldn't feel his face, he couldn't hear the water flowing, and he couldn't fucking breathe.

Why can't I breathe?

You had always been a looker, he had no doubt about that--constantly getting looks from men on the streets, offered drinks at bars, and invitations for more than that--but he never viewed you that way.

At least, that's what he told himself when he woke up from dreams about you, covered in sweat.

He liked to think that he admired you, respected you. He knew how little of that you got in Boston, and in his own fucked up ways, he tried to show you that you deserved to be. You were more than just tits and eyes, you were capable, honorable, and a fucking badass when you wanted to be. You went through with a hell of a lot more jobs than he did, coming home with stacks of ration cards higher than the expanse of his hands, only to bring them home to his sorry ass. You could make a clean kill, barely batting an eye, and mere seconds later, help Ellie to her feet, and tell her she was okay. You were beautiful, yes, but he thought he saw that more as admiration, respect, and caring for the woman who had always stuck by his side.

But it was more than that. It had always been more than that.

You were a woman--a woman with a body, feelings, heart, and intellect way beyond his caliber. You were fiercely loyal to him, almost to a fault, never hesitating to stick both your neck and trusted knife out for him, but at the same time, you were kind. You had been so good to him, too good to him, and all the while looking like that.

As you ducked under the water once again, fully scrubbing your body of grime, he realized that you were nothing less than a belle, a seductress, a venus flytrap set just for him to fly into and crush into a million pieces, and he wanted it. He wanted you.

You were so goddamn beautiful, and you had been his this whole time, he was just too dumb and slow to realize it.

The smirk that had formed from earlier had slowly become a smile as he let his eyes slide up and down your body, filled to the brim with emotion and longing, and just as he felt a tear begin to dribble down his cheek at the sight of the woman before him, you turned around, and Joel's stomach instantly fell out of his ass.

He turned on his heel faster than he ever had in his life, wiping at his eye and sniffling, and standing straighter than a soldier.

Of course, you noticed.

"Everything alright?" you shouted from the water below, and with as much dignity as he could muster, Joel responded with a cracked, "yep."

Nothing was, yet everything was.

"I'm almost done," you responded, ducking under the water. You let your mask crack underneath the waves--the smile on your face, the squeal of excitement, and the happiness in your heart.

He was looking at you.

Once again, your mutual understanding remained unspoken, only this time, you had a feeling it wouldn't be for long.

Tag list:

@leahkenobi @untitledarea @avengersfan25 @lexloon​ @aninnai @darling-murdock

[creatingblackcharacters]

i just wanted to say a massive thank you for the writing advice specifically, i havent seen very many things focused on that

are there any specific words to describe black hair texture that you would like to see used more often?

Thank you! And oooohooohooo I wanna offer this one to the floor too! I'm gonna expand a little, to how I want Black hair described more often just bc I got excited:

Adjectives of beauty. Our hair and hair textures are beautiful and versatile, and I want to see writers take advantage of the opportunity to laud it in the eyes of the beholder.

The way it feels! Soft, coarse, coily, curly, silky, moisturized, strong. Even if it's not a good texture in the moment, it still strengthens the description if you actually know what the hair feels like. It lets me know as a Black reader that you're not just making something up that you know nonblack readers will just skim on by (for example, I once read a fic where the character was supposed to be Black, but his natural hair was described as "able to run his hands through" and I was like.... That's not the majority of us. And it wasn't intentional writing, either. Kinda fucked up the whole experience for me.)

The way it smells! Look. When I spray my hair with my rose water oil mix? My lemon herb mix? Peppermint oil? Coconut or almond oil? Omg the way our hair smells during wash and oil (at least with the right stuff!) is PHENOMENAL! Like it smells like a fresh damn garden lmao. SO good. (DON'T ever say straight castor oil smells good though. Idc how good it is for our hair, it smells terrible, I'll stand on that 😤) so like... Yeah, however you feel when you smell those smells (refreshing, uplifting, relaxing, rejuvenating, etc.) why not try that?

[firewalkzwit]

arabella // hobie brown x reader (one-shot)

oneshot of hobie trying to pursue a reader who's effortlessly cool and has strong arabella vibes cuz i love that vibe. inspired some on slc punk and sex pistols lore, cool fic for the music enthusiasts

New girl's hip New girl's cool New girl's interesting New girl's hot.

"She came straight out of 70's New L.A. She's no rockstar's girlfriend, she's a rockstar herself! Crazy hair, mysterious bassist, she's from outer space."

AO3

And when she needs to shelter from reality she takes a dip in my daydreams...

"Ay, who's the new girl?" Was the first thing Hobie asked as he nudged Pav's shoulder, not breaking his intense stare at the new recruit. 

"New girl? Oh that's YN." Pav shifted his narrowed eyes into Hobie's, a teasing grin drawing on his face.

"Yea' but what's her full name...?"

"Go ask her yourself man, everyone calls her YN." Hobie never got her name, she refused to be called anything but those particular initials.

To say she was pretty was an understatement. She was stunning, show-stopping, alluring. 

At least to Hobie, all adjectives were perfectly applicable.

She had this quirk, this confidence and these slight Chrissie Hynde vibes, boldness when she spoke that made her so attractive, and to top it she was a great musician. 

Back in her dimension it was the seventies, and she was the leader of a girl band where she played the bass, doing small gigs in downtown New L.A.

She wore flamboyant black cowboy boots and scandalous skirts, with chunky sunglasses that looked like the eyes of a bug. She had crazy hair and wore Vivienne Westwood's accessories on her pierced ears and fingers before it was even cool in the US. Her dark tights were always ripped but she didn't care, she called it a fashion statement. So did she call her Spidey suit, which had a unique design that caught anyone's attention. 

Love was for posers Hobie thought, but what's more punk than going against your own structures?

"Gwendy I gotta' talk to this girl more." Hobie's frustration was something Gwen wasn't used to seeing. His nature was often relaxed, only energic when invited to disrupt the order, but hardly ever frustrated.

"Well, you don't have to." Gwen shrugged as she tried to mask the frown that was forming in her face, but her wrinkled nose gave away her displease of jealousy.

"I know, but I want to." His attention was fixed on YN, how she moved and talked. "I wanna hear her play. You're a girl right? When you girls think a lad's fit, how much of that comes from his coolness?" He asked as he leaned on Gwen's side, resting his body weight on her. She scoffed in disbelief at the absurdity of his question, something only a man could ask. 

"Since when do you want to conform to the arbitrary standards of women?"

"I don't, I just wanna' know how many I can get away with breaking and she can still like me yea'?" Hobie chuckled before getting up again. "Don't get too jealous on me alright?" He joked, patting his friend's shoulder as he jumped down from where they were sitting, approaching her once again.

"He's never gonna give up is he?" Miles sat once again close beside Gwen, who sighed at the sight of Hobie attempting to come off as nonchalant with a girl who only seemed to curve his insinuations over and over. 

"That's such a man thing to do, no offense." Gwen spat as her hand slid down her face, pointing at what she could only describe as a humilliation show.

"Yeah... right." 

It's not that she didn't notice, she just dodged him. She thought there was more important things to do than let herself be conquered by some co-worker. But she was lying if she said he wasn't winning her over.

He also was so her type.

The funky hair, the spikes on his leather vest, the stickers and carvings on his guitar, his Iggy Pop vibes and his weird slang. But he thought he was so it, he was a nice guy but he needed some humbling. Their first conversation was about Bowie, and he played her a bit of Moonage Daydream as she recalled when she saw him live, getting all starry eyed whenever she'd narrate the part where she gave him a ride in her car.

"You gave Bowie a ride?"

"Spider's Tour, yeah..." She giggled, flipping her hair in a way that had him starstruck. "In my mom's car."

"In your mum's car? Oh get out." She went on to talk about how that changed her view on music, going on about her gigs in New L.A and how she moved there to make it big. 

Hobie was sure he was listening, but as much as he tried to contain himself, keeping in comments was not in his book.

"You always dress this mad? Like, all the time?" He bursted out with a smile, cutting her off. They were sitting on a counter table, with his guitar on his lap. He leaned closer to pick on the fabric of her coat. 

"Always. Do you always dress so pretentious?" She retorted with a smug grin, pushing her hair out of her face. His eyes shot up to look at her, puzzled. "I mean, aren't you like... rebelling against society?" Hobie let out a slight laugh, his head tilting in interest as he looked into her eyes. 

"Well, yea'. Why?"

"Don't you think it would be more of an act of rebellion if you didn't spend so much time buying stickers and pins and going out to get punky clothes? Stop me if I'm being offensive, I think the style's hip, but it just seems counterproductive to your cause."

"Na' its cool, keep going." He struggled to discern if he was actually listening, or simply invested in watching her mouth smart words as her long painted nails tapped on the counter.

"You want to be an individual, but it's like you wear a uniform. It's just punk fashion, not rebellion." Hobie's eyes fixated on her's, leaving a strong silence as she ended her phrase. 

"I'm not judging you, just kind of a general critique to what they call punk movement."

Hobie brushed her off with his usual humorous comments to maintain his pride, but he was dazzled. Even if she had criticized his way of thinking and how he dressed, she was so outspoken, without caring what he had to say or thought about her opinion, and he was crazy for his first impression of her, as much as he hated to admit it as he'd call 'Love is for posers'. Hobie was sure he was just trying to win her over, to prove a point he'd say, but deep down he loved the way she smiled and shook her head whimsically everytime he'd say something or take time off his schedule to nag her.

It was a few times that she gave Hobie the chance to play with her, to which she soon learnt that he did not know how to read tabs. Of course the punk kid is self-taught. Trying to lead, they would play messy numbers and solos. It was ocasionally just her and Gwen, who had let YN grown onto her sharing her love for girl bands, doing some jamming with their instruments as Hobie payed vague attention. But he would pound on any chance to be alone with her and try to take her out.

She didn't know what was in her that day, but she let him take her out.

He toured her around his universe, before taking her to what he called "his palace". 

The small canal boat was ridiculously a very Hobie place to live. If she were to guess, she'd think he lived in a tree somewhere in Birmingham. However it had it's charm, it was very humid and it wobbled when they walked, but it was unique and she loved it. Hobie showed her the collection of things he had stolen, proving himself to be a brilliant thief. He owed most of his 'talent' to his Spider-Sense and speed, but he'd never bring it up. 

As she sat on the mattress where he slept in, Hobie picked up one of his records, sitting beside her to show her the signed insides of the vinyl. Her eyes paced from the inscriptions to his face, as he ocasionally caught a glimpse of her through the corner of his eye. He left the vinyl aside to go on about his encounters with the infuential musicians on the area, how he attempted to steal the microphone the Bowie of his dimension had used when he was touring in his city. Her gaze shifting from his eyes to his lips back and forth. 

He was hesitant about making a move, afraid he'd mess up what had taken him so much work. But wasn't even given time to think it through before the proximity between them grew, and her hand softly caressed his bony cheek and down to his neck, inviting him to lean into a kiss. As they made out, his cold piercing was quickly warmed by her damp tongue and soft lips that sucked and kissed his. His hands caressed up and down her waist, undoing the buttons on her blouse with his slender fingers as she revealed her naked torso, no bra underneath. YN did her usual hair flip to watch him undress her, and himself, jumping on her once finished to continue what he had briefly interrupted.

"We won't sink, will we?" She asked between soft giggles as the boat quivered at his abrupt movement, Hobie nibbling down her neck and kissing her chest. 

"I wank pretty crazy here every night, we won't." He teased before crawling backwards, kissing down her navel. 

songs i listened to while working on this:

(ofc) arabella - arctic monkeys

moonage daydream, lady grinning soul and starman - bowie

hey, velouria - pixies

rhiannon, gold dust woman - fleetwood mac

[geeoharee]

I posted about this last year a bit, but it's now officially time to Post About It

Sherlock Holmes took his bottle from the corner of the mantelpiece and his hypodermic syringe from its neat morocco case. With his long, white, nervous fingers he adjusted the delicate needle, and rolled back his left shirt-cuff. For some little time his eyes rested thoughtfully upon the sinewy forearm and wrist all dotted and scarred with innumerable puncture-marks. Finally he thrust the sharp point home, pressed down the tiny piston, and sank back into the velvet-lined arm-chair with a long sigh of satisfaction.

This is the FIRST PAGE of the book. Fucking strap in (and then take that tourniquet off before you lose the arm)

There's a much better post somewhere about how intravenous morphine use (Watson only mentions morphine once, I personally don't think there's solid evidence of him using it, but that's debated - anyway) was considered effeminate. Syringes were for girls. Men smoked opium. So that's already setting Holmes up as suspiciously unmanly within the culture, but it's the penetration imagery here that absolutely kills me. It's SO unsubtle. Was it necessary to say 'thrust', Watson

He does also make a point of describing the syringe as tiny, every time it shows up. Do with that what you will...

Oh, yeah, and 'fingers' with three adjectives. Three is too many, Watson. We know you like his long fingers, you've said.

[hooked-on-elvis]

Hello!! I was just wondering about something...we don't really have a understanding of Elvis' personality, yeah we have books, videos and articles about the people they were around him but I'm talking about REALLY getting a hold of what personality he had is what's been circling my mind lately.

I don't know why, I've been really interested in personalities recently lol specifically Elvis'😅

Hi, sweetie! Yours is a good question to keep in mind, really. I like to wonder on this topic too. I guess Elvis' personality is very difficult to summarize because of the way his actions contradicted themselves in the messages they give. He was mainly a good person, as we all know, but also incoherent and even scary at times. It's frustrating trying to describe him because nothing seems to fit well-enough to describe how intense he was.

One thing we know for sure is how dual Elvis was - and we all are, no doubt, but Elvis's duality was very prominent, very much like changing one thing into the complete opposite in no time, as if there was no middle ground, just this or that.

The way I see it, EP was like a whole universe with all it's wonders and scary truths put together at once; like white and black, the good and bad, fire and rain, light and dark, a desert weather and a harsh winter in just one little space. He could be a spontaneous, extroverted open person, very sweet, generous, peaceful, attentive, warm, easy-going, friendly, supportive, affectionate, loyal, very wise, meditative, spiritually fervent believer in God, family-oriented, just an ingenuous little boy with a soothing peaceful and loving energy that could calm the most anxious of hearts that approached him, without even meaning to, and yet at the same extent he could also be shy, a loner, mean (here and there, both in words and actions), freezing cold, selfish, a loner, unreasonable, hot-tempered, promiscuous, sly, hopeless and lost, a control freak and a reckless disturbed man with such intense energy people could be afraid of doing something that could unleash the beast in him (that's why very, very little of his friends or family were brave enough to go against any thing Elvis would say/do or with his way of thinking), and then again he would turn into something else... He would look so confident, so strong and self-assured, a very powerful entity, but around the ones he trusted just enough he still let himself be vulnerable, acting just like a baby, begging for someone to take care of him, to show him patience, understanding, to make him feel safe, to hold him and never let go.

With the little knowledge we have about EP, we could use those and many adjectives to describe his personality but we can't summarize Elvis Presley better than to simply say he was human. Elvis was "too much of everything"... overwhelming, in a good and a little bad way too. The way he was such a good person, the way through his friends, family, co-workers and fans' memories Elvis sounds like one of the best people one could ever have the pleasure of meeting in this life, his moments of irrational and hurtful actions (towards people and himself) confuses us when we try to understand what Elvis was really about. I bet it was very confusing to understand him even for his family, lovers and friends, so it wouldn't be easy for us to understand him when we not really met him in person.

The King's personality is so intriguing! That's why there's books with analysis in both scientific medical and social fields, psychologists and psychiatrists wrote after studying Elvis' behavior patterns and what they tells us about him. Much beyond the stories their friends and general acquaintances told and how they portrayed EP in those many books and interviews we read/saw over the years, I think those psychological studies are the best way to go in depth about Elvis' personality. Even so I don't believe one single book can do all the accurate, proper work on it, one of those books I can mention now is "The Inner Elvis - A Psychological Biography Of Elvis Aaron Presley" by Peter O. Whitmer Ph.D. - I haven't read the book myself because I want to finish the friends and family books, the most important ones at least, before going deeper into Elvis' personality analysis but I've read parts of it and it's interesting. I would recommend you, if you haven't yet, to read this book.

Anyhow, I think we'll never have an accurate picture of Elvis Presley as a person, friend. One: Because people in general are difficult to understand. We contradict ourselves all the time, according to the situations we face. And two: Because nobody, for the best they can be at reading people, can really tell us what goes on inside another one's heart and mind. I guess being such a mystery is another wonder of Elvis. Another thing we can be sure of about him is that he was even not close to be a boring person.

[sidneypoindexter]

man i love fakeposting what if smurfs had tumblr

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👓 spectacledsavant Follow

Thank you for being my 31st follower, @hotsexylove72848!

#my brilliant words

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🌾 farmersmurf Follow

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🌹 rose-garden Follow

i am simply. pining. yearning. smurfing. when will i have a husband who loves me and who i can love back in equal measure...

#smurf.txt #im too young to marry and boys always seem to love so much more intensely than i do #but i just really wish i could find somesmurf who i can love as much as they love me

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😠 i-hate-usernames Follow

I hate Tumblr.

#I hate tagging.

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💤 slepytime Follow

Life fucking sucks sowmtimes like hwow am i supposed to explain to papa smurf that i want to do work but im too damn tired

#please im so sleepy #im trying so hard

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🐝 beefanatic33 Follow

Sorry for being inactive these past few days, a family member passed away and I've been grieving.

🔁 prettyasapixie Follow

My condolences, darling! I know how difficult it can be to lose someone close to you. Y'all Smurfs are especially close with each other, too... I hope you're doing okay.

🔁 beefanatic33 Follow

Yeah, I'm smurfing as well as I can. Mary-Anne was a very special bee, and I don't know what I'm going to do without her.

#honey speaks

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👓 spectacledsavant Follow

I've seen several people on this website confused about the way I smurf, so I thought I'd give a lesson in Smurfic grammar.

Smurf is a language characterized by the usage of the word "smurf." For me, and other Smurfs, it's a psychosmurfical compulsion we can't control- only Papa Smurf has been able to smurf himself to speak in a way understandable to non-Smurfs, and hems had many centuries to learn.

When you speak Smurf, you smurf every so often- within certain grammar rules. Any past participle smurfed with "to smurf" takes an "ed" in the past tense. Smurf can also be used to resmurf a noun, but only one noun in a compound word, and you must keep the prefix and suffix.

For instance, bottle-opener could be smurfed into "smurf-opener" or "bottle-smurfer"- I, personally, prefer bottle-smurfer- but never "bottle-smurf."

Positive adjectives are "smurfy," negative ones are "unsmurfy," but "smurfy" and "unsmurfy" are also words on their own. If you smurf an adverb, that’s "smurfily" or "unsmurfily." If something is better than something else, it would be smurfed "smurfier," and not "smurfer."

These rules are invariable, except in cases of euphony.

More below the cut.

Keep reading

🔁 quartzyy Follow

hey brainy wanna hang out tomorrow. we can go on a picnic

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🌸 thefairestintheland Follow

looking amazing yet again today, so here's a selfie.

#my face

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[a-libra-writes]

do you have any romantic headcanons for rocky rickaby from lackadaisy? 👀

sweats ...yeah uhh yeah i got a whole lot so this may be long-winded and not particularly organized.....

Shout out to @pomegranate-pen and @lackadaisy-headcanon-supply-unit for also doing Rocky posts that gave me more food for thought and helped me solidify some thoughts 🤔 i def recommend their blogs as well

Firstly, this is a whole-ass crush-at-first-sight. Infatuation, even, because "crush" feels too light a word. The feelings just hit Rocky and he starts wanting to talk to this person more, or at least see them. This has happened many times in his life and the people almost always tell him off or just avoid him. He's aware of how he can ... be, so being brushed aside and outright rejected isn't new. But this person is talking back! And seems to want to?

In that case, he really can't help himself. He wants to be in their good graces, and learn more about them, and impress them! Oh, he'll do so much for you. Anthing, really, he'll run himself ragged, especially if it's something you really need done. You won't even realize how much he went through, you'd puzzle it together based off his beat up appearance and the state of the car and Freckle grumbling about something as he tries to hide the blood on his coat. Don't let him go so far, and make sure he rests.

Once the relationship is more official, Rocky may still feel the need to keep doing so many things for you, to make himself "useful" to you even if he already "has" you. It's a bad habit of his that's deeply ingrained and rooted in insecurity that you'll be tired of him or realize how burdensome he is and be done with him. It's better to channel his energy into helping with simple things, like fixing your car or getting some groceries or just keeping you company while you finish up work. Still, given his exuberant energy and clumsiness, even those simple things can get a little ... much. But perhaps that's part of the charm. He really is trying.

But hey, there will be endless poems and songs for you. Some spur of the moment, some words and phrases he's turned over and over in his head for a week and they all just spill out as soon as he sees you. Rocky probably isn't aware how sweet and romantic it is unless you spell it out, and that only encourages him further. He hums and taps out little melodies that remind him of you, then grab his violin and string them together. If you like theater, even better, he'll recite romantic lines and stanzas until the sun comes up. More than once you two have had an impromptu reenactment of the Balcony Scene, much to the Lackadaisy crew's annoyance.

Oh, and the pet names, they are endless. There's fairly normal ones like "angel" and "sweetheart" then some that are just ... A long string of poetic references to your eyes and smile and general being. "Don't run out of adjectives, dear," You've said more than once.

He's so disgustingly in love, it drives them a little batty, however at least you sort-of-kind-of keep him out of trouble? Or at least, you ground him a bit ... Okay, not really, but you patch him up afterward and he's more likely to take his nervous energy to you, not the bar. But if they have to hear about how the light sparkles in your eyes one more time --

(Mitzi really hates to get you involved with the business, but if you've got a steady head and can handle a gun, well ... I mean, if you can handle Rocky, maybe you're a good person to keep around ...)

And on the topic of patching up, good lord have you had to do it many times. If you weren't experienced in first aid before, you learn it quick. The black and purple bruises are the least of it, there's cuts and abrasions and don't even get started on the concussion. Sometimes, he's still surprised how upset and angry you get when he staggers up to the door and looks like he was put through a wringer. He'll try to be more careful for your sake, but ... well, he tries.

And tries and tries ... Are you noticing a pattern? When it comes to dates and nice things, Rocky really isn't experienced, but he wants to try, because it's for you! He'll get all sorts of advice from Ivy and Mitzi (he asked Viktor but ran off before he got the response) and does his best with it. It's tough if you're clearly from a well-off family, or used to the finer things ... But in the end, you both have the most fun with simple things. Going out for a fast drive in the country, or playing music together, or just chatting endlessly about everything until the sun comes up. He really, really can't remember the last time he was with someone for so long and so happy - except, maybe when he was staying with his aunt and Freckle? But there wasn't nearly this much talking and laughter. It's like a dream, or being drunk, or being endlessly inspired, or -- aaaand he's off waxing poetic again.

It's not just all the music and poetry, it's all the affection! Rocky soaks it up like he'll die without it, and, well ... He really went so long without such company and affection, perhaps that's true. He wants to be held, he wants to lean on you, he wants you to take his arm, he wants kisses and attention! It's just so affirming and reassuring and comforting, if you two have to go a while without seeing each other, he finds himself getting antsy and lonely. He travelled along railroads for years by himself, and suddenly being away from you for a few days is hurting this badly?

If you're someone who dislikes or is uncomfortable with physical affection, it'll be very tough, because he wants it so badly and he just does it without thinking. He'll rush at you for a big hug instead of saying "hi", or brush shoulders and lightly entwine your tail with his while he pests you about what you're working on. He wants to be considerate of your personal space, of course, so it'll take time and a lot of reminding him what is and isn't appropriate for you. Sleeping next to him means you will get cuddled and it's tough to peel him off once you wake up. At least he's a bit better about it in public, and at the bar, because Viktor can peel him off.

(An important caveat is if you're male or present as such, he's obviously far more careful in public, even if he's obviously on pins and needles for when it's safe to hold you again).

Another thing is the co-habitation, this being the 1920's and dependent on your family situation or upbringing. This may already be a "line" you both have crossed, since Rocky often shows up at your doorstep battered and ends up crashing on your couch, or you just say screw it and let him crash there after going on a run together. Actually sleeping in your room or, even more shockingly, moving in is something he has a hard time with. It's almost nerve-wracking. On one hand, isn't this what he wanted? Doesn't this prove you really, really want him around? But on the other hand, actually having that is somehow scary. Having a proper roof and a warm bed and food right in the fridge is .... a bit of a change from the living arrangements he's had for the past 5+ years. It takes some adjusting and easing into it.

Long story short, he is just a bundle of affection and adoration and quite a bit of insecurity and a little mania. Just ... a bit. Don't worry about it.

[andraxicated]

imagine a mean scaramouche anger fucking y/n(bad day at work?) but they get uncomfortable or nervous and use the safe word and scara suddenly becomes all sweet and comforting like "it's okay y/n I'm sorry if I was too rough" and y/n is like "it's okay I just got nervous.." and he's like "I'm sorry I don't ever wanna hurt you" like a angst to fluff situation(Oh and I was wondering if you could make y/n tan bc I asked someone to do this req and they made her white ☹️)

hi anon! I don't specify skin color and have been avoiding adjectives that describe any physical characteristic so that everyone can be(y/n)in my fics. I understand where you're coming from though♥︎ and I'm so sorry for the delay T-T

tw: rough sex | grinding | hair pulling | doggy

"I'm home"

You hear the sound of the door and a giddy smile immediately makes its way to your lips, your mouth automatically opening for him to hear words that render him at peace.

"Welcome home"

You don't even turn around because you'd expect his arms to wrap around yours with a kiss on your cheek. But as you hear his footsteps against the hardwood floor; your smile then turns into a scandalized gasp and your fingers suddenly grip the countertop harshly.

Scaramouche presses his cock against your cute butt, grinding as he throws his head back and pictures the moments he spent inside you.

"Scara...w-what are you doing?" Your mind goes haywire as he applies pressure right below your tummy and grinds much harder that you're hitting the countertop, letting you feel how hard he is through his slacks.

"Bad day at work?" Your shaky voice follows an embarrassing moan when his teeth find their way to your earlobe. His breath on your neck weakens your knees just as he grips your chin to make you face him. He needs to at least see your face before fucking his frustrations away.

"Yeah 'need you right now." He finally spoke, and his tired lustful eyes speak so much volume. Your husband needs you right now, and what good is a wife if she won't attend to her husband's needs?

You turn off the stove and leaned in for a light makeout session. Pressing a soft kiss to the side of his lips to whisper "lead the way".

With how he was acting earlier downstairs, you'd thought you were in for some sweet lovemaking but Scaramouche had other plans. He had you face-down, ass-up on the bed, naked while his cock was hurriedly taken out of its confines. He thrusts behind you as you moan repeatedly at the feeling of his cock gliding deliciously against your walls. The same sensation that evokes growls from his throat and a deeper pounding into you.

You could feel the water from your eyes as you're pressed onto the pillow; then came a sudden whiplash that painfully bent your back along with a stinging of your scalp.

"Ahh!" You shrieked. Followed by a quiet gasp that signified your shock at Scara's cock pulling out and slamming back in. He continued to thrust with his arm locked around your stomach, heavy breaths mixing with yours as he closes into your face.

After trying out many kinks to spice up your sex life, you thought you'd enjoy pain and built a high tolerance for it. But the stinging pain of his hand on your hair bothered you so that it overpowered the pleasure he was giving you.

"Red" You managed to choke out and the gripping pain was gone. He didn't turn you around to face him but instead, he moved in front of you to check on your condition. Your eyes glazed over him, breath catching as you take in his paled expression, round eyes, and quivering lips. And once you saw him, you already know his mind is doing its own savage assumptions.

You held his warm cheek and patted it affectionately. "It's okay I just got nervous. The pain got too much for me in the end."

"...I'm sorry if I was too rough. Is it still painful?" His voice was quiet than usual, you could tell he was uneasy.

"It's fading now." You press a kiss to his nose, that thing you call 'boop' that gets him so mad and flustered; but this time he doesn't shy away from it and just nods.

"I made dinner. It's your favorite." And you stand up to dress yourself, motioning your head for him to get up and do the same. A genuine smile plastered on your face telling him everything's alright.

It amazes Scara how your whole being brought comfort to him. Even though he's frequenting work troubles, your comfort always comes first before his own. And so, he reaches out to your extended hand, using that to swiftly encase you in his arms as he presses a kiss to your head.

He whispers: "I'm sorry, I don't ever wanna hurt you."

[raycatzdraws]

Love your Wind as a humming bird comic. Any ideas for what the others would change into?? (I think Time as a kitten or something adorable would be funny)

Thank you! Wind as a hummingbird is such a wonderful idea and I have to thank and give credit to @/winkwonkblog for the prompt! I didn't really do Wind as a hummingbird justice when it came to like, drawing him well, but I had fun playing with the idea of it.

As for dark world forms! The fandom's done a great job exploring this and I really like a lot of (at least what I think are?) the more common takes! My preferences have been influenced by all the pieces of fanart, fic, and discussion I've seen - so many pieces that are tried, true, and tested! - so I don't have much to add! I like what the fandom's come up with and enjoy seeing new interpretations. It's a great big collaboration with a bunch of coexisting ideas and I love that.

These are going to be familiar lol (and I'll include some recs too, as one does!)

Time - I agree that Time being a cat or something cute and fuzzy would be funny because it would clash so much with how he's presented in the comic! Let him be something soft and unassuming so he can use it to his advantage for shenanigans! Like Legend though, I think he'd dislike being so fragile. He needs claws or something. To be honest, the hero of time being a golden wolf has never really felt right to me. I see general oot/mm Link as more of an an owl or fox. However, his characterization in LU makes it fit and I appreciate that. It's gotten me to come around to it some.

Twi - Wolfie, yeah

Wild - coyote or deer

Sky - Remlit, goose, or dove (Failure and Fortitude by sister_dear and this art by luwyv, and Untitled Goose Fic by theScrap_Witch)

Warriors - Wars as a weasel or ferret! Something with very nice and pretty fur and very sharp teeth. The thought of Legend holding him up and slinkying him around is amusing. (it's much-too-late'o'clock for me so I get to make up words)

Legend - Rabbit (read this if you haven't !!!-> Not half Pawd by SongMina, as well as Tiny Adventures by Lightning of Farosh)

Four - Hummingbird, mouse, or cat (All of @/chrispy-chimkin's LU Wing AU! Just look at Four!!! Look at him!!! &lt;3 &lt;;3 <3 See also Feline Fatale by Seeking7 and Usagisama68)

Wind - Seagull! (Again, Chris' wing au, but also @/layraket's creatures gang, and A Pear and a Portal by glowingjellyfishtreelights)

Hyrule - I'm not really sure! My joke answer is an okapi. Maybe a badger! idk! he's a dragonfly-winged fairy idk about an animal form for him. A coyote or gray fox, a brown-colored medium sized bird, something like that. Sorry I don't have the most inspired answers haha. I imagine Hyrule's Hyrule (in Zelda 1) as california chaparral so I think he'd be some kind of creature that lives there. I can tell you what kind of tree he'd be!!! Hyrule would be a ribbonwood tree (aka redshanks)! Ribbonwood bounces back quickly after wildfires, with the leaves sprouting again even after being all burned off. The bark that falls away from the tree comes off in strips or "ribbons" that are soft but scratchy and brittle when dried out. that give the tree a kind of whipsy appearance. It's wild and wiggly (I'm all out of adjectives at the moment) and very much a part of the landscape, a piece that ties it all together. The smooth bark underneath is a deep red and cool to the touch. The earthy red and vivid yellowing-green color is suiting. If you cup the leaves in your hands and breathe on them they release a soft rain-like smell. I'm just really passionate about Hyrule and this tree and ecosystem ahsfdhas do you see the low shrubs and parched dirt and the scrambling rocks and the mountains!!! the dry and hot and high altitude and dense shrubbery impassable to find hidden paths through! so much green no stranger to fire!!!!

[imvenusasaboy]

PUPARIA

Chapter 8 - Rain

prev - chapter 1

"Huh." Hosah stood over the dirtied, coffee-stained notebook page that sat in-front of him.

His assistant leant in uncomfortably closer, his brain left to wonder what the hell it said for far too long by now, "Well, can you make it out?"

The shifter kissed his teeth, unsure whether to tell the truth and have to read all what it said out loud, or if he should keep the team waiting until somebody else had interpreted and written it up in an email.

"No, no yeah, pretty much." To be fair, he wasn't sure of a couple of ink-smudged words, but as long as he got the gist of it, that would be enough to move the case forward.

As eyes of anticipation bore into him, Hosah realised now was probably the time to start reading. With a heavy sigh, slightly contemplating what he'd gotten himself into, he began;

"You fucking vermin. You don't know me, and frankly, I don't really know you either, but I know enough to come up with the conclusion, that you're all, fucking leeches. People worry about the rats that scurry all around the city, in the subway station, in the trash and down the dark alleyways, but the real fucking rats are right in front of us."

Eugh. Cliche. Boring. All the other adjectives Hosah couldn't quite think of right in that moment,

"But, I've found myself growing fond of you. Watching you from afar. I find myself both loving you, and hating you. The lines have blurred by now. I understand you are human, or at least, that is what you parade yourself around as, but honestly, I'm not too sure you're anything at all. Completely devoid of life. Just an empty pit of nothing hiding in a cold, flesh shell. I see you sitting alone at bars on a Friday night, and I have to really stop myself from sitting down next to you, buying you a drink, taking you home with me, keeping you forever. But I'm not that selfish. Maybe later. You make me furious, because I love you. And I shouldn't, that's what you want, after all, you act cute and helpless, vulnerable and fragile, that's what draws everyone in, you've got that ginger prick hanging on your every word, and look at you. Hot and cold, nothing that you say is what you really mean, you work people up just to run away when they start to act on feelings they thought were returned. It's cruel. But, I can be crueler. We would've made the perfect pair, if you didn't drive me so crazy. You're going to be the death of me, Hosah Seung Levi. And the death of many, many others. I don't know, see how I feel once this gets to you. Let's talk more over drinks next time, though."

Ew. Was this really the type Hosah attracted? Serial killer stalkers? I mean, sounded about right. Some of the note seemed pretty heartfelt, some downright offensive, and some offensively corny. If the whole murder aspect wasn't the main thing that put him off, it'd be the cheesy way they spoke about him.

"I've never even told anyone my middle name." The shifter's voice shook, clearly disturbed by the contents of the letter, despite not wanting to admit to being so.

Teddy leant back in his chair, hands rubbing his face in disgust, not saying a word, just groaning endlessly.

"Man." The giant pushed himself forwards again, eyes fixated on the paper, "Got ourselves a next level freak."

If you were to listen closely, a small, unsettled 'Hmm' could be heard from the tiny man sitting before the sheet. There was so much information to rack his brain on. Hosah hadn't even been to the bar in weeks, meaning this killer had been at the whole stalking game for a while now. He wondered if it was just the fifteen they were guilty of, or if years worth of unsolved homicides were all on their hands. Maybe he'd have to take up the offer to chat over drinks, just to pry all of this information out of the twisted individual with his bare hands.

He wondered about what specifically he’d done to attract this kind of attention. If anything, the shifter thought he’d been keeping his head down lately, staying out of trouble, but it seems the more he tries to avoid these kinds of people, the more attracted to him they become.

The contents of the note echoed in his head, everything else becoming white noise. Vermin he could handle, Rat he’d heard a million times before, but there was something far, far more hurtful about the brutal reality of the situation;

Whoever wrote this, was completely right.

Thinking back to how he’d previously behaved, his cold attitude towards Teddy for no other reason than he felt threatened that there was an off chance of him opening himself up to someone again. It was all true. Sure, Hosah wasn’t a serial killer of any kind, but god did he have it in him to be cruel.

Hit with an unexpected punch in the gut from a little something called shame, the shifter couldn’t help but hang his head down, letting out a troubled sigh,

"Should send this all off to the police. Let them know about the painting and shit. Report the stalking. Get a protection order of some kind. I don't know.. Anything, nothing, I.. I'm just tired to be honest." Hosah sat, cross legged, burying his face in his hands, brushing through his hair as he usually did under stress.

Teddy agreed, "God, yeah definitely, shouldn't reported the painting yesterday. Shit. Well, they'll be over later in the day, can lay down the basics then." In all honesty, nobody knew why they didn't come the day prior, it's not like Jeanne didn't try calling, unlike that useless security guard, so the reason for their no-show was seemingly a mystery.

God, as the days went by, Hosah felt more like Fred Jones rather than any Sherlock Holmes, all he needed was a talking dog and a brightly coloured mini van.

As the shrunken man lost himself in his thoughts, a finger reached over, giving him a gentle rub on the back. The touch almost made the shifter jump out of his skin, but it only took a split second for him to melt into it. Surprisingly, it did its job pretty well, easing Hosah's mind, just a little.

"I'm glad I can be of help for you. Keep you safe and stuff. Just not sure if your secret admirer is all too on board," the giant teased, although it wasn't the best of times to be cracking jokes.

Hosah didn't care to get offended, or to laugh either, instead focusing on making the most of what little physical contact he'd gotten to receive in months. He was too tired to care, really. The whole ordeal tuckered him out. Just the thought of being where he was, working for another few hours, almost lulled him straight to sleep. Sure, being stalked by someone that had a kill count possibly in the twenties was probably about as interesting as his life was ever going to get, but Hosah really didn't have any damns in him left to spare.

Thinking back to his dreams, he wished he could be at a little cabin on the lakeside. Spending his days fishing, collecting firewood for his makeshift oven and heating system, his evenings cooking his catch of the day, and his nights watching the stars, skidding rocks over the surface of the crystal water, looking at the moon in its clear reflection. Summers could be spent riding his horse companion around the forest, herding the sheep on the mountain side, making sure they weren't eaten by any wolves when the sun went down. That was the life he was destined for. Maybe he could spare a couple days of the year to paint such a scene, although it'd have to wait until he could safely return to his own apartment.

Teddy rested his head in his folded arm on the desk, much closer to the shrunken figure, with a much better view of him. He looked tired. At least, more than he usually did. The pronounced fat under his eyes always gave him that sort of sleepy look anyway. The giant felt very, very bad for him. The kind of sympathy you feel guilty just for feeling towards someone. Pity was probably a better way to put it. He was sure Hosah could carry himself as well as anybody else in the building, but his assistant just wanted to crawl inside of his brain and figure out just about everything there was to know. What secrets he kept, what he dreams about, what he thinks of everyone he meets, the songs that get stuck in his head.

Teddy seriously had no idea how anyone could miss just how blatantly human the tiny man is. Maybe the killer had gotten their names mixed up, because it was the 'ginger prick' that felt as though he were a dark, endless pit of nothing, using a human shell to disguise himself.

"What are you thinking about?" He asked, this was just about as close as he could get to opening up Hosah's skull and crawling in, and he'd take what he could get.

The shifter shrugged, burying his face deeper in his knees, "This dream I keep having." , he waited for Teddy's 'Hmm?' of approval to continue, "Living by lakeside, never having to work again, spending every day fishing, or painting, reading, just thinking.. It's been my dream ever since I could remember. To do nothing."

"Fishing, painting and reading doesn't sound like nothing."

"You know what I mean, not paying my way in society, living off the grid," Hosah sighed, satisfied with the idea. "Would you come with me? Once this is all over, at least."

Yes. Of course, a thousand yes's. "Haha.. We'll see"

-~-

The rest of the day, Hosah spent on edge. Not that he wasn't constantly in some state of fear anyway, but the whole devocoale had sent him down a spiral of anxiety. In the taxi back to Teddy's place, he convinced himself the car behind them was following him, a creek in the old apartment buildings hallway must've been someone scoping the place out and preparing to break in, the people sitting out on the benches outside must be waiting for him to come out so they could grab him. In summary, Hosah was not having a fun time.

As the shrunken figure sat at the windowsill, watching out of the cracks in the blinds, his eyes squinting to make out any activity in the poorly lit streets, he wondered what kind of person had written him the letter. Obviously, he knew what they were roughly, a monster capable of causing large scale tragedy for the likeness of New York's shifter population, but on the surface, it had to be someone he himself wouldn't peg as such a threat.

He thought about everyone he'd ever interacted with, or at least, within the past month or so. Cashiers, strangers on the tube, people in cars giving him the right away to cross the street. Anywhere he could find any sort of answer, Hosah thought about intensively. The shifter felt his breath shorten as he got himself more and more panicked, he'd felt fear before, the kind of fear that the breath you'd just taken would be your last, but nothing like this. The kind of fear that comes before fight or flight, the lingering feeling that something is extremely wrong. His heart in his throat, Hosah reluctantly closed his eyes, trying to steady his readily increasing heartbeat and his uncontrolled breathing.

"Hey. All good there?"

The voice took him out completely, the shifter momentarily feeling his soul come out of his body as he frantically gasped for air, "FUCK, don't.. sneak up on me like that.." Hosah clutched his chest with one hand, the other wiping he sweat that had built up on his brow, "Scared the shit out of me."

Teddy didn't quite understand the gravity of the situation, as he laughed instead, "Sorry, sorry. You looked lost in thought," the giant leant in closer, his elbows at either side of the man before him, "Something bothering you?"

'Oh, nah, just the fact he'd learnt he was the victim of intensive, violent stalking', was what Hosah really wanted to say, but he didn't want to make any more enemies after learning such a fact.

"Just that note. Trying to remember everyone I've got bad blood with, s'all.." If that was all, he wouldn't be such a ghostly white colour right now, starkly contrasting his usual sienna-adjacent tone.

His assistant turned, lifting himself up to sit on the window sill besides the tiny man, "Never really thought you were the type to go around making enemies," Teddy commented.

"God, not now, no.. But definitely in my early twenties." Ah, the good old days, as most would put it. For Hosah however, these were probably the worst years of his life.

The shifter had tried his best to keep everything he got up to around this period a secret, but of course once he'd gotten settled at his first position when first joining the agency, Jules had to and spread exactly the kind of things he got up to around the office like wildfire. 'Just to break to ice' , as she put it.

He winced at the memory, adding, ".. You've probably heard it around work. Always resurfaces every couple of months. Everyone in that place is so fucking bored man, I mean, isn't homicide enough for them?"

"I haven't heard anything, actually. If you don't want me to know, I'm okay with that. Sucks to have your dirty laundry aired out. I know the feeling." Teddy's eyes lingered on everything else that wasn't the shifter besides him, although his hand seemed to inch closer and closer by the second.

Maybe the two were more alike than they'd initially bargained for.

Hosah shrugged, despite knowing he wasn't being looked at, "It's not that bad. I was just a bit of a.." his hand brushed through his hair, pulling on the strands just a little, as he tried to think of the best way to both vaguely and accurately put it.

"A twenty year old? Hah, we all did shit we regret back then. I'm not gonna judge you for any of that, I know I'm not the same person I was like, five years ago."

Not wanting to push the topic any further, the shrunken figure moved himself directly in front of the hand, leaning over and resting his upper body against it. All he could mutter was a quiet, almost unheard, 'I'm tired,' , his eyes instinctively closing once more. He was definitely going to struggle to get a good nights sleep after the day he had, but it was worth a try.

It turns out, going through emotional turmoil does in fact tucker oneself out, as Hosah seemed to have slipped into unconsciousness right then and there, only now awaking after a night filled with the type of dreams he could only assume to be bad omens.

The dream that awoke him however, was one he recalled clearly, although this time, there seemed to be a twist.

None of that mattered though, as Hosah was back to his full height of five foot seven. The only problem is, he must've stripped off as he was so used to doing whilst in a between state of both awake and asleep, leaving him with no size appropriate clothing.

There was only one option for the shifter, unfortunately.

"..Teddyyyyy,"

The yell was immediately met by a creak in the bedroom door, as if his assistant had been stood outside of it this whole time, waiting for the OK to enter.

Teddy covered his eyes as he walked in, making his way straight towards the wardrobe and throwing the first things he grabbed at the shifter.

"I know, I'll go over and get some of your stuff in a few minutes. Just.. put these on for now whilst I make breakfast."

Ew. Hosah didn't get it. Beautiful people should wear clothes that are of the same level as beauty as the individual, but, in all honesty, the guy dressed like shit. The tattered t-shirt only just hung on to the shifter's slender shoulders, and the pants were a complete lost cause. Instead, he opted for the classic 'My shirt will cover all it needs' look, wandering his way into the living area, where he could smell something cooking in the next room over.

The, for once, regular human sized man peaked over the hollow door frame, watching as his new found roommate flipped the final pancake onto its uncooked side, listening to the sizzling of the mixture against the hot pan rather than starting any kind of conversation. He wondered if things would be different, now that they were on equal grounds to each other.

It didn't take long for Teddy to feel the eyes boring into the back of his head, turning to greet his single audience member, "Morning," He froze for a second, looking Hosah up and down.

Teddy knew he was taller than most, but he didn't expect the shifter to still be so small even when at his regular size. Not only was he much shorter than himself, but he was also much thinner, his knobbly knees poking out from each side of his legs, and his collar bone extending all the way out and to his shoulders where it stuck out like a spike of sorts.

Still, the stark difference in his height from what Teddy had grown used to was definitely going to throw him off. He almost found himself reaching his hand out, the same hand the shifter once lounged in less than a day ago, comparing it to his current size.

"Smells good," Hosah commented after a brief moment of silence, whilst his assistant took in the change of perspective.

It took him a second to get his words out, his train of thought being halted by the sudden spark in conversation, "Yeah, thanks. Should be done by now. Then I'll go and pick up some of your clothes."

He tried his best not to look the shifter in the eye, as he felt his face become progressively redder with every word that came out of his mouth.

Hosah, more casual than ever, just propped himself up on the countertop opposite his assistant. "Cool."

As his eyes fixated on everything else in the room, Teddy couldn't help but compare the countless trinkets and decorations he kept laying around the place to the, once tiny, man.

As the day went on, he found himself seeing Hosah in all different kinds of places. A butterfly resting on a flower as he walked past the park, countless erasers lying around on his desk where the shifter sat not so long ago, without even realising it, Teddy had been staring at his hands for the last five minutes. He should really get back to work.

"Here's what I'm caught up on, how the fuck does this guy know my middle name? It's literally only on like.. My legal documents. That's it."

The shifter's words took Teddy out of his trance, "What?"

"The note." now leant against the desk, Hosah sighed, "I'm just thinking about who would even have access to any of that stuff. Jules is the only one with the skeleton key for all the filing cabinets and shit,"

"Is it on your ID, maybe?"

Eyebrows furrowing, the shifter thought about the question for a second, ".. Shit. I don't know. Maybe? Fuck, yeah, since in the note it said about the bar.. But I don't even get ID'd anymore"

"I don't want to scare you but.. Could be premeditating for longer than you'd think." Teddy instantly regretted the words as soon they left his mouth, "Maybe. It's just an idea. Might be wrong too."

He looked at his hand, then back at the shifter, and then back and forth a few times more, not really listening to whatever was being spoken at him. The clothes on Hosah's body hung loose on his frame, despite them being his own, maybe this wasn't his full height after all, or maybe he just hadn't had the chance to get more form fitting options for a while. Something about the bruises Teddy had noticed scattered across the shifters legs, and the fact he could now see his sunken features much clearer, evoked an urge to protect him.

Hosah had made it clear to him that he was in no need of protecting. Just watching him make his way around the apartment when he was a mere three inches tall solidified that fact, but that still didn't stop the assistant from wanting to help him. He could want all he wanted, despite the fact it's not what he necessarily needed, which sort of made Teddy feel better about pitying the man.

Instead of focusing on Hosah’s chatter, his assistant couldn’t help but reach for the phantom weight in his pocket. There used to be someone in here, but now he’s not, and that hurt Teddy’s heart, just a little.

".. Anyway, I'm gonna go see my doctor tomorrow. Im due a visit. I'll meet you back at your place, if... if you still think it'd be better if I stayed." The uncertainty in his last few words concerned the assistant slightly, only just know focusing back into the conversation.

"Yeah, yeah, no I don't think you should risk staying at your own place for a while. At least not alone, anyway." Teddy reached his hand out for Hosah's, trying to give a reassuring touch, but instead, he became focused again on his size change.

The hand that once held his entire form could now only wrap around his wrist, and that Teddy did. He didn't even realise it until Hosah commented,

".. What are you doing?" the shifter asked, arm raised as the hand gently grabbing it had pulled it in closer.

Noticing the fact, he let go, muttering a quiet 'Sorry' , his face now burning up.

Fortunately for the assistant, Hosah did not take offence, or get annoyed at, the action. He didn't even lower his hand, instead, he just smiled.

"It's ok. It's weird right?" the shifter spun on his heel, leaning over Teddy in his seat, placing his hand down next to his assistant's resting one, "Just yesterday, I was right here. Aha."

It's almost as if he took pleasure in seeing the seated man become progressively more and more flustered.

As Hosah's fingered inched closer to the other person's tightly closed fist, he also began to think about the shift in perspective. He also thought about telling a white lie the next morning, making it out that his shrinking had been just so unpredictable lately, forcing him back into the same hand that rest besides his own.

No, not yet, at least. He had stuff that needed to be done at this height still. Besides, he hadn't pulled that trick since he was much younger, when he wanted to spend the day home from school, or to get out of any kind of family gathering he wasn't particularly bothered to attend. Those were the days. Lounging around on his dad's shoulder, spending the day doing nothing at all productive. Just hanging out, sometimes not even speaking, and enjoying the silent presence of each other.

Ah, there's another thing he had to do, call his dad.

"Well," Hosah stood back up to his full height, his hand now moved to pat his assistant on the shoulder, "Back to work."

Right, work. The shifter still had about an hours worth of security footage to try and make out. Why Scotty wasn't doing this, he had no idea. Hosah always seemed to get saddled with the short end of the stick when it came to big investigations like this one, even if he himself was a highly regarded target to the killer.

So far, there was nothing. Almost as if the package just appeared out of thin air. The fact the computers ran at what seemed to be a frame-per-second wasn't helping either. Rewinding took a whole minute, then the footage would buffer like crazy. He should've really just brought a notebook to jot these things down in, as Hosah thought of a new objective that needed to be met; complain to Jules about the dated technology they were saddled with in the shifter specialised unit.

As he sat, staring at the forever spinning wheel that was the computer loading screen, Hosah could only think of one thing, just how badly he wished to be tiny again. The thought had never crossed his mind before, but now, being reintroduced to the feeling of being held in a single hand, the shifter found himself longing for that touch.

He knew he should’ve just kept his guard up, stuck to what he knew and kept Teddy at an arms length, but Hosah always found himself in these kinds of situations. Finding love and warmth in all the wrong places at all the wrong times.

And when you have a crazed killer out to get you, you should probably avoid becoming distracted with meaningless things like touch deprivation. After all, there are bigger things to focus on, and, despite his height, Teddy was not one of them.

[firenati0n]

fic pride friday

yeah it's not friday idc idc thank you to @kiwiana-writes @anincompletelist @anchoredarchangel for the tags <3

Rules: Post your favourite line or passage from as many of your published works as you’d like. Let yourself feel proud of your creations! Tag as many people as you post snippets, so your fellow fic friends can be proud, too.

i only have 7 fics so I'm using snips from all of them...maybe this will motivate me...hoping it helps :)

snips below the cut so it's not a pain on your dash lol. also they're in order of posting, so if you haven't read something just scroll on by lol:

from our world, mine and his alone (the midnight train to go) aka cracky brain worm fic:

In a poorly executed non sequitur, he settled to comment on the first thing he could think of. Fatal error.  Deep breath in. “By the way. Digging the cardigan, Henry. Very…” He rifled through his extensive vocab for literally any appropriate adjective. Refined? Boring. Professional? Practical, but also boring.   “Very…?” Henry raised an eyebrow, long fingers wrapped around a cup of tea. Earl Grey, Henry had said a while ago, but Alex couldn't be sure. He had been terribly distracted by said fingers, wondering where else those fingers could— What Alex’s distracted, useless worms in his left temporal lobe decided to supply him with as a response was: “Slutty-English-Literature-professor core.” Alex was going to jump off the train. He was going to change his name. He was going to get a lobotomy, as a treat. 

+

from An Amateur's Guide to Piping That Cream and Beating That Meat aka thirst trap tiktok au:

and my favorite part is the end when henry makes a bold ass move on alex through an old tiktok comment while he's sat across from him LMFAOOOO king shit:

+

from each time we touch / i wanna take too much aka fingers in mouths dreamy fic:

Eyes still closed, Henry kisses Alex's thumb, a soft touch, and Alex sucks in a sharp breath. He presses his thumb inside for a second, resting it on Henry's tongue. Henry's eyes open, slow and steady, and he grasps Alex's hand gently, pulling his thumb out and wrapping his long pale fingers around Alex's index and middle finger instead; pulls them into his mouth, closing his lips around Alex's digits. Alex lets out a stuttered gasp as he leans into the touch, his fingers sliding in a little deeper. The sound of his shaky exhale sits for a second, heavy in the silence. The air around them crackles. There's a weight on Alex's chest, pressing and pressing and pressing, until he can barely get a breath in or out within the inches of shared space between him and Henry. Henry swirls his tongue around Alex's fingers, and his eyes are clear as ever as they bore into Alex, a challenge. And who is Alex to deny him anything?

+

from keep me up all night / i wanna scratch your surface aka lovely prose all over fic:

Alex is determined to give him the world, even if it’s narrowed down to a strip of smooth skin just below Henry’s clavicle, a constellation of purple and red hues littered in places no one can see, in spots wandering eyes can’t reach. Alex’s heart pouring out of his mouth, sliding past his tongue and right onto Henry’s skin, the universe contained in Henry’s rib cage that protects the air they share in impassioned exhales and the heartbeat that intertwines with Alex’s when they’re like this; a sacred harmony of bodies and spaces. He’ll never tire of this.

and also this:

Alex does his worst, and then some; a reminder that they get to have this. It’s theirs, and it’s the universe in Henry’s ribcage, and it’s the moonlight reflected in Alex’s eyes, and it’s the world narrowed down to bruises on a pale canvas and bite marks on golden skin. Marks that they can run delicate fingertips over, press into with devotion; tucked away for safekeeping in the morning, their starkness harsh in the sunlight. There are no eyes worthy of Henry in the daytime.

+

from cause you're classic, and i'm reckless aka ryan gosling / rachel mcadams inspired actor au:

When Alex was called up for his award, he felt himself go right back to where he was on day one of rehearsals—transparent, with his heart on his sleeve and voice a little wobbly. Being recognized for his accomplishments felt so novel, so intense, so foreign. After fighting tooth and nail to proudly sport his biracial and bisexual identity, he was thrilled to be accepted for who he was, and told he was good enough for the masses, his intersectionality a standout and not something to hide; good enough for Henry as a costar, holding his own opposite an industry darling. He couldn’t keep the tremor out of his voice as he accepted his trophy, thanking everyone for their hard work on this movie, the studio for backing a movie about unapologetic queer love, and Henry for being his faithful guide and cheerleader in a new landscape for Alex, giving him space to be his authentic self free of judgment and fear of failure. He’s so, so grateful for this. He will never stop being grateful; after pouring his heart and soul into this movie, he got so much back in return, and then some. He’s completely rearranged, made up of brand new parts next to his old, rusty ones; a patchwork heart beating erratically yet earnestly, hands that have traversed new spaces and swaths of skin, people pouring themselves back into him and sanding down the rough parts, caressing the scared ones. Alex feels not just reborn, but also like the person he always was deep down, just waiting to have a chance to emerge with all his heart to show for it.

+

from who truly stuck the knife in first aka spy au aka sexually charged wrestling:

Alex averts his gaze, rolling onto his back to gaze at the cracks in the ceiling. The thing is. The thing is, Alex doesn’t know where the fuck to go from here. Between the barbs and the knives and the tension and the rolling around on the floor and the bed in a sexually frustrated heap, Alex didn’t take a second to consider he could have this, could have Henry in a way that mattered. Now that it's just within reach, he's scared it's going to slip away from his fingers and into the night if he holds on too tight, wants too much. He’s spared the need to respond by the sound of a crackle coming from Henry's laptop, then clothes rustling as someone groans. Manu’s bug is up and running, the man probably fielding a killer hangover and hazy memories of Alex and unbuttoned shirts and hands wrapped around throats. Alex clears his throat, scraping away any remnants of lingering affection. “Back to work, Foxy,” he says with a cheeky grin. Before he can help himself, though, he leans into Henry, planting a sweet kiss on his parted lips. Henry sighs into him, cupping his cheek with a tenderness Alex hasn't felt in a long while. He tastes like a future Alex dreams of having one day. For now, that's enough. It has to be.

+

from and all i can taste is this moment, and all i can breathe is your life aka angel!henry fic aka city of angels au with a happy ending:

Henry forges on, the words pouring out of him, spilling all over the cliffside for Alex to see. “It is a sin worth committing, a fruit worth eating—at least I’ll get to taste you. You will never be a lapse in my judgment. You are my salvation, through you I get to reclaim myself. Isn’t that beautiful, isn’t that everything you’ve taught me about life and love and humanity?” Alex gazes at him, mouth slightly agape, taking in Henry’s impassioned words. Alex has spent his life fighting for others, extending himself beyond his limits. Now it’s Henry’s turn. “Darling, I’ve spent years, centuries even, pondering the question of what makes you human, what sits in your core. After all this time, the answer is unchanging—it’s love. Love, and care, and the unflinching determination of the human condition. With this, with you, I’ve experienced the absolutely soul-crushing realization that our hearts are built to endure when you have hope.” Henry’s voice wavers a bit, but he presses forward, determined to make the words land. “You are my hope, the hope I never thought I’d get to have, the hope I never thought I deserved to keep. With you, I want to endure.”

xoxo roop

open tag but also some no pressure tags : @wordsofhoneydew @cha-melodius @cricketnationrise @hgejfmw-hgejhsf @whimsymanaged

@nontoxic-writes @alasse9 @ships-to-sail @leaves-of-laurelin @myheartalivewrites

@sherryvalli @ninzied @rmd-writes @suseagull04 @inexplicablymine

[alinatk]

Satoru Gojo's Ticklish Punishment

Fandom: Jujutsu Kaisen Characters: Satoru Gojo | Suguru Geto | Utahime Iori Lee!Gojo Ler!Geto Ler!Utahime Summary: Satoru Gojo is many things. Annoying and arrogant are adjectives that are at the top of the list and not even your friends can take it anymore, so why not make him change a little and at the same time have fun with a little revenge?

"G-Guys, what does that mean?"

Gojo had agreed to go to Geto's apartment to discuss the new mission they received the day before, but the last thing he expected was...

He was sitting in an armchair, his arms tied behind his back and his legs stretched out, also tied on the living room coffee table.

"It was one of my sleeping curses, you were only unconscious for as long as it took for us to contain you" It was Geto speaking, he was standing next to him, leaning on the same armchair.

"I asked Geto to help me, I wanted to get revenge on you" Utahime was sitting on the coffee table, next to Gojo's feet, with a triumphant expression on her face.

"What? but why?" Gojo's eyes widened. "And why did you agree to this, Suguru?"

"Ah, I had nothing to do, so it's a chance to have fun and get out of the boredom" He smiled.

"A chance to have fun? But-" He stopped talking when he felt a scratch on his sole. "H-Hey, Utahime!"

"It is really true!" She had a sparkle in her eye.

"Y-You.." He had already understood. "You can't ahahahahahahahahaha" And he couldn't help but laugh when he felt her fingers moving across his sole.

"Yes, I can, and how can I! You keep disrespecting everyone, especially me, it's time to stop" She used her index finger to trace imaginary lines and paths that went from the heel to the base of Gojo's toes. "Geto agrees with me"

"Ahahahahahahahahahahaha Utahime, w-wahahahahahahahahait!"

"She's right, Satoru, how many times have I told you to treat your elders more respectfully?! At some point the consequences would arrive" He smiled.

"Wait a minute, you can't ahahahahahahahahahahahahaha" He couldn't finish the sentence.

"I'm tired of waiting" Utahime started scribbling his fingers all over Gojo's right sole.

"Ahahahahahahahahahahahahaha nohohohohohohohohohoho" He laughed as he tried to shake his foot away from her hands. "hahahahahahahaha stop stahahahahahahahahahap"

"Oh no, we're just getting started. You come too, Geto" She pointed to Gojo's left foot.

"S-Suguru nohohohohohohohohoho take me out of here ahahahahahahahahahahaha"

"I will eventually, but for now.." He joined Utahime, trailing his fingers along his sole.

"AHAHAHAhahahahahahahahahaha no nohohohohohohohohohoho wait ahahahahahahahahaha" Gojo was overcome by sensations.

Utahime strummed harder, concentrating on the center of her sole, while Geto covered the entire sole of the foot with softer strokes. But they both watched as Gojo laughed and doubled over, trying to free himself from his bonds.

"Ahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha no nohohohohohohohoho stahahahahahahahap" Gojo was a mess, his face slightly red, his hair disheveled and tears forming in the corners of his eyes.

"Did you hear that, Geto? He doesn't want us to stop" She giggled.

"Haha, how mean, Utahime" He stopped. "Let's give our friend a break"

"E-Enough.." Gojo said trying to catch his breath. "Get me out of here"

"That's up to you, Satoru.. Are you going to change your behavior?" Geto went to his side, leaning on the armchair again.

"I also want you to apologize to me!" Utahime said, crossing his arms.

"Me? You're the ones who should be apologizing! You can't just-" He was interrupted.

"Yeah, you said it right, Geto" Utahime sighed. "He's proud and doesn't make it easy"

"Yeah... But it's okay, there's another spot I want to test" He said, poking Gojo's ribs.

"AH! He shrank away. "You wouldn't dare.."

Geto knew about Gojo's sensitivity, he had discovered it naturally with a few touches here and a few pokes there, until one day he took better advantage of the opportunity and Gojo ended up laughing and completely defeated on the floor.

"I have nothing to lose.." He smiled and fingered her ribs.

"AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA SUGURU NO HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA"

"Wow.." Utahime watched, amazed, as Gojo bent, thrashed and laughed against Geto's tickles. "I want it too"

"AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA NO NO, STAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAP" This time it was Utahime who squeezed his ribs while Geto held him by the shoulders, keeping him leaning so he wouldn't get in the way. "AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA STAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAP THAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAT, PLEASE!" And they stopped.

"Oh, I'm surprised you say such a polite word like that" Geto mocked. "But you still haven't said what we want to hear"

"Make it easy on yourself"

"I-I don't.." Was all Gojo said while breathing heavily.

Utahime and Geto exchanged a look, at the same time they sighed, but they weren't surprised. While Utahime sat down again near Gojo's feet, Geto pulled a chair to the side of the armchair and sat down.

"You asked for this! " They said together.

"AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA NO, NOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHO HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA STAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAP" Gojo was surprised by Utahime's fingers running over his soles and Geto's fingers pressing his ribs. "HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA I WILL DIE, HAHAHAHAHAHAHA PLEASE STAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAP"

"Begging won't help, even though it's great to hear from you" That's what Utahime said and Geto approved with a smile.

Gojo wasn't able to think straight, he could feel the way Utahime's fingers slid across his soles, hitting all the sensitive spots and the way Geto's fingers traced his ribs, alternating between squeezing them one by one. He wouldn't last long.

"AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA OK, OKAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAY I'M SOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHORY" He finally give up.

"What did you say, Satoru? I couldn't understand.." Geto wouldn't miss the chance to tease him.

"AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA I'M SORRY, I'M SOHOHOHOHOHOHOHORY HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA" He screamed and they stopped.

"Thank you for doing this voluntarily, Gojo, I forgive you" She smiled and turned to leave.

"And you have nothing to tell me, Satoru?" He threatened to tickle him again.

"I-I'm going to change!" He said quickly.

"Haha, that's good, I'm pleased" He smiled and free him. "Now we can talk about the mission"

But Gojo just stood there, recovering and thinking how much he liked and hated those two at the same time.

[moedull]

LIKE

A/N: This is part of my AO3 series where my favourite characters represent different times (and ways) to say I love you

this was written waaay back in 2021? This is rewritten ofc, but, quite hastily in my opinion! It may not be the best, but, hey, it's cool

also.... dont be afraid to comment... help artists survive by showing ur love through comments or sharing their fics!!!!! >_o thanks!

AKA. Posted from my ao3 once again!

words: 1273

tags: NOT BETA READ, mild hurt/comfort, gender neutral reader, established relationship!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Enjoy: TSUKISHIMA KEI!

“Oh you’re still going on about that?”

“Yes.” 

Tsukishima sighs, sitting behind you as you smash the letters on your keyboard. You hear the bed creak and suddenly, he’s sitting next to you. He gently grabs your hands and holds them tight. 

“Hey.” He starts casually.

You look him in the eye with a huge frown, and furrowed eyebrows. “What?”

“Come here.”

‘Here’ is the soft bed you wish to lay on with no worries in the world. Of course, with your boyfriend, Tsukishima Kei.

“Why?”

“Why not?” 

“I’m busy right now…” You try pushing him away. 

“You don’t look like you’re in the best condition.” He says matter of factly, rubbing circles onto the back of your hand.

“So what if I am? I have to finish my thesis.”

He looks at you, sighs, and rolls his eyes. “I know that but it doesn’t change the fact that I worry about you.”

“I can take care of myself.” You hushed. “But thank you.”

“Are you ever gonna let me help? Or just go along with everything because you have too much pride for your own good?”

“No.” You huff. You suppose it was a habit from when you first met– always reaching for the top, showing everyone who really deserves to be up there– and, you do. You try hard everyday, working and caring for so many different things.

You just seem to be out of luck as it always feels like your efforts are unnoticed. In such situations, perseverance is key– but that kind of mindset may quickly turn sour when they’re left to linger and turn into stubbornness. 

You should probably hate Tsukishima Kei– strong-willed, cool and collected, and of course, smart. You would never have expected to hit it off with him, but he's one of those people who could easily get under your skin and get you to crack.

“Well, I know you can handle yourself, but don’t forget to eat.”

You roll your eyes (no malice is intended, of course). “You don’t need to baby me all the time.”

His eyebrow twitches, and he rolls his eyes in exasperation (no malice is intended here as well). “Whatever. But you need to sleep. Okay?”

“Yeah yeah.” You wave his concerns away, already turning around to resume typing.

Tsukishima huffs, gets up and moves over to your desk. He places his hands on either side of the laptop, leaning forward slightly as he studies the screen. 

“It’s not good to stress yourself out like this.”

“I don’t stress out.” You argue.

“Right, cause you always make sure you’re not stressed out.”

“I am not stressed out.” You insist.

“Fine.”  He relents. “But just remember I care about you. I can’t help it if you act like an idiot sometimes.”

The corners of your lips twitch up. “You’re cute.”

“Shut up.” 

“And sweet.”

“Stop saying that.”

“Don’t you think I should use more than two adjectives when talking about someone I like?” You ask with a smile, tilting your head.

He grins smugly down at you, crossing his arms over his chest. “Maybe.”

You chuckle, but it stops right away as you turn back to your work. Tsukishima still hangs around, not entirely convinced of your claims of being fine. He is especially convinced when you simply stare at your blank page, trying to find the right words to make the right sentence to make the right point of the right argument and–

“Okay, so what’s the problem?” He asks, taking a seat next to you. He scrolls up with your mouse, trying to read the rest of your document. 

You see the reflection of his face; His eyebrows knit together, lips pursed as the cursor moves underneath a few words. He lingers on a few sentences for unknown reasons that make your hands sweat and your heart beat faster. Flustered? Hardly, it’s the ache of anxiety. Your problems, right now, are far from school-related. 

“Mm.” Tsukishima hums, resting his chin on your shoulder. “You have the idea, so that’s good.”

But,

“You’re not being straight to the point about it.” He scrolls back to whatever page you made some stupid mistake on.

When did mistakes matter? I mean, seriously, at which stage of your life, did you begin to wallow over your mistakes? You were only in 3rd grade, scraping your knee on a cement pavement from running and that was one of the worst things that happened to you. 

Now, you read back on all of your essays and tests and feel your heart drop when you see that red ‘X’, the teacher encircling a specific part, or some harsh comments at the side. You want to blame the system, the adults, the economy or whatever God is up there– but, you can’t help it– You look in the mirror, thinking: Fuck. Was this all me?

Someone flicks your forehead, and you let out a wince, rubbing the spot.

“Hey.” Tsukishima says, tilting his head to look at your face. “You were zoning out.”

You glance back at him with an almost confused, somewhat dazed look. Here’s another big question: When did Tsukishima Kei matter? It’s incredible that you looked at someone for 304 days, talked, fell in love and somehow, it’s your life and his. You can’t put it into words right now; the questions that grow inside the empty pit of your stomach, because, right, you haven’t eaten yet, and you can’t tell if it really is a question, or if it’s screaming at you. 

You feel like you’re going to vomit–Fuck, that anxiety was just building up inside of you.

“I..” You pause, swallowing a non-existent lump in your throat. 

 “I didn’t think..” You pause again, taking a deep breath. “I didn’t think you’d like me back.”

He sits straight up, and stares down at you, furrowing his eyebrows with narrowed eyes. “What do you mean?”

You shake your head. “Look, I wasn’t expecting any response from you when I confessed.” 

You pause, feeling your eyes burn slightly from the tears that were building up, “I was just.. someone. You were one of the smartest guys in school—still are—but, out of everyone....” you start to trail off. 

“Out of everyone, why did you choose me?” You continue, forcing yourself to speak slowly, slightly tensing up at the evident sound of your voice breaking halfway.

He doesn’t respond. He slumps his shoulders, seemingly taken aback and bewildered.

“Why does someone like you pick me?” You laugh bitterly. Your heart aches even at the thought of it.

You watch him closely, as if looking for some sort of reaction or sign of how he feels. A flicker in his eyes, anything.

Tsukishima’s face remains blank for several moments before opening his mouth slowly to say, “Because I like you.”  

It takes you a minute to process what he said and you blink owlishly. You’d been prepared to hear something like ‘You’re a dumbass’ or something along the lines.

”But why?” You manage to blurt out, unable to hide a frown.

There’s a long silence as you hold his gaze. You stare at each other, neither willing to break eye contact, not until he leans in and presses his lips against yours.

“Was that answer not enough?” He whispers into your ear, his fingers gently caressing your cheek.

You feel lightheaded, your entire body buzzing and your heartbeat drumming against your ribcage.

You can’t speak, so instead you shake your head.

There's silence as he begins to cradle you in his arms, resting his chin on your head.

“I love you.” He tells you again.