#I can’t take iiiit

[happyheidi]

x x

#cottagecore #I wanna sit on that bench and take in the summer air #then jump into that wateeererr #cus omgg it’s SO hot here atm!! #I can’t take iiiit #nature #naturecore #flowers #flowercore #warmcore #water #watercore #summer aesthetic #wildflowers #ethereal #fairy #fairycore

[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 <[email protected]>

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 <[email protected]>

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.

#f1 #charles leclerc #charles leclerc fluff #charles leclerc imagines #charles leclerc drabble #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc smut #f1 x reader

[devildomwriter]

Every “I Love You” Vol 1-4

Lucifer

22-C

Lucifer: “I love you. Truly and deeply.”

28-15

Lucifer: “I never knew I could feel this way. I never knew I had such passion inside me. MC…I love you.”

28-19 (2)

Lucifer: “MC, I love you. Well, we may not be on stage now, but I’m happy to say it again. As many times as you’d like. I love you, MC. Truly and deeply…”

38-9

Lucifer: “I love you, MC. Truly. As much as I’d like my memory back, and to remember everything that’s happened, there’s something I want even more… I want to know how you feel about me.”

38-9 (2)

Lucifer: “I love you, too. With all my heart. How many times have I told you that before? Because I want to tell you so many more times that my old self did. …In fact, no matter how many times I might say it, I feel like it will never be enough. I love you, MC. Kiss me. If I told you that I actually feel jealous of the old me, would you laugh…?”

40-22

Lucifer: “I love you, MC. There’s no need to say goodbye. Because we’ll see each other again. Soon.”

41-19

Lucifer: “I love you… It’s strange… We haven’t been apart long at all, yet it feels like it’s been a century. Why is that?”

Mammon

25-17

Mammon: “MC…! You’re the best! You never let me down, and it’s just…amazing! YOU’RE amazing! I love you, MC! More than I’ve ever loved anyone!”

29-12 (2)

Mammon: “I LOVE YOU! I LOVE YOU SO MUCH I CAN’T STAND IIIIT!”

MC: “…?!”

Mammon: “I want to [CENSORED], [CENSORED], and [CENSORED] like there’s no tomorrow!”

33-14

Mammon: “Like, what it I accidentally let it slip that I love you, huh?!”

33-14

Mammon: “I love you so much it’s crazy! Like, so much that my stomach fills with butterflies and my heart jumps out of my chest! I think about you all the time, even when you’re not around! Like, I feel like I’m losin’ my mind!”

33-14

Mammon: “And I like you, MC. …I love you, actually. So, what about you? Come on, say you feel the same way, MC.”

33-14

Mammon: “Yeah…I love you too. Like, so much it’s crazy. I mean I love Lucifer and my other brothers too. I love ‘em to death, honestly. But with you it’s different. It’s special…”

43-15

Mammon: “Dammit! Like I could ever really say that to you! I love you MC! And I’ll NEVER break up with you, okay?! NEVER!”

53-9

Mammon: “I love you, MC! And I’d take you over money any day!”

Leviathan

48-4

Leviathan: “Um…listen, MC… …Thanks. I love you, too. And I really appreciate that you’d say that to me. But that’s also why I want to learn to take pride in myself. Because I want you to love me even more than you already do…”

48-9

Leviathan: “…Ugh, what do I do? I’m not so sure I want to let you go after all. You’d better leave before I change my mind. Oh, but make sure to come back once you’re done with whatever it is, okay? …I love you, MC.”

Satan

21-14

Satan: “Mm, it finally feels real now. You really are back. I love you, MC. Welcome home.”

42-10

Satan: “After all, you already have me. I’m yours, and you’re mine. Isn’t that right? I love you, MC…”

Asmodeus

13-20

Asmodeus: “Hehe, I knew that already. I love you too, MC. Though I think I’d rather have you tell me that while lying next to me in bed.”

19-70

Asmodeus: *sigh* “Oh, wow. All you did was kiss me, and I feel like I’ve died and gone to the Celestial Realm…! I love you, MC… I love you more than anything!

22-10

Asmodeus: “Mmhm… I feel the same way. I love you too, MC. I absolutely adore you!”

31-2

Asmodeus: “Hehe. I love you, MC. So much it’s crazy…”

31-2

Asmodeus: “Oh MC! I love you SO MUCH!”

32-19

Asmodeus: “Whaaat? You mean I can’t kiss you? Ugh, you’re so meeean! Still, I just can’t help loving you! I love you SO MUCH, MC!”

34-1

Asmodeus: “MC, does that mean you believe me? Hehe, you’re absolutely adorable. I love you so much, MC!”

39-18

Asmodeus: “I love you SO MUCH. More than words can describe…”

41-7

Asmodeus: “I love you so much, I can barely contain myself… Ugh, I can’t take this any longer…”

54-1

Asmodeus: “Wait, are you saying I don’t need to use my powers on you? You just find me naturally charming? Oh MC, you’re SO sweet! I love you to death!”

60-22

Asmodeus: “MC, you’re so adorable. I love you, and I’m going to miss you so much. It’s going to be unbearable…”

67-9

Asmodeus: “Hehe, thank you! Oh MC, there aren’t even words to describe how much I love you.”

67-9

Asmodeus: “I thought I’d use my butt to express just how I feel about you, MC. I love you, and I want you to know it.”

Beelzebub

45-18

Beelzebub: “Mm… …Okay, I was wrong. I don’t actually like you. I love you.”

46-19

Beelzebub: “You remember when I gave you my star, right? And now here you are giving ME a star… I promise that I’ll always treasure it. Always and forever… I love you, MC.”

69-17

Beelzebub: “Well, it’s the same with me. You’re always on my mind. I love you, MC…”

80-10

Beelzebub: “I’ve been waiting so long to do this… For it to be just the two of us alone… I love you, MC…”

Belphegor

20-11

Belphegor: “But even if you go back to the human world, I’ll always love you, MC. Because there’s no one else like you anywhere. Not in the Devildom, not in the Celestial Realm, not in the human world.”

41-14

Belphegor: “I love you, MC. You have no idea how much…”

55-18

Belphegor: “Come on, try to keep still. …Here, let me put my arms around you. I love you, MC. …I love you so much, it’s crazy.”

80-10

Belphegor: “I mean, I can’t go to sleep now. Not when it would mean missing out on this… I love you, MC…”

Simeon

52-17

Simeon: “Here, let me look into your eyes. I love you, MC… The question is, how do you feel about me?”

71-17

Simeon: “You know that one song that’s been really popular with everyone at RAD lately? Well, it sums up how I feel about you perfectly. It goes like this. “I was wandering, hurt, lost in an endless night, and you reached out to me… Nestled against each other, we wished that morning would never come. No one can know, no one can know. But I love you so deeply it hurts”…”

71-17

Simeon: “I can’t tell you how long I’ve been hoping to hear you say that. Thank you. Thank you for always being there for me. I love you, MC.”

Diavolo

56-18

Diavolo: “If you’d be okay with it, I’d actually like it if we could do this sort of thing more often. You know, spend more time together. I’m just going to come out and say it, MC… The truth is…I love you

56-18

Diavolo: “I love you so much. You’re so, so precious to me that I can barely take it. Can I kiss you?”

56-18

Diavolo: “I love you, MC. And I’m so happy to know you feel the same way about me. Thank you.”

56-18

Diavolo: “Well, even if you don’t have feelings for me, that doesn’t change how I feel about you. I still love you

80-14

Diavolo: “It’s hard getting you alone. After all, wherever you go, Lucifer and his brothers are sure to be nearby. But right now I have you all to myself… I love you, MC…”

Ranks

1. Asmodeus (13)

2. Lucifer/Mammon (9)

3. Diavolo (5)

4. Beelzebub/Belphegor/Simeon (4)

5. Leviathan/Satan (2)

6. Solomon/Thirteen/Barbatos/Mephistopheles/Michael/Raphael (0)

#Solomon and Barbatos never say it directly but it’s heavily implied #obey me shall we date #obey me lucifer #obey me diavolo #obey me mammon #obey me satan #obey me simeon #obey me leviathan #obey me asmodeus #obey me belphegor #obey me beelzebub #obey me thanks #obey me request #obey me quotes

[l0v3tast3]

damn right!!!! pervy neighbor!toji would indeed end up having the reader move in with him and he will absolutely love iiiit... that means he can’t have his hands to himself at all, like imagine him fucking the reader and filling her up in in the morning before she goes to college, and later when he comes back from work he can have her again without any worries to be interrupted (still tries to get the reader preggo tho)

damn fucking straight anon!!! you're so damn right...... *kisses u on ur forehead* ur a genius anon ur so smart mwah !! (๑˘︶˘๑)

toji is quick to interrupt your broken whines about being late to class by pressing harder against your upper back, pushing you down from your elbows until your head is turned, the side of your face pressed into the mattress. "you're still thinkin' about that?" he breathes, using his other hand that's gripping your ass to pull you back and forth on his dick like a toy. toji's goal, other than seeing you swell with his baby, is always to make you as dumb as possible before he sends you off to college. it's adorable watching you stumble frantically out the door on wobbly legs, glaring at him while you give him a quick kiss on your way out.

once he lays his chest over your back and buries himself as deep as possible to cum inside you, toji tells you to make sure not to spill a single drop with a salacious grin and a filthy kiss that leaves a string of spit between your lips. as angry as you pretend to be with him for making you late to your first class of the day, toji always hears his phone ding! with a text from you a couple of hours after he leaves for work. he knows by now to open it while he's on his own. you'll send him a picture in a bathroom stall of the mess he made of you with a text saying how much you missed him and needed him to fill you up again. toji just doesn't understand how he managed to get so lucky with his sweet little girlfriend.

after he spends the rest of the day with an aching cock, he gets home to find you on your shared bed doing your homework. you're laying on your stomach, kicking your feet in the air with earbuds in playing your favorite music, angled away from the door so you don't hear him come in. toji loves how you jump a little when he walks over and runs a hand down your back and under the hem of your shirt. you'll take out your earbuds and exclaim how he needs to stop sneaking up on you, but he's already tugging you up to your knees so he can kiss you hard enough to arch your back against the strong arms wrapping around you. "always such a fuckin' tease, sendin' me that shit while i'm at work. y'want more of my cum in you, princess? hm, i don't think y'deserve it after making me hard all fuckin' day. gonna have to make it up to me, sweetheart."

tl;dr, toji's routine with you once you move in with him <3

#— ask! #— lilly writes! ♡ #hgngnhg anon thank u for feeding me so well #god i love perv toji it's so good #toji fushiguro #jjk toji #toji fushiguro x reader #toji fushiguro x you #toji fushiguro x female reader #toji x reader #toji x you #toji fushiguro smut #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen smut

[propertyofwhitney67]

Ever had soft whitney brainrot invade your brain all of a sudden? I can't stop thinking about him and I just woke up lol

I want more private moments with Whitneyyyy

I wanna be able to sleep on his bed even if he'll bully us about iiiit

I wanna wake up and see Whitney nonchalantly scrolling through his phone while he's petting our head, not realizing we're awake (bonus points if he gave you a plushie to cuddle with while you were asleep)

I wanna see him flustered and angy and trying so hard not to admit that he liked watching you sleep in a not creepy way and then just huffing and goes back to whatever he was doing on his phone while threatening you if you told anybody about this-

I love this silly little guy so much wtf 😩

Always, 24/7 baby.

I need this so much I’m gonna cry. He’s such a cutie and I should be able to sleep in his bed damnit.

He would bully you about it at first but absolutely grows to love it when you ask. Halfheartedly makes fun of you like he does in the new park scenes.

He stays up watching you sleep and plays on his phone. You wake up from one of those stupid TikTok’s he's watching. He’s trying not to laugh and wake you, but fails. You feel him petting your head and are slowly lulled back to sleep. Occasionally he stops scrolling and checks on you, seeing you curled into him and holding onto Iggy the Whale, he takes a picture and sets it as his home screen.

One day you see his home screen when he’s showing you a video. You ask him about it and he gets flustered and hides it with anger. Nothing crazy, just a lot of denial. He sees your face and knows he can’t convince you so he just huffs and shoves you lightly while halfheartedly threatening you.

#asks #dol #dol whitney #whitney the bully #degrees of lewdity #madison’s headcanons

[xsezzie]

Hiiii Sezzie~ omg if it's not too much trouble, could I request lee!scara and ler!Aether wheeeere hmm perhaps Scara sees Aether getting wrecked by someone else and Scara is like super entranced by the whole act, so Aether tickles him~?

Feel free to ignore if you waaaant~ thank yoouuuu!

Only taking requests from friends for now!

Hello gorgeous! I’m sorry this took so long 😭 Hope you like the little Scara fic I put together for you ❤️ It’s very short!

A/N: I kept Scaramouche as Scara, I can’t imagine him with another name LOL

Warnings: It’s tickling??? Also swearing because Scara is a grumpy cat.

————————————————————————

Curiosity Tickled the Cat

“P-Paimon! Quihihihit ihihit!!!”

Familiar laughter of the Traveler could be heard in Avidya Forest as his dear, TRUSTED companion, or so he thought, decided to use her tiny hands to attack his soft sides.

The two were camping late in the afternoon, Aether had began teasing Paimon as usual, who in return saw fit to unleash her “Paimonial Wrath” on her Traveler. And Paimon was not an easy target to catch, quickly darting around administering pokes and squeezes to Aether’s poor sides, ribs, stomach.

Little did the two know they had a curious Wanderer watching from a distance, wondering what on Teyvat they were doing.

“How childish…” He grumbled, cautiously walking towards the two. When they both saw him they instinctively jumped to their feet and went into defense mode, Aether noticeably flustered and panting.

“Relax… I’m not going to do anything.” The Wanderer, as he was known, stared between them.

“Wait, what are you doing here? Did you…?” Aether suddenly turned more red than a tomato while muttering under his breath, Paimon couldn’t help but giggle to herself.

“I don’t know what you were doing, but yes, I saw it. Highly amusing~”

“Shut up! Ugh, I can’t believe YOU of all people saw me getting tickled!”

At this point Paimon burst into laughter, Aether shooting her an embarrassed glare. “Oh come on now, I’m sure Scara here is ticklish too~”

She smirked at the Wanderer, but he only stared blankly back, “Wait.. do you not know if you’re ticklish!? Wait, can you even be ticklish!? You’re a puppet right!?” Paimon seemed to have figured it out for herself for once.

“I wouldn’t have a clue, and quite frankly, I probably wouldn’t have such a childish sounding weakness anyway.” The purple haired boy shot a cheeky look at the Traveler who blushed again.

“Hmm~ There’s only one way to find out about this! Get him Aether!!” Paimon swooped quickly, taking Scara’s hat. In that short moment of distraction, the blond pounced and tackled him to the ground. The two wrestled for a moment before Aether was able to gain the upper hand, Scara growled and swore, throwing a few punches in the Traveler’s general direction.

“Gotcha! Now let’s see…” Aether softly pinched the purple haired boys side, eliciting a small squeak and flinch. Both Paimon and Aether’s eyes widened before looking at each other with a knowing look.

“W-What was that? What did you do to mehehehee!!” Scara couldn’t comprehend his own reaction and was quickly overwhelmed by this odd sensation traveling up and down his ribs and sides. Nor could he now contain the laughter beginning to bubble inside. He threw his head back and bit his lip, desperately trying not to succumb to this newly discovered weakness.

“C’mon now, don’t hide it!” Aether teased as he began softly scratching at the other boy's stomach.

“Pff-hahahahaha!!! Fuck off!!!” Scara finally cracked, swearing at his enemy.

“Woah! That was a bad word! I think he needs more tickles!” Paimon deduced.

“N-nohohohoho!!! Quihihihit iiiit!!!” The Wanderer howled as a finger began prodding around his navel. Aether smiled softly, seeing this former Harbinger being reduced to a giggling mess was highly amusing for him and Paimon.

Due to his strength being drained, Aether was easily able to lift Scara’s arms above his head, then swiftly dug his fingers into his exposed armpits.

“AHAHAHAHA NOHOHOHOHO!!!! F-FUCK OOHOHOHOOFF!!!”

Aether and Paimon laughed between each other at their former enemy’s reaction. At this point his head was thrown back, full laughter and a flushed face. Wriggling with all his might, the Wanderer managed to free himself and scrambled away from his attacker.

“Looks like he is ticklish! Well now we know what the Harbingers' weaknesses might be!” Paimon giggled to herself, “Ohh maybe we can try this on the others?”

Aether chuckled at her determination, turning his head back to the flustered mess that was in front of him.

“You two really know how to get on peoples nerves…” Scara growled.

“Why did you come over to us anyway?” The blond questioned with a slight smirk.

“I… I was wondering what you were doing, you were being noisy and weird as usual…” The blush on the purple haired boy's face was definitely visible as he tried to play his curiosity coolly, but it did not work.

“You remind Paimon of a cat… always trying to act cool but you secretly want attention…” Paimon smirked and crossed her arms, seeing Scara blush even more made her and the Traveler laugh.

“Go to… ugh whatever, forget this happened or else!!”

“Nope! We will remember this forever!”

Aether and Paimon’s somewhat maniacal laughter echoed throughout the forest as they celebrated their victory, all while the Wanderer could only cover his face in embarrassment.

#genshin impact #tickling #scaramouche #aether #paimon #genshin impact tickling

[cyborg-franky]

Trade

Trade for @dusk-bun I hope you like iiiit ;-;

Law x GN Reader SFW YANDERE THEMES Word Count: 656

Law could tell from a mile away when someone was lying to him, he could see through that shit in an instant, eyes narrowed and jaw set firm as he watched you crying on the bed, rubbing your eyes and hic upping out painful sobs.

You’d told him you were fine, that nothing was wrong the entire day and he knew you weren’t telling him the truth. He respected your privacy however, he would have hated someone to pry into his personal life too, he was hoping you would come clean and confess what had happened.

But no, you were crying your eyes out, looking at him through blurry vision as tears never ceased to run down your cheeks. No matter how many times you used the hem of your shirt to dry your eyes you just couldn’t stop the flow of misery.

He watched you with his scrutinizing gaze, eyes narrowed as he stepped into, the room, closing the heavy door, hearing it clang shut he took a breath, he knew there had been something wrong, all day. Your stubborn refusal to tell him had won out and you were squirming under his gaze as he opened his mouth, clicking his tongue against his teeth, closing the gap between himself and your sitting, trembling form.

“What’s wrong?” it was worded like a question, sounded like a demand.

“Nothing,” you huffed, eyes red and cheeks flushed from crying for so long.

“I could take out your brain and find out what’s wrong instead if you prefer?” he quirked an eyebrow and you didn’t seem keen on him finding out that way.

You watched him sit on the bed with you, his knees touching yours as his hand gripped your thigh, he watched your face, took in your expressions, trying to glean any more information from them then he could your words.

“Who did this?” he asked before you could answer his first question, you felt the hand on your leg tighten its grip, he was starting to get agitated at the prospect someone he loved had been hurt.

“What? Why do you ask that?” you spluttered through your wails and sobs.

Law let out a sigh and wrapped his arm around you, pulling you closer to him, his lips still forming a displeased sneer, just thinking about the sort of person that had dared to mess with his partner, the person he loved most in the world, it was unforgivable to him.

“I’m just saying, if it was something who’d hurt you, I am more than willing to make sure they are unable to do so again.” He said with a hum, the tone low and dangerous but you oddly appreciated his threat.

For Trafalgar Law to go out of his way for someone, that meant something, that was how you knew he was in love with you. He nuzzled his nose against your cheek, kissing you before letting out another sigh, pulling away enough so he could brush your hair back.

“I won’t ever let anyone hurt you, your mine and I can’t imagine life without you, so, if there is something the matter, if there was someone who did this to you.” He stared into your eyes, tilting your chin up, looking at the tears brimming in your eyes. “It’ll be the last thing they ever do.”

You tried to nod, unable to with the firm grip he had on your chin, his lips tugged into a smirk as he leaned forward, capturing yours with a kiss, his hand finding your hair, gripping it as he held you in place, deepening the kiss.

“So who was it?” he asked, again.

“No one, I’m just sad.. I promise Law, thank you.” You fluttered your dewy eyelashes at him and smiled.

“I feel better now, it’s nice to know you got my back.” You chuckled as he brushed a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Good.”

#trafalgar law #one piece reader insert #one piece x reader #one piece x you #sfw #gender neutral reader #one piece #law trafalgar #yandere one piece #one piece yandere #yandere #law x reader #law x you

[mlobsters]

supernatural s13x22 exodus (w. eugenie ross-leming, brad buckner)

well, mom gets a hug. that's something i guess. no time for extended you're-actually-alive-reunions with lucifer smarming around in the background.

this trying to be i dunno, spookyish discordant atmospheric music is not hitting for me. it just feels wildly out of sync with the tone of the scene. i wonder who made iiiit. oh look, it's jay gruska. i seriously don't look it up until i have a ~vibe~ and i'm vaguely impressed with my consistent reactions to the two composers. i'm pretty much never rockin with jay. sorry, my dude.

LUCIFER Don’t say he’s nothing like me. I’m the only one who understands him. This power he has? I’m powerful, dangerous, ruthless. In the...best sense, though. DEAN No. Kill him. LUCIFER (chuckles) He can’t. He’s not strong enough. GABRIEL Dean… DEAN (turns on Gabriel) You’ve got the blade. JACK (quietly) Stop it. DEAN He’s the devil. Kill him. JACK (shouting) Stop it!

in the land of not-a-show, this seems very reasonable. we have the means and opportunity to FINALLY fucking kill this guy, who has done unspeakably awful things to more than one person present. who they've been trying to take out for a long ass time. but, being that it's this show, yeah. of course it's not that simple. i think they had a general plan to kill him after they used him for the nexus excursion, yes? but them believing he'd still be captured and subdued until then was a bit of a stretch :p also, jack wasn't around for that convo and i suppose he might have some thoughts and feelings around cutting down bio dad right away

CAS In case your innate evil overwhelms this new found team spirit, you won’t mind wearing these then, will you. You’re not at full power. They should hold you.

LOL good one. is he not at full power because he was drained, juiced up, then used some of that juice to resurrect sam? (was also thinking about how like, cas stole someone's grace at one point. a bad someone, right? is it that different? why didn't gabriel just go that route? not actually socially acceptable? whatever. we needed to include lucifer)

jfc nic shut up

thank you, everyone, for that long ass hug. i'm not crying, no, i'm fine

i know the wiki has hugs and lengths (which amuses me to no end), i wouldn't be surprised if that was one of the longer ones. ahbl 29 seconds i think is an outlier being that sam is dead through most of it 😞 what a statement. excluding ahbl pt 1, top 3! lol

other thing he did, which he does regularly? when he's affectionate, that turn to the side like he's checking who's around or avoiding eye contact while he got a little mushy.

he does it before hugging a lot too, like the avoiding eye contact and pulling someone in. definitely with charlie, not sure actually who all he does it with, if everyone at one point or another? anyway. he doesn't instigate a ton of hugs. i'm not under the influence, i swear, i'm just extra... *waves hands*

jack having a little montage o'guilt with xfiles sounds rapid fire (they use it periodically now but i don't recall so many of them in one scene like this. i had to search for "shoe" on the wiki because my blog search is perpetually fucked and all i could remember of the scene was sam finding a shoe lol)

so like, the solution is all the au people come back with her through the nexus, right? so this is a moot conversation? but. dean's reaction to her "i know what you went through to come find me" was so right. like, understatement of the century and in fact i DON'T think you know what they did. and (show logic aside) sam died and only isn't still dead due to a fluke/luck.

interesting to see the production draft script has her saying sorry and that she's grateful, which didn't make it to screen

granted, i think they were doing the getting back to the nexus project for jack too, and i imagine they would have made the same efforts and paid the same prices. but anyway. feels like dean is always waiting for the other shoe to drop with mary, reinforced with her needing space business before, so understandably he's immediately reacting defensively and maybe a little childishly (do they need-need mary? probably not. but it's also reasonable and understandable to want your almost entirely absent mother [which she had no control over] once you got her back)

another thing i like about pellegrino's lucifer, the hair! it just is almost always unkempt in not a cool way, more the disaster been sleeping on it weird way. which my hair also is often in some degree of.

DEAN We have been mopping up the world for years. Years. We have been knocked down. We have been possessed. We’ve lost friends. We’ve lost family. We’ve lost each other. And we never walk away, ever. And sometimes, we should’ve, because not every fight everywhere can be won. It just can’t. Right? (turning to Sam) Tell her.

never (permanently) walk away. ignoring the nonsensical amelia aberration? 🤪 i don't really understand dean's logic. we never walk away, but sometimes we should have, so mary should walk away? doesn't seem like the best sell

SAM I think Mom made up her mind. DEAN See? Wait. What? SAM Mom doesn’t want to leave these people. So let’s take ‘em with us. MARY They’ll never leave their home. They’ll never leave their cause. SAM I’m not saying abandon the fight. I’m saying we get them somewhere safe, then we all figure out a way to take down Michael. Then once we do, they can come back and save their world. MARY You’d do that for them? DEAN Well, we got...what, nine busting out? What’s a few more. How many are we talking? MARY Twenty-five.

(don't know what that 9 number is referring to either, oh right, charlie and ketch? lol) sammy's plan seems very. pie in the sky and not something these other world people would necessary go for but mary's down so sure why not

LUCIFER Well, I mean, yes, I have done things that I am not entirely proud of. I have led the occasional soul to ruin. This is true. But, Jack, it’s because humans are so messed up. They’re -- they’re so willing to be led. JACK My mother was human. LUCIFER Awesome lady. Incorruptible. Not like that. You know, great kisser. And, uh, lost my virginity to her.

pointing to my very disgruntled thoughts about this in 12x08. we're going to regularly make allusions to lucifer raping sam via hallucifer and i think also when sam was stuck with him in 11x09 before cas sprung luci but then lucifer in the president vessel supposedly had never had sex. ok. i prefer to believe that rape isn't part of the torture package, but they make it real hard sometimes. but the show is gonna tell us that was the first time lucifer had sex. being generous and dumb, maybe he believes in the rehymenation like dean. or some particulars of being in a human vessel. as opposed to whatever it is exactly getting tortured in hell. soul in vessel-ish shape? because it wasn't dean's shiny glowing light of a soul on the rack, it was his person. i've been thinking about this off and on since we knew generally what a soul was supposed to look like

jack interviewing lucifer, the quote unquote father of lies, to whatever, determine if he wants to have anything to do with him? well. how could this go wrong?

DEAN I told you no talking! And I told you no listening. JACK Dean, he’s in chains. DEAN His mouth isn’t. Shoulda gagged him. JACK No, I need to know about my powers, my family. CAS Jack, we are your family. We’ve been protecting you. We’ve been honoring your mother’s wishes. We’re your family. SAM Jack, you have no idea who Lucifer really is. JACK And I never will unless I talk to him.

like yes obviously, going this route is going to make anyone shut down and not listen to what you have to say (acting like john winchester basically), especially someone who is framed as being a kid. HOWEVER! couldn't we just say that lucifer spent a year which is equivalent to whatever in dog hell years torturing sam. our sam, that's standing right there. your sam, who you're including as a father figure.

MARY (amused) Jack isn’t going to the dark side. He’ll see Lucifer’s true nature. And he’ll see through his own eyes and not yours.

like she's trying to impart some parenting wisdom - which this is surely applicable to regular real life parenting! but i don't think it's applicable to the situation at hand. being that the grown ass adults with a lot of life experience and big bad demons etc etc have been fooled by lucifer time and time again. at least he should be aware of the actual harm lucifer has done to everyone present that they've personally experienced. and maybe he does know? i'm thinking WAY TOO MUCH ABOUT THIS. for this half baked plot shit.

lucifer cutting off gabriel from telling him about the (oops not actual) murdering of himself would indicate to me he doesn't know so, yeah. whatever man. i gotta fucking finish this episode! i started yesterday but just yammered on too much and then it was midnight.

BOBBY Now about that. Mary said you wanna take a bunch of our people back to this Other Earth? DEAN Yeah. Yeah, that’s the idea. BOBBY Well, no offense, but that may be the dumbest friggin’ idea in a landfill of dumb ideas.

say it, bobby

sam's gonna give a rousing speech to get the people to come around though, right. and now ketch and charlie get to be tortured. so both ketch and rowena are all about the redemption arc life

i'm real tired of this episode lol.

GABRIEL Dad saw that your evil was like the first few cells of cancer...that it would spread like the disease unless He cut it out. That is why He locked you up, to stop the cancer. But it was too late then. And guess what? It’s too late for you now.

excuse me what. he's crying? what even

great, au!cas misha doing another accent. as a... nazi? seriously checked out at this point

sure. like that whole wound tending thing the first time they were there. weird vibes man, are we supposed to ship it

AW-CASTIEL Don’t think that you are better than me. Well, we are the same. CAS Yes. We are.

cathartic

this like. militaryish music as they ride off in the bus is.... oof. not great. ditto for the music with this goofy fucking jumping through the nexus proceedings

and now gabriel's gonna get into a knife fight with this basically impossible to win against michael, good idea. and sam and dean are just gonna hang back and watch him die

well, at least sam got to trap lucifer there with michael? 🤷 surely that won't go bad!

gives me the heebiejeebies all those people in there

CAS What about Lucifer? DEAN Sam handled it.

heaven forbid we actually kill him. wonder how they're gonna have jack react to this

and hey last minute mushy music during the toast by bobby to sam and dean. welcome to the family. mhm

and of course lucifer immediately plotting with michael

#supernatural #spnwatch #spn clip #spn 13x22 #spn script #eugenie ross leming #brad buckner #spn musical score #jay gruska #spn mushy music #spnwhinge

[lokrow]

A Slice of Life (Ziyanna request)

Tags: Romance, Food

Hanako, Percy and Ayanna are headmates, all use she/her pronouns and their system's name is Ayanna.

.

Breakfast with Percy

Lemongrass and sleep.

Zion exhales softly as she stirs in the early morning. She nuzzles her face into the woman sleeping next to her. A gentle touch onto her horns before feeling lips on her forehead. "Morning, Cupcake." Percy gently scratches the curve of Zion's horn, the imp shaking her head into Percy's chest in response. She giggles as she blinks sleep out of her eyes, rising slowly to look up at her girlfriend. “Morning… Cap.” Zion’s voice is croaky and dry. Percy looks disapprovingly. “Too much coffee last night, you need to hydrate more.” Percy strokes Zion’s hair out of her eyes. Zion grumbles, shoving her face into Percy’s chest and knowingly bumping her in the cheek with the horn pads she wears to bed. “Not in the morning…” She complains playfully. Percy laughs, tickling the horn pushed into her cheek to get Zion back off. 

“Ok, Cupcake.” Percy says with a stern but still soft voice. She slides her arms under Zion’s knees and shoulders, lifting the slowly waking imp in a princess carry off the bed. “Ayanna made some congee for breakfast. Which is good cause I can’t cook, I’d have ordered you pizza for breakfast.” Zion laughs, slinging her arms around Percy’s neck and laying her head on the woman’s shoulder. She breathes in and out slowly before kissing Percy’s neck, "I wouldn't have minded.". Percy smiles as she carries Zion out of the bedroom to the kitchen island, "I know. But I do mind.".

Percy sits Zion onto one of the stools, pulling the foam pads on her horns off. She goes to leave but Zion clings on. "It's cold." She smirks, hugging Percy tighter. Percy slides her hands down Zion's arms, lightly pulling to get the imp to remove them from her neck.

"It's not, Ayanna turned the heating on." Zion grumbles at the response but capitulates and leans on the counter top while Percy serves the congee from the rice cooker. "Meat floss topping. As you like it" Percy returns with two bowls, hers with rousong sprinkled randomly atop the congee and sliding Zion's with the meat floss arranged in a heart across the kitchen island. "You're a dork, you know that?" Zion attempts to deadpan through the gesture even as her lips curl in a slight smile. Percy rounds the island to place her bowl next to Zion, taking the chance to hug the smaller woman from behind. She leans down to reach one of her pointy ears, "Your dork, Cupcake.". 

Zion leans her head back into the taller woman, taking a moment to watch the flames under her skin. "Stop iiiit.". Percy laughs, nuzzling Zion's cheek as one of her hands slides up to Zion's chin to turn it towards her. She leans in close, nuzzling before lightly kissing Zion. 

Zion kisses back, bringing a hand to stroke Percy's cheek.

"You love it, Cupcake."

"I do. Captain." .

Lunch with Hanako

Zion is sitting on the couch, scrolling on her phone wìth various bits and parts lying strewn about around her. She hears the water stop running in the bathroom. The door closes, then she hears a distinct set of footsteps. She's learned to recognise them.

Hanako comes out from the bedroom dressed in a baggy pink sweatshirt with sakura petals printed on it, the fire in her hair burns differently, leaving more of a trail as she bounces her way through the apartment. "Yo, Zee. Can you tell Percy to wash our hands after she goes painting? I hate having paint on my hands.". Zion thumbs ups in the air, "You got it, Hana.".

Zion lays her phone down as it starts playing a song while she assembles parts together.

Hanako hops over the back of the sofa, "Where you up to?". 

Zion looks up as she clicks the final assembly together and hands it to Hanako, "Just finished that one. Wanna see?".

Hanako nods and checks the toy Zion just built, looking like an odd mechanical interpretation of a flightless bird. She sets it on the coffee table next to a few others. Zion is already clicking more parts together.

"You're not using the guides?" Hanako asks, pulling a bag of pieces to her and flipping through the associated instructions.

"I did for the first, they're pretty intuitive after that." Zion shrugs, finishing another Blionicle to put it on the coffee table next to the others, "Here. Finished my ones. Do you want pizza? I can order.". 

Hanako looks up from the plastic pieces, "Yeah! Sure, grab me a-..".

"Cheddar and broccoli, I know. It's Ayanna's favourite too." Zion smiles as Hanako smiles and nods. Zion pauses the music on her phone and starts dialling the Slice of Afterlife pizzeria. She extends her fist out and Hanako fistbumps it without looking up from the instructions she's looking at. .

Dinner with Ayanna

Ayanna hangs up the cleaver she was chopping the veggies with after cleaning it, sliding the pieces of spring onion off the board and into a large bowl. She opens a cupboard over the stove where a cast iron wok is heating up. 

She grabs the side handle of the wok bare-handed, not disturbed by the weight or the heat to move the oil she pours around. She pauses as Zion slides her arms around her waist, 

"What are you cooking, Hot Stuff?" Zion peeks around to the counter top to the bowls containing a mix of sliced meat and veggies. "Egg fried rice. Something easy, to finish the rice we have in the fridge." Ayanna says, moving oil around the wok before placing the oil back in the cupboard. "Looks like you forgot the eggs to your egg fried rice. I'll take care of those." Zion chuckles, hugging her girlfriend tighter before letting go. She cracks three eggs into an empty bowl and starts beating them with chopsticks as Ayanna starts throwing ingredients into the sizzling oil.

"Eggs." Ayanna calls out and Zion pours the eggs into the wok as Ayanna stirs them around. "Ok, rice." Zion picks up the rice cooker bowl with leftover rice and uses the plastic paddle to shovel the rice into the wok.

Ayanna adds more oil and breaks up clumps of rice.

"No tossing?" Zion teases sat on the other side of the stove. "I don't wanna make a mess, plus it's heavy." Ayanna shrugs and sprinkles some salt over the wok's contents. "Aw, big strong girl like you?" Zion cocks her head as Ayanna turns the stove off, finishing with soy and fish sauce that she stirs through the fried rice. 

Ayanna serves two hefty portions of the rice and placing the rest in a ceramic dish, which she then covers with cling film. "If I spent my energy tossing that wok around, I wouldn't be able to do this." Ayanna walks up to where Zion is sat on the countertop and looks up at her. "Do what, Hot Stuff. Stare at me? I'm pretty sure you don't need-" Zion is interrupted as Ayanna lifts her off the countertop with ease. 

Zion chuckles and looks down, hands coming to cup both sides of her girlfriend's head and stare into her blazing eyes, Zion leans down to kiss Ayanna.

Zion grabs the two bowls of rice, each with a spoon in it. Ayanna then carries her to the couch, all in well practiced silence. 

Ayanna sets Zion down before sitting herself down, Zion passing her a bowl.

Zion then climbs on, sitting straddling her girlfriend's lap and facing her.

Ayanna looks up at Zion as the imp woman eats a spoonful of rice, closing her eyes and nodding appreciatively. "It's delicious… as always." Zion smiles. Ayanna sits up to try to kiss Zion but Zion stops her by putting the back of her spoon against Ayanna's black-painted lips. "Not now, Hot Stuff. It's gonna get cold." Zion points to the bowl in Ayanna's hand, "Eat first.".

Ayanna pouts playfully, "Ok, Datura.".

Zion laughs, "Dork.". She leans down to kiss Ayanna. Ayanna kisses back, both laying their bowls aside.

Zion breathes in slowly.

Lemongrass and sleep.

#player #blaseball #hades tigers #fanfic #zion alleyes #ayanna dumpington #percy violence #Ohno Hanako #ziyanna #perzi #romance #food

[demonsfate]

TAG 9 PEOPLE YOU’D LIKE TO KNOW BETTER!

Favorite color: Purple & blue.

Reading: Haha. I don’t read.

Song: If this is about a favorite song? Then Holding On To You by Twenty One Pilots

Last series: The Flash.

Last movie: Mmm... I actually can’t remember? Might’ve been Free Guy.

Sweet/spicy/savory: Sweet, and Spicy stuff makes me feel sick now for no reason lmao. So Savory.

Currently working on: A few art pieces, getting better at Tekken, unlocking all the characters in the first Tag Tournament, trying to figure out how to get my Xbox 360 working, replies, lotsa things, really.

TAGGED BY: @grayfxce TAGGING: take iiiit!

#✏️ - ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴏsᴛ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏsᴛ // (ooc)

[happyheidi]

Raccoon cuddles ♡

via raccoonvillage

#ohh I can’t take iiiit #they’re so adorable #cottagecore #I could really need a raccoon hug myself! #raccoons #dogs #animals #cute #cuddles #soft aesthetic #farmcore #video

[mojjisxng]

hold me like you wanna | sunghoon x reader

genre- angst, fluff, sort of enemies to lovers

warnings- a single curse word lmao, angst (themes of self hatred)

word count- 1.3k+

no capital letters intended

a/n- I FINALLY DID IIIIT!!! writer’s block has really been fucking me up lately, so i’m proud that i’ve actually done this. it’s probably a little short and won’t be very good, but i’m not angry with it. this scenario is based off of the song ‘hold me like you wanna’ by somebody’s child. i put in some of the lyrics throughout (but they’re not i order). i hope you enjoy it 🥺

- issy💕

[9:35pm]

just another normal wednesday evening at dance practice, you know except the fact that i was crying over- no, having a mental breakdown over the boy i both hated and loved the most. park sunghoon. you see, i’ve had a huge crush on him for so many years, but he’s always been so unreachable due to being the most popular boy in school. his utter perfection really began to peeve me and i let all my frustration and insecurity build up. well, up until we had to work on a school project together anyway; that’s when i totally messed everything up, even though i never realised it in the moment. i was so horrible to him while we were working together, making snide comments here and there. this became a regular thing between us both; it had gotten so bad that we had become the worst of enemies. despite all of this, i could no longer pretend and broke down, alone in that practice room.

You're acting like a kid

“why are you crying, dumbass? you look like a stupid little kid who dropped their ice cream.”

i snapped out of my reverie and glanced towards the source of the voice that i know all too well, tears still streaming down my face.

“oh shit- you’re CRYING crying. what’s wrong?”

“you wouldn’t understand,” i retorted.

“try me.”

And you tried your best, and you don't succeed

and that’s when the dam broke and all my twisted up emotions started to unravel and overflow; “i just hate feelings things, all right! i can’t stand feeling so insecure about myself and how i can’t match up to everyone else. even though i try my best with everything, i’m not pretty enough, not loud enough, not smart enough and not even kind enough to ever be loved by anyone; and i hate myself so much for it!” at this point, i was yelling, more in frustration at myself than sunghoon, my face was wet with bucket loads of tears and my fists were clenched too.

I don't want you to feel like I did so...

sunghoon’s soft voice brought me back down to earth, “hey hey just breathe okay, it’ll help you calm down.”

“why are you even being nice to me sunghoon, have you forgotten that you hate me?”

“i don’t hate you y/n, and you’re struggling right now, i don’t want to see you like this, even though you really piss me off,” he remarked as he sank down against the wall. i was trying to process what sunghoon had just said, when he solemnly added “come here.” i tentatively shuffled over to him, apprehensive of what he was going to do. was he going to shout at me, hurt me, laugh at me- oh, he just pulled me to sit in between his legs. all of my muscles froze because i was so shocked at his newfound tenderness. he clearly noticed how tense i was, as he rubbed a hand on my back and explained himself, “i just want to comfort you or whatever because you just sound so broken. it’s weirding me out, you never act like this. what’s wrong y/n, tell me. like were you rejected or something?”

i absolutely could not tell sunghoon the truth because he’d just despise me even more, so i had to vaguely tip-toe around what i truly wanted to say to him.

“no, not exactly. i’m just feeling a lot of things right now. one of those feelings should be something positive, well it usually is for other people anyway. but for me, it’s not an exciting emotion; it just brings me pain everyday. as it consumes me, it makes me feel nauseous and anxious without fail, yet it will only bring more harm if i act on it. it’s just another thing in life that i’m failing miserably at. i just want to give up, i feel too inadequate for anything good to happen to me,” i lamented, in total dejection, as my silent tears dropped onto the wood floor.

You don't have to say anything

the air was still between me and sunghoon for a beat too long, so i looked up, only to be met with a glassy-eyed sunghoon staring at me in pity. “y/n, stop! don’t say things like that; you’re breaking my heart. i loathe that you can say thing like that about yourself. you’re more than what you say you are, even i know that.”

“why are you being so nice to me all of a sudden? keep being vicious to me, that’s all i’m worthy of. i don’t deserve true happiness because i’m just a bitter and lonely girl, who takes out her own insecurities on other people!” my body was shaking as i cried and i could not look at sunghoon, it was too humiliating.

but even after the lifetime of self doubt that i held inside spilling out, sunghoon only gently tugged me closer to him, so that i was curled against his chest. he then asserted with utmost confidence, “you deserve the world y/n, actually no, you deserve the whole universe. i know you don’t believe me, probably because you don’t seem to like me very much, but i like you. i like you a lot. so when you started to act negatively around me, i was extremely upset so i reciprocated the malicious behaviour. but hey, it never stopped me from liking you and it sucks that i caused you so much inner conflict. my god this is so embarrassing.”

to say i was gob-smacked would be a complete understatement. the knowledge that he actually liked me, whether i believed it or not, made me feel even more guilty so i started to divulge the truth, “no no no you can’t possibly like me, you’re too good for me, like totally out of my league. oh god oh god OH GOD i’m such a mess...the only reason i started being mean to you was because your perfection irked me so much, that it made me enraged at you. i didn’t want to feel so defeated, so i made an enemy of you instead.”

“oh y/n, you were never one for being up front and simple,” sunghoon chuckled, “but at least we both know that our feelings are mutual.” he didn’t even give me a chance to answer, as he caressed my cheek with one hand, and placed the other on the back of my neck to pull my face closer to his, taking my breath away. he closed the gap between us, moving his plush lips against mine. when i realised what was actually happening, i returned the kiss. however, all good things have to end, and let me tell you, the kiss felt like it ended just as fast as it had started.

we fell deep into each other’s eyes, dumb smiles etched onto our faces and a blush painted onto our cheeks. i was the first one to break the silence this time around, “so ummm sunghoon, i know we got off to a rocky start, but would you be willing to give us a go? what i’m trying to say is, do you want to go on a date with me tomorrow, to ummm that popular café down the street o-or s-something?”

“there’s no other way i’d want to spend tomorrow,” sunghoon affirmed, “but right now all i want to do is stay right here with you in my arms and make up for lost time.”

Just hold me like you wanna

#enhypenwriters #enhypen #enhypen scenarios #enhypen imagines #enhypen reactions #enhypen headcanons #enhypen drabbles #enhypen au #enhypen fluff #enhypen angst #enhypen timestamps #sunghoon #park sunghoon #enhypen sunghoon #sunghoon scenarios #sunghoon imagines #sunghoon drabbles #sunghoon au #heeseung #park jongseong #jake sim #kim sunoo #yang jungwon #ni ki #enhypen heeseung #enhypen jay #enhypen jake #enhypen sunoo #enhypen jungwon #enhypen niki

[gureishi]

Saeyoung + laughing heart 💕 (I love the idea of this requests!)

Ooooh, thank you!! God knows I’m always happy to write about my best boy~ Happy Valentine’s Day! <3 <3

laughing heart (Saeyoung)

・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

You’re in bed, propped up in a fluffy little haven of all the pillows you own, when your phone rings.

You reach for it sleepily, setting aside the book you were reading. Who would call so late? you wonder absently as you squint at the lit-up screen. You burst out laughing when you see his name.

“Baby, why are you calling me?” 

You hear him giggling through the phone; you hear it doubled, actually, through the thin wall that connects the bedroom and the office.

“I miiiiiiss you,” he sings. You can picture him: feet propped on his desk, swaying back and forth in that silly, fancy chair.

“I’m, like, approximately a fifteen second walk away,” you tell him. Automatically, you sit up, crossing your legs, tugging the comforter around your shoulders. It’s an old habit, you realize—sitting in bed, wrapped in blankets, clutching your phone to your face. Hearing his voice in your ear.

“Can’t walk,” he says, still giggling. “Too hard.”

“Babe, come to bed.” You roll your eyes; you can hear him spinning around in a circle in his chair, one room over. “Wouldn’t you rather be all cozy here next to me than talking to me on the phone from your desk?”

You can practically hear him pouting. Sweet boy. 

“I used to call you when I was right next to you all the time!” he whines.

“That was a long time ago, honey.” You toy with the sleeve of your pajama shirt, rolling and unrolling it. You wait patiently for his point—you know he has one. You can hear it in the timbre of his beautiful voice.

“I have a question,” he says, and he’s got that fake-deep voice on, like he’s playing detective—but you know he means it, or he wouldn’t ask.

“Yeah?” You can’t sit still tonight—maybe it’s the tinny sound of his voice through the phone sending shockwaves through your heart. You’re always together, nowadays; you realize you can’t remember the last time you talked on the phone. You play with the silver band on your ring finger, rotating it round and round.

“Okay, you get one shot at this, so get it right, okay?”

You roll your eyes.

“I’m sleepy, baby. What is it?”

“Ta-da!” You hear him leap up from his chair. What a silly boy; oh, how you adore him. “Iiiit’s…this! What was the first thing you thought of, the veeeery first time you talked to me?”

This takes you by surprise. You tilt your head thoughtfully, thinking back—it feels so long ago now, that hazy, head-spinning time. You remember the first time, of course: you were sitting just like this, propped up in a bed that didn’t belong to you, in a home that didn’t belong to you. He’d startled you: his voice was deeper than you’d imagined, somehow, and more dynamic. He’d been teasing you, right off the bat—you hadn’t fallen for it. He’d panicked. How strange, you’d thought. What a strange, strange time, and a strange, strange boy. Your heart had raced—you’d felt it would beat its way out of your chest.

“I thought, ‘Huh, what a weird guy,’” you tell him.

“You what?!” he growls; you can barely stifle a giggle. Through the wall, you hear him leap out of his chair; hear the door slam; hear his footsteps in the hall.

Saeyoung appears in the doorway, skidding to a stop, phone still pressed against his cheek. 

“You what?” he repeats. You shrug, grinning. He pushes off from the doorframe, taking a running leap; you squeal as he pounces on you, landing in your lap and pressing you back against your pillow pile, hands on your shoulders. “I don’t believe you,” he says, hovering over you, his eyes bright. You scrunch your eyes shut, giggling, breathless, pretending to ignore him. “Tell. Me. The. Truth,” he hisses in your ear, and then his teeth are on your earlobe and he’s tugging it into his mouth, sucking, nibbling. He knows all your weaknesses.

“Fine,” you gasp, wrapping an arm around his waist. He is relentless—he bites the side of your ear, your cartilage. “Fine!” You push him, gasping. He sits up—still in your lap, straddling you, a big grin on his face. 

“Did you think, ‘Ah, that’s the voice of the man I’m gonna marry?’” He asks, bouncing a little. You smack him; he grins wider.

“No,” you say, honestly. “Not really. You wanna know what I really thought?”

“Yeeees.” He bends down again, nuzzling your forehead with his nose. You kiss his neck, right under his chin. He squirms.

“I freaked out,” you tell him, meaning it. “I thought…oh god, I’m in trouble now.”

He peers at you, gauging whether you’re messing with him; this time, you’re not.

“Yeah?” he asks, lowering himself onto you, tucking his head under your chin. You wrap both arms around him.

“Yeah,” you tell him. “I thought, oh no, this man is hopelessly, impossibly charming, and I have to have him,” you say.

He laughs—bubbling and sweet.

“Even then?” he asks you. He wraps his fingers around a lock of your hair.

“Yeah, even then.”

“But you still thought the other thing too, though. Didn’t you?”

You pull him close; he kisses your collar bone as you wrap your arms and legs around his body, holding him tight.

“Yes, baby.” You snuggle into him—he’s better, warmer, softer than any blanket. “I thought, what a weirdo. I guess I’m gonna have to fall in love with him.”

He buries his face in your chest, sighing contently. “Good,” he hums. “You were right.”

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

Let me know if you’d like to be added to my taglist!

@currentlyprocrastinating @thesirenwashere @ultrasupernini @cro0kedme @otomefoxystar @dawn-skies06 @nad-zeta @hunterelys @pamakali @strwbryflvr @bootiful-face @mammonprotectionsquad @firelordtsuki @rebeckathefloof

#mystic messenger #saeyoung choi #707 #saeyoung x reader #707 x reader #gureishi writes requests #vday vignettes #ultrasupernini

[theres-an-impulstor-among-us]

Friday Night Stabby best quotes part 29 (10/09/21)

so Pearl is still filling in for Joker and yes I did watch seven out of eight POVs for this session, that’s why this quotes thing is so long :)

...

Evil: I forgot how to play this game. Endless: Go to electrical and die, Evil. That’s how you play the game.

...

Skizz, entering electrical: Look at all these idiots in here. Endless: Hey! That’s not very nice.

...

Endless: I remember how to fix wiring. It’s not that hard. Can I do [shields] from here? I can. I did it. I figured it out. Etho: Good job. Endless: Thanks. Thanks, Etho! Etho: I never stopped believing in you. Endless: Your praise means everything to me, dad. *pause as Endless walks away* Endless: He’s not my dad.

...

Impulse: *reports a body* Impulse: Okay just hold on, I can do this. Ready? Skizz’s voice in a clip: DANG IIIIT! Impulse: Did you guys hear that? Evil: Yes. Brody: What is that? Impulse: That was the last thing I heard when I caught Skizz red-handedly killing Mrs Tango. *people laugh, then pause* Skizz: I don’t like you.

...

Impulse: Tango wanted to die so he could fix his overlay. Tango, dead: I DID NOT! YOU’RE A LIAR! Impulse: Someone did him a favour, I think. Tango, dead: >:(

...

Evil, in a monotone: I have wires to do. Skizz, snorting: World’s most bored electrician. Evil, slightly less monotone: More wires.

...

Astro: I also want you to know that I didn’t kill you, on purpose. Cuz it’s your birthday. But that was your one round of- Endless: Not my birthday. My birthday was- Astro: It was yesterday. Endless: -hours and hours ago. Astro: It’s still technically your birthday somewhere. Endless: I don’t think that’s how time works, but okay.

...

*last round, Endless spent a long time with Astro but didn’t kill him despite being imposter* Astro: Alright, Endless. This time, you can kill me. Astro and Endless: *laugh* Astro: Don’t throw me off like that. I thought you were all i- Endless: *kills Astro* *pause* Astro: ...thanks, Endless. Thanks. *laughs* Well, I can’t complain; I DID ask for it.

...

Skizz: Now if I die, you know it’s Etho (pronouncing it Eh-tho). Etho: Hey now.

...

Impulse: Oh whoops, I was muted that whole meeting. Tango: Aha! Exactly what a killer would say.

...

Astro, a ghost: Hey Evil, did you know that Impulse’s bone is not- not well right now? Evil: *snickers* Astro, a ghost: See I KNEW you could hear me, you imposter!

...

Pearl: Did you have a neutral role? Impulse: Yeah, I was jester. Pearl: Ahhh. Cheeky nugget.

...

Brody: Tango. Two people saw you leave the corpse of your wife. Tango: So what? Where is the corpse of my wife? Brody: Where is the corpse? Two people saw you, are you really gonna try that? Tango: I just passed you in the hallway! Nothing was there! Pearl: He’s gonna play dumb, it’s okay. Impulse: He’s still mad that she threw out his spices when they moved. Tango: IT’S THE OLD BAY, MAN! IT’S THE OLD BAY!

...

Endless: It was Tango in O2 with the lead pipe- No, that’s not- Different game.

...

Etho: I was with Brody and Astro but I’m… invisible, apparently. Astro: I- I said there was somebody else! I just wasn’t going to say something that I thought might make you seem suspicious. Etho: It’s been happening a lot and it’s a little weird, but okay.

...

*after the meeting* Astro: I’ll notice you next time, Etho. Etho: Okay, thank you. That’s all I want.

...

Skizz: It’s the purple guy! Endless: It can’t be the purple guy! Evil: It CAN be the purple guy. *votes are revealed, Endless is ejected* Endless: D’aww, you guys don’t even know how- that’s… stupid. *everyone laughs* Skizz, laughing: “Your Honour, this is very dumb”

...

*everyone skipped except Endless who voted for Impulse* Endless: I got your number, Impulse. *pause* Astro: What’s his number? Four? Eight? Nine? Six? Evil: Two. Endless, at the same time: Seven.

...

*Etho claims Tango killed Evil but can’t say how he knows for fear of assassination* Endless: So you saw it on admin and then came down to report it? Is that what that was? *pause* Etho: Exactly. *animation of Etho shooting himself plays* Etho: DANGIT!!!

...

Etho: Where we going, Tango? What we doing? Tango: I’m going to my grave is where I think I’m going.

...

Astro: Hey, Mrs T? Mrs Tango: Hi? Astro: I need you to do something really suspicious. Mrs Tango: Okay.

...

*after Impulse crashed out of the game but his body is reported* Skizz: That was the most epic kill yet. It happened IRL.

...

Tango: Dead, disconnected. It’s all the same thing. Pearl: For one, you get cut in half, but the other, you just go “poof”.

...

*Etho is suspected of being executioner against Brody* Tango: So Etho, you’re saying there’s two imposters alive. Who do you think is the second one? *pause* Etho: That, I don’t know just yet. Tango: An executioner wouldn’t need to know that though, right? Etho: Maybe Astro. *long pause* Astro: What?! Why have you gone from Brody to me all of a sudden?!

...

Brody: Astro, please don’t kill me. Astro: I would’ve killed you long ago. Brody: That’s not true. You love me. Astro: Not after you accused me of- Brody, chuckling: I haven’t accused you of anything. Astro: You accused me of breathing heavily earlier and I’m offended by it. Brody: You did, though. Astro: I can’t help that the air quality here is… dog crap. Brody: I know you well enough. I know you well enough to know when you’re, like, concentrating. Astro: Not my fault that I can’t breathe here right now.

...

Etho: [Brody] killed Impulse on the first round. It made [Impulse] crash. And then [Brody] reported the body. Next round, he killed another person and did another report. He’s a- He’s a self-reporting… Brody. *everyone laughs* Evil: This is the best you’ve got, Etho?

...

Evil: So here’s the question for everybody: do I tell Skizz what his minor tell is or do I keep it to myself? Skizz: You zip it! You got nothing! Tango: Keep it to yourself. That’s part of the fun; we can all learn each other’s tells. Astro: You mean like when somebody has heavy breathing when they kill somebody, Brody? Brody: Oh. Astro: I’m gonna have extra heavy breathing when I kill you. Extra… EXTRA… heavy breathing. Brody: ...I’ll remember that.

...

Skizz: I finally kill the banana and instantly I hear him be all “you crashed my game!” Astro: Wait, so when I said that if Impulse rage-quit it was Skizz, I was actually correct on that? Skizz: You were right, yeah. Impulse: Wow… Endless: Skizz was like “if you’re not gonna rage quit, I’m gonna rage quit for you!” Skizz: I killed you so hard your game crashed. That’s a KILL right there.

...

Brody: Yeah, I’ve been actually watching her teleport. Like “wait, did she come out of that vent??” No, she’s teleporting around. Tango: Hacks! Pearl: Speedies! Astro: The hacks are Australian ping.

...

Astro: Hey, Evil. Evil: Hi. Are you gonna kill me? Astro: Do you want me to or do you want me to let you live? Evil: I’d like to live, thank you.

...

Evil: *runs into electrical and finds only Pearl in there* Pearl, singing: Rudolph the red nosed reindeer, had a very shiny nose. Evil: I’m done with my tasks. Pearl: *kills Evil immediately* Astro, a ghost: *laughs* You got killed to Christmas music, Evil.

...

Astro, dead: Hey Evil, how did it feel to get Christmas carolled as you were being killed? Evil, dead: She took the happiest time of the year and destroyed me with it!

...

Pearl: I’m gonna go kill Etho. Shhh. Giant Skizz, in a deep voice: You do it. Rock and roll.

...

Mrs Tango: My cooldown was so long and nobody was alone. Astro: It’s okay, Mrs Tango. Your speedy laggy Australian friend was killing all the people. Pearl: I literally told Skizz I was gonna kill Etho and I did exactly just that.

...

Brody: I cleaned [Etho] out of a vent and I didn’t know you could even do that but here we are. Endless: That’s awesome! Brody: I mean- I knew it, I knew you were in there, Etho. Sucker.

...

Endless: I know of one person who didn’t do the kill. Skizz: Who? Endless, whispering: Me. I was downloading in weapons. Skizz: You’re not gonna vouch for yourself. That’s not how justice works. Endless: Oh. My bad.

...

*Astro and Endless win as imposters* Endless: What did you do, Pearl? What happened there? Did you try to sheriff Skizz? Pearl: Yeah, I wanted to take a stab. I was the sheriff. I thought it might’ve been Skizz. Astro: Ohh, YOU got the last kill, Pearl? Pearl: Yeeaaahh. That was me. Skizz: THAT’s how we died? Cuz Pearl sheriffed the wrong person? Endless: It gets better than that. Pearl asked me to move away so she didn’t accidentally sheriff me. ...

Impulse: We getting double killed in here? Brody: Hopefully.

...

Brody: I’m voting for Tango; he’s having too much fun. Evil: Tango’s not allowed to have fun, we know that. Tango: Shut that down, yeah.

...

Pearl: *votes for Brody* Brody: Pearl. Why do you hate me? Pearl: I just have reasons. Skizz, to Brody: Don’t tug at THAT thread. Brody: Would you like to tell people about those reasons? Pearl: Not particularly.

...

Brody: Mrs Tango, do you want me to put like a poster of me in your new office? Of just me looking at you? Mrs Tango: Uhhh… Evil: Only if you’re wearing the pink hat. Brody: ONLY the pink hat. That’s it. *pause* Evil: Okay, that… that got awkward.

...

Astro: So would you like to know a good story? It’s a fun story. Etho: I would love to hear a good story right now, Astro. Astro: The fun story is that Mrs Tango thought that the comms were out and she wouldn’t get revealed walking away from her archnemesis, The Endless’s body. Tango: Well then I’m not voting for her at all, even if she did kill him, cuz that’s good by me. Etho: Ohoo… Evil: WOW.

...

Astro: Mrs Tango, you basically won the round; you killed Endless, so… *everyone laughs* Etho: That’s all we can hope for in the world, right? Tango: You kill Endless, you pretty much win, right? That doesn’t matter. *pause* Etho: Love you, Endless.

...

*Brody and Mrs Tango win as imposters after Brody framed Evil* Skizz: Evil, I’m so sorry, dude! Evil: No you’re not. Brody: I’m not sorry. I needed that in my heart. I’m not sorry. I’m not sorry whatsoever.

...

Impulse: Come watch me scan! Wanna watch me scan? C’mon! Watch this! It’s gonna be the best. Come watch. Astro: No, because I know what you’re gonna say and I’m not gonna stand for it. Impulse, hopping on the scanner: I’m not gonna do it, I’m not gonna do it. But that was- that’s legit. You saw that? Astro: You’re a little to the left. Impulse: I’m not gonna say it. But you’re gonna kill me anyway, so I might as well say it. Astro: You need to go to the right. Impulse: Did you watch me scan? Astro: You’re a little- You were- Impulse: Watch me nae nae. Astro, laughing: -a little far to the left.

...

Astro: I was coming from lab. Somebody was nae-naeing over there. Impulse: *giggles* Astro: Won’t say who, but somebody was. Impulse: There’s only one person here who does that.

...

Astro: I’m gonna come back cuz I don’t trust you. Brody: *scoffs* Okay. Astro: You murdered me last time! Brody, deadpan: I wouldn’t do that to you. That doesn’t sound like something I would do. Astro: Right in front of Evil and everything. I couldn’t get through the door. Brody, deadpan: I wouldn’t do that to you.

...

Endless: Hey, I’ve gotta fix the- I’m rebooting the wifi, sorry if it goes down. For a few minutes. Or A minute. Or until I come back here and, uh, reinitialise it. Brody, walking away: Endless, do you ever just stop talking? Etho, laughing: Ouch. Endless, following Brody: Hey, Brody. Let’s hang out, SIR. Brody: *laughs* Endless: How’ve you been, Brody? How’s your evening going? Brody: I’m fine. I’m fine. Are you gonna kill me? Endless: Are you always a jackass? Brody: Usually, yes. Are you gonna kill me or what? Endless: No, I don’t- I can’t kill you. But next time. Next time.

...

Endless: I’m definitely going to take a break so that I’m the last one back, and that’ll teach them to leave me here to entertain you. Pearl: Okay. Enjoy your water consumption. Endless: That’s very sweet of you. I appreciate that. You enjoy whatever consumption you’re doing as well.

...

Skizz, being ejected: You can’t be mayor and imposter, can you? Tango and Endless: No. Skizz: Well, I’m all sorts of twisted. Tango: You’re all sorts of dead.

...

*after Mrs Tango assassinated engineer Etho* Mrs Tango: I super appreciate you calling Etho out for being the engineer. Etho: I didn’t appreciate it.

...

Astro: I can tell you one thing: Etho’s not the engineer this round. Etho: You don’t know that for sure. Astro: Oh I think I do.

...

Astro: Hey Impulse. Impulse: Yeah? Astro: I just scanned. You know what else I did? Impulse: *gasps delightedly* You didn’t! Astro: I… *pause* Astro: Nah, I’m not gonna say it.

...

Impulse: *reports Astro’s body* Impulse: So. Astro scanned. But he did not nae nae. Just saying. Endless: I don’t think that’s how the song goes. Impulse: So I came to give him a stern talking to. But his body was dead.

...

Skizz: I’m doing my tasks. Tango: Your task is to assassinate. Skizz: That’s right, baby. And I’m coming for you next. Tango: Mhm. Bring it.

...

Astro: I can vouch for Evil cuz he watched me scan, Impulse watched me nae nae, and-. Impulse: Oh no. You’re gonna die now.

...

Skizz: Impulse sampled the Skizz! *pause* Impulse: Ew.

...

Brody: I’m not sorry I voted for you, Endless. Endless: Well, I’m glad that Mrs Tango didn’t. Brody: It’s cuz she doesn’t want to hurt your feelings. I will hurt your feelings.

...

Endless: I knew I got that wrong. Dangit. Simon Says- I blew it- I screwed it on the last… Brody: ...what? Endless: I feel like this should be the last game. I just… Tango: Are you having a nervous breakdown? What’s going on? Endless: Yeah, a little bit.

...

Endless: I voted for you, Brody. Cuz I hate everything about you. Brody: Thank you, buddy. I’ll vote for you also.

...

Pearl: Who we voting for? Brody: Endless. Endless: Brody. Tango: Why are we voting for Endless? Or Brody? Endless: Because Brody’s a jerk.

...

Pearl: This is awkward, cuz Tango was trying to get me to kill him. Tango: Do NOT pin that on me, my fair lady! Pearl: No no no, I’m not. Etho: Ooooh this is spicy :D Pearl: I’m pinning this on Skizz. Skizz just decided to walk by- Tango: Oh, okay. I’m good with that.

...

Brody: Etho, c’mere. Come here. That’s the second time you’ve ruined my fun. Etho: Were you sheriff? Brody: No. Don’t Starve- I say that and you ruin my fun and then Christmas music and you kill me. I just- Why do you hate me? Etho: I- I was just backing up my partner, y’know? Brody: Look, if you don’t wanna play Don’t Starve, you just say “hey man, I’m not into it”. That’s fine. See, you just say that. Etho: I like Don’t Starve. Brody: Evidently not with me.

...

Endless: It’s Brody’s fault for sussing me on that one. Brody: It’s not my fault you’re dumb.

...

Impulse: Keys or you’re sus! Brody: Keys or you’re… Impulse. Endless: Hey, I’M Impulse.

...

Astro, dead: Hey. Your wife killed me. Tango, dead: Good. Evil and Mrs Jerkface.

#friday night stabby quotes #friday night stabby #impulsesv #tangotek #skizzleman #etho #pearlescentmoon #astrozoan #mrstango #theendless #evilnotion #brodyman

[too-kinky-to-live]

taste

happy vo.re day everyone!!! here’s my cringe fic to commemorate :-) 

(no ao3 link this time im too self conscious) 

this idea came about while talking to the lovely @chili-kinks and they made this in conjunction with my fic so please check them out!!

anyway this fic features pre.game oum.asai and soft, same size vo.re, you have been warned. also bad words

“IIIIT’S PUNISHMENT TIME!!!”

The screen cut to a large Monokuma towering over the latest blackened, a small blonde girl with a long pigtail. The demonic bear picked up the girl and began to lick all over as she struggled in his grasp. Slowly lifting her above his head, Monokuma bent his head back and opened the gates of hell: his half-fanged mouth, with drool beginning to form around it. The girl was screaming and flailing about as she was lowered further down to her demise. Monokuma’s fist released her without effort, the blackened dropping right into his gaping maw. It slammed shut with a metal clang, and the bear gave a loud, deafening gulp. 

Saihara’s eyes were glued to the T.V., in a more intense manner than usual. What a cruel way to go, even for Danganronpa standards. He had many ideas about his own execution someday, but this… this was definitely one to consider. He could only imagine how she felt wriggling around in his large belly, put to an eternal sleep with a comforting blanket of warmth. His shaky hands moved to text his boyfriend Ouma, who sadly couldn’t make it to their weekly Danganronpa viewing because of heaps of school projects. He knew Ouma was more into the mystery aspect of the show than the gruesome killings, but he simply couldn’t resist. 

Saihara: omgomgomg did you see the latest episode???

Ouma: I did. I had it on in the background so I could work. 

Saihara: what did you think of the execution? :D

Ouma: It was… something. Unexpected, definitely. 

It was difficult for the taller boy to contain his fantasizing, to say the least. 

Saihara: i love the way she was screaming for dear life,,, it was soooo satisfying in the end! god i wish i were monokuma… tasting a victim would be so worth ittt

Ouma: Uh, Saihara?

Saihara: yea?

Ouma: I think you should go to bed. You have school tomorrow. And… you’re scaring me a little. 

Saihara: sorry kichi… but fiiiine ill see you tomorrow.

The last thing he wanted was to make Ouma uncomfortable. And he was a man of his word, he’d take his advice and get to bed. However, there was one thing he wanted to try first. Rummaging around in his snack drawer, he found a small bag of Monokuma-themed gummy bears. He couldn’t stop thinking about having something whole run down his throat… and what better way to do it than try on a small candy? He frantically opened the bag and plucked out a red gummy. Dangling it above his drooling maw, he licked his lips. 

“My first victim… down the hatch!” 

He shoved the gummy in his mouth and had to stop himself from chewing. Positioning it for swallowing, he let it slide down his throat with a hard gulp. Saihara traced a hand over his chest to feel it going down to his stomach, shivering slightly. What an amazing feeling… he couldn’t chew these ever again! He happily shoved more in his mouth and gulped them down, pretending they were meek little prey against his predatory might. 

Saihara tossed the bag aside and rubbed his belly blissfully. One day, maybe he could have a person inside him. Despite his affinity for Danganronpa, he could never bring himself to kill someone. He was going to rely on Team Danganronpa’s directors to change that for him. No, he merely wanted someone in his belly for a while, just to feel what it’s like. 

Surely a normal human like him couldn’t achieve that, right? 

Only one way to find out. 

Ouma looked on nervously as Saihara effortlessly swallowed half a sandwich whole. His previous victims included sushi, apple slices, candy, cookies, and brownies. It was almost inhuman how the taller boy could open his mouth to fit a seemingly endless array of food. 

"Saihara, you're gonna make yourself sick."

Saihara simply chuckled. "I'll be fine, 'Kichi." 

The smaller boy knew Saihara had a somewhat unhealthy obsession with Danganronpa, but he never would have imagined it would affect him this much. Despite how unnatural it was, Ouma couldn't help his morbid curiosity. He couldn't deny how interesting the latest execution was (no matter how much he tried to convince himself otherwise), and a small part of him absolutely loved watching Saihara scarf down food and seeing it travel down his throat. 

Nope, he definitely didn't enjoy this. 

Every so often, the taller boy would lift his food above him and slowly ease it into his mouth, as if to simulate eating a person. Ouma was immensely thankful the other patrons of the cafe were ignoring them. Maybe this sudden fascination would fade once the next Danganronpa episode came out; but with Saihara, anything was possible. 

Saihara: hey could you come over today? i wanna try something. 

Two weeks later, Ouma received a rather unceremonious text from Saihara one night. 

Ouma: Sure. What is it you want to try? 

Saihara: i don't think i can say over text

Ouma furrowed his brow, his mind racing to the absolute worst possible scenarios. Did something happen between him and his uncle again? 

Ouma: ...why not? 

Saihara: i just can't i'm sorry 

Saihara: pls come over asap 

Ouma: Alright.

It was unsettling how vague his friend was being, and that made him all the more worried. He hurriedly packed his things and ran to Saihara's house. 

The two sat across from each other on the floor in Saihara’s room, neither saying a word. The taller boy had his eyes cast down, deep in thought with Ouma left to wonder just what the hell happened to him. The air was unnerving, and Ouma couldn’t take it anymore.

“Are you okay, Saihara?”

The boy in question took a second to look up at him, meeting his eyes with an emotionless face Ouma had not seen in him before. 

“Do you remember the episode where the girl got eaten alive?”

Oh.

“I… I want to try it out. I’ve been practicing so I could make it happen.”

Oh.

Saihara couldn’t possibly think this would work, right? Humans aren’t capable of eating each other without… killing the other. Ouma shuddered. 

“Saihara,” he spoke slowly. “Do you really think you can do this? I mean, Danganronpa is just fiction after all… and one of us wouldn’t s-survive,” his voice began to quiver. 

The taller boy sat up slightly and looked at Ouma with soft eyes. “I won’t let that happen. I’ve been looking stuff up. I’ve been training myself. And… you don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.” 

Part of Ouma didn’t want to. That part was constantly pushing the fact that this could end up very bad. However, another part slowly began to rise up - the feeling of being the closest he can to the one he has a crush on. And of course, there was that naughty side of him thrilled at the idea. 

“...I’ll do it.”

Saihara’s eyes lit up. “Really?!”

“I trust you. And, well, I’m kinda curious too.” 

Hearing Ouma have mutual feelings to this weird activity made Saihara’s heart race. The smaller boy began to remove his clothing, too embarrassed to make eye contact with his crush. Saihara finally noticed how bony Ouma was. He’d make sure to get him a proper meal later. Ouma removed everything but his boxers, feeling somewhat self-conscious and looking away with a blush. 

“Could you uh, close your eyes while I do this? I don’t think I could make eye contact with you.”

“S-Sure.”

Ouma complied and Saihara inched his way towards him, shaking slightly. Ouma trusted him. He wasn’t about to let that be for nothing. Raising himself above Ouma’s head, Saihara opened his maw until it became unhinged. He gently bit down on the smaller boy’s head of hair. The flavor was a sweet grape with a bit of lavender, which made Saihara drool slightly. He couldn’t help but smile in bliss as he took more of the boy in. He felt Ouma flinch a bit, so he brought his hands to Ouma’s arms and rubbed for reassurance. The smaller boy calmed down and Saihara reached his shoulders. 

Perhaps it was Ouma’s smaller stature, but this was going a lot easier than Saihara had anticipated. He wanted to lick at him to get more of his sweet flavor, but he didn’t want to gross him out. He also wished he could ask how Ouma was holding up, but, well… he was a bit preoccupied. As Saihara reached the smaller boy’s torso, he realized the boy had entered his stomach. He was already feeling full, but there was no going back now. He took a hand off of Ouma to rub his belly, his hand gliding over the dent created in it. Reaching Ouma’s boxers wasn’t nearly as thrilling of a milestone, since his taste was interrupted by bland fabric. 

He picked up the pace and shoved the covered part of Ouma’s body down his gullet. He mentally apologized for being so rough. Resuming the wonderful taste of Ouma, he slid down his spindly legs. All that remained was below the knees, and those were consumed just as quickly. Saihara could feel Ouma squirming a bit to get comfortable, and that’s when the true euphoria started. 

It felt fucking amazing. 

It was everything he hoped it would be. He leaned back and let an arm support him from behind, using the other to support the massive weight added to him. His stomach stretched past his knees with many bumps protruding from it. Red-faced, Saihara panted heavily with his tongue lavishly hanging out. God, this was so worth it. He rubbed around to feel for Ouma, who was surprisingly calm during the whole ordeal. 

He opened his mouth to ask Ouma how he was doing, but a massive belch burst from his lips instead. The smaller boy, meanwhile, was fumbling around trying to make out his surroundings in the dark. His body was drenched in saliva; but strangely, no stomach acid was present. The world quaked around him as Saihara let out a loud burp, and Ouma found it hard to be grossed out given his current circumstances. 

“Are you *urp* okay, ‘Kichi?” 

Saihara’s hand found Ouma’s head between the fleshy wall separating them, and Ouma couldn’t help but lean into the touch. He never saw himself in the stomach of his crush, yet here he was. 

“I’m okay. It feels… really nice,” he blushed, accentuated with a small rub to the stomach walls. He was amazed at how elastic Saihara’s stomach was, he hoped he wasn’t putting too much strain on it. 

“Haah… I’m great, ‘Kichi! The best I’ve ever felt, actually! You tasted incredible,” he grinned, licking his lips. 

Suddenly, the buttons on his dress shirt holding on for dear life relented and popped right off, exposing his large belly. That was… pretty hot, Saihara realized. Ouma started to rub more of the walls surrounding him, causing Saihara to moan rather loudly. He was a complete mess around his crush, but it was just too difficult to contain his bliss. 

“Saihara, why aren’t there any stomach acids yet?” 

The taller boy gave his belly a gentle pat. “I found recipes online for drinks that *hic* could subdue stomach acids for a bit. It looks *hic* like they worked pretty *hic* well, huh?” 

Ouma smiled and let himself lean back into the warm stomach walls. 

“You’ll let me out when I’m ready, right?” he asked tiredly. 

“Of course,” Saihara whispered, rubbing Ouma’s head.

“Thank you, Saihara.”

#hope yall enjoy #pora's fix

[phoenix]

Cyclops Got Run Over by His Ex-Wife

Iiiit’s that time of year again, to share my filk of the Elmo and Patsy Christmas song I wrote back in the 90s.

CYCLOPS GOT RUN OVER BY HIS EX-WIFE Idea: Caitlin “Phoenix” Grey Lyrics: Caitlin Grey, @nobodysuspectsthebutterfly, CRETIN, and DkPhoenix Created in December 1995 in IRC, slightly revised December 1998          

Cyclops got run over by his ex-wife, Patrolling ‘round the mansion Christmas Eve, You may say there’s no such thing as cloning, But as for me and Essex, we believe.      

He’d been swigging down his eggnog, And we begged him not to go, But Scott (that dork)’s so dedicated, So he wobbled out the door into the snow.      

When we found him Christmas morning, At the scene of the attack, There were claw-marks on his forehead, And Infernal-looking symbols on his back.      

Cyclops got run over by his ex-wife, Patrolling ‘round the mansion Christmas Eve, You can say there’s no such thing as cloning, But as for me and Essex, we believe.      

Well, we’re all so proud of Cable, He’s been taking this so well, Not a tear to rust his metal, He just sits there playing cards with Sis Rachel.      

It’s not Christmas without Cyclops, All the X-Men dressed in black, And we just can’t help but wonder, Should we go to Sinister and clone him back? (CLONE HIM BACK!!)      

Cyclops got run over by his ex-wife, Patrolling ‘round the mansion Christmas Eve, You may say there’s no such thing as cloning, But as for me and Essex, we believe.      

Now that Scott is six feet under, Jean’s conscience is clear and clean, My! Her luck is so uncanny, At last she can go out with Wolverine.      

I’ve warned all my friends and mutants, Maddie could be after you, They should have never given powers To a gal who had Phoenix to live up to.      

Cyclops got run over by his ex-wife, Patrolling 'round the mansion Christmas Eve, You can say there’s no such thing as cloning, But as for me and Essex, we believe.      

Sing it, Nathans!!      

Cyclops got run over by his ex-wife, Patrolling 'round the mansion Christmas Eve, You may say there’s no such thing as cloning, But as for me and Essex, we believe!    

#Cyclops #Scott Summers #Mister Sinister #grandma got run over by a reindeer #X-Men #song parodies #Christmas songs #filk #How many names have I put to this? #Place your bets now #what name will I sign this with next year!