#// my fingers slipped and i was photoshopping

[buzziightqueer]

shy calex confessions to feed my delusions

[leclsrc]

it’s never over ✴︎ cl16

genre: childhood friends to friends with benefits to lovers (a mouthful), smut, humor, Fluffff!!!!, several references to 70’s music, 

word count: 12.9k  

You must have lost the plot along the way, because pretending to date your childhood best friend was not on your 2023 bingo card. (Neither was the fact that things are looking a lot more real as time passes.)

nsfw warnings under the cut!

18+ because... handjob (f receiving), penetrative sex, semi public sex, praise central, size kink

auds here… hi hi hi!!! you’ve no idea how much i missed writing posting and interacting w u guys. thank u for all the love & follows i’ve gotten in my periods of mia. more things soon i promise ty for ur patience love love love u allll 🌟🤎🤠💋 this is my love letter to fic tropes. i feared if it was too long i’d lose the plot somehow so i had to condense it. i truly hope u all like it :) will try & reopen reqs sometime soon to get inspo kicking

It’s later than late. The lights are strobing purple and blue, the “let’s get you even drunker than you are” headache inducing kind. The floor is crowded, swelling with teenagers who are probably too young to get in, drunk off cheap aperol and watered-down tequila shots. You’re balancing yourself on a barstool, one hand busy wrapped around a slim glass, the other clawing your miniskirt lower because the air bites at your legs.

“Another voddy Red Bull!” You’re slurring, mind spinning almost as fast as your vision. You almost drop your empty glass in your rush to look for another one—but right as it slips clumsily out of your fingers, it’s caught. 

Charles, your cocktail’s knight in armor and yours just as well, is eighteen. His hair is  light brown and long, but not draping over his eyes like before. You know before because you’ve never not known before—Charles has been your best friend since you were five.

Snoopy, he says, voice steady and calm in your ear. His frame is still lanky but he’s tall and his grip on your shoulders is enough to quell the yelling. You pout. Get me another voddy red, you plead. Charlie, it’s my birthday. He smiles to himself, knowing your vision’s too cloudy to see him and your mind’s too bogged to remember any of this. You’d already slipped up and told two bouncers you were seventeen and not eighteen, like your poorly-Photoshopped ID suggested; Charles had to keep you in check, lest you or your friends end up kicked out of the club.

A song booms in through the speakers and your eyes widen with recognition. Charles doesn’t anticipate your reaction fast enough, affording only a stumble backwards when you attempt to leave the barstool to dance. He swears under his breath, mind recounting the five previous dance sessions that left you exhausted and out of breath earlier.

I’ll get you a vodka Red Bull if you sit down, he tells you. He enunciates because, twelve years later, you still can’t wrap your mind around his thick European accent. Sit down.

Alriiiight! You hoot, throwing two fists up in the air. Customary for many bartenders on nights as busy as this one, a free shot is thrust into your vacant hand and you cheer loudly, much to Charles’ chagrin. With whatever malice the eighteen-year-old can muster, he casts the bartender a dirty look before turning to face you again, worried. He places a hand on your shoulder and watches, half-anxious and half-endeared, you take the shot and visibly grimace at the raw taste. Fuck. It’s gin I think, you sputter. Charles presses: You okay?

More than, you holler, smiling. I am officially seventeeee— 

The bartender’s eyebrows furrow, the thirty-something businessman in the adjacent stool turns to look—so Charles has no choice but to shut you up, leaning in and pressing his lips to yours before you can seal your fate.

Your eyes widen briefly, and when Charles feels the passed seconds are sufficient, he pulls away. You stare, eyes hazy, at the pretty boy you’ve had feelings for since you turned fourteen, and lean in to kiss him again. 

—

Pascale is hosting her weekly Sunday brunch at the Leclerc residence, all French windows and wide kitchens and bowls of fruit. As always, your place is at the kitchen island picking at plates to taste test them. Bonjour, Arthur drawls when he walks in. He turns to Pascale. Mum. Then you. Snoopy.

You halt biting into your forkful of arugula and turn toward the younger Leclerc, eyebrows raised. “What’d you just call me?”

“Snoopy,” he says simply. He’s beside Pascale, one arm wrapped around her affectionately. “Or, Snoops, if you like that. Yes?”

“Who told you about that nickname?”

“Lorenzo.”

“Hasn’t been in use since your voice was cracking every sentence.”

“Tête de noeud.” Pascale swats his arm and he yelps, so you resume your arugula with satisfaction.

Charles is late for reasons he did not disclose, but everyone is used to it. The open kitchen door stretches into the front yard, where the table is set up and Lorenzo is setting the places. You know that although you usually expect a few more relatives, today’s just for the family—and you, but you’re basically family.

“How is Paris?” Arthur asks, licking hummus off a spoon opposite you. Your position is reminiscent of how you spent afternoons after school with Charles before, and the memory strikes a chord in you. Strange nostalgia, fondness.

“It’s fine.”

“Oh really?” He laughs in-between nibbles of carrot.

“I got an offer for a higher position,” you relent. Pascale calls you both, and you get up and walk toward the yard to sit down. “If you must know.”

“Oh? Let me know how that goes.” He follows you, carrot slice in hand, chewing. The conversation is cut short by the smooth noise of Charles’ decidedly un-smooth parking outside.

You’re seated at your usual spot—in-between Charles and Lorenzo, across Arthur—when the former finally walks into the yard. He looks tired, moreso than usual, bags under his eyes deep and hair a bit more disheveled.

He sits beside you. “I need to talk to you.” Then, quieter, “Private.”

You hum confusedly, eyes flitting across the three other people at the table to gauge their reactions. They’re equally aloof. “Wh—now?” He nods.

You end up talking in the kitchen. He’s sighing the whole fifteen steps there, rubbing the bridge of his nose, exhaling, inhaling. Ever observant, and of someone as close to you as he is, you pick up on the tiny actions, behaviors. Charles is wringing his hands. He’s tried to pop the same knuckle twice. He isn’t frantic—he’s scared. You lean against the counter, waiting, eyes looking him up and down to identify his exact emotions.

“Tell me,” you press. “Whatever it is, I won’t judge.”

“The—my—the iCloud of my phone has been leaked. The press found out.”

When you were eight and he was nine, you and Charles summered in Villefranche with your mum and dad. The weather then was the kind you could write love letters to and about—blue skies, salty wind, soft sand. The current was calm enough that you could ride the gentle waves without fear of going under or straying far from the shore, where your parents sunbathed blissfully.

Don’t drown, he’d warned you, ever protective. You wore pink floaties over your arms, so it was already difficult to.

You dove under with great effort, fighting against the buoyancy, and poked his bare knee, surfacing to watch his reaction. He grimaced. Slowpoke, you teased, swimming away. You wondered then what it might feel to drown. Maybe not in the blue water of Villefranche, but anywhere else.

You think it hurts to drown? You blubbered, bobbing above the wave. Charles swam in front of you and wiped water off your face gently. I hope you never find out, he said, smiling.

But this is you finding out. This is it now, the drowning. Your fingers flex over the edge of the counter and you gulp, eyes fluttering with nerves. “Shit?” It comes out like a question from how nervous you are. “Um, sorry. What are we—” But your question is cut short by Pascale’s voice, cutting through the tension like it’s wet cardboard. The agreement is silent and mutual: save this discussion for later.

—

Charles can’t wake up fast enough. There are calls, texts, voicemails from every officer on his team, which isn’t that surprising given he’s up two hours late. But the amount—the sheer amount of notifications is dizzying. Overwhelmed, he finds it in himself to pull up his search engine app and let his fingers possess themselves.

All he types is his last name, and then The Sun article is splashed onto his face like a pot of scalding coffee: “F1 DRIVER ICLOUD LEAKED, PERSONAL PHOTOS ALL OVER INTERNET.” Daily Mail is next, of course, watering down the situation to seem more dirty and scandalous: “Naughty Driver? Charles Leclerc’s iCloud Hacked, Reveals Mystery Girl.” And then of course Page Six, who doesn’t miss a beat—

Wait. He blinks and presses the back arrow to return to the previous webpage. He reads over it again, slower this time. Mystery Girl? Shit—no. No way. It’s almost (it should be) silly, the way he’s reading vigorously over the reports like he’s a fan, but he’s anxious. He scrolls, because if any tabloid is daft enough to publish the leaked photos, it’s got to be the Daily Mail.

He pauses his quick swiping when his eyes harden with recognition, and staring back at him, on his phone’s full brightness, is a picture of you on his lap at Christmas. It’s the one Lance took while attempting to guess Charles’ password, one of you wine drunk with his head buried in your neck.

It’s unmistakably him, at his own house in Monaco where the drivers had a holiday get-together. It’s unmistakably you, hair draped over your face, three gold rings on your fingers. You had just given him a Strokes vinyl, he recalls. That’s why you were hugging.

There’s another one of you playing Scrabble in his bed—he’s not in the frame, but he remembers taking it. This, he could deny. He’s not in it, and he’s pretty sure the fans don’t know his house this well. Already his brain’s doing manual damage control, dread filling his veins at the thought of reading through his team’s frantic messages.

Another message stands out, pinned on top of all the others—from his mum, reminding him about brunch. He gets ready half-focused, half-lucid. Fully worried. He worries about the PR crisis this may cause, about his iCloud security, about the reactions online. Above all, though, he worries about you. About what he should tell the press. About how “actually, we’re not dating, we just fuck constantly” might hold up for the fans.

—

You’re twelve and Charles thirteen, both of you seated across Hervé and Pascale. Behind them stand your own parents, and they all look stern. What this is, Pascale says gently, is a family meeting. Okay?

Okay. It leaves your high voices in shaky unison. You both know what you’re doing here—you snuck out of school to catch a movie earlier, the teacher naturally caught wind of the misdeed, and now you’re in a meeting for it.

Snoops, Charles whispers, trying to ease your nerves with lighthearted commentary. This is the worst.

No, you want to tell preteen Charles—this is. You’re older now, yet still subjected to similar questioning, though today it’s Pascale going solo. It’s been three days since the fated day where the press leaked the pictures of you and Charles in compromising positions, and like any boomer, she’s used Facebook to her advantage and gotten ahold of the compromising pictures, too. 

“How long?” Her voice is enunciated in hard syllables.

“Mum—”

“Answer the question.” She looks back and forth, moving into territory of intense questions. “Both of you.”

“Um.”

“Because… I’ve been…”

You notice it immediately, given your observant track record: her shoulders relax and her lips smile just slightly. You sit still, and wait for the next words out of her mouth. “…waiting for this all my life!”

You and Charles watch in mild horror as Pascale’s face goes from firm to absolutely elated. Her eyes soften and a smile spreads over her face, illuminating her with pure joy. Do you even know how many bets I made with your papa, Charles? She claps her hands together several times.

Charles opens his mouth to verbalize dissent, but she doesn’t take it—she’s already droning on and on about how long she’s waited for this to finally happen. Your eyes glide over to the doorway of the dining area, where Lorenzo and Arthur watch with smug looks on their faces. Little shits won’t help you. You don’t even try to protest, and at some point Charles gives up, too. You don’t know how it’ll come across, anyway.

Ninety minutes later, you’re in Arthur’s bedroom rifling through his desk and praying you don’t find anything too gross. He’s on his bed throwing a bouncy ball up in the air, conversing with Charles about your gameplan with their mum.

The sky outside is in limbo between afternoon and night. It’s cloudy, so the sunset is a pale yellow instead of angry orange. “Why not just tell her the truth?”

You’d also thought that was the easiest option, escape route, exit path. But that would involve breaking Pascale’s heart, and that was out of the question for you, let alone Charles, certified mommy’s boy.

“I can’t, Arthur.” Charles’ voice is steady and unwavering.

“You can.”

“No.”

“Fine. Next best thing then.”

You fiddle with a Rubik’s cube, then turn in the seat. “What?”

“Pretend you’re dating.”

“Arthur,” you say seriously. “Shut up.” But he doesn’t join you, and you realize neither does Charles. You stare blankly at both of them, unwilling to believe they’d actually bank on this as an actual plan. 

“You guys realize this kind of thing never works? Zero percent success rate.”

“It’s just paddock appearences. You’re not pretending for millions of people,” Arthur says, shrugging. He catches the ball and throws it to you—you catch it one-handed. “You’re pretending for Mum.”

“Sure. And by extension, millions of people. Are you dense, or do you think the paddock appearances will just breeze by everyone who saw the leaks?”

“Ughhh. You’re acting like it’s impossible.” Arthur holds his breath before he utters the next sentence. “Like you two aren’t fucking every other w—”

“—oh, my God!” Shocked, you get up, and so does Charles. “Wh—I’m—language, Arthur!”

Charles balks. “How did you even—”

“I didn’t. But merci mille fois for confirming my theory,” Arthur quips faux-sweetly, smiling dopily. “I mean, I was going to find out! Your pictures are so… intimate. So just pretend to date and throw Maman off your scent.”

You protest briefly, wrestling with the option, and reconvene on the bed, you cross-legged and leaning on Charles’ shoulder and Arthur in front of the both of you. He’s always had a knack for schemes—he never got caught sneaking out, which destroyed your and Charles’ record of being caught twelve times by either of your parents. It’s a bit childish, but he gets the job done.

“Do it for… let’s say a month. Tell Mum you’ve been dating a while—Christmas isn’t that long ago, and that was the least recent picture. D’accord?”

You both nod, hyperfocused. 

“During race weekends, be all over each other—shouldn’t be hard—especially in front of Mum. People might catch you doing it, but I wouldn’t worry.”

“No, wait—I mean.” You shrug. “People—tifosi—they know I’m Charles’ friend. They’re going to be all over the fact that we’re apparently dating.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll use palatable density,” Charles says, nodding.

You pause. Arthur does, too, sensing something off.

“You mean plausible deniability.” Your deadpan voice is tinged with amusement, muffled into his shoulder. 

“Right, ouais, that.” He smiles, chuckling a bit; his shoulder shakes with it and your head nearly slips off. He brings a hand to cup over your jaw and hold you steady. “Sorry.”

“S’fine.” You sigh. “I’m totally okay with this. Just worried it’s going to have unintended consequences.”

Arthur quells you with rushed explanations about how it’ll be over and you two can say something like we decided we’re better off as friends to really sell the thing. At the seven-minute mark of your and Charles’ intense interrogation, he promptly kicks you out to figure out if you’re willing to do it yourselves.

You wedge yourself into Charles’ front seat, knowing you were headed to his place anyway. You massage your temples with one hand and fiddle with the hem of your shorts with the other. Nervous. Antsy. “Did Fred say anything?”

“Got the IT team to fortify my account.” 

“You think this thing’s going to be okay from a professional standpoint?” You look up and toward him; he’s already gazing at you, eyes soft. “I’m worried. Plus, with my job offer thing in London and New Y—”

“Don’t be.” He starts the car and maneuvers out of the driveway, into the dips of Monaco streets and the familiar route back to his place. “Bitter with the sweet. The only thing you need to worry about”—he takes your hand in the centre console, laces your fingers together loosely—“is your acting skills.”

“God, you’re right.” You sigh, looking out the window. “How am I going to pretend I can stand you?” Then, for good measure, you squeeze his hand wrapped in yours.

—

You visit Monaco from uni in London over spring, and for the first time in months, your schedule aligns with Charles’—though you learn this indirectly when you visit the Leclerc home. Pascale, of course, is the one who tells you his new flat’s address before she presses a kiss to your cheek and then leaves to run errands in the city. Alone, and in a burst of excitement, you make the drive there, take the elevator upstairs and shove the door open without knocking. He’s there. Your Charles. You can tell because the music he plays is loud—The Kooks—like his ears are still fourteen and not twenty-one, like he’s still in middle school and not in Formula One.

“Save your eardrums,” you say, before beelining toward the couch and leaping onto him for a hug. He sits up to match your energy, arms wrapping around you, sitting up straighter to keep you from totally falling atop him. 

“How’s uni?”

“Shit,” you say into his hair. It smells like his shampoo and his favorite cologne. Clean, soapy. “Obviously. How’s the Ferrari?” 

“Amazing.” He smiles. “Obviously. How’d you know I was in? Mum told you?”

“Ouais. She’s running errands. Listen, can we drink tonight?” You sigh, parting from the hug and sitting across him.

Yeah, sure. His voice is concerned, thick with worry. You shake your head—it’s not that deep, you tell him. It’s just—I had a bad date before I left and it’s put me in the worst mood.

Oh? He leans back, clasping two hands behind his head as he goes.What happened? He laughs. 

You tense visibly, rolling your eyes despite yourself. “He was just weird. Nothing.”

He wiggles his eyebrows. “You shy, Snoops?”

Ha-ha. You roll your eyes, but your face is flushed and your gaze avoids him. You reach up to tuck the loose strands of hair by your ears behind them, face warm. You’d never talked with Charles about boys or flings before—maybe several times, but never in full detail. It was always vague umbrella statements, like Ryan is boring or Greg is such a prick, but never anything beyond that. Come to think of it, you don’t know why, either.

“You can tell me.”

“The—when we—I had to fake,” you say cuttingly. “You know.”

He purses his lips and smiles, eyebrows furrowing. I don’t, actually. Something unnamed trills through you—through your stomach and into your fingertips. Your first time talking to your best friend in real life after months of uni and racing and this is the topic? It’s, if anything, a sign of your growing up, you guess.

Charles lets up on the teasing and you end up rejecting the club in lieu of sharing a bottle of vodka, throwing it back raw and without any type of chaser (to really prove nothing at all; you don’t even know why any sane human would do this). You do a Just Dance party on his TV, even try out drunk sim racing and FIFA, but by the end you’re well exhausted and retired to the couch again.

His voice is wavy and tipsy when he speaks. “You really had to fake it?”

“Yeah.” You pout. “Can never—um, finish, I dunno.” Your inhibition’s gone, shame loosened and untied by the vodka. You shift in your position on the couch.

“Maybe because it was too casual.” His voice hardens.

“So you’re saying I should…” You swallow dryly, eyes fluttering. “Sleep with somebody I know?” You’ve dropped the implication and it floats up, hangs above.

His eyes flick over to your legs, folded on the couch. The hem of your shorts. Your fingers playing with your empty shot glass. He didn’t mean anything by that. He’s half-sure you didn’t. 

“I am just saying that a good friend would do that for you.”

“You’re a good friend,” you say, volume low. 

Five minutes later you’ve properly crashed into each other, him pinning you down against the couch, licking fire up your throat. His lips trail across your jaw. 

He dips a hand into your shorts, presses against your clothed core. He’s smiling. So wet for me. He’s got his mouth pressed messily up to your jaw, when he sinks one finger all the way in, slow and stretching; and you’re clenching around him—

Come on, he’s saying. Insisting. You’re trembling, yanking desperately at his hair as he pumps his finger slowly in and out of you, aching to be full of him, to take him deeper. 

He slips another one in, and you feel the cold of his ring pressed against your entrance, then he’s fucking them into you and you’re leaking around them. 

Yes, yeah, Charles—you’re gasping, airy breaths tapering into whimpers that sound sinful, desperate. He knows you so well already. Presses his fingers against your sweet spot, watches your eyes flutter.

So needy, and you’re chanting his name under your breath as he quickens his pace, craving the stretch of him desperately. I know you want to cum, baby. He’s calling you baby and you’re closer, so much closer. Come on, for me, yeah? 

You melt, crashing and crumpling into him and shuddering as you release all over his fingers. He presses his forehead to yours and lets you take a beat. You feel giddy and dizzy and warm, which is weird because you don’t feel drunk at all anymore. This dizziness is something different. It’s Charles.

“Are we going to do that again?” You ask meekly, hand still in his hair.

“Only if you want. Whatever you want,” he says. He’d do anything for you. He’d do whatever you wanted.

“I do, I do want.” And Charles, the good friend he is, helps you out.

—

Imola is humid, warm, and the racetrack is absolutely teeming with people. But you’re not there—clad in linen shorts and a fresh tank top, you’re walking around the vicinity of the track, cup of gelato in hand, sunglasses over your eyes. The restaurant near you is playing music out loud. Beside you, singing along and drafting a list of wedding appetizers, is Lorenzo.

“Lamb chops?” You suggest, licking amaretto off the plastic spoon. The weather is pleasant enough that people are crowding the streets without it being too unbearably hot. Stevie Wonder flows from the speakers, permeates the entire block.

“I was thinking more seafood.”  

“Tuna? Make ‘em little tacos.”

“Good idea. Think I’ll go for those. Hey, are you sure you’re on board with fake-dating my brother?”

You turn sharply toward him, taken aback. He hadn’t brought it up in the week and a half this plan had been in the works—he’d been privy to it the entire time, too, which makes it weirder that he’s asking so suddenly.

“I meaaan…” You slow your pace, contemplative. A shy smile plays at your lips, brows knitted together. “It’s only going to be for a month. Ish. So, yeah. Are you—do you—sorry. Is it alright with you? Sorry.”

“It is not not okay.”

“So it’s…” You pause. “Okay.”

“It’s—yes, but I worry, is all. How sure are you that this won’t hurt anyone?”

“I don’t know, it’s… bitter with the sweet. And who’s getting hurt… like the fans?” You laugh a little. “They’ll live, won’t they?”

“Like you.” He pauses. “Like Charles.”

—

Pierre is running a comb through his hair, staring at himself in the mirror; his Narcissus moment is interrupted by a banana to the back of his head. Bonjour, he says, monotone and already knowing the culprit.

“We need to talk.”

“Could this possibly be about the news of your brand new ‘girlfriend’ over last week? Where is she, by the way?”

“With Lorenzo. Listen, here’s the thing. Mum thinks we’re dating, and I don’t know how to tell her we’re not—so I won’t.”

“Lie to your mum, go ahead.” Pierre crosses his arms and hums.

“Tais-toi. It’s for her own good.” 

“So you’re going to pretend to date.”

 “Ouais.” 

“Should be easy. You guys are hooking up and making out or whatever all the time.”

Charles pauses and lets the silence speak for itself. When Pierre makes a noise of confusion, he gives. We don’t kiss, he says finally. She thinks it is too intimate, and we ‘are not dating,’ so sex is the only thing we do. Sex, and if you still have leftover antsy energy, you pull on his shirt and sit up against the headboard to finish a crossword puzzle. Sometimes he helps you, but most of the time he’s just there to press lazy kisses to your hair and temple, cheekbone and jaw—never your lips.

“You don’t kiss?” Pierre’s genuinely shocked. “Putain, you’re a hero. How does that even work?”

“We just do not kiss. We fuck, but no kissing.” He shrugs. “It’s always been that way.”

“So how about her birthday?”

“She doesn’t…” Charlex exhales tightly. “Remember.”

“Charles,” you suddenly say, head appearing into the doorway. “Oh, hey. Fred said you might be here. What are you guys talking about?”

“Sprint racing,” Pierre says, an easy lie.

Charles, though, is never good at the lying bit. “International tariffs.”

—

Your only memories of your seventeenth birthday are applying lip gloss and mascara, wearing your shortest skirt and tightest top, and reciting your supposed date of birth in line like a mantra. Anything after that’s been sprayed off by the ultra-clutch strength of vodka. Which, you’ve been told, was your drink of choice.

“Headache’s better,” you moan over the phone, face squashed onto your pillow. “Mum gave me an Advil but I was so sick all morning.”

“Did you snog anyone?” Charles is always teasing.

“God, I wish.” You shut your eyes and try to remember if your drunken stupor had somehow managed to get you successful in lip-locked matters. Nothing comes up and you wipe a dry hand over your face, heaving a sigh. “I really wanted to kiss Matthew but I think he left before you and I did.”

A pause. Then Charles clears his throat. “You mean you and me and the police car that escorted us home?” He snorts.

“You’re such a prick!” You scream into your pillow, laughing. “I already thanked you for being my literal savior last night.”

He smiles to himself. “You’re welcome.”

“Did you have fun?” You flop onto your back and stare at the stick-on stars on your ceiling. You make a mental note to try and remove them.

“Bit boring because I vowed not to drink at all, but I got to dance. Bitter with the sweet, right?”

—

“Nervous?”

“I mean, fuck, yeah.” You fix the hem of your dress, speaking to Giada through the phone. “Pascale’s waiting for us on the paddock. And so are, like, a hundred photographers.” You wince. “Can you even imagine Charles and me? It’s just—I dunno—it’s weird.”

“It isn’t,” she says, laughing. “Not really. It makes sense. Plus, aren’t you on the whole arrangement?” You envision her air quotes.

“Yeah, but”—you slip your sandals on—“it’s on and off, and that’s not dating. It’s sex. Two different things.”

“Is it really, though? Considering how close you are outside of bed, aren’t y—”

“Okay, input no longer needed,” you laugh. “Bye, Gi. I’ll text you later.”

You reunite with Charles just by the paddock entrance. The throng of fans holding cutouts and posters notice you two before anyone else does, inciting a collective bout of yells around the both of you. He notices your blue silk dress first, eyes unmoving. “You look like the sky.”

“Thanks, man.” A beat, and you squint through your sunglasses. “That’s a compliment, right?”

“Sure.”

“Prick.” You peek over them and to the fans, who wave more aggressively when they notice you’re looking. Nervously, you raise a hand and wave back, and the noise heightens. “I think I’m going to be replacing you.”

“Dream on. On y va?”

You turn back to him, smiling, and you both enter at the same time. His hand wraps around your waist, dips a bit lower to rest at the small of your back as you walk—the fans clearly dig it, because everyone’s yelling in a frenzy as you depart. What are you doing, you ask through your smiling teeth.

“Did you forget we’re supposed to be dating?” He maintains an equally pleasant (totally duplicitous) façade, smiling. 

“I didn’t think,” you say, still smiling falsely, “that you’d put your hands on me five minutes into the whole agreement.”

“Smile, honey,” he teases. “I see at least five cameras at us right now.”

“It’s seven,” you beam. “Dumbass.”

“Again with the competitive streak.” memory

“I totally deserved to win last week’s game. You’re just a sore loser.”

“No you’re just a—hi, hi, hello!”

Your walk to the motorhome is interrupted by running into a friend of Charles’—someone from McLaren, one of the executives there. While Lando has been informed of your stunt, nobody else on that team has. 

They handshake and he waves at you politely. “Whole paddock’s buzzing with news of you dating,” he says, smiling. “It’s a tad crazy! I remember seeing you as Charles’ plus one back when he was in Formula Two. And now you two are dating. How did—well, if you don’t mind me asking, where’d it all happen?”

“Oh,” you say, laughing. “Yeah, Monaco.”

“Texas,” Charles says at the same time.

Alarm bells go off in your head at the totally random, unwarranted statement out of Charles’ mouth. Texas? Neither of you have even ever been at the same time. “He means”—you say, coughing and nodding—“we went on this, um. Wild West themed, um, restaurant in Monaco, and that’s where he asked me out.” You make a face that you hope conveys you get it, and it seems to work.

“Definitely not what I had in mind, but if it worked, it worked, eh?” He grins. “I guess I always knew you two would end up together. Alright, ciao!”

You’re smiling and waving after him as he leaves, and then you’re (semi) alone again, or at least within your own space on the incredibly crowded paddock. 

You turn to him, unable to hide your confusion. “Um? Texas?! What’s up with the backstories?”

“It slipped out! Sorry. But nice save.”

“You’re so f—” You try to scold him, but can’t, bursting into laughter and leaning forward to laugh into his chest. “Texas, really?”

“Sorry,” he says. You feel the vibration of his own laugh through his chest and it’s warm and nice. You peel yourself off lest you look too clingy, and resume your walk to the motorhome.

Ferrari is crowded, filled with people and strategists and guests. You’re given a bottle of water and then hounded with questions from the team who haven’t been informed of the situation at hand. David, one of the engineers close to Charles who you’d previously spoken to in one of the earlier races, asks to borrow him.

“Ciao, ciao.” They speak in one of the outdoor patio areas. “Is everything okay?”

“The car is fine. I just wanted to ask about the girl.” David punches his arm, playful. “You finally got her!”

“Oh.”

“It’s just… I remember all the times she would show up and you’d tell me about how much you liked her… I don’t know, it’s perfect for things to end up like this, no? Bravo!”

“Oh, si. I’ve just been, you know…” He looks through the glass sliding door and into the hospitality, where you’re talking to Isa and Carlos, sunglasses over your hair. Your hands are moving quickly, and you’re smiling while talking. He wonders what you’re so passionate about. When you’re caught in fits of happiness and passion, you’re extra animated. Your eyes are lively, and your lips can’t stop curling into a slight beaming smile. Now, maybe it’s France, maybe it’s crossword puzzles, slim chance it’s your job—whatever it is, he could watch you talk like this for hours. He thinks it’s beautiful, the way you transform, the way you smile, when you talk of things you absolutely love. 

“… crazy about her forever.”

—

There are banners, Italian flags, and Charles’ face on every other wall. He’s done his first hat-trick of the season (of several more, you’re hoping). You’ve foregone the usual clubbing for dinner with a smaller group of people, but only because you’ve been told the nightlife is bleak and you’d rather save that energy for the next race.

Lando picked out the restaurant—he’s “on a massive Yelp high” trying to get the best restaurants in every city they get to. He’s tried two over the weekend, and is hoping this guns for first place. The restaurant’s name is long and so very Italian, to the point where your semi-fluency fails you. The food is amazing, though, and so is the wine—a whole other level of grape-flavored bliss.

You’re in-between Joris and Charles, nursing your fourth glass while Charles downs a bottle of beer. Light conversation flows through the table, but your sleepiness only allows you to hear some of it. You’re content with the white noise.

Lando is getting a new cat, Lewis bought a new pair of shoes—oh, no, shares in the company that makes the shoes—Joris bought the shoes, Lorenzo will now buy the shoes, why isn’t anyone paying attention to Lando’s cat. It’s funny, entertaining, and the perfect nightcap to your immensely exhausting day of acting.

Wine tipsy makes you loopy and snoozy. By default, your head lolls onto Charles’ body; he immediately wraps a sweater-clad arm around your frame, leans back, pulls you closer. Doesn’t miss a beat. In fact, while doing so, he’s even able to get a dig in against Lando’s affinity for cats.

“No more wine, m’kay?” He whispers quietly, angling his head to yours. 

“Oh, but it was so good, though.” You mope, but nod in agreement. “I could seriously drink wine out of a keg here.”

“Sure did that a lot with beer.” You laugh, punching his bicep with what little space you’re given. “You sleepy?”

“Yeah. But I’m fine,” you respond, smiling. “Now shut up. I need to know what happened to Lando’s cat.”

Lewis leaves first, claiming he’s into this whole “sleeping at 9PM” thing, and Lorenzo follows to get ahead of an early flight tomorrow. It’s you, Joris, Charles, and Lando now, and you’re good as dead, eyes half-shut and fluttering, head slipping off his shoulder.

How was it? Lando asks, lowering his volume to keep from being too jarring. Day 1, fake dating? I actually read something like this in one of those, um, fanfiction stuff the fans do. Joris and Charles cast him a half-weirded out, half-amused pair of looks, but Lando defends himself. They’re actually pretty good, guys. I read one where I ended up with my rival or summat.

“Sorry to burst your bubble, Lando,” you croak, voice raspy with sleepiness and a day of bubbling laughter, “but Charles and I probably didn’t do your fanfiction kink justice.”

“Ignoring the emasculation.” He says, turning beet red. “What’d you do, then? Wasn’t it hard?”

“It was hard, but it’s like that.” Charles likes to substitute the phrase it is what it is to it’s like that, a result likely stemming from his trilingual childhood. “We just. Pretended. Oi, we held hands in front of the cameras.”

“Yeah, you can get a good wank in if that does it for you,” you joke. Lando hurls a cube of parmigiano at your face; it lands squarely and you flip him off, the table erupting with peals of laughter.

“In all seriousness, though—how are you two okay with this? I know I’d be second guessing my feelings every second.”

You shift, trying to hide your obvious lack of answer. It’s quiet for a few seconds, and then Charles says, “We’re both comfortable with each other, I think.”

“Yeah, comfortable enough that we can, you know, be honest.” You’re looking at Lando when you say that. You don’t know how well you could repeat the sentence if you were looking straight into Charles’ eyes.

You leave the restaurant with a generous tip, and Charles helps you pull your coat on when you’re out the door, back into the chilly night air. It’s then that all four of you catch news via text, of a club invite somewhere in the city.

“It’ll be fun, guys.” Joris and Lando stand in front of you and Charles, bumbling with excitement. “I heard Lil Tjay is going to be there.”

“It sounds very fun,” you say, smiling, “but I might pass out if I drink anything other than water, and I have zero energy. You three go ahead.”

“Wh—no, I’m not going, either.” You raise an eyebrow at Charles. “Serious! I wasn’t in the mood much, anyway. Joris, take Lando’s car and we’ll take mine.”

“Alright,” Lando whistles. “Suit yourselves, agoraphobes.”

“Joke’s on you”—Charles smiles, smug—“I don’t know what that means.”

“Not the dig you think it is, Charles,” you say, rolling your eyes. “Night, Joris, Lando. See you guys tomorrow. Use protection!”

“Should be saying that to you guys,” quips Joris with an evil grin that he closes the car door on.

The climb into the car feels like a chore in itself with how tipsy and sleepy you’ve become. Charles likes to bring his Ferrari to race weekends, but you convinced him to use a different car for this one, because you honest-to-God can’t stand the low seats anymore. 

“You want dessert?” He asks when he’s rounded the car and settled into his seat. “Gelato, a cone, biscotti…”

“No, no,” you say, voice thin. A palm covers your shutting eyes; blindly, you reach for his hand. It’s easy because he sees you searching and takes your hand to cut it short. “I’m good. So sleepy. Can I sleep at your hotel room?”

“Sure.” He starts the car, waves to the wait staff idle by the entrance, and drives off. “How was the day as my fake girlfriend? Anyone ask about me?” He wiggles his eyebrows, flickering his gaze to your figure beside him. “Wasn’t too tough, I hope.”

Imola whizzes by, trees and city, and a poorly stifled yawn escapes your lips, wine stained. You laugh sleepily. “It was a bit awkward, but bitter with the sweet, right?” He smiles, nodding, and you continue. “Yeah, few strategists, some people who knew you from Prema. I was talking to Isa and Carlos, too, earlier. Even if they know it’s fake.”

He recalls seeing you talk to them through the glass. “About?”

“You.”

—

The sun is merciless on the clay courts, and so are your shoes, shuddering against the surface in your continuing attempt to beat the opposing team. Charles cowers behind you—he’s scored less than half of your points thus far—but you’re on a mission, like your competitive self always is when you’re put in a position to be able to win.

You’re two points down now, and the noontime is becoming increasingly itchy and unforgiving; across you both, Giada and Joris call a mutual time out. “That’s not allowed!” You say, petulant.

“This is a practice session,” Charles says gently, nearing you. “Mate, none of us are actual players.”

You wipe sweat off your forehead. “Right. Désolée. I’m just—I’m in the zone.”

“Ouais, I get it. Relax, m’kay? We got this.”

You shake yourself off and hop a few times, skirt bobbing by your waist as you go. Your braid bounces on your shoulder and you nod, turning your racquet over in your grip. 

Charles pings the ball hard and it soars over to land just shy of the line, seemingly scoring a point for you two and securing your win. Giada and Joris chime in with protests, claiming that the ball’s out. You throw your hands up in question.

“Okay, what? That was clearly a point!”

“Snoops, I think they might be right. The ball looked out to me,” Charles says, wrapping a sweaty arm around your red shoulders.

“What are you talking about, Charlie? That ball was in! I saw it!” You elbow yourself out of his grip, aghast.

“How about…” He suggests quietly. “We let them win? You did win the last”—he pauses to count—“five sets. Come on, Snoops. They need this. Bitter with the—”

You take a deep breath, staring into his eyes. “Fucking sweet, right, okay. Fine, fine.” 

Charles thinks he’s in the clear and he’s managed to extinguish your flames of frustration—that is, until you walk into the Leclerc household for lunch an hour later and, after greeting Pascale and Hervé, you point squarely to the jar on the kitchen counter. “Five euros.”

He splutters. “Five? Wh—non, non! I was trying to calm you down.”

“You were blind and gave Giada and Joris a fake win,” you say playfully.

“Saluuut,” Lorenzo greets, sitting at the stool beside yours. “Quoi de neuf?”

“Charles has five euros for the jar.” The jar, the infamous jar, sometimes dubbed the Dumbass Jar when Pascale’s out of earshot. It was Lorenzo who first made it up after three straight instances of Charles pulling a push door (three different establishments).

Arthur’s joined in at this point, but its biggest indirect donors are definitely Lorenzo and Hervé, who view it as just about the funniest thing in the world. Out of pity, you don’t call dumbass too often, but the tennis loss is bruising enough that you warrant the usage.

“You heard Snoopy. Five euros. We’ll be able to get milkshakes with this money after next week.” You high five. “At this rate, Charles, you could open a restaurant in Paris.”

“He’s going to race,” you correct. You both watch a begrudged Charles junk a bill into the nearly-full jar. “What race driver is going to open a restaurant?”

—

You meet Yuki Tsunoda on a flight to Nice. You’ve seen him several times before, not too frequently but enough that his name and face are familiar on your mind. Also a personality trait that Pierre would bring up in fond conversations with you and/or Charles: he loves food, apparently.

“Yuki’s volunteering AlphaTauri to be your hideout,” Pierre tells you and Charles, across him. 

Turns out, the hardest part (insofar) of this whole schtick: the officially appointed paddock photographers are being extra sneaky with it, finding the best vantage points to snap pictures of an unwitting you and Charles.

They’re like hawks, watching for even the slightest glimpse so they can post the photos on Instagram and get clicks.

So, just a few hours earlier, Charles asked if there was a place you and him could talk if needed where photographers wouldn’t be awaiting you already, and this was the answer.

“If it’s too much trouble, feel no need to… you know.”

“Nonsense.” Pierre smiles goofily and Yuki pokes him to stop, pausing his session of eating a quesadilla (where he’d even acquired it, you’re clueless). “Yukino would be happy to.” 

The flight lands and the drive to Monaco is infected with notoriously slow traffic; you pop an Advil to try and alleviate the motion sickness. Pierre and Yuki, it seems, have joined you even outside of the flight. They’re in the backseat offering bits of conversation.

“Oh, mate, we should totally play tennis while we’re here.” Pierre sighs. “Didn’t you guys play before?”

“Mmm, yeah,” you mumble with a lilt of amusement at the memories from basically a decade ago. “At the country club. Doubles always, otherwise I’d knock Charles out of the park.”

“Hey, I won a couple times!” He protests weakly. “Like… twice.”

You laugh out loud. “Anyway, Pierre, do not bring me into tennis. I get all competitive and develop anger issues.”

“I had to calm her down twice a set,” Charles says; you swat him lightly to silence him. “Still do.”

“You know, if the Dumbass Jar still existed,” you say cuttingly, “I swear I’d be able to buy off Ferrari with that money.”

—

Monaco is swelterinly hot today. You know this because you know the weather here, you know the curves and ups and downs of it—this is your home. And today is hot. Every few minutes a breeze filters through the air and you can hear journalists or PAs sigh a collective breath of relief before they’re all subjected to the inane, high-degree weather again.

It’s also, according to Arthur, a good day to kiss in front of the cameras. He says it easily over a plate of sliced kiwi, with a devious smile, because he assumes your friends-with-benefits arrangement equates to constant kissing. But the truth is you’ve never kissed Charles, and it intimidates you.

“Do we have to kiss?” You play with his bracelets, sitting beside him on the sofa. The talk of kissing entertains the thought of sex and you can’t help but mentally complain at the remembrance that you haven’t gotten laid in weeks.

“If you don’t want to—”

“I do.” You splutter, eyes going wide, face warm. “No! I mean I don’t mind. If it sells the thing.”

“D’accord, then we will.” He smiles. “That okay?”

“Sure. First kiss,” you say. Your voice feels as clammy as your hands.

“First.” He looks away.

You take your woes off the kiss by playing a friendly round of tennis with your favourite opponents, Giada and Joris. They bemoan your competitive nature (that, to be fair, allots you and Charles three straight wins), and Giada incites a protest for a girls versus boys round.

You both embarrass Charles and Joris, heckling them as you win another two straight games. Charles runs over to you when you throw up the L sign on your hand, lifting you up and making you squeal.

“Put me down, loser!”

Giada and Joris exchange a look. Amused, knowing. “Charles! You’re such a cunt.” You kick hard, and manage to snag his abdomen, so he gently places you onto the clay again. He laughs and paces back over to his side, and you play with the tail of your braid as you watch.

You play set after set, but the kiss comes anyway. When you know photographers can see you—by the entrance—and it happens faster than your mind can muster. He’s leaning in, you’re reaching up, and your mouths slot together. It’s—and it feels crazy to say it, but—

It’s perfect. It’s lovely. You smile against his lips like they belong there and like they’re familiar and yours and like maybe this is all you’ve ever wanted, and like they deserve the smile, because they do. You feel your need to pull away before you can’t help but keep him tethered to you always. It’s strange and it’s not platonic—you’re mature enough to admit that, but not enough to label exactly what it is.

You spend the day with your fingers pressed to your lips, like you’re sealing the memory. Hours later, Charles wins. There’s massive uproar and you’re in the crowd when it happens, in the sea of strategists going to congratulate him on winning Monaco, which—that’s—it’s winning Monaco. Your ears ring by the end of it and your throat’s dry from your own cheering. Carlos comes in second, and the outlook for their team is going much better than it’d been at the start of the year, so there’s a lot to celebrate.

And celebrate you do. It starts with being pinned up against the door, hungry kisses along your jaw and neck. One kiss, it seems, has broken the dam from the few years you’ve spent abstaining from the kissing. He’s just finished interviews. He’s only just changed into his polo, and now he’s tugging it off again, feverish.

This is rushed and dirty, down low and dark. Only one light’s been switched on and he’s hiking your dress up, panties down with one hand to tug his cock out with the other. He’s kissing you—kissing you stupid, almost. Like he’s waited forever to taste your lips and now he’ll starve if he’s away for just a moment. He needs you. So have me, you want to say, all of me, push me up against the wall again and cover my mouth with your palm. Or don’t, don’t—so everyone knows I’m yours.

He presses your chest against the wall so your back’s turned to him, thrusts in with a breathless, throaty grunt. 

“S’ big,” you’re saying, clawing at words the pleasure bars you from finding.

“Barely even in,” he whispers. “Slow down, baby, come on, take it.”

Your toes curl. You’re high on the win, on the kissing, on Charles, on the slow delicious stretch of his cock. “I’m taking it, I’m taking it,” you say, shaky. He thrusts, slow and deep and dirty, until he’s bottomed out and you’re tiptoeing from the overwhelm.

“I feel you,” you’re whimpering, moans and gasps leaving your mouth. You blindly search for his hand, find it against your hip, drag it to your abdomen, under your dress that he hasn’t even fully removed. “I feel you there,” you say, an edge of teasing to your voice.

His cock’s bulging, almost, out of your stomach, and it’s getting you both all lightheaded. He thrusts harder, a devious smile felt against your neck.

I need it, Charles, you plead, please, please fuck me harder. You feel it coming, the familiar pleasure intensifying so quickly—you don’t usually cum so early, he’s always making you wait for it—pussy squeezing around him.

Jesus, already? He’s groaning but a laugh escapes, breathy and amused and taunting. He’s fucking you harder, faster. It’s so good, each hit getting you closer. Taking me so well, you’re bruised all over now, baby. You hate how well he knows what turns you on; memories of mornings post-sex spent inspecting the purple marks on your hips flash through your head and you’re even closer now, shaking, whimpering, begging.

You’re half-sure someone can hear, but it doesn’t even phase you. Harder, deeper— and you’re collapsing, legs spasming uncontrollably, orgasm so intense it’s on the brink of totally hurting. Tears roll down your sweaty face and he kisses them away, cumming onto your back to wipe off in a few minutes.

“I never even”—you pant, tired—“got to say congratulations.”

“That was more than enough.”

—

Charles is elated when you tell him his family has thrown a party for him the day next. He’s boyish in that way, optimistic and kiddy, the kind of person who’s up at five-thirty to announce their own birthday. 

He drives you both to his childhood home, a route so familiar he could drive with his eyes closed. (“I hope you’re not driving closed-eyed,” you’d warned.)

Even if he could, anyway, he’d rather not. The scenery of Monaco is stunning, ever-changing, and he never tires of it—the buildings, the skies, the trees and shrubbery, stores lining the streets, clean entrances. 

And you—in the passenger seat, humming softly to a song of his choosing. Drives are always better when you’re in the passenger seat.

The turnout is generous: extended family, and several friends from school. There’s bowls of fruit, salad, plates of salmon and racks of lamb, knobs of butter with warm bread. Pascale commands the kitchen—visible in how she leaves it cluttered with bowls, ingredients, whisks still dripping with syrup or batter, spoons licked for tasting. The good kind of clutter.

Lorenzo has also taken reign of the AUX, because it’s 70’s music playing, which is what he’s fond of for family gatherings like these. It’s My Cherie Amour now, Stevie Wonder mellowing across the lawn and into the house.

Charles knows you love the kitchen as much as his mum does, so when you get to the house, he’s not surprised to see you leave him in favor of checking out what damage has been done to your favorite marble countertops. He watches Pascale turn from the gas range, her eyes lit when she sees you, inviting you into an embrace. 

You look like the song playing, pretty and lovely, breeze in the summer. He almost loses himself in thought before his great-aunt Eden places two bony hands on his arms and greets him in feeble Italian.

He flits his eyes away from you, if just briefly, and faces the woman with a smile on his face. “Ciao, zia,” he says, voice buoyant, happy. “You came here to see me, no?”

All five-foot-one of her shakes in disagreement. She wags a finger for extra measure. “No,” she says. “Sono venuto a vedere la tua ragazza.”

His eyes widen. “She’s—” He pauses. He debates telling Eden you’re not actually his girlfriend, that this was a setup to appease Pascale and, by extension, tifosi. But he backtracks.

He shouldn’t, but he gives in, lives out his dreams for a bit. “Ah, she’s over there, zia. Con mamma.” He points to the open door, and to you on the far end of the room inside, holding a spoon. “Beautiful, yes?”

“Molto,” she says proudly. “You marry her?”

Fact: his great-aunt has the worst memory. She forgot Charles’ name twenty times, let alone niche facts like this one. Another fact: she rarely shows up to family events. Maybe now, because it’s a racing thing; but baby showers and funerals, she’s at home. So he indulges a bit more.

“Si, we’re engaged. But—it’s a secret, zia.” He grins. “Non dire a nessuno. Okay?”

“Sei fidanzato?!” She claps once, excited. “Ay, Charles. I waited my whole life for this moment, si?” And she’s wobbling away, still muttering under her breath.

—

“How is my son?” Pascale’s voice is teasing. She sighs happily. “For years I wondered if this would happen. And it really is.”

“Oui, sure is,” you sing-song, laughing a bit awkwardly. “We’re—he’s okay. We’re great. In love.”

“Oh, in love,” she swoons. She leaves you, after fifteen more minutes of detailed discussion, with half a spoonful of vinaigrette to taste-test, departing to check on the guests for a few minutes. In her place arrives Lorenzo, already bearing a shit-eating grin. “Saluuut.”

“Mmm, good to see you, too.” You taste the liquid and add lemon to the bowl. “How’s wedding planning?”

“Think we’ll throw a shower. Is that pretentious?”

“No,” you say, mulling over it. “Sure, a bit. But just don’t make it a whole thing, you’re golden.”

“I see.” He sighs fondly. “You know, many a conversation we’ve had right here at this counter. About anything.”

—

You loosen your school tie, slicing an apple like you so often do, waiting for Charles’ karting practice to end. Pascale had fixed you a bowl of something, Hervé a glass of orange juice. And somebody else would always, without fail, steal your food. A hand swipes two slices form your chopping board and your head whips up.

“Lorenzo!” You stomp your foot. “Stop stealing! That is my apple.”

“You mean the Leclercs’ apple.” He laughs, pops another slice into his mouth, smiling. 

You roll your eyes, shaking your head. The braid beside your head shakes with it as you continue slicing it into perfect quarters. He pipes up again: “How was school?”

“Shit, as usual.” You lower your voice and smile, leaning in. “Pascale scolded me earlier, for saying that word.”

“Did Papa?”

“Obviously not. He fist bumped me.” You share a laugh, both chewing on apple slices now. “Anyway, I aced a math test, had aubergine for lunch… got driven here by Charlotte’s mum.”

“Charlotte?” Lorenzo hums conspiratorially, making a mmmm sound. You look up from the yellow chopping board, furrowing your eyebrows. He persists: “Mmm. Cha-r-lotte.”

“What’s up with Charlotte?” Bit impolitely, you ask, in-between chews.

“I think she likes Charles, a little.” You nod slowly, trying to follow. Charlotte liking Charles. Your Charles. Wait, no. Not your—or nobody’s, really. Just Charles. Yeah.

“What? Bull!” You narrow your eyes. “Says who?”

“Why do you care?”

“Wh—I don’t!” You squeak, caught. “Just… I think I’d know, Lorenzo.” You make a tch noise, crossing your sweater-clad arms. “So—says who?”

“I saw her leering at him during his birthday party.” 

“You’re wrong,” you say, but you don’t really know who you’re convincing. He reaches over for an apple slice, and you move the chopping board out of the way sharply.

“Mon dieu, you’re snappy. Fine, fine. I might be wrong,” he relents, shrugging. He gets up and slides beside you to be able to acquire more slices. “I talked to her during the party, too.”

“Weirdo,” you tease, allowing him to take a few more. “About Charles, yes?

“No, about her brand new dress.”

“You’re the funniest Leclerc brother, I assure you.”

“She told me…” He says, louder this time, shushing you effectively. “She told me she ‘finds Charles cute.’” Air quotes, shrug. “But that they ‘probably won’t’ date.”

“Huh. Did, um. Did she say why?” You play with the tail of your braid, shuffling back and forth on your flats. You don’t know why you’re so fidgety—you aren’t nervous, you don’t think.

“Because…” he says, chewing to allow for a pause. “She said every time she looks for Charles to try and ask for time alone, or on a date, or something, he’s already following you around like some puppy.”

—

You comb your hair into a bun and venture into the patio, having avoided a good chunk of the noon heat. You greet some relatives politely along the way, and receive a hand squeeze from great-aunt Eden. At one of the tables is Charles, beside Joris and another friend, and Giada and Charlotte across them, an empty seat beside the latter.

You seat yourself in it and Giada kisses your cheek. “Hey. Ça va?”

“Fine,” you say, smiling. Then you lower your voice to a whisper. “Do you remember when I told you about my crush on Charlie? For the first time?”

“Yeah,” she whispers back. “Around… 2013.”

“Ouais. And… and it disappeared after that,” you say. “Right?”

“You said it did,” she says. “A year later. When we were sixteen.”

“Right.” You think. Seventeen onwards—you’d never formed a full-fledged crush on Charles. “Okay. It’s nothing. Just a memory. I was just. Yeah, oui.”

“Oui, let’s eat.” The memory fades and so does your running mind. Charles’ eyes meet yours across the table, and suddenly you feel a little less like your thoughts have ripped you open.

—

When you and Charles were younger, you adopted the adage “bitter with the sweet.” Charles will have people believe it was made by the both of you, with philosophical minds stretched so far beyond their years. Well, revisionist history. The truth lay in the Carole King song of the same name you’d heard on the stereo.

Those are the exact words Charles tells Ted when he’s interviewing for the Spain Grand Prix. It’s a hot day and you’re especially doubled down on by the fact that he’s finished ninth. 

You’d been fake-dating for the cameras all weekend. At all costs, you try and avoid interviews, but the damned Drive to Survive producers insist on a soundbite and start following the two of you around everywhere (only to find your conversations sound very weird and niche, and not scandalous or sexy).

Pascale also called—Charles first, and when he didn’t check his phone, you. You spent an hour on the phone just talking about the race. About the penalties and the nasty headlines that followed, and just everything.

“I’m glad you’re there,” she says. “God knows he needs you.”

You end up biking to try and relieve the stress, posing with fans for pictures.

“I’m such a big fan. I stalk Charles’ Insta like, all the time, and it’s crazy how you guys are dating.” A teenaged girl laughs nervously. “Where’d it happen?”

“Texas!” He, again, tries out the bit to appease the fans but you have to extinguish the flames of his blatant lies.

“He’s kidding,” you interject. “It’s just—it just happened, really.”

How does something just happen? Someone told you once, in a Paris bar, that love is like an echo. It’s always there, in the underbelly, underneath it all, and then one day it echoes, like a bass drum or a cymbal. And the echo—the echo is you feeling it. You feel the echo, the all-encompassing echo, even if the love itself’s been there all along.

With Charles, it’s out of the question. You love him. He’s your best friend. You trusted him before you even learned what trust meant, for Chrissake.

How could you not love him? That seemed impossible. The love was there. The love’s always been there and it’ll never go away.

It echoes at half-past-two in Barcelona, when he whips past you on his bike and says on your left. The breeze pulls your hair to the left, covers your face, and when you rake it away he’s stopped to check if he accidentally bumped you in his rush to look cool.

You’re creepily observant; you’ve been told this many times before. What people don’t know is with the observance comes even more questions. Ifs, whys, wheres, whens, hows, God the hows. The questions keep coming because there’s never an answer.

“Are you okay?” He asks. Green eyes glittering like a lake. Smile like the sun. Hair curly at the ends. “Did I hurt you?”

Then you realize. In the matters of love, every question—every single question. Every single one. The answer is Charles.

“Of course not,” you say. And you smile.

—

You almost drop your book in your rush to scurry past the paparazzi. They’re still busy on the two figures (Alex and Lily, you think) on another end of the paddock, which allows you only a few moments to try and evade them.

Others are stationed near the Ferrari hospitality, which means you’re going to need your hideout. Yuki had texted Pierre who had texted Charles who had told you that it was all clear to go there for a few minutes while waiting for the photographers to clear out.

Hurry, Charles is saying. Laughing. His hand’s gentle in yours. You want them there forever. You want to drag the tip of your nail over the barely-perceptible grooves of his fingerprints so he knows how much you need him.

The days post-Spain were spent biking, watching shows, listening to music, eating food. The travel to Canada—long, cold, compression socks. Pascale had called mid-flight to check on her “favorite pair”—you maneuvered yourselves into a much more cuddly position to appease her, and her giddy smile was incentive enough to stay that way for ninety minutes.

You’d been in a weird mental state trying to grapple with your rapidly returning and intensifying feelings for him, which have dawned on you all at once.

But he makes it better. You’re still laughing when you wedge yourselves in, eyes meeting.

And then you’re quiet.

The gaze you share is intense, but almost unsure, like you’re supposed to be looking away anytime now. You step backward shakily, and his hand moves from your waist to the small of your back to keep you from stumbling any further. You’re closer now. But this shouldn’t feel as strange as it does when you two have been in much more scandalous positions before—what’s different?

He’s so close, so so close, his green eyes looking right through you. You lean closer, ready to kiss him like you have before, ready to feel his mouth slot softly over yours, comforting and safe and Charles.

Funnily enough, it’s then that the illusion breaks, his grip loosening and the distance between you increasing. He coughs twice, awkwardly.

“Shit—sorry,” you say profusely, clearly having read the moment wrong. Embarrassment wells up in your system, warming your face. You laugh to diffuse the tension but it barely does anything.

“No, don’t—” He exhales, squeezes the bridge of his nose, trying to find words. “It’s not that I don’t want to kiss you. I do.”

“So kiss me,” you suggest simply, looking around for anything that might stop him. The embarrassment ebbs away, replaced quickly by confusion. 

“I don’t want to kiss you in an AlphaTauri stock room,” he mopes, burying his head in his hands in clear frustration. “An AlphaTauri stock room.” He repeats it in a hushed whisper, disbelief etched all over his pretty face.

“Charles,” you begin, smiling already, the quaint way that makes his knees go weak every time. “You’re acting like you and I haven’t kissed before.” 

“This is different.” He says firmly, looking away lest he lean in involuntarily. He interjects with conviction, not realizing what he’s implying until the implication’s hanging in the air. The longing kills him softly, and he feels if he looks at you a second longer he’ll kiss you anyway.

It’s a wonderfully confusing feeling. You open your mouth to respond but you can’t; your brain tacks itself onto his sentence, the division created between the kisses before now and the kiss that might happen anytime soon.

“H…” you trail off, throat drying. Blinking, you try again, “How different?”

He looks up, eyes conveying all the things his lips never will. This is different. You know it. I love you this time.

The answer is exchanged and accepted wordlessly. You slip out of the room when Pierre tells you it’s okay to, and it’s only then—only then—that Charles’ hand leaves your body. You seem to burn alive with its absence.

It’s a Ferrari 1-2. You snap a thousand pictures with Isa and Carlos holding Carlos’ trophy while Charles is doing interviews, and they invite you to join them for the break. You’re open to it—the win, the good standings, they definitely warrant a celebration for the few weeks’ break. So your original itinerary is Portugal—beaches, coasts, food—but the jet re-charts a route and the flight is cut much shorter because you’re in New York City.

—

Somewhere in Manhattan, a wedding shower is thrown on an outdoor rooftop. “This is one hell of a wedding shower,” you squeal excitedly when you spot him, bringing Lorenzo in for a hug. Your yellow dress flows in the wind. “I thought you guys were going to throw it in Monaco?”

“Yeah, well… why not here, right? It’s beautiful.” He gestures to the skyline, smiling. “Plus, Charles, Arthur, and Mum were already near the country for work, so we got ahead of it. Everyone was happy to fly out.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, I love it.” You beam. “I can’t believe it, either. When’s the final date?”

He opens his mouth to reply, but the wind is knocked out of him by Charles barreling into his arms for a hug. You roll your eyes at the latter’s childish behavior, smiling despite yourself. They part and Charles finds his place beside you, arm snaking around your shoulders. “What a wedding shower!”

“Don’t flatter me, dipshit,” Lorenzo jokes.

“It’s a lovely one.” Lorenzo thanks him. “An amazing shower. You know, it’s a total golden shower!”

You purse your lips. “Charles—”

“A golden shower, mate. Absolutely.”

That garners at least three odd looks and you calmly place a hand on his chest to whisper don’t ever fucking say that again it means something completely different please don’t embarrass me or your brother. 

For all your embarrassment, you make up for it in having the literal time of your life. The food is good, the city view is amazing, the weather is fair and the music—Desafinado now—is amazing. “I could see myself here,” you say offhandedly to Charles, who nods back with a faint smile. He’s half-distracted.

“You look beautiful, by the way,” he says, squinting from the sun in his eyes. “Very.”

You part ways at some point—Pascale whisks him off, no doubt for another long round of questioning about your relationship, and you meander around with a glass of champagne.

You’re halfway through swiping a mini quiche when a hand wraps around your wrist and squeezes to get your attention—Charles’ great-aunt Eden. She speaks only intermittent English, and your Italian fails to carry you through well enough, but you smile and greet her. “Ciao, Eden!”

“Ciao, bella.” She smiles. “Flight was long.”

“Oh, yeah. New York’s far. I might work here someday. I’ll hear results in around two weeks, but I’m hoping for London instead.” You slow your speech.

“When will you two wed?”

“Wed?” Your face warms and you stutter through a giggly mess of a sentence. “Oh, Eden—zia—no, no! We’re just friends.”

“My Charles told me you two are to be married.” You both crane your heads to the right, where Charles is leaning against the terrace railing talking to one of your friends, Matthew, animatedly. He meets your eyes, sees Eden beside you, and seems to connect the dots.

Jokingly, perhaps, he raises his hand and wiggles his empty ring finger. You can’t help but smile as you turn back to the old woman. “Oh, did he, zia?”

“Si, he did.”

“Well, we’re just going to let it happen, then. You’re invited. Front row.” You kiss her cheek and she smiles, wobbling off to drink more wine before any of the adults can stop her.

It’s announced then that the dance floor is open, and many of Pascale’s friends filter through to show off their moves to the 70’s music. You watch, amused, at the display of dexterity to Frankie Valli and Aretha Franklin. You cheer them on, content to watch them against the backdrop of the New York sunset.

When Ain’t No Mountain High Enough plays, the dance floor grows, because nobody can resist the song—not even Charles, apparently, who takes your hand without preamble and takes you, squealing, to the centre.

You sing each of the parts, like you always do when the song comes on. It’s semi-tradition at this point: you take Marvin Gaye’s, Charles takes Tammi Terrell’s. You both exaggerate your dance moves and pretend you’re performing.

His hand’s in yours, winding you around and pulling you close. At some point he starts robot dancing to entertain you. It works—you laugh out loud, your eyes half-shut and faced to the stars above. He could write a poem about this. Or a song.

The song ends and you lean onto his shoulder to take a breather—then the photographer swoops in and takes a picture. “That’s going into the RSVPs!” He says, accent unmistakably American.

“Does he know we’re not the couple here?” You ask.

Do we know we’re not the couple? Charles asks himself.

The night escalates as the “oldies” leave, and Matthew, Joris, and Giada join you both for one last round of drinks again. You’re all standing at the exit making conversation; Lorenzo attends to his friends at the other end of the terrace.

“I feel young again,” Matthew says, liberated by Tito’s vodka. He takes another swig and pulls his coat on.

“You’re twenty-five, calm down,” you joke. “Dodged that bullet.” You’re poking fun at the semi-massive crush you had on Matthew in secondary school, and a laugh passes through the four of you. “Anyway, you three be careful. No driving.”

“Jesus, but really—I haven’t been this drunk since you”—he points at you, laughing—“turned seventeen at that club, Amber? No?”

“Oh, God. Y’know, same.” You fail to notice Charles and Giada share a look. “I remember nothing from that night! Or, like, the first two hours at least.”

“I remember drinking my body weight because of heartbreak,” he jeers. 

“Heartbreak? Were you—were you with anyone?” You ask, confused.

It happens before anyone can stop it. “No, when Charles kissed you. And you kissed him after. Alright, night mates! Lorenzo—merci!”

Oh, fuck, you hear in the back of your now-muddled brain. Giada’s voice.

You open and close your mouth. “Ch—wait, he—what?”

“I—let’s talk here,” Charles flounders, dragging you to a more secluded spot and facing you. The three of your friends exit; Giada waves, apologetic. “When… we were at Amber… and you were absolutely hammered, we kissed. It was twice—just twice. And you didn’t, um. Remember a thing.”

You’re unsure. “In Amber?” You blink, confused. “What do you mean?”

“We… I don’t—I mean, I understand why you don’t remember. We kissed that night.”

“So that’s… Charles… You didn’t tell me.” Your voice quivers, like a wire flicked. “Why didn’t you say it at the time?”

He doesn’t give you an answer. He just looks at the counter, imagines the way your eyebrows furrow, your lips move, eyes glitter. He can’t give you one. He doesn’t want to hurt, disappoint, sadden you. He wants to get on his knees and root you here, so he’ll have all the time in the world to come up with an answer.

“Charles.” But he loves you, and he can at the very least be honest for you. “Look at me.”

“I was scared.” His eyes gravitate to yours.

“Of?”

“It felt stupid, is all. That you didn’t remember, and maybe you did but you were pretending you weren’t. I didn’t—it didn’t—sorry.” He laughs, stutters. “I convinced myself it didn’t mean anything because we didn’t have feelings for each other.” He pauses. “Then.”

“Well,” you say, slow. Eyes stuck to his. “How about now?”

“Now?”

“I love you, now. I mean, isn’t that all this is? Loving? Even if? De—despite of?” 

And this—God. This is how it feels. He’s looking at you and you’re telling him you love him because you do, and finally he’s been over with reassurance.

You love him, too. That way. He trembles with it. His hands are shaky when they lace into yours, like you’re a shrine, a prayer, and he feels like maybe these are the emotions that swirl through the human body when one wins the lottery and gets struck by angry lightning at the same time.

This is it, he thinks. Profound and lovely and an echo of sweet memories. He’s yours. Here in a city unfamiliar to both of you, yet to be conquered, your fingers lace lightly and you smile, smile, smile at each other, as if you’re the last two people on Earth. He’s yours, so foolishly in love with you.

Even far from home, you’re both filled with warmth, with longing. Extended stares, pits of your stomachs welling up with something lovely in between homesickness and nostalgia. Here again, you again, us again—it’ll always be us again, your heart seems to say, surrounded by the same love the same hurt the same sad the same everything, you and me, all the love in the world, all the confusion, we’re here. It’s never over.

Across the terrace, Lorenzo watches. Two figures, laughing, emanating happiness, gentle unkowing love. You two have finally made it here, after what felt like a thousand trials and dreams and stories.

So even if you’re taller, in high heels and a yellow dress—and Charles is broader, in a suit and tie—Lorenzo thinks he can blink and see the two little kids who hosted a tea party in the backyard. He can blink again and see you hugging, eyes shut, his lips pressed to your forehead to convey the intimacy nothing else will do as well. 

“So what now?” You ask. Again with the questions. In your defense—it begs so many follow-up questions. A love so many years in the making—layer after layer after layer—of course it begs all the questions, almost to the point of overwhelming capacity. What’ll we tell Pascale? The fans? The family? Everyone?! 

But one look and he makes it better. His green eyes, bright against the deep black of the skyline. You’ve grown. You’ve done it. You’re here. “We’ll figure it out.” He smiles. “We deserve this kind of ending, don’t you think?”

—

“He has my name.” A tubby finger points to the boy on the greeting card. “That one.”

“And who’s the dog?” Asks the girl beside him, hair wound into a plait. She likes this boy. He’s cute. She plays with the end of her braid and stares, eyes flickering in-between him and the card they’re staring at.

“The name’s right there. They’re best friends.”

“Okay, that’ll be me.”

“So that’s us.”

“Oui.” She smiles. “Charlie and Snoopy.”

–

read an omitted scene here :)

[heartsfromia]

a helping hand — c. seungcheol

pairing: non-idol! seungcheol x f!reader

word count: 4,872

genre: minor angst, fluff, workplace romance

warnings: reader experiences sleep deprivation, curse words, reader is a b*tch to cheol cuz of sleep deprivation and an annoying manager

author's notes: i have returned with more (not proofread) writing !

Your eyes were practically filled with lead as you stared at your computer screen, the design you had opened on Photoshop blurring as consciousness continues to slip past your fingers. Whatever you had planned on fixing with the design in front of you was long gone with your sanity and will to stay awake. As darkness surrounds you, all you could hear is the clicking of your mouse and keyboard, your department completely empty aside from you.

Your eyes flickered to the bottom corner of your screen; 08:24 PM, it read. Everyone else in the department had gone home, at six, but because your annoying, and cutthroat new team manager was giving you so much crap for the designs you submitted for next quarter’s social media, you were forced to work later to fix the mistakes she had pointed out.

It wasn’t unusual for the design team to stay later in the office to finish up projects, but your former team manager never allowed anyone to stay past seven. Safe to say, your new team manager didn’t care—all she cared about was that you work quick, and efficient. If it requires staying overnight at the office, then better bring out your neck pillow.

“Hello? Is someone still here?” Jumping in your chair, you looked over the dividers of your cubicle, spotting Seungcheol, an employee in the Marketing division, standing by the door.

Raising your hand, you announced, “I am.”

Seungcheol’s eyes squinted, trying to spot you through the dark before his eyebrows knitted together in confusion upon seeing you in the empty room. “Y/N? What are you still doing here?” His footsteps echoed throughout the empty room, approaching you and seating himself in the cubicle beside you. “Working on something?”

You weakly nodded, sleep returning to fog your brain. “I have revisions from Hyunhee.”

“Hyunhee?”

“Our new team manager,” you grumbled, just thinking about the woman made your head ache in annoyance. “Since Jiha is on maternal leave, I have to handle both hers and my own projects, and Hyunhee—safe to say—” you motioned to the empty room “—she’s a pain in my ass.”

Seungcheol couldn’t help but chuckle, shaking his head. “And this?” He nodded his head towards your computer.

“It’s for next quarter’s Instagram feed, but Hyunhee has a completely different idea to what my former team manager had, so she hates every single thing that I’ve given her.”

“Really? She’s that bad?”

You nod, your lips jutting out slightly as you recall how terrible Hyunhee was to you since she became the team manager. “I don’t get it, though—don’t get me wrong, she’s a nightmare to everyone, but it feels especially bad when it comes to me.”

“How come?”

“It might be because on her first day, I had a septum piercing, and she called me out on that saying it’s unprofessional and that I should remove it,” you explained, the design on your computer long forgotten as you shifted in your chair to face Seungcheol. Your brows furrowed upon a realization, “Wait, why are you still here?”

“I left at six, but came back because I forgot my phone charger,” he explained, “and since the janitor was mopping up the area in front of the lift, I chose to go down the stairs and walked past here and noticed the light in your cubicle.”

“It must be nice having an overbearing manager,” you mumbled, adding, “you can leave once work hours are over.”

“Why don’t you continue it tomorrow, Y/N?” He takes a gander at your work. “It looks good, too, you can do finishing touches tomorrow morning.”

“Because Hyunhee wants it tomorrow, before she comes in,” you responded, the urge to cry out of frustration growing stronger. “And this design is the one that she rejected, all of it.” You couldn’t but chuckle at Seungcheol when he stares at you with widened eyes, shocked.

“Is this even allowed? I get staying an hour after work hours end, but it’s almost nine, Y/N.”

“She doesn’t really care, just cares that the project is complete and placed on her desk when she asked for it,” you informed him, and immediately looked away as he stares at you in pity. It’s pathetic, really, to feel obligated to invest so much time and energy for something you knew could be completed within working hours. Maybe you were scared of Hyunhee. Rumors say that she got the job as team manager because she is indirectly connected to the Chief of Operation in your company, and you didn’t want to find out what would happen if you crossed the line.

Or in this case, submit a late project.

“Do you want me to accompany you while you work on this? I don’t mind staying in late,” Seungcheol offered, and your heart couldn’t help but melt at his offer. You couldn’t lie that being accompanied by an attractive guy as the hours grow late wasn’t a bad thing—it could help keep you awake, too, but you felt bad. This wasn’t Seungcheol’s project to complete, it was (unfortunately) yours.

So, you shook your head, giving him a reassuring smile, “No need, Cheol. I might go home in twenty minutes, and continue then.”

“I’ll accompany you until then, Y/N,” he states, sitting back and crossing his arms over his chest to indicate he wasn’t going to move.

“Seriously, Cheol, you can go home, I’ll be fine.”

He only shakes his head, standing (or sitting) his ground. He then nods his head towards your abandoned project. “Go on, Y/N, move it to your USB.”

As you move the files to your flash drive, Seungcheol stood from the chair, eyes wandering around your cubicle space, noticing the little pictures you had all around the walls of the divider—there were a few of you with your friends and family, none that came off to be anything more than platonic.

Why was he even looking to see if you had a partner or not? His cheeks heated at the realization when his heart raced at the possibility of you being single.

“Seungcheol?”

“I’m sorry, Y/N, what?” You couldn’t help but chuckle seeing his flustered face beneath the dim lighting of your cubicle. Your interactions with Seungcheol aren’t daily, but they’re enough to have you form an interest towards the Marketing division employee. He’s also the only one from the Marketing division that doesn’t give ridiculous deadlines like the rest of his team.

“I’m ready,” you repeated, and he nodded, taking a step back to allow you to walk ahead of him after turning off your desk lamp and the two of you left the office.

“Do you usually stay at the office this long?” Seungcheol asks as the two of you stepped into the elevator, and you shake your head no before answering, leaning your back against the metal walls.

“Not really, I get really bad headaches if I stay up too long, so safe to say I’m going to have a blast tomorrow at work,” you answered with a bitter chuckle. “It wouldn’t be a problem if right when I get home, I sleep, but I still have a lot to fix before tomorrow morning, so…” You trailed off with a shrug, Seungcheol’s look of concern not going unnoticed, causing you to chuckle. “It’s fine, Cheol… I’ll be fine.”

He only nodded, not convinced enough but didn’t press on. “Did you drive here?”

“Yeah, I did.” He nodded, and that was the end of your conversation as the two of you bid goodbye before climbing into your cars and driving separate directions towards your homes. As you had told him, the moment you stepped into your apartment, you didn’t directly fall into the soft covers of your bed, knowing well enough that the second your head touches your fluffed up pillow, you’d be out like a light.

So, you placed your work laptop onto your coffee table, arranging your pillows in a way that allowed you to sit on your wooden floor without flattening your butt. You brewed up a shot of espresso, ordering something to snack on as you turned on your personal laptop for an ambience. Once you felt that you could comfortably continue the project, you put on your headphones and got to work, eyes flickering between the laptop and the sheet of paper that Hyunhee had revised, making sure that all details she demanded of were there.

It was 4:52 AM when you finally finished everything, double checking and adjusting all elements before saving and resting your head on your arms that were folded on the coffee table. Despite downing two cups of iced coffee, the caffeine could not completely erase your exhaustion and soon enough, you awoke to your alarm, indicating that it was already eight in the morning, and you needed to be in the office before nine-thirty.

As you pushed yourself up, your head immediately spun, your vision blurring and for a couple seconds, an aching feeling pierced through your skull, forcing you to have to sit for a minute to let it pass. Damn it, today was going to be difficult to get through with your obvious sleep deprivation. Not even taking an ibuprofen could aid the headache that was going to worsen the longer you stayed awake, but you couldn’t call in sick, especially an hour before the day starts. Hyunhee has always nagged about last-minute excuses, asking (demanding) all of you to inform her 24 hours before, and anything after would not be allowed.

Pushing yourself, you quickly showered, deciding to grab breakfast on the way and within twenty minutes, you were out of your apartment and on the way to the office. Upon arrival, you practically sprinted to your office, eyes locking with your co-workers as they stare at you and shake their heads, indicating that Hyunhee hasn’t arrived yet. With a sigh of relief, you tip-toe into your supervisor’s office, placing the printed results and found your cubicle, practically falling onto your chair.

“Hey, Y/N, you okay?” You glance over at Yeeun, finding her staring at you with a look of concern. “You look really pale, Y/N, how much sleep did you get last night?”

“Barely any,” you answered with a pout, grabbing your phone to see your face. Although, you couldn’t really tell the difference. You did feel terrible, but safe to say, work isn’t that fun for you to put on so much effort for a job that doesn’t pay you enough. “I finished the Youngbok project just this morning.”

“Seriously? You’re still working on that?”

Before you could answer, Hyunhee bid everyone a good morning as she entered the department, her heels clicking against the ceramic floor as she walks into her office. You could only share a knowing look with your co-worker as you sunk into your chair.

It was good twenty minutes of peace in the Graphic Designs department, the clicking of keyboard and mice, and soft murmuring of the employees filling the air before a shrill yell emerged from Hyunhee’s office, a shiver running up your spine as you realized in your sleep deprived state that she had called you.

Yeeun shared the same look of genuine fear with you, as everyone stared at you with wide-eyes. You stood from your chair, the steps you took to Hyunhee’s office felt heavy, as if the soles of your shoes were filled with lead. Dread began to fill your body to the tips of your hair as you gently knock on your superior’s door, her eyes glaring at you before staring at the sheets of printed out designs you had laid out. You entered her office after excusing yourself in a tone nothing higher than a whisper, and she glances between the door and you, signaling you to close the door.

This isn’t going to end well, you couldn’t help but think as you push the door, the clicking of the lock practically echoing throughout the department, everyone outside of where you were, were sat at the edge of their seat, fearing for what was about to happen.

There was a deafening silence as you stood in front of her desk, watching as she flips through your designs, and you felt yourself disassociating for a second, in a daze as your eyes gloss over while staring at her crossing out everything with her wretched red marker.

A slam of the compiled prints against the ceramic floor broke your daze, and you found your designs by your feet, on the floor.

If you were pale from sleep deprivation then, you were now pale from pure fear.

“What the hell is that?”

“I-it’s the revised designs you asked of me,” you stutter, internally beating yourself up for sounding so scared.

“Are you sure? Because I asked for designs, not pure rubbish, Y/N,” she insults, her words laced purely with venom as she stares you down. Not knowing what to say, you stayed quiet and she took that opportunity to berate you even more. “I don’t understand what Mr. Kim had saw in you, but it sure as well wasn’t anything good, because how is that you have worked in this department for so long, and yet, are incapable of providing compelling designs, hm?”

“I’m sorry, Hyunhee, I will work on it and fix everything I did wrong,” you quickly apologized, kneeling down to pick up the papers.

She leans forward, resting her chin atop her hands, as she glares at you. “I want them today, before you leave the office—even if that means you have to spend the night here, I don’t care.”

“I-I understand,” you muttered, ducking your head.

“Leave.” She didn’t have to tell you twice before you dipped out of her office, tossing the paper onto your desk and slumped into your seat. You wanted to cry. You wanted to cry and scream, but you didn’t want to give Hyunhee the satisfaction that she actually broke you apart. All eyes were on you, however, everyone knew better than to bother or ask someone after they had faced the devil incarnate. Yeeun found it difficult to turn a blind eye on your obvious disoriented state, from both sleep deprivation and having faced Hyunhee so early in the morning, but she knew you’d snap if she even poked you.

You wanted to leave, walk out of the office because you believed you didn’t deserve to be treated like that unwarranted, but you couldn’t. You couldn’t bring your feet to stand up and walk out that door knowing well enough that you can never come back in. You would have lost your job—all the work that you put into this job for the past year would be thrown out the window because a woman that has barely sat in that office feels that she has power over you, and your future. In a way, she did. Her words will always go against yours, and hers—backed by the connections that got her this job with minimal experience in graphic design—would always prevail.

So, all you could was listen and work on the revisions she had given. No word had left your lips since you had left Hyunhee’s office, and no one bothered you as you put on earphones and focused on the project opened. Your break times consisted of staying seated in your chair, opening YouTube to watch some video that you couldn’t pay attention to, watching it for five minutes before closing and continuing the project.

Before you knew it, shades of orange had begun to bleed through the blinds of the office, people were packing up and sparing pitiful glances as they bid each other goodbye, their wary gaze not unnoticed by you. Nonetheless, you paid them no mind, completely set on finishing everything before the day ends. You were lucky enough to gain at least thirty minutes of sleep because Hyunhee had left the office early, allowing for you to close your eyes with no fear of being woken up by the she-demon.

You were tempted on sleeping, anyway, knowing well enough you’d wake up with an ache in your neck and an unfinished assignment. Your eyes were closing slowly, your screen blurring as you felt sleep take over you, only to jump, a scream exiting your lips when you felt a hand grasp your shoulder.

“Oh my—I’m so sorry, Y/N,” Seungcheol profusely apologized when he noticed the tears brimming at your eyes from the genuine scare. “I called you earlier, but I didn’t see you wearing earphones.”

Too tired, too angry, you couldn’t muster up a comment, only shrugging off his hand as you turned your head to your computer, the jolt from Seungcheol giving you a bit of energy to work off of.

“Hey, I heard, by the way, from everyone that Hyunhee gave you an earful,” he stated, sitting besides you.

You couldn’t help but scoff, “An earful? That’s an understatement.”

“Are you okay, Y/N?”

Aggravated, you removed both earbuds from your ears, spinning with a sharp turn on your chair to face Seungcheol, your brows furrowed and fury running through your veins. All you ask is to not be disturbed until you get this stupid, cursed project done, was that so much? “Do I look okay, Seungcheol?”

Noticing your hostile behaviour, his expression mirrored yours, with a touch of worry found in the glint of his eyes. “I’m just trying to make sure you’re okay, Y/N. I don’t mean to be rude, if that’s how I come off right now.”

“Well, you do, alright?” You lifted your earphones, waving it in front of him. “If I have these on, it’s a universal sign that I don’t want to talk to anyone—you noticed them, why are you bothering me right now?”

Taken aback by your words, he was stunned—his mouth opened then closed, unsure on how to react to your sudden behaviour. He has never seen you this angry, not even when ranting about Hyunhee. You watched as his jaw clenched, momentarily looking away as if that would allow him to cool down, before he clapped his hands on his knees and stood from his chair.

“You’re obviously exhausted, Y/N, Yeeun told me you barely slept that might be why you’re being the way you are right now,” Seungcheol pointed out, “I’ll leave you alone, alright? I’m so sorry that I actually give a shit about you, and wanted to make sure you were okay.” Before you could take back all you had said, Seungcheol was out the door, leaving you in your office alone, the darkness encompassing you, seeping deep within to your bones.

The one person that genuinely was there for you, only ever cared for you, and put him on the receiving end of your shitty day. Way to go, Y/N.

Rubbing your eyes with the heels of your palm, whatever energy you had to work on the project was thrown out the window, and you couldn’t find it in yourself to continue clicking the mouse or tapping the keyboard, not with the guilt from how you spoke to Seungcheol still plaguing your thoughts. You weren’t going to get anything done at this point.

Packing your things, you quickly rushed out to your car, praying that he didn’t completely hate you as you drove to his apartment. You weren’t sure what you were going to do once you got there, but what you were sure was that you’ll grovel, and hope he forgives you for being such an ass, unwarranted. Upon arrival, you practically jumped out of your car, rushing up the evacuation steps to his floor, and reached up to knock, but paused.

What if he doesn’t forgive you? It’s not like your friendship with him was more than as acquaintances. He didn’t have anything to lose with losing you, but you felt you had everything to lose with losing him. He was the first person you got to know in this stupid company—as he mentored you during your internship in the company. Then, after you graduated college, you reached out again, and applied for the Graphic Design division. Seungcheol guided you ever since, and admittedly, you’ve grown fond of him—you admired him as a role model, and more.

He’s not obligated to forgive you, but you already came this far, might as well give it a try?

Taking a deep breath, you gently knocked on his door a few times, hearing rustling on the other side before the door swung open, revealing Seungcheol already out of his work clothes, and in a plain white tee and grey sweatpants. “I thought I said just leave it by the— Y/N?”

“Sorry, I forgot your delivery at the restaurant,” you improved, causing Seungcheol’s thick brows to furrow before he chuckled, your joke successfully amusing him.

“What are you doing here?”

“It’s definitely not to deliver your food, that’s for sure,” you awkwardly smiled, feeling your heart race from seeing him in such a laid-back outfit. You had never seen Seungcheol wear anything other than the button-ups and slacks you were used to seeing at the work, so seeing him look so… cozy, was a sight you wish to never grow tired of.

The corner of Seungcheol’s lips tilted upwards, but he didn’t laugh. Leaning against the frame of his door, he crossed his (muscular) arms over his chest, waiting for an explanation as to why you suddenly appeared at his front door.

“Look, Seungcheol—”

“Delivery for Choi Seungcheol.” A new voice caused you to jump, both your heads turning to see the delivery boy appear from the turn, his eyes looking questioningly at both you and your acquaintance. “Choi Seungcheol?”

“That’s me, thanks,” Seungcheol uttered, reaching out and taking the plastic bags from the delivery boy, the latter leaving with a tilt of his hat towards you and disappearing past the corner.

“As I was—” You turn to face Seungcheol again, but he, too, disappeared. You peeked into his apartment to find him pulling out his order, arranging them on his coffee table before sitting on the floor. He glances up at you, wordlessly waving for you to come in, and unsure what else to do, you obliged, closing the door behind you and slipping your feet out your shoes.

“I didn’t expect company, but dig in if you want,” he uttered, handing you a pair of chopsticks. It was only then did you realize that you barely ate today, too occupied with the stupid project. “If it’s not enough, we can always order more.”

“Seungcheol, I’m trying to apologize to you,” you spoke up, head tilted down at your knees. “I’m really sorry for taking my anger out on you… You of all people didn’t deserve it…”

When Seungcheol didn’t respond, you looked up to find him slurping up jjajangmyeon, eyes trained on his TV. “Are you serious?”

He glanced over at you, stifling a laugh before wiping his mouth with tissue, “I thought you were going to go on a full rant, at least three paragraphs.”

You pouted, “Me coming here was on a whim, I didn’t really prepare anything.”

He found your defeated expression adorable, couldn’t help but chuckle as he pushes a bowl towards you, adding the noodles onto the empty space before tapping the rim, gesturing for you to eat. “You’re really pale, Y/N, did you eat anything today?”

“Probably cup noodles,” you mumbled, eyes glimmering at the sight of the thickly coated noodles. “I couldn’t really do anything other than work on that stupid project.”

“Hyunhee made you stay late again?” You nodded, your cheeks full of the noodles. “Look, Y/N, I know you love being a graphic designer, but do you really think it’s alright to work under someone like her? This seems like she’s abusing her power as team manager, and overworking you.” As he spoke, he reached out with a tissue in hand, wiping the corner of your lips. Why did he look so nonchalant about it, too?

“I don’t want to quit, though, I’ve been here longer than she has, why do I have to leave?” You complained once you swallowed the noodles. “I just… I hate it, you know? I’ve just been trying so damn hard, yet nothing ever works out… Especially since she came into the picture.”

There was a brief moment of silence.

“How about transferring divisions?” Seungcheol quipped, continuing, “I’m sure if you make a letter of intent to the department manager, you could be moved to a different division where Hyunhee doesn’t exist.”

“Is that possible?”

He nodded. “Did you think I was always in the Marketing division?”

“I honestly thought you’d be a finance guy.”

“I was.” Your widened eyes caused him to laugh. “Then I moved, it was a few months before you came in as an intern.”

“Really?” He nods, and you thought about it. “You think I’d be allowed to move divisions?”

“Yeah, why not? If you give a good reason to why you should be moved, then it’s possible.” You pondered over the suggestion, the two of you letting a few minutes of silence pass while eating before you spoke up again.

“But I don’t want to leave the department.”

“Then ask to be transferred to a different division.”

“What about your division?” Seungcheol stares at you with bewildered eyes, genuinely surprised at your suggestion. “I mean, it’s less work for you since I already have experience working with you, and I won’t need a mentor—I already know the head, so that’s also less work.”

“No, not mine, Y/N,”

“Why not?”

“It’s a violation of our code of conducts, Y/N, don’t you know?”

“What about me moving to your division violates the code of conducts?”

“Employees from the same division are not allowed to fraternize with one another,” he explains, “if you move to my division, we’ll be co-workers.”

“So? It’s not like we’re dating.”

“Not yet.”

“Sure—” You froze, the chopsticks you raised to your lips dropping back into the bowl. “—What?”

“What?” Seungcheol asked, nonchalant. His tone might’ve been nonchalant and unbothered, but you could see from his cheeks to the points of his ears were flushed a bright red under the warm lighting of his living room.

“You like me?”

He shrugged, “Why do you think I walk by your office every day?”

“I thought you only did that because the janitor was cleaning the floor.”

He inhaled a deep breath, releasing the heavy sigh before standing to grab water from the kitchen, ruffling your hair on the way. “You’re very oblivious, Y/N.”

“S-so, all this time?”

“Not all this time, Y/N, I just know that I see you more than just an acquaintance,” he explains, tossing you a bottle of water. “But that’s not important right now. Right now we need to get you out of Hyunhee’s team.”

How… How is he able to continue this conversation after admitting to having feelings for you? How is he so calm?

He wasn’t. If you looked closer, the only reason why he tossed you the bottle was because if he handed it to you, then you’d most likely notice his shaking hands. The only reason why he changed the topic was because the longer you talk about him and his feelings, the redder he’ll be and to be honest, he likes to come off calm and collected to you, despite being the complete opposite when it comes to being near you.

“You’ll help me with that?”

Seungcheol nods. “Of course I would—just think of me as a helping hand now, Y/N. I help you, and you can help me when the time comes.”

“And what would you need help with, Choi Seungcheol?”

“I have two tickets to movie Saturday night, I’ll need help to make sure the other ticket doesn’t go to waste, Y/N,” he proposed, causing your cheeks to ache from the smile on your face. “But right now, I need help finishing this food. Are you up for it?”

You chuckled, nodding, “I’ll gladly give you a helping hand.”

[ctrsara]

(Lab) Accidents Happen

(Read on AO3)

(Little story based on this pencil drawing I did last night, plus some color added with my kid's random colored pencils, and cleaned up in Photoshop)

Tony Stark had only been home for about ten minutes when FRIDAY announced, “Boss, you have an incoming call from Dr. Banner.” 

He finished loosening his tie and pulled it free, tossing it on the bed. He glanced at the clock out of habit, even though he knew it was late. He wasn’t ever in bed at this hour, but Bruce usually was. His brow creased in concern.

“Put it through.”

“Tony?”

“Hey, Big Green. Everything okay?”

“I just got a notice that there was a lab accident in Lab #8.”

“At this time of night?” 

“Yeah, I looked at the footage, and it’s your kid. He’s fine, but I’m gonna let you handle this. I was just getting in bed.”

“Um, my kid? Not sure what you’re talking about,” Tony said nervously, slipping his shoes back on. “An issue with the chemistry lab is really your--”

“Go fix him, huh? He shouldn’t be in the lab this late on a Saturday night, especially unsupervised.”

“On it,” Tony said, resignation in his voice. Why did Bruce call Peter his kid? And why did Tony know exactly who he was talking about?

As he walked into #8, his eyes widened. What a mess. A very worried-looking Spider-kid was staring at a giant mound of frothy goo covering the table in front of him. 

“Peter.” 

The boy jumped, and a hand flew to the back of his neck. He wasn’t wearing a single stitch of safety equipment, and if Tony was right, he’d just smeared some of the  mixture along his neck.

“Uh… Mr. Stark? I thought you were at the gala!”

“I was, but I ducked out early. Care to explain what’s going on here? Why you’re in the lab, unsupervised, at this time of night? And what is this?”

“I…uh… it’s been a really busy weekend already, and finals are coming up next week, so I’m booked with study groups tomorrow, but I’m nearly out of web fluid, and I won’t have any time to make more this week, so if I didn’t make it tonight, I’d just be out, so I thought it would be okay if I just came in real fast to mix some up, but… uh…”

Tony was pretty sure Peter hadn’t even breathed during that little word explosion. Since no real explosions seemed imminent, he kind of wanted to laugh, but he made sure to keep his expression disapproving. 

“All of that, and the fact that you’re not even wearing goggles aside, what happened?” His web fluid had never looked… yellow before.

“I don’t know, I swear! The salicylic acid was clear when I measured it in the beaker, but then as I started pouring it all turned yellow and just kind of grew and I was afraid it wasn’t going to stop. But it’s still sticky,” he finished, trying to (unsuccessfully) wipe his neck and fingers off with a questionable looking rag.

Tony walked over and looked at the different chemicals he had assembled. Everything looked good until he got to the salicylic acid.

“Not the acid, Pete,” he said, the disapproval in his voice very real now. If the teen had grabbed something else without double checking, this could have been quite dangerous instead of just messy.

Peter stared hard at the bottle Tony was holding. “Oh,” he said, surprised.

“Yeah, ‘Oh.’”  But that wouldn’t have made the whole thing turn such a weird shade of yellow. Tony picked up the beaker next to him, which still had some cloudy-looking, very yellow liquid in the bottom. He smelled it gingerly while the teenager found new spots the sticky liquid had attached itself to.

“Peter, did you wash this beaker before you used it?”

“Uh…”

“What was in it before?” Tony asked brusquely.

“I… don’t remember?”

His usually-sharp kid wasn’t firing on all cylinders. What was up? He eyed the sheepish teen, noting the smudges under his eyes. 

“Kid, how much have you slept lately?”

“I’ve slept!” Peter said far too quickly. 

Tony raised an eyebrow, waiting. 

“Maybe not quite enough. Just with finals, and patrolling, and--”

“I see.”

“Mr. Stark, I swear, I just--”

“Let me tell you how this is gonna work. I’m going to call your aunt,” (Peter’s eyes went wide) “and tell her you’re staying the night.”

“But Mr. Stark! None of my study stuff is here with me!”

Tony continued, ignoring the boy’s dismay. “Then you’re going to go upstairs, shower, eat something, and you’re going to bed. In the morning you’re going to hope that whatever makes your webs dissolve in time will still hold true for this monstrosity, because you’re cleaning this up before you go anywhere.”

Peter nodded forlornly. 

“Then I’m going to take you out to breakfast, after which you may resume your crazy study-group-frenzy of a day.”

Peter was smiling slightly now, though he still looked nervous about going to bed instead of getting a few more hours of studying in. His expression clouded again. 

“But what about my web fluid?”

“Oh, that won’t be a problem. Spiderman’s going to be taking a break this week until after Peter’s finals are over.”

“But, Mr. Stark!” 

“Uh-uh-uh! After your last final, and after a full night’s sleep, you may come back and make more web fluid, and resume vigilante-ing.”

“‘S not a word,” Peter grumbled, starting to put a few things away.

“You can do all that in the morning, kiddo,” Tony said, finally letting his voice soften and a hand reach to brush Peter’s shoulder comfortingly. “Shower. Bed. C’mon.”

Peter nodded in defeat, leaning heavily into Tony’s side as he wrapped an arm around the boy to steer him towards the door.

“FRIDAY?”

“Yes, Boss?”

“Lock down #8. No one comes in but me or Peter until it’s clean.”

“Dr. Banner?”

“Especially not Dr. Banner,” Tony said, eying the giant soggy mess on the table. “He’d ban us both from every setting foot in here again…”

[davidkarofskyindie]

modcrnspirits (Jamie/Flynn)

@modcrnspirits continued from (x)

That photoshoot was intense. The hours slipped by painfully as Flynn watched the other man losing more and more of his clothes. The idea had been pretty simple, even if quite erotic for a brand of such power. But the owner of the clothes and the designer too were there along with the photographers and all that. Flynn had a raging hard on that stopped the pictures and left him with a cocky smirk. “If another piece of flesh is shown, I won’t be able to hold myself.” He warned the team and just to spite him, they put the delicious model naked with his own body, in expensive clothes, to cover and dominate that nudity. But that was over and Jamie went to the showers first. Flynn had to take off his clothes and he went for his shower wearing nothing but his whities. In any other man it would have looked ridiculous maybe, but every eye was on him as he walked down the hall and closed the door. The shower sounds bringing a smile to his face. He got naked and stepped in and was invited. Goddamnit. Easier than he thought. “A moment longer in there and I would have gone full 18+ on them.” His cock was hard as he walked into the shower room, never one bit ashamed of showing himself off. But he didn’t turn another shower on. Instead, he walked to Jamie and grabbed his waist, pulling him in. “We’re gonna fuck each other right here and every one of those fuckers will know what I’m doing with you.”

Jaime bit his bottom lip a little just seeing the obscenely perfect sight of Flynn's naked body. It'd been kind of hard to behave while they were doing the shoot, he could tell that it had been just as hard for Flynn but seeing the man walking towards him with those obscenely perfect muscles that looked like they had to be photoshopped and a cock that looked so perfect that Jaime knew he'd never fantasize about anything other than that cock again. "A moment longer in there and I would've let you" He retorted cheekily, letting out the happiest whimper feeling Flynn's strong hands grabbing at his hips to pull him back against the strong man "I hope they know... I hope they jerk off listening to us" he growled, reaching up to run his finger's through the man's hair and leaning back a little "I hope the sound of you railing my ass makes everyone out there cum and they have to pretend they weren't listening while we walk out of here" he whispered, kissing the man as firmly as he could.

Jaime had no problem just showing intense need and desire with Flynn, his ass slowly pressed back so he could feel that big cock right between his cheeks as he just made out with the gorgeous hunk. He finally pulled back for a little bit of air and growled "Fuck, you're good at everything aren't you Flynn?" he teased, looking into those eyes "So... just how hard are you going to rail this ass? Cos I'm so fucking ready for it, after that shoot I think we both need it good, hard and deep as you can go"

[lovesicksecret]

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝟏/𝟐 -- 𝐉𝐎𝐂𝐊!𝐒𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐮 𝐆𝐨𝐣𝐨 𝐱 𝐎𝐔𝐓𝐂𝐀𝐒𝐓!𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 (2)

𝑴𝑰𝑵𝑶𝑹𝑺 𝑫𝑵𝑰 -- 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆⚠︎︎ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐁𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍, 𝐕𝐎𝐘𝐄𝐔𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐌, 𝐒𝐔𝐆𝐆𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐄⚠︎︎ 𝐥𝐦𝐤 𝐢𝐟 𝐢 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 <𝟑

𓂻𓂻𓂻𓂻𓂻𓂻𓂻𓂻𓂻𓂻𓂻𓂻𓂻𓂻𓂻𓂻𓂻𓂻𓂻𓂻𓂻𓂻𓂻𓂻𓂻

You've always been the weird kid. It started as you just being overly quiet, keeping to yourself and being reserved in style and personality. But as you know, middle school kids are mean, and though you think you have a winning personality, no one really stays around enough to notice it. And it's not like you're alone, I mean you have Shoko as your only friend, but still she had people outside of you. That, you couldn't blame her for, but that was practically it as far as anyone knew. 

But there was one thing no one understood about you. And that would be your long time friendship with the Gojo Satoru. Now if anyone were to actually ask you, you'd explain it was more by force on his side than willingness because, let's face it, he may be golden faced star football player Satoru but man was he annoying. 

At Least that's what you tell yourself on nights like these, game nights. When you know he's playing. He always asks you to come and you always reply the same way. ’We’ll see’ and of course because Satoru cant see behind the bleachers, he always bums himself out when he thinks you're not there. You are, you're..just hiding. I mean think about it, if anyone were to see you cheering for him, you’d be bullied beyond repair.

You'd always leave one hour before the game actually ended. Mainly to avoid the rush leave and the slight chance he might see you or your car. But, it's also because nights like these just happen to be the nights you feel the need to relieve yourself the most. Definitely not because of Satoru and his pretty face and good build and sweaty chest, no no no no. It's just a coincidence. 

Why hide it? Well you've been friends with Satoru since you could talk. He was the classic boy next door, window facing yours. Then you know, the old ‘forgot to close my blinds’ happens to him once in the junior year of highschool and of course that has to be your downfall. You'd always known he was good looking, I mean everyone knew. Football gave him build, and his stupid brain was practically a talking socialite on its own. 

But I mean come on, the window had to be adding muscle and slimming his waist, like a photoshopped version of the friend you’ve seen as a boy up until that moment.

So, you develop a bit of a crush on the school's golden boy. Did not help you had all your classes together. Or that your moms are friends. Or that he's consistently up your ass, whether it be before, during, and almost always after school. You had to hide it, though it wasn't that hard. I mean, it's been five years already and he doesn't know. You figure now that you're both juniors in college, the same college I might add, that it'll blow over. This is the year, you can feel it. 

So, like every other Friday night, you find yourself back at your dorm room, door locked for safety, and down go your pants. One hand slipping into your panties and circling your clit, you're already a little wet, assuming Satoru the other guys in their jerseys must have been a turn on. You bite your lip, eyes squeezing shut as you focus on the feel of your needy clit. After a little you slowly trail your finger down to your sopping hole and circle your needed entrance.

You throw your head to the side, finger now entering you as you keep circling your clit. Your eyes open, and land on your laundry pile, or more specifically Satoru’s shirt he must have left at your place a while ago. By now you can't stop the oh so dirty thoughts of him from coming, and by how you're needy pussy squeezes your finger you obviously don't want to. He's all you can think of as you play with yourself, rubbing your clit faster, adding another finger just to fill the ache of needing something bigger. 

You didn't know when but at some point you started moaning. Unabashed and loud, whining followed soon after as you worked yourself faster. You could feel it, you’re soaked and needy as you slip another finger in, thrusting three at a time. You're so close to cumming just a few more-.

Knock Knock Knock

It's aggressive and loud as a voice follows after. “(Name) open the dooooor”. It’s Gojo, he sounds slightly buzzed, probably from celebrating a win. You think about it but your hand doesn't stop, you're so close to cumming that stopping sounds crazy. More knocking followers after, bordering pounding now. “Come on baby let me innnn” He sing songs through the door as more knocking follows. Stupid pet name. There's blood rushing through your ears, the adrenaline getting to you, you’re definitely flushed red by now. 

The pounding of your heart louder than any of his knocking, squelching of your pussy getting louder as your fingers start to lose rhythm. There's a soft jingle of the doorknob before it clicks and unlocks. Your heart races as Satoru struts into your dorm bedroom, stupid smile on his face, a spare key in his hand as his eyes land on your form. Right as you go to stop yourself the coil in your tummy snaps and you cum. You throw your head back, brain mush as you whine out his name without thought. 

It takes you a few seconds to come down from your high, but once the fog clears you throw the blanket over your lower half, removing your fingers from yourself, eyes wide as you look up at Gojo. He's stunned. Standing there staring at where your fingers used to be. It's a while before anyone says anything as you die of embarrassment. 

“I knocked.” He huffs out as he finally makes eye contact. You pout, aghast about what just transpired. You pause. “I heard. And I didnt answer” Its awkward, the tension is thick. There is no way he’ll stay friends with you, god you moaned his name! What is wrong with you? Oh my god he's going to tell all his friends. Oh God-

“Are you hard right now?!”

He looks down and his eyes widen, looking back at you, a little panicked. “I just watched you cum! You moaned my name, of course I'm turned on!” You huff out and pinch the bridge of your nose. “Just- Just get out Satoru.” You close your eyes and wait to hear him leave. After hearing no noise you look back up to find him staring at you, Eyes big and glossy as he makes harsh eye contact. “Seriously?” It’s meant to sound stunned but instead just comes out whiny. You lower your voice and soften your tone as you speak. “Yes seriously, we..- we can talk later ok? But right now I just need you to leave. Please.” You can tell by the way he stares back, looking like he's one more second away from absolutely bawling that he is definitely tipsy. 

Surprisingly, he just nods solemnly and leaves, not a pause in his step. Once he shuts the door, separating him from you, you sigh. Deciding sitting in your own orgasm was not going to help you, you got up and undressed, throwing your clothes in the washer before jumping into the shower. One quick shower turned into an hour and a half long shower, trying to scrub away the sins of exposing yourself to your longest and, let's face it, best friend. Maybe you could pass it off. Yeah. Like he surprised you that's all, no dirty fantasies and five year long crushes. Nope, not you.

In all honesty, curling up under your blankets and dying sounded pretty good right now. However, school waits for no one and before you know it your weekend of ignoring all of Satoru’s calls and texts turns into Monday. Yippy. Now, you are no football player, but it's halfway through classes and you've managed to somehow dodge and weave Gojo like the plague. That has to account for some extra curricular grade right? I mean it’s practically impossible for someone to dodge Satoru. Your lucky streak runs low by class 4, Moral Ethics and Philosophy. Satoru usually bails on this class and asks you to tutor him, aka do his work, so you figured today wouldn't be any different. 

Stupid you. A fool really, to think a mezely class would stop  Satoru Gojo from getting what he wants, which sadly right now is to talk to you. It's twenty minutes into the lecture when he comes barging in, sweating a little, and searching the room till his eyes land on you. Obviously you being you, you try to shrink down into the seat, hoping your sweater would cover you like a turtle shell. No such luck. He spots you almost immediately, rushing over to the empty seat behind you. “Mr. Gojo, glad you could finally join us, though I don’t understand why you're so late.” The Professor whispers the last part, gesturing to a few empty seats for him to sit before continuing. 

“Sorry, thank you” He speaks in a rush before setting his sights back on you and taking the seat directly behind you. You try and face forward to pay attention and ignore his burning stare into the back of your head, but that's easier said than done. A few minutes later he starts whispering. “(name).” Your eye twitches, trying your best to ignore him. “Seriously (name), look at me” By now your eyes are clenched shut, hands twitching to cover your ears. You can’t face him. You wish you could but it’s too embarrassing, you’d have to explain yourself to him. He has other friends, he'll be alright. You slowly open your eyes again when the whispering stops. 

You let out a quiet sigh before you feel yourself get hit in the head. You jerk forward from the unexpectedness, before slowly turning around and looking down to see what hit you. Crumpled paper, in a ball, sitting on the floor. You roll your eyes and pick it up, opening it and reading it. 

ⵊꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ᴅᴏɴ’ᴛ ᴀɴsᴡᴇʀ ᴍᴇ ɪ’ʟʟ ᴡᴀɪᴛ ᴛɪʟʟ ᴛʜɪs ᴄʟᴀss ᴇɴᴅs ᴀɴᴅ ꜰᴏʟʟᴏᴡ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ɴᴇxᴛ ᴏɴᴇ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ɴᴇxᴛ ᴏɴᴇ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ɴᴇxᴛ ᴏɴᴇ, ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴀʏ ᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴅᴏʀᴍ ʀᴏᴏᴍ-

You stop reading, now angry more than anything. If this big idiot is gonna follow you around like a dog till you say something, then you'll say something. You grab the paper and your stuff before standing up and walk right out of the classroom. Your mind would have been blown by leaving a class mid lecture but right now you really couldn't care less. As you throw away his stupid note you hear him walking out of the lecture room and heading towards you. You take a deep breath in and whip around to face him. He keeps walking till he's up in your space enough to be stepping on your feet. 

“You haven't been answering my calls or- or texts, what is going on with you?” You're almost agape, you?! He's the one who walked in on you masturbating I mean, what does he expect for you to pretend like he didn't see your pussy full on? Like you didn't moan his name? Insane. But, you don't say that, you don't say anything. It's like your mind got word constipation for a second and all critical thinking stopped because the next words out of your mouth should never have been uttered in the history of the world. “You walked in on me masturbating to you.” You can’t believe it. There's no way you said that. That's it?! Not even a ‘You shouldn't have walked in on me’ or even ‘I changed my number’. Just that! 

He pauses, eyes going a little wider as he takes in your words. This can't be news can it? I mean he has to have known it was about him, you moaned his name for god sake. Oh my god maybe he doesn't even remember it, god and you could have pretended like it never even happened and now-

“So?” 

Now you're convinced you died. Because this has to be a sick form of punishment. There's no way this is happening and you said that and he just said ‘so’. There can’t be. Only in hell. “So? What do you mean so? It was weird and awkward and what I did was gross and wrong and we’re friends and you shouldn't have seen it and I shouldn't have done it.” Once the words start coming up you can’t stop. You can’t tell if you're angry or confused or embarrassed. Maybe all. Probably all. 

“So, you regret it? Because from where I was standing It looked like you came pretty hard.” You're flabbergasted. This is insane. “Regret you seeing it? Yes very much-” he cuts you off, “No. I mean regret thinking of me. Regret saying my name.” 

It takes an embarrassing amount of time for you to see he's serious and even longer to think of what you’re going to say. “Satoru, stuff like that will ruin our friendship, so I suggest that if we want to remain even talking to each other that we stop talking or even thinking about this.” You’re trying to dig yourself out of this hole you made. Trying so very very hard for him to just help you the rest of the way and stop this torture. 

“No.”

“No?!” You don’t mean to yell but it’s gotten to the point where you feel like vomiting. This is a lot of confrontation and every time he speaks you fear for the worst thing and every time he goes above and beyond of what you think is the worst. 

“No, I don't want to stop thinking of it. Of you, sprawled out,” He's backing you up now, into a corner, both mentally and physically. All you can get out is his name as you take step after step backward, hitting the wall a lot sooner than wished as he just keeps going. “Soaked, touching yourself, to the thought of me,” You say his name again, hands on his chest to create space that was never there in the first place. “Yeah, you said it just like that, a little more whiny though, like you needed me” You whisper his name now, noses touching as he looks into your soul, so close his breath warms your lips. “Do you still need me?” 

𓂻𓂻𓂻𓂻𓂻𓂻𓂻𓂻𓂻𓂻𓂻𓂻𓂻𓂻𓂻𓂻𓂻𓂻𓂻𓂻𓂻𓂻𓂻𓂻𓂻

[kaiowut99]

GX Finalized-Subs!103 (Error Fix WIP): An Ace in the Cup

Settling in from my recent move and stuff, I've gotten to take care of the little animation consistency/card errors I thought I'd take a crack at fixing as I work to finalize my subs for episodes 102-104, the translations for which I'll be starting to look at this week (woot); as part of these touch-ups, we've got the two back-to-back shots here a bit after the eyecatch in 103, which I wanted to cover and break down here (to save space in my eventual release post, lol).

(tl;dr, Saiou no longer draws the card he then activates from his hand with Cup of Ace, and correctly adds the two cards he draws from it into his one-card hand, gifs below the cut show them in action)

So, Light Saiou activates Cup of Ace, predictably landing right-side-up and letting him draw two cards--which are then seen here in the first two screenshots (which I'll come back to later). Then, adding his drawn cards to his hand, he activates the Arcanatic Deathscythe (Doomscythe) he had in his hand (both actions shown in the last two screenshots)--which is already a consistency error: we just saw him draw Arcanatic Deathscythe, right? But the other error there is that the two cards he drew with his right hand and the one card he'd had initially in his left hand suddenly switched places.

I figured conceptually, the best way to fix this would be to use Photoshop to draw the second drawn card on top of the one in his right hand (as positioned in the shot as he draws them), removing the card by the tips of his left hand so that, over the course of the four movement frames it takes for him to add the cards to his left hand, he slides the top card out of his fingers and slips it into the middle while the card originally in his right hand fingers still ends up on the left as I pick up from the original footage once they're all in place. I started working on that Thursday and Friday nights, getting it all touched up and finished by Saturday night (maybe 12ish total hours), and first went about removing the leftmost card in his left hand by covering it up in each frame by drawing in more hair and his shoulder, which was easy enough.

For adding the second card to his right hand, I used a combination of splicing and resizing parts of the existing cards and touching up with re-coloring/re-shading/re-outlining to make things connect and blend better. Once I had the card made in the first frame, I copy/pasted it into the other three frames with appropriate tweaks to test out in the footage using Sony Vegas to see how smooth it'd look in the video, then I'd go back into Photoshop and tweak accordingly.

Overall, after some trial and error, I'm pretty pleased with how it came out! (Gif should load nicely)

Going back to the first shot of the two cards he drew: as mentioned, he already has Arcanatic Deathscythe in his hand, so it's a consistency error seeing it drawn alongside The Material Road and it should've been a different card. But what could it have been, and why did I go with Reversal of Fate? Well, taking 103 and 104 into consideration as the duel goes on, this was my thought process following the cards he plays:

At the start of this turn, he already has just Arcanatic Deathscythe in hand, with nothing face-down. *draws Cup of Ace and activates it, drawing Material Road (Lord) and ???* He now has three cards in hand. *activates Arcanatic Deathscythe* He now has two cards in hand (MR and ???). *Judai uses his turn to summon Sparkman and destroy The Emperor* He draws for his turn and has three cards in hand (MR, ???, and ??? 2), which he ends 103 with; 104 starts and he has the same three cards in hand. *draws and plays The Magician* He has the same three cards in hand. *sets MR and one of the ???s* He now has a ??? in hand. *Judai has his HERO Flash turn ending with Neos attacking him directly before the Light of Destruction rages* He draws and plays Magician's Scales. *uses Magician's Scales to add The Heaven's Road (Sky Lord) to his hand* He now has two cards in hand (a ??? and Heaven's Road). *plays Material, Spiritual, and Heaven's Roads to summon The Light Ruler* He now only has a ??? in hand. *uses Light Ruler's effect to add the Light Barrier in his Cemetery to his hand* He now has two cards in hand (a ??? and Light Barrier). *sets a card* He now only has Light Barrier in hand. *activates Reversal of Fate* He must have drawn Reversal of Fate from Cup of Ace.

Now, I think it could be equally likely that he drew Spiritual Road from Cup of Ace, but I think it was more fitting to have Reversal of Fate be the long-game plan, since Saiou activates it in response to Gran Neos's Nebulous Hole effect--which tries to remove The Light Ruler from play--so that he can negate it (fate and all). As bolded, Spiritual Road was also set face-down for activation after playing The Magician on his turn before Judai's HERO Flashing.

So, with that consideration, I made a proxy for Reversal of Fate that I then used AfterEffects to just slip into place in the footage, moving it along as the cards are moved into view in the shot; I originally planned to just mask in the original Material Road on top along with Saiou's thumb, but I kept getting some residue from Deathscythe's green color bleeding along its left border--instead, I also placed a Material Road proxy in its place, with Saiou's thumb only just masked on top. Started working on that Saturday night and finished it Sunday night, so both shots are looking pretty good!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

So, with all that said, as mentioned up top, I've gotten all of the fixes/touch-ups I'd picked out for 102-104 done--altogether 28, not counting two translation edits for Manjoume in 102, but including some fixes that were repeated due to the 103 and 104 recaps, and some that are quick little quality-of-watching touchups like with split-screens--so I'll be getting started on finalizing their scripts this week. Edits like these are fun to work on, picking up more Photoshopping/Vegas/AE know-how in the process, though it's always a shame that consistency things like these (or Ryou's Duel Disk thing in episode 8) didn't get corrected by the animators for GX's DVD releases (outside of stat/LP-counter errors, I don't think they would be until 5D's). Looking over my translations might not take too long as I think I was more or less a fan of my last pass-through with these, but we'll see; stay tuned!

[qippabtch]

The Roof is on Fire: Part 1 (Backstory)

Content warning: dead pet, house fire

"The roof. The roof. The roof is on fire."

These were the lyrics from the song he showed me upon dubbing me "Fire King." A crudely-photoshopped image of my face superimposed onto the profile of Fire Lord Ozai became my contact photo in his phone. The nickname came after my best friend Andy and I spent a weekend up in a rural woodland cabin. After assuring me he'd be able to start the woodstove fire-- after all, hadn't our families first bonded over a shared Boy Scouts troop?-- it started to seem as though we were fated to spend the weekend shivering. "Let me try," I said.

Begrudgingly, he offered me the lighter and wad of newspaper kindling, scooting aside to give me access to the stove. It took me a while, and for a few minutes there, his smug look told me that he'd doubted my ability to do what he couldn't from the beginning. But then, I figured it out. The trick was to keep at it, starting small with sticks and brush, before easing the heavier logs into the flame and allowing them to take gradually to the flame. "Hail, the Fire King!" Andy cried, feigning a royal bow. 

The fire seemed to catch so slowly, I couldn't imagine how things like house fires got to be so out of control. After all, if I couldn't WILL the logs to catch, what did a modern house made to resist conflagration have to worry about?

I wouldn't find out for another few months.

It was a Thursday in early May. I had been hired at the Deaf school two weeks ago, and I was just starting to settle into the job. It wasn't what I wanted to be doing, but it was a job, and since I was living rent-free with my parents, I could put all of my money towards those pesky student loans. One of the perks of living at home was my dad's willingness to occasionally trade cars with me, bringing mine to the mechanic for me so I didn't get ripped off. 

That's why I didn't answer the first time my little brother called me. Or the second. I figured, he's mad because I have Dad's car. I knew he wanted to buy it off of our father, and he probably had scheduled some preemptive appointment to tint the windows or have some other modification done. But by the fifth or sixth consecutive call, I figured I'd have to address him eventually. When my coworker came  back into the room, I asked if she could handle the class for a minute. 

"My brother is spam calling," I told her. In sign language, this looked like "MY BROTHER / CALL / CALL / CALL / (eyeroll)". As I slipped out I told her: "I've just gotta make sure it's not an emergency."

In the nearly deserted hallway, I didn't worry too much about letting some irritation creep into my tone when I answered. "This better be goddamn important," I told him. "I'm at work."

"It is," he responded, just as rudely. "The house is on fire, and your cat is probably dead."

My first impulse was to laugh. "Very funny," I told him. "What's really going on?"

I felt the buzz of my phone and saw that he was trying to FaceTime me. That's when it hit me that he wasn't kidding. With trembling fingers, I accepted the request, and the first thing I saw was the blurry feed of our house, and a big red firetruck in front. 

Dazed, I sank to the ground in the middle of the school hallway. I opened my mouth but nothing came out at first, so I tried again. This time, my scratchy, dry voice made out, "Is... is everyone out?"

"The family is safe," he assured me. "Mom was at work, Dad's here with me." (And of course, the other brother was out of state for college.) "It's only Tilly they can't find."

Tilly.

I took a shaky breath and cleared my face. It was imperative that my students never see me as anything but happy or neutral.

 "Everything okay?" my coworker asked as I reentered the classroom, face a blank slate.

I shook my head imperceptivity. 

She gave me an inquisitive look. I glanced at the students, none of whom were looking my direction. Still, I shielded my hand with the other as I signed two words: HOUSE, and FIRE. Her eyes widened, and she shooed me away, silently telling me to take care of myself and leave the classroom to her. 

I nodded once and left the room. I was going to cry; that much I could feel in my gut. I sought out the office once dubbed our team's "designated cry room." But when I slipped around the corner, I was brought up short by the sight of a closed door. This meant Jen was either interviewing a new applicant, or meeting with a prospective family. Next door to her, however, the program director for the hearing program also housed at the school seemed to have an empty office.

“Hi,” I said, poking my head through the open door. “Are you busy?”

She looked up, surprised. “Not really,” she admitted, her brows furrowing.

“No meetings scheduled--” I checked my watch, "--in the last two hours or so of the school day?”

“No…” I could tell she was wondering why someone from the other program was looking to speak to her, but before she had the chance to ask, I closed the door behind me. 

“Great,” I said, collapsing into her chair. “I need a place to cry.” 

Out from under the prying eyes of students and curious TAs, I could’ve let the floodgates open, but some latent instinct allowed me to first dial the first emergency contact on my phone. 

Andy picked up before the first ring ended. “I heard,” he said. 

A silent gratitude welled up inside of me, in spite of everything. I melted like hot wax, and the tears came silently as I curled up on this strange woman’s office chair. 

“Tilly,” I whimpered. 

“I know,” he said. “We’re going to find her. Do you need me to come get you?” 

I shook my head, which of course he couldn’t hear. The voice I was able to manage was hardly more than a croak. “No.” 

Not-Jen looked at me, bewildered. She asked me the question, what is going on? without words. Her eyes searched my face, and I imagined she was wondering if either program had ever had to section a new hire so quickly. Mental breakdowns were common enough in a place like this, but only a few ended in institutionalization. I pictured, hysterically, this woman slowly reaching under her desk for a secret button, like a bank teller in a robbery, alerting squads of uniformed people armed not with police-issue .45s but straightjackets and tranq darts. The idea was so comically ridiculous that I found myself laughing through the tears, surely only reinforcing her notions regarding my sanity. 

I told her simply, “My house is on fire.” 

This broke her frozen expression, and her face melted into one of sympathy and concern. “Is everyone okay?”

Lifting the phone again, I said to both her and Andy, “My family is all accounted for. The only one missing is my cat, Tilly.” 

She made a sound like a squeaky toy being stepped on, and stepped around her desk to sit in the chair beside mine. Her hand was steady on my shoulder.

“I’m so sorry,” she murmured. 

The sob was loud and choked, and I stifled the next one, concerned the occupants of the adjacent office might overhear. Not-Jen introduced herself as Cheryl, and I let her put her skinny arms around my shoulders as I continued to weep. Andy spoke soothingly from somewhere far away, giving me updates as he got them through the steady, reliable grapevine that interlaced our families. My family was in the care of the Red Cross. The fire department had gone to a second alarm.

Cheryl tried to console me, too, telling me, “I’m sure she’ll be fine. Cats are incredible hiders."

But they didn't find Tilly until the fire had been extinguished.Tilly, my cat, the first pet that was ever only mine.

It was my mom called me next. I was in my dad's car, sitting in the back parking lot, trying to decide where to go. Home? What would even be left of it? They wouldn't have put my parents up in a hotel yet. It was too soon. I was just settling on calling Andy when my phone rang.

"Mom?"

I could hear her tears when she spoke in a broken, tiny voice: "They found Tilly."

My heart sank into my stomach. "And-- I mean, is she--"

"I'm so sorry, honey."

I don't remember what I said. Maybe I didn't say anything, and just hung up. The next thing I remember is crying harder than I can remember crying in my adult life. The catharsis was immediate and relieving, and I knew as the weeping spell wound down that I would call Andy.

When I arrived at his place, Andy's mom greeted me with a hug that seemed to last eternity. Whitney is a short, plump woman from whom Andy had inherited his ocean-blue eyes, and in her arms I felt small in spite of the six inches of height I have on her. Like a little kid whose auntie took on the roll of secondary mother without needing to be asked. She didn't make me talk, and I found it comforting to remain in my silence, a state uncommon to one as loquacious as I am. I curled up in a ball on the corner of their brown leather couch, sinking endlessly into the deep cushions as though it could swallow me whole.

I stayed there, practically comatose, until Whitney insisted I let her buy me some essentials. She handed Andy her credit card and told him not to think twice about the expense, and soon enough we were on the way to Walmart.

I picked out a toothbrush, some travel hygiene essentials, some sweats to sleep in tonight and a set of fresh work-appropriate clothes for the next day. I didn't bother to style the outfit to match my usual pseudo-gothic preferences, but simply tossed some clothes that seemed close to my size into the cart. Andy added some snacks and a gluten-free frozen dinner for that night, and a bandana. Black, with red roses, matching my aesthetic perfectly. I hadn't even thought about my bandana collection, but Andy, my best friend since the first grade, knew me better than anyone. To this day I have that bandana, the first in my new collection.

On the way home, I fiddled with the music. Usually, Andy and I would bicker about what to play in the car, but I guess having your house burn down wins you some privileges because he let me have full control of the aux.

The roof. The roof. The roof is on fire.

"Wow," Andy remarked. "Your Spotify algorithm is really insensitive, huh?"

"No," I said. "I picked it. I made a playlist."

His brow furrowed, and he leaned over to look, but I smacked him away and snipped something about watching the road. "The last thing my family needs is for all of us to survive a housefire only to have one of us die in a car crash," I remarked.

His eyes bugged for a second, and then we were both laughing. At the next red light, I showed him the playlist, comprised solely of fire-related songs. "If you read the titles in order, they kind of tell a story," I said. "See? Lithium and Battery, because it was a lithium-ion battery that started it. Lady Gaga's 911, because the first thing you do is call 9-1-1, and Get Low because they tell you--"

"I get it," Andy said, chuckling darkly. "This is so morbid."

"I think it's funny."

He looked at me for a moment before informing me, "Your sense of humor is broken."

I thought about that for a long time, and then suddenly I was laughing. I couldn't stop laughing. I tried to answer his demanding gaze, but I got as far as "What do you call--" before I burst out again. Andy laughed with me, puzzled, but content that I didn't seem so miserable anymore. Finally, after several false starts that dissolved into hopeless giggles, I got the set up of the joke out.

"What do you call an elusive psychic who survives a house fire?"

Andy, already groaning, generously humored me. "What?"

"A rare medium well-done," I choked out, and then we were both howling. It's probably sheer luck that we didn't crash on the way home, because the rest of the drive was spent in hysterics, the two of us taking turns volleying all of the fire-related jokes...

"Did you hear about the fire in the shoe factory? Many soles were lost."

"My grandfather always said, “Fight fire with fire.” He was a great man, but a terrible firefighter."

"Why do ducks have flat feet? To stomp out forest fires. Why do elephants have flat feet? To stomp out flaming ducks!"

...while the stereo played that old familiar song, and we laughed at the sheer absurdity of it all. The roof. The roof. The roof is on fire...

And that's when I knew I'd be okay.

[sincerelyxnini]

rizz bliss drabble

#taekookau where best friend jungkook stops taehyung from scoring any dates by yelling "HERE COMES THE RIZZLY BEAR IN HIS NATURAL HABITAT, THE FORIZZT." everytime tae flirts with someone.

(jk has a crush and he doesn't know how to deal with feelings. sue him).

--

whenever taehyung tries to charm someone by handing them flower bouquets, jk is in the background whopping and hollering, "EYYY THE FLORIZZT IS BACK IN TOWN! GIVING EVERYONE CHRIZZANTHEMUMS."

tae would smack him on the back of the head with the flower bouquet everytime.

--

taehyung, walking into a costume party dressed as a prince: h—

jungkook, drooling at the sight of taehyung in a blazer with a tiny tiara on his head: oh— oh my god. THE ARIZZTOCRAT HAS ARRIVED! EVERYONE BOW DOWN TO THE CROWN PRIZZNCE.

--

one sunny afternoon, when taehyung and jungkook hang out at the soccer fields together and a group of cute guys walk past, taehyung scores a goal and jungkook gets all huffy and pouty, pettily muttering, "oh, here's chrizztiano ronaldo, i guess."

--

switch to taehyung, who's utterly endeared by jungkook's stupid rizz puns.

half the time, they don't even make sense (jungkook's called him a "wafer brizzcuit (biscuit?)" before), but every single one has made him smile nonetheless. even if they make his fliritng attempts fail.

now, /that/ thought makes taehyung pause. /why/ doesn't he care if his attempts at flirting with others fail? hell, why does he feel /relieved/?

after some deep self-reflection (read: sending capybara memes back and forth to jungkook), taehyung figures it out.

point 1: he flirts not bc he likes the person he's flirting with, but to get a certain someone's attention.

point 2: taehyung only feels butterflies when he's with this person.

point 3: he doesn't want to kiss the people he's flirting with. he wants to kiss his special person.

oh.

/oh/.

taehyung understands now. he gets it: he already has a crush on someone.

jungkook sends him a capybara meme just as the lightbulb goes on in taehyung's head. the meme is of a photoshopped capybara with abs, tattooes and piercings, with the caption: /the caprizzbara./

when taehyung organises a hangout session at their local diner, he gets a speech. a confession.

first, he gets jungkook all nice & full with a healthy meal of oil-drenched fries and a greasy burger loaded with salt, plus a sickeningly sweet smoothie, before clearing his throat.

"jungkook," taehyung starts.

jungkook nods, mouth filled with burger. "taehyumphf."

"i have something to tell you."

cheeks bulging, jungkook stares at him. he chews slowly. a drop of tomato sauce is swiped on his cheek and his fingers are covered in burger grease. beautiful.

"in all our years of being together, i have had the honour of being your best friend. of being there beside you as the sun rizzes and sets—" taehyung starts.

jungkook immediately chokes on his burger.

taehyung says, "and being with you through every rizzaster of our lives."

jungkook splutters everywhere, wet wheezing sounds coming out from him.

but taehyung's on a roll. he can't stop /now/. "when im with you, i feel like icarizz flying too close to the sun," he says, dramatically.

jungkook doubles over and lets out a big choking cough.

"you—" taehyung clears his throat as his eyes start tearing up, overcome with emotion. (jungkook, too, is tearing up. but maybe for a different reason). "you make me feel like im the happiest place in the world, Walt Rizzney."

jungkook finally manages to unlodge the piece of burger stuck in his windpipe. he desperately reaches for his smoothie to soothe his throat.

taehyung continues, "like the grinch stole rizzmas, you stole my heart. you're the queen to my erizzabeth, the mike to my rizzowski."

jungkook chokes on his smoothie again, a tear slipping out of his eye as he throws himself back to his seat and thumps at his own chest.

"you must be /my/ chemical rizzmance, 'cause, baby." taehyung means forward and winks, shooting him finger guns. "you make my cells rizzpire."

"tae," jungkook pleads, voice rough.

"just one more thing. keep it together, don't cry yet." taehyung shushes him. "can you feel it?"

"feel what?" jungkook asks weakly. "my near-death experience that you rizzed your way through? yeah. yeah i did, dude."

"no."

taehyung throws his body over the table & takes jungkook's face in his hands. it's meant to be a gentle cup of his cheeks but taehyung can't help but squish his face until he's making pouty lips. oh, how cute.

jungkook stares at him, eyes wide & slightly scared.

"can you feel it, the love in the air? it's mesmerizzing," taehyung breathes, "it's almost like we're— like we're in parizz."

"hyung, i—"

"jungkook, i know you might say no. i know you might reject me. but, i have to try. my heart scrizzms for you."

jungkook gapes at him, cheeks warming under taehyung's palms. taehyung sniffles. jungkook has a bit of lettuce stuck on his tooth and he's so, so adorable.

"my koo, will you go on a date with me?"

jungkook gasps. "are you for real?"

"i am," taehyung nods. "i'll be the best boyfriend ever. take you out on the best dates. if you feel the same way about me, please. please give me a chance. i like you so damn much."

"you promizz?"

taehyung means forward and kisses jungkook's nose. "i promizz."

jungkook blushes prettily and when taehyung eases up on squishing his cheeks, he grins. "hell yeah, dude."

taehyung laughs, bright & loud, & kisses him. sticky sweet from smoothies, full of laughter and love, taehyung kisses him tenderly &, god, he loves his best friend so much.

when they break apart, jungkook whispers, "you can stop with the puns now."

taehyung shakes his head and kisses his lips cheekily. "i can't."

"why not, hm?"

"because," taehyung whispers, "i just can't rezzist you, baby."

jungkook's groan is muffled by a sweet, slow kiss.

--

come talk to me on my retrospring or on the original twitter post <3

[jaceclary]

I want you to know, I'm a mirrorball I'll show you every version of yourself tonight 

[uniquelyfierce]

was messing around in class tbh

[3liza]

something i literally can't believe just slipped through my fingers is that time i found a Finnish cloudberry jam importer guy's networked expanded universe of websites where he had constructed an alternate reality in which American women all had massive breasts and that every other nationality of woman in the world including finns were desperately jealous of this fact and tried to compensate with surgery and huge padded bras. he had made pages and pages of photoshopped photos, some modern, some historical, of smiling American girls with like H cups, often using very famous or identifiable historical photos which is how i initially spotted the discrepancy on a page of duckduckgo image results (i was googling for a breast model from 1950 for a post and saw pics that made my retouched photo alarm go off) at some point during this process he had written an entire pdf of a fake scientific paper citing made up measurements and statistics by fake doctors from a fake university (he made a website for the fake university too) to support his "USA biggest boobs" scenario and the paper has been cited by several actual irl scientific papers who just didn't bother verifying where the data came from or who wrote it. anyway after i published a gigantic thread on twitter about this he sent my business manager a legal threat to make me stop exposing his fantasy boob empire on line, which i ignored, and he took most of the sites down. and then right after this my twitter account was banned for using the Twitter share button from tiktok and the thread was lost forever and it was just such a huge thing i still haven't really gathered myself to revisit it. also at one point this guy was like the veterinary general of Finland. all of this is true and every time i type it out again its so weird i can barely respond to it myself

[agracefulmasquerade-blog]

Elizabeth Perrington aesthetic

“Put on a pretty smile and curtsy for the court. Everything depends on no one finding out what really goes on behind that shining curtain.”

[kuroosweakness]

“i’m gonna sleep on the couch tonight” | kuroo, suna, atsumu 

a/n: first post in a while :’D i love commentary so pls leave some interesting tags/ comments :)) as much as i love kuroo, i have to admit i got butterflies while writing suna’s part

kuroo tetsuro 

╰ “tetsu, i’m gonna sleep on the couch tonight” 

his head whips around so fast. his hands grip the edge of his desk to stable himself as he questioningly asks, “why?” kuroo’s eyebrows furrow as his eyes narrow in on you. 

“mm, no special reason,” you quip back. “it’s just too hot in here.” as you turn to leave the bedroom to grab a blanket, kuroo scoots his chair and clasps your wrist. 

“we can turn on the ac or a fan if you want,” he says with a hopeful smile–the same smile he uses to provoke convince you into things. before you can give it some thought, he pulls on your wrist to bring you closer (most likely to fog up your brain with kisses), but you’re quick to dig your feet into the carpet and resist. 

“it’ll still be too hot,” you laugh and with a final tug, your wrist slips out of his hold. “i’m gonna go get blankets to set up the couch!” kuroo leans back in his chair and twirls the hem of his shirt with one finger. 

“set up blankets for me too,” he calls out with a smile. and with that, he gets up from his chair and pads across the living room to help you find the blankets in the messy closet. 

as you reach up, you see his shadow cast over the closet, indicating that he’s standing behind you. kuroo is so tempted to tickle your underarms, but he knows it’ll only resolve in you avoiding his touch for the rest of the night. 

“i guess our bed will be lonely tonight,” he hums as he bundles his favorite red and black blanket in his arms. 

“but if you’re sleeping on the couch too, you’ll heat it up and it’ll be too hot...” you quietly bring up as he shuffles out of the closet. 

“so i’m the problem here?” he teasingly asks while sending you a look of amusement. he shakes his head as he walks over to the couch. “and suddenly, i’m cold-blooded” 

~~~

“the bed’s a lot more comfy than the carpet, y’know,” you quietly say. you turn to look down from the couch at the back of his head. his black hair is barely visible in the dark. expectantly, the couch can barely fit one person, and kuroo decided the one person would be you. so there he is, laying on the carpet next to the coffee table on his belly. 

he grins under his pillow and muffles, “if it’s so comfy, why don’t you come and join me there?” 

you blink, trying to come up with a better answer other than ‘it’s too hot.’ this prank is taking a lot longer than you had expected. is it too late to tell him that you only said you wanted to sleep on the couch to be dramatic? 

“speaking of which,” he starts. “you’re covered in a lot of blankets for someone who claims-” his hands leave the sides of his pillows to make air quotes, “-it’s too hot.” 

you breath hitches for a moment before sighing and throwing your blankets aside. why must he catch on to everything? you slowly sit up and slides off the couch. as you land beside him, his hand snakes around your waist and pulls you in closer. already, you can feel his body heat. 

“we should stay like this,” he says. his face leaves his pillow and turns to look at you. “camping out in the living room isn’t half bad” 

suna rintaro 

╰ “rin?” 

suna hums back in response before taking a long sip of water. 

you peek into the kitchen and catches his glance for just a second.  “i’m gonna sleep on the couch tonight.” 

above his red cup, you can see his eyebrow raise in question. he tilts his head back further to gulp down the remaining water. after a final gulp, he brings his cup down on the countertop and shifts his weight onto one foot. 

“can i ask why?” he asks with maintaining eye contact. he takes a couple steps toward you before leaning against the wall on his side, one hand holding onto his elbow. 

“i just feel like it’s too hot to sleep in the room...” you reply back. “i was practically sweating the other day. it feels too stuffy sometimes” 

“maybe we can open a window before sleeping...?” he brings up. “but if you really want to sleep on the couch-” he raises his hands in defeat and slowly walks out of the kitchen. “-do as you wish.” 

~~~

“why’re you gathering blankets?” suna crawls across from the front of the bed to the bottom to meet you before you leave the room. 

“i already told you, rin.” you give him small smile. “the couch? i’m gonna sleep there? remember? i told you an hour ago.” 

suna takes a good look at the blankets in your arms and sighs. “i didn’t think you were serious...if it’s really that hot, we can just open a window or turn on a fan or sleep without covers. the couch isn’t for...” he lightly scowls. “...sleeping.” 

“why’re you so against me sleeping on the couch?” you tease as you catch the blanket that was slipping out of your embrace. 

“because you have a perfectly good bed to be sleeping on,” he says while using an arm to display the bed behind him. “and wouldn’t it be scary to sleep all alone in the living room in the dark?” 

“....no?” 

“aw c’mon, there’s gotta be a better solution than you sleeping on the couch. and what am you supposed to do when it’s july? am i gonna be sleeping alone for 3 months...???”

miya atsumu 

╰ “’tsumu!” 

“yeah?” he calls out from the bathroom. you hear the doorknob jingle and looks up to see your boyfriend with a towel wrapped around his lower waist. atsumu ruffles his wet hair with a smaller towel and grins at your interested eyes. 

“i was just gonna say...” you try your best to peel your eyes away from him and back at your phone. “...that i’m planning to sleep on the couch today.” 

atsumu stops drying his hair and gawks at you. “whaaat? what for?” he plops his half-naked self on the couch and scoochs closer you. “c’mon babe, answer me. what for??” 

“it’s really hot in the bedroom,” you reply back while biting back a giggle as he nuzzles against your neck to see what you’re scrolling through. 

“that looks really badly photoshopped,” he points out as you pause scrolling to see the obviously photoshopped girl at a beach resort picture. 

“even my fans’ edits of my 10 pack looks better than that,” he chuckles. before you can say something, he frowns and brushes his cheek against yours. “anyways, remind me why you’re gonna sleep on the couch again.” 

“i wasn’t actually being serious.” you roll your eyes. “why would i sleep on the couch when i have a nice bed?” you give him a small smile and leans against him. atsumu blinks and bumps his cheek against yours, a bit harder than before. 

“a nice bed and a nice boyfriend,” he remarks with a grin as he slowly sits up to get dressed in his usual pajamas. “see ya in 2 minutes, babe....not on the couch this time” 

[mischiefandspirits]

Bernard Figures It Out

Was reading through all the comments on @frostbittenbucky's post and all I could think of was that it was Bernard talking to Tim. Then I got to thinking...

"I've connected the two dots."

"You didn't connect shit."

"I've connected them."

Bernard figures out Tim's a superhero... sort of.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tim fidgetted nervously as he waited on the front porch of his boyfriend’s house. Bernard had sounded so serious when he’d called during Tim’s lunch to ask him to come over after work so they could talk about something.

Which Tim had done, after spending an entire board meeting just going over the past week trying to figure out what he’d done.

The only thing he could think of was that he’d ducked out halfway through their lunch date on Wednesday to give Duke some backup, but Bernard had seemed understanding when Tim explained there was an emergency at GRC Labs. It couldn’t have been a tipping point, either, since Tim had managed to only flake on three other dates over the past few months they’d been dating. Kate had been happy to cover for him as often as she could “out of queer solidarity” when she found out Tim was dating a boy for the first time and Tim had managed to trick Bruce into covering a few actual Wayne Enterprises emergencies for him when they came up.

There had to be a reason Bernard was breaking up with him, though. Had he missed something? He definitely wasn’t forgetting an important day. He was good with days and Tam was even better, so she would have reminded him on the off chance that he had forgotten.

What was he missing?

Bernard was smiling when he opened the door, but there was a nervous energy to it that had Tim’s stomach sinking. “Hey, Tim.”

“Hey.” Tim gave his own nervous smile then slipped inside.

They went into the living room and sat down on the couch.

Tim frowned when Bernard grabbed a manila folder off the coffee table. Crud, had he screwed up enough that Bernard had had to make a list? He knew he was new to dating a guy, but he hadn’t thought he’d done that bad. He’d really been trying, especially with how his and Stephanie’s relationship had fallen apart at the end. “What -”

“Just let me speak, Tim,” Bernard said, waiting for Tim’s nod. “Okay, so you know Clark Kent, right?”

Tim blinked as Bernard opened the folder to show a picture of Clark. It looked like one of the employee pictures from the Planet’s website, with his dorky “I’m just a humble country boy” smile and the golden globe from their roof photoshopped in as the background. “Uh, yeah? I think so. He works for the Daily Planet, right? I think he’s worked at a few of Bruce’s events. Not a lot of outside reporters are willing to come to Gotham.”

“Exactly!” Bernard said, snapping his fingers and pointing at Tim.

“What?”

He pulled out the picture to show the next page was an article titled, “DAILY PLANET REPORTER… BATMAN!?”

A wave of relief washed over Tim and he placed his face in his hands. “Were you up all night on the hero conspiracy boards again?”

“No. I mean, I found this on a board and was up all night thinking about it, but I found it reasonably early.”

“One in the morning isn’t reasonable, Bernard.”

“Says the guy who’s always wide awake when I call to infodump.”

“Touché.” Tim leaned against Bernard and gave him a smile. “So tell me, why is some reporter from Metropolis from all places Batman.”

“First of all, living in Metropolis is the perfect cover. Everyone assumes Batman would live in Gotham, no one would consider he could be from anywhere else. Metropolis is outside the GMA, but close enough that the commute is still possible.”

“But it’s Metropolis.”

“And who would think Gotham’s Dark Knight lives in the sunshine capital? Plus, I hear he disappears a lot on the job. There’s gotta be a reason for it!”

Tim made a note to let Clark know he needs to cut back on the disappearing act some since people are catching on.

“And have you seen the guy? He is swol AF, babe.”

“Please don’t call me babe while you’re talking about how hot another guy is.” Especially Tim’s honorary uncle.

“You know I prefer twinks.”

“BERNARD!”

“I’m just saying,” he continued, ignoring Tim’s shout. “The guy is definitely hiding something! Besides, Kent is an investigative reporter. He’s gotta know a lot about cases and the underground and detective work.”

Not as much as he likes people to think, but more than he likes people to know Superman does, Tim mused. “But what about the other vigilantes?”

“Well, Kent has a cousin…” Bernard flipped through a folder and pulled out a picture of Kara. It looked like a screenshot of her interviewing Lena for CatCo. “She’s obviously the latest Batgirl. Look at her hair. And the first Batgirl and the current Batwoman were obviously Lois Lane, the red hair is just a wig. Did you see how she kicked butt at that last event she went to? She’s not as subtle as Kent. That means their son is the latest Robin. He’s exactly the right size.”

Oh, Damian better not hear about this, Tim cackled internally. His youngest brother hated being reminded that Jon was the same height as him despite their two years age difference. Damian definitely took after Talia when it came to body type, no matter what he said.

“And Kent also has a brother.” This time he pulled out a picture of Kon. The clone must have been caught by a reporter out shopping with Ma since he was carrying some paper bags and glaring at whoever was behind the camera. “At least, he’s supposedly Kent’s brother, but he was a teenager when he first showed up with the Kents. A lot of people think he’s actually Kent’s son, that Kent got a girl pregnant when they were teenagers and something happened to the mom so Kent had to take him in. Now the Kents are trying to hide it by saying the two are brothers.”

That was… scarily accurate actually. Especially given Luthor and Clark were close friends at the time that Kon would have theoretically been born.

“And that beef would explain why the younger Kent brother went all crime lord on Gotham for a while before reconnecting with the family.”

“Wait, what?”

“Yeah, Kent Jr.’s got the perfect build for Red Hood.”

Tim bit back a comment on how Kon was shorter than Jason by a good foot. Timothy Drake-Wayne should not know that. Add Jason to the list of people who can’t hear this theory.

“And then there’s this girl,” Bernard picked up a picture of Lois, Jon, and Natasha Irons walking down the street together. “No one’s sure exactly who she is, but she’s been spotted with the Kents a few times. I think the cover story is that she’s Jon’s babysitter.”

“And the actual story?”

“She’s Black Bat, obviously. That’s why she wears a mask that fully covers her face. She doesn’t want to stand out as the only African American Bat.”

“Isn’t Signal also Black?”

“Yeah, but he works in the daytime so he’s already a standout.”

“And who is Signal in this? And what about Nightwing and Red Robin?”

“Well, Nightwing’s just a Blüd who came to Gotham. He doesn’t count.”

Ouch. Sorry, Dick.

“And Red Robin is obviously an older Robin, the one who was Robin when we were kids. Kent wanted to keep him on, and I don’t blame him. As for Signal, he’s got the same backstory as all the other Robins Kent picked up, he just went the Signal route because he didn’t fit the usual Robin mold.”

“Because the female Robin fit the mold,” Tim snorted. Robin Mold, as if he and his brothers were even the same ethnicity. Or even had the same hair color. Jason dyes his hair, Dick’s is brown-black, Tim’s is pure black, and Damian’s is more a dark brown and it’s only getting lighter as he gets older.

“She didn’t, that’s the point. Kent tried to give breaking the Robin mold a chance by letting his cousin have a go at it, but he realized it just didn’t work so she went back to being Spoiler and he got a new Robin.”

Not touching that with a ten-foot pole. “Right, and where does he get the usual Robins? Please tell me you’re not back on the secret government orphanages theory.”

“No, no, no. Kent travels sometimes for his job, right? And a lot of the time he’s going to places that have been hit by disasters or major crimes. So he’ll take in some of the displaced children to train as his robins.”

Tim pressed his face back into his hands.

“You see it, right?”

Honestly, Tim was just wondering how his boyfriend could be so close, and yet so far off. “How would Kent even afford taking care of a bunch of secret -- possibly illegally acquired -- children without anyone noticing?”

“Simple. Bruce Wayne is funding him.”

“Bernard, I love you, but what the heck?” Tim blushed and looked up as he realized what he’d said, but Bernard didn’t seem to notice as he steamrolled ahead.

“It’d also explain how he can afford all the gear and how he’d be able to travel to Gotham or anywhere else Batman goes without anyone noticing. He probably has a secret Batplane or something.”

“Why would Bruce do that?”

“Because Wayne cares about Gotham, everyone knows that, and this way he can make sure someone’s taking care of the city without anyone putting two and two together.”

“And two plus two is?”

Bernard gave him a hard look. “I’m not stupid, Tim. Bruce Wayne is obviously Superman. His face is right there.”

Oh, the others are going to love this! Too bad I can’t tell Damian or Jason. Jason especially would have loved this. “Right. Bruce is Superman.”

“He is. Superman is known for being nice and Bruce Wayne’s basically all that’s keeping the city running at this point. That’s nice as hell.”

Oh my god.

“And Wayne does charity for the victims of cataclysms, doesn't he? I bet he first saves people from them as Superman and then builds them new homes for free.”

Oh my god! Why am I not recording this!?

“And the Wayne’s were rich enough to hide the fact they adopted an alien baby.”

Tim raised an eyebrow. “If you’re about to tell me this is why Bruce’s parents got killed, you might want to stop while you’re ahead.”

“It’d make sense. There’re all sorts of unanswered questions about their deaths,” Bernard muttered under his breath, flipping through the folder. He pulled out another picture of Kara. This time she was in full Supergirl attire with a bus held overhead. “So if Wayne is Superman, then that’d mean your ex-girlfriend could be Supergirl. They look a lot alike and it’d explain how she got involved with you all.”

“Bernard, she has a human dad. You know, Cluemaster. The supervillain.”

“Yeah, her dad. But we don’t know anything about her mom!”

“Let me guess…”

Bernard pulled out a picture of Karen. She and Helena were suited up and talking to a group of cops, two goons held over each of Karen’s shoulders. “Her mom could be Power Girl! Some makeup and a wig and she could look just like Crystal Brown! And Damian Wayne is obviously the new Superboy! That’s why his background is such a mystery, right? He had to stay a secret until he could control his alien superpowers. That’s why he’s always so mean. It’s a cover since everyone knows Superboy is super sweet!”

Sure, when he’s not helping Damian pull pranks or using his adorable powers to put the blame on Kon and I. “No, Bernard. Damian and Steph are just very human hellspawn. And Bruce and Crystal are human too. I can’t believe you called me over here just to tell me you think Superman is both Batman’s sugar daddy and my adoptive dad.”

“Well, that’s not exactly why I called you over,” Bernard admitted, the nervous energy coming back. He grabbed Tim’s hands. “Tim -”

Tim’s stomach sank. “You are breaking up with me!”

“What? No! I don’t want to break up!”

“Why are you acting all nervous and serious then!?” Tim asked, pulling his hands away to throw them up in the air.

Bernard shook the folder. “Because I’m trying to tell you I figured out you’re Superboy!”

Tim’s brain blue-screened and his hands slowly dropped. “I’m sorry, what?”

“I know you’re Superboy. The older one, obviously. By the way, you and Damian really need to figure out separate names.”

Forget Jason and Damian, Kon can never find out about this. He’d never let me live it down. “Bernard, you called me a twink five minutes ago. Su-” Shoot, I can not risk getting Kon’s attention! “The older one might not be as big as Superman, but he’s not a twink.”

“Well, yeah, that’s the shapeshifting at work.”

“The what?”

“Obviously you Kryptonians can shapeshift. Why else would you look so much like humans?”

… Why do Kryptonians look so much like humans? Was there some - Wait, no! Break into the Fortress of Solitude for research later! Reassure your boyfriend that you’re not an alien now! “Bernard -”

“And that explains why your step-mom was so hot.”

“Gross.”

“She and your dad were actors hired by Luthor so you could have a normal life! But now Bruce has custody so he adopted you.”

“No.”

“That’s why you and your dad were so weird with each other when I met him.”

“We were weird because he’d just gotten out of a coma not long before to find that his wife was dead so he decided to actually be a dad for once in his life, but overcompensated and became a helicopter parent to a kid who was mostly on his own for his entire life!” Tim blurted out. “I am not an alien, Bernard!”

“Well, not technically since you were cloned from Superman on Earth.”

“Oh my god! You were just talking about Steph being Supergirl! Why would I date my dad’s cousin?”

Bernard blinked. “Supergirl and Superman are cousins?”

Right, Timothy Drake-Wayne wasn’t supposed to know that. “I thought they’d said something like that before, yeah. Are people seriously saying I’m Superboy on the internet?”

“NO! No, I swear I would have led with that if I thought your identity was compromised. A few people have mentioned Wayne and Damian, but not you or Steph or Jason.”

“Wh-Jason!? You think Jason was an alien too!”

“No, not exactly, but a few times when I’ve visited I swear I’ve seen a guy in the manor who looks like Jason. It’s just been out of the corner of my eye and he’s gone whenever I look so I’ve always thought it was just Dick or Bruce or some picture of Jason that my mind was playing tricks with, but it makes sense now that I know Wayne is Superman. He must have been able to heal Jason with alien tech, but couldn’t say anything because that would give away that he’s Superman.”

Damn it Jason! And damn it Bernard! I’m dating the smartest moron in the world! “Bruce did not bring Jason back with alien technology and none of us are aliens!”

“It’s okay, Tim. I won’t tell anyone.”

Tim grabbed Bernard by the jacket and pulled him into a kiss. When he started to feel lightheaded, he pulled back, “Could someone whose skin is as solid as stone kiss like that?”

Bernard blinked dazedly at him for a moment. “How do you know what Superboy’s skin feels like?”

Tim screamed internally. “He’s saved me from a kidnapping before.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I can get you the police report if you want.”

“Huh… And the others?”

“Not Supers. I can stab Damian the next time we’re at the manor if that’ll prove none of us are aliens.” He’d rather stab Jason, but that would probably only confirm to Bernard that Bruce used alien technology to bring him back.

“You probably shouldn’t stab your brother if he isn’t an alien.”

Tim rolled his eyes. “I won’t stab him anywhere deadly.”

“That’s not the point,” Bernard said slowly.

“He’ll be fine.”

“If you say so.”

“So do you believe I’m not an alien now?” Tim huffed, letting go of Bernard’s jacket.

The blond’s eyes dipped down to Tim’s lips. “If I say no, will you kiss me like that again?”

“You’re ridiculous,” Tim said, but he kissed him anyway.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Okay, but I still say Clark Kent is definitely Batman.”

“Sure, Bernard.”

[hd-wireless]

🎶 HD Wireless 2021 Reveals! 🎶

TAKE A BOW, CREATORS!! 

The day has finally come, and we can’t wait for everyone to see who created all the wonderful Wireless works that we had the privilege to present to you this year!!

Before we do that, the results of our Guessing Game! The winner, with 43 correct guesses (which gave her 260 points - please don’t question our scoring system) was @sweet-s0rr0w!! Kudos to your super-sleuthing and powers of recognition!!

All the wonderful authors, artists and podficcers who took part this year can be found below the cut. As the mods, we want to extend our thanks to every single talented one of them. Please show them all your love and appreciation!!

🎶 H/D Wireless Animatic and Fic 🎶

📻 rather a lover than a fighter [T, 15k] ✒️ Author and Artist: @parkkate & aceveria / @aceveria-art

🎵 Summary: When Harry loses his voice and his magic, it���s up to Healer Draco to save the day.

🎶 H/D Wireless Art 🎶

📻 The Road to Somewhere [T] 🖌️ Artist: @rainsoakedhello 🎵 Art medium: Digital Art

🎵 Summary: In the end, all roads lead home.

📻 Don't care what they say (I would be stupid to be not on it) [Gen] 🖌️ Artist: @digthewriter 🎵 Art medium: Digital. Photoshop.

🎵 Summary: Harry finally has a chance with Draco and he's not gonna let it go.

📻 Start Over Again [Gen] 🖌️ Artist: milkandhoney / @fictional 🎵 Art medium: Digital Art

🎵 Summary: Do you feel like a chainstore? Or in which one is Graham Coxon and one is Damon Albarn.

📻 Down for What You Want [Teen] 🖌️ Artist: @sugareey 🎵 Art medium: Digital

🎵 Summary: After the war, finding refuge in the clubs of Muggle London is easier than dealing with the shambles of the wizarding world. When Harry and Draco keep running into each other at Apollo's every Saturday night though, they follow their gut instincts to get on the dance floor and discover something they both have been craving for a long time.

📻 What do I do? With a Love That Won’t Sit Still [Gen] 🖌️ Artist: @cambiodipolvere 🎵 Art medium: traditional (graphite)

🎵 Summary: Italian Greyhounds are small and fucked up, but Draco is a big fuck up and that requires scaling.

🎶 H/D Wireless Art and Fic 🎶

📻 A Halo of Fairy Orbs [E, 20.6k] 🖌️✒️ Author and Artist: vivi1138 / @penguinanimagus & Fae_vorite / @faevorite-main-blog 🎵 Art medium: digital art

🎵 Summary: Draco Malfoy has been dead for fifteen years, but the Black Family tapestry doesn’t agree. Upon returning from long years abroad, Harry discovers that his old rival might still be alive, and his revived obsession leads him to Malfoy Manor. There’s a mystery to solve, and Harry is chasing a thrill he hasn’t felt since sixth year. He needs to know.

📻 Oh, Sinnerman [E, 40k] 🖌️✒️ Author and Artist: @lou-isfake and @babooshkart 🎵 Art medium: digital

🎵 Summary: “I’m serious, Potter,” Malfoy said quietly. “That was some real bad luck you had, being there last night. They will come after you, and they will kill you—after torturing you for information on my whereabouts.” He pocketed Harry’s wand, but held on to his knife, twirling it between his fingers. Harry was distracted by its movement, the reflections of the bright, dawning sun on polished silver. “I’m not happy about it, either, but you’re stuck with me for the foreseeable future.” He watched Malfoy’s face for a long time, in a staring contest he wasn’t sure he’d signed up for. Stuck with Malfoy, for the foreseeable future, on the run from a massive crime syndicate that had infiltrated the Ministry and was out for their blood. It was all very familiar, except for the Malfoy part.  

📻 The Crane Lord of Gringotts [E, 31.1k] 🖌️✒️ Author and Artist: @vukovich and @crazybutgood 🎵 Art medium: Origami, photography

🎵 Summary: Harry is fine. Being an Auror is fine. Living with Ginny is fine. It's all fine. But it used to be a lot better.

📻 The World Is A Violent Sky [E, 60k] 🖌️✒️ Author/Artist: writingsbydestiny / @starlitsilvereyes 🎵 Art medium: Digital Art

🎵 Summary: Harry Potter wants to die; Draco Malfoy wants to live — a story of life and death, everything in between and beyond — in the form of scatters of love and hurt like freckles of stars forming into constellations. — Alternative Summary (And Significantly Less Poetic): Four years after the war, Harry remains grief-stricken. In an attempt to discover the parts of him that haven’t died in the Forbidden Forest, he drops off the face of Scotland to travel the world by himself. Along the way, he finds his old enemy, Draco Malfoy, in a Muggle country, looking positively dashing even with a slash of scar decorating his face. As always, Harry’s curiosity leads him to (un)fortunate places.

📻 The Stars Have Courage [M, 85k] 🖌️✒️ Author/Artist: @fantalf 🎵  Art medium: Digital painting

🎵 Summary: Draco can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t move. He can’t hear anything besides the buzzing in his ears. The walls are closing in. The world becomes smaller, narrowing itself to the pain in his chest, and it becomes the only thing that makes sense. He tries to cry. Maybe he is crying, but there are no tears anymore. Luna’s words echo endlessly in his brain. Harry doesn’t remember. Harry doesn’t love Draco. Repeating ceaselessly. Infinite, Harry used to say. No. No. No. Draco can’t lose him again. But he doesn’t know who you are now. He doesn’t love you. He hates you. You are no one. His world turns into an overwhelming pain. And that pain is all that he is. — Draco waited five long years to watch his husband wake up from a coma. He's not ready to meet a Harry with no memory of anything that happened after he died at The Battle of Hogwarts, twelve years ago.

🎶 H/D Wireless Fic Collab 🎶

📻 'Til Your World Burns [E, 25.3k] ✒️ 🖋️Authors: @ladderofyears and @iero0

🎵 Summary: Draco Malfoy is raped and watches as his world falls apart. Harry Potter is the quiet, unassuming wizard who finally listens to him.

🎶 H/D Wireless Fic 🎶

📻 Inside These Walls [M, 5.6k] 🖋️ Author: @jackvbriefs

🎵 Summary: The year before Draco moves to Los Angeles, Harry Potter disappears. Draco doesn't mean to find him. He's just doing his job.

📻 Drive a Little Slower [Gen, 1.6k] 🖋️ Author: bluefay / @thesleepiesthufflepuff

🎵 Summary: He silently willed Harry to drive a little slower. To let him pretend a little longer.

📻 Two Zinnias and the Scent of Lemon [T, 16k] 🖋️ Author: thestarryknight / @the-starryknight

🎵 Summary: The Ministry didn’t turn bad overnight. Harry didn’t suddenly turn rogue either. Between covert Legilimency links and Polyjuice disguises and running and running and running, Draco has forgotten what it is like to have a safe harbor that isn’t a person. If there’s an art to fighting back, then they’ll find it hand in hand.

📻 Two Starts, One Finish [E, 5.5k] 🖋️ Author: @lqtraintracks

🎵 Summary: I feel him before I see him. Nobody stands this close to me while I’m playing, and I’m about to turn to tell him so when he says, “You’re a tough bloke to track down,” and then leans against my baby grand.

📻 Never Gonna Give You Up [E, 5k] 🖋️ Author: InnerLilith

🎵 Summary: Five times Harry rickrolls Draco, and one time Draco gets him back.

📻 Alone Together [T, 3k] 🖋️ Author: @iero0

🎵 Summary: He felt like a spectre, roaming the treeless grounds, the deserted streets of Hogsmeade. It was only the train station—of course it was, Harry thinks—that harboured another sleepless soul that night. They were found as though they had been looking for one another; freezing to the ground at the sight of an unmistakable silhouette in the distance, before wordlessly meeting on the platform. They stood there, side by side, faces to the sky.

📻 Nothing Left to Burn [E, 5,1] 🖋️ Author: skeptique / @skeptiquewrites​

🎵 Summary: Over ten years after their fling crashed and burned, Harry runs into Draco and finds embers still burning bright. Sometimes your ex-lover is (metaphorically) dead. And sometimes it's summertime in Montreal and the past won't let go.

📻 The Isle of Discussion [E, 21.6k] 🖋️ Author: @shealwaysreads

🎵 Summary: Harry and Draco arrive at the shores of Loch Leven to record the magical history of the land. They’re friends now, but up there in the Highlands, amidst the trees and sky and that wild expanse of water their own past is more present than ever; a gap they still can’t bridge. Magic illuminates the truth, but it is Harry and Draco who have to speak it. Happily, it turns out that honesty is, in fact, the best policy.

📻 (You Should Have Been My) High School Lover [T, 3.9k] 🖋️ Authort: @aprofessionalprotagonist

🎵 Summary: After years of carefully avoiding running into Harry Potter, Pansy tricks Draco into attending a party at Grimmauld Place. How is he supposed to deal with a very attractive Potter trying to talk to him?

📻 Both Hands [E, 10.4] 🖋️ Author: @sweet-s0rr0w

🎵 Summary: It’s been over a decade since Draco packed up his belongings and left, and Harry’s doing just fine. Really, he is. So when he spots the For Sale sign outside their old flat, he doesn’t think twice about arranging a viewing. Curiosity is only natural, right? And what harm can come from a quick trip down memory lane?

📻 His favourite piece of art [E, 1.3k] 🖋️ Author: @gnarf

🎵 Summary: Six years after Malfoy had left, Harry suddenly spotted him on the dancefloor of a Muggle club in London. He couldn't let this opportunity slip…

📻 I'll Try to Keep the Walls From Falling Down [M, 14.9k] 🖋️ Author: @drarrelie

🎵 Summary: It’s OK. Love is only meant for some; Harry knows that. Besides, he wouldn’t want to risk this new, amazing friendship he has going on with Draco for anything in the world. Keeping his walls from falling down is the least he can do.

📻 Learn to Fly [T, 11k] 🖋️ Author: @janieohio

🎵 Summary: Harry’s suffocating under all the expectations of the wizarding world, but he’s fascinated at Malfoy’s sudden ability to flaunt his true self to whoever cares to watch. And Harry? He might like to do something more than watch if he can ever get up the nerve.

📻 Restless Dreams (Stay With Me) [T, 5.5k] 🖋️ Author: wanderingeyre

🎵 Summary: At first, Draco thinks the common room is empty, but then he sees Potter sitting on the floor, back to the wall on the far side of the fireplace. His head is thrown back, exposing the brown column of his throat. The curl of his hair looks soft in the firelight. Potter’s glasses are off and there are tracks where tears have wet his cheeks. He looks naked in a way that stabs at Draco, right between the ribs where everything is already bruised.

📻 Letters From Home [T, 1.1k] 🖋️ Author: @articcat621

 🎵 Summary: Writing to each other is all that's getting them through this war.

📻 so lie to me tonight [T, 5.3k] 🖋️ Author: M0stlyVoid / @bonesliketambourines

🎵 Summary: Ginny thought it would be different, after.

📻 Mortal Frame [M, 6.6k] 🖋️ Author: tackytiger / @tackytigerfic

🎵 Summary: Draco’s on a mission, and this time it's personal. But it's not easy to track down something that no one wants to talk about, especially when Harry Potter keeps popping up everywhere Draco goes. Though at least he’s on Draco’s side this time, and if he happens to be useful, and kind, and great in bed—well, Draco’s not exactly complaining. The story of three pubs, one Horcrux, four overpriced sandwiches, and two damaged men just trying to make sure that Bellatrix Lestrange stays dead.

📻 Prologue [T, 4.5k] 🖋️ Author: adavison / @aedwritesfic

🎵 Summary: Ten years after the war, Harry stumbles across Malfoy in a Muggle club. What could have been an awkward encounter might just be a new beginning.

📻 A Care To Fill The Vessel Of Your Heart [M, 2.5k] 🖋️ Author: @onbeinganangel

🎵 Summary: Draco doesn’t care for atonement. Why should he? Forgetting is easier than forgiving. Or it would be, if fate just left him to his own devices. Fate, as per usual, has its own plans.

📻 Like a Dream I Can Reach (but not quite hold) [M, 19.4k] 🖋️ Author: Cassiara / @cassiaratheslytherpuff

🎵 Summary: Harry spends his life waiting for something he isn’t entirely sure he wants, and looking for something he doesn’t know exists. Everything feels ill-fitting until Draco Malfoy enters his life and shows Harry he doesn’t have to want the expected things, and Harry learns happiness doesn't have to look a certain way.

📻 Sun and Rain [M, 4.7k]

🖋️ Author: @isamijoo 

🎵 Summary: Draco Malfoy thinks that being in a relationship with Harry Potter is anything but easy, but then again, what's the sun without the rain?

📻 In Pursuit of Lost Marbles [T, 22k] 🖋️ Author:  Theartfulldodger / @graymatters 

🎵 Summary: Every night after work, Healer Malfoy follows the same routine, beginning with a familiar flight of stairs that leads to the Janus Thickey Ward at St. Mungo's. With an air of professionalism, he introduces himself to Harry, his husband of seven years, when a memory curse makes Harry look at him like a stranger. He tries not to flinch when Harry calls him sir, but he smiles when bits of the old Harry emerge. Eventually, Draco leads Harry to the Pensieve where he shows him pieces of the life they've built together, what Harry will come home to, one day, when this is all over. Then, Draco waits. He waits, and he hopes.

📻 Requiem [T, 1.8k] 🖋️ Author: EvAEleanor / @evaeleanor

🎵 Summary: Requiem — A song of mourning composed or performed as a memorial to a dead person.

📻 Changes With The Moon [Gen, 1.6k] 🖋️ Author: @missdrarrydawn

🎵 Summary: Draco takes a stroll to try to settle his turbulent thoughts, plagued by who he was, who he is and who he could be. A friend offers him a whole new world and Draco struggles with the idea, for there is too much at stake, it isn't worth it. Or—is it?

📻 Chasing Dragons [E, 89.9k] 🖋️ Author: The_Sinking_Ship / @the-sinking-ship

🎵 Summary: Draco can think of only one way to outclass his pleat-front-khaki-wearing politician ex, and that’s by making headlines with an obvious upgrade. And who better to upstage the cheating bastard than the Saviour of the World, Harry Potter himself? Sure, Potter is a little rough around the edges in ripped jeans, a rumpled tartan shirt, and a permanent scowl. Draco reckons a haircut and a shave wouldn’t hurt, either. But Potter is also in need of a Healer willing to keep his secrets, and Draco is just the man for the job. It’s a perfectly reasonable exchange. They need only attend a couple parties arm-in-arm, smile nicely for the paparazzi, and tolerate each other long enough to convince everyone they’re smitten. In return, Draco will keep Potter alive and in one piece. But it isn’t long before Draco realises he might be in over his head, because Potter is ten tonnes of trouble packed into a leather jacket, and seems keen on hurtling himself towards death on the back of a flying motorbike. And that says nothing of Potter’s penchant for fire-breathing beasts and things that bite. Ah well, at least they’ll have some fun while it lasts. After all, Draco always did like a bit of danger.

📻 Drive, Draco [M, 2.4k] 🖋️ Author: Erebeus / @erebeus-roxy

🎵 Summary: got my driver’s license today, but you're not around to see. Can't drive past the places we used to go to 'Cause I still fuckin' love you, babe

📻 Fire [E, 10k] 🖋️ Author: GallifreyisBurning / @gallifrey1sburning

🎵 Summary: Draco Malfoy has never had trouble getting boyfriends. The problem is getting one that doesn’t leave him feeling cold after the first few months. He’s looking for something specific: passion, excitement, someone to keep him on his toes. He just doesn’t know how to go about finding it. After kicking his latest boyfriend to the curb, Draco’s at a loss for what to do next, until it occurs to him that a relationship with his fiery (and hot) Gryffindor colleague might not burn out so quickly—if he can just convince Harry to try it.

📻 Into the Unknown [M, 4.5k] 🖋️ Author: @drarrelie

🎵 Summary: It’s been echoing within him for months, like an annoying song that gets stuck in your head and refuses to let go. A nagging feeling in his core, telling him to say something, to do something, to go somewhere. Last night it finally happened. He did it. And it felt good; right. “I can’t be sure.” Four words, easy as that. It had been almost impossible to smother the sudden burst of joy rushing through him as that deep-seated urge rejoiced his unexpected act of rebellion. You’d think the Dark Lord’s punishment would’ve taken the exhilaration out of him, but no. Here he is, countless Crucios later, beaten and bruised, and never has the voice sounded this clear. He’s said something. He’s done something. And now he just has to go somewhere. He has no idea where, but he’s certain it will come to him. All he has to do is get out of here, then trust magic to do the rest.

📻 Home is What We Make of It [M, 20.3k] 🖋️ Author: @monsieur-hadrien

🎵 Summary: "There was a blistering draft from the child’s bedroom on the opposite side of the hallway. The door’s handle was icy to the touch as she wrapped her hand around the metal. Unlike the rest of the house, the door gave her resistance in her effort to open it. Unlike the rest of the house, when she opened the door, she couldn’t imagine anyone ever living there. Unlike the rest of the house, there was neither love nor warmth nor any semblance of life that seeped from the rest of the house’s walls. It was cold and hard and chilled her to her bones. She shivered. However, her sense of dread was not just from the cold. Perhaps it was the gaping hole in the wall." Harry and Draco want to start a family, but time loves parallels.

📻 Move, move [M, 9k] 🖋️ Author: @maesterchill

🎵 Summary: She grabbed Harry’s hand, slipping something small into it and pressing his fingers around it. “Dilectio. It’ll cheer you up. Make you feel like dancing.” Harry gaped at her. Drugs. Ginny’s fucking giving me drugs? At Stasis nightclub Ginny does indeed give Harry drugs. But it's all good: Malfoy looks after Harry, and Harry grapples with newfound enlightenments, not to mention a newfound fascination with all things Malfoy—one which persists, even when he finds out what Malfoy's up to.

📻 Euphoria [E, 66k] 🖋️ Author: @iero0

🎵 Summary: Driven by trauma, Harry cuts ties with friends and family. From crowded nightclubs and enthralling live shows, Harry finds himself stumbling into a superficial world where he's lonelier than ever. When even the constant blithe of substance-induced highs can't prevent things from becoming what he ran away from, Draco Malfoy finds Harry. Draco, who’s wearing Muggle jeans and who’s listening to Muggle music and who suggests having a nice little chat on mephedrone. And whose nose crumples beautifully when he laughs. Or: A story about Harry trying to cope with the help of drugs until he finds a new addiction. Draco likes to mend things.

📻 Your House [E, 2.9k] 🖋️ Author: @tontonguetonks

🎵 Summary: Draco tries to serve Harry divorce papers, but Harry isn't home.

📻 Misery Loves Company [E, 22.9k] 🖋️ Author: vivi1138 / @penguinanimagus

🎵 Summary: Stuck in his own head, misunderstood and lonely, Harry would love nothing more than to stay hidden in Grimmauld Place until the end of time. Malfoy won’t let him, and that's just what Harry needs.

📻 You Sexy Thing [E, 10.6k] 🖋️ Author: shortie990

🎵 Summary: As Harry began to tap his foot along to the music, the lights flashed like lightning in the middle of a summer storm, and his eye went straight to the middle of the dance floor. His eyes zoomed in on Draco. The blond looked striking as he moved his slender hips to the soulful beat. Harry watched, captivated as he pressed himself up to Pansy and began to sing to the song.

📻 A Love Story of Less-Than-Epic Proportions [E, 39k] 🖋️ Author: InnerLilith

🎵 Summary: Harry and Draco are just friends. Sure, they work together, and live together, and go to gigs together, and do pretty much everything else together—so what? That’s just what friends do. And Harry has no interest in messing with their friendship. He certainly doesn’t need everyone else constantly meddling, pestering them to just get on with it and get together already. He’s having a hard enough time as it is, trying to come to terms with the fact that he probably isn’t ever going to find love. But who needs love, anyways, when you’ve got a best friend?

📻 Cup of tea, Love? [E, 15.1k] 🖋️ Author: shushu_yaoi_lj / @orange-peony 

🎵 Summary: Things between them are easy, so much easier than Harry expected. The problem is the outside world, which grows increasingly and ridiculously difficult. “We could leave,” Draco suggests. Harry has always wanted to travel.

📻 holemate [E, 18.9k] 🖋️ Author:  @vukovich

🎵 Summary: 'Cause I'm sick of losing soulmates So where do we begin? I can finally see you're as fucked up as me So how do we win?

📻 Home is Wherever I’m With You [Gen, 2.6k] 🖋️ Author: persephoneapple

🎵 Summary: Harry plans on proposing to Draco tonight, but it takes a Prophet article and a conversation between Draco and Pansy to realise how much Draco means to him.

📻 When the remembering is done [E, 24.8k] 🖋️ Author: Sassy3 / @sassy-sassy3

🎵 Summary: “–and we’ll make sure that you can stay at home as long as possible before it will be too hard to manage,” Potter finished. Draco could only blink, trying to make sense of the words he had heard before and after he zoned out. He cleared his throat before speaking. “I’m sorry, Potter. Why wouldn’t she be able to live at home?” Draco Malfoy leads a quiet life. Sure, he doesn’t really like his job, and he never imagined he’d have to move back in with his parents at the manor, but at least he has his lovely son Scorpius to dote on. The only problem is that it gets… a bit lonely. But when his mother starts behaving strange and forgetful, he finds himself in need of help from the one person he never reconciled with after the war.

📻 If you smile at me again, I may do something stupid [M, 6.9k] 🖋️ Author: @emilattes

🎵 Summary: Draco made his peace with Harry Potter and their failed relationship two years ago. He's happy with his new boyfriend, but when Harry becomes the man Draco needed him to be, he finds it's much harder to ignore their history.

📻 smoke break [E, 4.3k] 🖋️ Author: saltwatergarden / @talkingtravesties

🎵 Summary: The first few times, they hovered a bit; Draco offered wine and they sat there and sipped and made small talk, until finally Potter would snap and say, “this is stupid,” and reach out to pull Draco into a kiss. After a while, they fell into a rhythm. Sometimes Potter would be in a rush, and he’d just throw himself at Draco the second he was through the door. Other times, he seemed intent on torturing Draco with his slow and teasing kisses. Potter rarely stayed the night, typically Flooing home after they were done, and they never went out, or, for that matter, met at Potter’s place. Draco was very aware of what he was to Potter—a convenience—and despite his pride, he accepted it, because he knew it was the most he was ever going to get from Potter, and far more than he deserved.

📻 4th Day of the New Show [M, 6.2k] 🖋️ Author: @meandminniemcg

🎵 Summary: Lucius, freshly released from Azkaban, shows up at Draco's show. And Harry has been nervous all day. How does Draco handle the situation?

📻 I Want More? [E, 10.7k] 🖋️ Author: @drarryismymuse

🎵 Summary: Draco had successfully avoided British wizarding society for eight years, until necessity drove him to attend a swanky Ministry event. A chance encounter at that event sparks a passionate affair that just might change the course of Draco’s entire life.

📻 Until It All Comes Undone [E, 38.5k] 🖋️ Author: @mystickitten42 

🎵 Summary: Following his confrontation with Voldemort, Harry returns from King’s Cross Station completely changed. He wakes up at Privet Drive with no memory of his past, the war or magic. Petunia, widowed and suffering from empty nest syndrome, is only too happy to turn Harry into Dudley 2.0. But something’s not quite right. Plagued by recurring nightmares, Harry can’t help but feel something is missing. A bottle of his cousin’s LSD helps him to forget his worries… Magic may not be real, but the hallucinations and the hot blond he meets all feel pretty magical to Harry. Having turned his back on his family, Draco is determined to start over and do the right thing. But he’s never made good decisions when it comes to Harry Potter. When Potter—presumed dead, but very much alive—unexpectedly returns, Draco will do anything for a second chance. Even if it means pretending not to know who he is…

📻 When the Day Met the Night [M, 5.7k] 🖋️ Author: Albuss

🎵 Summary: When the day met the night, all was golden in the sky. In the middle of summer. The Battle of Hogwarts is through, and Harry, somehow, isn't. Draco isn't either. In rebellion against all they have endured, the two embark on a summer of adventure, seeking an ember of hope in the darkness. What they find is unforgettable.

📻 Born to Drown [M, 3.2k] 🖋️ Author: @floydig

🎵 Summary: Draco drives a Knight Bus in the slums of Paris. Sometimes his passengers remind him of Harry. But Harry left years ago. Now, Harry is married to Ginny, and Draco drives a bus. You laugh. “Sorry, I don't know why I’m laughing. It’s really not funny—your dad being dead and shrivelled.” “Fuck off.” I turn to face you. Your eyes are red, your pupils almost blown. Your skin is grey-tinged and sallow, and you're not the one who’s dead. “Merlin, Potter,” I say, hoarse. “How much bloody Dreamless did you shoot up this time?” “Enough for me to live.” You grin wide. “You want me to be alive, don’t you?” Your raw-bitten lips, your chipped teeth, your fucking mouth. I hate all of them, but really I don’t.

📻 Stop And Stare [T, 36.5k] 🖋️ Author: devilishcries

🎵 Summary: After surviving your everyday war-torn childhood, Harry had found a constant rhythm to his life. The thing is, he didn't quite like it. It was repetitive, dull, and he badly wanted to switch it up. So, when he stumbled upon Draco Malfoy on the verge of committing arson in a muggle library, he proposed a deal neither could refuse. (Well, Malfoy was desperately trying to refuse it. But that wasn't the point!) What he failed to factor in was how pretty Malfoy's hands were. One thing led to another, and suddenly, he was obsessed with the idea of holding them.

📻 Wicked Game [E, 20.9k] 🖋️ Author: @cassiopeiasshadow

🎵 Summary: Harry and Draco fall into a spring that allows them to enter into each other’s dreams - but Harry doesn’t quite understand what’s happening, not at first. Why does he keep seeing Draco having kinky sex with a dream version of Harry? And furthermore, why does he like it? Morpheus’ tail twitched irritably. “I warned you away from the poppies. The blame lies with you.” “Me? Potter’s to blame for this, he’s the one who dragged me out to this miserable -” “You would do well not to insult the home of those whom you ask for help,” said Morpheus coolly, though Harry saw a bit of detached amusement in his expression. Malfoy had no self awareness. It’s adorable how stupid he is, Harry thought, and then caught himself thinking Malfoy was adorable and became deeply troubled. “I’m…” Malfoy closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. “Sorry. Please - I need advice. I can’t keep him out of my dreams.”

📻 Dedication and Desperation [T, 6.1k] 🖋️ Author: meditationsinemergencies / @meditationswrites

🎵 Summary: Diagnosed with a rare and serious illness, Draco has mostly given up until Harry comes to visit.

📻 Famous [E, 23.9k] 🖋️ Author: fwooshy / @fw00shy

🎵 Summary: It's a couple of years after the war, and Harry's bored of models now, the same way he's bored of Ron's constant nagging, bored of his Weasley monogram knitwear, bored of the same fucking grin that greets him when he hands his fire-truck red Bugatti over to the valet every night. He wants to find—well, he isn't sure what he wants. Anything but models. Harry is in the mood for...messy. And Draco Malfoy's looking like a walking disaster in the making.

📻 stitched and sewn [E, 7.9k] 🖋️ Author: @wheezykat

🎵 Summary: Harry shudders, fingertips pulsing against Draco’s thighs. He can feel the sharp, metal edge of Harry’s wedding band digging into his flesh, knows he’ll have a bruise there in the morning, a small imperfection that only he’d be able to see. It’s one of the only marks he’ll vanish, not wanting to think about its implications; the rest he’ll keep for himself. Slowly, Harry relaxes, shoulders sinking, breaths changing their cadence to a new tempo. Resigned, surrendered to this dance they do.

📻 Watch the Castles Burn [E, 21.3k] 🖋️ Author: @moonflower-rose

🎵 Summary: Draco Malfoy knows better than to get involved with Harry Potter. If only someone would have reminded him of that six months sooner, then maybe he wouldn't be in quite such a large mess.

🎶 H/D Wireless Podfic 🎶

📻 Modern Love [E, 61k, 5h29m] 🎙️ Podficcer: @lastontheboat 🖋️ Author: tackytiger

🎵 tackytiger’s original summary: Harry Potter, of all people, knows that life isn’t always fair. And no one gets to be happy all of the time. But surely there’s something more—something better—than a rubbish Ministry job, and a lonely old house, and that feeling that everyone out there is doing a better job of living than Harry is. And it really doesn’t seem fair that Draco Malfoy is back in Harry’s life, all of a sudden, and even though he’s wandless, and living with Muggles, and making his mother cry with his lifestyle choices, he’s happy. So what’s he doing right, that Harry isn’t? Because things don’t really change, do they? And if Harry can’t be happy, he’ll settle for a good night’s sleep, some posh antiques, and the opportunity to find out what Malfoy has been up to for all these years. And that’s what starts it all.

📻 [Podfic] How Can I Live Without You? [Gen, 2.2k, 15min 29sec] 🎙️ Podficcer: Static_Whisper 🖋️ Author: ununquadius

🎵 ununquadius’ original summary: After Draco's death, Harry wonders how can he live without the one he loves when he's so far away.

📻 [Podfic] Keep Holding On [M, 33.3k, 3hrs 37min] 🎙️ Podficcer: @thunder-of-dragons 🖋️ Author: gnarf

🎵 gnarf’s original summary: After the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry and Draco both fall into their own battles with their mental states. Draco is sent to Azkaban, and Harry turns to drinking, hoping to forget. Months later, Harry visits St Mungo’s new ward on the request of a friend, only to find Draco in a deep vegetative state. Not willing to give him up, Harry stays by his side, while simultaneously dealing with the Ministry's newest grand idea to make everything worse. Making new allies, and losing old ones along the way, will hopefully be worth it in the end.

📻 [Podfic] Kill, Fuck, Marry [E, 12.7k, 1:27:55] 🎙️ Podficcer: @timothysboxers  🖋️ Author: lettersbyelise 

🎵 lettersbyelise’s original summary: Malfoy leans toward him with a baleful look. “I do believe Pansy Parkinson, my best friend, paid you to spend the evening with me. It’s my birthday, Potter. So you’re going to get off your Gryffindor arse, and you’re going to dance with me. I want to dance. I want to win. I want that bloody trophy on my shelf before the end of the night.” Harry and Draco unexpectedly meet again on Draco’s birthday, years after their last encounter.

📻 [Podfic] You Still Look Like a Movie / You Still Sound Like a Song [T, 3.2k, 19:43 min] 🎙️ Podficcer: bluedreaming / @blue--dreaming 🖋️ Author: shilo1364

🎵 shilo1364’s original summary: Harry Potter doesn't want to attend his ten-year Hogwarts Reunion Ball. He doesn't want to dance. And he *definitely* doesn't want to remember his former lover, Draco Malfoy. Of course, his life has never really been dictated by what he wants.