#/airport AU

[awnrii]

epic the musical except it’s modern day except their flight home from a business trip got severely delayed. and nobody dies

[kittyoperas]

I wish I knew how to quit you.

[zu-is-here]

*relaxing elevator music*

[andluxup]

inktober day 1: backpack

decided to make a new blog and post all of my inktober art so far! this may or may not have been a conversation i had with myself at the airport...

[moonshynecybin]

i thinkkkkk this one is gonna be part of something larger but here's the first part of a fic (2.8k so far) where the first chapter is literally just rosquez having a conversation in an airport set around jerez 2024… i also wanted to add some good ole marquez brother goof arounds:

“Look, if you’re just gonna make fun of me—”

“No, please! I wanna hear the rest of this,” Alex says, leaning into Marc’s space and raising his eyebrows, goofy. It makes Marc let out a big laugh— full and loud. He stretches against the plastic of the airport gate seating, the movement pulling at overtired muscles. It feels like they’ve been here forever.

It’s been a long journey back to Spain— storm delays and rerouting stranding them in the airport for hours. They’re still here waiting for a connecting flight, puttering away next to their gate and shooting the shit. It’s been a good weekend ��a podium for him— but he’s tired, and ready to be home.

“No no no no, I’m done.” He settles into his seat, pushing Alex’s face away from him. Alex cackles, and Marc points at him. “But you should do that professionally!”

Alex pulls one of his mild, exasperated faces, and it makes Marc smile wider. They’re probably being too loud. Marc doesn’t care.

“You know,” Alex points out, dragging out the last syllable of know so it sounds like knowwwww, “You are the world’s absolute worst loser.” 

Marc shrugs. “It’s a good thing, too— in our line of work you have to be.” He’s unrepentant. It’s how he’s built.

He ignores the face that Alex is surely making and leans down to rummage through his carry on, looking for headphones. For sure, if he has to lose to anyone, he’d prefer it was Alex. With him, the nagging bite of loss usually manages to morph into something lighter, more fun, just because he knows Alex won’t ever blame him for how he gets, how involved he can be in winning. That doesn’t mean he enjoys losing—he’ll never enjoy that—but it takes it back to being a game. None of the anticipation of a sour aftermath that he’s faced in the past, the wait for the other foot to drop, and the play to slide towards resentment without him noticing.

“I doubt losing at a video game will help you gain a competitive edge on the track,” Alex asserts dryly, turning his attention back to his phone and tapping open the Kindle app. He’s been obsessed with those fantasy novels, lately. “You can’t win at everything.”

“Trust me, I know,” Marc laughs, rubbing at his arm. He needs to call his PT. Whatever. “But! I don’t think that first thing is true.” Banishing the thought from his head, he leans over to poke Alex in the arm. Alex swats at his hand, not looking up from his book, and Marc pokes him again, harder this time. “I have a winner mentality.”

“You have a loser mentality. You just lost.” Alex is staring at what Marc thinks is the table of contents.

“Semantics.” Another poke.

Alex looks up, incredulous. Victory. 

“You were cheating! And you still lost!” 

“But you don’t have any proof of that.”

And Alex shakes his head like he can’t believe him, laughs again. “You are insufferable.”

Marc grins and Alex sighs, scrubs a hand over his head.

“I’m going to go grab some water. Maybe eventually they’ll let us board this fucking plane. You want anything?”

Marc shakes his head.

“No, I’m good.” He ate earlier. He opens his phone back up, thumbs over his home screen. Nothing looks exciting. He hasn't been on instagram so much lately– avoiding comments.

He sighs and contemplates opening his dating app. He doesn’t.

Nothing’s felt— he’s busy. 

It’s always been too much— too complicated with his schedule, with travel, timezones, turning over battles in his head. Braking maneuvers and tire pressure edging out any relationship before it got off the ground properly. Lately, since his arm, and since Alex had told him to go find someone— it’s been nagging more.

But no one gets it. Not like he does. And he’s just never found someone that felt like they were worth all of the effort it would take, keeping a relationship together in a life like his, bending himself around racing. There’s been flashes, some false starts, but nothing has ever–

He hears a distracted chuckle behind his back, a light sound, happy, and it hooks him, hard. A sucker punch. He glances over, his previous train of thought abandoned.

It’s— 

He's heard that laugh before. 

They haven’t seen each other— properly, actually exchanging words— since last year. The end of the season. They were both in the bathroom at the Lights Out Gala. Marc in a tux, Vale in a flannel. Marc had held the door for Vale as he had left. 

Vale, once he’d registered his presence, had thrown him a thin lipped, restrained smile, and thanked him. Asked him vaguely about his surgery. Moved on.

And now he’s on the phone, a few feet away, and he probably hasn’t even seen Marc yet. Instead, he’s chattering lowly, head slightly tilted as he drags a thumb over the handle of his suitcase.

Marc has to wonder if stuff like this happens to other people.

Alex hasn’t left yet, but is about to. He's noticed, of course he noticed, and he tugs on Marc’s sleeve, voice low. “You need me to stay?”

Marc shrugs, shakes his head. He's been around Vale before, after everything, in close quarters even. It's fine. 

He's had a lot of practice.

Those last few years, before Vale retired, after Argentina—after Sepang, really, though he maybe hadn’t processed it yet— he worked on it a lot. On taking Vale off of the pedestal, making him more of a person. On realizing he was always going to have a different relationship to Vale than Vale would to him.

He works hard at that distance, enforcing it, maintaining it. Tending to it.

And he had gotten somewhere better, once he had realized that. Had stopped trying to say hi to him every time he saw him. Vale is his hero, and he knows by know that that’s never going to change completely. The precise way his presence lights Marc up, makes him giddy, the disbelieving undercurrent that Valentino Rossi knows his name— but he also has come to terms with the fact that it's never going to be like he imagined when he was twenty, and he thought maybe he could matter as much to Vale as he did to Marc.

He knows that.

But it was an adjustment. It took some time. It’s better now. He's used to it.

Now, he can sit at an airport gate with him and ignore him.

He’s probably been staring at his phone screen a little too hard. 

“Allora— so, how have you been?” A voice asks, simply, closer to his ear than it should be. Of course.

He puts the emphasis on you, the full force of him narrowed on the word. Marc stays very, forcibly still. Projects calm.

Vale’s across from him, now, got there without him noticing. His legs are spread out wide in the seat across from Marc, hat pulled low and posture easy. His face is neutral— pleasant. Marc knows that means absolutely nothing.

Vale’s gaze charts over him, carefully, taking him in. Marc swallows, steels his jaw.

Vale has always had a way of observing. Leveraging that beam of attention. He doesn’t miss a thing, never has, and he looks good— tired, but relaxed, thin frame bundled up in a hoodie, hat pulled low over his forehead. Incognito mode, Marc remembers him joking sometime in 2013, after they had snuck out of the paddock to grab a drink at a bar post media day. But you always dress like that, Marc had said, probably too confidently, and Vale had laughed, had leant in and said Well, if I want them to recognize me, I just wear the Yamaha shirt.

Marc blinks. Vale’s eyebrows are raised, expectantly. He’s been quiet too long.

“Why?” He asks pleasantly. No use pretending.

“How have you been?” Vale asks, evenly, continuing as if Marc didn’t talk. “It has been a few months, yes? Since we’ve seen each other? The gala?” He looks away, shrugging. “I wondered about your arm– it seems better.”

“You could have texted.” Marc says, furrowing his brow. He's being overly serious, he knows, but he’s curious. He didn’t expect Vale to text, knew he wouldn’t actually. It still, despite it all, prickled at him. Whenever he was injured, before, Vale would always ask. He hadn't, anytime in the last four years, despite the severity of the injury.

So why is he asking now.

Vale huffs a laugh, swipes a thumb over his phone case, waves it lazily. “My number, it ah, leaked.” He makes a face. “I had to get a new phone a while ago. I don't think your contact made it over.”

It’s better than him deleting it. Better than Marc expected, to be honest.

It could also be a lie.

“Oh. Well.” Marc, says, unsure how to continue. He smiles at Vale anyways, lifts his good shoulder, combing through his brain for what he actually wants Vale to know about his arm. Not lying, just slightly to the left of the truth. He doesn't want anything getting back to Pecco, but Vale can sense insincerity from a mile off.

“I can't complain. The last surgery, it helped.”

Vale’s eyebrows jump, making a little grimace. “I heard, it did not look very pleasant.”

The documentary, Marc thinks, Did he watch the fucking documentary?

“—Now it’s just the bike? Managing the new braking style?” Vale asks. Marc cannot fucking remember the last time Vale asked him two questions in a row.

“Ah, you know. Trade secret.” Vale’s team is also vying for the GP25 — best to keep as much as he can close to his chest.

Vale raises an eyebrow and Marc folds like a cheap stack of cards.

He sighs. nods. Who cares. Vale’s watched him ride for years, he knows Marc still has a little bit to improve on the year old Ducati. He’s seen the data.

“Now it’s just the getting the bike, nailing the setup.” He goes for the PR version of the truth. Nevermind that his arm is still in PT three times a week. The Ducati is good— Marc is having more fun. Fighting at the front. Adjusting easier than he thought he would.

But it’s not a Honda. He needs a bit more time, and he needs– he needs the factory spec. And it looks like Jorge Martin might be the one to get it.

Vale nods, neutral, like the conversation’s ending, like he’s being gracious with Marc’s answer, letting him keep his emotions close— and a sharp, unexplainable feeling digs into Marc’s chest, that same way it did when he was watching him from the seat over in whatever press conference, those first few years. He wants to keep Vale talking. Wants him to keep looking at Marc, wants to— Marc doesn’t quite know, exactly, but it feels a lot like he does on track, when he just can’t quite keep himself from reaching for the win.

He speaks. Vale’s gaze snaps back to him, head following after, a little lazier.

“You? How's endurance racing? Missing anything about MotoGP?”

He says like he doesn’t know. Like he doesn't keep tabs. Like people don’t ask him about Vale’s results.

Anyways, it's hard to be involved in MotoGP and not hear about Vale, even when he’s been retired going into three years now. People talk, always eager for Marc’s opinion on his great rival.

There’s a quirk at the corner of Vale’s mouth. Like he’s won something. Marc curls a fist tight, ignoring the feeling that he’s given information away.

“Some things.” Vale replies, an odd glimmer to him. His brow furrows, then: “I miss how it was around ten years ago, more.”

Marc blinks.

“— Getting old, I mean. It was not so fun, there at the end. I could see everything I wanted to do, every move I would've made on track, ” He sits down across from Marc, leans back in his seat, long torso bending with his lazy posture, the mood shifts and he laughs. “But I was too old! It was harder.”

Of course that’s what he meant. Marc doesn’t— he doesn’t miss Marc. doesn’t think about him much at all, probably. Wasn’t saying he missed how it was between them, ten years ago, when they were friends. Marc knows that.

“I'm getting up there, now.” Marc jokes, “Acosta, he is on the horizon.” He’s not sure it lands, but Vale huffs a laugh anyways, rubs at his eyebrow.

“You?” Vale asks, incredulous. That x-ray quality is back in his vision. He always— He used to always get Marc that way, when he would dial in and make Marc think the words he was saying mattered to him. 

Vale shakes his head, shimmies a shoulder, wags a finger. “No no no no, don’t try that– you are still young, you cant talk to me about old.”

Marc grins. He doesn’t feel it so much, now, the years between them, but it’s a nice reminder of how good it felt, being the up and comer on the scene. The next Valentino Rossi. That was fun.

But he’s older now, has been in the paddock longer than almost anyone, just like Vale had– and he can feel it, dragging at his arm. can see it, in the lines under his eyes, the unfamiliarity of the faces around him.

He wonders how Vale did it for so long. That slow decline— new people popping up every day, ones who learned from him, perfected ideas he pioneered, then using them against him. 

He remembers how he felt on the podium yesterday, and decides not to ask. He leans back.

“Ehhhh, you are not really that much older than me.”

Vale’s expression doesn’t change, still set at his default neutrally animated, but something charges in the air, and Marc gets the sense he wants to say something, toying with the edge of the cliff.

Marc searches for something that won’t rock the boat. He settles on a compliment.

“Pecco was good this weekend— He beat me. You trained him well.”

Vale’s shoulders slide down, relaxing minutely. The charge slips away. Success.

“Ah, he’s a lot better than he was when you showed up at the ranch ten years ago, yes.” 

Marc leans forwards, “Hey!” So much for avoiding fraught topics.

Vale tilts his chin, considering. “What did you say about him? I don’t think it was flattering–”

“—That was ten years ago! I’m wrong ONCE.”

“Once is enough!”

“Apparently.” Marc hits back. 

And it’s good— they’re laughing, Marc thinks, he’s laughing— but that last bit, the apparently, hangs there, snagging in Marc’s mind.

Once is enough. Apparently.

Vale’s smile dies slowly, once it’s clear Marc isn’t about to continue, and it’s odd. Not fraught, for once— though Marc hasn't been the best at recognizing when it was in the past, but he’s pretty sure here. The moment dangles for a second, as they sit across from each other in an airport looking at each other. Vale’s face is doing that thing it was earlier, where he seems to be on the verge of some moment, and his mouth opens. For some reason, Marc flushes hot on the back of his neck. His skin feels tight, and their eye contact holds.

“All good?” It’s Alex, coming back with his Smartwater.

Vale sits up straighter, immediately, posture snapping into place. He nods at Alex, who ignores him, and slides back into his seat. He shrugs at Marc, a little in-joke. What did I do? it asks, fully knowing the answer. Alex has never been as shy as Marc is about his feelings concerning Valentino Rossi. 

And it's that above anything that makes Marc feel like he’s dunked his head in ice water, reality crashing in. The moment snaps as Vale tucks back into himself, leaving Marc off his balance. He feels dizzy and a little off kilter, like he’s done something wrong, like he’s gotten away with something, something illicit, which is ridiculous — he’s just been sitting here.

Nothing’s even happened. They've been two meters away from each other the entire time.

They haven’t even touched.

Vale’s eyes are boring into him, blue and clear. Alert. And Marc catches a flash of— concern, maybe, his brow is creasing— and it tugs at Marc, makes him want to glance back and make him feel easy, lift the corner of his mouth, shrug his shoulders and dismiss Alex’s chilliness. Makes him hot and nervy, out of his skin with the need to do something he doesn’t have a name for.

He smiles.

Maybe he is doing something wrong.

Vale smiles back, and it’s brilliant.

The flight attendant comes over the PA. They’re boarding.

[s0lairee]

it may be a wrench in his pants, but he is happy to see you.

my flight got delayed by two hours. so here, enjoy a lil milo sketch. special thanks to @th3saurus-r3x @moonvalley94 @angelcactus for encouraging car mechanic!milo <3

ft. my fave highlights under the cut

[carolperkinsexgirlfriend]

Steddie Upside-down AU Part 26

Part 1 Part 25

“We can���t just make Steve wait even longer because some stupid kids–” Eddie yells.

“Keyword kids, Munson,” Chief Hopper shouts back.

“–got themselves in a little bit of trouble!”

“You mean the goddamn Feds staking out their houses? With guns?” Chief Hopper asks. “That’s the ‘little trouble’ you’re talking about?”

“Why is that my proble–”

“Eddie,” Will says. 

Eddie stops pacing the length of the living room to look down at where Will’s curled up on the couch, hunching in as the voices raise. He sighs, ragged and angry, but sits on the couch, flapping his hand dismissively toward Chief Hopper. “Just fucking go,” he says meanly. “You were always going to.”

“Boy,” Wayne says, warningly. 

Eddie groans. “Fine, just hurry, okay?” Eddie’s nails are ragged from chewing on them. He doesn’t look up as his uncle and Chief Hopper leave the house. 

Mom, Jonathan, Barbara, and Nancy are hunched over at the table drinking coffee and analyzing the maps of the areas surrounding  the lab. Will feels like his intestines are tying themselves in knots. Mike could be being held at gunpoint by now with the rest of his friends. 

Steve’s still stuck on the other side, thirsty and hungry and running for his life. And alone. 

Eddie jumps up and starts pacing again, running his hand through his greasy hair. Some of it comes out in a clump when his fingers get caught in a knot. He looks like he’s unraveling. Without Steve, there’s nothing anchoring him here. Will’s afraid he’ll float away.

“You’re not the only one worried, you know,” Nancy says curtly, not even looking up from the map in front of her.

Eddie stops in his tracks. “Excuse me?” he demands.

“Nancy,” Jonatha warns.

“My parents' house is being watched,” she says, using her level voice like a weapon. “Mike is out there, trapped and defenseless.”

“Yeah, but–”

“And I care about Steve, too,” she snaps.

Eddie’s fingers curl into fists at his sides, one of his fingers sticking out strangely, like it can’t quite curl like the rest of them. 

Eddie doesn’t say anything, but he does sit down, teeth grinding hard enough to be audible. 

They go back to waiting in silence. It doesn’t last long. 

The door bursts open, people pouring in. Mike first, standing by a girl with a shaved head that WIll doesn’t recognize, Lucas and Dustin hot on their heels.

It’s Lucaus who spots him first, yelling, “Will!” and colliding with him with enough force to send him sprawling partially on top of Eddie. More arms follow one after another. Dustin, then Will’s, until they’re all piled onto the too-small couch, sending Eddie falling off the side with an oof.

Voices overlap, demanding answers Will’s not sure how to answer, where to start. He feels his breathing hitch.

“Alright, back off kiddies, let him breathe!” Eddie says, pulling bodies away from Will until he’s got a little bubble around himself. 

Dustin still has his palm on Will’s calf, like he can’t help himself, while Lucas and Mike look at Eddie distrustfully. “Who are you?” Mike demands.

“Mike!” Nancy reprimands, making him whirl around. 

“Nancy?” he asks, incredulous, seemingly only now noticing that his sister was in the room.

She rolls her eyes, looking back down to the table. 

Knowing the signs of a Wheeler verbal smackdown when he sees it, Will says, “this is Eddie,” shrinking in on himself a bit when they all turn to him. “He saved my life.”

“Cool,” Dustin breathes, but Lucas’s eyes only narrow further.

“In the Upside Down?” Mike asks.

“That what you all are calling the parallel world?” Eddie asks, swinging his legs out from under his to sit cross cross.

Mike nods, “yeah,” he says. “Where the Demogorgon comes from.”

“Do none of you twerps know what a Demogorgon looks like?” Eddie asks, everyone ignores him.

“So everything is okay now?” Lucas asks. “We can go home?”

Chief Hopper, having made his way inside to loom over them all in the living room with his arms crossed as Wayne closes the door behind them, says, “no way kid. The Feds are swarming your houses.”

“Oh, man,” Lucas says, head in hands. “I’m so grounded.”

“And we’re not leaving Steve,” Eddie says, glaring up at Chief Hopper as Wayne rolls his eyes in the doorway.

“Steve?” Mike demands, whipping his head around to glare at Will. “Nancy’s stupid boyfriend?”

“He’s not my boyfriend!”

Will nods. “He saved my life too."

Mike glares at him the way he always does right before he folds. He sighs, slumping down like Will had just asked him to do something abhorrent. “Ughhh, fiiiine. We’ll save stupid Steve Harrington.”

“You kids aren’t saving anyone,” Wayne says, shuffling into the kitchen and accepting the cup of coffee Joyce hands him with a smile. “We’ll get him.”

Chief Hopper asks, “any idea where he’ll be in there?” 

“I might know a way we can find out,” Mike says, turning to the unnamed girl where she’s standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, clutching at the hem of her dirty pink dress. “Can you find him?” 

She looks scared to have all the eyes on her, but nods, looking down. “I will find him.”

Part 27

[cerealiii]

Modern AU; long distance Kavetham where Kaveh goes on long trips for work and Alhaitham always picks him up from the airport~

Because Kaveh is gone 90% of the time Alhaitham's friends start to think he's perpetually single so they try and set up blind dates for him. He goes for the free food. Anyways, Kavetham have fun with it :P

Oh and Alhaitham totally has a grading rubric set up for these dates lol~ though he never goes past the first date :P

---Cerealiii

230227

[lulublack90]

Prompt 4 - Safe

@jegulus-microfic June 4, Word count 379

Previous part First part

“I don’t see why I had to come,” Regulus grumbled as Sirius dragged him into the arrivals area. “Wouldn’t you rather be on your own to pick Remus up?”

“Oh, hush,” Sirius scolded. “I needed you to look out for empty parking spaces,” Sirius danced out of the way of Regulus’s fist's as the first trickle of passengers emerged from inside the airport. 

Regulus wasn’t watching closely, as Remus was pretty easy to spot and Sirius had his eyes trained on the door anyway. Sirius inhaled sharply and started bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet, looking like an excited puppy. 

Regulus watched as his brother latched onto Remus’s face. He pulled a face of disgust and just as he was about to turn away, big strong hands wound around his waist. He didn’t have to see who was standing behind him to know whose hands they were. 

“James,” He breathed, and spun around to stare up into James’s familiar hazel eyes. James looked down warmly at him and he felt completely safe. “I didn’t know you were on the same flight as Remus!” His voice was a bit squeaky, but for once he didn’t care. 

“I didn’t either until Remus told me what flight he was on, then I wanted it to be a surprise. So surprise,” He beamed. Regulus stood on his tip toes and let his lips press against James’s. It was sweet, searing and as though they’d been doing it for years instead of just last night.

“Right, you two drop each other and let’s go home.” Sirius teased them as he carefully dropped his feet back to the floor. 

“Twat,” Regulus stuck his tongue out at his brother. “Are—are you coming too?” He asked James. Sirius had made it seem like James was coming with them. 

“I am, if that’s alright with you?” James said. He was giving Regulus a choice, and he loved that about James. Barty never gave him choices, just told him what to do.

“Yes. Yes, I’d love that.” He took one of James’s hands and dragged him through the glass doors and towards the car park. Sirius and Remus followed behind, snickering at them. But once again Regulus couldn’t find it in him to care. 

Next part

[coffeeghoulie]

I'd love if you wrote more hockey dewther. You mentioned they shared an apartment when starting out so there had to be moments where those oblivious idiots acted like a couple or others thought they were already one. Any backstory insight would be lovely though.

so I knew exactly what to write for this one, the only person who knew this scene existed before you sent this ask was @askingforthesun, but you're right, there were so many moments that those fools acted like a couple long before they knew they had feelings.

featuring the beginning of Aether's journey into being a cat dad, Dew growing out his hair, and Swiss lovingly starting trouble.

also tagging @forlorn-crows and @nocturnalghoul for hockey shenanigans (though there's no real hockey in this lmao)

divider by @ghuleh-recs <3

"You looking forward to playing in the big leagues, Dew?" Aether asks, folding the last of Dew's many, many band shirts into a cardboard box, folding the flaps shut.

"Moving cross country again for hockey?" Dew takes a deep breath, slumping back against the back of the couch. "No's not the right answer, huh?" He says, packing his own box full of stick wax and tape and skate laces. "It's the majors. Of course I'm looking forward to it. I've been working for this for my entire life. I'm excited. Just. Um. I don't want to leave you all by your lonesome. You're codependent."

He snarks, but Aether's been in close quarters with Dew for two years, has lived with him for a season and a half. There's the bite of worry there.

Aether hums, eyes darting over as he hears the skittering of tiny claws on vinyl. A kitten scrambles into the living room, big amber eyes and red fluffy tail, as she chases a toy she's been playing with on legs too long for her body. Aether sets the box down, scooping up the kitten he'd gotten a few weeks ago. She's tiny, or Aether's hands are just huge, because she fits perfectly in his palms.

"Hello, little Lady," he coos, grinning as she purrs, rubbing her little cheek against him. He turns back to Dew. "Don't worry about leaving me, Dewey, I've got your replacement right here."

Dew's expression softens as he looks up at the tiny cat in his hands. "Gimme," he says, reaching out to Aether. "Gimme the baby."

Aether's never been able to deny Dew anything. He sets Lady down into Dew's waiting hands, her paws splayed out as she settles in his lap. Dew scratches under her chin and smiles at her, warm and toothy. The way he smiles when he thinks Aether can't see.

Lady's delighted by the change in location, meowing loudly and little ears flicking as Dew pets her. "Gonna miss you, little girl," he whispers, and Aether looks over at the boxes in their living room, pretending he can't hear. Most of them will go in storage, but the rest will get shipped to Dew's new apartment several states away.

"Yeah, probably shouldn't have gotten a kitten right before the season starts," Aether says. He sits down on the couch next to Dew. Not touching, but still close.

"She'll be good for you," Dew says, not looking up at him. His hair's just beginning to brush the tops of his shoulders. "I know you'll make a great cat dad."

His lips quirk up. "Aw, so sweet of you."

"Yeah, you know me, bruiser Dewdrop, so sweet," Dew says absentmindedly, reaching for one of the bundles of skate laces he'd thrown into the box. It unravels as he grabs it, and they both laugh as Lady's eyes lock onto the aglet. Her pupils blow from slits, fascinated.

She bats at the lace, little, white needlesharp claws extended. Dew smiles warmly, not looking up as Aether pulls his phone out. He makes sure that his phone is silenced before snapping the picture of two of the most important things in his life right now.

Eventually, Lady rips the lace from Dew's loose grip, rolling onto her back to bat at it with her hindpaws, ever the little hunter. Dew lets her play, turning to face Aether as he slips his phone back into his pocket.

"For real though, are you going to be good out here?" He asks, real, genuine concern slipping into his voice. "I mean, I'm sure I'm going to be seeing Kärnan on the back of a Ghouls jersey before long, but you good?"

Aether shrugs. "I mean, I got by just fine before I met you." He chuckles, and Dew turns back to the kitten. Soon, they will finish packing up Dew's things, and the apartment will be half as loud.

And because Dew's halfway across the country, there's no way that he will know when Aether gets that picture printed in a little glossy 3 by 4 and tucks it into his wallet. And it stays there.

It stays when Aether gets the call not even six months later, the Ghouls' first line defenseman having suffered a severe knee injury and needing a replacement while on injured reserve. Dew's right about his name on the back of a Ghouls' jersey. They're both surprised about how quickly he was right, though.

The picture stays for the four seasons he plays with the Ghouls, stays when he's voted captain twice in a row. It stays when he falls in love with his best friends, is accepted into their arms as one of their own.

It stays completely a secret until one winter night, warm lights on in their apartment. Snow's piling in the corners of the window panes, and Lady, full grown now and elegant, curls up on the couch next to Aether. He's got his laptop on his lap, one hand idly petting through her russet fur, the other typing as best he can. There's music coming from the kitchen, Swiss playing something from his phone as he finishes up making a bagel, late night snack. Water runs in the other side of the apartment, Dew taking a long shower.

Aether pats at his pocket, cursing softly under his breath when he remembers where he put his wallet when he got home that afternoon. "Swiss," he calls. There's the clatter of silverware in the sink, and he sticks his head into the living room, licking cream cheese from his fingertip.

"Yeah, Aeth?"

"Would you be a dear and grab my wallet?" he asks, smiling warmly. Swiss matches his grin.

"Sure thing. You getting the tickets?"

"Mhm," Aether hums as Swiss steps back into the kitchen. "It's not going to be that good a view to be watching hockey from, but it'll be nice to surprise them regardless."

"Very much so," he calls. It only takes a moment before Swiss is back, paper plate with his bagel in one hand and wallet in the other. He doesn't have a good grip on it, and it falls open, revealing that secret picture of Dew. "Oh, what's this?" he teases, jovial. "Who's that handsome young man?"

Aether snorts, even as color comes to his cheeks. "He doesn't know about that one, I'd like to keep it that way."

"Well," Swiss chortles, plopping down onto the couch on the other side of Lady. She mrrps, disturbed from her sleep, but she happily presses her face into Swiss's hand as he pets her. "I believe I recognize my step-daughter. This must be from before the big leagues, huh?"

Aether sighs, ignoring Swiss's favorite joke. "Dew'd just been called up. Half a season before me."

"God, how did you not know you were in love with him then," he teases, taking a big bite of his bagel.

Aether snorts and rolls his eyes, pulling a card from his wallet and typing in his information. "I don't know," he admits. "But I know now."

Swiss wraps an arm around his shoulders, pulls him in close over Lady's curled up form. "Yeah. We know now."

[morganbritton132]

in the emtts universe, do you think eddie and/or steve would watch movies in other languages with robin? like, my friend and i - she's french and i'm indian so she watches bollywood romances with me and i watch french romances with her every sunday :-)

First, that’s an adorable thing to do with your friend and I think it’s very sweet that you and your friend take a vested interest in each other’s culture.

I can see Steve and Eddie both watching films in foreign languages with Robin separately.

Like, Steve ends up watching a lot of foreign films with Robin by proxy.

Robin insists that the only want to keep a language is to be immersed in the culture and since there’s not a lot of culture in Hawkins that isn’t painfully Americana, she rents out the abysmally small foreign film section from Family Video constantly. Since Steve is with her a lot, he is also immersed in these cultures.

He complains but he also secretly loves it.

He loves how into the movies Robin gets. He loves how passionately she explains it to him. He loves trying to figure out the plots and how she lights up when he gets it right, but he loves it even more when he gets it wrong.

Robin likes a lot of arthouse films that don’t have linear timelines or that are meandering to the point of confusion so sometimes Steve misses the mark completely, but it’s okay. They’ve spent hours after a movie, telling two different stories about what they just watched and Robin never seems upset that Steve just didn’t get it.

Eddie ends up watching films in foreign languages with Robin out of necessity.

In like a ‘my world famous band is about to tour Europe and I just realized that I only speak English but you keep correcting how I do that so maybe I don’t keep English too good either’ kind of necessity to which Robin responded, “Jesus Christ.”

Eddie got a passport and then realized that Gareth took three years of French, Grant spoke fluent German with his grandmother all the time, and Jeff was passable with Spanish, and Eddie. Gee, Eddie was going to look like the biggest idiot on the planet – “Or, you’ll just look like an American.”

“That’s even worse!” Eddie despaired, draping himself across the counter of Family Video. “Help me, Robin-wan, you’re my only hope.”

Help to Robin was an English to Spanish dictionary and a bunch of study material, but help to Eddie was the Italian Giallo he picked up in Indianapolis last week because that was more fun. She sent Eddie off to Europe with an English to Spanish dictionary and a ‘good luck.’

It did not help.

[jtl-fics]

Fluent Freshman - Part 07

PREVIOUS

The thing about Nicky knowing that FF knows Russian and therefore understands every single excruciatingly sweet, ear-reddingly spicy, or shockingly mundane thing that Andrew and Neil say to one another is that he is objectively the 3rd worst person to know this secret.

First place is, of course, Andrew Minyard the man who has now asked him about his family 3 times in the last week and a half. FF doesn’t really care if Andrew goes after the majority of his ‘family’ since it’s just his step brothers and step dad but Andrew might go after his Grandma too so he just says “We don’t talk” every time it comes up and deletes his entire chat history with his grandma that way Andrew won’t know how close they are. If that means that Andrew thinks that no one would look for him if he happened to disappear into a shallow grave FF doesn’t know. He’s already doomed so the least he can do is save his gran.

Second place is, of course, Captain Neil. Captain has mentioned quite a few times that a lot of people stay with friends or people they’re close with over Thanksgiving break. It’s meaner than Captain Neil usually would be off of the Court reminding FF that he has friends but none close enough who would want to spend a holiday with him. He plans to go see his Gran for Thanksgiving and she plans to feed him a truly ridiculous amount of food. It’s the same plan he’s had pretty much every year since he was 13.

Third place is Nicky Hemmick. Nicky is a very nice guy who got him a paperboy to hyperventilate into a couple times and would absolutely never intentionally OUT somebody and compromise their safety! Nicky’s talked with FF about some of his background so FF has full confidence that it’s never going to be something that Nicky intentionally outs to anyone. But there are two main reasons why Nicky is the third worst person to find out about this secret.

The first reason is that Nicky Hemmick just unabashedly loves gossip. FF has heard that with the graduation of the girls the previous year had gone Allison Reynolds who had multiple running bets on multiple teammates and a whole cache of gossip. Now Nicky has access to the ultimate accidental gossip magnet in the man who no one notices, who knows any language the Foxes speak and is too awkward to get up and leave when they start talking.

Nicky will never tell another soul his secret but he also HAS to know what Neil and Andrew are saying to one another and when Nicky lies to cover for him the charge is one free conversation translation.

He’s absolutely hooked on getting translations the since the first time he had asked what Andrew and Neil are hissing at one another one morning practice.

FF translated it awkwardly feeling like a creep and like he’s invading their privacy but Nicky had helped him eat the four slavic letter flashcards he had made up to help a friend study the language when Captain Neil and Andrew had come back early from a weekend alone in Columbia.

Nicky had even assured him afterwards that the ink was probably non-toxic and given him floss so he could get the flashcard wedged between his molars out.

So….

“Andrew’s mad that Captain Neil skipped breakfast because they’re working to make him eat something for every meal. Captain Neil’s mad because Andrew’s the one that kept him in bed so long that he didn’t have time to make anything.”

Nicky squeals in delight

The second reason, which is just compounded by the first, is the fact that Nicky had promised not to tell another Soul. However Nicky Hemmick, the romantic that he is, believes that he and his Fiancé Erik share one soul since they are soulmates. Therefore Nicky Hemmic had barely even registered FF’s tears of gratitude before he was calling Erik to tell him about FF.

The sheer number of close calls that have happened because Nicky HAS to tell Erik about something Andrew and Neil said to one another or something someone else is saying is the reason FF started getting ulcers.

Watching Nicky talk to Erik about him knowing Russian is like watching a member of the three stooges walk through a construction site blindfolded. FF nearly kills himself stopping Nicky from outing him numerous times and at the end Nicky’s smiling, unscathed and unaware of the sheer number of close calls he had sauntered through.

FF can’t wait to go home and bury his face in his grandma’s lap, stress eat two apple pies, and tell her about how he thinks he might just become an electrician or a plumber or an underwater welder because one of his language professors wants him to come and speak to a lower level class (a gen-ed with over a hundred people in it) about the usefulness of LATIN for all their majors since they can parse the meaning via root word and he had panicked and said ’Sure’.

***

The thing about being the only person on the team that knows that FF speaks Russian and is riddled with social anxiety is that it’s absolutely hilarious most of the time.

Every once in a while he has to step in to help the guy.

So sometimes he’ll eat flashcards. Sometimes he’ll distract his cousin with a salacious comment so FF can escape a dangerous conversation with his drunk friend. Sometimes he pushes FF to go talk to Abby about his tummy troubles. Sometimes he’ll hand over one of the brown paper bags he keeps in his backpack nowadays so FF can wheeze into it and sometimes he’ll assure his cousin that FF’s passing out after he offered to teach him how to use a knife was probably because of his stomach ulcers not because FF is terrified of Andrew stabbing him.

Nicky is the only member of the Foxes that FF regularly seeks out on his own to hang out with and Nicky just loves how hard Andrew and Neil are trying not to be jealous about it.

“I want to ask Smith if he wants to come spend Thanksgiving Break with us.” Andrew says out of the blue a week before the aforementioned break when it’s just Aaron, Neil, Nicky and himself in Nicky’s dorm room.

Nicky thinks about FF talking about going back to his hometown in Washington State and how he waxed poetic about spending Thanksgiving Break with his Grandma and how he was going to eat his weight in pie and Macaroni and Cheese.

“He’s planning on going and seeing his grandma. He won’t shut up about it.” Nicky says still glad that FF has a family member like his grandma.

Everyone else in the room look at him.

“He won’t shut up about it?” Aaron asks with an eyebrow raised. Aaron likes FF just fine and appreciates how FF has helped Katelyn start to grasp the fundamentals of the German language so quickly so she can understand what’s being said. “So what he said it twice?” He continues.

Nicky remembers FF’s ability for catastrophizing every conversation with the Foxes into one where it comes out that he speaks Russian and Andrew stabs him. As far as the other Foxes are concerned he’s a man of few words.

“He’s been talking about it all month. If I hear about his grandma’s apple pie recipe one more time I might demand he sneak a slice back for me through TSA.” Nicky loves stoking the flames, especially when the fire is harmless. He watches Aaron shrug and the skin around both Neil and Andrew’s mouths tightens. “You can ask him, the worst he can say is No.” Nicky shrugs.

Nicky is there when Andrew does ask him and he can see the prolonged internal scream of terror on the utterly blank face (or maybe he just imagines it.) and in a way Nicky is a little sad when FF shakes his head and says “No, I have plans with my Grandma.” In an utterly blank voice that means he has functionally blue-screened before turning and walking towards the nearest door so he can reboot in solitude.

“The offer stands if you change your mind.” Neil says and Nicky is impressed with the seemingly very casual thumbs up FF gives as he power walks away.

A little less than a week later Nicky finds Andrew next to FF and FF looking down at a cancelled flight notification after coming in from a truly monumental storm.

Andrew offers Thanksgiving in Columbia again.

Nicky tries to stop it from happening he can see that FF is a little lost in his disappointment over not being able to see his grandma and not thinking clearly but before he can snap him out of it.

“Sure.”

NEXT

Per your requests:

@i-have-three-feelings @blep-23 @dreamerking27 @andreilsmyreligion @belodensetdust @rainbowpineapplebottle @yarn-ace @iwouldlikesometea @lily-s-world @obscureshipsandchips @booklover242

[f-15-h]

Black shadow earth mode I guess

[skrunksthatwunk]

never have i ever with the in-laws

[deadbabey]

Would anyone read a lil au where Bilbo and Thorin both miss their respective connecting flights home for (something??) and end up hanging out in an airport overnight together ??

Inspo credit to the two guys flirting next to me at the airport bar rn that both missed their different flights

[moonshynecybin]

Hey! Just wanted to say I’m in awe of how your writing it’s just so GOOD and FUN and TORUROUS. It’s rly hard to nail the voices and dialogue of characters (especially when writing them speaking in english!) but you always make it so believable. Ur Vale especially is sooo charismatic which like hats off bc a more mercurial man has not been made. 

Re ur charged-airport-conversation fic, I’m intrigued to find out how Marc will handle his sexuality crisis. Will he be in denial? does he very seriously study gay culture like telemetry data? is he getting Grindr? is he seeing it as something to incorporate into his PT routine & somehow translate this to a competitive edge? how did he feel about the pope saying frociaggine????

Also I loved the goofy brother shenanigans, Alex strongest most patient and silliest man alive truly. Extremely funny to think of Alex “please get a girlfriend you’re 30 and annoying me” Marquez having to cope with Marc coming back like “I found one! :3” holding hands with Cervera’s enemy #1 undisputed champ 2015-2024

Anyways, would love to hear any thoughts u had but no pressure! I just wanted to thank u for ur brilliant mind & forget about whatever fresh hell that sprint was 

this one. is one that i plan to maybe actually and fr write out so i shant answer in full because i hope that you'll find out eventually. um. i CAN give you chapter two! of THIS fic where Marc and Vale get stuck in an airport and have a somewhat fraught little bonding session. i have not proofread this OR reread the original so if there's inconsistencies just chill out. theres also a lot of liberties taken with the amount of privacy these guys have on a given race weekend again just chill out. please. they live in different countries and are bitter rivals its hard to get them alone into fictional scenarios. its about 1.4k.

(Part ONE !)

The next time he sees Vale is in the paddock.

It's not unusual to see him— the paddock is small and Vale is always a presence, felt even when he’s gone, indelible—but it’s on the television more often than not these days. Maybe a glimpse of him zooming around on his scooter, ignoring the swing of the camera phones tracking him in his wake. But it’s not like this, never this close up. Vale maintains distance, and Marc has adapted to take his cues from that same distance. He’s not going to be the first to engage, not anymore. 

All that being said, Marc is trying to grab some alone time in between sessions, communing with his lunch and contemplating ways to improve his breaking into Turn 11. He’s tucked into a shady place out of the way, generally out of the range of any stray cameras, when Vale catches him, sliding next to him on the table and leaning forwards on his elbows.

He starts picking at Marc’s food.

Marc reacts reflexively, not even processing that it's Vale who’s at his elbow who is reaching over to snag a bit of his chicken. He lifts his bowl out of reach like he would with Alex. “Hey— that's mine,”

Vale’s game, apparently, shooting him one of those dangerous grins, eyes crinkling at the sides towards Marc like he hasn’t seen in years. He’s brimming with the confidence of someone used to getting away with breaking rules. Marc puts down his food. Lifts a hand, adjusts the cap at the top of his head, and tucks his hair behind his ear. 

This means something. He doesn’t know what.

“Allora, you were not eating it.”

And Marc has always been easy for it—the simple skill he has in spinning a situation into the brightest version of itself, mood turning on a dime. Even when he was destroying Marc, he would do it with a smile. 

It’s that same silverbright thread that makes Marc laugh, disbelieving, a shock of delight. He shoves at the edge of Vale’s arm, jockeying with his elbow. He bites his lip, shakes his head. Would you look at that?

“Presumptuous,” Marc scolds, and tucks back into his lunch, forking another bite into his mouth. Vale grins and leans closer, conspiratorial. That same hot, embarrassed feeling from the airport rears its head, giddy. Marc glances around. There’s no one here. He feels like there is. LIke there’s eyes on them, even though he’d chosen a place where there shouldn't be.

It feels like crossing a line, teetering on the edge of some cliff, one toe over the edge. Hot and anticipatory in the pit of his stomach. There’s a breeze going, and he shivers. Vale leans closer.

He likes it. 

He also knows that he shouldn't like it. He’s gone through this song and dance before. This feeling, this hero worship that he has with Vale never leads him down any good road. He thought– six premier class titles and nearly ten years of vitriol had been an effective cure. Not so, he’s finding out.

Vale corrects, “I see what I see. This I cannot help.”

“Oh yeah? You’ve been watching me?

Vale shrugs, steals another bite. “You do manage to put on a good, ah, show.” He finds the words in Spanish. Marc can’t remember the last time they spoke in Spanish.

Marc takes a breath in. Settles himself. He doesn’t know what the end goal is here. Curiosity wins out— it’s better than wondering why Vale’s here in the first place. What game he’s trying to play. What he thinks he’ll get out of being nice to Marc, aside from that shivery feeling clawing its way up the base of his spine. He should really at least find out if he’s doing this because he plans on not being nice to Marc. 

“How did you find me?” Is what he goes with. Neutral enough. 

“You are not hard to find.” The answer is vague, but frank. Vale loves to speak around things.

Marc raises an eyebrow, decides to just keep looking at him. They both know he’s bullshitting. Vale breaks, and makes a face, shrugging.

“I have been racing here longer than you. I know the hiding spots.”

Marc gives him a minute roll of the eyes. It's still not an answer. “You know, they remodeled not too long ago. The entire layout changed.” Vale would’ve had to work to find him. 

“Not too much!” Vale spreads his palms cheerfully, seizing on a diversion. “The bones are still the same. The stands are over there,” he juts a thumb, “The pits are here. The bathrooms change, but bah. It’s a facelift.”

Marc wrangles down a smile. Vale’s not being serious— he’s being fun. Maybe he’s trying to get him comfortable for some reason. “A lot changes, I think.” He says frankly, and he means it. 

Vale’s eyes flash. He sees Marc’s conviction, catches the double meaning. Another one of their conversations centering around two different issues on the surface, but coming back to their history all the same. The elephant in the room butting into other topics. History, division, and rivalry, all sneaking its way into the cracks in their words. 

Vale keeps going, the lead in their little play.

“Maybe. But it’s not— like, aerodynamics, new regulations, new tires— all that changes. Small stuff.  Opinions, riders. But it is still a paddock. I’ve been in paddocks my entire life. You can’t change much.”

Things change a lot, in Marc’s experience. People. Teams. Bodies. 

Friendships.

And Marc is brave usually, has made a career out of it, so he feels like he has to ask. No use avoiding it and feeling half out of his skin for the rest of the day. Vale’s knee bumps into his own and he closes his eyes briefly. When he opens them Vale is already looking at him

“Why are you here?” He levels.

Vale throws him a soft smile. It comforts exactly no part of Marc.

“Maybe I was looking for a hiding place.”

Marc hesitates, choosing his words carefully. It’s always a spar with Valentino; even when they were friendly, they were still competing.

“Am I the hiding place?”

“Well, I am still more famous than you, is true. Less photographers on you than me. It’s peaceful.”

“What do you want from me?”

“Now there’s a good question.” Vale says, stealing something else off of Marc’s plate. “Today? I was hungry. I thought I’d stop by and eat with an old friend.” The words jolt through Marc like a highside. He’s in the air— lost, flying, falling. 

Vale stands, towering. He claps Marc on the shoulder. It burns white hot. Marc keeps his eyes on him, trying to catch a hint, a clue as to how this all happened. 

An old friend.

“Is that what we are?” He asks, more earnest than he should be. Vale can be such a bastard.

“Well, what would you call it?” He responds, turning the question on Marc, voice quiet. Serious, like he knows whatever hangs between them is as thin as a spiderweb. Marc swallows.

“I don’t know,” Marc answers. still too honest, even now. Something flickers on Vale’s face, too quick and complex for him to read. 

“Think about it.” Vale prompts, and walks away.

Marc finds out that they weren’t alone, in that section of the paddock the next day. The pictures hit the news after the race, headlines rolling in thankfully after Marc has left for home. Valentino Rossi and Marc Marquez sharing lunch, alone on a race weekend ten years after their falling out. What could it mean? 

But Marc’s eyes look at the photo and just catch on Vale’s shoulders, leaning towards Marc, the palm of his hand, arcing through the air as he gestures, frozen on the screen of his phone, and himself, eyes crinkled at the corners. He was wrong. He didn’t manage to reign in that smile after all. 

FRIENDS AGAIN?, the headline asks, and Marc wonders.