#I know it’s ludicrous to answer an ask so late

[leclsrc]

in so deep ✴︎ cl16

genre: friends to lovers, charles has a huge crush and is a lovesick bloke, smut, humor, Fluff 

word count: 13.1k  

It takes you many cities, a botched Halloween costume and a failed break-in to realize how much Charles likes you. It takes Charles several years to realize he doesn’t need to do much to have you like him back. title from this

nsfw warnings under the cut!

18+ because... penetrative sex, praise central, size kink, unprotected sex

auds here… thank u for all ur love during my periods of being awol .... i wrote this over the course of a week and i hope u all like it!!! its very much a self indulgent thing... :P

The first time Charles realized he liked you, you were both posed for a picture.

It happened at a dinner party in London, in late autumn, thrown by you to celebrate your first year on the paddock as a reporter. Few friends had been invited but, with how noisy everyone was and with the ease of conversation, it felt like a houseful of people in your narrow dining area. Lando was in front of the mirror, tipsy, demonstrating his best rendition of an Irish accent to a genuinely interested Alex and Lily. 

Max was playing with your pet cat, Gene Kelly, and mentally plotting a heist to sneak him out with Pierre’s help. Your boyfriend, Liam, was making himself a cocktail. And Lewis had been roaming around with a glass of dry wine and his brand new film camera to document the night’s festivities—but the host was nowhere to be found. Unbeknownst to everyone, full off dinner and tipsy off cocktails, you’d ducked into the balcony to find where Charles had run off to for the night.

The music was muffled when you shut the door, leaving it ajar just a little bit. Lissie had played Cocteau Twins and was singing whatever gibberish lyrics played, fully drunk off a bottle of Tito’s. Still laughing over her predicament, you turned to Charles and refocused your attention on him. Is it boring?

What w… what is? He asked, turning to you. Briefly his eyes flitted to your hand, the bracelets clasped onto your wrist. He noticed you held matching bottles of beer but yours remained full, nail tapping idly on the semi-opaque glass.

My party, you responded wryly, cocking your head to the side. A loose tendril of hair fell over your eye and he itched to tuck it back in place, thumb over your ear. You continued, still pressing for an answer. You left to smoke but you didn’t come back. 

I like the view. A half-lie but truthful in some way. He squinted to try and make out blurry, faraway signage. I should move here. Monaco makes me sick. He tried to say it jokingly, but was betrayed by the raw tone of his voice. You hummed quietly, to signify you were listening.

So move. Who’s stopping you? You smiled slightly. Aside from your ludicrous career, of course. 

You had a natural disposition of—something. He didn’t quite know how to describe it, almost like the rest of him had yet to catch up with something only his heart was already decided on. You spoke and acted with some kind of smoothness that only the most popular kids in secondary school could have reins over, but you always claimed you weren’t very popular in your teenage years. He just knew he liked hearing you talk, watching you smile. He felt something—but he didn’t want to name it even if he knew exactly what it was. Instead he played into your joke. Yeah, I’ve been told I should move to Dubai instead, become a prince.

You laughed aloud. You are terribly unfunny, you know that?

Am I? He asked. Just then, as the cotton of his tee brushed against your bare shoulder, Liam brashly tugged the balcony door open to find you. He had this drunk smile on his face, brushing his blond hair out of the way and raising a Leica to the two of you.

Hey, I got Lewis’ camera. Smile, Liam had said, eyes squinted behind it. You remained still, half-turned to the camera, and Charles gave a smile whereas you remained in a neutral, half-smiling pose. And right there, at that very moment, as a giggle escaped your lips from having to pose so quickly and even awkwardly, Charles realized with a damning force that he had a massive crush on you.

Liam had left shortly after to resume taking pictures, but would later confront you over your “weird, odd, fucking closeness with the Monegasque bloke” that you would vehemently deny despite a gut-churning feeling boiling low in your stomach. But that’s later. Your conversation continued calmly, along the passive whir of London and the streets below. You both people-watched as you thought of things to say—finally Charles said, Are you interviewing me next weekend?

I always try to get out of it when it’s with you. You rolled your eyes, feigning irritance, then smiled to break the illusion. I think so.

I’ll make sure I have good answers. You’re too smart. Hurts to be in the same room. 

Like you aren’t, you said back, but the rebuttal is shy in nature, like he struck you with a compliment so high you couldn’t bear to return it. He felt then like this was the kind of moment where you would start holding hands any minute, timid touches between clinks of bottles. He remembered Liam existed and screwed his eyes shut. He wished so hard to be able to kiss you. Abandon all sense and just kiss you.

—

“It’s 2023 and still London has the most rubbish ass, fucking cunt, stupid wanker stoplights,” Lissie huffs beside you, checking her watch. “Right then. We’re going to be late. You know how Lando is when people are late. Especially because this is his event.”

“We’re not people to Lando,” you reason, tapping the steering wheel. The ETA on your navigation app tells you you’re still twenty minutes away. “We’re his best friends. If he can’t forgive us, we should kick him out of the group chat.”

“Ooh, and add Alex,” Lily pipes up from the backseat, where she’s redoing her eyeshadow to pass the time. “I keep telling you guys he’s funnier than Lando.” Both you and Lissie make faint, vague sounds of dissent and she grunts again, deflating.

“No boyfriends in the group chat,” Lissie repeats an age-old rule that’s been around for as long as you three (four, including Lando) have been friends. “Or girlfriends, in Lando’s case, but we haven’t worried about that much, have we?”

You’re all en route to watch Lando crank out a brand-new deejay set, one he’s spent the summer break working on. It’s all house and inspired by beach music, and he’s very proud of it, so of course you’re all showing up to laud him. You’re not the only ones, though, apparently—whoever’s in the city is showing up to show their support, which includes a whole stretch of drivers.

“Oh, my God!” Lily says all of a sudden, eyes wide at something on her phone; you both gesture for her to show you and she does with speed. “Do you guys remember this? God, Instagram archives are a godsend.”

“Your dinner party in Chelsea!” Lissie coos, immediately sidling into a fond awwww! You tap at the story Lily had then posted: a video of everybody eating. You tap again to view the one she posted a few days later, which was a collage of Lewis’ camera scans he’d gotten developed overnight. There in the upper right corner, you almost immediately spot your photo with Charles.

“Oh, Christ, that picture.” Memories of your subsequent arguments with Liam flash past your head. Playfully, all you say is, “And I never had a boyfriend again.”

“Liam was an Irish arse, anyway.” Lissie scoffs. “Nobody liked him. Lewis joked about cleaning his camera after he used it that night. Plus, you actively avoid dating, so don’t complain.”

“Fair,” you say with a slight smile. Your mind lingers on the picture, the imprint of it burned fresh into your mind. 

“You—it’s also because you can’t take a hint, babe.” Lily says matter-of-factly. “Who knows how many guys have, you know… fancied, or, like, had crushes on you, and you just never knew?”

“Are you saying somebody fancies me?” You ask, voice whittling out playfully as your eyes count down the seconds to the green light.

Funnily, silence is all that answers. Beside you, Lily and Lissie exchange a look—one that communicates their years-long amusement over your cluelessness. You whirl back to them, eyebrows raised, and double down: “Wait. Does somebody fancy me?”

“No!” Lily ekes out; you don’t miss Lissie’s poorly-hidden laugh. “No. I’m just—it’s just—no.” 

Truth is, it truly seems like the only person in the entire paddock (team and Sky Sports staff included) who hasn’t caught on to a certain somebody’s boyish crush is the crush herself, oblivious as ever, even years and years later. One might think you’d have realized eventually, but perhaps owed to your type A personality and immersion with work, and Charles’ pathetic and total inability to express how much he likes you, the crush has always remained just that, despite your two friend groups’ best efforts to hint at it.

It wasn’t to say, though, that you didn’t sometimes entertain the idea of liking him, too. On that one rainy race weekend when he’d brought you a plastic cup of soup, and embarrassed, laughed sheepishly at Lissie’s joking request for one; then returned twenty minutes later with soup for everyone in the media pen. Or that time in Monaco where he’d pretended to be your boyfriend at a bar to ward off a creepo from hitting on you any further. Or another time, in Budapest, when he’d drank half his body weight in jello shots and slurred out a goofy, heavy I’m soooo sorry, baby while you helped him into the passenger seat of his car.

That one, singular time in Cancun you told your friends once and never again.

But those are isolated incidents, you suppose; plus, dating someone you work with has never seemed like a remotely good idea to you, and you don’t think it ever will.

For all your thinking on the topic, you fail to realize that you don’t know much at all—you don’t know the fact that Charles has liked you for years, after getting to know just how charming and funny you were as a friend. You don’t know that he still gets gut-churning butterflies when he sees you, hands shaky and face tinged pink. You miss the fact that he’s not had any long-term partners in the years of his liking you. You don’t know anything. 

“Don’t lie.” You narrow your eyes as you rev the car and continue the trip. 

“We’re not,” Lily says loudly and a touch too defensively, crossing her fingers. Quietly, she continues, “You should just pay more attention.”

Whatever she meant to say is lost on you as soon as you make a left and spot the club Lando’s at, already teeming with high-profile guests and their high-profile cars. Half an hour later you’re in—valet and being on the guest list effectively cuts your entrance time in half. You separate at the entrance—you, to find Lando; your two girls, to find your reserved table. You find him eventually, busy behind the booth churning out high-frequency tropical music; he pauses for half a beat to flash a huge grin and a thumbs-up before redirecting his attention to the knobs and sliders you can’t seem to guess the functions of.

These kinds of parties are affairs in and of themselves. They mimic the afterparties during the season—nothing if not shows of opulence and networking: champagne paid for by business magnates, yachts that barely make dents in anybody’s wallets, thick CVs, fruity cocktails spilled on pieces of clothing that cost upward of 3000 pounds. You make eye contact with at least seven skeevy businessmen before you spot your friends, but only because you hear them first—by them you mean Lissie, her loud voice raised even more to match the noise at this club.

“I said I didn’t fu—ugh—I don’t want ye fahkin’ champagne,” she slurs out to an old man in a pressed suit, eyebrows knitted angrily. “Got it?!” Behind her, Lily and Alex (who’s arrived now, apparently) watch, concerned and helpless to stop her but equally (perhaps more) entertained.

You step closer and make a move to calm down the exchange taking place, but somebody whispers a “hey” in your ear and startles you. You turn, and come face to face with Charles. His black tee accentuates the breadth of his shoulders, which you connect to his crossed arms; there’s a shy, boyish grin playing on his face. “Oh, Charles!” You smile. “Hey! Haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Thanks,” he says with a grin, straining to raise his voice. “You look—you look well. Are you alone?”

“No, I’m—” You turn to your three friends nearby, and to Lissie’s argument heating up. “I actually have to go.” You raise your thumb, jabbing it toward them. “But hi again… again!” You both laugh, but he laughs much louder. “I’ll see you around.”

“I jus—” He says, and you stick around for a second to hear him say what he has to say.

“Yeah?”

He clears his throat and laughs stiffly, abandoning his previous statement in favor of a new one. “I just…. want… to have a great time.”

“Ohhhh,” you holler, nodding, clearly trying to mask your extreme confusion under a polite smile. “Okay, well… go ahead!”

You smooth down your dress and laugh again, evidently more forced but, unfortunately for Charles, not any less pretty.

You carry yourself in a very pretty, graceful way, loud and quiet at the same time, like your confident voice when you’re holding the mic and asking questions or making drivers laugh. He might sound creepy, though, a touch too observant, if he tells you so. He observes you instead, for a second, the low cut of your dress and the way the red overhead light shines on your exposed collarbones—and then you’re leaving. He watches you walk over to hug Lily, realizes how stupid he’s sounded, and smothers a hand over his face, humiliated. 

—

“I just want to have a great time?” Max’s jaw drops and he shakes his head, disappointed above all else. “Charles, what the actual. Like…. fuck?” They’re all camped out at the latter’s hotel room, around the dining table, in varying states of sober and doing different things to wear off the last hour of the night before they’re all due to train or debrief again in the morning. Charles had relayed the disaster of the night to everyone at some point, but Max is the last to hear of it; this, unfortunately, does not inoculate him from the shock and secondhand embarrassment.

“Pierre told me to—” Charles starts, forlorn.

“Oi, no. I told you to say something like I just wish… I’d seen you sooner,” interjects the Frenchman with a tut. “You know, flirting? Not… whatever the fuck you said.”

“I didn’t—I was—I lost my mind,” he groans, burying his head in his hands. It couldn’t possibly be entirely his fault when you looked so pretty tonight, hair down and a wash of glitter on your eyelids. Just subtle little flecks of them. They brought out your eyes, too. And your blush, the pink flush of it that sat high on your cheekbones.

“…llo? Charles.” He blinks and sees Carlos’ deep eyes, wide and staring right at him, so pointedly he’s genuinely startled.

“Jeeesus fucking Christ. What?” He places a melodramatic hand over his chest. “Yeah?”

“What do you mean with the”—Carlos mimics his confused expression—“I asked you a question, tonto.” 

“Don’t bother with him,” chimes in Pierre, half-distracted by his phone. He looks up with a devious smile and continues. “He’s still thinking of Miss Reporter of the Year.” A round of loud, jovial laughter makes its way across the table, a few teasing quips being chimed in here and there.

“I just,” mocks Pierre from across the table, adopting a sing-songy tone as he bumps his shoulder to Carlos’ with a mocking laugh. “Wanna have a great time.” His voice is much higher and more mocking, which is enough to send Charles into a fit of petulant embarrassment.

“This isn’t sixth year,” he grits out quietly, but the blush on his face could just as well be plastered on the cheeks of a twelve-year-old. “Give it a rest.” 

“Mate.” Pierre’s voice mellows into something more austere. “You do know she’s leaving the reporters’ job at the end of the season? She’s going to London full-time. No more seeing her all year round. You know this. And I keep telling you. If you are really, and I mean really, interested, I say go for it. C’est la fucking vie, yeah?”

“Plus, if she says no, you can go for pretty much anyone else, anyway,” concludes Max with a convinced smile.

“It’s not the same,” he admits helplessly, smothering his hands over his face in bleak frustration. Behind his eyelids he sees you still, beautiful and smiling and funny—he seriously needs to institutionalise himself before he goes even more mad with the years-long malady he’s called a crush. And seriously, for a twenty-something to have something he calls a crush is despicable in itself. He feels juvenile.

“I can’t tell her. She’s always told people that dating coworkers is a bad idea.”

“You’re not coworkers.”

“We’re—well, we still work closely together. It is the same.” He groans. “It’s just… I’ve said it before. If I admit I like her, things will become awkward. I’d rather we remain friends.”

“Well… see, nobody said you needed to tell her,” begins Pierre schemingly, eyebrows raising. Around them, everybody groans at the birth of another Pierre-brained scheme that will, no doubt, need the enlistment of everyone’s help and will likely end in disaster. “What?! I’m just offering… I’m just saying, mate—you’ve liked her since forever. Why not make a move?”

“—I can’t—”

“Without telling her?” 

“Pierre,” groans Carlos, ever the voice of reason, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I don’t—whatever this is you’re planning, it’s going to go to shit. I swear.”

“You are acting like I plan to take somebody hostage.” Pierre shrugs. “You know, girls like when you don’t tell them straight up. You have to show you like them. You know, be interested in the things they’re interested in, compliment them, make them laugh. And then they think, oh, how thoughtful, oh, how adorable, and before you know it, they like you. And you’ve got yourself a girlfriend.”

“Mmm. Uh-uh. Untrue.” Max says decisively, shaking his head. “I told Kelly I liked her.”

“Yeah, sí. I told Isa I liked her, too.”

“Will you two—just—” Pierre gesticulates and makes a funny noise that insinuates just go with it. “Okay?” he points out to the latter, rolling his eyes. He turns back to Charles with a ready, dazzling, so-French-it’s-scary grin and continues. “I suggest you let us be your wingmen and help you charm her.”

“Whoa, whoa, wh—us? You’re on your own here,” Max quips with a laugh. “It’s your stupid idea.”

“It’s not stupid, and it’s going to work. She probably likes you already.” His confidence carries the lie with gusto. “We just need—you just need to show her instead of saying the dumbest shit to her face.” Pierre leans back into his chair and shrugs matter-of-factly. “Max and I will be regular wingmen, but we have a secret weapon.”

“Don’t—” Carlos starts with a sigh.

“Yes. Lando, Lily, and Lissie are all close to her, eh? Well, perfect—Carlos will get information from Lando about things she likes, you gift her those things or talk to her about them, bam she’s in love. It’s literally a perfect plan.”

Maybe it’s worth it. Maybe—

“No.” Charles shakes his head firmly, setting the record straight. “This will not work. Who’s to say she even needs a boyfriend?”

—

Despite what his best and closest friends—on and off the paddock—might have you believe, Charles hasn’t always been so hopeless when it came to trying to catch your heart. His closest call came in Cancun, after a long weekend of racing and a flight to the area, early into the night where he thought he was the only one who decided to opt out of partying.

Your skin’s peeling. You turned from where you sat on a barstool observing the shore, startled, immediately relaxing when you found him standing there eyeing you. Your hair was still damp, crunchy with saltwater, and your skin had tanned considerably, a sunburn sitting on the bridge of your nose. You stuck your tongue out.

I spent the whole day swimming. He observed your bikini, yellow and green contrasting the colour of your skin. He blinked slowly, ordering himself a drink to hopefully pass the thoughts away. His eyes couldn’t stop, though, wandering, the translucent material of the scarf you’d tied loosely around your hips, the tinge of heat on your shoulders and nose. I’m burnt everywhere.

There are remedies for that. He smiled around his glass.

I’m aware, you said lightly, crossing your legs and sliding your finger along the salt rim of yours. But just in case I forgot, maybe you could refresh my memory.

Your voice was so sweet, so low, so tempting. Already he knew he was wrapped around your finger, the same finger picking up grains of salt to press on your tongue peeking between your smiling lips. You brought your glass to your lips. It had been some time since the dinner in London so he pressed, his voice deep and a little rough, Liam can do that for you, I’m sure.

Pity, you said meekly as you set your glass down and looked back at him. He’s not my boyfriend anymore.

Out of eyeline, the bartender’s eyes widened at the exchange he was overhearing. 

Is it a pity? He asked, leaning backwards and cocking his head to the side. It’s easy, an easy glide of conversation, flirt, something he’s wanted for a while now. To have you playing into him, and have himself playing into you, just like this. It was naturally easy in a foreign city where nobody knew who either of you were, where you were just two strangers flirting at a beachside bar.

Two strangers laughing while they dug their toes into the sand. Two strangers basking in the water, tinted orange by the sun dipping below the horizon, scarf untied in favor of one last swim before night fell. There was nothing keeping either of you from doing whatever you wanted. Nothing keeping Charles from finally acting on the attraction that honest to God crushed him.

You ended up leaning on the door of your hotel room, keycard fiddled in-between your sandy fingers. You combed a hand through your hair and offered a shy smile. So. 

So, he replied, leaning closer. So.

Sooo. You were laughing and your breath smelled like a mint leaf and vodka. You looked up at him, blinking slowly. I have a rule.

What rule is that?

I don’t date coworkers. He wanted to dip down, place a hand on the dip of your waist, and kiss you.

Pity, he said gruffly instead, a smile forming on his face.

Is it a pity? You chewed on your lip and looked at his barely parted ones, pink and pretty. When I’m about to break it? He was about to help you do just that—eyes fluttered shut already—when a crash resounded from down the hall and you both turned to find the culprit. You broke apart and with your separation, whatever atmosphere of tension you’d built up popped, too, leaving you awkwardly standing beside each other.

Oh m… Lissie? You asked, leaning closer as you recognized your friend more and more. You narrowed your eyes, watching the girl crawl her way through the carpeted floor. Oh, Jesus—let’s—get you—

You both hauled her up and wrapped either arm around your shoulders, unlocking her hotel room with great effort and tossing her onto the bed. You stood back and sighed at her half-blacked out state, slightly amused but ultimately relieved she ended her night unscathed.

She pried one eye open and sleepily, she groaned out, what were… you two… doing together outside your room?

Nothing, you said quickly, face warm and eyes wide.

Because you—Lissie raised a lazy finger in your direction—don’t date coworkers. 

I wasn’t—it wasn’t—goodnight, you spluttered, eyes refusing to meet Charles’ even as you both exited the room, paying him quiet thanks as he pulled the door back closed.

Sorry, you said, pretty as ever. The light shone on the red splotch on your nose. Goodnight.

And so he went to his room that night, bummed out and still high off your scent.

—

“You’re staring again.”

“I’m not,” he lies through his teeth, averting his eyes away from your figure by the shore. Sue him if he was staring (which he wasn’t… but most definitely was) but he finds you much too pretty. After the disaster that was the Mexican GP, he figures he could use some sort of stress reliever. Apparently he was not alone in thinking this, considering half the paddock hauled ass to Cancun and prompty partied.

Across Charles, Joris and Pierre share a knowing look that doesn’t go unnoticed.

“I said I’m not!”

“So you are not staring at her blue swimsuit then?” Joris tests, mouth twisted into a devious smirk. “It’s black,” Charles says matter-of-factly before catching sight of his friends’ smug expressions and realizing he’s implicated himself. He rolls his eyes and crosses his arms, petulantly almost. “And I wasn’t. Can you fucking—fuck off?”

“Just ask her out already,” Pierre groans, nodding when Joris chimes in with agreement of his own. “I seriously can-not handle another bar of this shit. It’s been years.”

“I don’t know how to,” he laments. “It’s going to be awkward if I do it all formal, and she’s going—she’ll laugh at me, and it’s…” He blows a raspberry. “Non. Pointless.”

“Just kiss her at the party,” reasons Joris with an easy attitude, shrugging. 

“Joris! Charles didn’t know about that,” Pierre says, trying to lower his volume, but it’s pointless since they’re barely a metre apart. “Fucking tattletale.”

“Party?!” Charles repeats, eyes wide. “Why don’t I know about a party?!”

“It’s a Halloween party,” Joris says, a wacky grin on his face. “And you said it yourself, didn’t ‘cha? You told us not to tell you if any functions were happening because you’re too tired to go to any. Too… too wrapped up racing.” He laughs. “Or something of the sort.”

“Well the season’s ending,” he huffs, wringing firm fingers over his face, his shut eyes, “and I still fucking haven’t… so I think I’m afforded a party.”

“Alright, then come to the party! Dress code, Halloween. Sexy Halloween.” Pierre wiggles his eyebrows. “You know, speaking of our plan, Carlos overheard Lissie and Lily talking about what your girl’s costume is going to be.” He leans in closer and laces his fingers together. “She’s going as a… Christina.”

“Christina?” The other two echo, confused. 

“Christina. I did some digging, and I think it’s this.” Pierre scrolls and dicks around on his phone for a minute before turning it back around to Joris and Charles, who peek with great interest. They seem to be looking at an outdated movie poster of—

“Cas-per the friendly ghost,” Charles reads aloud, trying to get his accent to dissipate. “Huh. What the fuck is that?”

“It’s a movie, idiot.” Pierre shuts his phone off. “Starring who? Christina Ricci.”

“Vraiment? You think his crush is going to show up wearing… a white gown?” Joris asks, his mind stuck on the outfit he’d seen just seconds ago. “This doesn’t make sense.”

“Well Carlos and I agreed, so. Two to two. And Carlos says she and her friends always wear silly costumes like these. So if she shows up as Christina, what better way to start conversation than to dress up as Casper?”

Charles’ eyes widen with comical horror. “No. No, no, no. Did the ghost and the kid fuck?”

“No!” The two men across him yell in unison.

“Right!” He gesticulates. “So it’s not a couples’ costume!”

“But it’s still—” Pierre pauses. “It still matches. Trust me on this one, mate.” He smiles. “We even brought the supplies.”

—

The party is a hit as soon as Charles and his group enter. The former finds refuge at the table, unwilling to socialize. Pierre roams for a bit and ends up finding you almost immediately—you’re wearing low-waisted pants, a strappy top, and you sport alternating streaks of blond and black in your hair.

“Hey!” He calls, jogging up to you. “I heard you were coming as a Christina. Guess who I am?”

You rake a hand through the streaks in your hair and smile. “Not just any Christina. The artist. Xtina? You know?” You twirl a bit, the dark material of your strappy pants swishing as you go, as if the movement will help Pierre deduce the costume’s identity. “Whatever. You’ll get it. Lando is—we’re matching tonight, but I g—it wouldn’t make any more sense if you don’t understand it.” You sigh a bit and gesture vaguely to the crowd behind you, referring to the Eminem-dressed Lando, who you guess is currently caught in the thick of.

“Xtina?” Iks-tina, he repeats, clearly confused. “I remember hearing… somebody saying you were going as a… a Christina.”

“Chris-tina, Xtina, yeah. Christina Aguilera.” You smile, fingers pinching at the material of your belt. “Anyway—where is everyone? I’ve only seen Daniel’s costume and then yours.” The recent memory of Danny’s neon orange traffic cone costume bumping into everybody flashes in your mind.

“Save yourself,” he huffs, smoothing calloused hands over the denim of his jeans. “Zhou and Esteban came as Bella and Jacob, Max as a Tifosi. Anyway”—he points to his ensemble—“guess yet?”

Your mental images of each cited costume are cut short. “Aha! You’re, um. Yes! You’re Ken from the Barbie movie,” you crack finally, remembering the revealing denim vest and jeans combo from the film you’d watched four times over in theaters a few months ago. “Wow, even your briefs say Ken. Very accurate. Minus the non-bleached hair.”

He tuts and shrugs. “I’m no Alex. What’d he come as?”

“He and Lily matched—Sonny and Cher.”

“Let me guess,” Pierre starts, and already you’re nodding because you can tell he’s going to predict exactly how the night has turned out, “Alex is Cher?”

“Wig and sequined dress and all.” You nod, laughing and squinting; Alex’s tall figure, head clad in a long, fringey, black wig, stands out above the rest. “Oh, I did see Carlos at the bar. Ricky Martin?”

Pierre really laughs at that, a loud, distinctly French guffaw involuntarily forced past his lip glossed mouth. “What the fuck, mate! Ricky Martin?! He’s El Profesor from La Casa de Papel. You know, Money Heist? Bella ciao? Oh, my God, he’s going to fucking freak if he hears—heard you said that.”

“He seriously gave off Ricky Martin vibes,” you defend in-between laughs of your own. “So that’s everyone? Oh—oh. Charles! What did… I never saw him! He kept telling me how excited he was for his costume, too…” Just a few hours ago, at that—a boisterous voice honing into the your voicemail inbox, boasting about a costume while you prepped for the party with Lissie and Lily. Your eyes peruse the room, but the lighting is too dark and vague for you to make out anything you haven’t already seen.

“Oh. Charles?” Pierre’s voice lilts higher. “Um. Yeaaah. Um.”

You, however, are sufficiently distracted by your own search for him, and you fail to notice Pierre’s clear scrambling attempt to stall you. He takes a long swig of beer and clears his throat. “He’s just, well, around. I should actually—excuse me, I need to actually go look for him. I owe him a drink.”

“Oh? Oh, okay. Well—be careful?”

You’re a bit surprised by his sudden, jolted departure, but bid him a rushed goodbye anyway. He waves back vaguely, his eyebrows furrowed into an expression of worry as he shoves his way back into the crowd and toward the area littered with tables. It’s only then that Lissie surfaces from the crowd, scratching absently at her nose as she crashes into you with a floaty giggle.

“Lis, you’re all sticky.” You place two palms flat against her shoulders and push her off. “Are you high?” 

“Yes but not drunk.” She giggles again, eyes fluttering.

“Oh—that’s not. Whatever, I guess.” You exhale and cross your arms over your chest. “Who’ve you been with?” She listens, plays with the braid in her hair, matching her getup as Lara Croft. 

“Um, the deejay. I gave him my number, but he’s actually pretty fucking weird. Come on, I want to pee.” As always, her speech quickens to something inhuman, an effect elicited by alcohol; giving you essentially zero time to react, she loops a hand around yours and drags you with ferocity to the nearest restroom. She moves so aggressively through the thickly-packed crowd you barely have time to react or say hi to people you’re acquainted with en route.

You whiz by the door, and in the rush, you notice Pierre entering the one adjacent with a worried expression etched onto his face. Just minutes ago you’d been conversing—you wonder why he’s suddenly become privy to worries.

“So the deejay,” says Lissie, effectively distracting you for the time being. You hum to signify you’re listening, fixing bits of your outfit in the mirror as she kicks different stalls open to judge their cleanliness. “One, he was dressed up as James Bond. Which is just about the most fucking pretentious thing ever. Two, all he played was Chainsmokers. You’re telling me this pub—club—whatever—in Mexico could only afford to commission this guy? Three, he was”—she kicks the last door open and a gasp escapes her and morphs into a semi-shriek—“a ghost?!”

“Ghosted you? Already?” Your eyes, focused previously on re-lining your lips, flits to Lissie’s in the reflection. She’s distracted, staring at the contents of a stall with comically wide eyes. “What’s up? S’that a fucking glory hole or something?”

“No!” She yells when you approach, immediately lunging forward to pull it shut. “No. It’s—I saw a roach. Serves us for going to a fucking… pub. Don’t go in there, it’s…” She exhales a long breath. “It was a mama roach and… with eggs.”

“What are you talking about?” This isn’t even a pub, it’s a nightclub—one with a door fee that definitely did not warrant rogue cockroaches in the water closet. “Lis, you’re drunk-hallucinating.” You’re not even sure if that’s a thing, but you shove past her and push the stall door open again, ready to come face-to-face with, maybe, a sleeping Tinkerbell or a puking black cat. Worst case scenario, shit on the floor; worst-er case scenario, Lissie is right and you’ve stepped into a den of roaches.

Weirdest case scenario, though, if that’s an actual thing: Charles Leclerc seated on the closed toilet seat, face painted white, wearing an all-white ensemble of a large white shirt, shorts, high socks, and sneakers. He’s got two hands on either side of the wall, as if he’d been preparing to escape; how or to where, you’re clueless. Why he’s here, you’re even more stumped.

His entire face is a stark white, with black smudges of face paint on his forehead (eyebrows, you’re guessing); his hair’s been curled by the humid air at this club, and he looks like himself in all the ways he totally does not, eyes big and caught when yours click onto them. 

Despite confusion, you chalk it up, as one would rationally do at a party, to intoxication. You spend a few bated breaths staring at him staring at you, his face of pure shock and embarrassment enough to sober up a drunk for a few days. “Hi.” You can hear yourself say it, but you’re so caught off-guard and full of confusion it feels alien.

“Hey,” he says, wiping four fingers over his stubborn face paint with a smile. The smile and the paint barely fade. “I’m a ghost.”

“I see. Classic.” You pause. “I’m Chr�� nevermind. Um—are you okay?”

“A bit, uh—a tad bit drunk. I seem to be in the ladies’ room.”

“Yeah, you seem to be,” you recite back to him, amusement quickly overtaking confusion. “I think Pierre was looking for you. Let me go get him. Lis, make sure he doesn’t…” You gesture a puking movement, and the pair watch and listen to your shoes click against the tile, before the door swings open and then shut again.

“Coast is clear.” Lissie’s voice has been lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. “I reckon everyone you know is already looking for you?”

“This is a disaster.” He rubs frantically at the face paint, but it’s horribly futile. “You know, I didn’t even realize I was in the ladies’ room until you two came in. She cannot see me like this.”

“She already fucking has, mate.” Lissie sounds exasperated. “Whose idea was this? If you say Pierre I swe—”

“—Pierre—”

“—ar to Jesus fucking Christ, Charles—I can’t keep saving you from Pierre’s antics.” She grumbles out a sigh. “What are you supposed to be, even? Have you—did you see how hot she looks? This is like… you look like a… I can’t—” She lets herself taper off, so disbelievingly shocked at his odd costume.

“I’m Casper the Ghost!” Lissie mentally forms a crude picture of the kid ghost, which looks absolutely nothing like what’s in front of her. “Casper was opposite Christina Ricci. Pierre told me so.”

“That’s the dumbest analogy ever, holy Christ. You look like a poster child for some…” She regards him for a moment. “Anemia advert.”

“Take that back.”

“You don’t really have the upper hand here, Charles,” says Lissie with a grimace. “I’m texting Pierre. Are you—did you even get drunk?”

“No,” he woes. “I am totally sober. I had to lie. Pierre went to the table and told me that my—that the costume we planned—it was wrong, and I just—I ran to the bathroom.” Lissie can’t help but laugh at the story, raising her camera to record the incriminating evidence.

Mid-video, Charles’ white face droops and his painted lips part to ask: “You think she found me cute?”

—

Charles likes finding things about you. He supposes the first time he realized just how much he liked hearing you talk about yourself—which you rarely did—happened in São Paulo. He’d been stressing over a spiel to recite in front of a camera, rewriting over words for hours to make everything sound more natural.

Each margin had been hastily written on with pencil, run-on sentences with semicolons in the place of periods. The team scriptwriter didn’t do much to make his lines sound more natural and less like they’d just been spat out of an online translator. You peeked into the media pen and coughed. You don’t belong here, do you?

Tch, he clicked his tongue, turning to offer a smile. I’m working on a script for Sunday. Portugese stuff.

I can help, you responded, walking slowly over toward him. You smiled quietly, approaching slowly like you were waiting for him to greenlight your offer. He did so by pulling a chair out for you, and once you sat you traced a nail over each line, murmuring them under your breath.

You speak Portugese?

You looked up and gave a half-shrug, laughing like you were amused with yourself. Kind of. It’s not very good, but it’s enough. You resumed your editing and he felt content to stare, admire, watch every movement of your lips align with the syllables of the words. You asked for a pencil and began writing something much cleaner. He couldn’t help but let himself be in awe of your intelligence.

You read over the last few lines and turned to face him. Let me guess, you said. You want to make a pun on Ferrari before you say bye.

Ah, he laughs. Yeah.

See, I know you so well, you half-joked, scrawling idle edits on the margins of his script.

He was already looking at you when you turned back to him, seeking his response, agreement, anything. When your eyes met, something caught at your chest—it tugged, tugged, then tugged again, a dull feeling burrowed deep in you. Words failed to wrench themselves free, but once they did, all you could manage was a faint—What?

Nothing. He smiled and shook his head, like he was waiting for you to figure it out. You know… sometimes, I wish I met you sooner. He does. He wishes he knew you back then, when you first learned Portugese. Or when you were in high school, so you could see just how exponentially awkward he was in his own teenage years. He thinks sometimes that he’s lost too much time, met and liked you too late.

Hm, you breathed out, because you didn't know what else to. I know why—so you could always have me. As a proofreader. Right?

Hah. The tilt of his laugh was high and mocking, and he stuck his tongue out, as if to punctuate that. He looked away then, like he wasn’t ready to say certain things to your face just yet. Quietly he added, Always have you… something like that.

—

If you ask Charles what he’s doing hiding in a laundry basket of a luxury hotel in São Paulo, he wouldn’t be able to answer you, either. It’s been some time since the disaster that was Caspergate Cancun 2023, and if he’s perfectly honest, he doesn’t feel like facing you again for the rest of his life. Pierre, of course, has other plans. 

All he knows is last night, Pierre suggested he leave a huge vase of roses for you to arrive to in the living room of your hotel; as he planted it in said room, the door’s lock turned, and he sought a hiding place in the adjacent bedroom. Judging by the prevalent scent of Dior Sauvage, this is Lando Norris’ room.

Did u get to escape??? Pierre’s text irritates him. At the same time, the light flips on; Charles curls in on himself, remaining perfectly still. Lando’s voice trills through the room. “I didn’t leave those roses for either of you,” he’s saying to you and Lissie.

Charles hears you hum. “They’re so beautiful.” His heart swells. “I gotta run for a sec, pick up something from Will’s room.” A few seconds pass and the door opens and shuts, which means Charles is currently alone with Lando and Lissie. Which means he needs to plot his escape as soon as he can. Otherwise he’ll be caught in the crossfire and much too embarrassed to—

A foot meets his concealed body and he lets out an oof! as he’s sent flying out of the hamper, along with strewn-around clothes. He keeps his eyes screwed shut, scared shitless and in a fetal position; he only unfurls when a socked foot kicks at his ass. Above him are Lando and Lissie, both extremely confused. 

“How did you know I was…?!” He asks, aghast.

“My fucking laundry was breathing, mate, s’not that hard to leave alone,” Lando retorts sharply. “What are you doing?!”

“I left roses for her,” he explains fruitlessly, gesturing to the vase outside. “But you came in, and this was the closest hiding place. I was told this would be a great gesture.”

“Right. Where did you even get that advice?” Lando tries to suppress the critical tone in his voice, but judging by Charles’ embarrassed grimace, he’s failed. Beside him, Lissie makes a hm? noise, goading Charles to answer quicker.

“I got it from.” Charles pauses. “A friend,” he ekes out vaguely.

“No shit. Who?”

“Um—” Charles’ eyes are shut. “Pierre.”

In unison, Lissie and Lando both release incredulous gasps, throwing their hands up in the air. Lissie points at the mess of clothes in the corner of the room to emphasize her point and asks loudly, with comical cynicism: “This seemed like proper romantic advice to you?”

“Scratch that. Pierre’s words seemed like proper romantic advice to you? His girlfriend is—!” Lando places a flat palm a few inches off the floor and shakes it a few times to insinuate Kika’s age, his disbelieving expression growing funnier by the second. “Mate!” His voice cracks mid-syllable, though even this mishap seems to be the least crazy thing about tonight.

Charles, burning with humiliation, releases a shaky sigh. “I know! I know!”

“You don’t know!” They shout simultaneously in response, disappointed if anything. Just then the door opens again and your two best friends hurry to throw assorted pieces of laundry on the lying Charles, exiting to make sure you don’t suspect anything. 

“Hey,” you say slowly, because they’re both posed the exact same. “Am I… missing something?”

“A shower, girl,” Lando says, and you flip him off before retreating into your room.

Belatedly you ask, “Did you find out who sent those flowers?”

“Some loser, probably,” he calls right back. Charles emerges to poke him accusatorily, but Lando just shrugs. Charles definitely does not have the upper hand here, anyway. 

“Just get out,” Lissie says, completely done with Charles’ antics. “And stop. Listening. To Pierre.” 

He rinses the odor of laundry off him once he’s at his room, but thinks, despite himself, that you called the flowers beautiful.

—

Are you—

—no. I’m not. You wiped a hand over your face and caught mascara along with it. I’m fine, it’s fine.

What he said, it wasn’t…

I said, you turned to face him, eyes rimmed and mouth trembling. You didn’t finish your sentence, just tore the microphone off your lapel and buried your face in your hands. There was always going to be a first time. Your first time insulted on a live feed, after the Abu Dhabi weekend, was not any less shocking. You felt small. You felt humiliated.

You didn’t want to show Charles any of it. You moved around the green room, picking up shit to throw into your bag. Thank God the season was fucking over, you kept thinking. I feel so, you said, still failing to finish anything you started to say. You’d been called an annoying bitch by a fan of one of the drivers—to your face, as you exited the paddock.

He moved nearer. Charles, you said, a half-sob, and then you were allowing him to crash, allowing him to hug you. Your arms were weak when they wrapped back around him, linking softly in the small of his back. You sobbed hard into his chest until his grey tee was dark with tears. I want out, I just want out.

You’ll lord your career over that prick when you’ve made a million dollars doing this, he said. You do it too well to want out. You’re too smart. You’re too good. You cried harder, your face hurt and every word felt wrestled unintentionally, like it took too much work to say much at all. I’m sorry, you said. You should go. 

No, he said. He held you closer. Not until you feel better.

—

He cries after Abu Dhabi. Bad season, everyone’s said. You snap a few smiling pictures with Max, who wins, and Lily and Lissie and the lot of them, the people who made the year so great. You notice an absence in all the pictures and you find it in a room in the Ferrari motorhome.

You’ve found you both find solace in words. In reassurance. But you’ve also found that your connection enables you both to reassure without having to say anything at all. You sit beside him, lean your head on his shaky shoulder, and wait.

“I was waiting for you to come,” he admits brokenly. “I was just not feeling good.”

“I know,” you respond. “It was a bad race. Shit strat.”

He’s quiet. His breaths are ragged and wet and shaky. “Will you stay? Until I feel better?”

You don’t move. “I’ll stay for longer.”

—

In the kitchen Charles unscrews himself a beer. The sky outside is pink and the sun hides behind faraway mountains, gradually darkening the entire atmosphere, save for the few woolly clouds. He’s by the patio door so he can spot people in the wide yard: Pierre, exchanging a Frisbee with Lando. Max, Alex, and Lissie engaged in an intense match of Uno.

They’re all gathered here in Spain at Carlos’ behest to celebrate the dawn of winter, and the end of the season, Max’s third championship.

He’s yet to spot you—he’d been told earlier you’d be late—but it doesn’t matter. He’s been feeling uncharacteristically himself all day anyway. He wrote that on his notebook this morning, on the flight here, verbatim. Looked up the word to spell it right and everything. He remembers you saying it, that time in London where you and Lando took him around and annihilated Borough Market before lounging on the grassy knoll of a nearby park. I feel so uncharacteristically happy, you’d joked. The syllables were too stunted and too fast for Charles to nail it. But he feels it now. Uncharacteristic.

He tells everyone he’s fine, though, and does a good job of it. Three beers in and he’s beginning to trick himself into thinking he actually is doing fine. Nobody suspects he’s been feeling empty from such a bad finish to the season—the season that was already bad in itself. He hasn’t been feeling his usual drive, his usual appetite. He doesn’t know when it will return.

“Here you are.” Carlos has this goofy smile on his face when he bounds into the kitchen, depositing empty dishes at the sink. “Listen, I have to tell you something.”

Charles and Carlos have always shared an easy dynamic—they’ve both always wanted the same thing. Racing has always been at the forefront of their minds. It makes conversation passionate, easy, fun; it was what helped build their now-natural rapport in the first place. “Yeah?” He prods, leaning against the counter and tipping fizz into his mouth.

“I invited everyone here to announce… something important.” Carlos crosses his arms. “But I wanted you to be the first to know.”

“Me?” Charles knits his eyebrows and smiles. “Wow.” He gulps, cocks his head. “What is it, then? Are you switching teams?”

Carlos’ goofy smile grows. “Isa and I are engaged. I’m retiring next year.”

“You—you’re—” Charles laughs and shuts his eyes all at once. “Oh, my God, mate! Congratulations!” The overload of information isn’t lost on him, but he channels it all into a hug. “Are you really retiring, though? I mean. Wow, this is amazing news—but—”

“I was sure as soon as I asked,” Carlos says squarely, smiling as if he’s conjured an image of Isa’s smiling face (which is likely the case). “As soon as she said yes. As soon as I bought the ring!” He laughs aloud, so overwhelmed with happiness of recalling everything. “I’m so glad you were the first person I told.”

“Besides Lando,” Charles says, because he knows it’s true.

“Besides Lando.” Carlos smiles. “I’m… dios, I’m happy. I always knew I’d have something to look forward to after racing.” They hug again, and then he clambers past Charles and into the patio, where he resumes the façade of being unengaged and still a driver. Left behind, Charles thinks over it himself. What does he have to look forward to after racing? All his life, racing is all that ever existed to him. 

The announcement comes eventually—when it’s dark out, intermittent stars white and twinkly against the black above. Charles has once again turned into a blushy mess because you arrived a few hours prior, wearing a lovely dress and with your hair down in messy waves and you said hi to him earlier without him approaching first. They present a stupid, but very Carlos-and-Isa ring-shaped cake to announce it, and somebody queues up music and everyone’s cheering. Of course everyone’s cheering—it’d be impossible for this announcement to not come with bouts of yelling and cheering and goodbyes to Carlos, who accepts them with glee and—dare he say—excitement.

Charles remembers their first year as teammates, the jokes they’d made about needing to beat the other out. For both of them, he recalls, it’s only ever been the drive to race. He didn’t think Carlos would even entertain the idea of retiring yet. He wonders when he will. The thought of it alone is enough to send a well of anxiety run deep into him—which happens after he congratulates the couple, so he excuses himself to the empty outdoors area to get fresh air back into him.

He didn’t mean it, but he finds you already there. “Hi,” you say when he slides the door shut. “You okay?”

“Just… yeah, I’m fine.” You smell faintly like smoke. “It’s crazy, huh. Everyone’s… moving on.”

“So Carlos told everyone, then,” you say, pursing your lips and waiting for his response. He closes his eyes and lets a soft exhale escape him, warm air out and fresh air in, a welcome change from the heady atmosphere in the party. “I knew. I bought that God awful cake. I kept saying get a normal one but they both wanted it to be shaped like a ring.” You punctuate your sentence with a crisp laugh, a stunted exhale of air to break the tension.

You have a natural sway over words, graceful and beautiful and commanding, something he only wishes he could be. For so long he’d been told the feedback loop of one and the same thing: you’re good. You’re the best. You’re going to be the next big thing. And this season had just… aggravated every single insecurity he’s picked up in his years of racing. He wishes sometimes he’d been told something else: you suck. You’re normal. You’re irrelevant. Then at least he wouldn’t exist in some odd panopticon of feeling on top of the world and yet looking at it from the bottom of a pitch black abyss.

“Yeah,” he says instead, wringing his hands. He mimics the wrist movements he’s made to do during gym hours. “It’s wild how—I mean, not really wild, but. I just can’t… even picture my life after racing.”

“You’re young, that’s warranted,” you laugh. “You’re also… I mean, even if you drop out of racing tonight, it’s not like you’re going to become dirt poor or anything. You could become a bloody orthodontist and people will still love you.”

“Will they?”

He didn’t mean to say it aloud but out it comes, garbled and rushed and he’s a bit embarrassed for sounding like a child in front of somebody he finds so beautiful. The silence is suspended and dry, and for a minute all he hears and feels is the slow rise and fall of his chest. To somehow mend the vulnerability, he tries again. “It’s not—I just think I’ll be lonely if I decide to stop racing.”

The fact that Carlos can say with so much ease that he’s willing to drop his career to ensure his pending marriage lasts is almost terrifying, because Charles knows he wants that. He knows—he’s always known—that he wants that intimacy, that realness, but for it to come at the cost of something he’s known for so long is so scary it’s almost a dealbreaker.

“Lonely?” You echo, voice tinged with concern. “Charles—”

“Lonely.”

He says it with an edge to his voice, so final, so steadfast. Loneliness is what he’s always feared and he knows, with a deep drawling punch to his gut, that loneliness is what will come if he decides to stop racing. Even if he’s tired. Even if he’s so pent up with frustration and loss and anger. Racing is all he’s ever known, it’s all he is—when he’s not tied to it, who is he? “Like no one… like I’m just standing in front of what I’m supposed to be, and when people see me, that’s all they see—what’s behind me. Right through me.”

“Well, you’re off racing right now,” you respond, trodding carefully. “So, well. Do you feel that way?”

He knows what you mean: it’s winter break, so he’s not driving or doing some form of it every single day. And he knows in turn what to answer: no, not really, he doesn’t really feel detached from it because there’s a low anticipation in his belly that tells him he’ll be doing it all again soon. But he chooses to interpret it differently; differently, but not falsely.

“I th… I don’t feel lonely,” he says, “when I talk to you. You see me.” 

Your stomach drops and your heart begins to pulse a mile a minute, knuckles tightening where they’ve gripped onto the wooden post of the patio. You can feel the air in your lungs pass through every divot of your body as it escapes and arrives in long, shaky breaths. He’s looking at you, his eyebrows knitted like he wants—needs an answer, if you’d be kind enough to please give him one. 

“I…” You bite your lip, every thought in your head at odds with the other.

Time feels like rubber, like it’s been stretched and manipulated and Carlos is ducking out to announce that it’s time to blow out candles on the stupid ring-shaped cake and you’ve taken too long to respond and your body feels too heavy but your heart feels too light and your eyes are blinking, open and shut and open again, and you feel like the wind could honestly blow you away now because Charles has given you a neutral nod and left you alone again, to contemplate the weight of what he’s finally, finally admitted, tonight here under the sky of Spain.

You move a hand over your hair, watch him walk away. The words lodge themselves in your throat, but they’re there.

—

One minute after  you realized you liked Charles, you swallowed the feelings until they were barely decipherable.

In happened in Dublin, at a pub on St. Paddy’s Day, when you’d emerged fresh out of a breakup with the most arseholic Irishman you’d ever had the displeasure of meeting. And funnily enough, it happened without Charles’ presence. You’d spent the day at Liam’s, hours of fighting over so many things—the growth of your career and the decimation of his, where your relationship had soured, why you never came to visit him, Charles, the sodding bloke you like so much—until finally, you took your things and left.

Wise, because you might’ve honestly gone insane if you stayed a minute longer, attuning your ears to the deafening feedback loop of his voice. Also decidedly unwise, because you had a piece of luggage and barely any battery, in a full city of people you didn’t know at all.

There was no chance Liam would let you return, and no chance you wanted to, for that matter—the fact still stood, though, that you needed to kill the night before your flight to France left at 6AM. You entered the first pub you heard, deposited your bag at the coat check for an extra couple of euros, and accepted the first pint thrust into your hand and first leprechaun hat plopped atop your head.

In between watching people compare how they poured Guinness pints, Sinead O’Connor songs, and exchanging headdresses with a random stranger, you found yourself impressingly drunk. The Irish did it too well.

A university student stumbled past your stool, tears in her eyes; she stopped to steal a shot of whiskey lying unattended on the bar. You looped a hand around her wrist and stared at her menacingly. Manners?!

Fuck manners, she said wetly, wrenching every word out with great effort. Nobody paid either of you any attention. I just caught my best friend and boyfriend kissing. Her accent was unmistakably Irish and was stronger with the tears.

Oh, you said, loosening your threatening grip. Sorry.

Don’t be. I’m sorry I could ever be so stupid, she said, aghast, before finally stalking outside the pub. Half an hour later, you wound up at a table of thirty-somethings, all belting along to a folky sounding song.

Drunkenly you slurred out, I thought it was a stereotype.

What was, love? One of them paused her singing, dipping down to listen to you properly. Your cheek was smushed against the varnished wood, moving with every syllable you eked out.

The songs. You sound like… you belong in the 19th century.

She laughed at that, surfacing and yelling something to the band onstage you couldn’t quite decipher. The song reached its peak, loud and getting the whole crowd singing along, before fading into a familiar opening. S’this better? She asked, her voice slightly raised above the guitar.

You looked up. I liked the other one too, to be fair. M’not a fucking anti-Irish.

Nobody said that, love. Come sing. She hauled you upward, exaggerating her arm swinging in the air so you’d follow suit, which you did. You hummed the opening, eyes fluttering open and closed. You imagined opening them again and finding Charles across the room, already looking, with the same charming, boyish smile on his face that came to you as comfort.

You thought back to the dinner in London, the feeling of his shirt against your shoulder, the way he’d gotten you so easy and laughing and babbly, something you never got with Liam. You squeezed your eyes shut and exhaled raggedly. Fuck.

Linger’ll do that to you, your companion mused. Around you, the entire pub sang along to the song that served as the backdrop to your all-encompassing romantic epiphany. Missing a lover, huh?

No, just… You opened your eyes, watched the band sing out the rest of the prechorus before they slid into the next verse. A new kind of air had crept over the pub, one that exemplified just how much this song could mean to anyone, no matter who. You shut them again and saw Charles. The green of his eyes, mossy on some days and bright on others. The moles on his face. The grooves of his hand, the way it wrapped around things like pens, mics, bottles, your fingers. His voice, how he curved around words. He always knew exactly what you meant even if it took you ages to get to the point, even if you felt like you didn’t know what you meant exactly. 

You opened your eyes. Suddenly fights with Liam didn’t matter. Whatever little sympathy you had left evaporated as you listened to the lyrics and realized, with a damning force, that you were thinking of Charles. And this was not weak, this was not vague, this was a strong thing that took you off your feet like a gust of wind, hurtling you out of the pub. You thought of every time your eyes met his, both of you already laughing at something else present. Every time he saw you at the end of a busy work day and asked if you were doing alright.

Just this guy, I suppose. His name’s… yeah. We’ve been friends for ages. He’s really very talented. Very kind. Your voice was drowned out by the music but you didn’t intend for anything to be heard, anyway. And he’s the smartest person I’ve ever met. He always knows what to say. He’s not in Dublin tonight, not even in Ireland, for God’s sake. 

He’s your boyfriend, then?

You closed them slowly. No. T’wouldn’t be very smart to date him.

Is he an arse?

No either. It’s just too late.

I’m sorry, love.

Don’t be, you mused, eyes still shut as Linger came to a close. I’m sorry I could ever be so stupid.

—

Charles should be in Monaco. You should be in London. But at four-thirty PM, leaning against the counter of a tiny café in Dublin, you cross paths for the first time in weeks, and everything tilts on its axis.

He notices you first, because he hears you thank the barista quietly. It’s not your reporter voice, not the one you put one when you’re interviewing him or his teammate or his fellow athletes. But it’s your real one, and it’s the one he thinks he could hear through a snowstorm.

A tuxedo-clad man exits and suddenly you’re there. You’re wearing a white top, low neck and thin straps covered by a cardigan. You’re sliding coins into the pocket of your jeans and he watches your hand freeze, drags his eyes back up to you, finds you’re already looking.

You look beautiful, he thinks. You put on a lot of makeup for the cameras, and you looked gorgeous, but seeing you like this—caught, almost, in a moment you didn’t expect to see him—you look unbelievably beautiful. He aches with it. 

“You look well,” he says first when he opens the café door for you. “What’s your business in Ireland?”

“Acquainting myself with my new coworker.” You wait for him to follow and squint when the sun hits your eye. “We’ve been here three weeks, fly back to London next Monday. You?”

“It does seem weird for me to be here,” he observes absently. “I needed a change of pace, I think. Gear up for the season.” He shakes his half-full cup of coffee. “Where are you staying?”

“Just up ahead.” A slow silence overcomes you both. “Come over. I have beer. I know you can’t be fucked to have coffee.” He laughs and nods, following you through the road and up into a flat—a BNB, if he’s guessing. There’s a tiny landing and then stairs to a wider living area, where you proceed to unwrap the croissant you’d gotten a few minutes earlier. You chuck it into the fridge and produce two bottles of beer in one go.

“Sit,” you gesture to the spot beside you, and he sits himself there. “We can talk. We should.”

You’ve shrugged your cardigan off, and he observes every detail of your exposed skin, the way your hair layers atop it. Right as he opens his mouth to respond, a blond girl enters, rings of mascara caking her eyes and a wine glass twiddled in-between thumbs. She’s talking her head off and only pauses when she spots Charles.

“Hhhh…iiii.”

“Salut.” 

“You’re Charles?” She notices how close the two of you are seated together.

“Yes,” he says. 

“Charles, this is Robyn—my coworker’s friend. And by extension my friend.” You pat her knee and point to Charles to get them properly introduced. “She leeches off the apartment.” 

“You love me,” she retorts, mockingly—but sweetly. “Anyway, sorry to intrude. I was just on the phone with my situationship.” She rolls her eyes. “Does he think I give two shits about goodnight texts? It feels impossible to be romantically satisfied these days.”

Charles grunts. “I hear that,” he says, just to make Robyn feel less excluded. You get up then, to fuck around at the kitchen sink—he suspects you’re not actually doing chores—but you come back with wet hands and you sit yourself across Charles, on the loveseat, instead of next to him. 

“The thing is, right,” she gulps wine, “there’s such a thing with dating now,” Robyn says, not missing a beat, her Geordie accent curving round the syllables with a distinctive twang. She stares at the opaque red liquid in her glass, like that will supplement her with more words. “Like a deal. A big deal. Everyone’s making this huge thing out of it, and it’s like, can’t we be in our twenties and fuck around occasionally?” She laughs, a high-pitched, tapered noise.

You shift from where you’re seated, buried into the material of the seat. It’s quiet and beginning to touch awkward, so you speak in a rough voice: “I dunno, I kind of… get it.”

“Oh do you, now,” she responds, voice saturated with wine. “No, it’s—I was joking. Of course you would, you’re absolutely fucking gorgeous, is all.”

Suddenly you feel all too seen and inclined to touch a fingertip to your cheek, feather light. You blink so you won’t feel tempted to meet Charles’ eyes, because you feel them on you. “It’s—thank you, I mean. It’s nothing to do with that. I just always feel it’s impossible to find someone who loves you. I feel like I’m not very lovable.”

“You? You’re bloody fucking likable!” Robyn’s laugh is so disbelieving you find yourself semi-convinced. “You’re a bit intimidating, yeah, but you’re lovable as fuck, babe.”

You double down anyway, voice thin. “Right. I don’t think I’m very good at being… affectionate.”

“Hah. Bull. You’re affectionate with… with Charles! I’ve heard you talk about him to Jane.”

She turns to Charles before you have the chance to defend yourself. To him she asks: “Is she affectionate with you?”

But it’s basically rhetorical. Everyone speculates, sees the way you two bend the line between friendship and romance, the care with which you treat Charles, the way you two understand each other in ways impossible for anyone else in your orbit. Fuck if it’s not overtly physical. Robyn’s known you three weeks and has never even met Charles until seven minutes ago and already she’s sensed the energy, the difference, even if she hasn’t seen you do so much as embrace.

“It’s—” You say and say too quickly. You wind up slowing your speech so you don’t sound too defiant and lean backwards, willing yourself to relax. “It’s… different with Charles.”

“Different?” She repeats, miming every dip and rise of your voice. “Why?”

“We’re close.” You refuse to meet his eyes. “Be—because we’re good friends. I feel… things are… just. They’re different. That’s all, really.” Barely satisfied with the answer you eked out, you cross your arms over your torso like it’ll help shield you from the interrogation going on. Briefly you let your eyes fall on Charles; he’s reclined, eyes all over the place, blinking in quick flashes.

“But you admit it, at least?” She smiles. “That you’re affectionate, I mean.”

“Only with…” you taper off, unwanting to dig yourself a deeper hole. “Right. Sure, yeah.”

“Well then,” she says, eyebrows raising as she dows the rest of her glass. She sets it down on the low wooden table with a clink. “I’ll get going. Don’t let me keep you two from shagging or whatever.”

“We don’t f—shag,” you interrupt, voice sharp. “And you’re not keeping us at all. Me, at all.”

Us sounds so exclusive, you realize as it leaves your lips. Us. It tastes like sour cherries on your tongue, bleeds all over. Robyn gives you a look. In response, you insist on seeing her out, leaving Charles at the sofa, elbows on his knees, hands toying with the neck of the beer bottle. He can make out faint words but he doesn’t try translating or deciphering them, just listens to your muffled voice peek through every few words. You sound amused, also accused, also endeared—a bit irritated. You end it with a laugh.

You clamber back in after a few minutes and find him at the top of the stairs.

“Sorry,” you wave off, rolling your eyes to fend Robyn’s earlier interrogation efforts of. “She’s very strong-willed.” You climb the stairs, your striped linen shorts folding with every movement of your legs. Finally you make it to the top, on the second-to-the-last stair, staring up at him.

“You know,” he says, watching you ascend to the top finally, but you’re still staring upward. “You should know.”

“Should know what?”

“I missed you.”

You inhale and are grateful to find the air is all him. “I missed you, too.”

“In a different way.”

“Me, too,” you echo again, voice quiet. “I missed you. It feels like I’ve missed you all my life.”

He can hear your still, controlled breathing. “Thank you for seeing me. Even when, you know, it’s… hard. You know what I mean.”

“I do,” you say. “It’s never difficult, not…” With you.

He leans down and captures your mouth in his then, like it’s a thirst he’s always needed quenched. You allow it, kiss him back like you’ve needed this your entire life. His lips are chapped, but you don’t mind—Dublin’s cold. He kisses like he’s smiling, like he’s happy, and you think maybe that’s not far off. He moves downward, to your jaw; lower, along the column of your throat, around your collarbones, cornering you against the wall, letting you lean against it.

Charles’ kisses are light and soft, but also heavy, like he’s trying to waste as little time as possible. You sigh, feeling light, feeling ecstatic. He puts two hands on either side of your face, presses your foreheads together, and shuts his eyes. 

You feel the divots of his fingers on your hip, your waist, places he’s never touched before. “I’m sorry I left,” you breathe into him. “Back in Spain. In Madrid. I wanted to think about it. About what you said. About everything, about you.”

“I’m glad I found you here, then.”

You tiptoe to kiss him again, because now that you’ve had it once you’re terrified you won’t have it again. In-between kisses he picks you up, cages you fully against the wall, and you breathe shaky little exhales. It builds up quicker and harder; you feel his cock at your hip and shiver, eyelashes fluttering. “Upstairs,” you say breathlessly.

He likes knowing you want this, because he’ll give you whatever you want. He’d fuck you for hours. Have you shaking, eking out moans of his name. He’d whisper praise up and down your ear. He wants this just as much, if not more.

“I want you, so much,” you exhale when he lies you both down on your bed. “So much.”

He tugs your shorts off, then your panties. He doesn’t usually lack self-restraint, but he thinks he’s never felt this much temptation in his life. He’s so hard. He brings one hand to his thigh and squeezes his dick through his pants, but it doesn’t provide him with any kind of relief. You’re needy already, whimpering, mind dizzy. He slides a finger up your slit and watches you screw your eyes shut.

Slowly he sinks in, watches you accustom to the stretch. “Wanted this,” you breathe out.

He thrusts in further, feels your warm cunt stretch around him, feels your breaths get hotter and quicker against his lips. But he takes it nice and slow, so he can feel every little ridge inside of you as you take all of him. “You like it?”

You nod, too dumbed down to speak. “Good girl. Pretty, pretty girl.”

He’s wanted this for so long, fucking you deep and slow and desperate. He thrusts harder, watches you unravel and your hot breaths pick up in pace. He reaches down, smears wetness around your clit as your thighs begin to shake. Your pretty, flushed face is enough to send him into overdrive, your eyes rolling back as he goads you into orgasm.

You’re still cumming around him when he takes a shaky breath, pulls you tightly back against him, and lets the pleasure take over. He fucks you full, rides his orgasm out while you ride yours out—buries his dick all the way inside, so each spurt fills your contracting pussy up.

He pulls out and collapses beside you, pressing his lips to your shoulder before lying on his back. “I’ll clean you up in a minute.” It’s quiet for a second, just you two breathing.

Then: “I did, I did think about it,” you say, voice reedy. “I thought about you.”

“Yeah?” He watches you blink at the ceiling, lets you clasp your hands onto his.

“About me, too.” You open your eyes and stare into the green.

“D’you want this?”

“Believe me,” you say, threading your fingers into his tightly. Your hair’s fussed from the sex. “I do. But—”

His heart drops.

“I don’t want to… I want you to not…” You sigh. “You know, I like seeing you. I like being that. I like knowing I make you feel good. And I want you to know you… you make me feel amazing. Like you and I… we understand each other.” You pause. “Sometimes I feel like you’re the only person who understands every inch of me.”

“Ditto,” he says, and you smile.

“I look up to you, you know? I don’t want you to anchor yourself onto me. I want you to realize that on your own. You’re smart. You’re a great driver with a shitty fucking team I hated reporting on last season.” He laughs shakily. “You know I look up to you. You know… you know I love you.”

“I do. I love you.”

“I always have. It wasn’t… it didn’t always make itself clear, but I always have. And I know I always will.” You smile. “We’ll be in different cities, in separate timezones, but if we survived the years of not telling each other how bloody fucking much we liked each other, this is nothing. When we’ve sorted ourselves out, we’ll know the right time to finally call this what it is.”

He’s never thought of himself as a writer, but his notebooks might beg to differ. Many times you’ve told him yourself that he has an affinity for describing things, especially when he lets go of language as a limitation. He wonders what you’d say if you knew the amount of times he’s tried to write about you. Careful letters or typefaces, in an effort to form a coherent picture of you, the way he sees you, the way he loves you. But he’s so scared he tears the pages off before they get too intimate, too personal, crossing the border from having a crush on you to being in love with you.

For once he’s not. He nods. It’s bittersweet, but it’s a segue to a better ending. He moves a hand over your hair and holds you close.

“You could never be unlovable,” he says, pressing a kiss to your forehead because finally, he can. “I mean it.”

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

[minty364]

DPXDC Prompt #58 Part 1

His parents studied ghosts. Danny didn’t understand as a kid why everyone made fun of his parents. Now that he was 12, the thought was ludicrous and yet his parents continued their work on the portal. Danny had his sister Jazz though and the siblings were rather close. 

Jazz had spent a lot of time studying lately stating that she wanted to get into a good college. Danny understood he did, but being alone sucked and he couldn’t help it as he sighed kicking a pebble down the sidewalk. 

It was a nice hot summer day, the kind of day you’d want to spend at the beach or a pool. Danny however had other ideas. He was on the way to the local library. If Jazz was going to spend her summer studying for the ACTs then Danny was going to study what he wanted, Space. He quickly found a few books and got settled into a chair as he read. Space really was fascinating, he hoped one day his dream of becoming an astronaut would come true. 

An hour or so passed before Danny was interrupted, “what are you reading?” The voice started Danny out of his trance as he looked up at his interrupter. A boy about the same age as Danny with the same black hair and blue eyes that Danny had. His skin was more tan than Danny’s own pale white. 

Danny fidgeted in his seat for a moment before answering, “Astronomy: guide to the stars” Sure, Danny knew the text was college level but he already read all the ones for high and middle school. 

Damian seemed to hum thoughtfully with a hand on his chin before speaking again, “the book you're reading seems advanced, you seem smarter than your age would dictate. Father has requested that I visit the library and try to ‘make a friend or two’ in his words. I don’t see the need for companionship but if I must I’d rather it be with someone intelligent. My name is Damian.” It was a bit much but Danny guessed from what Damian said that he was complementing Danny. 

“Uh, Danny… I guess most of the people in my family are pretty smart.” He replied after a moment. 

Danny thought it was odd that someone wanted to be friends with him. Everyone at the public elementary school he went to knew who his parents were so they wanted nothing to do with him. It was lonely but Danny didn’t mind it too much, but Damian didn’t act like he knew Danny’s Parents. The thought of having a friend that didn’t judge him for who his parents were made Danny a little excited. 

“What occupation do your parents have?” It was a simple question with a not so simple answer. 

Oh, Danny’s heart stuttered a little bit at the thought of Damian knowing anything about. He didn’t want to lie, especially to his new friend but he didn’t want to tell him the truth. 

“Uh, they’re scientists but I don’t really know what they do…” Danny said carefully and slowly. He was sure Damian bought it. 

The two spent the next couple hours just talking in the library. It had started to get late and Damian needed to head back home. 

“Do you own your own phone?” Damian asked, it wasn’t uncommon, for most kids in his class had a cheap hand me down phone for emergencies. Danny unfortunately didn’t as his parents probably didn’t care where he was.

Danny shrugged, “not really, I could borrow my sisters but it really only gets used for emergencies.” 

Damian seemed to frown at this thinking for a moment before nodding as if he came to a conclusion, “my brother Todd has mentioned that it’s hard for low income houses to afford something I’d consider a necessity in this city. You do know how high the crime rate is, yes?” Danny nodded but he didn’t know what that had to do with having a phone Damian cleared his throat before continuing, “as you are now my friend I’d like to offer to purchase one for you.”

Danny hadn’t owned anything like a phone before, “a-are you sure? I don’t really need one, my parents don’t really… care?” He felt uncomfortable with his new friend spending money on him, Damian seemed like an important person especially with the clothes he wore and how he carried himself. Danny felt like he’d be taking advantage of his new friend if he bought Danny a phone. Danny closed the book he was holding and took a breath before speaking again, “I appreciate the offer but I wouldn’t have anything to offer you in return.” He let his gaze fall to the cover of the book, a swirling galaxy on a black background and bold yellow text. 

“I would not have offered it if I wasn’t sure.” Damian stated firmly causing Danny’s head to snap back up, “I do not need anything in return, however if you really intend to pay me back, Father has insisted that I bring a friend home sometime. Since we have established that we are friends I insist that you come visit every so often to, as Richard puts it ‘get him off my back’.” It sounded like a simple request but Danny was unsure. If Damian was someone important then his family was bound to be even more important. 

He took a moment to think about it, but Jazz would be happy Danny finally made a friend…

“Alright, I accept,�� Danny said as they shook hands. It might have been a little childish but he could tell he made some sort of bond with Damian. 

After that they had quickly become friends. Once Danny had become accustomed to being in the Wayne house he basically became family, and was often visiting, especially to eat Mr. Pennyworths cooking. Mr. Wayne also seemed fond of Danny, he even offered to pay for Danny to go to Gotham Academy along with Damian. Danny had been hesitant at first but Damian quickly wore him down. Tim eventually wormed his way into the group as he and Danny bonded over the latest video game releases. Soon Jazz got roped into the group too as she started to visit the manor to get away from how noisy the lab got. 

A couple years had passed since the day that started the road to their friendship and the four of them had really bonded since then. Unfortunately their parents had finished the portal and its here where things go downhill for Danny.

In the next one Danny dies and all 4 of them are deeply traumatized.

Damian saw his dad doing research on the Fenton family, Bruce is just looking out for potential rouges and Damian took the opportunity to become friends with Danny. He figured that he could just bribe Danny into being his friend like all the kids at his school try but Danny is a lil cinnamon roll. Taken aback from how sweet Danny is Damian decided that Danny really was smart and worth being a friend. Tim has the same thoughts especially as Danny starts visiting the mansion more. Jazz loved that Danny had a spot to go where people seemed to actually care about him and she eventually gets dragged into the group. You can only drop off your brother at the Wayne’s so often before you get dragged into the group as well and I thought Tim and Jazz can be the same age and can bond over being older siblings.

#dp x dc prompt #danny fenton #danny phantom #dp x dc #dc x dp #writing prompt #poor danny #Danny and Damian became friends #Tim and Jazz eventually become friends and join #Danny is a cinnamon roll #bad parents jack and maddie #Whole lot of exposition #I this is what happens when I take my time to write #Jazz is an amazing older sister #my asks are open #all my prompts are free to use

[starlazergazer]

It’s Not Too Late

Pairing: Anakin x Reader

Request: Anakin gets a second chance to have true freedom and peace! Reader comes across Darth Vader for the first time after order 66 and attempts to pull Anakin back on the right path.

Warnings: None, some angst

Word count: 3k

A/N: Only in this one very instance can you fix him! I know the request asks for fluffy but I made this super angsty instead with some fighting banter between Anakin and the reader so I hope you like it because I loved writing it!

You’d heard the whispers, how could you not, though no one was ever brave enough to tell you them to your face. Not that you blamed them. That your best friend Anakin Skywalker could be the famous Darth Vader, Palpatine’s personal padawan, was so ludicrous, so ridiculous, you wouldn’t have let anyone utter the accusation in your presence leave unscathed.

And yet still a part of you knew.

The day it happened, the exact moment it happened, you could feel it. More than a disturbance in the force, more than a breaking of prophecy: a betrayal, a very personal very painful betrayal.

But still looking up at the man you had thought you once knew from your position chained on the floor you felt the last part of your hope die, unaware even that that hope had existed in the first place.

“I didn’t want to believe the rumors” you shook your head at him, eyes bouncing back and forth between those familiar but very different blue ones.

“And here I thought you’d be happy to see me” a smirk grew over his lips as he looked down at you. And somehow those words hurt worse than seeing him walk around with such authority through the empire’s army, more than seeing a new infamously red saber strapped to his hip.

“You’ve changed” you shook your head back up at him, feeling the lump grow in the base of your throat with each passing minute “You are not the Anakin I knew”

“I am exactly the Anakin you knew” he chuckled back at you, crossing his arms over his chest as he sat down calmly in the chair before you, causally crossing one leg over the other “Just finally lived up to my full potential”

And you didn’t know how to respond to that, to his complete acceptance, even beyond that his full belief that he was being aided by the dark side of the force, that it was somehow making him better, stronger. “What do you want?”

“Your base” he answered plainly, leaving forward in his seat to rest his elbows on his knees staring down at you “the rebel base, I want coordinates”

“What makes you think I have them?” You asked with a shrug, watching the smug smile slowly fade from his face.

“Don’t play dumb it was never a good look on you”

You felt your own anger spike within you as his did. He clearly didn’t know you that well if he thought you would give it up this easy. “What happened to being the chosen one?” You taunted him, turning to pressing his buttons on purpose, proving even if just to yourself that at least you knew him “you were supposed to-“

“-bring balance to the force yes I’ve heard it all before” and oh how you relished the anger in his tone, in the way the words hissed out through a clenched jaw, the way his eyes narrowed down at you ever so slightly, you’d always enjoyed messing with angry Anakin “answer the question”

“I’m just saying if you wanna talk about playing dumb, does turning to the dark side really seem like the best way to go about that?”

“Says the one chained to the floor” he pushed to his feet towering over you as he spoke “Now because of our past I’m giving you a chance here, a chance to answer to me instead of the emperor, do not mistake this kindness for weakness” and before you could respond he was turning around and walking back through the door, but you weren’t done. You couldn’t let him leave it like that, couldn’t let him bring up your past friendship like it was nothing more than a bargaining chip to be cashed in later.

“You know I thought we had lost you with order 66” You called out after him “I mourned your death” you couldn’t even bring yourself to feel shame over the way your voice shook, overwhelming amounts of anger and betrayal trumping any and all other emotions within you.

He didn’t even look back as he spoke in a disturbingly monotone voice “Anakin Skywalker is dead. I am what remains”

You shook your head at his response though he couldn’t see it, hating him for the way he tried to hide from what he has done, shelter who he once was from the man he has become.

A bitter laugh escaped you “No, you don’t get to distance yourself from your own actions, you don’t get to protect that jedi you once were by calling yourself a different name.”

His body went rigid at your words, the surprise from your outburst evident in his reaction, it wouldn’t surprise you to learn that you were the first person to ever call him out on it.

“Anakin Skywalker was my friend” you pushed on, spitting the words at his feet “and you tarnish his memory with every action done in the name of the empire"

Anakin spun around on his heel at your words, a dangerous smirk on his face before he knelt down squatting before you, an all too familiar mischievous twinkle in his eye “You know I always liked the way you spoke your mind no matter what” A taunt in his tone, a look that dared you to step out of line “You never really knew when to shut up did you? I suggest you learn”

“You forget that I know you” you taunted back, leaning in even closer to him, showing him he wasn’t scaring you by forcing proximity “you can’t hide behind your charms from me Skywalker”

Still the smug smirk didn’t drop from his face, his eyes taking a second to bounce between yours before locking on a piece of hair that fell in front of your face. Slowly his hand reached out, effortlessly tucking it back behind your ear like he had done a thousand times before. And suddenly you were back beneath the stars with him, talking about the future, upcoming missions, battle strategies, just about anything you could think of to keep him out there with you.

His hand struck with practiced efficiency, reaching out to grab your chin before you could even comprehend its movement, his fingers digging into your cheeks as he held your gaze on his “You will tell me where the rebel base is or I will take you to see emperor Palpatine, and trust me neither of us wants that to happen”

And even though the mere gesture of pulling your hair behind your ear had sent your heart racing and your mind reeling you forced your eyes to lock onto his, pushing down any feelings of familiarity, telling yourself exactly what he had just told you moments ago Anakin Skywalker is dead, he is what remains

“What’s the magic word?”

He cracked a smile at that, still holding you in place for a few seconds longer, giving you one last opportunity to answer before finally dropping your face, muttering a soft “so be it” before standing back up and heading for the door.

-

It had been easy to escape your bindings, too easy honestly, to the point that a small part of you wondered if you had been meant to escape them in the first place, if this was what your past with Anakin was worth to him, a chance and a poorly hidden saber.

You broke for the nearest town as soon as you could, keeping low and your thin scarf pulled over your face knowing it was far too easy to stick out in the empty desert.

You didn’t make it that far.

“You really thought it would be that easy?” His voice taunted you from behind, your body sagging slightly as you heard it, you hadn’t even noticed his approach.

“Yeah honestly” you returned, spinning around to face him “planning was never your forte”

He chuckled softly at that, shaking his head, casting his eyes down to his feet as he rested a single hand on his saber on his hip, looking far too much like the Anakin you had once known long ago. “Tell me where the base is Y/N”

And even though it remained unsaid you could feel the threat in his voice, in the way he glared at you, in the way his hand on his saber twitched.

“Are you not going to ask me about him?” You knew now wasn’t the time for the question, knew it was dumb to press that particular button now, but you couldn’t stand letting Anakin cast him off like this, cast you off like this.

He faltered at your question, his shoulders dropping slightly, his hand slipping from his saber. “You’ve been in contact with him?”

“Of course I have” you sighed, “And Ahsoka, Rex” you let your sentence trail off, hang in the air, let him come to you and ask the question if he wanted to know.

An uncomfortable silence hung in the air as Anakin waited, as you waited, only breaking when his voice spoke up, a shake in it you weren’t expecting “are they-“

And maybe it was the way his voice shook, the way his posture slumped, the way those all too familiar blue eyes were silently begging you, but you took pity on him, chancing a small step forward as you finished his sentence “they’re okay. Ahsoka even removed Rex’s chip, they’re all okay”

Another silence hung in the air, an almost imperceptible nod in Anakin’s head as he stared down at his feet, only looking up to chance a look at you when he finally spoke again, in a small defeated voice “just tell me where the base is Y/N, that’s all I need, then I can turn around and pretend I never saw you here”

You sighed at that, shaking your head softly “You know I can’t do that Ani”

He chuckled bitterly at that, going for his saber, igniting it, his face illuminating in red as he did so.

And instinctively your hand went to your own saber, ready to draw it and defend yourself, ready to be caught up in a sparing match with Anakin just as you had so many times before, but no, you had to remind yourself, it wouldn’t be just sparing this time around, not anymore.

You unclipped it from your belt, taking a moment to feel its weight in your hand, before tossing it to the side, watching the sand around it kick up as it landed a few feet away from you. “I won’t fight you”

Anakin shook his head, his eyes snapping to your saber on the ground next to you, a bitter laugh that didn’t full materialize on his lips “I’m not falling for that”

“Its not a trick” you shrugged, opening your hands before you, “I won’t fight you”

“Pick up your saber Y/N” he yelled at you, still holding his own before him, still poised to strike but holding back, waiting “I will not tell you again”

You watched him with a small shake of your head “Ani I can’t fight you”

And for a second you just watched his chest rise and fall quickly as a war raged in his mind, as he debated his next steps, before a frustrated yell ripped through the air and he was charging at you, and you couldn’t help yourself, you closed your eyes, a breath catching in your chest as you waited for the inevitable, and kept on waiting.

A tentative eye opened to see a bright flash of red, hovering just above your shoulder, just waiting there. Your gaze followed it up to Anakin only to see he wasn’t looking at you, he was looking down at his saber. And you could tell from the look in his eyes, from the way his grip kept changing, from the rapid fall and rise of his chest, that he was trying to talk himself into it.

Then a sigh and the blade was retracted, Anakin refusing to meet your gaze as he stepped back “get out of here Y/N”

And immediately you took a step back, your body begging you to run, to put this place and Anakin as far behind you as possible. But still you couldn’t.

“Come with me”

His gaze snapped up to yours in surprise, his eyebrows crunched together in confusion “I can’t” it came out as more a question.

“You can” you tried to encourage him, taking a tentative step towards him “You can come with me now and we can figure the rest of it out”

“I work for the empire” he spoke softly, “the empire isn’t what you think it is, they’re doing good, I’m doing good”

You sighed with a shake of your head, still inching forward, still holding out hope “You, you became the very thing you sought to destroy. Turning your back on everything you once stood for”

“Did I?” he challenged you calmly, repeating thoughts you knew he’d already gone through a thousand times before “or am I still upholding my same beliefs. I vowed to serve the republic and I still do, no matter what name it goes by now”

“You vowed to serve the people of the republic” you corrected “and now under the empires rule those people suffer”

“under the empire’s rule they are safe” he countered “From the time we were children we were told we were meant to be peacekeepers and that is exactly what I am doing now”

“You call this peace?” You couldn’t help but chuckle “How many die each day because of the empire’s tyranny”

“Because of the resistances rebellion” he countered but there was no malice in it, not the same angry argument as before but rather a debate.

“Look at them Anakin” you gestured to the town just before you, at the people begging for scraps outside of the bar, at the buildings crumbling from lack of maintenance “this is the effect the empire has on people”

Anakin shook his head at the sight before him, his eyes casting back down to the sand too quickly.

“Look at them” you repeated, putting more force into your words, practically begging him “Look at what the empire has done to this town, what you have done.”

“The empire stopped the war” Anakin’s gaze suddenly snapped back up to yours, a new defensiveness in his tone you weren’t used to hearing from him “these people are at peace, they do not fear for their lives anymore and that is what the empire has done”

“These people are starving” you objected, trying to keep your voice light but firm “they no longer fear death at the hands of intergalactic war but rather storm troopers on a power trip, bounty hunters, vagrants. They are far from safe”

“And what would you have me do now?” He demanded, exasperation in his tone “I stopped a war, I gave everything to stop a war”

“And now?” you questioned him “you did it, you stopped the war, why are you with them now?”

Anakin didn’t respond to that, his mind churning as his eyes bounced back and forth between yours, not saying a word as his fists clenched and unclenched at his sides.

It all seemed to click for you then, where his hesitation was coming from, his stubbornness, his need to believe he was right, had been right all along “It’s not too late for you you know”

Anakin froze on the spot, eyes jumping up to meet yours, desperately willing for you to continue.

“You made a few mistakes, took some missteps but you can still do good”

“I’ve made a lot more than a few mistakes” his tone was soft and dejected.

“That’s okay” you tried to assure him with a shake of your head “You can still do good”

He shook his head in response, eyes finally lifting from you to scan the town around you “that’s not who I’m meant to be, that is not my destiny”

“Screw destiny” you countered quickly “it wasn’t long ago your destiny was to bring balance to the force and now the jedi order no longer exists. There is no more destiny there is just the choices you make here and now”

“I can’t” he objected weakly with a shake of his head “I can’t just leave”

“you can” you countered but saw as he refused to listen to you, taking steps back, so you forward, without a second thought wrapping your arms around his neck, whispering the words into his ear “Ani you can”

And you felt him go rigid under your touch, refuse to give in, but not quite pushing you off.

“Let go what you have done in the past” you tried to urge him “focus on what you can do now. And right now you can help them. You can help me”

And slowly you felt his arms come up, first placed awkwardly on your back, giving you a chance to take it all back, before slowly wrapping completely around you, pulling you deeper into him, a shaky breath escaping him as he did so, as he buried his face in your hair “I don’t know how it all went so wrong”

“I know Ani I know” you assured him softly, rubbing a hand up and down his back “but now we can work to make it better”

“We?” You heard the hope in his voice and couldn’t help but chuckle, chuckle and fight to keep the tears at bay.

Pulling back from him softly, noting the way his arms seemed reluctant to let you go completely, just enough that you could look into his eyes. “You and me, we’ll make it right”

#anakin x reader #Anakin Skywalker #anakin fanfiction #anakin skywalker imagine #anakin fic #anakin imagine #anakin x you #anakin x y/n #anakin skywalker x reader #anakin skywalker fic #anakin skywalker x you #star wars fanfiction #star wars imagine #star wars x you #star wars x reader

[cupidysm]

My Pen

Just a late birthday fic I wrote while I was bored. It has nothing to do with a birthday/birthdays. Just another fluff piece.

Shy!Steven Grant x gn!reader || masterlist || shy!Steven playlist

summary: Steven lands a chance to talk to a girl he’s been pining over.

content: fluff, hint of angst, swearing(once), mutual pining, awkwardness, it’s a QUICK read, no mentions of the system word count: 601

Steven didn’t know how it happened. It just… did. You showed simply out of the blue and ever since he saw a glimpse of you he was enamored. The way your eyes lit up as you observed the relics scattered throughout the museum made his heart pound. You were just so… interested every time you visited—something incredibly rare since most simply chaperoned on school field trips—barely ever out of pure enjoyment.

Then there you were again. The third time this week you had visited the museum, scribbling- no, note taking what you saw as you made your way past the different exhibits. Steven began to fill his mind with false hopes that you had visited for him.

Then again it could’ve been his shitty excuse of a sleep schedule.

Either way, he was practically buzzing with excitement at the sight of you… until you began to walk in his direction- but that was no problem, you could simply be making your way around one the glass exhibits in the center of the floor. They did place them terribly after all.

And then you entered gift shop area. Okay… maybe you were just perusing, looking around and then head back to your observations of the artifacts. Nope you were heading in his direction, staring at him with a sickeningly sweet smile. Steven began to panic, he could feel a cold sweat wash over him. His heart quickened and his hands began to shake.

“Hi,” You lean in to read his name tag before standing upright. “-Steven,” you smirk at the small accomplishment. “Do you have any pens that I could buy?” Your smile returns making the already existing butterflies in his stomach turn into bloody fireworks.

“I, uh… it’s.” He pauses realizing your look of confusion. “Oh bollocks.” Was all he could muster up. His embarrassment has risen to a ludicrous degree. All he has to do was answer a simple question about a pen.

You can’t stop a giggle from erupting. Steven should probably feel embarrassed by that, but his heart only swells with adoration at being able to actually hear the sound for the first time, not just from observing as you read the cheesy jokes about mummy’s attached to the plaques.

“So, a pen?” You ask with an awkward smile.

“Oh- right, right yes.” Steven fumbles to grab at a black pen, decorated with white polka-dots, in one of the cardboard holders before placing it in your hand. You scribble something quick to check the ink before reaching for your wallet, but Steven reaches out to stop your hand. You look up at him in confusion and Steven swears he could’ve fainted. The wide eyed look from behind your lashes were enough to send him to the after life and back.

“There’s really no need. It’s a pen. Well it’s uh my pen, but you can keep it.” he scratches the back of his neck, trying his hardest not to make eye contact.

His kind request throws you off. “Oh- well are you sure? I’d be glad to pay.”

Steven feels like a lovesick schoolboy. He probably is a lovesick schoolboy, but what’s stopping him?

Apparently everything.

He insists that you keep it and you take a step backwards, stopping yourself just in case he were to continue the conversation, but you eventually turn and walk away.

If only Steven had been just as observant of you at that moment as he had been for the past few days, maybe he would’ve seen the disappointment in your eyes when he didn’t call you back.

Because you had wanted to continue talking to him…

Perhaps just as much as he had.

#steven grant fluff #steven grant x reader #steven grant #moon knight #steven grant angst #moonknight x reader #moonknight fanfiction #steven grant x you #moonknight

[kazumist]

EPISODE 16 ★ ALMOST

FAKE IT TILL WE MAKE IT — A SCARAMOUCHE SMAU

masterpost / prev ep / next ep / timestamps don't matter

everything that happened after that… exchange with scaramouche (or kunikuzushi? you did agree to start calling him by his first name now) was a bit of a blur. it was surprising that none of your friends caught you and him during that close proximity (which, mind you, ended as soon as it started).

yet how come now you’re alone with him again? this is ludicrous!

“how did we end up here again?”

“we both wanted to get out of the event; everyone is far too busy with their own business inside anyway,” he answers, leaning more onto the railings of the balcony before the both of you. who knew that an event’s venue would have a balcony? 

right. you both wanted to get out for a while. 

but does it really have to be this awkward?

“about earlier…” he starts.

“it was nothing; we were just dancing. don’t worry about it too much.” it was anything but nothing, but even you didn’t know what it was.

awkward silence once again. but this somewhat helped kunikuzushi to think about some things in his life.

lately, he has gotten along with you more than you knew. it’s pretty ironic, honestly; back then, you’d disagree on most things. but how come now you have your own inside jokes? no one except him knew why you’d laugh at the sight of clownfish or how you’d soften up every time you saw the korilakkuma plush on your bed (though he doesn’t really need to know that). hell, even simple notes would remind him of you.

before either of you could even realize it, you both had your own influences on each other.

how ironic of him to feel comfortable around his rival, indeed.

now that you think of it, you didn’t really thank him properly for that plushie, right? (if your small mumble of “thank you” didn’t count for him, that is.)

everyone dies at some point, so it wouldn’t hurt to just give him a quick peck on the cheek, right?

right? 

kunikuzushi was still busy zoning out on the railings, so he didn’t really see your face coming closer by the second (you had your eyes shut too, so neither of you could really see each other).

but what did catch his attention was the sound of the approaching footsteps, which indicated where you were. he turned his head, and speechless was an understatement for his reaction.

it all happens so fast; the girl he's supposedly (fake) dating is suddenly coming up for a kiss, and someone is most likely going to open the door any second now. if he hadn’t turned his head, then maybe your lips would just land on his cheek, just like you planned. but now it was aiming for his lips as well—kunikuzushi doesn’t believe in god, but this is one of the rare moments where he’d actually ask for help from him.

hearing the click of the door, both of you retracted your actions immediately and turned your heads the opposite way, acting as if nothing had happened just now.

“oh! there you two are. we’ve been looking everywhere for y—wait, was i interrupting something?” childe’s voice was heard.

“you weren’t interrupting anything. why were you looking for us?” you asked him back, turning around and facing him. “nothing much, really. we just wanted to know where the two of you were since you suddenly disappeared after the whole dance.”

“oh. i think i’ve gotten my fair share of fresh air tonight, so i’m heading back in. kuni?”

kuni? where did that came from? all three of you thought. you were wondering how you even said that in the first place and mentally cursing yourself for it. kunikuzushi himself wondered where you got such a nickname, and childe wondered since when did you get on a first name basis.

“i’ll stay a bit longer. you go on ahead.”

maybe this was the sick feeling you had all along.

extra notes.

oh uhm. haha heyyyyy i suck at writing narrations so this is kinda hard to understand or imagine but ngl i had that one ohshc scene in mind while writing this LOL also shitty reason as to why you wld kiss someone's cheek haha sorry couldnt think of anything else rlly (its implied to be a thank you for everything rlly but. yeah)

CRYING PROM ARC IS FINALLY OVER i can move on to the next part !!!! war is over and yes this is the end

will they finally kiss? who knows (i have the right to remain silent)

synopsis.

what happens when scaramouche, your rival since the first year of highschool, had some annoying admirers on his back? easy—he (fake) dates you to shoo them off. nothing can possibly go wrong with faking a relationship with the guy you hate, right?

spoiler: apparently, a lot can go wrong.

taglist (open): @niiheng @yinyinggie @ilyuu @veekoko @motherscrustytoenailclippings @the-ghost-0f-t0m0 @akairaindrops @kichiyoshi @lxkeeeee @user11918163805279 @sketcheeee @yukiipc @kyouzki @quokkatss @ynverse @yuyumaru @danhenglovebot @sheep-from-rad @gekkow @aeongiies @scararaw @beriiov @thenightsflower @simpforsubmissivemen @sakurapeach @akxtagawaxryxn0sxke @naheana @supernova25 @mitsu-moshi @yelleloww @kiyomi-hoku @kazemiya @theblueblub @lazy-sanns @kazuuhhaaaa @sukunasrealgf @alatusorrow @ahnneyong @bubiblossom @d4y-dr3am3r @featuredtofu @dappledstars @surgeonsofazeroy @reinoodle @venusflwers @gracefulace200 @dearestranpo @ggymj @izukusshuu [1/2]

#( smau — fake it till we make it ! ) #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact #genshin imagines #scaramouche x reader #wanderer x reader #scaramouche smau #wanderer smau #scaramouche #wanderer #x reader #genshin smau

[talatomaz]

count to three | wanda maximoff x fem!reader

a/n: this turned out more dark than i intended and the smut might be a bit rusty since i’ve not written it since last october

(feedback/positive comments are appreciated)

warnings: angst. smut - manipulation, dark wanda, dubcon, mommy kink, legal age gap (reader is 18+), brief dry humping, use of wanda’s magic, power imbalance, brief choking, strap on, dacryphilia, edging, cockwarming, breeding kink, pet names, degradation, overstimulation, belly bulge kink

word count: 2.6k

masterlist | navigation | request rules | series overview

i do not give you permission to repost or translate my fics on any platform - likes/reblogs are okay and are much appreciated

“May I ask why? Were my answers not good enough? Was I less qualified than the others?”

You asked, swallowing hardly when you heard your voice waver. You were gutted. You’d interviewed for a job at a prestigious tech company and, even though you tried not to get your hopes up, you knew you’d done extremely well in the interview. You well and truly believed that you would be successful in getting the job.

Unfortunately, the universe had other plans for you.

The interviewer had called you to let you know that you didn’t get the job and you couldn’t help when your heart sank to the pit of your stomach, tears filling your eyes.

You knew that it wouldn’t necessarily affect you financially, since you still worked for Wanda and all. But with you having started a new relationship with her and having already moved in with her after only 6 months of dating, the lines between work and home started to become blurred.

“No,” he politely addressed you as Miss, “You would have been a perfect fit for the role but um…”

The older man’s brief sign gave you pause, if you were perfect, why hadn’t you gotten the job?

“Mr Bermont?” You asked, addressing the interviewer when he grew silent.

“Look, you seem like a nice, hardworking person. Let’s just say that your current boss wasn’t exactly ready to let you go yet.”

Your brows furrowed. What did Wanda have to do with this?

“Sir, but I-”

“I’ve already said too much. I’m truly sorry. Best wishes for the future. Goodbye.”

The sudden sound of the call disconnecting jarred you from your thoughts. You stared at your phone, confused, as if willing the phone to magically light up with the answer.

You mulled over what he said.

Your current boss wasn’t exactly ready to let you go yet.

Wasn’t exactly ready to let you go.

Let you go.

A soft gasp fell from your lips when you realised the true meanings of his words. But then you shook your head, as if trying to rid the thought from your mind.

It was ludicrous. Right?

Wanda would never do that to you. Would she?

Then you thought back to when you told her you’d been shortlisted for the job. You’d been so focused on how excited and nervous you were, you hadn’t realised the way her eyes darkened. And not in the usual lustful way it did when she looked at you.

Replaying the memory in your head, you thought back to how her hands clenched slightly before she wrapped them around your hips, bringing you in close for a celebratory hug. The lines that appeared at the corner of her mouth, which usually occurred when she was angry in meetings which didn’t go her way.

She didn’t want to let you go…

So she told the company not to hire you.

Your confusion was quickly replaced with fury. How dare she mess with your future like that? She knew how much getting this job would have meant to you and yet she-

Your thoughts were abruptly shoved out of your mind as you heard the familiar sound of the key in the door.

Dropping your phone on the kitchen counter, you forced a smile to your face when your aforementioned girlfriend, and boss, entered the kitchen.

“Hi honey, sorry I was late. The meeting ran over. Everything okay?”

Wanda asked when she noticed you glancing at your phone.

“Yeah, um, the guy who interviewed me called me. You know? Mr Bermont?” Wanda nodded in recognition but showed no signs of having committed foul play.

“I didn’t get the job.”

“Oh baby, I am so sorry. I know how much you wanted that job.”

The redhead dropped her work bag and made her way around the corner to give you a comforting hug. You felt yourself leaning into the hug before stiffening when you remembered that she was the reason you didn’t get the job.

You quickly tried to make your mind blank, knowing your witch girlfriend had the ability to read your mind.

You said nothing as you stood there in her arms.

“At least you still have your job with me though, sweetie.”

“Yeah, just like you wanted all along.” You murmured under your breath but, of course, Wanda and her witchy ears heard you perfectly.

She pulled back, her hands on your arms, facing you. A look of feigned confusion cascaded on her face.

“Don’t act dumb, Wanda. I know you’re the reason I didn’t get the job. What did you do? Threaten to cut off all ties with the company if they employed me?”

Your voice raised slightly as you saw a flash of fury in her eyes. You had insulted her. You’d never done that before. But you were too caught up in your emotions to care.

“I know what’s best for you, malyshka.” She replied, her jaw clenched as she tried to keep her voice steady.

“That’s bullshit. You know I wanted that job.” You pushed her away from you but Wanda grabbed your arm with such a tight unexpected grip that a harsh gasp left you. She’d never acted like this with you.

“You better watch yourself, detka. You know I’m always right.”

You wrenched her hand from your arm, throwing it back to her side where it belonged.

“You knew how much that job meant to me. Just…Fuck you.”

The hard look she gave you almost made you falter. It was the look she’d directed at so many businessmen in the past which really broke them out of their resolve when they all tried to scam her or disrespect her. You’d never thought you’d be on the receiving end of that look. You’d never thought there’d be a reason for that look. You’d never expected she would be the reason why.

But as much as she was furious, you were just as stubborn and angry.

Ignoring her warning stare, you brushed past her rather ungently and stormed into your shared room, locking the door behind you.

“Just go the fuck away, Wanda. I don’t want to see you right now.”

You shouted through the door when Wanda repeatedly knocked on the white wood.

“Just open the door, please. Can we not fight anymore?”

Wanda asked as she stood in front of the closed door, her patience thinning by the second. Sure, she could understand why you were hurt and upset but she’d done what she did for the both of you. So you could stay together. It wasn’t for any malicious reasons.

Okay, well, that wasn’t true. Wanda didn’t want to let you go and share you with other people. She hadn’t gone through all that trouble of getting you fired from your previous job, manipulating you to work for her and later become a couple just for you to up and leave her.

When her question warranted no response, Wanda pounded on the door again, this time with more force than the last.

“I know you’re hurt. But I’m only gonna ask once more. Open the door or I will count to three and you can suffer the consequences.”

You sighed, exasperated. You knew you were making this worse for yourself by prolonging the argument as time grew on. But you remained steadfast in not opening the door. Until Wanda started counting and, when she got to ‘1’, she said something that gave you pause before you clambered to your feet and scurried to open the door.

“I’ll spank your ass black and blue and have you crying and squirming on my lap, begging me to stop.”

You knew she was deadly serious by the way in which she muttered those nefarious words in an unnaturally low tone. You could practically see her seething, jaw clenched as her fists did the same hanging by her sides. Now, she’d never hit you before and you knew she never would but she had given you a spanking one time that left you unable to sit for over a week. So you knew she was true to her word of repeating that action if you didn’t do as she said.

As the door opened, you barely had time to register the look on Wanda’s face before her hand wrapped itself around your throat, pushing you up against the bedroom wall.

Instinctively, your hands flew to clasp around her wrist; a futile attempt to relieve the pressure against your neck. With a wave of Wanda’s free hand, both of your hands flew above your head where they were pinned against the wall by Wanda’s magic.

“How dare you speak to me like that? Not only am I your girlfriend, but I am your boss.”

“I’m sorry.” You croaked out, still struggling in her grasp.

Wanda uncurled her hand from your throat causing you to splutter a cough; your hands still trapped above your head.

“I-I was just hurt that you lied and-”

Wanda tutted, quietening you immediately.

“Lied is such an arbitrary word. I simply just omitted to tell you what I did. But I did it for us. You belong at my company. With me.”

Her tone softened, reminding you of the gentle voice in which she almost always used with you. Whether that be at home or at the office.

“If you wanted to do something different or have other responsibilities, you could have just asked me instead of trying to leave me high and dry.”

You hung your head as she spoke. She was right. You could have asked her for another role and she would have gladly given it to you. She always wanted you to be happy and often gave you whatever you wanted.

Wanda shushed you when she saw tears fill your eyes. “I know you’re sorry, detka. I truly never meant to hurt you. You know that right?”

And you did. Even now, in the position that you were in, you knew that you were in no real danger because Wanda would never do anything to truly harm you.

Wanda stepped forward and covered your lips with hers, her body moving in between yours as she ground herself against you. You whimpered when you felt the strap that her slacks were concealing. Then you suddenly felt your hands grow free, Wanda having released them, and you wrapped them around her neck, drawing her in closer.

Your kisses grew heated as she lifted you into her arms with ease and dropped you on your bed. She quickly got to undressing you whilst remaining fully clothed herself. It was one of her favourite ways to have sex. You completely exposed beneath her as she loomed over you, dressed to the nines, reinforcing just how much power and control she lorded over you.

When Wanda unbuttoned her slacks, giving herself just enough leeway to free her cock, you felt your body still when she positioned it at your entrance.

Whilst you were getting more aroused and wet by the second, your pussy wasn’t lubricated enough to take her cock without being in any pain. And you certainly weren’t ready to take a strap of that size without her fingers in you first.

“Wan-Mommy,” you corrected yourself, “I-I can’t. Not straight away. I need-”

Your pleas fell on deaf ears as Wanda shushed you with another kiss.

“I know you can take me without preparation, little dove. Mommy knows best after all.”

Without another word, Wanda thrust herself inside you, bottoming out immediately. A strangled groan caught in your throat as you gripped the sides of her white blouse.

Pain shot its way through your body as Wanda continued to move in and out of you, not giving your body any time to adjust.

Tears fell from your eyes which Wanda leaned down to kiss away before attacking your neck, casually biting and sucking to leave a mark for the following morning.

You moaned at the action, tilting your head to give her more access. You began to feel yourself grow wetter as you started to get used to the feel of her strap; pleasure soon overtaking the pain.

When Wanda’s reached up to pinch your nipples into hard pebbles, your back arched into her, allowing her to suck each one harshly. Several pleas and groans filled the air as you felt the familiar tingle in your stomach. With Wanda’s attacks on your body, you knew you weren’t going to last long. And Wanda was well aware of that fact.

Just as you were about to come, she abruptly pulled out and flipped you onto your stomach.

“I told you Mommy knows best and I also know when you’re about to come but, because of the way you talked to mommy, i’m not rewarding that behaviour.”

“Mommy, please. I’m so sorry. Please let me come. I’ll never leave you.”

Once again, your pleas were futile.

For the next 30 minutes, an hour; you weren’t really sure. You were so drunk on Wanda’s strap and nearing passing out that you’d lost count of the amount of times the redhead had brought you to the brink of release before cruelly snatching it away.

Tears soaked the pillow beneath your face, your hands cramping from clutching the duvet for so long.

“Aww, is my malyshka too much of a whore to form any words?”

Wanda cooed when desperate whimpering was the only sound you were capable of making.

“My baby took her punishment so well.”

Wanda continued as she started to pound into you. Wrapping one hand in your hair as the other rested on your hip, she dragged you up so she could whisper in your ear.

“Come any time you want, little dove.”

With that, she dropped your head back down to the pillow and grabbed your other hip, using the momentum to force herself in and out of you.

“God, I’m practically splitting your pretty little pussy open. Look how deep you’re taking me.”

Wanda praised, reaching down to press on the small bulge that had formed in your lower stomach. Your juices dripped down your thighs and onto Wanda’s slacks, ruining them.

“Look at the mess you’ve made. All over Mommy’s pants. Now be a good girl and give Mommy what she wants.”

Her grunts grew almost animalistic as she roughly pounded into you. Your back arched into her chest and, with her free hand, she reached down to rub harshly on your clit. You moaned again at the sudden overstimulation, your hand grabbing the wrist that was between your legs.

“Mommy, p-please. I’m s-so close. I can’t.” Your words were replaced by another moan that made its way through your throat.

Wanda’s teeth nipped at your ear lobe before she whispered in your ear, telling you the words you so desperately begged to hear.

“Come for Mommy. Show me how much you love me.”

Almost immediately, you came around her cock, your body going limp as she continued to fuck into you, chasing her own high. Your body fell down to the bed, Wanda following you down. As she came, she rutted in you a few times before staying on top of you.

“One of these days, I will actually come in you. I’ll breed you and have you carrying our beautiful children. Then you can never truly leave me.”

Wanda murmured in your ear but you barely registered her words as you started to fall into a deep slumber. Your body absolutely wrecked emotionally and physically.

Wanda turned you both over so you were laying on top of her chest, cradled in her arms as she held you close. She grinned to herself as she glanced over to the closet door that was ajar. Behind it was a box filled with the very toy she needed to fulfil her earlier promise.

She couldn’t wait.

#marvel #marvel x reader #mcu x reader #wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda #wanda x reader #wanda maximoff smut #wanda smut #scarlet witch #scarlet witch x reader #avengers #avengers x reader #mommy!wanda maximoff #mommy!wanda #dark wanda maximoff x reader #dark wanda x reader #dark wanda #c: wanda maximoff #c: forever #s: mine

[zablife]

Mary the Helpful Housekeeper

Requested by @appare--vestigium for my 2K celebration An Evening at Arrow House. Warning: This is a dark fic 💀

You woke with a splitting headache, the blinding sliver of sunlight peeking through the curtains only adding to your pain. You reached out for your cigarettes, but your body was sluggish and unresponsive to your commands, only succeeding in knocking over the Bible the staff had given you as a wedding gift. With a huff of frustration, you fell back against the plush comfort of the feather down pillows, wondering if it had been the copious amounts of wine at dinner or your late night of passionate lovemaking causing your fatigue. Placing a hand over your eyes, you called out to Tommy to see how he was faring, but received no answer.

Your eyelids slipped close once more, too heavy to keep open and suddenly a bizarre dream resurfaced from the recesses of your mind. You flinched at the haunting memory of an intruder which now seemed unquestionably real. You were certain you’d witnessed a shadowy figure scurrying forth from the darkness to loom over you and Tommy, a pleading voice whispering in your ear to repent. 

Before you could bring forth any other details, you heard the door of your bedroom creaking against its ancient hinges and you gasped loudly, eyes snapping open in fear.  A slight figure rounded the corner with a breakfast tray, tilting her head to examine you curiously. “Is something wrong, ma’am?” Mary asked, placing the food at your side.

“No…yes,” you corrected yourself rubbing your temples in tight circles. “I’m not feeling very well. My head is aching and I’ve had the strangest dream,” you confided, though you weren’t sure she was the right person to tell. Where Tommy saw professionalism, you perceived nothing but coldness in her demeanor.

“Oh, what about?” she inquired, busying herself opening the curtains. 

“Nothing….nonsense really,” you admitted, dismissing the ludicrous idea the moment the soothing warmth of the tea cup radiated against your palm.

The rhythmic clicking of Mary’s footsteps against the hardwood stopped abruptly, her voice straining a note higher as she advised, “I wouldn’t be so quick to forget. Your dreams can tell you a great deal.”

“I doubt that,” you snorted.

Mary drew the last curtain back with more force than necessary. The golden rings holding the heavy drapery crashed against the rod with a harsh clang, forcing you to turn. “Mary!” you exclaimed in shock and annoyance.

“My apologies, ma’am. I do hope you recover from what ails you,” she said in somber monotone before hurrying from the room.

You rolled your eyes at her unsympathetic tone, a long sigh escaping your lips as you attempted to move the heavy tray. Wincing in pain, your eyes fell to your left arm and the bright red mark that had seemingly appeared overnight. You traced the tender flesh at the crease of your elbow with your fingertips, wondering what sort of insect could have bitten you. It left you disgusted at the thought of something in your bedding and you demanded the room be given an immediate cleaning. Of course, Mary deemed it unnecessary, stressing her thorough routine.

Despite winning the battle of wills, you felt a certain unease that would carry through the day until you were tucked safely beneath your husband’s arm at bedtime. Only then did you give an account of your unusual morning and the difficulties with his housekeeper. 

“Tommy, honestly, I don’t know why you keep her around,” you grumbled.

Tommy shrugged as he leaned over to extinguish his cigarette in the ashtray. “She’s loyal and hardworking, Y/n. Not to mention a skilled nurse. She patched up Arthur and me more than once without saying a word to the coppers,” he noted. “And she never complains. Always answers the bell, no matter how late,” he added with a satisfied nod.

“So she’s in love with you,” you teased, looking over at him with a wicked smile and playfully raised eyebrow. “The maid who answers the bell after midnight is always in love with the master.”

“Is that right?” Tommy asked, mischief dancing in his eyes. “It’s after midnight now, Mrs. Shelby, would you care to see to my needs?” he countered, moving your hand down his toned chest toward the growing bulge in his shorts. You giggled as he leaned down to kiss you, pushing every thought of insubordinate servants from your mind. By the time he’d finished with you, you were thoroughly exhausted and fell into a peaceful slumber by his side.

The next thing you remembered, the clock in the hall chimed four, a chill blowing through the room. Your heavy eyes struggled to open, nonetheless you swore there was something at the corner of your vision, moving stealthily toward you. You felt your heart knock against your ribs urgently and you willed yourself to scream, but found your tongue caught in your throat. Likewise, your limbs remained stuck and lifeless by your side. Tommy, Tommy, Tommy…please wake up, you silently pleaded, wishing he could hear your desperate thoughts.

A whisper drifted toward your ear, hissing like a serpent ready to strike. “But if they confess their iniquity and the iniquity of their fathers in their treachery that they committed against me, and also in walking contrary to me, so that I walked contrary to them and brought them into the land of their enemies-if they then their uncircumcised heart is humbled and they make amends for their iniquity then I will remember…” Words tumbled out, one upon another as your eyes adjusted in the darkness.

Then a leather bound book came into view, held by bony hands. You felt fear clawing at your spine as a pair of bulging blue irises peeked over the edges of the volume in an icy stare. The recitation stopped the moment your eyes locked, a hint of recognition flickering like the flame of a candle before it was snuffed out. A sudden blur of motion overtook your senses as the figure turned in haste, leaving you to fall back into a tunnel of confusion, haze descending upon you like a thick fog.

The next morning, your headache returned and with it intense paranoia. Luckily, Tommy was there to tend to you. He stroked your cheek with his thumb, a pained look upon his brow as he studied you with concern. “We’ll get a doctor if you need to speak to someone about your nightmares, love,” he reassured you. 

“They’re not dreams, Tommy! What I've seen is real!" you insisted. Biting your lip you added hesitantly, "I think it’s Mary. I swear it was her last night,” you said, clutching onto his sleeve, needing to be close to him.

“Where, darling?” he asked, beginning to worry for your sanity. 

“Here! In our room, standing over our bed,” you stressed, tugging on him insistently. You searched his eyes to see if he believed you and found nothing but a blank stare.

Tommy shook his head gently and hushed you as he pushed the hair from your face. “You’re overtired. All the preparations for the party,” he reasoned. “I’ll stay in the guest room tonight. Give you a chance to rest,” he said, placing a kiss to the top of your head with such tenderness you began to cry.

“Tommy, please don’t leave me,” you sniffed. “I’m afraid,” you confided in a whisper.

“Of Mary?” he asked with a chuckle. “Now I know you could use some sleep. Who could be afraid of a little old woman, eh?” 

—————-

Two weeks later…

“What’s wrong with her? Thought you was going to have a party?” a gruff voice echoed down the hall. 

“She’s not well, brother,” your husband rasped, concern laced in his voiced. 

“What’s she got?” his brother demanded.

“I’m not sure,” Tommy replied, exhaustion evident in his tone. “But she says Mary's to blame.”

“Mary? She’s a good Christian woman, Tom! What’s she got to do with this?” 

Tommy sighed, “I wish I knew.”

Although you tried to prop yourself up on the pillows to hear the rest of their conversation, you were unable to manage it. You’d become far too weak in recent days. Your arms were now covered in tiny red blemishes which were beginning to scab over. You shifted the blankets to cover them, ashamed of the indelicate way your skin had bruised by whatever was afflicting you.

When Tommy opened the door to your bedroom, you offered a weak smile when he asked, “How’s my girl?”

You didn’t feel like his girl anymore, you knew dark circles painted the hollows of your eyes and your cheeks sunk in unattractively, but you tried to put on a brave face for the man you loved. “I’m alright,” you said, attempting a small smile. Your visits with Tommy were the highlight of your otherwise drab and listless days.

“That’s good. You get to feeling better and we’ll start to discuss our wedding party, yeah?” he offered encouragingly.

“I’d like that,” you answered, though the hope of returning to a normal life seemed to be slipping further from your grasp with each passing day.

“I’ll have a maid draw your bath,” Tommy said, placing a kiss to your lips before turning to leave.

“Not her!” you reminded him, voice as loud and clear as you could manage.

Tommy stopped at the door, one hand on the frame as he exhaled loudly. “No, of course not.”

“Thank you,” you called out, feeling like a burden and a disappointment. 

——————-

With the steam from the bath having dissipated and the water turning tepid, you looked over your shoulder for your favorite silk robe. “Clara, could you help me?” you called out, settling back against the edge as you waited. 

Eyes closed in one last moment of peaceful solitude, you inhaled the soothing lavender bath salts, leaving an arm extended for your towel. Just then a hand grasped your forearm immobilizing you, a momentary sting caused you to thrash in the water. As the crashing waves spilled onto the tile floor, you were only vaguely aware of the splash as it hit. You felt your body sink into the water, arms slipping from the porcelain edges as your muscles went weak. The piercing blue irises from your nightmares watched you, but this time you were lucid enough to attach them to a body, the ginger haired woman you’d suspected all along.

“M-mary?” you mumbled, lips and tongue tingling strangely. She held a hand over your mouth, her eyebrows twitching with fury.

“When will you ever listen? You sinful woman,” she berated you in a low voice.

You searched her eyes, but the effect of whatever she’d given you was quickly altering your senses. You watched as her face began to melt into a blur, using all your effort to concentrate on her words.

“Mr. Shelby was turning his life around before you came. The orphanages, housing for the poor,” she explained, voice cracking with emotion. “But you’ve distracted him from his work. All he speaks of now are hedonistic pleasures. Your influence, no doubt,” she hissed.

You let out a muffled cry, barely able to breathe, and she jerked her hand away as though she were the one who had been harmed. She looked at her hand fearfully. “I’m no murderer. I’m here to save your soul,” she said with a vigorous nod of her head.

She stood, smoothing her apron as if reminded why she'd come in the first place. Taking a small Bible from the bathroom sink, she licked her index finger before finding her place from the night before.

She cleared her throat so as to compose herself, standing straight as an arrow, chin held high. “Leviticus 18…” she began in a controlled voice you recognized from your nightmares. Your eyes slipped close, a tear running down your cheek as you realized it had been all too real.

-----------

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#Peaky Blinders fanfic #Peaky Blinders imagine #Tommy Shelby fanfic #Tommy Shelby imagine #Tommy Shelby #Tommy Shelby x you #Tommy Shelby x reader #Tommy Shelby x y/n #zablife 2k celebration

[defectivevillain]

this broken design, ch5

summary: “Dr. Lecter?” You blink a few times, convinced that you’re dreaming. The man’s gleaming eyes and concerned expression seem a bit too realistic to be conjured by your sleeping mind, though. You’re not sure if you’ve ever seen him look worried. You quickly decide that you don’t like it.

“Hannibal, please,” the doctor responds nonchalantly. You stare at him in utter confusion. Just what is happening right now? You thought you were dreaming, but this feels a bit too vivid. “What are you doing out here?”

read from the beginning here! [this won’t make much sense, otherwise]

[ao3 version]

notes: I privated my ao3 account so that only registered users can see it... since all the ai stuff has been going on and I'd rather be safe than sorry.... I'm not sure how many ppl follow with the series here on Tumblr, but I figured I'd post it here too, in case any of you don’t have an ao3 account... [I posted this a bit ago on ao3, so apologies for the tardiness]

the gif above is so funny. the lil head tilt is killing me, idk. 

warnings: panic attack, self harm (digging nails into skin), franklyn having zero boundaries

You’re in Hannibal’s home again. You really need to have more self-preservation—you’re practically a gift-wrapped murder victim here. Although, he hasn’t killed you yet. Maybe you’ll be fine. Perhaps you aren’t as rude as you thought you were. The thought amuses you.

Inexplicably, as you’re speaking with Hannibal, he asks you to accompany him to the opera. The request is so unexpected that it takes you several moments to realize you heard him correctly. Hannibal stares at you expectantly and you take a deep breath.

“You realize I don’t know the first thing about opera,” you remark apprehensively. “Surely there are far better choices than me.” Doesn’t he have acquaintances that are more suited for this type of outing? You’re certain you would look extremely out of place amidst the typical visitors. Surely, Hannibal knows that he will put his reputation at risk by bringing you along. You try to convey those sentiments in the eye contact you’re currently maintaining with the man, but he doesn’t seem dissuaded in the slightest.

“You are my friend and I want to spend time with you,” Hannibal states easily. You envy his ability to be so straightforward with his thoughts and feelings. “Is that really so strange?”

“I suppose not,” you frown. Fond of breaking doctor-patient boundaries, are we, Dr. Lecter? You dispel the thought. Admittedly, from the first moment you interacted with Hannibal, you knew he would be more than a psychiatrist. You’re happy to consider him a close friend now.

“Are you amenable?” Hannibal then asks, just before you can zone out and lose focus.

“When is it?” You ask, despite knowing that you don’t have much going on this week anyway.

“Tomorrow night,” Hannibal answers. You raise an eyebrow.

“Rather late notice,” you say, if only to make him sweat a bit. Of course, Hannibal’s perfectly crafted mask remains in place. “Did your date cancel on you?” Hannibal’s eyebrows furrow and he crosses his arms over his chest. You decide to take pity on him and stop messing around.

“I’m just kidding,” you interject with a grin. It’s kind of fun to see how much you can push Hannibal around. You get the feeling that no one really questions him. It’s amusing to see him scramble for an explanation, even though the effort is perfectly rehearsed. “I think I’m free; I’d love to go. You just may have to deal with my complete ignorance when it comes to opera music.”

“I think I’ll survive,” Hannibal smiles. Is he playing along? You raise your eyebrows in surprise. Admittedly, you weren’t expecting that. It’s nice to know that Hannibal can take a joke. 

“Anyway, thank you for inviting me into your home again; I hope I’m not intruding.”

“Of course not,” Hannibal says with a shake of his head, as if the very thought is ludicrous.

“I invited you.” Hannibal then excuses himself for a moment and you take the opportunity to look around his kitchen. You suppress the extremely compelling urge to look through his drawers—you know what you’ll find and you’re certain you don’t want to see it. Instead, you let your eyes rove over the polished cabinets and clean counters. Just before you can lose interest, your gaze falls on the rolodex. Interest peaking, you decide to walk towards it.

It appears the rolodex holds business cards of people Hannibal has met. You idly flip through the rolodex, needing something to occupy your restless hands. A few of the names are (unsurprisingly) ones you recognize. It takes you a few moments of observation to realize just what purpose this rolodex serves. It appears this is a list of potential murder victims. Flipping through the various business cards, you don’t see a common denominator. “Whenever feasible, one should always try to eat the rude,” Hannibal had told you once. On second thought, these business cards are probably people that Hannibal has determined to be rude. You go through the names with renewed interest. A few of them are rather fancy. One even looks remarkably close to yours. You move to the next one before a breath catches in your chest and you find yourself returning to the one that caught your eye.

The business card is extremely similar to yours—same color and font. You squint at it, heart racing in your chest as you look at the name written on it. It must be another government agent, surely. You all have similar, standard-issue business cards. You just hope it isn’t any of your acquaintances. You’re expecting to see anyone from Jack Crawford to Alana Bloom. You close your eyes for a moment, before finally giving in and reading the name. It’s… It’s your name.

You stare at the card in disbelief. Where did Hannibal get your business card? It has your name, phone number, email address… It even has your office location at headquarters. You swallow past the trepidation building in your core. You can’t quite stop the choked laugh that escapes your lips. You let your guard down. You had foolishly hoped that maybe, just maybe, things would be different. You let your guard down and, now, your name rests amidst the names of current and future Ripper victims.

“Is everything alright?” The timing could not be worse. Hannibal walks in as you’re looking at the rolodex and you quickly turn around, trying to shield it from his view. You’re not sure what expression is on your face, but it must be suitably harrowed, because his face twists in concern—mock concern, your mind supplies. “You look rather shaken.”

“Yes, of course,” you answer. It takes every ounce of practice you’ve accumulated to keep the fear from your voice. You sound slightly flat, but you’re convinced that you’ve mostly concealed your true feelings. “Apologies, Dr. Lecter. I think I’d better get going.”

You can tell that Hannibal is suspicious, but you don’t give him the chance to ask you about it—instead deigning to murmur a quick goodbye and walk out to your car. You’re infinitely grateful that you had the foresight to drive yourself. You’re not sure that you would’ve had the energy to maintain your composure in Hannibal’s company.

You wait until you’re a sufficient distance from Hannibal’s home to sag in your seat and sigh heavily. You’d been growing too big of an ego. Hannibal is the Chesapeake Ripper. The two of you are friends and you foolishly assumed that your friendship gave you immunity. Clearly, that isn’t the case. You need to remember yourself, remember that the composed dinner host you often sit across from is a practiced killer. One false move and you’re dead. Once you get home, you spend the remainder of the evening in an anxious and paranoid haze. It takes you a while to fall asleep that night and, when you do, the Ripper follows you into your dreams.

The next morning, you receive a text from Hannibal—which includes the details of the opera and what time he plans to pick you up. It takes you several moments to ground yourself in reality and remember that Hannibal isn’t aware of your knowledge that he’s the Ripper. Once you collect your composure, you insist that you can drive yourself—but he waves off the suggestion and maintains that he’ll drive. Admittedly, now that you’re thinking about it, you don’t have the slightest clue what to wear. You’ve never really been to an opera performance before, and you can only imagine what the people in attendance will be wearing. You have no idea where to begin searching for an outfit. Your closet isn’t exactly the best.

Eventually, you swallow your pride and text Hannibal. He knows you’re not sophisticated, you think to yourself. Asking him for help isn’t that embarrassing. In fact, you’d rather ask and lose a bit of dignity than try to puzzle it out on your own [and fail miserably.] Hannibal is quick to respond—almost as if he had been expecting the question—and says that he’ll bring clothes for you. You immediately have several objections to that, but they fall on determined ears. You regret asking, now.

A few hours later, there’s a quiet knock on your door. You open the door to find Hannibal waiting on your doorstep, folded clothing in hand. You shake your head in exasperation and let him in. “Thank you,” you say, taking the clothes he’s extending out to you. You still feel the need to try to argue one more time. “I could’ve found something on my own.”

Hannibal looks you up and down, in a manner that makes you feel extremely self conscious. You aren’t exactly wearing the fanciest clothing right now, but that’s only because you knew you’d be changing. “Doubtful,” Hannibal remarks. You glare at him, only to find his lips twisted in that slightly amused smirk. You roll your eyes.

“I’m going to change,” You then realize that this is the first time that Hannibal has been in your home. He’s driven you many times, but he’s never gotten out of the car before. “Feel free to explore, I guess.” You’re struck with the sudden mundane feeling of shame, as you recognize how much less luxurious your home is. Hannibal doesn’t seem to mind, though, as he starts to walk around and look at things. Meanwhile, you head to the bathroom.

Once you place the clothes on the bathroom counter, you’re once again realizing that you’re out of your depth. The outfit he’s given you is extremely lavish: an extravagant suit with dress pants. Upon further examination, you realize that he even gave you an undershirt. You push aside all the strange, conflicting feelings you have about sharing clothes with your psychiatrist. Unsurprisingly, the clothes smell very strongly of Hannibal’s cologne. It takes all of your resistance not to cough once you put them on. You’re not very fond of fragrances to begin with, since they often give you headaches. But, you know you have no right to complain. It was extremely generous of Hannibal to lend you clothing, and you don’t plan to disrespect the gesture by complaining about his cologne. You put on the rest of the clothing and assess yourself in the mirror. You look rather good, you have to admit. Of course, it’s all due to Hannibal’s clothing. You take a moment to brush your teeth again before walking back out into the main area of the house, where Hannibal seems to be looking at your decorations with a keen eye. He turns around upon hearing you enter and, for a long moment, the two of you stare at each other in silence.

Inexplicably, Hannibal breaks the distance between you and reaches out. Your heart is racing in your chest but you manage to remain still. He fiddles with your collar for a moment before stepping back, apparently satisfied with his work. You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

“Better?” You ask sardonically.

“Much,” Hannibal remarks. “Shall we?” He holds out an arm and you scoff. Hannibal freezes and you do, too. Shit. You hadn’t meant to scoff aloud. You compensate by putting your hand on his arm and he sends you a smile that is almost… fond. You immediately disregard that notion.

The drive to the opera house is enjoyable. Hannibal is one of the few people that you feel comfortable enough to share silence with. You don’t feel the need to constantly fill the air and, so, you spend most of the ride staring out the window and looking at the trees. Before long, Hannibal is pulling into a parking space and the two of you are ascending the stairs leading to the opera house. The building is rather grand, with beautiful towering pillars and elegant statues decorating the path to the entrance. When you enter, you’re unsurprised to see Hannibal’s mask slide neatly into place.

Evidently, Hannibal has been here before, because he navigates the opera house with practiced ease. There are several people that greet him upon his entrance, and he smiles and sends them a courteous wave. You idly wonder if he truly likes any of these people, or if he merely tolerates them. As you continue to walk in, you’re brutally aware of the gazes searing into your back. You’re sure that Hannibal will be the talk of the town soon enough—you get the feeling he never brings people to these kinds of events. Indeed, he seems the type to want to appreciate art in solitude. You debate asking him once more if he’s okay with being seen with you here. Within a few moments, you’re finally in the area where the performance is scheduled to occur. Hannibal leads you to your seats—which are in one of the balconies—and you can’t suppress your thoughts any longer. Thankfully, it seems no one else has found their seats in your section just yet.

“You realize how this looks, right?” You finally ask. Hannibal sends a curious glance at you and you refuse to acknowledge how handsome he looks right now. You avert your eyes for a moment, instead watching as the people below file into their seats. “Everyone thinks that I’m…  you know.” Hannibal continues to stare at you with a blank expression. Damn it, is he really going to make you explain it? You try to push past your embarrassment and remain professional. “I think they’re under the impression that we’re… dating.”

“The thought makes you uncomfortable,” Hannibal states, crossing one leg over the other. That must be why he chose these seats—he probably needs the legroom. The people below are milling about, talking with one another. You’re grateful that these seats are isolated from everyone else—there’s no expectation for you to talk to anyone.

“No, it doesn’t,” you clarify, wondering how he justified that leap in logic. “Besides, if anyone’s reputation is going to be at risk, it’ll be yours.”

“I appreciate your concern,” Hannibal says, something akin to amusement on his face. You’re not sure what he’s finding so amusing—you don’t think your statement was far-fetched or unreasonable. From the moment you walked in, you noticed quite a few people staring at Hannibal and you. They seemed to be making their own conclusions about the two of you; you just wanted to warn him. “I am not worried about my reputation.”

“You think your reputation won’t be affected?” You squint at him, trying to watch for a reaction. “...Or you just don’t care?” Your companion is silent for a moment.

“I was under the impression that I was the psychiatrist here,” Hannibal then remarks lightly. He sends you a look and you feel a momentary inkling of shame.

“Sorry,” you grimace. Hannibal’s lips quirk at the sides—a sign that he isn’t truly upset about your sudden psychoanalysis. You feel the need to justify your reaction regardless. “It’s easy to slip into the criminal profiling mindset sometimes,”

You spend the next several minutes having lighthearted conversation. It’s rather nice. The theater slowly begins to fill up until, finally, the lights dim and someone appears on the stage. To your surprise, the performance is rather enjoyable. You must be rather horrible at hiding your preconceptions, because Hannibal sends you a knowing look after the first song. You pretend not to notice the smugness radiating off the man, and instead focus on the singer. They’re quite talented, unsurprisingly. You’re not quite sure how much the tickets were, but judging from your surroundings, you’d guess they were rather expensive.

You take advantage of the brief intermission in the middle of the program to use the facilities. Once you’re finished, you move to go back into the theatre. However, there’s suddenly a hand grabbing your shoulder and you’re forcefully guided into a deserted hallway. You chance a glance over your shoulder, only to find a far too familiar patient of Dr. Lecter’s: Franklyn Froideveaux.

“Franklyn,” you remark, feeling extremely apprehensive once you recognize him. The man is wearing a three-piece suit again, but this time it’s eerily similar to something Hannibal might wear. You frown at the thought. Franklyn’s obsession with Dr. Lecter is really rather creepy. If Hannibal weren’t such a capable killer, perhaps you’d be worried for him.

“I saw you with Dr. Lecter,” Franklyn states matter-of-factly. He crowds you against the wall and you have to lean back against it to avoid touching him. The look in the man’s eyes is unnerving. It sends a shiver down your spine. There’s nothing in his irises except madness.

“Yes,” you respond, once you realize that Franklyn is awaiting an answer. You don’t tell him that Hannibal invited you, but he seems to come to that conclusion on his own.

“What did he do?” Franklyn asks. “Did he hold the car door open for you? What cologne does he wear? I have a few ideas but I can’t decide between them.” You feel your head begin to ache at his persistent badgering. You’re deeply unsettled by him.

“What’s it like being friends with Dr. Lecter?” He continues. Franklyn doesn’t even give you a chance to respond, as he continues rattling off questions. “Is he a good friend? Do you two spend time together?”

“Um-” You try to say, only for Franklyn to stop mid-tirade. His eyes quickly lock on the suit you’re wearing and you grit your teeth. This is easily one of the most uncomfortable interactions you’ve ever had, and it isn’t even over yet. You flinch as he puts a hand on your shoulder.

“That’s Dr. Lecter’s clothing,” Franklyn remarks, a dangerous gleam in his eyes. His fingers dig into your shoulder and you wince. His grip is beginning to hurt; you think you may have bruises later. “You’re wearing his clothing.”

“No, I’m not,” you try to argue.

“Yes, you are,” Franklyn asserts, not indicating that he’s hearing you or even seeing you. His eyes are glazed and it almost seems as if he’s looking directly through you. “He lent you his clothes. Why? What does he see in you?”

Ouch. That hurts for a microsecond, before you then realize that Franklyn’s opinion bears absolutely no relevance to your life. You want to speak on those thoughts, but there’s a crazed look in the man’s eyes and you decide to stay silent. Franklyn seems to take your silence as an argument itself, though, because his hand tightens on your shoulder rather painfully. You try to shove him off, but the man’s grip is unyielding.

A familiar voice calls your name from further down the hallway. You squint, only to find Hannibal walking towards the two of you. There’s an inexplicable expression on his face, and you can’t even begin to dissect it.

“Hannibal,” you breathe, unable to hide the relief you feel at his presence. Franklyn finally releases his grip on you and you reach a hand up to massage your shoulder. The man’s attention is off of you now, thankfully.

“I presumed you to be lost, but I see that notion is incorrect,” Hannibal says, his gaze flitting about your face as if looking for any sign of distress. He then looks at Franklyn, disinterest and boredom evident in his expression. Of course, Franklyn doesn’t care to notice it. He sees what he wants to see, you think to yourself. “What is going on here? Franklyn?”

Franklyn looks to you expectantly, as if waiting for you to lie for him. You instead remain silent. You know that, right now, telling the truth will unnecessarily escalate the situation. Besides, your exhaustion is starting to catch up with you and you can’t find the energy to continue the conversation.

“We were just having a friendly conversation.” Franklyn answers. Hannibal looks to you for confirmation and you avert your eyes. Meanwhile, Franklyn seems to be falling over himself in an attempt to secure Hannibal’s attention. “Dr. Lecter, it’s so nice to see you here,” Franklyn says, his voice a far cry from the manic lunacy from before. The sudden change is rather dizzying. This man is suffocating to be around. “You know, I thought this might be your kind of place. I was just speaking to your friend here…”

You place a hand on your temple, beginning to get a migraine from the sheer burst of emotions surrounding Franklyn. Your skills in criminal profiling typically allow you to get a sense of other people’s feelings. At worst, you can get a trace of what they feel. Right now, however, you feel every emotion Franklyn is exuding, and it’s enough to make your vision grainy and fuzzy. He continues prattling on, but all you can sense is the horrible flood of obsession, jealousy, and a visceral desire so palpable that it makes you nauseous.

You put a hand to the wall behind you, feeling the need to brace yourself against something. Everything in the background falls to a dull buzzing rhythm—Franklyn’s giddy conversation with Hannibal, the muted sound of the performance that you can hear through the walls. You close your eyes and beg for the torture to stop. Maybe Franklyn will take pity on you and walk away. Maybe Hannibal will lose his patience and walk away, too—you wouldn’t be surprised.

Suddenly, there’s a hand on your forearm. You vaguely register—through swirling vision—Hannibal leading you further down the abandoned hallway until he stops and pushes you into an armchair. Despite the overwhelming emotionality that Franklyn practically assaulted you with, you manage to scrounge up a rather large amount of guilt.

“Sorry,” you choke out to Hannibal. Your breathing is still a bit rough and your clothes feel incredibly constricting. You roll up the sleeves of your jacket—well, Hannibal’s jacket—and try to stammer out the rest of your apology. “Feel free to go back inside; I just need a moment.”

You place a hand over your aching temple and another on the arm of the chair. Selfishly, you think that you could use Hannibal’s support, but you don’t want to occupy his attention when the performance is still happening. You close your eyes and try to pretend that your ears aren’t buzzing. You wait to hear his footsteps as he retreats; you wait to hear an acquiescence. A few seconds pass. Instead, there’s a hand on your shoulder.

“Dr. Lecter,” you choke out, your eyes beginning to burn. You wipe at them furiously, despite knowing that the effort is futile. “Go back inside.”

“No,” Hannibal says. You can’t see the expression on his face through your blurred vision—you just pray that it isn’t annoyance or irritation.

“I’ll be fine,” you maintain through gritted teeth. You think you hear Hannibal sigh at that, but it could easily be your imagination. The man looks down at you before pressing a cool hand to your forehead. Despite knowing that he’ll withdraw his hand in a few moments, you can’t help but lean into the touch.

“I’m sure,” Hannibal remarks, pulling you up to your feet and steadying you as your balance wavers. He places your hand on his arm and the two of you walk back in the direction you came. To your surprise, when you reach the door to the theater, Hannibal pivots and leads you towards the exit. You shake your head in disbelief as humiliation, shame, and guilt battle for prominence in your chest. Before long, Hannibal has led the two of you into his car. The moment you’re in his car, you bury your head in your hands.

Everything in your vision feels harsher and sharper. You begin to dig your nails into your palms unconsciously, hoping for some means to establish yourself in reality. You don’t realize you’re doing it until Hannibal reaches out and pries your hands apart. Your hands are trembling ever so slightly and you ball them into fists.

You’re not sure how much time you spend trying to regain your composure in the passenger seat of Hannibal’s car. Dignity is a foreign concept. You’re sure the embarrassment will catch up to you later—perhaps when you’re home and have some time to think.

At some point, Hannibal begins driving. Thankfully, the roads aren’t bumpy and the ride is rather smooth. He’s entirely silent and you feel the beginnings of remorse prickling along your skin. Hannibal never asked you to explain your interaction with Franklyn, but you feel that he deserves to know what happened.

“You realize Franklyn’s in love with you, right?” You blurt out, before quickly turning your head to look out the window and avoid Hannibal’s gaze. Truthfully, you had hoped to lead into that a little bit more. Somehow, that statement was what came from your lips.

“Yes.” Hannibal responds, his eyes still locked on the road. You take the afforded opportunity to look at him, confident in the notion that you aren’t being observed right back. Hannibal seems… entirely unruffled. Then again, he always looks unbothered. You wonder if you’ll ever be able to notice when something bothers him.

“He asked me what cologne you wear,” you decide to start with. You describe how you had tried to make your way back to the theater, only to be stopped by Hannibal’s patient and led off into a secluded hallway. “Franklyn knew that I was wearing your clothes; he also wanted to know what it’s like to be friends with you.”

“What did you say?” Hannibal asks, his attention still focused on the road.

“Nothing; he didn’t let me get a word in edgewise,” you admit. You run a finger along the smooth fabric of your shirt sleeve. Unbeknownst to you, the sleeve had started to roll up on its own; you take a moment to fix that before continuing to speak. “He’s so… suffocating.”

“It seemed his presence was harming you,” Hannibal remarks bluntly. You nod in agreement. At first, the interaction was merely uncomfortable. However, once Hannibal appeared, Franklyn’s emotions hit you with full force.

“I could feel everything,” you break off for a moment. “The love, the obsession, the jealousy, the envy… It was overwhelming. That man is the darkest person I’ve ever met.”

“He isn’t a killer,” Hannibal points out. That’s true—you’ve seen your fair share of killers, with minds so dark that you couldn’t hope to find an escape. Even so, those criminals were… straightforward. Franklyn, on the other hand, is a paradox.

“I know,” you acknowledge. “Franklyn is extremely neurotic, though—arguably the worst I’ve ever seen. It’s stifling. He has debilitating control issues and a crippling urge to prove himself. He’s often a victim of his own envy and jealousy. His self-concept is… I can’t even begin to describe it.” Yet, there’s a thinly-veiled hunger in Hannibal’s eyes—he wants to hear what you have to say. You inhale slowly. Again, you feel as if you owe him for absolutely ruining his night. Besides, you’re sure that he already knows all this information anyway. Franklyn is his patient, after all.

“Franklyn is sort of… a shapeshifter, for lack of a better term. He’ll adjust and change himself to fit the situation best. When he’s in love, he’s dangerously obsessed. His unconventional actions are reassuring to him, though, because they give him a modicum of control—a control that he cannot possess over anything else.” You have a lot more that you could divulge on the matter, but you decide to stop there. Again, you’re convinced that Hannibal already knows all of that.

“I see why you’re Jack’s best profiler,” Hannibal says, finally looking away from the road to look at you. His eyes are glittering in the darkness. You roll your eyes at the unnecessary compliment, too tired to start an argument. To your surprise, when you look out the window, you realize that he’s driving down your street. That car ride had passed rather fast and within a few seconds, Hannibal is pulling into your driveway.

“We’re here,” you announce unnecessarily, grabbing the door handle and stepping out of the vehicle. To your surprise, Hannibal also gets out of the car. You squint at him in confusion, but he doesn’t seem to notice. You’re not quite sure what he’s playing at, but you’re too exhausted to figure it out. Instead of inquiring about his sudden interest in following you inside, you simply allow him to do so before closing the door behind him.

“Do you want your clothes back now?”  You ask, unable to come up with any other explanation for his presence in your home. It’s not that you mind his intrusion—not at all, actually—but you’d feel more comfortable for a legitimate reason for his presence.

“If that’s acceptable,” Hannibal answers, breaking you out of your thoughts. His eyes are fixed on something on one of your bookshelves. You shake your head at his strange fascination with your living room decorations.

“Sure, I’ll go change; mind waiting here?” He assures you that he doesn’t mind waiting. You shut the door behind you in the bathroom and stare at yourself in the mirror for a moment. There are dark circles under your eyes and you look a little frazzled. Otherwise, you don’t look bad. Amazingly, you managed not to ruin Hannibal’s clothing—a feat you’re rather proud of yourself for. You settle for changing into a simple long-sleeved shirt and sweatpants. As you change, you neatly fold Hannibal’s clothing into a pile. Once you’re done, you glance at your reflection one more time. You take a half-step backwards but, before you move to leave, your eyes catch on something below your collar. You squint and lean closer to the mirror, convinced that you’re seeing things. Somehow, though, you’re not. After a moment’s hesitation, you pull your shirt collar to the side, only to find harsh marks on your collarbone and shoulder. They’re almost in the shape of a handprint and it doesn’t take much detective work to realize who they’re from—Franklyn.

That realization is not very welcome, and you decide not to think about it right now. Remembering that Hannibal is waiting on you, you grab the folded pile of clothes and walk back out to the living room. Unsurprisingly, Hannibal is looking around with a scrutinizing gaze. You walk up to him and hold out the clothes, but his back is turned. You eventually just decide to place them on the entryway table—he’ll have to see them on the way out.

“Thank you for inviting me, it was very fun,” you smile. Hannibal turns around, seemingly just noticing your presence. Just what is he looking for in your humble living room? He certainly won’t find anything of value. Furthermore, your decoration skills are nowhere near his. You can’t find a reasonable explanation for his behavior and, eventually, you have to give up on trying to rationalize it.

“I’m glad you found the night enjoyable,” he answers diplomatically. You raise an eyebrow at the stiff response. Perhaps your little… episode… had annoyed him more than you initially thought. Another apology certainly wouldn’t hurt.

“I hope I didn’t ruin your experience too much,” you wince, sheepishly shoving your hands in your pockets. Hannibal shakes his head, before taking a step closer to you.

“On the contrary, I found the performance more enjoyable with your company,” he asserts. Hannibal still looks as handsome as he did when he first appeared on your doorstep this evening—not a hair out of place. You swallow hard, before roughly shoving the thought aside—now is not the time. “I apologize for Franklyn.” Your eyebrows furrow. Why is he apologizing?

“You can’t control his actions,” you say, waving his concern off. “No harm done.” At that, Hannibal’s expression darkens. He takes another step closer, until the two of you are standing face to face. For a while, there is nothing but tense, uncomfortable silence.

“I disagree,” Hannibal says darkly, his hand resting lightly on your collarbone. Before you can protest, he’s gently pushing away the collar of your shirt to look at your shoulder. He frowns and you realize that he’s looking at the marks Franklyn left behind. If you had thought his prior expression to be dark, the look on his face now is nothing short of murderous. You feel your breath stalling in your chest, as you ground yourself in the realization that you’re standing in front of a killer with absolutely nothing to protect you. Hannibal moves to cup your cheek with a tenderness you thought him to be incapable of. His touch makes your skin feel licked with flames. Each breath you take feels labored and harsh. You swear you see Hannibal’s gaze fall to your lips for a brief moment, but you put it down to your imagination. It’s kind of late and you’re tired—you’re probably just seeing things. For a long moment, neither of you move or speak.

“Good night,” Hannibal says, a strangely determined expression on his face. His gaze keeps moving to your collarbone and you idly wish you had concealed the marks better. His hand falls from your face and he stares at you for a long moment, as if regretting your parting. You make sure to remind him of the pile of folded clothes, which he takes into his arms before turning around to leave.

“Good night, Hannibal,” you respond, opening the door for him. You watch as he enters his car and drives away. Despite the knowledge that he’s already out of sight, you feel the urge to wait a few more minutes before looking away. Finally, you close the front door and fall back against it, your mind reeling.

chapter six

#defectivevillain #Hannibal Lecter x reader #Hannibal Lecter x male reader #hannibal x reader #hannibal x male reader #hannibal x gn reader #Hannibal Lecter x gn reader #hannibal lecter #hannibal nbc

[luvhughes43]

wild side | jack hughes x reader

suki waterhouse masterlist

summary: y/n is positive that jack is cheating. it started out as an insecurity of hers, until she finds proof that her boyfriend is seeing somebody else.

lyrics: "if she calls, would you run? would you run to her? 'cause i know how it feels when its not over" and "i learned to read between the lines, you're talking truths, you're talking lies, i can tell when there's somebody else"

word count: 0.9k

You weren’t obvious. You knew that Jack had a long list of ex hookups and girlfriends. You knew that they’d try to call him in the middle of the night, and you knew that there were new girls entirely that would try to lure him into their beds. 

You would say you were lying if you did not admit that you were a little insecure in yours and Jack's relationship. You’ve been together for over a year now, and every time he left on a long roadie, somewhere where you knew the girls on his phone lived, you got a little more into your head. 

If somebody called… would he run to her? You had been in relationships before. You knew how it felt with a past fling or ex called you up in the middle of the night, asking for just one more time… you wondered if Jack would answer.

“I dont get why you're so insecure all the time!” Jack yelled when you asked for the second time if he would theoretically pick up the phone. 

“It’s a simple question! Why are you getting so upset?” you retorted, arms crossed as you stared at Jack standing in the entryway. He was about to go celebrate a win with his team. He had just come home for a minute to change and to tell you he was heading out. No invitations for you to join him or anything. 

“I’m upset because you don’t trust me!” he shouted again, he ran his hands through his hair to try to calm himself down.

“I do trust you it was just a question” you said defensively, going back into the living room and taking back your spot on the couch. If he didn’t want to answer that's fine, but how hard is it really to just say that you wouldn't cheat.

“Whatever” was all he said as he slammed the front door of your shared apartment, leaving you to question if what you asked was wrong. You just couldn't help but want to be comforted by him, even if he felt your insecurities were ludicrous. 

“Sorry” he would mumble to you as he slipped past the sheets, turning you around so he was able to hold you close. You turned into him. You let Jack wrap one of his arms around your waist as you leant up to kiss the space between his jaw and collarbone. Trailing kisses, you heard Jack let out a soft moan from underneath you. You smelt the perfume on his neck, you saw the faint marks that you didn’t leave on his skin. You knew you were right to question how he reacted earlier, but you didn’t want to acknowledge it when he was the one you wanted so badly. 

However soon enough you couldn't deny everything you were witnessing. You weren’t an idiot, you could tell when Jack was lying. Every time he lied he’d looked at your eyebrows or your nose, anywhere on your face that wasn’t your eyes.

You also noticed how his schedule slowly started to shift. How he needed to be out later on the roads, how it suddenly took him longer to shower after a game and to pick up the phone. It all added to what you already knew. 

He got home late again one night, and you pretended to be asleep as he made his way through your apartment and into your bedroom. He quickly slipped in next to you in bed, facing away from you to scroll through his phone before retiring to sleep. You slowly shifted so you were facing him, and you saw him scroll through pictures of girls in his camera roll. Red lace, black satin, they were all spread out for him. No doubt his collection from the past two weeks of being away.

You watched him click on the pictures, you felt the twist of your heart, you heard him power off his phone, and you felt him shift to hold you close.

The next night he was gone again, and you were too. You refused to listen to another I love you. You packed as much of your things as you could, surrendering the rest for Jack to do with as he pleases. Your friend was quick to pick you up, scared of the calm in your voice as you told her you caught your boyfriend cheating again.

You have 5 new voicemails!

Baby, please, I don't know what you saw… or heard, but please come home. Call me back when you hear this.

1:23am

I know you're probably sleeping but yn i love you. Just tell me where you are and i'll come get you. 

1:35am

Okay yn seriously you're worrying me. I've been up all night waiting for a call or text… you’ve moved all of your stuff out, i just… let me see you please. I love you. You know I do.

1:47am

baby. I’ve waited an hour now, and I know you're probably hurting or upset… so please just tell me what you saw or heard. I promise I can explain. I didnt- i … I've been making a lot of mistakes recently and I need you to know that you’re not one of them. I love you. Please call me back.

2:49am

I love you. I am so so sorry. Please call me back. I need you. Please answer the phone baby… I swear I'll make this up to you.

7:04am

You never got an answer out of jack, but you had figured out your own. You deleted all of his messages and ignored his incoming calls.

#suki waterhouse fic list #jack hughes x reader #jack hughes one shot #jack hughes #jack hughes blurb #nhl fanfiction #nhl fic #nhl imagine #nhl blurb

[luimagines]

Finally did a part 2 of this cuz college is tearing me apart.

Kith kith thank you kith kith kith

TW for brief mentions of torture, murder, and subtle themes of trafficking.

—

“Why did you hide your scales??”

“I didn’t want you all to find out.”

“Why didn’t you want us to find out??”

“Due to my species secluded nature and the value people put on as a rare species, it’s taught to us as young guppies to never reveal what we truly are.”

“Why am I your favorite??”

“Sailors and pirates spread tales that we’re evil and monstrous to deter people from searching us out and invading our waters. They protected us, so when you told me of your tales, I knew you were a good guppy.”

“Is it cannibalism if you eat fish??”

“No.”

This back and forth between the Sailor and Hush, now preferring (Y/n), has been going on for the entirety of the walk to the stables. Seated on top of Epona to prevent his wound from reopening, Wind had no short of breath when asking every question he thought of in his little head. Impressively, at least to Time, (Y/n) never disappointed the boy by answering every question thrown at them, no matter how ridiculous. However, that last one was enough for everybody else.

“For the love of— Enough questions! Goddess, if I hear one more “why” I’m turning around and you’ll never see me again!” Of course Legend was the first to speak up, dramatically covering his ears with his hat.

“Come on, Legend! Are the you the least bit curious?! (Y/n) is more willing to talk now!”

The veteran just groaned, refusing to grace this frustrating argument with a response. (Y/n) merely chuckled, bringing a hand up to cover their mouth as the laughter escapes them.

“Sailor, perhaps that’s enough questions for now, you can ask me more at dinner. That sound good?” In a gentle voice contrasting the carnage they left in their wake an hour prior, (Y/n) does their best to halt whatever ludicrous questions Wind had left.

Reluctantly, the young on agreed with a small pout. “Fine, but I still think that you eating fish is cannibalism!”

“It’s really not.”

Once the stable was in eye shot, many of the group gave halfhearted cheers. It’s not often enough that they get an actual roof over their heads, so it’s a very welcome view. The large horse structure stood high above where the building actually ended, acting as a sort of beacon for the traveling heroes.

Wild, Warrior, and Time went ahead to grab a few beds for the party, one extra soft mattress for Sailor due to his heavy wound. The kid’s been busting his butt with helping everyone out lately, so it was a little treat for him, at least Warrior thought so (yes im a sucker for dad warriror to wind sue me).

Seeing that they were back in a more public area, (Y/n) goes back to being silent. At least now the chain had an idea why and didn’t question it.

(Y/n) helped getting Wind off of Epona and to the bed, lightly cooing at him whenever the boy winces in pain from the movement. The sight particularly warmed Twilight’s heart, feeling especially empathetic towards (Y/n), the two of them both hiding another side to themselves from the chain. He makes mental note to talk to them about it later, Time already asked (Y/n) for a deeper explanation of the situation.

The captain had never seen Wind so willing to help, but it was a welcome change.

Later that night, the group was huddled around a nearby cooking pot, watching Wild toss together who knows what to create their dinner. Wind was resting on his bed, absolutely exhausted from the day. Without his comments, the chain grew tense, many debating who was gonna ask (Y/n) the first question.

“What exactly is a guppy?”

Surprisingly, Sky was the one to break the ice. Everyone’s eyes shoot to either him or (Y/n), Wild almost ends up dropping his ladle into the pot.

The silence following Sky’s relatively innocent question was comical, so much so that (Y/n) couldn’t help but crack a smirk, an airy chuckle escaping them. “Oh boy, it’s gonna be a fun night. It’s just a word for a young mer, nothing more.” They lightly rolled their eyes, the personality they had known mixed with the voice they only just learnt felt so right now hand in hand.

A couple more laughs are shared before the silence from before lays over them again. Twlight shifts his weight on his feet before asking a question everyone was avoiding: “Not that we’re mad but… why did you choose to hide this?” He knew he was a hypocrite for asking such a question, but he just had to know. Maybe, deep down, he just wanted to see how the group responded to revealed secrets. “You kinda touched on it with the sailor, but you didn’t get into the meat of it.”

(Y/n) doesn’t move for a moment, the question weighing heavily on their shoulders.

Noticing their discomfort and stunned by Twilight’s question, Sky tries to speak up. “You don’t have to answer of course! Don’t force yourself—“

“I can show you.”

Without waiting for another word, (Y/n) pulls their shirt up just under their pectoral muscles, the scales the boys had seen in their companion’s arms were scattered across their stomach but…

“My peoples’ scales fetch a high price to noble pigs who use our bodies as jewelry and keep us as pets for status…” That pause to take a steadying breath, “I was trapped as a pet before, had to kill my masters to free myself before they took any more of my skin. It’s just safer to hide ourselves forever than risk becoming nothing less than a trophy.” (Y/n) chuckles humorlessly, their gaze falling to the fire in the center of the group. “Our voices can be a strong indicator for what we really are… So I kept it to myself.”

Twilight could practically see the the flashing memories and arrow fast thoughts flying pass their eyes. He watched them pull their shirt back down, a little further than it usually falls, as if hiding their scared body will erase the pain entirely.

The rancher relaxed his shoulders and sat himself next to them, noting that they shift away when his pelt brushing their back. “That explains a whole heckin lot… Thank you for tellin us, Hush,” (Y/n) relaxes, “even though I bet it stinks having to tell us already.” He smiles and lightly slugs their shoulder, trying to bring some of the playful energy back to the group. “So, you sure it ain’t cannibalism eatin fish?”

“For the love of the goddesses— It isn’t!” (Y/n) overdramatic groan has to be the loudest the chain has heard them speak, if you don’t count their shriek from earlier. Laughter sings around the circle with (Y/n) going into an exasperated rant that they didn’t really mean.

They think they can get used to speaking this loud.

—

tada, again! \(•v•\)

oh my god- I was not expecting this.

A dark but very realistic background for our friend Hush. Poor thing.

But also- Can't say I'm surprised. Mermaids and sirens are mythical creatures. It only makes too much sense for those rich and ignorant to take advantage of them.

They're free now though! And with good friends and people who will defend them!

Hopefully they do get used to speaking out loud. And maybe learn to blend in a little more with the others when they speak so they don't get caught and figured out.

#pinky replies #anon stories #mermaid! reader #siren! reader #someone remind me to put this on the masterlist please!

[mischiefmanaged71]

Let’s Fall In Love For The Night - (2/10)

Summary: Being the eldest daughter of a Duke and Duchess means that Lady Y/N has been prepared for society; to fulfil her duties as the next heir to her family name and estate. However, she dreams of so much more than that, particularly, finding someone she truly loves rather than a political match. Intrigue sparks an idea with the introduction of Tom Bennett, a soldier she meets on a Press tour - forming a new relationship that could either make or break her apart should things turn against her favour.

Pairing: Tom Bennett x fem! reader

All of her attention fell onto the book in her lap as Y/N poured over the pages. The overcast sky shrouded the enormous front lawn in a dull light, suiting for the crisp weather. She found herself drifting from the pages, lost within a daze. Her thoughts wandered to him.

The young sailor she had met those days prior. Tom Bennett. His behaviour would have been presumed as controversial and arrogant, to ask such questions. And yet, she found his conversation quite refreshing. He was respectful in the way he treated her, not gawking at her as many men did. There was much to appreciate in both his conversation and his appearance. She wouldn’t deny there were many parts to his appearance that drew her in. His blonde hair neatly brushed atop his head. Those soft blue eyes which grew mellow with the contrast of the sky and sea. His strong bone structure, the curve of his lips-

Her train of thought was cut off with the approach of footsteps, followed by her door swinging open. She groaned as her youngest brother, Matthew, leaped into her arms. A laugh escapes her mouth as she excitedly embraced him back. "Someone's very excited today." She smiled, "What are you up to?"

Her smile dropped, meeting her mother's concerned gaze from the doorway.

"Something distracting you?" Her mother asked.

Y/N raised her eyebrows, releasing her arms from her brother's shoulders as he wandered off, probably to find some entertainment.

"You seem distracted, as of late."

"It’s nothing. I find myself absorbed in my books." She replied, eyes distant.

Her mother smiled, accepting the answer "How was the tour?"

Y/N didn’t meet her gaze, "It was perfectly fine. Although I wouldn't say I'm comfortable with the attention."

"I'm sure they were stunned for many reasons. It's not every day they grace a Lady."

"Yes, but they are also deprived of female attention." Y/N pointed out. "You should see the way they stare."

"I know how they do." Her mother replied.

"It's disconcerting. And dehumanising." she stated.

Her mother agreed, but what else was there to do within their world?

"I understand your father spoke to you already, but I’ve thought over it. Are you sure there isn't any possibility out there you haven't considered? Is there anyone-"

"My answer is the same, mother." Her expression hardened, "I do not desire the same things as you and father. I don't care for any of the men you’ve proposed."

"And that is okay. There are plenty of opportunities to meet someone."

Y/N sighed, "I do not believe I will find a suitable partner in the current circle you have me entangled in."

"Why not? Why have you dismissed them all?”

She raised her eyebrows, "Mother-if you'd only speak to them, you would understand. Many of them are ludicrous, pompous and entitled. The appeal ceases to be seen."

"But, not all of them will be like that." 

Y/N sighed, shaking her head. Her mother was relentless in her questions. She loved her parents, but their persistence on certain matters threatened to drive her to insanity sometimes.

"One of the things I adore about you, my daughter, is your passion and imagination. I've always hoped you would hold onto that keen sense of the world. But I'm afraid the kind of dreams you pursue aren’t a reality, especially for people like us."

"Ah, yes.” she smiled sardonically, “We are most proud of living with zero ounces of happiness in our lives in favour of supplicating the opinions of others." Y/N strained a smile, standing from her seat to cross her room. "Of course, one cannot be happy in our realm of the world, right, mother? Not with all our privileges, wealth and status."

"What has caused this pessimistic behaviour of recent?" She breathed in a low whisper.

The smile fell from her face as she stood tall before the woman, “I'm just being realistic, mother. Isn't that what you wanted?"

The Duchess' strained jaw and unwavering stare told her otherwise.

Her daughter sighed, grabbing her coat from the rack, "I'm going out. Don't wait up for me."

"Y/N-"

"-I'll be back later.", her tone of voice was curt.

"Take care of yourself." Her mother left her with that.

***

Usually Y/N would take the chauffeur and car, but that day she felt up for travelling without the extra pair of eyes. She headed to the garage, collecting the keys to her Jaguar for a trip.

It was freeing, pulling away from the winding roads of the manor to the main road and off to somewhere further. An enticed feeling rushed through her as the wind flowed through her hair. The time gets away from her while the towns pass by. Many hours have left her before she stopped in the nearest town. It was by the sea too, which was a grand idea to her in the moment. Another upside was, she'd never stepped foot in the town, increasing the appeal without, hopefully, too many wandering eyes.

Y/N wandered the street, scanning her surroundings with interest. Many identical buildings lined the street - evidently flats and store fronts on the opposite end. There was an essence of freedom laced in her veins as she wandered the streets aimlessly, studying her new scenery with interest.

A giddy feeling stirred in her chest at the sight of the beach in the distance. It was still daylight, although later in the afternoon, which was the perfect timing for a stroll. While the Manor was certainly lovely with its picturesque setting, horse paddocks, and gardens - it could not compare to the serenity of the ocean.

She slipped off her heels, digging her toes into the sand as she walked along the shore. A deep sigh left her chest, the calming crash of the ocean and the quiet swallowing her overactive thoughts.

Tom Bennett strolled down the street from his house after departing once again for some fresh air. In his running streak of behaviour, there always seemed to be something for his dad or Lois to pick out. Not that he wasn't perpetuating these behaviours. He was an instigator of many fights and arguments, inside and outside of his home. That's what made him a bit of a troublemaker and arrogant sod. At least that is what he'd heard.

He exhaled, a puff of smoke releasing from his mouth. The man halted in his steps, closer to the turn off toward the beach. Perhaps a walk would clear his head. Not that he didn't already spend enough time in the ocean.

Tom considered whether it was luck, fate or some other being at work. It was probably pure coincidence as he recognised the woman walking along the shore.

"What brings you back here so soon?" He called out, seeing as she was less than twenty paces away. He didn't want to frighten her by standing so close and addressing her straight away.

Her head whipped around in confusion, not expecting attention. Y/N gasped and faltered in her steps, recognising the man upon meeting his gaze.

"I'll be honest. I don't really know." She confessed, "I just kept driving."

"It's a bit far, isn't it?"

She nodded, "I needed a getaway."

"Troubles at home?"

She glanced at him, hesitant to answer. Tom continued, stepping closer.

"Nah, I know all about that." Breathing another puff from his cigarette. "What are you doing here then?" He gestured.

She shrugged, "I needed space, and this is the most quiet I'll get. It's so peaceful."

"I best be going then." He said, turning to leave her to her quiet/

"No-um. You can stay." She waved a hand, taking a seat on the sand. He smirked, enticed with her flustered face as she recovered. Tom watched her push the hair from her face. "I promise, it's fine."

"Alright." He agreed, taking a seat next to her, "I'll stay."

A silence passed for a minute or so as they watched the waves crash on the shore. It was a comfortable silence that stilled over the moment. And yet, Y/N felt something stir in her stomach as she anxiously thought over something to say. Tom broke the silence.

"So, what's got you down here? By yourself.”

She glanced from him back to the waves while the tightness in her chest returned, "My parents can be...overbearing sometimes."

Tom raised his eyebrows, allowing her to continue.

"They keep persisting about this one thing no matter how many times I've told them of my place." She continued, shaking her head in exasperation. "Do you know how infuriating it is? It's like they don't even want listen to what I have to say at all."

"I can understand that." he tilted his head, leaning his arms across his knees, “Have you tried another approach or...”

She huffed, shaking her head. What options did she have besides badgering her position over and over to a brick wall. “I couldn't possibly know what's good for myself, or what I want. As a woman, it doesn't matter. In the end, everyone judges me no matter what decision I make."

He glanced at her, his lips tucked in a tight line “What is it that’s bothering you, exactly? That is, if you don’t mind sharing.”

Y/N opened and closed her mouth, "They expect me to meet people. To be married one day to some pompous Lord, or even a Prince, despite my heavy dispute of the matter."

"Why? You don't like those posh types?" A smirk lining his lips.

She sent him a ludicrous look, "I do not want to spend the rest of my life under someone else's thumb. If you met any one of the possible options my parents put forth, you'd agree."

"Don't think I'd have to meet them." he murmured, humour in his tone.

Y/N continued, unloading the weight on her mind. "They are arrogant, overconfident pricks - expecting of a wife to do everything but share her thoughts."

He nodded, "They sound lovely. It's a wonder the bastards get so far without a personality."

“Yes, they all seem to share the same patronising stare and snobbish look.”

They laughed together, the conversation flowing back and forth for long until they realised it was hours later.

"It's been nice. Talking with you." She ducked her head, "I do hope to see you again. If that's possible." glancing at him briefly.

"Sooner rather than later." He smiled, leaning closer.

"Your crew leaves in two months." she stated.

Tom nodded, "Ready to ship me off to the next battle. Be lucky if we manage to sink their ships before they do ours."

"Be careful." She mustered a small smile, "It would unfortunate to lose you so soon after we just met."

"Worried about me, love?" He teased, "Don’t be. I've been told I’m stubborn, so they'll have to try very hard."

A beat passed before she whispered, “Are you ever afraid?" 

Tom swallowed, tilting his head "All the time. All it takes one mistake, one hit and we could all go down. What I’ve learnt is -you have to look out for yourself." He stated, "The world is fucked up. We're paying the price for someone else's war."

The breeze drew through her hair as she looked down at her hands, listening to him.

"I can't say I know the same struggle as you, but I can hope to understand your fear. I have two younger brothers...I fear what would happen to them if they were forced to fight. It is not fair that others should have to fight, while we reside comfortably in our homes."

"I assume your family don't share that view."

She sighed, a breathy laugh escaping her mouth "No. Many of them do not. Many of my relatives regard me as rebellious for my opinions. Because a Lady should not speak her opinions, no less controversial one's regarding them."

Tom laughed, and she chased the lovely sound, looking at him with wonder. "You'd get along with my sister."

"What is she like?"

"Lois is smart, and caring. We get along right. She takes care of me and Dad." He smiled, something sad there, "My mother died when I was young, so Lois took on a lot of her roles. Keeping us boys in check."

"I'm sorry." Tom looked down at her hand covering his. He hummed, clasping her hand as he nodded.

"It was a long time ago. Lots happened since."

"And where do you see yourself later?" She asked, bringing his gaze up. "You know, when you get back?"

"Why you asking?”

She shrugged, leaning back on her hands. "Just wondering. A lot can change in two months.”

"No plans." He replied, moving closer to her. There was only a small space left between them now.

"Have you travelled much?" Y/N asked, meeting his gaze. His eyes were this particular shade between blue and grey that she could find herself lost in. The subtle scent of something citrus and spiced filled her senses.

"Round England. That's about it. I haven’t really had a reason to travel.”

She mustered a smile, looking down "Maybe you could show me Manchester sometime? I could show you around where I grew up."

"Just say when and I'm yours." Her cheeks flushed and she turned, gasping at the gap between them. Tom's smirk fell into a stare as his eyes darkened, glancing between her eyes and lips. She felt her heart pound in her chest at his stare and the his warm breath mixing with her own.

Neither of them said anything, Y/N's own eyes falling to his full lips that seemed to instinctively twist into a playful smile that drove her mind into overdrive. Her eyes fluttered shut against her better judgement as she felt him lean closer and all logic left her with the thought of a kiss sending a rush of vertigo through her veins. That's what the feeling was with him, the brush of his hand and that stare sent shivers along her skin.

Something twisted in her gut as she suddenly realised what she was doing. She had only just met Tom. It wasn't suitable, and she wasn't going to rush into things. Y/N's felt her face flush as she exhaled. Her breath brushing Tom's face cheek as she pulled back.

"I should go. It's late." She smiled apologetically.

"Right." Tom nodded, his eyes glancing around before he helped her off the ground. She was hesitant to let go of his hand, allowing him to walk her to the car. 

She finally broke the silence, deciding to just go for it "What would you say if I came back on Monday? Around noon?”

"I'd call it a date." a grin grew on his face as he shut the door for her, "Drive safe, love."

TAGS

@pearlstiare @dothrckis @aemonds-sapphire @xcharlottemikaelsonx  @filipinamultifandom ​ @padfooteyes ​ @aemondsvhagar @batsyforyou @yentroucnagol @cl-0-vr @viviartsy @h3k3t @arcana-greenleaf  @yummycastiel @amysnowflake92 @lauraneedstochill @ladybug0095 @rntrsna @schniiipsel

#tom bennett #tom bennett x reader #world on fire #ewan mitchell

[azaleapaperpad]

Red Curtains and Chandeliers

Phantom of The Opera (Broadway version)(Merik) x GN! Reader (Part 3) WC: 1266

Your friend dragged you over to the staircase and looked around for something. You knew better this time, not looking directly at the secret lever right away. They looked around everywhere for it, and you only glanced at it once. After a few minutes, realizing most of the crowd had likely fled, you were standing there, your best friend absolutely frustrated. Their face even started turning a bit red. “This is ludicrous! You saw him too, right?!” They asked you. Well, more like screamed at you. You nodded silently, still reeling from the events of the night. You wanted to try and get yourself out of there as soon as possible. 

“Maybe we should get out of here… It’s getting late.” You said, trying to feign defeat. They looked over at you and sighed. “Yes… I suppose.” They said, dusting off their costume and joining you by their side. You two walked back to the dorm quietly, your friend fuming.

After a few minutes of silence and getting ready for bed, your friend turned to you.

“Do you think there’s a chance Madam Giry will tell us anything?” They asked. You looked up at them and arched a brow.

“Maybe a senior ballerina, or other senior staff, but not us.” You said as you shook your head. They furrowed their brow like that wasn’t the correct answer.

“What about that Meg girl?” They inquired. You scoffed.

“She’s hesitant. She believes if you speak of the Phantom, he shall appear before you.” You chuckled out. “The next best option would be Christine Daae, but she’s either practicing or off with the Viscount.” You said.

“But there’s still a chance?” They asked hopefully. Don’t even think about it- is what you wanted to say, but you were tired.

“If you believe so, my friend. But it is late, we should get some rest.” You sighed, exhausted both emotionally and physically. 

The following weeks were fairly uneventful, aside from the casting of ‘Don Juan Triumphant’ where you and your friend happened to be cast in the same routines. You smiled at them when they told you the wonderful news and immediately sped off to the practice room together.

Weeks passed, and before you knew it you were only a week away from first curtain. You and your friend had decided to take a break in between practices and walk around the theater, watching the actors practice their lines. You were giggling about Piangi, he kept messing up a certain bit and the rest of the cast was getting fussy.

As Madam Giry is arguing with Carlotta, you and your friend go silent. You both know better at this point than to do so much as breathe too loudly when Madam Giry was speaking. After the actors went quiet, your eyes drifted up to the rafters and you saw him.

Upon instinct, you reach for your friend's arm, still looking up. Your friend looked over to you, then where your eyes were. You darted your eyes back to theirs, staring at them and immediately, sternly saying “No.” They frowned at you. Suddenly, you heard the actors singing, and the piano playing, but no one was near the piano. Horror filled your eyes, and your flight instinct kicked in again. You dragged your friend out of the audience and to your dorm, heart hammering in your chest, despite your friend's protests and attempts to go back.

"We c-can't, we just can't-" You started.

“You owe me.” They said shortly, a slight frown on their face. You knew they weren’t actually upset, but you also know their 'Adventurousness' would get them hurt, or worse. You figured, you’ve known them long enough and you do owe them some sort of explanation. 

After you got back to the dorms, they sighed and sat on their bed, kicking their shoes off and taking their coat and layers off. You followed suite and once you both got comfortable, they went to lay on their bed, having barely said a word all night. You frowned slightly, and sat on the foot of their bed.

They looked at you curiously and tilted their head, “What’s the matter, mon cher?” They asked softly. You gave a small smile. It wasn't a normal smile, it was more of a self-pitying smile, and you sighed.

“You were right,” you mumbled, hugging your knees and resting your head onto said knees. 

“Oh? I’m sorry what was that?” They asked teasingly, smiling and starting to giggle.

“You were right, le stupide.” You said, a little louder, laughing with them. 

“What was I right about this time?” They asked, sitting up and crossing their legs. 

“I…” You paused for a second, taking a deep breath. “I do owe you an explanation. About something I haven’t been telling you about.” You said softly, your smile fading and your tone becoming more serious.

“You’re not a vampire, are you?” They asked.

“What? No, I-”

“Werewolf?”

“No, you’re missing the poin-”

“Did you cause the flames from earlier?!” They gasped. 

“No, idiot! Give me a second, I’m trying to find the words!” You laughed. You took another breath and continued. You told them about how you admired The Phantom before the chandelier crash, and then became fearful and bitter at the rise of Christine (which has since settled because you thought rationally about the situation) and then finally, you refuse to face him because it would hurt too much. They listened, and when you had finished, they stayed quiet for a moment, processing everything. 

“Do you have… any questions?” You asked shyly. They nodded their head excitedly, their eyes not quite focused on you though. 

“Oh, I have so many questions, I just need a minute to process absolutely everything you just said.” They said quickly, a hand coming up to your shoulder. You sat there, awkwardly as your friend took about 3 minutes to process everything. 

“So, let me just get this straight,” they started. “You’re in love with The Phantom of the Opera Populaire?” they asked, their pitch going up. 

“I…” You started, but you couldn’t bring yourself to say it. You nodded slowly, looking down. Not necessarily in shame or embarrassment, but more in a “I’ve barely accepted it myself” kind of way. They chuckled.

“I was wondering why you wouldn't tell me anything... but you always were the ghoulish one of the bunch,” they chuckled. You were surprised, they didn’t say anything mean, or rather, “meaner” than their normal amount. 

“That… is that it?” You chuckled dryly. 

“I don’t feel… upset by this information. The only thing I’m upset about is that you didn’t tell me sooner. If I had known, I wouldn’t have tried to drag you towards him so many times.” They rolled their eyes. “If I’m being honest, I’m probably more obsessed with him than you~” they teased. You shot them a dirty look, playfully, and you both started laughing. 

“It feels so nice to tell someone, finally.” You breathed out, stretching your limbs out to get up and go to your own bed. You looked back at your friend. “Thank you, for understanding.” You said softly as you bid them goodnight.

“Of course. You’re my dearest friend, how could I ever be mad at you?” they said sweetly. “Though, you best be careful. I swapped your sugar and salt after you upset me earlier.” They warned as you turned off the oil lamp. You let out one hearty

“Hah!” before you hit the pillow. “That’s okay. I’ll get you back before the first show.” You joked. More or less. 

#phantom of the opera #poto #erik destler #erik poto #the phantom of the opera #christine daae #fanfic #phantom x reader

[ao719]

The Pact (Part 3)

This is a submission for @choicesflashfics​, using prompts #2, “Look at me and tell me I’m wrong.” and prompt #3, “I’m just ... I’m a little bit confused.”

Song inspo: Tempt My Trouble - Bishop Briggs

A/N: This is an au mini series to my Hopeless Hearts story. Thank you to @burnsoslow for prereading! Please excuse any errors.

Pairing: Liam x OC (Aria)

Rating: M • Warnings: None but some mild language and innuendos.

Word count: 2496

Catch up here

Stepping out of a shop down in the heart of Cordonia, Aria, Lea, Maia, and Korinna made their way down the sidewalk. “Where are we meeting them?” Aria asked.

“The beer garden,” Lea answered.

The girls were visiting for a long weekend after being invited to come for a festival that had taken place the day before. After a late morning of shopping that the guys wanted no part of, they were now heading to meet them for lunch.

As they approached the beer garden, they spotted Drake, Maxwell, and Rashad lingering outside, waiting for them. “Jesus, what did you buy?” Drake asked, looking at the bags clutched in Lea’s hands as she approached him.

Lea giggled. “Just some stuff. Not too much. I may have gotten you a present or two.”

“Oh?” Drake playfully questioned as he slid an arm around her waist.

“Ok, let’s eat,” Maxwell said. “I’m starving.” Korinna nodded in agreement and the two headed inside.

Aria subtly glanced around. “The little prince decided not to join us?” she quipped.

Drake shook his head with a laugh. “He had a lunch date with one of the girls from court.”

“Hm,” Aria hummed, fighting back a smile. “Interesting. And I suppose the beer garden was too peasant-like for a date with His Highness?”

“Yeah,” Rashad chuckled. “He took her to Neró Tavérna near the pier.”

Thank you, Aria thought triumphantly. She was glad their friends didn’t know their secret; they wouldn’t give up information quite so easily if they did.

“Shall we head inside?” Rashad gestured towards the door. “If we don’t, Maxwell is going to order for all of us.”

As they started to walk inside, Aria lingered behind. Lea glanced over her shoulder, holding the door open for her. “You coming?”

“Uh, actually, I’m still full from breakfast. I think I’m going to walk around and explore a little bit more.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, go eat. I’ll meet back up with you guys later.”

“Ok,” Lea smiled before disappearing inside.

Aria turned around and started down the sidewalk in the direction of Neró Tavérna. A lunch date, she thought, shaking her head with a quiet laugh. He thinks he’s being slick. Liam taking this woman to lunch instead of dinner was his way of trying to throw Aria off and make it seem less important to him.

Ever since Liam’s little stunt with that singing telegram two years ago, this had become their thing. They’d gotten smarter and more strategic regarding dates over time, but not smart enough. If the other was around, they always managed to find out one way or another, and the game would ensue. Some were easily run off, others took a bit more convincing, but in the end, they always won.

And in the end, Liam and Aria always ended up in bed together; it seemed like an unspoken way for the sabotager to claim their victory.

Aria couldn’t stand Liam — at least that’s what she told herself — so why play this game at all? Because it was just … what they did. She refused to admit that in the back of her mind lingered those words Liam uttered two years ago. “Let’s say … if at 25, if we’re both single … I’ll skip my season and you and I will get married. Settle down with each other.” They were 23 now, and the mere thought that there was any possibility of that stupid drunken pact between them coming to be was ludicrous. Laughable. Ridiculous.

Aria refused to admit that the reason she sabotaged his dates was because she wanted Liam for herself. And she refused to acknowledge the possibility of that being the very same reason he sabotaged hers. She told herself she didn’t want Liam in that way and convinced herself he felt the same. What they wanted from each other they got, more than willingly and often. Things would never go beyond what happened between them behind closed doors, however.

That was just the reality of how it was between them, and to think otherwise would be foolish.

The upside was that neither really seemed to care that for the past two years their dating lives had been all but nonexistent. Would there eventually come a time when one of them was actually ready to end the game in hopes of finding someone to be serious with? Sure.

Now was not that time, however.

After walking a few blocks, Aria stepped inside the restaurant that was nestled on the cliffside near the pier. She scanned the inside dining area, but it wasn’t until she glanced out through the floor-to-ceiling windows that made up the back wall that she spotted the back of his head. He was at a small table on the terrace near the balustrade, overlooking the bay, seated across from a beautiful strawberry blonde. When it came to dating, Liam seemed to like as much normalcy as possible, so he never went too far out of his way for privacy.

The lunch hour didn’t seem too busy, but there were still plenty of diners to help her blend in. And lucky for her, there was an open table away from his that looked like it would offer her a good enough view.

“May I help you?” a woman asked.

Aria glanced over and smiled. “That table out there on the terrace—” she pointed to it “—wouldn’t happen to be available, would it? I’m visiting and would love a view to take some pictures.”

“It is,” the woman nodded with a smile. “You can go on out. Can I bring you a drink?”

“A cucumber collins with some hard seltzer would be perfect,” Aria smiled. The woman nodded and gestured for her to go ahead, telling her she’d send someone right out.

Aria made her way out to the terrace and to her table. When she sat, she smiled as she slung her bag over the back of the chair; as she suspected, the seat offered her a perfect view while keeping her slightly hidden from view.

After her drink was delivered, Aria kept her eyes on Liam while she drummed her fingers against the table in thought. The downfall of learning about the dates when they were already on them was coming up with something on the fly.

Suddenly, a young girl approached Aria; she glanced over and smiled at her, seeing her holding a box of various chocolate bars. “Would you like to buy a chocolate?” she asked in a sweet voice.

Before Aria could answer, the waiter rushed over. “I am so sorry, miss. She asked to leave the box at the front with the hostess, and when she came back to get some information, she was gone.”

Aria smiled as an idea struck. “No worries,” she waved him off. “She’s not bothering me. I’ll send her back inside once I get some chocolate.”

The man nodded hesitantly before he turned and disappeared back inside. Aria glanced back at the girl. “How much are the chocolates?”

“One dollar a bar,” she smiled.

“How many bars do you have?”

“Seventy-five.”

“I’ll tell you what …” Aria reached back, dipping her hand inside her purse and pulling out her wallet. “If you help me play a little joke on my friend, I’ll buy that whole box.”

The girl’s eyes lit up with a grin. “Ok!”

Aria smiled. “Awesome. So, tell me … how good are you at fake crying?”

****

Liam sat across from Lady Vivian, listening as she spoke animatedly about a recent trip to Dubai she had just returned from. She was from a smaller duchy and had only recently started to become a more prominent fixture at court. She seemed nice … nice enough. And she certainly wasn’t bad on the eyes. So when Liam saw her at Regina’s garden tea party last week, he asked her out.

When he saw his date’s eyes shift just to his left and abruptly pause her story, Liam glanced over as he sipped his drink. Standing beside him was a young girl, staring up at him with tears in her eyes.

“Daddy!” the girl wailed before flinging her arms around him.

Liam’s eyes widened as he choked on the sip of the drink he had just taken. “I … excuse me?” he coughed.

“I miss you so much!” the young girl sniffled as she stepped back, wiping the tears from her cheeks only for them to be replaced by more.

“I—” Liam let out a nervous laugh. “I have no idea who you are. Where are your parents?”

“Mommy misses you,” she sniveled. “Why did you and Papa Connie send us away?”

Liam’s eyes went wide. “Send you — PAPA? WHAT?”

“Mommy is sad all the time. She cries for you every night,” her voice cracked.

Liam’s eyes shifted up to the tables nearby, watching as diners gave him odd looks and whispered to one another. Then, they darted over to the face of his date; her eyes were wide, flickering between Liam and the young girl. “I’m so sorry,” he said nervously before looking back at the girl. “You have me mistaken for someone else.”

“You never call anymore,” she cried. “And you haven’t seen me in so long. It was my wish when I blew out my candles on my birthday,” her breath hitched, “for my daddy to show up, but you never came,” she wept loudly.

Suddenly, once the panic and embarrassment had slightly faded, Liam’s jaw tensed. Aria.

Across the terrace, Aria shook with laughter, holding her phone discreetly as she videoed the exchange between Liam and her little paid actress. This girl is good, she thought to herself. She dropped her phone with a loud snort when the girl flung her arms back around Liam, clinging to him as he stiffened uncomfortably; the look on his face was priceless. She could tell he had no idea how to handle the situation, watching him frantically look around for what she assumed to be this random child’s parents as he tried to calm her down so she stopped creating a scene. She had figured Liam’s extensive princely training never quite prepared him for something like this.

Liam’s mind churned with some way to diffuse this situation, but he was at a loss. Suddenly, Vivian stood, and Liam snapped his gaze up to her. “I’m going to let you take care of this,” she said.

“Vivian, please!” Liam looked at her pleadingly. “I can explain if you just wait a moment.”

“I don’t want to be a part of whatever this is,” Vivian said quietly as her eyes darted to the on-lookers. “I have a reputation I need to keep intact …” She offered Liam a strange look before she walked away.

And the moment she was out of view, the little girl’s tears instantly stopped. She smiled at Liam as she wiped her cheeks, and without another word she turned, skipping merrily across the terrace. Liam’s gaze followed her, and his eyes met a laughing Aria as the girl approached her. He watched as Aria handed the girl a wad of cash before she disappeared inside.

Aria rested her chin on her hand, scrunching her nose up with a smile as she offered him a dainty wave.

Liam turned back around in his seat and nodded to himself; he pulled out his wallet and laid some cash on the table before standing. His eyes met the curious stares of a group of women at the table next to him before walking away. His hands dipped into his pockets as he slowly approached Aria; she was peeling open a candy bar. “We’re paying children to do our dirty work for us now?” he sneered. “That’s low, even for you.”

“You’re just mad you didn’t think of it first,” Aria laughed before biting into a piece of chocolate. She glanced up at him with a smug grin. “Look at me and tell me I’m wrong.”

It was good, Liam thought, but he’d never admit that. “That was humiliating!” he hissed. “And the ‘Papa Connie’ addition? Come on!”

Aria slapped the table with a laugh. “That was a nice touch, right?” She stood from her seat, grabbing her bag and box of chocolate. “Anyway, you’re welcome,” she said as she started toward the exit.

Liam followed behind her. “For what?”

“She didn’t appear quite prissy enough for you,” Aria chuckled as they stepped out onto the sidewalk.

“Prissy enough?” Liam questioned. “You think I need someone prissy … so, someone like you then, Princess?”

Aria cut her eyes over to him. “Don’t call me that.”

“Well, if you want me with someone more prissy, I think you fit that bill rather well,” Liam smirked. She didn’t fit it; she wasn’t prissy at all, but he knew it would annoy her.

“I am not prissy.”

“Sure, Princess. Whatever you say.”

“Stop calling me that!”

“Princess, Princess, Princess,” Liam taunted as he followed her.

*******

Aria walked along the cobblestone streets in the heart of Peliene. She pulled open the door of a shop and stepped inside, glancing around at all the glittering pieces of jewelry. She heard a familiar voice say her name and she glanced over, eyes narrowing. “What are you doing here?”

Liam smirked. “It’s lovely to see you too, Princess. It’s been a while.”

Aria rolled her eyes. “It’s only been a month.”

“Yeah, and do you want to know what I’ve spent the last month doing? Dispelling rumors that I had a child out of wedlock and sent them away in order to keep it hidden!” Liam spat. “Between Lady Vivian, who I now know is a gossipmonger, and the on-lookers at the restaurant that day, that rumor spread like a goddamn wildfire!”

Aria threw her head back, unable to stop her laughter. “That’s beautiful,” she snorted.

Liam narrowed his gaze, but before he could respond, the bell above the door rang; they both glanced over to see Drake step inside. “Hey,” he smiled as he approached them. “Thanks for meeting me.”

“Sure, but … why did you ask us to meet here?” Aria asked.

“Yeah,” Liam said. “I’m just … I’m a little bit confused as to why you need both of us, and at a jeweler …”

“Oh my god,” Aria gasped. “Are you …” she trailed off.

Liam’s eyes went wide when he finally realized. “Holy shit! You’re gonna propose?”

“Yeah,” Drake grinned, rubbing the back of his neck as he looked at Liam. “Not for a while, but I wanted to get a head start. And I needed you both because you know what to look for with this kind of stuff, and you—” he glanced at Aria “—are her best friend and know what she would like. So, can you two please play nice just for a little bit and help me out?”

Liam and Aria looked at each other, something else flashing in each of their gazes before they glanced back at Drake and nodded.

***************************************

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#trr #the royal romance #choices trr #choices the royal romance #liam rys #king liam rys #trr liam #king liam #liam x oc #trr liam x oc #choices liam x oc #prince liam x oc #king liam x oc #trr fanfic #trr fan fiction #trr fanfiction #trr fan fic #trr au #trr au fanfic #choices trr au #choicesflashfics #cfcw

[lastweeksshirttonight]

All right, gonna attempt to put the writing cap back on for this blog. And what better way to do so than to do a recap of everyone's favorite (episode) five car pileup of a game show?

It's Strike Force Wives time y'all

:thunderclap:

We are going to speak EXTENSIVELY about what a trainwreck Fallon is in this episode, but let's also take time to acknowledge that Stephen opens this episode by mispronouncing 'podcast' in two separate ways (podcant and codpast). While saying they're getting the podcasting thing down. This episode was cursed from jump street.

Giving Fallon credit where it's due, introducing John as "a frequent guest on The Late Show with Stephen Colbert" is objectively hilarious. Reminds me of the time Stephen introduced him on the Late Show as "you know him from The Love Guru", which is still the funniest introduction I have ever heard for anyone.

The introduction goes off the rails at 1:30. AND WE'RE OFF

Kimmel: "My first radio job in Seattle was called the Him and Me Show". [...] Fallon: "Which one were you?" Kimmel: "I don't know. To this day I don't know." I could listen to Kimmel talk about his radio show days for hours, honestly, just for wild bits of ephemera like this.

As we all know, the theme of this episode is Strike Force Wives. Now Fallon is clearly trying to do something akin to The Newlywed Game, where you ask a couple one question and you see if their answers match. Here is a scene from Parks and Rec showcasing the general idea (except as Tom's ludicrously named Know Ya Boo):

Fallon somehow manages to completely fuck up this very simple concept. I'll be honest, I STILL don't know how he screwed this up so badly. He just needed to ask both people the same questions and give them clearly defined subjects!

Moments right before disaster: "[Kate, John's wife] wanted more details than I had available to her, and I said 'Jimmy's gonna text you and it will all become clear.' ...He started texting her and early on, it was in no way clear."

Related, I love that Stephen and Kimmel's wives were totally up for it, Seth's did not want to do this, and John's wanted more details. Lines up pretty well with my sense of them (from the guys' descriptions and talk about them + Evie being a literal gem during the COVID shows).

Seth's kid shrieking in reaction to Seth going to try and quiet them was absolutely perfectly timed.

This will sound very silly, but I genuinely love hearing about how people met their partners. (Maybe because my story is a bit boring? Mr. Lee and I met on a dating app and managed to go the distance despite only having 3 dates before COVID shutdowns.) You can tell so much about a relationship from those kinds of stories. In that vein, Kimmel joking about how he met his wife Molly at work and spinning it, as a joke, into a sexual harrassment lawsuit waiting to happen before being a little more honest and vulnerable was very cute.

Seth and Alexi's meet cute at Chris Kattan's wedding sounds like a sitcom plot waiting to happen.

John and Kate met at "the opposite of a meet cute", the 2008 Republican National Convention. Regular followers of my blog/Buglers may remember this as the point in time where John lost his goddamn mind and did an episode of the Bugle fully naked and kept inexplicably bringing that up in-between bemoaning how catastrophically depressing his surroundings were. (Episode 44, if you're curious. Have you gone through The Bugle Archive? Maybe you should. Be sure to download and not stream!)

Kimmel: "[Your wife] could have been Sarah Palin." John, clearly holding back 15+ years of accumulated hatred and in the most purposefully even tone ever: "It could have been."

Stephen's story about meeting his wife involved him literally fleeing an old girlfriend by going to South Carolina, seeing a Phillip Glass performance that he wouldn't recommend, and seeing Evie across the room at that performance and immediately knowing she was the one he was going to marry. Which, as Seth and John point out, was probably really reassuring to that old girlfriend.

I'm pretty sure this is the first time we get loud clapping when Fallon mentions "Fever Pitch". I actually kinda like "Fever Pitch", but my grading scale for baseball movies is extremely biased and flawed. Let's be real, baseball fans, is "Major League" actually overall good? Because it's like half a funny movie and half a movie about a random baseball player stalking his ex-girlfriend.

Addendum: Queen Latifah should have been in "Fever Pitch".

Addendum to the addendum: This has been playing on a loop in my head for like a week so also Rob McElhenney should have been in Fever Pitch.

Update to Chris Kattan's wedding: Seth and Alexi were pretty convinced that Chris' marriage was not going to last very long, making their meeting even more sitcom-like. Seth thinks that Chris and his ex-wife themselves didn't really believe that wedding was going to take either.

Kimmel wants to see all the fights that come out of this game. He says this before the real chaos even begins in the episode.

Lessons about England - dimples were part of the class system in the 1970s. Totally true. Definitely a well-documented phenomenon.

As someone with chronic stomach illness, I deeply relate to Kate realizing John was the one when she was stuck on the toilet trying to determine if there was blood in her stool. That precipice where you are, as John so eloquently put it, "shitting yourself to death" in the same general area as your partner is when you find out if love is real, trust me.

With that, I also don't disagree with Seth that Kate bringing that up was probably because Fallon didn't explain this game correctly at all.

The first time I heard the little horn noise transitions in the podcast, I was so fucking happy and got really in my feelings about John and the Bugle. That apparently has not worn off at all in the gap between the last episode of the show and me re-listening to this one.

Kimmel is the one to finally break the game, as he asks the very difficult question "is it when she fell in love with me or when I fell in love with her?" Fallon's response is to acknowledge that's where it gets confusing, and then everything implodes with everyone. (John yelling "There's no 'I think', it's your fucking question!", incidentally, made me fall in love with John all over again. But was that the question? Maybe every question is, in a way, the question. The questions are truly the friends we made along the way.)

"Climb inside his head. It's a happier place."

Evie going to visit Stephen in Chicago and calling her sister about his monogrammed towels is the most Jane Austen thing anyone relates in this podcast series. She saw the magnificent grounds towels of Pemberly, Illinois!

Fallon's story about a driver dropping him off on the set of Fever Pitch (CLAPCLAPCLAP) and noticing his wife's smile and pop leads directly into John saying that Fallon described his wife like a horse. Why are you constantly thinking about horses John

Kimmel's "a horse with a Jansport" joke gets lost in the chaos, which is sad because it's the funniest part of Fallon's whole story of falling in love with his wife.

"My second question was 'what do you think bothers your wife the most about you?'" You can almost hear Kimmel's eyes bug out a bit before he follows up with "While we're pondering that..."

Kimmel has been thinking about Kate's story for a bit clearly, and is befuddled by the idea that a veteran combat medic would ask John to check her stool. I mean, he has a point.

Seth and Alexi seem like a parody of a chaotic couple sometimes. I cannot imagine caring about filling a humidifier. It seems to greatly occupy Seth's mind.

Molly and Alexi somehow ended up with different questions for the same round. Molly and Kimmel are on the same page about Kimmel's messiness at least?

Stephen pulling out his Colbert Report hat to tell Fallon "that's not what you said, but I'll accept it" made me cry laughing the first time I heard it.

Stephen: "I wanna say that she said that I'm selectively anal." Consummate frat bro Kimmel: 🤯

The moment where everyone starts going 'oh' after Stephen explains his fastidiousness is a nice, rare moment of everyone clowning on someone who isn't Fallon this episode.

Fallon thinks his wife is most irritated by his overthinking tendencies. Literally everyone else on this podcast is pretty sure that she's annoyed by his "inability to ask a coherent question". And a collection of badly worded questions asking basic concepts from all the guys.

Nancy then responded with what DOESN'T bother her, which...

I need to put a block break here because I've written too much about this podcast, lol. Happy Spooky Season!

ONWARDS!

I forgot this episode also had the adventures of Fallon eating the weirdest food possible in bed, like pizza and ramen. (Seth squeaks "soup?!" in a high-pitched quiet voice in the background.) Stephen, when asked if he eats food in bed, says he'll occasionally have a lozenge, which I am pretty sure does not qualify as food.

John: "What irritates me most about [Kate] - I hope she doesn't mind me saying this, she shits blood sometimes." Y'all I love two men and this is one of them

The Ryan Reynolds commercials are hit or miss, but the phrase "ivory underground bunker" is one I've gotten a lot of mileage out of to describe certain members of the US Congress.

Fallon forgot that there was a third option to his question about pet names. You could not script better escalation of absurdity.

The half-hit lightning strike is such a good noise. It sounds like a rustling sheet (something Seth notes pretty accurately).

Stephen's utterly convoluted explanation of how he thinks his imaginary version of his wife's pet name for him is Steve is, as Seth points out, a pretty solid way to answer a Jimmy Fallon question.

Seth and John both seem bewildered at the idea of calling someone "love duck", which, fair.

Esteban Colberto definitely is a deep cut. It's such a deep cut that it seems like Colbert completely fucking forgot about it.

Everything about Anastasio Somosa on this podcast kills me. Kimmel devoted almost 5 hours to making an AI message of Somosa telling Stephen he's proud of him as his son, which also kills me. If Kimmel and John ever joined their trolling forces, I think they could probably do some absolutely insane damage.

Molly's pet name answer: "Trump called him a low-rated loser, does that count?"

Alexi getting the pet name question so wrong that she just named her actual pet makes Stephen laugh harder than I have EVER heard him laugh. Ever.

Ranking everyone's family traditions from most to least weird: Meyers family's secret language > Kimmel's birthday cake for Jesus on Christmas (honestly a great idea) > Colbert men singing songs from the movie Zulu > Fallon banging pots and pans outside on NYE > Colbert family sharing the same story over and over again like they've never heard it > Kimmel making 20+ fishes > Alexi's father's karaoke nights > Oliver Uno championship (also a Lee family tradition, weirdly enough) > John and Kate having Italian food on Thanksgiving (this feels super LA, I know a lot of people who do this or get sushi)

Weird to hear Stephen briefly transform into my dad while discussing Zulu.

To round us off, a collection of quotes John has about Fallon's incredible inability to run this game: "Your staff all need their wages doubled." "Just because you inflect up at the end of a sentence doesn't make it a question." "They've had to insert an internal logic to what you're asking, and you're complaining that THEY'RE confused!" (upon the question being changed in the same round) "YOU CAN'T DO THAT!" "When you ask her how's her day, what do you say? 'How do you think... days went? For your sister's sister?'" "You're being fed through Google Translate, that's how you sound." "Jimmy. How do you think this went?"

#strike force five #john oliver #stephen colbert #seth meyers #jimmy kimmel #jimmy fallon #this episode is still extremely funny every time i listen to it #woo writing!!

[oknerd3]

“It’s not a home.”

Gift for: @aggressivenesswhilecrying for @mcyt-halloween !! Their pinch hitter dropped out last minute so i wrote lol. Sorry if its a bit rusty, I haven't written a full fic in a while but this was fun! Martyn's always a fun character to play with.

Warnings: Blood, beheading, canon typical violence, death

“I don’t know if I can do it, me lord.” He mumbled, gripping the axe in his hands, Red Winter Is Coming. He squeezed it, like the wood would collapse under a slight push. It remained sturdy, strong. Surrounded by fields of carrots, all ready to be harvested. Black Heart Altar. A place familiar to Martyn by now, the same stone beneath his feet he remembered.

Ren’s head was bent down, waiting for the strike. He saw Ren’s lips move but he didn’t hear the words. He knew what his king wanted, though. He always did. So, he swallowed his breath and raised the axe into the moonlight, hesitating just long enough for Ren to turn to ask him to hurry, when he burrowed the axe into Ren’s neck, with two messy chops. Blood was sprayed across the crops, a painful use of royal blood. 

Martyn shook as he stepped closer to Ren’s body, feeling sick at the stillness. He collapsed to his knees beside his king, bruising his legs with stone.

The stillness did not last for long, though, because the moment Martyn bent down and tried to grant some dignity to his king by crossing his arms, the head, still detached from the body, shot its eyes open. 

Martyn dunked his head into the salt water along the beach, then leaned his head back and wiped his face clean. Turning red always meant the same nightmare, of his first game, his first death match, when he failed his king by doing the task asked of him. Yes, that is not what happened, his trial gave them an edge they would have been decimated without, but that was not the point. Ren was his king, his partner, and now, in a new place with a new person who he could genuinely trust to lead? 

These last few games, Martyn had united himself with people who didn’t have such a strong connection as he did with Ren, yes they may have bossed him around more, but Scott was.. and now Scott was trying to rival that of which he had with Ren. It was ludicrous to think someone could even compare. 

But whether they compared didn’t matter because both were Martyn’s partner and some part of him knew that a new nightmare would come with this ally-ship too. Because when he swam after Scott with the express mission of killing him, he didn’t feel the itch of guilt he did when he took Ren’s head. There wasn’t much difference between the times, trading time away to gain more later. 

Maybe he’d gone numb to it. 

With his own form of conclusion, Martyn jumped into the sea and swam. Him and Scott reunited later in the day and struck a tenuous alliance with what was left of TIES until-

“Martyn!” Scott shouted, half playful, as he usually was in these games. It was almost funny how both logically and carefree Scott played. It reminded Martyn of himself, or maybe just the time back then when this was truly a game. Either way, Martyn answered in kind.

Scott huffed and laughed through his words, “They tried to kill me.” 

Martyn’s blood went cold. His mean gill, put in danger. It was completely unacceptable. “Who did?” 

“Etho and Impulse.”

“Right. That’s it, they’re dead. Just as quick as that, they’re dead.” 

Martyn drew his sword, bared his sharp teeth, then started to prowl, looking for his new targets he’d been steered to. He hadn’t been this confidently close to winning in a long time and he wasn’t about to let it squirm from his grip, not with his partner by his side. 

Martyn had learned by now, after all these seasons, that one was easy enough to kill, especially with Scott. They got it down so the only person who stood in their way was Impulse. Impulse explained the plan, where he died and Martyn left victorious. Scott interrupted with what Martyn’s and his plan had been earlier. “As their forefathers”. On late nights, sorting chests and filing away for bed, the morbid questions were always asked on the server. And on one night, Scott and Martyn explained they’d fight it out, just as Scar and Grian had at the start of it all. Martyn and Ren had the same agreement, after all. At the time, it sounded like a good plan, a logical one. But now the cards were down and Martyn was met with killing his partner again. 

And he was blood thirsty. 

Martyn stayed in armour while they stripped of their own, narrowing their time to zilch. He stared

 Scott down, checked his pocket while Scott, ever a generous soul in this world, handed Impulse some food.

Then Martyn surged forward and killed Scott by throwing hot magma at him and running him through with his sword.

It was clean and fast. Scott didn’t get the chance to move or speak before he was dead. He didn’t even scream. Flat time placed in Martyn’s hand, with no struggle of his own. He barely had to chase Impulse for the leftovers. He won, he had finally won, after four death games of trying to win, he won, through killing his guiding hand. He screamed in relief. He had won and he didn’t need to bite and claw for his time.

Over an hour of time to go, Scott’s body was burnt and tossed to the side, still slowly bleeding, half overshadowed by his red clothes. Maybe that’s why they always ended on red life, to hide the colour of a corpse. 

Martyn had settled down from the bloodlust. There was no one left to kill, just bodies scattered around the map. And none of them mattered besides this one. Scott had given him time, in more ways than one, and they had played the game smart together, they’d done well. It wasn’t Scott’s fault that he trusted Martyn to play another game.

Staring into Scott’s eyes, he realized that no, Scott wasn’t anything like Ren. They were kind and strong leaders, but beyond that there was no similarity. But maybe that was all the similarity that Martyn needed. A gentle, guiding hand, to tell him who to rip to shreds. Scott never had the collar on Martyn that Ren did. Scott was his partner, but he was never his king, his lord. Now it was time to untie himself from the Coral Isles, or Dogwarts, or whatever home was keeping him awaiting a command.

Martyn lowered his sword to one side of Scott’s neck and moved it through to the other, then did it again, fertilizing the grass under him with merman’s blood.. And for some reason he knew, this beheading wouldn’t be in any of his nightmares to come. And when he got to the end of the line, his heart clenched, stopped ticking away, and he fell to the ground. The watchers were done with their fun.

#mcyt-halloween #tw blood #tw death #inthelittlewood #scott smajor #rendog #fanfiction

[coldshrugs]

see you in the morning

pairing: io laithe / estinien varlineau word count: 2k note: endwalker spoilers. io is not handling things well :') you'll never guess who goes to comfort her :o)

Old Sharlayan holds its breath.

Most nights, the chilly island city continues its quiet bustling straight through to morning. Scholars drift from early-evening lectures to late-night research clubs or public laboratories, babbling excitedly about the latest research, innovation, or gossip. Those with less rigid schedules wander to the nearest patch of grass or unused table at the Last Stand with a pile of books in tow. Structured or lax, their perpetual search for knowledge is the very heartbeat of the city. But tonight, the pulse has all but stopped.

The lack of bubbling chatter and foot traffic casts an eerie pall over the city. It reaches all the way down to Scholars’ Harbour, where Io sits alone, on one of the long stone piers reaching out into the sea.

Thousands of people huddle in their homes with friends and loved ones as they wait for daylight, and for the Ragnarok’s first–and only–flight.

The weight of their expectation is suffocating.

Waves murmur against the stone below, the only sound save the few foreign sailors on the next pier over, bound to their work regardless of the state of the world. Neither is loud enough to distract her racing mind.

Io pulls her knees to her chest, cursing the inability to become as small as she feels. Every soul on this star, whether they know it or not, is now her responsibility, an obligation that echoes back to a time beyond time. And she chose it. Before she even knew it was her burden to carry, she chose it. She chooses it, because who else would? Who else could bear it? Is it not enough that her loved ones must sacrifice so much due to proximity and circumstance? It has to be her, for she would not wish this on anyone else.

If only she could curl into herself completely. Tightly enough to blink out of existence, like a dark singularity.

She’d take everything else with her.

There’s no resolution in that line of thinking.

Somewhere out there, in the expanse, is the replication of a little girl with a very human soul–perhaps not fractured, as the souls of those on the Source and its shards, but something that was never allowed to be whole. Why wouldn’t annihilation be Meteion’s answer to dead world after dead world? It must seem like kindness to a being who has never experienced adversity. 

Tears, injury, death: Io has suffered through–and dealt–her fair share of them all. What pain has Meteion seen that Io has not lived?

Her hands ball into fists, nails digging into her palms. She feels manic, unable to rein in the oscillation between anger, guilt, and fear. There is the urge to scream, or cry, or drop into the frigid water below and swim and swim and swim.

But a figure moves at the edge of her vision, walking briskly in her direction.

Now another feeling begs to be acknowledged. Relief? Endearment? A mixture of both at being found, and by him, perhaps.

Still, against her threadbare senses, this feels like an ambush.

Estinien says nothing as he approaches. His steps slow as if trying not to scare a wounded animal. He offers an awkward smile. Io tries to mirror it, hoping he sees a shred of warmth in the tight purse of her lips.

He is handsome in this light, in his half-laced boots and untucked shirt billowing in the chilly coastal wind. The world is ending, and she can’t help noticing his beauty. It’s ludicrous.

“Who sent you?”

His short huff resembles a laugh. “I need a motive to check on you?” When she doesn’t answer, he sighs. “Y’shtola saw you down here from the Annex. She and Thancred thought to come, but I asked them to stay. Everyone’s turning in for the night. I thought you might appreciate the less intrusive option.”

“By all means, intrude. Once the solitude is broken, it hardly matters by whom.”

His brow knits as he studies the carved stones that make up the pier. He turns, shifting his weight. She can feel him wondering if this was unwise.

“I’m sorry, that was unkind. I’m just… overwhelmed–” Io takes a deep breath, embarrassed by the confession before she makes it– “and afraid. Please don’t go.”

Estinien sways in her periphery, stepping closer before squatting beside her. He looks out into the quiet marina, carefully avoiding her half-slumped form. False privacy, but she’ll take the small mercy.

“You needed to get away. I can understand that.”

“I couldn’t breathe in there. Everyone is watching me. They look at me like I’m dying, or like I’m killing them myself.”

“For every person placing blame at your feet, ten others believe in this asinine plan. As I do.”

“You think we can do it? Truly?” she asks, looking up into the great expanse. The stars blink against the endless blue, and for once, the sight makes her feel cold instead of curious. “What if I–”

“You have to, Io.” His tone invites no debate, but there is a melancholy that matches her own. “You will figure it out no matter the cost, because you must.”

Io nods. Her eyes sting. She closes them to keep the tears at bay as long as possible. He is right, of course. Somewhere deep in her soul, the flame of her faith–in herself, in her friends, and in those who paved this way for her–burns as brightly as ever. She has to save them.

“But you will not be alone. We are with you, of course. We’ll give our all to see it through, if that’s what it takes.”

“Gambling your lives for a promise I made, for my mistakes… I can’t bear to think about losing them.” She risks a glance in Estinien’s direction, but his eyes never leave the gently rolling sea. “Or losing you.”

The barest of smiles, one of the little ones he tries to hide with a bowed head. He rubs the back of his neck, sending a cascade of loose hair over his shoulder.

Her chest clenches.

The well of affection she holds for him is muddy these days; for years, they’ve operated with platonic, amiable ease, flitting in and out of each other’s lives but always reuniting as the closest of friends. But since her time in the First, they have been nearly inseparable.

Estinien is her family, but unlike what she feels for Thancred, Urianger, or G’raha, he is not her brother. He evokes a distinct tenderness, gives life to a long-dormant, selfish hope within her heart, and he does it without trying.

“If we don’t try, all is lost.” He falls against the stone with a quiet groan and nudges her with an elbow. “This pessimism doesn’t become you. I have seen you stand against tremendous odds time and time again. I’ve heard tales of more things than I’ve seen. You may not always get it right, I may not always agree, but you do the impossible. What makes this any different?”

Io reflects on the past year (gods, has it been that long?). The burning skies, the horrible transformations, and the aether-depleted souls who will never see another lifetime on this beautiful star, all because she fell for a madman’s power play. She condemned them to this fate. 

She reaches further into her memory, to the unsure adventurer stepping foot into the Waking Sands, and her induction into the inner circle of these secretive upstarts she’s grown to call family. She’s been nothing more than a curse upon them. Thancred’s aether, Y’shtola’s sight, Urianger’s conscience, Minfilia’s life. What might they have avoided without her?

Haurchefant would be alive if she had stayed out of his life.

Since the day she left Dalmasca, death and destruction have been her shadow. As ruinous and loyal as Dalamud, a black dog she pretends she can abandon if only it would forget her scent.

She watches Estinien again, silver in the moonlight. His hands are clasped, hanging between long legs that dangle close to the water below. Like the water, he looks relaxed on the surface. Like the water, there is an undercurrent only the experienced can see.

His thumb worries a circle into the palm of his other hand. His shoulders are tense, hidden by his slightly curved posture. If anyone could understand why this is different, it’s him. For all his courage, he has seen the black dog too.

“It’s different,” Io swallows, “because it’s everything.”

Estinien looks back. His stare is hard. “And so are you.”

Once more, he leaves no room for debate. He speaks as if stating the obvious, citing a fact she should already know.

Io blinks, so awestruck by his candor, she has to look away. Her tumultuous thoughts now spin in his direction, unable to focus on more than this sudden vulnerability. What does it mean that sharing these doubts with him is the most comfortable she’s felt in days? What does it mean that she aches to reach for his hand?

His eyes dart over her face, never lingering on one feature too long. There is something overly controlled about it. Lately, she has employed the same tactic when trying not to stare at his lips…

If she leaned over and kissed him, would he push her away? Could they still be friends?

A selfish hope indeed. But a small thing in her mind whispers, “maybe after…”

If there is an “after” to be had.

She releases her bundled limbs and stands, stretching to relieve the long-ignored ache in her back.

“Come on,” she beckons. “We should at least try to rest before we travel to the edge of space and time.”

Io’s tension deflates as they walk to the annex, pressed under the weight of her exhaustion. They go in comfortable silence, half an arm’s length apart. There is something between them she longs to touch, but doesn’t dare. She has the moonlight in his hair, his half-smile, and his steadfast faith in her. That is enough.

That is more than enough.

The Baldesion Annex is dark, like the rest of the city. The lobby is empty. Not an Annex attendant, not a Scion. Estinien does not share her surprise. How persuasive must he have been to ensure no one disturbed her return? Io watches him move across the room with deliberate steps. He holds open the door that leads to the nap rooms and gestures with his head for her to go ahead of him. The little smile is back.

She returns it, and this time it’s genuine.

They pass Estinien’s door. Io’s room is around the corner and down the next corridor, and he makes the full journey.

They pause at her door.

“Thank you for keeping my head on straight.”

“Someone must. You would not hesitate to do the same for me.” He shrugs. And then his hand is on her upper arm, giving a reassuring squeeze. He pulls her into his space.

Her arms thread under his, hands pressing into his back. She rests her cheek on his shoulder, breathes him in. The sharp edge of her anxiety sloughs away, lost in the steady pressure of his arms around her.

They have never hugged like this. They have never been this close.

Io closes her eyes, squeezes him more tightly, and smiles when she can feel his erratic heartbeat through the firm press of their chests. In this moment, with his hands resting at her neck and waist, with his chin against her neck, skin to skin, she cannot imagine his denial. Perhaps it isn't a stretch to assume he feels this too.

The corridor lights grow dim around them. Io pays them no mind, content to stand in the dark until morning, held by the man she yearns for, the man she never thought she would.

But she yawns, and he steps away, hands on her shoulders. Another squeeze. Another scan of her face before his grey eyes focus on hers, like he's making a final decision.

“Tomorrow,” Estinien says. The single word is a promise. Whatever happens, whatever they find, he will make sure Io gets it done.

“Tomorrow.” She nods, slipping into the room as the memory of his touch crystallizes in her mind. Her limbs are heavy as she climbs into the too-small bed, but the weight has lifted.

She can breathe.

#azia writes #io laithe #io/estinien #this had me in a chokehold #i could not stop thinking about them having a stress hug there at the end of endwalker #a moment where things *could've* started but didn't #because they're both scared of what's to come and scared of the other not fully reciprocating #then after... io is injured and getting over everything that happened in UT. it's not the time. the moment is gone #they are so patient!!! they could've kissed right here but they want to be sure! they mean too much to each other to get it wrong! #while estinien has been 100% in it since in from the cold i think this is the moment he's like 'okay it's not just me and i'm sure of that' #like they're not flirting they're not joking. that's his girl!! and he just needs to be there for her #io is still in her 'lmao i'm unlovable and this is probably in my head' phase #maybe i'll tackle that next lmao #i'm sorry i can't write a fic and leave it without a director's commentary in the tags dslafkjsald #anyway go listen to Lost by dermot kennedy bc that's the vibe here