#American Greetings brand

[stick-by-me]

My friends are green with envy (over how rad these stickers are)

[shopy-all]

(via "Che Guevara Movie logo Designs " Leggings for Sale by Shopy-All)

[fromgoy2joy]

I sat next to the protest today.

I wrote fan-fiction about two gay jewish dads raising children to the play list of the chant- "No peace on stolen land!" on an American college campus. It isn't a name brand one either, nor does it have any legitimate ties to Israel. The anger is just there- it has rotten these future doctors, nurses, teachers, and members of society.

I don't even know what to call their demonstration- it was a tizzy of a Jew hatred affair. At points, there were empathetic statements about Gazans and their suffering. Then outright support of Hamas and violent resistance against all colonizers. Then this bizarre fixation on antisemitism while explaining the globalists are behind everything.

"Antisemitism doesn't exist. Not in the modern day," A professor gloated over a microphone in front of the library. "It's a weaponized concept, that's prevents us from getting actual places- ignore anyone who tells you otherwise."

"How can we be antisemitic?" A pasty white girl wearing a red Jordanian keffiyeh gloats five minutes later. "Palestinians are the actual semites."

"there is only one solution!" The crowd of over 50 students and faculty cried, over and over.

"Been there, done that," I thought, then added a reference to a mezuza in the fourth paragraph.

Two other Jewish students passed where I was parked out, hunching and trying to be as innocuous as possible. We laughed together at my predicament, where I am willingly hearing this bullshit and feeling so amused by this.

"Am I crazy? For sitting here?" I asked them. My friends shook their heads.

"We did the same last week- it's an amazing experience, isn't it?”

We all cackled hysterically again. They left to study for finals. Two minutes later, I learned from the current speaker that “Zionism” is behind everything bad in this world.

Forty-five minutes in, a boy I recognized joined me on my lonely bench. He came from a very secular Jewish family and had joined Hillel recently to learn more about his culture. His first Seder was two nights ago.

He sat next to me, heavy like the weight of the world was on his shoulders. There was just this despondent look on his face. I couldn’t describe it anyone else, but just sheer hopelessness personified.

“They hate us. I can’t believe how much they hate us.” He said in greeting.

And for the first time all day, I had no snarky response or glib. All I could do was stare out into the crowd, and sigh.

[nereidprinc3ss]

early seasons spencer and bau reader undercover at a club and it’s just like. he is so flustered but also weirdly confident and do with this what you will

in which spencer reid and BAU fem!reader have to pose as a couple at a club. she's more than a little flirty. the conversation actually gets quite suggestive. he's cute when he gets flustered.

warnings/tags: discussions of sex, reader wears a tight dress and makeup and heels, discussions of blushing but r's skin color is not implied to be light, i just needed a reason to talk about sex flush LOL, if u don't visibly blush this will still read fine

a/n: I LOVE EARLY SEASONS SPENCER X FLIRTY READER OH MY GODDD thank you for this request angel from heaven I hope you all like this as much as I do teehee

The bass buzzes through the floor and vibrates your teeth. House music has never really been your thing. Neither have tight dresses and high heels while on the job—but you’re willing to objectify yourself just a little if it will lure yet another loser who likes to chop up young couples into the awaiting arms of the American correctional system. 

Or to the wrong end of Emily's Glock. Whatever comes first.  

You scan the club—it’s not your usual scene, and you can only imagine how Dr. Reid is faring. As far as you can tell this is essentially his nightmare. It’s sensory overload central even for you. 

Your eyes catch on him at the bar, tucked away from the writhing crowd. He’s standing near the end, one arm resting on the surface while the other hand is jammed in his pocket. He seems completely unaware of the several women circling closer and closer. The whole earnest and dorky but still handsome thing seems to work well for him. Or, it would, if he had any interest in utilizing it. He’s dressed a little sharper than usual—no doubt styled by Morgan and Prentiss. Hell, the earnest dorkiness and the well fitted dark suit is working for you if nobody else. 

Sometimes he just looks… edible. 

And self-discipline doesn't always come naturally to you. 

“Doctor,” you purr in greeting, grazing the forearm propped up on the bar with white-tipped nails as you insert yourself in front of him. His fingers twitch under your light touch. 

Spencer doesn’t even try to hide the way his eyes sink down your frame, sticking to every highlighted curve like you’re dripping honey. Or maybe he just doesn’t realize that you can see that’s what he’s doing. 

“Hi. You look nice.”

“Aw,” you smile, dulling the salacious edge to your voice, “you didn’t have to say that. Someone’s improvising.”

“I meant it. That dress looks nice on you,” he says, simply, and you hate his specific brand of charm because it’s not intentional. It’s not something he puts on. It comes out of nowhere and always knocks you on your ass when it hits—even in the smallest doses. His eyes narrow and he leans closer. You can feel the energy rippling around him like a force field as he examines you. “You’re wearing more makeup than you normally do.”

“Do you like it? Penelope ordered the wrong shade of blush and gave it to me. Supposedly it’s meant to make me look like I just had an orgasm. I don’t know if I believe it.”

Much to your disappointment, Spencer leans back, scanning the crowd for your target and speaking as if he’s only half-interested. 

“That’s not what you would look like. Sex flush deepens the color of your entire face and chest, not just your cheeks.”

Your brows knit as you contend with unwelcome butterflies. 

“Buy me a drink before you start telling me what I’ll look like after I orgasm.”

That catches his attention, and his suddenly wide eyes snap to you. If he had a drink, he’d be choking on it. 

“I wasn’t—it was a general you, I’d never—that would be inappropriate. It was. It was inappropriate. Sorry. I’m sorry.”

You lean with your back to the bar, elbows propped on black granite, and swing your hair over your shoulder. Spencer’s eyes dart back down to your décolletage and then up to the ceiling like he regrets being born. You smile wickedly. Much better. This is the way God intended for you to interact with Spencer Reid. 

“I’ll consider forgiving you. And I don’t blush. Not when I orgasm, not ever.”

Admittedly, you just want to milk the whole talking about you orgasming thing to see how pink you can make him. It’s not often you’re gifted with an opportunity to be so candid about your sexuality or flirt this unabashedly. But you are supposed to be posing as a couple. Maybe you’re just feeling extra in character. 

Instead of stumbling over his words some more, Spencer smiles with a degree of bemusement like he’s caught you in a white lie. 

His smile is so nice. His teeth are perfect, and his lips—

“Yes you do.”

Always so convinced he’s right, this one. 

It’s annoying. And kind of hot. 

“Uh, I promise you I do not.”

“Everyone blushes. It's a sympathetic nervous system activation response wherein blood rushes to your face. Your blood vessels dilate when you get flustered or anxious. Your face gets hot and your undertone changes.”

You raise your brows. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was challenging you. 

“Yeah? Wanna bet?”

“Actually, no,” he mutters, losing any bravado and casting his eyes downward subserviently. “You have a habit of proving me wrong.”

“That’s right,” you gloat, smiling wide. Someone bumps into you, and you turn around, highly unprofessional insult locked and loaded—but it’s just a drunk girl who apologizes and stumbles off. The encounter does, however, remind you that you’re supposed to be finding a killer. “Do you think this is the best positioning? He might not be able to find us way over here.”

“You think we should move?”

You look back at him and nod, holding your hand out. He looks at it uncertainly. You waggle your fingers and infuse your words with sugar. 

“Oh, come on. I don’t want to lose you. And we’re supposed to look like a couple, remember?”

Gingerly he accepts your hand. His is bigger than you’d have thought. Not nearly as freezing as your own perpetually are. It occurs to you as you grab his hand that his bone structure really is bigger than yours. He’s… tall. He is, at the end of the day, a real life adult man. His presence is palpable behind you and you enjoy the weight of his hand in yours as you tug him through the crowd, perhaps not taking the most direct route through the throng just so you can savor being able to touch him like this for a little longer. 

Miraculously you spot an empty booth and slide into it. It’s a deep alcove, shadowy and secluded at the back. That’s where you settle, against black vinyl, and where you wave at Spencer to join you. 

He lingers at the edge of the table, glancing around at the groups of dancing and drinking young adults. 

“I don’t know. Can you even see the dance floor from back there?”

“Part of it. But I’m sure he’ll be looking in the booths for couples. He’ll come to us.”

Spencer faces you again and sighs ruefully, a begrudging smirk playing at his lips as he slides into the booth and joins you against the back wall. His side is warm against yours. He smells nice. Clean. Almost herbal, like patchouli or vetiver. 

“What? You really hate sitting next to me that much?”

Spencer’s lips part wryly before he speaks, like he almost thought better of it but decided to anyway. 

“I think you just wanted a reason to get me alone and secluded so you can finally accost me.”

Your knees bump. You lean into it. 

“Accost you? That seems harsh,” you pout, leaning toward him clandestinely to undo his top button.

“I don’t see how. You are literally trying to take my clothing off as we speak.”

“I’m just increasing your sex appeal. It’ll be good, trust me. Maybe you’ll even end up taking one of those girls from the bar home. Or—back to the hotel, I should say.”

Spencer covers your fussy hands with his own sweetly, like he can sense the true jealousy simmering underneath the sarcasm, and places them in your lap. The touch lingers.

“Are you always like this?” He murmurs, voice lower than you can recall ever hearing it and twisted into the shape of a smile. 

“Only with you, Dr. Reid. Speaking of, how about you? Do you flirt with many other FBI agents on official business?”

“Just the one. She’s kind of a full-time job.”

“Shut up. I’m basically your babysitter. If anything, I should be paid extra for dealing with you.”

“Attempting to seduce your charge seems like a bad business model. There are definitely some ethical issues there.”

His hands still rest on yours. You lace your fingers with his and speak sweetly, meeting his eyes best you can in the dark. 

“I wasn’t aware I was seducing you. Do you feel seduced?”

He’s the first to look away after a few seconds pass—pulls your hands apart gently, politely arranging them back on your lap. 

“I think you’re incorrigible and a terrible influence. In all honesty, you terrify me and more often than not I walk away from our interactions a little confused.”

You clap a hand to your heart, the bare skin revealed by your low cut dress warm under your fingers. 

“Spencer… that kind of turned me on.”

He just looks at you for a moment, a hint of a smile on his pretty face, long enough to make you feel a bit nervous. 

Then he’s leaning forward, and unconsciously so are you, almost forgetting to breath when you’re practically pressed against him in this booth and he’s whispering so low and sweet into your ear. 

“He’s watching us. Right across the floor, next to the girl in the blue dress. White button up and a leather jacket.” His hand slides over yours, fingers skimming your collarbone in the process as he interlocks your grasp once more. “Keep your hand right here and lean closer. We need to maintain his interest.”

“I don’t think I can lean any closer,” you breathe, hoping it doesn’t register as nervous as it really is. You’re supposed to be the confident one who teases him. “But if you want me to sit on your lap, just ask. I won’t say no.”

He chuckles, too loud to be amorous. It’s clearly genuine. It sounds like the way his reddened cheeks always look. It almost does more for you than the bedroom voice.

“You… you are beyond help. I don’t think you could be appropriate if your life depended on it.”

Slowly you pull back so you can look into his eyes—much closer than you normally have an excuse to. They dart wildly over your face, partially obscured by the dark which cuts shadows deep into the dramatic hollows of his bone structure. He really is so pretty. 

You glance toward the man, who’s pretending not to watch you. When you focus your attention back on Spencer, sliding your hand up the curve of his jaw, you find yourself making a dangerous wish. You find yourself wishing that you didn’t have an audience. That this wasn’t all for show. That neither of you had earpieces in.

His pulse hammers under your little finger, and his lips part slightly as he doesn’t have the wherewithal to not glance at yours. He’s so unaware of how obvious he’s being. It’s cute. 

You run the tips of your fingers through the hair in front of his ear, the one sans bluetooth, pushing it back, before leaning in close once more to whisper. 

“Good thing we’re not going for appropriate. Actually—your hands could stand to wander a little more, Dr. Reid. Let me know if you need me to tell you where to put them.”

[disneyprincemuke]

mrs all american * archived.

who is that guy in the andretti racing garage?

pairings: bother figures x fem!driver, 4lyfers x fem!driver

notes: lOLSIE OXOXOXOOXOOXOXO tell me if u want their smau too?? hehehehe

(series masterlist) | (📂 the sophomore year)

alex tilts his head, approaching his friends gathered right behind a crowd that’s formed in front of one of the racing hospitalities in the paddocks. “what are we doing here?”

“same sentiments,” george mutters, craning his neck to try and look over heads to see what’s all the commotion about. him and lando had been having a chat while walking in from lunch when they were greeted by a large crowd gathered and chatter filling up the air. “we’re just as curious as you.”

“but you lot were here first?” alex asks, scrunching his nose again, looking between his friends. “did andretti manage to score some big name or something for the weekend?”

“brad pitt, you reckon?” lando asks, raising his eyebrows. “nah, i don’t think so. has to be someone else.”

“maybe it’s just rocky causing terror to everyone again.”

george and lando exchange a stare and ultimately shrug with a nod. it’s not entirely impossible that it’s not the brand’s own driver who’s gathered a big crowd to watch her do something stupid.

“hey, why are there so many damn people? i just wanna take a nap before the parade.” the 3 turn around, shocked at the presence that’s announced itself behind them. the andretti racing driver stands in front of them, hands on the straps of her backpack as she looks at them curiously. they furrow their eyebrows. “what?”

“you’re not the one that’s causing all the commotion?” george tilts his head, pointing at the crowd of cameras and paparazzi behind them.

she shrugs. “i guess not. what’s going on?”

alex sighs, widening his eyes. “we have got no idea. we’re just nosey,” he takes a sip from his drink, “will you tell us when you find out later?”

she shrugs nonchalantly with a small smile. “sure. i’ll see you lads later for the parade.”

“are you hiding someone from me?” the girl, who’s just walked into the pitlane to head to the grid for the driver’s parade takes a step back with a clueless blink. “max keeps pestering me about the guest for tonight.”

she shrugs, eyebrows furrowed. “why do you just assume i always know more than you?”

liam shrugs as well, frowning. “i don’t know. there’s just so much commotion on our side of the paddocks today and i’ve got no clue as to why,” liam says with a frown.

realistically, she feels bad lying straight through her teeth to everyone. but she doesn’t need anyone messing with her when the truth happens to come out before the race starts. it’s just not something she thinks she needs.

besides, everybody will find out after the race. she will just explain herself then.

“i’ve got no idea what’s going on with our garage today,” she takes a sip from her pepsi, blinking at liam innocently. “guess we’ll find out later?”

“find what out?” oscar tilts his head as they come to a stop right by him and lando, waiting for the truck to start their lap around the track.

“why we’ve been so crowded with paps today,” liam frowns. “i’m not the centre of attention and it’s simply absurd.”

lando sighs, shaking his head. “i know. i’ve barely seen a camera pointed my way today and it’s our grand prix race. something is not right.”

she shrugs with a small grin. “someone kinda famous, i guess.”

“it’s not jacob elordi again, is it?” carlos pokes his head between lando’s and hers, furrowing his eyebrows. he turns to her, met with an unamused stare and head tilt. he shrugs. “just curious. who knows if you’re seeing him again?”

she looks around their huddle, suddenly greeted by curious stares and raised eyebrows. she throws her arms in the air and shakes her head. “i’m not seeing jacob again! i haven’t seen him since the miami race last year! please let it go!”

alex narrows his eyes down with a small smirk. “you sound like you know something about andretti’s special guest.”

“you liar!” liam screams.

“i don’t!” she turns to liam with her arms in the air. she turns to alex and scowls. “why are you stirring drama? i don’t know anything about who andretti’s decided to give their stupid pass to this weekend, okay?”

alex hums, pressing his lips together. “that’s not what logan told me.”

“why would logan know anything about andretti’s guest this weekend? i’ve barely seen him.”

he shrugs, “i really thought that would break you.”

“nice try,” oscar sighs, shaking his head. “you really don’t know anything?”

she shakes her head. “i really don’t. now can we please talk about something else?”

“i’ll see you later after the race?” a soft, familiar, higher-pitched voice says. “don’t forget to watch me, okay? remember: i’m in the andretti car. don’t watch the red bulls or the ferraris, just me. you’re here for me.”

liam presses his ear against the door as if he could somehow make out who’s speaking to whom inside the room.

you can only imagine his shock when he hears a man’s voice from the other side of the door. “suddenly i’m an andretti supporter. i don’t even like ferrari.”

he hears her laugh, followed by footsteps approaching the door. “i’ll see you later, my. love you.”

the door clicks, prompting liam to hurl himself towards the stairs leading downstairs, stumbling and sliding down a couple of steps. liam pulls himself up with the railing, trying to ignore the way he can hear the confusion as the door closes.

“what are you doing?”

liam hops up to his feet, one of his foot sliding off at the edge of the steps. he coughs to cover it up and shakes his head. “i’m just super excited to be racing in vegas.”

she tilts her head and furrows her eyebrows. “are you sure? is something wrong?”

he shakes his head. “nope. nothing.”

perhaps she will break the news to him after the race? he doesn’t think he’s ever heard her say that phrase to anyone, much less know anyone called ‘my’.

“you don’t have anything to ask me?” she bites down on her lip, trying to keep the laugh in.

truthfully, she had heard the door rattle a couple of times and assumed that liam was being nosey outside her driver’s room. she’s more surprised that her teammate is not probing her for a more defined answer other than a shrug.

“i guess,” liam shrugs dejectedly.

he just wants her to tell him instead of having to ask her outright.

“alright, mate,” she laughs, furrowing her eyebrows. “by the way, you’re coming for ice cream tonight, right? i’ve got someone i want you to meet.”

another podium finish. it’s absolutely nothing to do with the fact that she’s got a special guest in her garage watching, the car was just good.

she knows that because liam’s finished directly behind her. she would have given him the podium if sebastian hadn’t insisted that there’s jo driver swap necessary and that it would only be riskier to do so.

she climbs out of the car, eyes crinkled towards the team gathered behind the barriers for her. she tears all of her headgear off and immediately runs forward to where her team is gathered.

“amazing!” sebastian screams, arms wide open as she approaches them. “good job, kid!”

she screeches, hopping over to where they are with her fists in the air. “i know! i literally love vegas! year after year, all vegas gives me is bangers!”

she jumps into sebastian’s arms, cheering along with her team of mechanics with their arms wrapped around her as well. “yay! another podium for me! suck it, oscar!”

“oscar catching strays,” liam mutters, tapping her on the shoulder and holding his arms out to her. throwing his arms around her, he sighs exasperatedly while a smile. “i know you had someone in your room earlier.”

“i know. you rattled the door with all your moving,” she whispers back before pulling away. she drops her head slightly as a blush slowly creeps up her cheeks. “i’m seeing somebody.”

“i also know that,” liam grins, a hand still on the small of her back. “do i get to meet him?”

“obviously. do you know how difficult it’s been to keep him out of your sight all day?” she snorts, rolling her eyes. “i promise you’ll get to meet him.”

“if i didn’t know you were a good driver, i’d have thought you made it to the podium just to impress me.”

“it’s just luck, i guess.” she grins giddily leaning in as he holds both hands up, grabbing her cheeks. “thanks for coming to watch my race.”

“absolutely. thank you so much for inviting me over.”

she scrunches her nose, hands lifted slightly behind her as she leans in with puckered lips. she’s turning 22 in a couple of weeks and the fact that this is her first public relationship ever is still new to her.

truthfully, she wasn’t even planning on dating any time soon. she’s gone 5 years — almost her entire life — not finding herself with a boyfriend, what harm would it do if she went on longer without one?

but she coincidentally found herself laughing a little too hard at his jokes and now here she is, lip locked in her garage with some guy she swore annoyed her.

“ew!”

“fuck off!” she says immediately, pulling away and whirling around with red cheeks. her hair is dishevelled, stray hairs on her face and cheeks getting redder by the second. “what are you, 12?”

max raises his eyebrows with an amused smile stretching his lips. he tilts his head to the side and ignores the driver in front of him. “who’s this? i’m max,” he holds his arm out, “i can fight.”

“max!” she shrieks, pushing max’s arm away before it can be grabbed cordially. “what is wrong with you? that’s not how you introduce yourself!”

but as she’s preoccupied with max, to her horror, she’s turned back around and the other 3 have already surrounded the poor boy with furrowed eyebrows and questions spilling on their lips.

who are you, where do you live, what’s your intentions with rocky, how long have you known her? and this is exactly why she hesitated even bringing him to the race to watch her.

“hey, what are you doing? stop doing that!” she cries, running back around to try and shoo off alex, george and lando who have well invaded her boyfriend’s personal space. before she can take 3 steps away, max grabs her shoulder and yanks her back toward him to hold her in place. “you guys are embarrassing me! you’re worse than my siblings!”

“oh, you’ve met her siblings!” alex cheers for a moment before wiping the smile from his face. “so? what are they gonna do to protect you? they’re so much younger.”

“hey! those are my sisters and brother you’re talking about!”

“ah, you get what i mean,” alex waves her off, snorting softly. he returns his attention to the boy with a small amused grin. “so? you plan on answering our questions, mate? we’ll be here all night if you don’t.”

the brunette grins. “i’m milo manheim, i’m an actor. i’m,” a blush creeps up his cheek as he bites back a smile and points over at the girl still in her race suit, “she’s my girlfriend.”

“girlfriend?” lando screams incredulously, throwing his head back in disbelief. he turns to the girl and points at milo. “you found yourself a boyfriend? did you use our advice?”

she stares at them, blinking with a toothy and fearful grin. “why… would i use your shit advice?”

“hey, what are you– oh, hey! you look–” oscar cuts himself off with a loud laugh before turning to his best friend, “oh, you little sneaky shit! no wonder you’ve been keeping your mouth shut the entire evening! it’s the guy you h–“

“guys!” she throws her arms in the air. “give me a break, please! at least let me sp–”

“how long have you guys been dating?”

“dating?” oscar asks loudly, blinking rapidly. all this is new to him. she’s always been pretty secretive and private about her dating life, so it’s not a shock that everything is only unveiling now for her.

“have you made her cry yet? every tear is one punch i get to throw without you running off to the media crying about it, kid,” max says firmly, shoving her aside so that he could take a step forward towards milo.

“max! he has not–”

the younger boy grins and puffs his chest proudly. “of course not! we’ve been going out for a couple of months, around 5 or 6?”

“wow!” george cheers, turning to her in amusement. “that’s long! you kept a secret that long?”

she shrugs. “lily knew.”

“lily knew?” oscar screams, arm darting out to punch her shoulder. “why didn’t you tell me?”

“because then you’d tell logan and lando, and then it wouldn’t be a secret anymore,” she explains, throwing her arms in the air with a knowing stare. “i don’t see the problem, really. mick knew too.”

“mick found out before me?” george shouts. “unfair!”

she shrugs again. “he saw us at the hotel lobby last night.”

“why are there so many people in my garage?” sebastian walks in, tapping his phone against his palm. “hi, milo.” he looks at the crowd of excess drivers in his garage and lifts his hands in the air to continue his interrogation. “anyone plan on answering me?”

“we’re having a meeting,” lando answers, not even sparing the older man a glance. he keeps his stare on milo. “so how did you meet?”

“we met at the eras tour in the private tent!” oscar cuts in with an amused stare. he blinks. “i gotta find logan and tell him.”

“tell me what?”

she throws her arms in the air. “did you guys agree to come to my garage after my podium just to piss me off or something?” she shouts, hands balled into fists and she stomps a foot into the ground. “what is everyone doing here? why are we having a gathering?”

“i was gonna congratulate you on the podium,” logan mutters. he trails off as he meets the familiar pair of brown eyes, the only person in their makeshift circle not in a race suit, and tilts his head. “what are you doing here? don’t i know you from somewhere?”

a silence falls in the garage, the chatter from outside the only thing that anyone can hear. max and alex share a look, then glances over at george who lifts his eyebrows with a shrug.

milo blinks. “i’m–“

“rocky’s boyfriend!” lando cheers, holding milo’s shoulder and pointing excitedly at the young boy next to him. “you didn’t know?”

“nobody knew,” she grins, explaining through gritted teeth. “except seb. cause he’s the one that let this happen.”

“rat!” max screams, whirling around to sebastian. “you said you knew nothing about who andretti’s guest is!”

“i was sworn to secrecy if not i might wake up bald tomorrow!” sebastian suddenly screams in defensive. “i don’t wanna be bald! don’t you think i haven’t thought of telling anyone?”

logan grins, furrowing his eyebrows in confusion. “i didn’t know you guys were talking.”

logan scratches his elbow as he turns to oscar, tilting his head and pointing between her and milo as if to ask if he’d known about it. in return, oscar shrugs.

“wait,” max shakes his head. “this is actually a thing? you guys are actually boyfriend and girlfriend? like it’s official?”

her and milo share a look. she turns to max and nods. “yeah?”

“you hesitated,” george points out. “why did you hesitate?”

heads turn to one of the men in papaya, a giggle bubbling from his stomach as he points between them. “i see what’s going on — you haven’t talked about it, have you?”

“what?” she sputters, rolling her eyes. “that is absolutely none of your business.”

oscar giggles. “but we’re right, aren’t we?”

george throws his hands in the air. “guys, leave them alone. this is seriously none of our business.”

“but i wanna know!” max whines, stomping towards milo. “how did you guys meet?”

“eras tour,” milo grins widely. “then she went home and stalked me — liked my picture from like 2021.”

“no, i didn’t!” she shrieks, hands coming up to shield her flushed cheeks away from everyone in the room. she runs over to milo and starts to push him towards the doors that lead to the paddocks. “don’t tell people i did that!”

“oh, that’s so embarrassing!” oscar tugs at his hair then hunches over as he no longer can contain his laughter. “rocky, no!”

she scratches her head and darts back towards oscar. “oscar!”

“she didn’t like me very much at first,” milo points out, grinning at her.

“oh, we know,” logan grins, folding his arms over his chest. he glances at the girl cowered next to sebastian, forehead resting on her race engineer’s arm with her hands still cupped over her cheeks then looks at everybody else. “she told us how annoying you were for like 20 minutes after the concert.”

she sighs and just drops herself into squat. “yeah, whatever.”

“mate!” liam grins, pushing the door open of their hospitality home. “i’m liam! it’s so nice to finally meet you.”

he says that as if he hadn’t just found out of his existence literally 2 hours ago.

“aw, absolutely, man,” milo grins, taking the hand that offered to him. “she talks about you all the time.”

“yeah, how fucking irritating he is,” she scoffs, throwing her head back. she steps forward and breaks their hands apart from one another, quickly wrapping her hand around milo’s arm. “let’s go for drinks!”

“really? drinking in vegas?” liam snorts, raising his eyebrow at her. “shouldn’t you have learned your lesson by now?”

“what lesson?” mick hums, appearing behind them. “drinks, right? celebrate rocky’s podium or something?”

“your lesson? what did you do in vegas that’s naughty?” milo teases, furrowing his eyebrows and looking down at her. “you did something stupid, didn’t you?”

she blinks. “yeah, i almost got married in vegas this time last year.”

“married?” milo repeats with a laugh. “to whom? and what do you mean almost? it didn’t happen?”

mick sighs. “we were bested by sebastian — a lesson about drinking too much or something like that. we still engage in black out drinking though.”

the girl cheers with a soft laugh, holding a hand up and immediately receives a high-5 from the older driver.

milo laughs, wrapping an arm around her. “that’s actually kinda funny.” he looks at mick, already well acquainted from their impromptu supper in their hotel room the night before. “she is my girlfriend now though, so…”

liam scowls, looking between the 3 of them. “you guys just made it super weird.”

— bonus

“you seriously didn’t know?” oscar blinks, starting to walk away from the williams racing home alongside his friend and girlfriend, towards the exit of the paddocks to meet their friends. “you guys have been acting so weird lately.”

logan shrugs. “i bet ylona knew. they’ve been hanging out a lot lately.”

lily grins, peeking from oscar’s side to look at logan. “she does. rocky told us she was seeing somebody after they first kissed that one time in new york 2 months ago.”

“2 months ago,” logan puffs his cheeks out and shakes his head, “wow. good for her, honestly.”

“yeah,” oscar hums, “you’d think that she’d actually end up that crazy cat lady if she never finds a decent man.”

lily laughs, squeezing oscar’s arm. “we’ve hung out with him a cou–“

“you what?” oscar scowls, taking a step away from her. “what’s with all the secrecy? are you even my girlfriend anymore?”

“you say ‘we’,” logan huffs. “you’re telling me you guys reeled ylona in without either of us knowing?” lily nods. “assholes!”

taglist: @wcnorris @treehouse-mouse @laura-naruto-fan1998 @mindless-rock @vellicora @leilanixx @ironmaiden1313 @angsthology @cherry-piee @christianpulisic10 @elliegrey2803 @33-81 @darleneslane @nikfigueiredo @happy-nico @namgification @localwhoore @notawc @sadg3 @kazuha-pista-badam @mellowarcadefun @megatrilss1885 @peqch-pie @woozarts @meadhbhcavanagh @2bormaybenot @a-disturbing-self-reflection @inejismywife @love4lando @louvrepool

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

1968 [Chapter 9: Dionysus, God Of Ecstasy]

Series Summary: Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemond’s chronically delinquent brother Aegon.

Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.

Word Count: 5.9k

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged! 🥰

💜 All of my writing can be found HERE! 💜

The October surprise is a great American tradition. As the phases of the moon revolve towards Election Day, the candidates and their factions seek to ruin each other. Lies are told, truths are exposed, Tyche smiles and Achlys brews misery, poison, the fog of death that grows over men like ivy. The stars align. The wolves snap their jaws.

In 1844, an abolitionist newspaper falsely accused James K. Polk of branding his slaves like cattle. In 1880, a letter supposedly authored by James Garfield—in actuality, forged by a New York journalist—welcomed Chinese immigrants in an era when they were being lynched by xenophobic mobs in Los Angeles and San Francisco. In 1920, a rumor emerged that Warren Harding had Black ancestry, an allegation his campaign fervently denied to keep the support of the Southern states. In 1940, FDR’s press secretary assaulted a police officer outside of Madison Square Garden. In 1964, one of LBJ’s top aids was arrested for having gay sex at the Washington D.C. YMCA.

Now, in 1968, Senator Aemond Targaryen of New Jersey is realizing that he will not be the beneficiary of the October surprise he’s dreamed of: his wife’s redemptive pregnancy, a blossoming first family. There is a civil rights protest that turns into a riot in Milwaukee; this helps Nixon, the candidate of law and order. For every fire lit and window shattered, he sees a bump in the polls from businessowners and suburbanites who fear anarchy. Breaking news of the My Lai massacre—committed back in March but only now brought to light—airs on NBC, horrifying the American public and bolstering support for Aemond, the man who has vowed to begin ending the war as soon as he’s sworn into office. The two contestants are deadlocked. Election Day could be a photo finish.

Nixon is in Texas. Wallace is in Arkansas. In Florida, Aemond visits the Kennedy Space Center and pledges to fulfill JFK’s promise to put a man on the moon by 1970. He makes a speech at the Mary McLeod Bethune Home commending her work as an educator, philanthropist, and humanitarian. He greets soldiers at the Naval Air Station in Pensacola. He feeds chickens to the alligators at the Saint Augustine Alligator Farm Zoological Park.

But it is not the senator the crowds cheer loudest for. It is his wife, his future first lady, here in her home state where she staunched her husband’s hemorrhaging blood and appeared before his well-wishers still marked with crimson handprints. In Tarpon Springs, she and Aemond attend mass at the Saint Nicholas Greek Orthodox Cathedral and pray at an altar made of white marble from Athens. Then they stand on the docks as flashbulbs strobe all around them, watching sponge divers reappear from the depths, breaking through the bubbling sapphire water like Heracles ascending to Mount Olympus.

~~~~~~~~~~

You kick off your high heels, tear the pins and clips out of your hair, and flop down onto the king-sized bed in your suite at the Breakers Hotel. It’s the same place Aemond was almost assassinated five months ago. He has returned in triumph, in defiance. He cannot be killed. It is God’s will.

You are alone for these precious fleeting moments. Aemond is in Otto’s suite discussing the itinerary for tomorrow: confirmations, cancellations, reshufflings. You pick up the pink phone from the nightstand on Aemond’s side of the bed and dial the number for the main house at Asteria. It’s 9 p.m. here as well as there. Through the window you can see inky darkness and the kaleidoscopic glow of the lights of Palm Beach. The Zenith radio out in the kitchenette is playing Satisfaction by the Rolling Stones. No intercession from Eudoxia is necessary this time; Aegon answers on the second ring.

“Yeah?” he says, slow and lazy like he’s been smoking something other than Lucky Strikes.

“Hey.” And then after a pause, twirling the phone cord around your fingers as you stare up at the ceiling: “It’s me.”

“Oh, I know. Should I take off my pants, or…?” He’s only half-joking.

You smile. “That was stupid. Someone could have bugged the phone.”

“You think Nixon’s guys are wiretapping us? Give me a break. They’re goddamn buffoons. They’re too busy telling cops to beat hippies to death.” You hear him taking a drag off his joint, envision him sprawled across his futon and enshrouded in smoke. “Everything okay down there in the swamp?”

You shrug, even though Aegon can’t see you. “It’s fine.”

“Just fine?”

“My parents were there when we stopped in Tarpon Springs. They kept telling everyone how proud they are of me, and I just felt so…dishonest.”

“Of course they’re proud. If Aemond wins, the war ends and more civil rights bills get passed and this hell we’ve all been living in since 1963 goes away.”

“I miss you,” you confess.

“You’ll be back soon to enjoy me in all my professional loser glory.” He’s right: Aemond’s entourage will spend Halloween at Asteria. You’ll take the children trick-or-treating around Long Beach Island—with journalists in tow, of course—and then host a party with plentiful champagne and Greek hors d’oeuvres, one last reprieve before the momentous slog towards Election Day on November 5th, a reward for the campaign staffers and reporters who have served Aemond so well. “What are you going to dress up as?”

“Someone happy,” you say, and Aegon chuckles, low and sardonic. “Actually, nothing. Aemond and Otto have decided that it would be undignified for the future president and first lady to be photographed in costumes, so I will be wearing something festive yet not at all fun.”

“Aemond has always been somewhat confused by the concept of fun.”

“What are you going to be for Halloween?”

You can hear the grin in his voice as he exhales smoke. “A cowboy.”

“A cowboy,” you repeat, giggling. “You aren’t serious.”

“Extremely serious. I protect the cows, I comfort the cows, I breed the cows…”

“You are mentally ill. You belong in an asylum.”

“I ride the cows…”

“Cowboys do not ride cows.”

“Maybe this one does.”

“I thought you liked being ridden.”

Aegon groans with what sounds like genuine discomfort. “Don’t tease me. You know I’m celibate at the moment.”

“Miraculous. Astonishing. The Greek Orthodox Church should canonize you. What have you been doing with all of your newfound free time?”

“Taking the kids out sailing, hiding from Doxie, trying not to step on the Alopekis…and playing Battleship with Cosmo. He has a very loose understanding of the rules.”

“He does. I remember.”

“He keeps asking when you’ll be back.”

“Really?” you ask hopefully.

“Yeah, it’s cute. And he calls you Io because he heard me do it.”

“Not an appropriate myth for children, I think.”

“Cosmo’s what, seven years old?”

“Five.”

“Close enough. I think I knew about death and torment and Zeus being a slut by then.”

“And you have no resulting defects whatsoever.” You roll over onto your belly and slide open the drawer of the nightstand. Instead of the card Aegon gave you at Mount Sinai—you’ve forgotten that you’re on Aemond’s side of the bed—you find something bizarre, unexpected, just barely able to fit. “Oh my God, there’s a…there’s a Ouija board in the nightstand!”

Aegon laughs incredulously. “There’s a what?!”

“A Ouija board!” You sit upright and shimmy it out, holding the phone to your ear with one shoulder. The small wooden planchette slides off the board and clatters against the bottom of the drawer. “Why the hell would Aemond have this…?”

“He’s trying to summon the ghost of JFK to stab Nixon.”

“Oh wow, it’s heavy.” You skim your fingertips over the black numbers and letters etched into the wooden board. There’s something ominous about the Good Bye written across the bottom. You can’t beckon the dead into the land of the living without reminding them that they aren’t welcome to stay.

“Aemond is such a freak. Is it a Parker Brothers one, like for kids…?”

“No, I think it’s custom made. It feels substantial, expensive. Hold on, there’s something engraved on the back.” You flip over the Ouija board so you can see what your hands have already felt. The inscription reads in onyx cursive letters: No ghosts can harm you. The stars were never better than the day you were born. With love through all the ages, Alys.

“What’s it say?” Aegon asks from his basement at Asteria.

You’re staring down at the Ouija board, mystified. “Who’s Alys?”

Instead of an answer, Aegon gives you a deep sigh. “Oh. Yeah, she would give him something like that. Fucking creepy witch bullshit.”

“Aegon, who’s Alys?” She’s his mistress. She has to be. It fills your skull like flashbulbs, like lightning: Aemond climbing on top of another woman, conquering her, owning her, binding her up in his mythology like a spider building a web. And what you feel when the shock begins to dissolve isn’t envy or pain or betrayal but—strangely, paradoxically—hope. “She’s his girl, right?”

“Please don’t be mad at me for not telling you,” Aegon says. “There wasn’t a good time. When I hated you I didn’t care if he was fucking around, and then after what happened in New York I didn’t want to hurt you, I didn’t know how you’d take it. It’s not your fault, there’s nothing wrong with you. She was here first. He’d have kept Alys around if he married Aphrodite herself.”

“I’m not mad.” You’re distracted, that’s what you are; you’re plotting. “Where is she?”

“She lives in Washington state. I’m not sure exactly where, I think Aemond moves her a lot. He doesn’t want anyone to see him around and start noticing a pattern. Neighbors, shopkeepers, cops, whoever.”

“Washington.” Just like when Ari died. Just like when Aemond didn’t come back. “Who knows about her?”

“Just the family. Fosco and Mimi found out because when they married in, the fights were still happening. Otto and Viserys demanding he give Alys up, Aemond refusing. It’s the only thing he ever did wrong, the only line he drew. He said he needed her. She could never be his first lady, but she could be something else.”

“His mistress.”

“Yeah,” Aegon says reluctantly. “Are you…are you okay?”

“I’m okay. What’s wrong with Alys?”

“What?”

“Why couldn’t Aemond marry her?”

“I mean, she’s the type of psycho who gives people Ouija boards, first of all,” Aegon says. “And she’s…she’s not educated. Her family’s trash. She’s older than Aemond. Hell, she’s older than me. She would be an unmitigated disaster on the campaign trail. She unnerves people. But Aemond, he…”

“He loves her,” you whisper, reading the engraving on the back of the board again. “And she loves him.”

“I guess. Whatever love means to them.”

A thought occurs to you, the first one to bring you pain like a needle piercing flesh. “Does she have children?”

Again, Aegon sounds reticent to disclose this. “A boy. Aemond’s the father.”

“How old?”

“I don’t know, I think he’s around ten now.”

And that’s Aemond’s true heir. Not Ari, not any others he would have with me. That place in his heart is taken. He couldn’t mourn the loss of our son because he already has one with the woman he loves.

Out in the living room of the suite, you hear the front door open. There are footsteps, Aemond’s polished black leather shoes.

Aegon is asking: “Are you sure you’re okay? Hello? Babe? Hello? Are you still there?”

“I’m fine. I gotta go.”

“Wait, no, not yet—!”

“Bye.” You hang up the phone and wait for Aemond to discover you. You’re still clutching the Ouija board. You’re perched on the edge of the bed like something ready to pounce, to kill.

Aemond opens the bedroom door, navy blue suit, blonde hair short and slicked back, his eyepatch covering his empty left socket. He’s begun wearing his eyepatch in public more often—not for every appearance, but for some of them—and whoever finally convinced him to concede this battle wasn’t you. His right eye goes to you and then to the Ouija board in your hands. He doesn’t speak or move to take the board, only studies you warily.

“I know about her,” you tell him.

Still, Aemond says nothing.

“Alys,” you press. “She’s your mistress. You’re in love with her.”

“I did not intend to hurt you.” His words are flat, steely.

“I’m not hurt, Aemond.”

“You shouldn’t have ever known about this. I apologize for not being more discrete. It was a lapse in judgment.” But what he regrets most, you think, is that his secret is less contained, more imperiled.

“What we have is a political arrangement,” you say. The desperation quivers in your voice. “You don’t love me, you never have, and now we can be open about it. You need me to win the White House, but that’s all. Your true companion is elsewhere. I want the same thing.”

He steps closer, eye narrowing, iris glinting coldly, puzzled like he couldn’t have understood you correctly. “What?”

“I want to be permitted to have my own happiness outside of this imitation of a marriage.”

“No,” Aemond says instantly.

Your stomach sinks, dark iron disappointment. “But…but…why?”

“Because I don’t trust you to not get caught. Because I need to be sure that I am the father of the children you’ll give birth to. And because as my wife you are mine, and mine alone.”

Tears brim in your eyes; embers burn in your throat. “You’re asking for my life. My whole life, all of it, everything I’ll ever experience, everything I’ll ever feel. I get one chance on this planet and you’re stealing it away from me.”

“Yes,” Aemond agrees simply.

“So where’s my consolation?” you demand. “You get Alys, so where’s mine?”

“What do you want?”

You don’t reply, but you glare at your husband with eternal rage like Hera’s, with fatal vitriol like Medusa’s.

“You think I don’t know about that little card you keep in your nightstand?” Aemond is furious, betrayed. “You used to hate him.”

“I was wrong.”

“Because he was at Mount Sinai and I wasn’t? Three days undid everything we’ve ever been to each other? Our oaths, our ambitions?!”

“No,” you say, tears slipping down the contours of your cheeks. “Because he’s real. He doesn’t try to manipulate people into loving him, he doesn’t pretend to be someone he’s not, when he’s cruel it’s because he means it and when he’s kind that’s genuine too. And he wants to know me, who I really am. Not the woman I have to act like to get you elected. Not who you’re trying to turn me into—”

Aemond has crossed the room, grabbed the front of your teal Chanel dress, and yanked you to your feet. The Ouija board jolts out of your hands and lands on the carpet unharmed. Your long hair is in disarray, your eyes wide and fearful. You try to push Aemond away, but he ignores you. You can’t sway him. You’ve never been able to. “Aegon has nothing to his name except what this family gives him,” Aemond snarls, hushed, hateful. His venom is not for his brother but for you. You have upended the natural order of things. You have dared to deny Zeus what he has been divinely granted dominion over. “You would jeopardize his wellbeing, his access to his children? You would ruin yourself? You would doom this nation? If you cost me the election, every drop of blood spilled is on your hands, every body bag flown home from Vietnam, every martyr killed by injustice here. What you ask for is worse than being a traitor and a whore. It is sacrilege.”

“Let go of me—”

“And there’s one more thing.” Aemond pulls you closer so he knows you’re paying attention. You’re sobbing now, trembling, choking on his cologne, shrinking away from his furnace-heat wrath. “Aegon isn’t capable of love. Not the kind you’re imagining. He gets infatuated, and he uses people, and then he moves on. You think he never charmed Mimi, never made her feel cherished by him? And look how she ended up. I’m trying to carve your name into legend beside mine. Aegon will take you to your grave.”

Your husband shoves you away, storms out of the bedroom, slams the door so hard the walls quake.

~~~~~~~~~~

Parading down streets like the victors of a fallen city, jack-o-lanterns keeping watch with their laceration grins of firelight. Hecate is the goddess of witchcraft, Hades rules the Underworld, Selene is the half-moon peeking through clouds in an overcast sky. The stars elude you.

The children—ghosts, pirates, princesses, witches—dash from doorstep to doorstep like soldiers in Vietnam search tunnels. They smile and pose in their outfits when the journalists prompt them, beaming and waving, showing off their Dots, Tootsie Pops, Sugar Daddies, Smarties, Razzles, and candy cigarettes before depositing them in the plastic orange pumpkins that swing from their wrists. Only Cosmo, dressed as Teddy Roosevelt with lensless glasses and a stuffed lion thrown over one shoulder, stays with the adults. He is the last one to each house, approaching the doorway reticently like it might swallow him up, inspiring fond chuckles and encouragement from the reporters. He clutches your hand and hides behind you when towering monsters lumber by: King Kong, Frankenstein, vampires with fake blood spilling from their mouths.

Aemond wears a black suit with orange accents: tie, pocket square, socks. You glimmer in a black dress dotted with white stars, clicking down the sidewalk in boots that run to your knees, silver eyeshadow, heavy liner. You almost look your own age. There are large star-shaped barrettes in your pinned-up hair, bent glinting metal. As the reporters snap photos of you and Cosmo walking together, they shout: “You’ll be such a great mother one day, Mrs. Targaryen!”

Fosco is Ettore Boiardi—better known as Chef Boyardee—an Italian immigrant who came through Ellis Island in 1914 with a dream of opening a spaghetti business. Helaena, Alicent, and Ludwika are, respectively, Alice, Wendy, and Cinderella; Ludwika clops along resentfully in her puffy sleeves and too-small clear stilettos. Criston is Peter Pan. Aegon wears a white button-up shirt, cow print vest, ripped jeans, brown leather boots, a cowboy hat that’s too big for him, and a green bandana knotted around his throat. He stays close to you and Cosmo because he can, here where the journalists expect to see him being a devoted father and active participant in the family business of mending a tattered America. Teenagers are fleeing their families to join hippie communes and draftees in Vietnam are getting their limbs blown off and junkies are shooting up on the streets of New York and Chicago and Los Angeles, but here we see a happy family, a perfect family, a holy trinity that thanks the devotees who offer them tribute. Otto, who neglected to don a disguise, glares at you murderously. You have failed to give Aemond a living child. You have dared to want things for yourself.

Back at Asteria in the main house, the children empty their plastic pumpkins on the living room floor and sort through their saccharine treasures, making trades and bargains: “I’ll do your math homework if you give me those Swedish Fish,” “I’ll let you ride my bike for a week if I can have your Mallo Cup.” While the other adults ply themselves with champagne and chain smoke away the stress of the campaign trail, Aegon gets his Caribbean blue Gibson guitar and sits on the couch playing I’m A Believer by The Monkees. The kids clap and sing along between intense confectionary negotiations. Cosmo wants to share his candy cigarettes with you; you pretend to smoke together as sugar melts on your tongue.

Now the children have been sent to bed—mollified with the promise of homemade apple pies tomorrow, another occasion to be documented by swarms of clamoring journalists—and the house becomes a haze of smoke and indistinct conversation and music from the record player. Platters of appetizers have appeared on the dining room table: pita, tzatziki, hummus, melitzanosalata, olives, horiatiki, mini spanakopitas, baklava. Women are chattering about the painstaking labor they put into costumes and men are scheming to deliver death blows to Nixon, setbacks in Vietnam, Klan meetings in Mississippi. Aemond is knocking back Old Fashioneds with Otto and Sargent Shriver. Fosco is dancing in the living room with drunk journalists. Eudoxia is muttering in Greek as she aggressively paws crumbs off of couches and tabletops. Thick red candles flicker until wax melts into a pool of blood at the base.

Through the veil of cigarette smoke and the rumbling bass of Season Of The Witch, Aegon finds you when no one is looking, and you know it’s him without having to turn around. His hand is the only one that doesn’t feel heavy when it skims around your waist. He whispers, soft grinning lips to your ear, rum and dire temptation like Orpheus looking back at Eurydice: “Let’s do some witchcraft.”

You know where Aemond keeps the Ouija board. You take it out of the top drawer of his nightstand in your bedroom with blue walls and portraits of myths in captive frames. Then you descend with Aegon into the basement, down like Persephone when summer ends, down like women crumbling under Zeus’s weight. You remember to lock the door behind you. You’re not high—you can’t smoke grass in a house full of guests who could smell it and take it upon themselves to investigate—but you feel like you are, that lightness that makes everything more bearable, the surreal tilt to the universe, awake but dreaming, truth cloaked in mirages.

Aegon has stolen three red candles from upstairs. He hands one to you, keeps a second for himself, and places the third on his end table beside a myriad of dirty cups. You glimpse at his ashtray and a folded corner of the receipt that’s still tucked beneath it, and you think: I have my card, Aegon has his receipt, Aemond has his Ouija board. I wonder what Alys likes to keep close when she sleeps. Then Aegon clicks off the lamp so the only light is from the flickering candles.

He tosses away his cowboy boots, hat, vest and is down on the green shag carpet with you, his hair messy, his white shirt half-unbuttoned. He’s taking sips of Captain Morgan straight from the glass bottle. He’s lighting a Lucky Strike with the wick of his candle and then giving it to you to puff on as he places the planchette on the board. “Wait, how do we start?”

You exhale smoke, setting your candle down on the carpet and then tugging off your own boots with some difficulty. “We have to say hello.”

“Okay.” Aegon places his fingertips on one side of the heart-shaped planchette and you rest yours lightly on the other. He begins doubtfully: “Hello…?”

“Is there anyone who would like to send us a message from the other side this evening?”

“You’ve done this before,” Aegon accuses.

“I have. In college.”

“With a guy?”

You chuckle, taking a drag as the cigarette smolders between your fingers. “No, with my friends. It’s not really a date activity.”

“I think it’s very romantic. Candles, darkness, danger, who’s gonna protect you when the ghosts start throwing things around…”

“You’d fight a ghost for me?”

“Depends on the ghost. FDR? You got it. I can take a guy in a wheelchair. Teddy? No ma’am. You’re on your own.”

“Which ghost should we summon?”

Aegon ponders this for a moment. “John F. Kennedy, are you in this basement with us right now?”

“That is wrong, that is so wrong.”

“Then why are you smiling?” Aegon says. “JFK, how do you feel about Johnson fucking up your legacy?”

“That is not the kind of question you’re supposed to ask. We’re not on 60 Minutes.”

“JFK, do you haunt the White House?” Aegon drags the planchette to the Yes on the board. “Oh no, I’m scared.”

“You are a cheater, this is a fraudulent Ouija board session.” You put your cigarette out in the ashtray and then take a swig from Aegon’s rum bottle. “JFK, are we gonna make it to the moon before 1970?”

Aegon pulls the planchette to the No. “Damn, Io, bad news. Guess the Russians win the Space Race and then eradicate capitalism across the globe. No more beach houses. No more Mr. Mistys.”

“Give me the planchette, you’re abusing your power.”

“No,” Aegon says, snickering as you try to wrestle it away from him. In his other hand he’s clutching his candle; scarlet beads of wax like blooddrops pepper your skin as you struggle, tiny infernos that burn exquisitely. Red like paint splatter appears on Aegon’s shirt. You grab the green bandana around his throat, but instead of holding him back you’re drawing him closer. The Ouija board and all the world’s ghosts are momentarily forgotten.

“You’re dripping wax on me—”

“Good, I want to get it all over you, then I want to peel it off and rip out your leg hair.”

You’re laughing hysterically as you pretend to try to shove him away. “I’m freshly shaved, you idiot.”

“Everywhere?” Aegon asks, intrigued.

You smirk playfully. “Almost.”

“Okay, let’s get you cleaned up.” Aegon sets his candle down on the carpet and strips away tacky dots of red wax: one from your forearm down by your wrist, another from your neck just below one of your silver hoop earrings, wax from your ankles and your calves and right above your knees. His fingertips are calloused from his guitar, from the ropes of his sailboat. They scratch roughly over you, chipping away who you’re supposed to be.

Then Aegon stops. You follow his gaze down. There is a smudge of wax on the inside of your thigh, extending beneath the hem of your dress, glittering black and white fabric that hides what is forbidden to him. Aegon’s eyes are on you, that troubled opaque blue, drunk and desperate and wild and afraid. With your fingers still hooked beneath his bandana, you say to him like a dare: “Now you’re going to stop?”

His palm skates up the smoothness of your thigh, and as he unpeels that last stain of red wax his other hand cradles your jaw and his lips touch yours, gently at first and then with the ravenousness of someone who’s been dying of thirst for centuries, starving since birth. You’re opening your legs wider for him, and his fingers do not stop at your thigh but climb higher until they are whisking your black lace panties away, exploring your folds and your wetness as his tongue darts between your lips, tasting something he’s been craving forever but only now stumbled into after four decades of darkness, trapped in you like Narcissus at his pool.

You are unknotting his green bandana and letting it fall to the shag carpet. You are unbuttoning the rest of his shirt so you can feel his chest, soft and warm and yielding, safe, real. The candlelight is flickering, the thumping bass of a song you can’t decipher pulsing through the floor above. Now beneath your dress Aegon’s fingers are pressing a place that makes your breath catch in your throat, makes you dizzy with need for him. He looks at you and you nod, and he reads in your face what you wanted to say months ago in this same basement: Don’t stop. Come closer.

Aegon lifts your dress over your head, nips at your throat as he unclasps your bra, and you are suddenly aware of how the cool firelit air is touching every part of you, how you are bare for him in a way you’ve never been before. You catch Aegon’s face in your hand before he can see the scar that runs down the length of your belly and say, your voice quiet and fragile: “Don’t look at me.”

Pain flashes in his eyes, furrows across his brow. “Stop,” he murmurs, kissing your forehead as you cling to him. Then he begins moving lower and you fall back onto the carpet, no blood on Aegon’s hands this time, only your sweat and lust for him, only crystalline evidence of a betrayal you’ve long ago already committed in your mind.

You’re combing your fingers through his hair and gasping as Aegon’s lips ghost down your scar, not something ruinous or shameful but a part of you, the beginning of your story together, the origin of your mythology. Then his mouth is on you—yearning, aching wetness—and you thought you knew what this felt like but it’s more powerful now, more urgent, and Aegon is glancing up to watch your face, to study you, to change what he’s doing as he follows your clues. And then there is a pang you think is too sharp to be pleasure, too close to helplessness, something that leaves you panting and shaking.

You jolt upright. “Wait…”

Aegon props himself up on his elbows. His full lips glisten with you. “What? What’d I do wrong?”

“No, it’s not you, it’s just…it’s like…” You can’t describe it. “It’s too…um…too intense or something. It’s like I couldn’t breathe.”

Aegon stares at you, his eyebrows low. After a long pause he says: “Babe, you’ve come before, right?”

I’ve what? “Yeah, of course, obviously. I mean…I think so?”

He’s stunned. He’s in disbelief. Then a grin splits across his face. “Lie back down.”

You’re nervous, but you trust him. If this costs you your life, you’ll pay it. He pushes your thighs farther apart and his tongue stays in one spot—where you touched yourself in the bathtub in Seattle, where you wanted him when he slipped his fingers into you for the first time—and suddenly the uneasy feeling is something raging and irresistible like a riptide in the Atlantic, something better than anything you knew existed, and you keep thinking it’s happened but it hasn’t yet, as you cover your face with your hands to smother your moans, as your hips roll and Aegon’s arms curl under your thighs to keep you in place so he can make you finish. It’s a release that is otherworldly, celestial, terrifying, divine. It’s something that rips the curtain between mortals and paradise.

It’s always like this for men? That’s what Aemond has been getting from me, that’s what I’ve been denied?

As you lie gasping on the carpet Aegon returns, smiling, kissing you, running his fingers through locks of hair that have escaped from your pins. “Not bad, right little Io?” he purrs, smelling like rum and minerals, earth and poison. Now he’s taking off his jeans, but before he can position himself between your legs you have pushed him onto his back and straddled him, pinning his wrists to the floor, watching the amazement ripple across his flushed face, the desire, the need. You tease Aegon, leaning in to nibble at his ear and bite gingerly at his throat, never harming him, never claiming him, grinding your hips against his and listening as his breathing turns quick and rough. Then you slip him inside you, this man you once hated, this man who was a stranger and then a curse and now a spell.

Aegon wants to be closer to you. He sits up as you ride him, hands on your face, in your hair, kissing you, inhaling you, shuddering, trying not to cry out as footsteps and laughter and thunderous basslines bleed through the ceiling. You know he’s been high on so many things—things that corrupt, things that kill—and you hope you can compare, this brief clean magic.

He can’t last; he finishes with a moan like he’s in agony, and as the motion of your hips slows, you take his jaw in your grasp and gaze down at him. “Good boy,” you say with a grin. Aegon laughs, exhausted, drenched in sweat, his hair sticking to his forehead. He embraces you so tightly you can feel the pounding of his heart, racing muscle beneath bones and skin.

He’s murmuring through your disheveled hair: “I gotta see you again, when can I see you again?”

You don’t know what to say. You don’t have an answer. You unravel yourself from Aegon and dress yourself in the red candlelight: panties, bra, dress, boots, all things that Aemond chose for you, all things he bought with his family’s money, all things he owns. Aegon has nothing to his name and neither do you. You are—like Fosco once said—pieces of the same machine.

“Where are you going?” Aegon asks, like he’s afraid of the answer.

“I have to go back upstairs to the party before someone realizes I’m missing.”

“Are you serious?”

“I am.” You kneel on the carpet to kiss him one last time, your palm on his cheek, his fingers clutching at your dress as he begs you not to leave. “I have to, I have to,” you whisper, and then you do.

You grab the Ouija board and planchette off the green shag carpet, hug them to your chest, and hurry up the steps. The first floor of the Asteria house is a maze of cigarette smoke and clinking glasses, guests who are dancing and cackling and drunk. From the record player strums Johnny Cash’s Ring Of Fire. You slip unnoticed to the staircase.

In the blue-walled bedroom you share with Aemond, you carefully place the Ouija board and planchette in the top drawer of his nightstand exactly as you found them. Then you go to your vanity to try to fix your hair. As you’re rearranging clips and pinning loose strands back into place, the door opens. Aemond is there, feeling beloved and invincible, looking for you. He crosses the room and closes his long fingers around your wrist. He wants you: under him, making children for him, possessed by him.

“Come to bed,” Aemond says.

“Not right now. I’m busy.”

“You aren’t busy anymore.”

“I told you no.”

He wrenches you from your chair. Instead of surrendering, you strike out, hitting him in the chest. You don’t harm him, you’re not strong enough, but genuine shock leaps into his scarred face.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” you hiss. You can’t let Aemond undress you; he will find the evidence of your treason, he will see it, feel it, taste it. But that’s not the only reason you stop him. “Every goddamn night I give you what you want, and exactly how you want it. Tonight I’m saying no. You want to take me? You’ll have to do it properly. I’m not going to give you the illusion of consent. You remember what Zeus did to all those women, right? Go ahead. Act like the god you think you are. But I’m going to fight you. And if those people downstairs hear me screaming, you can explain to them why.”

Aemond stares at you in the silvery light of the half-moon. You glare boldly back. At last he leaves and descends the staircase into an underworld of churning smoke, returning to the party to sip his Old Fashioneds and decide what to do with you.

[f1byjessie]

HE LIKES MY AMERICAN SMILE ━━ OP81.

love is a wild ride, and logan sargeant's sister is about to find this out the hard way.

( oscar piastri x sargeant!reader )

━━ part four.

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yourusername here’s a sneak peek of the photos from a shoot me and my beloved did for hermès! i’m so honored to get to work with so many skilled and talented people! none of this would’ve been possible without them

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user these are stunning!! 😍❤️

user I MISSED THE RIDING CONTENT

user genuinely had no idea y/n was a rider

↳ user no fr cuz the sargeants are all athletes in some way it’s crazy!!

↳ user i think she just rides casually now 🤔 but she used to compete when they were in europe

logansargeant do i get to brag and say my sister modeled for hermes now?

↳ yourusername there’s plenty of other brands i’ve modeled for that you could brag about 💀 and it was technically my horse that modeled

landonorris ok so are you gonna take me for a ride sometime?

↳ yourusername only if you promise to do the same

↳ user WAIT HOLD ON WE'VE MISSED SOME CHAPTERS

↳ user is y/n not with oscar???

↳ user this bitch is homie hopping the mclaren boys 😒😒

You have barely enough time to respond to the knocking— or rather pounding— on your door before it's being flung open and Logan, looking very much the part of an angry brother, barges in.

“Is it true?” He asks in lieu of a greeting.

“‘Hi, Y/N,’” you begin sarcastically, rolling your eyes. “‘So good to see you, Y/N. Sorry for barging in, Y/N. Can I have a moment of your time, Y/N?’ Why of course, dearest brother of mine. What can I do for you?”

Logan doesn’t seem amused by your antics, though. His eyebrows are furrowed, his mouth is pinched into a frustrated frown, and his hands are clenched into fists at his sides. He’s in his running clothes, and there’s still sweat keeping his hair plastered to his forehead, which gives you the impression that whatever he’s asking about had been deemed important enough that he couldn’t even be bothered to shower and change before confronting you about it.

You wonder, briefly, if his new trainer is downstairs in the living room or if he’s gone home already. You almost ask about it just to piss him off even more, but he looks genuinely serious and you’ve— mostly— grown past the years of purposefully picking on him to get a reaction.

Instead, you sit up further in bed and look at him expectantly, prompting him with a wave of your hand to elaborate.

“Are you dating Lando Norris?”

The question, and the sincerity with which it’s asked, startles a laugh out of you. The flash of hurt in your brother’s eyes, however, forces you to bite back the immediate retort. Logan isn’t asking to be a dick, you remind yourself.

Before you answer, you pull your legs up to your body and pat at the now free space in front of you.

He purses his lips, but eventually, he closes the door— softer than how he’d opened it— and moves to sit on the edge of your mattress. For a moment, as he looks at you, he doesn’t look like the nearly 23-year-old that he is. When you were younger, he’d come into your room and talk about his races, what all he did wrong, and what new things he was going to try next time, and the young man that sits before you now reminds you a lot of that little boy.

“No,” you answer him simply. “I’m not dating Lando. He and I are just friends.”

He doesn’t look convinced. “But do you want to date him?”

You shake your head and sigh, before grabbing your phone off the bedside table and pulling up the brief text conversation you had with Lando last night after he’d tipsily called you. There’s a frankly obscene amount of typos and more emojis interspersed throughout than you thought a guy like him would use, but the majority of it is all the details of his supposedly foolproof plan.

You take a deep breath, weigh the consequences of your actions for a split moment before throwing caution to the wind, and turning the screen to face Logan.

“I don’t want to date Lando,” you admit. “I want to date Oscar, and he’s helping me.”

Logan’s silent, and you pray that it’s just because he’s too busy reading through the messages to focus on reacting to what you’ve said. But the silence stretches on, and on, and on, and suddenly you regret saying anything. Maybe you should’ve just agreed and said it was Lando all along—

“I know Oscar better than Lando,” Logan suddenly says. “I don’t know why you wouldn’t just ask for my help.”

It’s your turn to be silent now. You open your mouth, close it, open it again, and close it again. You probably look like a fish, but you’re so taken aback by what he’s said that it doesn’t even matter.

“You’re not, like, mad?” You pull your phone back and let the screen fall dark, eyes focused on Logan.

He looks at you like you’re dumb, or like you’ve actually turned into the fish you were momentarily mimicking. He shakes his head— “Why would I be mad? Oscar is, like, the only driver I’d want you to date.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“I mean, the others are all nice, don’t get me wrong,” he clarifies. “I’m sure they’re all very good partners, and I bet Lando would be an amazing boyfriend. Probably. But I know Oscar. I trust him more than I trust the others because I know for a fact that he’s a genuinely good guy. That first year that we met him, he asked me what your favorite color was to make sure his mom knit you a hat that you would like.”

“That was years ago, Logan…” you trail off.

He shrugs. “So? It’s not like he’s changed that much. When we were still at Prema, and you went through that vegetarian phase, I caught him once looking up restaurants that have vegetarian options so that you could eat with us when we went out to celebrate.”

You glance down, avoiding Logan’s eyes. Picking at a loose thread at the bottom of your shirt, you say, “That was still years ago.”

“What about all the flirting in the comments,” he asks.

You shrug. You’re not even sure yourself. The way Sophia and Lando had explained things to you, it had certainly seemed like flirting, but the lack of his presence on your posts as of late has made you reconsider your initial beliefs and now you’re not sure what to think.

Realistically, all of this could probably be solved if you just texted him and asked— womaned up, as Sophia would say, and confronted him about your feelings. But there’s still that underlying fear of rejection, and you would never be able to live down the mortification if you did something so bold and had your confidence thrown back in your face.

“So you’re just gonna play pretend with Lando and hope Oscar gets jealous and does something about it?” He sounds genuinely confused. “Isn’t that… mean?”

“That’s what I said!” You exclaim, burying your head in your hands with an exasperated groan. “But Lando and Sophia are so adamant that it’ll work, and they have more relationship experience than I do. I don’t wanna manipulate him at all, but I don’t know what else to do to get his attention again other than talking with him, and I think I might actually throw myself into the ocean if I have to do that.”

Logan’s face scrunches up, “‘Again?’”

You purse your lips and awkwardly shrug as if that’s a good enough answer, but his silent stare persists, so you heave a sigh and fall backward against your pillows, glaring miserably up at your ceiling. “We kissed. Once. In Bahrain.”

He stands from your bed suddenly, pulling your gaze back onto him. His hands are on his hips, his brows are still furrowed and his mouth is still turned downward ever so slightly, but he looks less upset and more determined than anything.

“I’m gonna go get cleaned up. Be ready in thirty minutes,” he says. “We’re going out.”

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logansargeant sometimes it’s just you and your sister against the world, and sometimes that means last-minute trips to the beach to remind yourself that it isn’t all that bad

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yourusername you didn’t really give me much choice tbh 🙄

↳ logansargeant yea ok well someone in this family has to have a sense of spontaneity 🙄

user wholesome sibling content is what’s keeping me going fr

user i’m so happy we’ll be getting more of y/n in the paddock in 2024!! 💙💙💙

landonorris is twin telepathy real?

↳ logansargeant totally

↳ landonorris you’re messing with me no it’s not

↳ yourusername it absolutely is that’s why me and logan are always on the same page

↳ landonorris fuck that’s so cool

user i’m ugly crying the fact that they’re twins makes them built-in best friends i can’t do this rn 😭😭

user the sargeant twins are keeping us fed this winter break

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yourusername sometimes self-care is sunsets and petty gossiping with your brother 

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logansargeant emphasis on the petty

↳ yourusername obviously

user girl idk how you can stand how cold the water is rn

↳ user i mean they kinda grew up in europe so maybe they’re used to it

user i wish i had a brother to gossip with 😫😫

user i NEED to know who they talk shit about PLS

alex_albon hopefully the east coast is having better weather than the west coast 🥲

↳ yourusername sunny skies as far as the eye can see 😌

user I’M REALLY WATCHING THESE TWO LIVE MY DREAM RN

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oscarpiastri ☀️.

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━━ tags: @f1-is-lovely-33 @chasing-liberosis @405rry @aquangxl

━━ a/n: we're going places! i'm very excited for what's in store with the next part! beyond that, though, i am seriously so thankful for how nice everyone has been with this. the reception was so much nicer than i ever could've anticipated, and i'm very excited to keep writing more!

[sleepynoons]

Made for You

You're a patisserie, and now, also the proud co-owner of your own restaurant, Zhuming Dessert Bar. You're new to this whole CEO thing, and you're hoping to seek some support from those around you – like the head chef next door!

patisserie!f!reader x chef!jiaoqiu, modern!au, sfw

word count: ~9,100

cw: explicit language, use of poisons, a lil slow burn lol

notes: i haven't played through the full story quest, so sorry if jiaoqiu is slightly ooc lol but he is blind and can only eat spicy foods yeet otherwise, wanted to write smth fluffy for this tragic, tragic man. and i also wanted to geek out about delicious east asian food yep.

thank you so much to @lychniis for beta-reading and for helping immensely with the pacing of this piece! @pawpiefawn i hope this story is at least 1/1000th as sweet as you are, and welcome to the hsr hell hole <3

I. TARO Macarons and Winter Melon Cookies

Crush almonds. Toast and grind sesame seeds. Mix egg whites with brown sugar. Skin, cut, mash taro root. Bring water to a boil. Top cookie dough with candied winter melon.

The sun starts filtering in through the window.

Steam soy milk until it foams. Melt gelatin. Frost thinly. Turn off the oven and stove. Slice coconut jelly into thin, small squares. Put everything into the fridge.

The day of a patisserie begins early – 4:30AM for you. Although you’re the head of your restaurant, the Zhuming Dessert Bar, you’re unable to separate yourself from the habitual duties of prepping, cleaning, getting a head start. To be fair, it would also be improper of you to leave such a task to your teammates. After all, these macarons and cookies are a gift for your neighbors, a first impression to the locals of not only the dessert bar, but primarily, the food it serves. The taste and presentation have to be perfect, and there’s no need to burden everyone else with an otherwise tedious and irrelevant task.

The Zhuming Dessert Bar is located in a busy food district, where there are various other diners, cafés, hole-in-the-wall gems, all waiting to be discovered and savored. After a long process of bidding and negotiating, you managed to snag a larger space, a one-story building sandwiched between a complex that housed several small businesses and a well-established hot pot spot. Unsurprisingly, a large majority of the stores in the district aren’t open in the morning, due to the lack of customers, and you only have to make a few runs.

As the time approaches 7AM, you begin to make your way out.

“Good morning, everyone!”

Those are the first words exchanged between you and your team, aside from the occasional “behind” or question, and you giggle as you’re greeted with a chorus of tired moans and lazy waves.

You ask, “I’m gonna head out – no more than two hours. Can someone meet with the vendors while I’m gone?”

Someone next to you nods, and you beam at them as you leave with a few boxes of the treats you made.

You only have three stops this morning – a trendy café co-owned by two college drop-outs, a Japanese, lunch-only spot run by an elderly couple, and a Western brunch place known for its omelettes.

The college drop-outs, acting much like their age, cheer when you hand over their sweets and quite literally gobble them up in front of you. By the time you leave, you’ve been unofficially adopted as their favorite “next-door aunt.”

When you arrive at the Japanese restaurant, only the wife seems to have arrived, and she pauses from her prep work to bring you inside to chat over cups of steaming green tea. Though the conversation is brief, the two of you quickly go down a rabbit hole, discussing the best brand for knives, how to tell when a daikon is ripe, which fruits are in season at the moment. As your exchange wraps up, you promise her you’ll return, at which she slips a napkin into your palm that has “Free Meal Coupon” scribbled on it with haphazard handwriting.

The American brunch restaurant is already bustling with noise, and a sous chef comes to welcome you at the front door. He’s polite, a little younger than you, and has the excitement of someone just starting off their career. You tell him good luck, and he responds likewise, wishing your dessert bar success.

Everyone seems pleasant and friendly, and you feel a rush of eagerness to hurry back to your restaurant. 

When you return, you can’t help but pause in front of the Zhuming Dessert Bar. You admire the spray-painted logo on the windows, the clean and modern architecture of the building, the little signboards out in front with chalk writings of recommendations and prices. Yesterday was your dessert bar’s opening day, and now, you and your team are about to embark on your first full week. Instead of feeling the daunting weight and pressure, you’re restless, hands and wrists itching to pick up a spatula, mouth salivating at all of the syrups and icings you’ll have to taste-test, feet poised to navigate through a crowded kitchen. After a few more seconds of admiring, you can’t hold back any longer and burst in through the back door, absolutely needing to get back to work.

Time passes quickly for all chefs. Even though you’re surrounded by timers that count down to precise milliseconds, the minutes and hours add up, and by the time service has ended, you truly don’t feel the passage of the day until you loosen the apron wrapped around your waist and sit down for a brief break. But you’re not done with all of your work quite yet, and you leave the cleaning and tidying to the others so you can make your last runs of the day.

You had taken a brief intermission after lunch to make the majority of your visits, so the only remaining restaurant on your list is the hot pot place right next door. If you remember correctly, the restaurant’s actually part of a larger chain, Yaoqing Hot Pot, that’s known for offering the spiciest yet most mouth-watering Szechuan flavors.

You jog over to the entrance, and peeking through the glass, you can see a man with peach pink hair sitting at the bar. He’s not wearing a uniform or eating, so he’s neither a cook nor a customer. That must mean he’s either a welcome guest or the manager.

You knock on the door, hoping to grab the attention of the man. His head does perk up, and he faces the door – but makes no effort to get up. You wait for another minute or so, before knocking again. Finally, the man rises from his seat, still facing you, before grabbing a cane and making his way over to you. As he approaches, you can see that his eyes are closed, and you almost fluster with humiliation.

As the man opens the door, you immediately bow, 90 degrees at the waist. “I am so, so sorry for bothering you!”

With a light laugh, the man replies, “No problem, but unfortunately, we’re not taking any more customers for the night.”

You straighten up and hold the box out in front of you. “I’m not a customer, actually. I’m from next door, we just opened.” You quickly introduced yourself and explained the contents of the box to him.

He pauses before slowly extending his palm, face up, out in front of him, on which you place the packaged macarons and cookies.

“Please enjoy! And have a good night!” 

Fearing that you’ve not only inconvenienced the man but also taken up too much of his time when his restaurant’s still crammed with customers, you bow again, despite knowing he won’t see, and scuffle away, only peering behind your shoulder once to see the man still at the door and “looking” down at the box.

II. Anmitsu

“Chef!”

The kitchen’s always loud, from boiling pots of syrup to whirring mixers kneading dough to blenders grinding up crackers, but never because of the people. It’s rare, in the first place, for someone to look for you unless you’re requested to taste a component or item being served that night, but the urgency of the call tells you it’s something different this time.

You rush over to the back door, where one of your pastry chefs, a fresh graduate from culinary school, is frowning beside an equally distraught vendor.

You pat your chef on the shoulder and wave cheerily at the vendor, “Hey, whatever the problem, there’s a way out. What’s going on?”

“We’ve run out of geomeunpat,” the chef responds.

The vendor chips in as well. “There wasn’t an order for the black adzuki beans, and I don’t have any extra. I’m so sorry!”

You nod in understanding. “Don’t apologize. Gimme a second to think.”

Geomeunpat, or black adzuki beans, is crucial to making white adzuki bean paste, which in Korean cuisine, is used to make rice cakes and other confectionery. Adzuki bean paste is also an irreplaceable ingredient for anmitsu, a Japanese dessert that typically consists of sliced fruit, kanten jelly, and rice flour dango. Given that it’s summer, your tasting menu has a few limited specials, and geomeunpat is needed for almost all of them. 

You ask, “Do we have any canned red bean paste?”

Your pastry chef goes to check the pantry and returns to report a number of cans.

“Alright, let’s do this.” You turn to the vendor. “We’re so sorry. Thanks for all of your help, and we’ll see you on Friday at this time, right?” The vendor confirms before leaving. Then, you turn back to your pastry chef. “Let’s substitute with the canned anko for today, but can you call me when you’re making the mitsu? We might need to adjust the sugar content of the syrup, or else it might be too sweet otherwise.”

“Yes, chef!”

“In the meantime, I’ll run to the market to see if there are any raspberries or cherries that can cut through the taste of the anko. Be right back.”

True to your word, you dash the few blocks to the farmer’s market, located at a nearby park with an open field and seating. It’s already mid-morning, so it’s likely that all of the best batches are gone, but there should be enough left over for you to find sufficient ingredients.

As predicted, the market crowd is waning, with many customers having already finished their shopping and gone home or enjoying their purchases at the picnic benches and tables. You look around, skittering around here and there, as if you’re a little child playing hide-and-seek, constantly changing your hiding spot.

This one’s no good either. Just as you take a step back, though, you bump into someone – wait, no, you step on something.

You look down, and you notice you’ve stepped on the ball of a white cane.

“Oh, shoot, sorry!” You jump away and nervously look at the owner of the cane. Your nervousness, though, is quickly replaced with something else, your eyes widening and brows raising.

You blurt, “You’re from Yaoqing Hot Pot!”

Behind the pink-haired man is a younger girl, brown hair tied into long, streaming pigtails and eyes piqued with childish wonder and unbounded curiosity.

The girl asks, “Chef, do you know this person?”

“I’m not quite sure.”

You speak up. “Yes, we have! Only very briefly, though. I dropped by with some treats, on behalf of the Zhuming Dessert Bar.”

Suddenly, the girl lets out a scream, at which you and the man wince. “Wait, did you bake those? They were delicious!” The girl clamors over to you and grabs you by the shoulders, shaking you back and forth. “How did you know to pair the taro filling with toasted sesame seeds? And the winter melon cookies were a spin on the traditional lao po bing, right? How did you come up with these ideas? Just hearing about them made my mouth water, but the real deal was –“

“Sushang,” the man interrupts sharply, “you’re being rude.”

“Oh, right, sorry.” The girl, Sushang, releases her hold on you with an awkward chuckle before returning to the man’s side.

You shake your head with a bright smile. “No, not at all! I’m glad you enjoyed them.”

Sushang gleams at you. “No, but seriously, they were delicious. You said you were from the Zhuming Dessert Bar, right? Are they sold in-store?”

“Yes, I’m the head chef at the dessert bar. Unfortunately, we don’t plan on putting them on the menu for a while because they still need some work.”

“More work?” Sushang’s jaw drops wide open in disbelief, and you shrug.

The man says, “Sushang, you should know that every item on a tasting menu is chosen with utmost patience and care. It can take months to perfect a new item.”

“Yes, chef, but I just can’t imagine how you could do even better.”

You chuckle. “I’m glad, then. If they ever make it on the menu, I’ll be sure to let you know.”

With happy claps, Sushang cheers. As for you, you turn towards the man.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” you say, “I never quite got your name.”

He gives you a small smile in the form of pursed lips. “Jiaoqiu, head chef at Yaoqing Hot Pot, though I don’t do much of the cooking anymore.”

“Well, Jiaoqiu, it’s very nice to meet you. Do you happen to have any thoughts on those treats I gave you?”

Before Jiaoqiu can respond, Sushang answers first on his behalf. “Oh, our chef never eats anything made by other people! He doesn’t even try my cooking, so I don’t even know how to improve!”

The chef nudges an elbow into his employee’s ribs, who winces and whimpers at the pain.

You simply just watch the interaction before saying, “No worries, I get it. Though, I feel like your name is familiar, Jiaoqiu…”

You tilt your head, attempting to recall. His name reminds you of a news headline, something about culinary school and graduation, but nothing else beyond that. Sushang looks like she can barely contain herself, but the set expression on Jiaoqiu’s face prevents her from actually spilling the truth.

Regardless, you move on. “No matter. Anyway, I’m guessing the two of you are grabbing some ingredients, yeah?”

“Yes,” Jiaoqiu affirms. “We always source our fruits locally. How about you?”

“Oh, I’m also looking to buy some fruit!”

“Then come with us!” Sushang suggests. “We know the best vendors in town.”

Before you can even ask if that’s alright with the Yaoqing’s head chef, you’re already pulled along by the arm and tugged towards a tent near the end of the market street.

III. Penghu Salty Biscuits

“Two beers please.”

You sigh, setting down the hardcover menu on the table. Yaoqing Hot Pot is packed with people, even though it’s late at night, 11PM. To be fair, the hot pot chain is a combination of a hot pot buffet and bar, so it makes sense that the store’s open until the unruly hours of the night. But while all of the customers seem to be partying and having the time of their lives, you and your co-owner, Yukong, sit tiredly across from each other.

“How is it only the third week,” you groan as you drop your forehead onto the table.

A waiter comes over to drop your drinks off, and Yukong takes a quick gulp from her chilled mug.

“Tell me about it,” she sighs.

Yukong co-founded the Zhuming Dessert Bar with you. In fact, the two of you grew up together, and have been inseparable ever since elementary school. When she transferred middle schools, you begged your parents to transfer you as well. When you both were preparing for college entrance exams, you chose the same university as your top pick. When you went to baking school, she got into a neighboring MBA program so that the two of you could continue rooming together. And when you both came up with the idea of starting a restaurant together, the logistics and enthusiasm naturally fell into place.

“That customer just wouldn’t back off,” Yukong grumbles. She takes another drink before picking up her chopsticks, skewering a slice of fatty beef, and dropping it into the boiling tomato broth. “He clearly already got a serving of the ice cream – I saw it with my own eyes! But he just wouldn’t stop lying and making a fuss.”

“I know,” you bemoan. “I’m just glad I have you to handle these kinds of customer problems. I would’ve just cried on the spot.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t.” She captures the beef with a flick of her wrist and drops it into her sauce bowl. “I just feel bad for Yunli. You know how she is, hot-tempered and impatient, but even she wouldn’t dare speak up against a customer. But you could tell it was taking every inch of her strength to not, just, yell back.”

“Yeah, Yunli was completely out of it for the rest of her shift.” You shake your head as you ladle a knotted bunch of Konjac noodles onto your plate. 

The tomato soup, despite being completely plant-based, is rich, almost too aggressive in its flavor. But when soaked up, the oil and fragrance of the broth fuse seamlessly into the unseasoned nature of hot pot ingredients, so much so that you can arguably eat everything without dipping it in sauce. Still, you drench half of the noodles into your mixture of sesame oil, peanut sauce, green onions, and garlic. When you take your bite, you hum so happily, the chewiness of the Konjac providing great texture while heat permeates throughout your entire body, melting away the knots and strain in your muscles.

“This is so good,” you garble through a mouthful. Yukong’s also entranced with her bite of fish cake, and can only nod in agreement.

Once you finish the Konjac noodles, you slide in a platter of cabbage slices, balls of shrimp paste, and tofu squares.

“Anyway…,” you start. “Next time, I don’t think we should even bother. Most of our customers are reasonable, anyway, and it’s honestly not worth it.”

Yukong frowns at the suggestion. “Are you sure? Because, on the other hand, I don’t think we should tolerate this behavior at all.”

“I know, but I don’t want the other pastry chefs to worry about stuff like this. Besides, we always make enough of everything. Otherwise, the extras would all go to waste, and I can’t keep giving Granny Toka and the college kids our leftovers.”

Yukong huffs and crosses her arms, a pointer finger tapping impatiently at the juncture of her elbow. Yet, Yukong can’t seem to come up with a response, so she acquiesces.

“Yukong…,” you mumble. You look at her, a little expectantly and a lot more nervously.

She slides her arm across the table, a gesture for you to do the same. As you put your hand on top of hers, she says, “I’m not angry. I’m just frustrated. You and the other chefs are our top priority, and I understand you want to avoid causing them as much stress as possible. I’ll keep that in mind next time.”

Yukong’s always been like this – able to read your mind, say the reassuring things you need to hear at the right time, find the best solution without compromising anyone’s feelings. You rub your thumb over the back of her hand lovingly before someone calls out your name.

“Hey, you managed to come!”

You turn to the side to see Sushang. You exclaim, “Yes, we did! Thanks for having us! The food’s amazing!”

“Of course! If you ever want another discount, just let me know.” Sushang wiggles her eyebrows, and you and Yukong laugh at her antics.

“This is Yukong, my co-founder,” you introduce. 

Sushang steps aside, and only then do you realize someone’s behind her. Which is odd, because the man’s absolutely looming over her, but something about his quiet demeanor must’ve concealed his presence. 

Sushang says, “Nice to meet you, Yukong! This here is Moze, one of our sous chefs. Moze, she made the macarons and cookies we had a few weeks ago.”

Moze stiffly nods, but as soon as Sushang mentions your desserts, a hopeful glint in his eyes appears.

“You know,” Sushang continues, “I’ve only seen Moze talk so much about someone’s cooking, like, literally a handful of times. He rarely compliments other people, but he totally ranted when he ate those sweets of yours.”

Moze scoffs and knocks Sushang on the back of her head. “We’ve told you so many times to not run your mouth.”

You and Yukong exchange warm looks. You say, “Sushang’s just incredibly honest. But I’m glad they were to your liking, Moze.”

Yukong speaks up as well. “We’d like to return the favor, too. Feel free to drop by the Zhuming Dessert Bar, free of charge.”

Sushang yells so loudly that some of the adjacent customers glance at your party. “Are you for real?! Moze, we need to go. Immediately.”

“By the way,” Yukong interrupts, tone more formal now, “is your head chef, Jiaoqiu, around? And is it possible for us speak to him?”

Puzzled, you glance towards Yukong. You came for a simple dinner, and Yukong never informed you of other plans.

Moze answers this time. “The head chef’s in the back. Can I ask what you plan on discussing?”

“Actually, I’m a family friend of Feixiao’s. I’d like to personally meet her right-hand man.”

It seems as if the world has stopped spinning. Yukong knows Feixiao? She knows the owner of Yaoqing Hot Pot? Personally? Huh? It seems Moze and Sushang are both stunned as well, and after a few sluggish seconds, Moze excuses himself, presumably to find his boss.

Jiaoqiu appears in no more than five minutes.

“Miss Yukong, it’s good to meet you in person,” Jiaoqiu greets. Yukong reaches her hand out for a handshake, and only when Moze guides Jiaoqiu’s hand forward does the head chef reciprocate.

“Oh, apologies, I didn’t know you –,“ Yukong begins.

Jiaoqiu cuts her off succinctly. “No worries. It’s only been a few years, after all. I also told Feixiao not to inform others of my condition in the first place.”

“I see.”

Jiaoqiu then redirects the conversation skillfully. “Speaking of Feixiao, I’m sure the two of you have come up with something that requires my assistance? I’d be happy to help out in any way that I can.”

You slide deeper into the booth so that Jiaoqiu can sit beside you. From this proximity, you can make out the sweat lining his forehead, the thick rubber band pulling his hair back into a ponytail, and the creases of his sleeves where they were once rolled up.

Yukong clears her throat, a habit of hers right before negotiations begin. 

“The Mid-Autumn Festival’s coming up in a little over a month, and since both of our restaurants are based on East Asian cuisines, Feixiao and I are considering a collaboration. Do you think that’s something your team would be interested in?”

Surprisingly, despite his thoughtful nature, Jiaoqiu doesn’t even take a second to consider. “If Feixiao’s eager about the idea, I don’t see why not.”

“Great. So far, the plan is to add a few of our desserts to your existing menu, while we add some of your appetizers to ours. How does that sound?”

At this suggestion, Jiaoqiu hums with dissatisfaction. “That could ruin the flavor profiles of each of our own stores.”

“Right, of course. We considered that, and that’s why we think it’d be best if both of our restaurants created new items that’d fit both the theme of the Mid-Autumn Festival, as well as our respective offerings.”

“I see.”

From your periphery, you can see Moze looking at Yukong, trying to decipher her intentions, while Sushang’s rocking on her feet, cheeks puffed up with anticipation. You, on the other hand, have no problem with this idea either and simply accept the fact that the next two months are going to be very busy.

Jiaoqiu asks, “I think this idea’s not bad. How do we plan on executing it?”

Yukong gestures at you, so you perk up. “Uh, well, I guess we can just meet to hash out the details? I know you’re very busy, though, so that might not work.”

“No, it’s fine.” Jiaoqiu seems to sigh, almost as if he’s giving into defeat. “If both Feixiao and Miss Yukong think this is a worthwhile business project, then it’s my job to see it through. We should begin promptly.”

You nod and begin exchanging contacts with the Yaoqing folks. As you’re typing in Moze’s contact, though, you suddenly get a call from one of your chefs.

You excuse yourself, walking out of the noisy restaurant to answer the call.

“Yunli, what’s up?” you chirp.

You hear very panicked voices until Yunli directly replies. “Chef, the HVAC’s broken. The refrigeration doesn’t work. At all.”

You feel goosebumps snake down your arms and back. Suddenly, your throat feels entirely parched, and you’re not even able to swallow to alleviate the dryness. For once, when it comes to work, your body’s freezing up, rooting you to your spot on the sidewalk, preventing you from running into the kitchen.

Fuck.

“I’ll be there in a minute.”

You rush back into Yaoqing Hot Pot, inform Yukong of the situation, and the two of you scramble back to the Zhuming Dessert Bar.

That night, you make several runs home, but you don’t actually get to unwind until well past 2AM. Not only did you have to make several emergency calls to your property manager and repair services, but you also had to drive back and forth to transfer the ingredients to your own fridge and freezer. Simply put, everyone who stayed past service to clean up the dessert bar was utterly exhausted. It was arguably one of your worst nights since the Zhuming’s opening.

It took the whole weekend for the HVAC-R system to be repaired, which meant the cancellation of two days’ worth of reservations. The cancellations impacted the store’s sales significantly for the week, and you were forced to revise several recipes to accommodate for cheaper ingredients. While your other teammates could take the time off, you had to come in to experiment and adjust the taste of each menu item, which is always a painstakingly arduous and tedious process. At times, you felt a hint of nostalgia, reminiscent of your times in pastry school, but those flashbacks only left a bitter aftertaste in your mouth.

Your meetings with Jiaoqiu also began the following week. On Mondays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays, you head over and enter Yaoqing Hot Pot through the back door so you can directly walk to Jiaoqiu’s office. Inside his office, there’s a small desk which he sits at, while you situate yourself on a small, plush bean bag that was brought in by Sushang. So far, the two of you have drafted initial ideas, and tonight, Jiaoqiu will be presenting the first iterations of the Yaoqing’s appetizers to you.

Like the first time you met him, you knock on the door twice. As always, when he greets you, he gives you a tight smile. Tonight, though, his expression appears more grim than usual.

“What’s wrong?” you ask.

“I’m afraid the dishes have not come out as expected.”

You see a porcelain white plate on his desk. In the center, there are a few strips of tofu, topped with finely diced pieces of thousand-year-old eggs, scallions, and garlic. There are streaks of red and black as well, no doubt the Yaoqing’s signature spicy sauce. Beside the plate is a small bowl. You take a step closer to see chunks of cabbage, ginger, radish, and carrots, all of the pieces slightly wrinkled, accompanied by a sharp smell of acid. Both are classic Szechuan dishes: spicy cold tofu and pickled vegetables.

Using the chopsticks laid out on a napkin, you take small bites of the dishes. You’re personally not too good with spicy foods, so you can only hope that Jiaoqiu hasn’t gone overboard with the seasonings.

The thousand-year-old eggs are chewy and dense, in delightful contrast to the softness of the tofu, which practically melts on your tongue. However, the garlic, scallions, and spicy sauce penetrate through and remain as the final aftertaste. Then, you pick up a piece of the pickled cabbages. The water and vinegar brine has been completely absorbed, and you notice that there’s a stark lack of peppercorns, which is usually a key component of this dish. With a crunch, your teeth pierce through the leaf, and you’re impressed by how tender the inside of the cabbage is. You pick around to try the other ingredients.

When Jiaoqiu hears you place your chopsticks down, he asks, “I’m sorry if they’re lacking.”

“No worries. Maybe we should call in Moze, so I can share my thoughts?”

Jiaoqiu does as you request, and a few minutes later, the sous chef joins the two of you.

You give a brief rundown of your suggestions.

“The Zhuming Dessert Bar is known for its milder flavors, and the two appetizers taste great as is but simply don’t make sense in the broader context. I was thinking, maybe for the spicy cold tofu, we can mash the eggs into almost something like a paste? I think it’d provide an interesting texture, and we can use fresh scallions to keep that hint of bite if needed. To be honest, I think there should be way less garlic. Maybe even no garlic at all.

“As for the pickled vegetables, I think this one’s pretty close to done, actually! I think the cabbage is perfect, and I like that there are no peppercorns in the presentation. I was thinking that maybe we can make this dish a little more – how do I put this – refreshing? For instance, instead of using radish, we can use cucumbers instead? The water content might pose an issue, but I think cucumbers could add a ‘clean,’ crisp touch, which I like the sound of. Oh, we should also take out the ginger.”

When you finish, Jiaoqiu and Moze look at you as if you’ve just committed a murder in front of them.

Moze can barely conjure a sentence. “Are – are you – can you not handle spicy foods? Are these too spicy for you? Wh – what are you –“

Jiaoqiu has to interrupt him. “Without the ginger or garlic, you’re essentially asking us to abandon core aspects of Szechuan cuisine.”

You try to justify yourself. “I know it’s a cardinal sin, I get it. It’s like asking pastry chefs to not use sugar or flour or whatever. But the appetizers are just too strong, and none of the desserts we have, including our Mid-Autumn Festival specials, will complement them. Maybe a subtractive method isn’t the best approach, but I honestly don’t know enough to propose any other ideas.”

Jiaoqiu tilts his chin, thinking. Finally, he states, “I think I have one.”

At the next meeting, the head chef presents you the same two dishes, but they look vastly different than before.

Jiaoqiu explains that, for the tofu, he listened to your suggestion and mashed the thousand-year-old eggs into a paste. Within the paste, he also incorporated the garlic, which should be diluted by the natural pungency of the aged yolk. The scallions and chili sauce are filled in a separate container, allowing customers to pour as little or as much as they want.

As for the pickled vegetables, Jiaoqiu added a rather unique ingredient. 

“Why lotus root?” you ask.

He explains, “Lotus root is in season right now, and we took inspiration from the classic Yunnan lotus root salad. We soaked the lotus root in a one-to-one ratio of rice vinegar and water to extract the starch, before blanching the slices. We also added ginger and a bit of sugar to the brine, so there wouldn’t be a need to keep the ginger slices in the dish itself. The one thing I want you to check is if we added too much peppercorn and salt.”

One bite of each dish, and you’re grinning ear to ear.

“This is it,” you whisper, in sheer awe. You can’t help but take two more mouthfuls of each appetizer. “In just one night, and you made such vast improvements. Jiaoqiu, you’re a genius.”

What was supposed to be a celebratory moment seemed to be ruined instantaneously by your comment. Moze’s face drops and Jiaoqiu can’t help but wince, to your confusion.

All of a sudden, very shy and embarrassed, you mumble, “Did I say something wrong? The food’s great, Jiaoqiu, is there something that’s not to your liking?”

Moze states, rather gruffly, “No, we’re very happy that you enjoy the dishes so much. After all, it’s been a while since Jiaoqiu has cooked something by himself.”

“But that doesn’t explain why you both look so upset. What’s going on?”

“It’s nothing.” Jiaoqiu sighs. “Then, these two are a go. One more left.”

From then on, your interactions with Jiaoqiu become stiff and rigid. Not that you had made much progress in the first place, but at the very least, the two of you could speak in the same fluid prose of ingredients and techniques and practically anything related to cooking and baking. Now, the two of you barely speak outside the context of the collaboration, and even the feedback you receive doesn’t come straight from him. Sushang had mentioned this earlier, and she’s absolutely right – Jiaoqiu doesn’t touch your cooking at all. In fact, Moze’s the one who munches away at your samples, while Jiaoqiu only asks for his opinions.

Are you frustrated? Absolutely. But it’s not like you can call off this project for such a small reason. It’s not like Moze doesn’t offer great advice, but it’s not up to the level of expertise that you need. So, not only do you feel frustrated, you also feel directionless, and your creative juices are running out.

You hate to admit it, but this sucks. 

IV. Taiwanese Pineapple Cake

You should’ve prepared for all hell to break loose because “busy” doesn’t even begin to describe your current state.

The Mid-Autumn Festival Is approaching in a week, which means the collaboration’s also set to launch in just a few days. But before that, it seems you have other, more urgent issues to address first.

“Wait, why isn’t Lingsha here?” You look around, hoping for someone to know. You have a full house tonight, and you need all the helping hands you can get.

Yunli, who’s busy shaping some fondant, responds, “I think she’s sick.”

Alarmed, you quickly shoot Lingsha a text, asking her about her condition, in addition to a reminder to please, please, please let you know next time.

“That’s fine, but we’re going to need someone to take over her station…”

There are two halves to your team. Since the dessert bar is split between a morning bakery and an evening tasting restaurant, you’ve placed your less experienced chefs on the morning shifts. This could be a good opportunity for one of them to learn, you think.

“Huo Huo,” you call out, “can you stay for the rest of the day? I’ll make sure Yukong pays you overtime.”

A small, green-haired girl squeaks at the sound of her name. Even from a distance, you can see her body begin to shake and tremble.

“Y-yes,” she stutters as her knuckles pale from gripping onto a hand mixer so tightly.

You shoot her two thumbs up and a gentle smile. “You’ll be great, I just know it, Huo Huo. You’re in charge of presentation, so all you have to worry about is not breaking any dishes, alright?”

You, in fact, did have to worry about broken dishes that night.

Frankly speaking, Huo Huo was all over the place. She confused some of the dishes with each other, so the presentation wasn’t right at times. She also spilled glaze, so those desserts had to be tossed. The most tragic of her mistakes was that she forgot basic kitchen etiquette and almost got burned in the face with a blowtorch. Yunli’s tolerance was clearly waning, and you had to pinch her multiple times to prevent her from unleashing all of her rage.

You can’t help but think this is all your fault.

And as you trudge to Jiaoqiu’s office, your stomach sinks further. You feel the fatigue coursing through your veins, and despite your usual patient and easy going temperament, you can feel your thread of optimism thinning, dangerously close to snapping.

You just never expected it to break so soon.

“Uh, where are your samples?” Moze asks.

You can only close your eyes and cover them with your palms. You feel so weak in the knees. You want to keel over.

The burning sensation at your waterline doesn’t help either, and even though you can’t breathe, you hold back so as to not let anyone hear your sniffles.

You’re an actual patisserie now. No more groveling and self-pitying – you left all of that behind at baking school and your previous stages. You’ve made it so far, and you can’t fumble it. You need to be on top of things and be professional. Why are you even upset? What’s wrong with you? Keep. It. Together.

Jiaoqiu mutters, “Moze, leave us for now.”

With barely audible steps, you feel Moze walk away, and Jiaoqiu slides his office door closed behind you. Though it takes him a bit, he manages to feel his way down the wall so that he’s stooping beside you.

“Guess it’s my turn to ask you what’s wrong.”

“Everything,” you say, voice muffled as you hide your head with your forearms, tucking your chin to your chest.

“Yeah, running a restaurant never gets easier.”

You peek up at him. “But you never seem to be sweating over it.”

“Everyone has their worries.”

You take a deep breath. At this point, it doesn’t even matter if you cry or not because Jiaoqiu doesn’t seem to be the kind of person to care.

You ask, “I feel like I don’t know how to lead my team properly. We managed to get everything out in time, but the kitchen was an entire mess. We also had to get repairs done a few weeks ago, even though the property’s new and all. And remember when we ran into each other at the farmer’s market? It’s because someone forgot to properly do inventory. Like – these are all basic procedures. What am I forgetting to teach them?”

“From my experience, it just comes from routine reminders during meetings, and being ruthless when it comes to firing people.”

You roll your eyes. “Jiaoqiu, I’m afraid not everyone has the luxury of an inbox overflowing with hiring and employment requests.”

“Then, you have to do the hard thing and train them. Over and over again, until they finally get it right.”

You take another inhale. He’s right.

The stooping’s becoming uncomfortable, so you let yourself fall back and onto the ground.

“Thanks, Jiaoqiu. I think I’ve got my shit together again.”

“Of course. Then, I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”

You begin to get up but end up deciding otherwise. You suggest instead, “Let’s just talk for a bit, if you have the time. We’ve been seeing each other so often, and I feel like I know practically nothing about you.”

You see a flash of suspicion cross his face, but Jiaoqiu doesn’t reject the idea either.

You help Jiaoqiu to his desk before finding your usual spot on the bean bag, and ask, “So, tell me. What about Yaoqing Hot Pot is stressing you out?”

“The new hires. I trust Moze, but it’s hard for him to handle everything by himself. I would ask Sushang, but it’s more important that she concentrates on honing her own skills right now.”

Something Moze said rings in your head.

“And…,” you start. “I’m guessing you can’t help either because you haven’t cooked in a while?”

Jiaoqiu remains silent. More hints from previous conversations seem to pop into your head.

You ask again, tone much quieter and more polite, “You told Yukong your blindness is relatively recent. Is… is that why you’ve stopped cooking?”

“I’d get in the way of too many people. Plus, I can really only trust Moze to help me in the kitchen, but that’d hinder his own growth as a chef. I couldn’t ask that of him.”

“So those appetizers –“

“That was a one-time thing. The others know how to replicate them by now.”

“But I want to eat your food.”

The words fly out before you can think about them. You gasp at your audacity, hands flying to seal your mouth, and Jiaoqiu has a surprised look on his face.

It takes a few moments before Jiaoqiu breaks the silence with huffs of chuckles. “You called me a genius the other day, didn’t you?”

You nod at first, but remembering that he can’t see, affirm vocally.

“It’s just a personal peeve of mine, but I detest being called that.”

Furrowing your brows and scrunching your nose, you try to think of why.

Jiaoqiu… Blind… Genius… Hate… Feixiao…

You let out another audible gasp, this time horrified.

“I remember,” you hiss.

No wonder his name’s familiar. 

You’ve never paid much attention because you were so entrenched in your own work, but a few years ago, Jiaoqiu was a superstar in the culinary world. He was winning awards left and right, despite not having even graduated culinary school. But then, he suddenly disappeared, and all of the tabloids were speculating as to why. He didn’t come back into the limelight until he joined Yaoqing and became Feixiao’s right-hand man.

“You don’t have to tell me anything, but…”

“I was poisoned.”

You gape at him.

He continues, indifferent to your loud reactions. “Being a ‘genius’ comes with its own share of problems. I had classmates who were envious of my achievements, and one of them slipped methanol into a dish they wanted me to try.”

The story’s horrifying itself, but what leaves you completely stunned is Jiaoqiu’s nonchalance. He’s speaking as if he’s reading the news, as if this terrible thing happened to some stranger and not to him.

“Oh, Jiaoqiu…”

“It’s alright. I owe Feixiao for entrusting much of Yaoqing to me.”

“Thanks for sharing these painful memories with me…”

Jiaoqiu simply nods. “I hope the Zhuming Dessert Bar sees better days.”

V. Fuqi Feipian

Everything does seem to calm down, though there’s never truly a peaceful day when you’re working in the restaurant industry.

Lingsha returns in good shape, and with her and Yunli’s help, the three of you begin to offer additional training sessions after work to better prepare the newcomers. You’re a small team, after all, so it’s only right that you have each other’s backs.

The launch of the Mid-Autumn Festival goes as well as Yukong and Feixiao predict. Revenue streams are the highest they’ve ever been for the Zhuming Dessert Bar, and the food seems to be well-received. There are always a few pesky hate comments on social media platforms, but those can’t be helped.

Most importantly, your relationship with Jiaoqiu has improved dramatically. You first tested the waters by sending him an hour-long ASMR video of cat purrs, and he replied likewise with a five-minute compilation of foxes yipping and laughing. Also, even though there’s no reason to meet anymore, you still drop by and bother the pink-haired chef whenever you have the time. Mostly, it’s just you pestering him to make you food and him refusing, but after ten minutes or so of pointless bantering, he relents and you help him around the kitchen, setting timers, fetching ingredients, and making sure he doesn’t cut himself.

For the most part, he does well even without your assistance. His sense of taste is incredibly acute, and his hands seem to remember how to slice at different angles, widths, and shapes, all from rote memory. Still, it seems that having you there provides an additional layer of safety, and you’re more than happy to oblige.

“What are you going to make for me this time?”

You’re holding Jiaoqiu by the hands, steering him towards the industrial fridges standing tall to one side of the kitchen. Unlike the narrow and rectangular layout of the Zhuming Dessert Bar’s kitchen, the Yaoqing’s is much more spacious and has sufficient walking room.

“The freezer should have a piece of beef shank.” You let go of one of his hands to open the door, and as he said, there’s a plastic-wrapped chunk on the top shelf. You take it out, and then walk the two of you over to the central island, where there’s a large cutting board and knife.

“Knife to your right, beef to your left. Is there anything else I should grab?”

“Can you get some sesame seeds, chili oil, and a stalk of celery?”

As you collect the items, you watch him from the corner of your eye. Jiaoqiu picks up the beef shank by the fingertips, and using his other hand to roughly measure out the length of the cutting board, sets the meat down near the center. Then, with fleeting touches, he feels for the wooden handle of his knife.

“The blade’s facing downwards,” you call out.

“Thanks,” he replies.

With his left hand, he traces the shank until he reaches the edge, where he backtracks by a few millimeters and curls his fingers in so that the first joints are tucked away. With steady movements, he brings the knife over with his right hand until the flat of the blade meets his curled fingers, and now he knows where to cut. Though he’s slow, much slower than a professional chef should be, every slice is done without hesitation. There’s no wavering, no stopping, no interrupting the motion of the knife being plunged down onto the cutting board. He continues, procedurally shifting his left hand back and right hand forward, until he’s divided the chunk of beef into beautifully thin slices.

You only come back when he’s set his knife down.

“You still haven’t told me what you’re making.”

“The name’s a little misleading,” he says, “but it’s a dish I grew up eating quite frequently. Do you think you’re up to trying something spicy?”

You roll your eyes. “Oh, please, when have you made something not spicy?”

His lips break into a small, genuine smile. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Grab a bowl with a short rim, will you?”

“Yes, chef!”

Into the bowl, he transfers the beef shank and pours spoonfuls of chili oil, salt, and white sugar on top. He mixes everything, ensuring that the tips of the chopsticks don’t puncture through the meat, and sets the dish aside.

He then picks up the knife again, which you follow up by placing the celery stalk onto the cutting board.

“Center middle”

“Leaf intact?”

“Yes.”

He searches for the end of the stalk, and when he finds it, he chops the leafy section off. He makes diligent work of the rest, first splitting the stalk in horizontal half before chopping it vertically into small bits. When he’s finished, he transfers the celery pieces into the bowl, giving the ingredients a good mix again, before returning to mince the celery leaves.

When he’s finished, he pushes the bowl away from the cutting board. He says, “You’ll realize that Szechuan food is quite simple to put together. This dish is called fuqi feipian.”

“You said the name was misleading.”

“Well, its literal translation means ‘husband and wife lung slices.’”

You can’t help but chuckle at the name. “I don’t know if that’s supposed to be romantic or gory.”

Jiaoqiu smirks and crosses his arms. “Either way, it’s spicier than all of the other things I’ve cooked for you. Take a bite.”

Mentally, you prepare for the numbing bite of the spices and chilis as you eat a slice of beef. The acidity of the oil and celery leaf garnishing hit you immediately, and you almost choke at the sudden impact of flavor.

You cry out, “Spicy!”

“I told you.”

You quickly swallow before picking out pieces of celery and peanuts to soothe your tongue.

“Seriously, Jiaoqiu, how can you eat this all the time?”

He simply shrugs. “I can’t really taste anything else.”

“Wait, what?”

“I started losing my sense of taste in culinary school. The doctors said it was probably due to stress from the competitions and media appearances. Now, I can only really eat very strong and spicy flavors.”

You almost drop your chopsticks onto the floor.

“Jiaoqiu,” you choke, “you can’t keep dropping these severely depressing facts about yourself out of nowhere.”

“Oh, sorry, should I have mentioned a trigger warning or something?”

You huff unhappily before taking another bite, barely managing the stinging heat at the back of your throat.

Jiaoqiu suddenly asks, “Did you enjoy culinary school?”

You pause to reflect. “I kinda took an unconventional path. I actually have a Bachelor in something completely unrelated to cooking, but I couldn’t find a full-time job after graduating and decided to give baking a shot. Baking school was hellish, though, I can’t lie.”

He makes a noise of surprise when you finish.

“You didn’t enjoy baking school?”

You scratch the back of your head. “I mean, it was tough. I don’t remember much besides crying a lot and feeling very incompetent. It’s hard being surrounded by really young and accomplished people all the time.”

“I thought you were going to say you had the time of your life.”

“Why?”

“Well…,” Jiaoqiu starts, though he turns to face away from you for some reason. “You seem very optimistic and easy to get along with. People like you thrive in social environments, like school.”

You try to muster your usual smile, but you can’t will your mouth to stretch or your cheeks to lift. “I guess, and it’s not like I hated my experience. I was just… I was too concerned about making up for lost time.”

You don’t want to think about this anymore, so you take another bite.

Through a mouthful, you pivot the conversation. “By the way, there’s no way I can finish this all by myself. Have some, too!”

You tap Jiaoqiu on the shoulder so that he turns to face you again, and you tightly grip the chopsticks so that the food doesn’t drop.

Jiaoqiu tries to deny at first. “No, no, I already ate dinner.”

“But Jiaoqiu, please! You made so much, and it’d be such a waste to keep it overnight. C’mon, just one bite, it’s right in front of you.”

He opens his mouth and leans forward, but either because your hands are shaky or because he simply cannot reach, he keeps missing.

You ask with slight amusement, “May I?”

“Just hurry and give it to me.”

You slide your free hand underneath his chin and hold his head in place. Initially, he sputters out of shyness and embarrassment, but finally relents as you tell him to keep his mouth open.

When he’s chewing on it, you say, “Really good, right? You should cook for yourself more often.”

“It’s fine. Could be better,” he replies. “Besides, it’s dangerous cooking by myself.”

You shrug. “I can always come over and help, like I did tonight.”

He sighs. “You’re so demanding. You just want more free food.”

You giggle with glee and clap at his shoulders. “Of course not!” You feign hurt. “I just want to spend more time with a good friend!”

Jiaoqiu huffs and you think he rolls his eyes. “Friends,” he mutters, “don’t eat from the same pair of chopsticks.”

You feel your face burn, having been completely unaware of the implications of your actions.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” you retort, though there’s really no bite to your words. “You haven’t even tried my desserts once.”

VI. Sweet Run Bing

On the last day of the Mid-Autumn Festival, you come over with some leftovers to hand to the Yaoqing staff. You’ve gotten to know them quite well, and of course, Sushang and Moze are the first ones to appear.

“What’d you bring this time?” Sushang sing-songs.

You set the boxes on a counter and list everything out. “There’s coconut cake, a Taiwanese rendition of French custard tarts, some of our special mooncakes, and sweet run bing. There’s more than enough for everyone!”

You try to take a step back so that all of the Yaoqing chefs can reach your desserts, but you bump into somebody.

Or more specifically, someone holds you by the shoulders.

You look over to find Jiaoqiu resting his hands on you, face turned towards the commotion in the center of the kitchen.

He muses, “Sweet run bing? Isn’t it usually salty?”

You laugh. “Yes, but it’s pretty popular in Taiwan to add ice cream and nuts to make a sweeter version of it.”

The question always floats in the air but is usually left unaddressed. This time, though, Jiaoqiu surprises you.

“Can I try?”

A sense of pride and satisfaction pumps through your entire body. “Of course!” you exclaim. “Let me get you one!”

The two of you retreat to the calmer corner of his office, and you watch him intently as he holds the run bing close to his nose.

“I smell peanuts, almonds, and vanilla. There’s also something sweet?”

“Yes, we added some of our homemade canned peaches!”

“I see. Let me try it.”

Slowly, methodically, Jiaoqiu rolls up the crepe and takes a bite from it. You gulp and can almost feel beads of sweat forming at your temples from the anticipation and anxiety.

Then, something in his features softens. 

“The texture’s great.”

At his compliment, you bound out of your seat, whooping and cheering.

“I’ll take it! Next time, I’ll make something you can actually taste. I roasted the nuts to create a smokey flavor and to add some crunch, but I didn’t want it to be too overpowering, so I also added some herbs, like ground coriander and –“

“Wait, there’s coriander in this?”

You comically pause in the middle of your celebrating. “Uh, yes?”

It’s your first time seeing the man… so frightened.

You can’t help but glare at him. “Don’t tell me you don’t like coriander.”

Jiaoqiu doesn’t move.

“Isn’t coriander supposed to be important in Szechuan cuisine? You were the one nagging my ears off weeks ago –“

“First of all, I wasn’t nagging you. Second, I personally don’t like to eat it, but that doesn’t mean I don’t use it.”

“Sure, fine, but the run bing doesn’t taste bad, does it?”

Jiaoqiu grimaces. “It tastes fine… even if there’s coriander in it.”

You smugly croon at him. “What other foods do you hate? I’ll convince you otherwise.”

Jiaoqiu takes another big bite of the run bing, before replying, uncharacteristically serious, “I’ll eat whatever you give me.”

You flush at his words, rendered unable to speak. In fact, you have to clear your throat a couple of times in order to respond. “And… you’ll cook for me, too?”

He nods, with firm intent. “For as long as you want me to.”

You feel like the vanilla ice cream in the run bing, melting and dripping, positively overheating.

[d20-lesbian]

AFTER AN OVERWHELMING WAVE OF SUPPORT AND ENCOURAGEMENT, I'VE DECIDED TO POST THE WILL WOOD ESSAY!!!! it's below the break !!!!

I would like to really quickly state though that this essay is my property, I put a lot of time and effort into this, so please don't claim it as your own !!!! thank you <33

I will be analysing Will Wood’s song ‘Suburbia Overture / Greetings from Marybell Township! / (Vampire) Culture / Love Me, Normally’. which, for simplicity, most fans refer to as simply ‘Suburbia Overture’. This song is the first on his first solo album entitled ‘The Normal Album’, which came out in July 2020.

This song, in the most general possible terms, is a criticism of modern suburban life, how it is advertised as “the perfect life”, and how this advertising is incredibly false unless you fit the picture perfect standard that these facets of society seem to require.

The song itself is split up into 3 distinct sections, "Greetings from The Marybell Township!", “(Vampire) Culture” and “Love Me, Normally”. I'll be tackling each section one at a time in order to properly break down what each means, what different analogies they use, how they all relate to each other and the intended end result of the song and the message it intends to convey.

Let's begin with 'Greetings from The Marybell Township!'.

This section of the song uses a lot of analogies that compare suburban life to a warzone, the first line of this section being “white picket fences, barbed wire and trenches”. This section also focuses heavily on the concept of the nuclear family, and it often literalises the term and uses analogies based around radiation and nuclear warfare. Such analogies can be found in lines such as “the snap crackle pop of the Geiger, camouflage billboards for lead lined Brookes Brothers”. Now there's a couple of terms that require definitions in this line. The first of course being “the Geiger”. A Geiger counter, which is what this lyric is referring to, is a tool used to measure levels of harmful radiation. This, paired with the concept of billboards advertising “lead-lined Brookes Brothers” when lead is a material used to deflect radiation, and the knowledge that ‘Brookes Brothers’ is an American vintage style clothing brand, this line really paints a picture of a seemingly post apocalyptic/post nuclear war but still consumerist and capitalistic suburban society. The last line in that verse is “buy now or die”, which ties back to the concept of safety equipment being advertised on billboards, while residents of this town have no choice but to buy the products. This all relates back to the hyperconsumerism that plagues our society, and runs particularly rampant in middle to upper middle class neighbourhoods. The very same neighbourhoods that are often referred to as “suburban”

In the second verse of this section there are a lot of hard hitting lyrics that to me really show that this perfect idealised life is far from perfect or even good, so we will work through them one by one because I feel that they all deserve proper analysis.

The first line that i want to point out from that verse is the line “takes a village to fake a whole culture” which is clearly a rip off of the phrase “it takes a village [to raise a child]” but it also references the fact that usually suburban towns are incredibly monotonous in both residents and architecture, and so it takes the collective effort of the entire population of the town to pretend that there is an actual culture to it.

The next few lines I'll speak on all come in quick succession of one another, essentially blending them into one line.

“Your ear to the playground, your eye on the ball, your head in the gutter, your brains on the wall.”

So let's break these down. This line is easily split into 4 distinct phrases, and all of these phrases have a few things in common, which I will point out later.

“Your ear to the playground” is a play on the phrase “ear to the ground” which essentially means that the person with their ‘ear to the ground’ is attempting to carefully gather intel about something. Someone having their ear to the playground simply reinforces the idea of this suburban “paradise” being. Not as paradise-y as one would hope, seeing as the people who use playgrounds most of all are children, so this line is demonstrating that the picture perfect life that this suburban town offers is actually corrupting children so young that they are still on the playground.

The next phrase is “your eye on the ball” isn't a play on anything and is in fact in itself a common phrase. To have your eye on the ball means to be entirely focused in and paying attention to something, and not allowing anything to divert your attention. Given the last line this line very well could be another reference to the corruption of the youth and the idea that their every day play has already been tainted with the hostilities of modern life usually reserved for adults.

Following this is another well known saying “your head in the gutter” which, as most know, someone whos head is ‘in the gutter’ is someone who will see some sort of innuendo or otherwise vulgar/inappropriate meaning in something that was intended to be entirely innocent, leading to others in the interaction telling the perpetrator to ‘get [their] mind out of the gutter’

And finally, in my opinion the most hard hitting phrase in this set, “your brains on the wall” which is clearly in reference to the notion of ending your own life with a shot to the head, which would lead to, well, brains being on the wall. These last 2 phrases come in stark contrast to the seemingly picture perfect life that suburban towns offer and advertise, the concepts of suicide and perversion are not concepts one expects to see or hear when imagining this idealised form of life.

There is one main similarity in each of the 4 phrases, that being that each phrase has some body part being on something else, your ear to the playground, your eye on the ball, your head in the gutter, your brains on the wall. This similarity almost offers a body horror aspect to the song, which when paired with the concept that this is written about a seemingly post nuclear apocalyptic town presents an interesting idea of possible mutation, but i'll be the first to admit that may be a little far fetched. However that's not the only similarity that these 4 phrases share, another is the fact that they are all directly, or only slightly modified versions of already well known phrases, a similarity that is found in many lines over this entire song, through all 3 sections.

I want to analyse a few more lines before we move on to the second section of the song.

This next line comes directly after the previously analysed line, and it goes “home is where the heart is, you ain't homeless, but you’re heartless”

Sticking with the theme of using already existing and commonly used phrases, “home is where the heart is'' is once again a phrase that you could likely find as a cross stitch hung up on the wall of any of the homogenous houses you could likely find in this idealised suburbia. But what Wood is saying in this line is that home is where the heart is, and that while people in this town may not be homeless, they are certainly heartless, meaning that they in fact don't have homes. They have houses. Rows upon rows of houses that all look the exact same in the horrifying monotony that is suburban living.

Following this line is the lyric “it's the safest on the market, but you still gotta watch where you park it”. These lines seem to be in reference to buying a car. The car being the "safest on the market" is likely in reference to the fact that it may have a lot of safety features. But this is immediately negated by the fact that you “still gotta watch where you park it” meaning that the safety features could be a reason that the car gets stolen, rendering all the safety that those features offered useless because in the end it made the car and the owner less safe.

In the third verse of this section, you immediately hear the line “so give me your half-life crisis” which partially is a play on the term ‘mid life crisis’ wherein which one realises that they may have wasted their life up till that point and they're already halfway through, but the use of the term “half-life” instead of ‘mid-life’ is very intentional, as the term “half-life” can also be used to refer to the half-life of an isotope, which is the amount of time that isotope takes to lose half of its radiation, which ties back into the theme of radiation that we see mentioned a lot in this section.

Later in the same verse is the line “if it's true that a snowflake only matters in a blizzard”, which is interesting in a few ways, first, it brings up the idea of a singular individual means nothing on their own and that they only matter when they’re part of something larger or a larger group, but i also think that the use of the terms “snowflake” and “blizzard” instead of something like ‘raindrop’ and ‘storm’ is very intentional in the fact that snowflakes are known for being individual, none are alike, every single one is different. So saying that a snowflake doesn't matter unless it's in a blizzard is yet another hit at individuality, essentially implying that in this town individuality means nothing and is essentially rendered useless.

The final line in this verse is “everybody's all up in my-” repeated thrice, and on the third time the sentence is finished to say “everybody’s all up in my business” and before the word “business” can be finished its overlapped with the beginning of the chorus, the first word of which is a very loud “SUBURBIAAAA!”. I believe this is reminiscent of the fact that in towns like this, everyone cares so much about what everyone else is doing, they’re all so interested in everyone else's business, and i think that sentiment being stated and cut off by the word “Suburbia” is essentially saying that ‘this is the norm, this is just Suburbia, this is how it works around here.’

After the final chorus of this section, in the final verse, you'll find the line “chameleon peacocks are talk of the town” which particularly interests me because if you know anything about chameleons or peacocks you’d find that they seem incredibly different as animals. Chameleons blend into their environment in order to stay safe, whereas peacocks are known for parading around bright colours to make themselves look better, but if you think about it the term “chameleon peacock” actually makes a lot of sense, a person who blends into their surroundings in order to make themselves look good. This sentiment seems to perfectly describe the homogeneity of the people that live in these perfect towns, they're all the same, they blend in with one another in order to make themselves look good, or perfect.

Another line heard shortly afterwards is the phrase “he cums radiation”, rather vulgar, I grant you, but it's important because it is yet another literalisation of the phrase ‘nuclear family’. It could also be a reference to the general toxicity of this societal norm.

The final line in this section of the song is “the dog bites the postman, as basement eyes dream of a night at the drive-in, with an AR-15”. Which is another use of juxtaposition, intended to cause a kind of whiplash in the listener and reinforce the idea that while in this place there is scenarios that would happen in a hollywood movie esque picture perfect neighbourhood, like the dog biting the postman, there's also horrors that lurk below the surface. (although clearly not TOO far below.)

Now let’s move on to the second part, ‘(Vampire) Culture’.

If you listen to the song, you’ll immediately be able to recognise where 'Greetings from The Marybell Township!' ends and ‘(Vampire) Culture’ begins, due to the insane juxtaposition between the two. Where 'Greetings from The Marybell Township!' is soft and sort of reminiscent of the 1950’s, ‘(Vampire) Culture’ is loud, jarring and grotesque, complemented with much raspier and strained sounding vocals compared to 'Greetings from The Marybell Township!' ’s soft and melodic ones. The tone for this section of the song is immediately set with much more graphic lyrics, the very first line of this section (after the opening scream) is “i dropped my eyeballs in the bonfire, we fucked on a bed of nails” which absolutely sets the scene for how different this section will be to the previous.

This song immediately jumps into using cannibalism as a metaphor, with the first line after the jump start opener being “I caught kuru from your sister, and I'm laughing in jail”. While this line is written to sound like the concept of catching an STD from an act of adultery, Kuru is actually a disease only found in human brain tissue, meaning that you can only contract this disease by eating a human brain, and what's one of the symptoms for this disease? Uncontrollable laughter.

This use of cannibalism as a metaphor is used again immediately after in the line “smell those screaming teenage sweetbreads on that 4th of July grill”, ‘sweetbread’ is the term used to refer to the pancreas and thymus gland of an animal, usually a lamb, but in this particular case it is in reference to the human teenagers that supposedly lived in The Marybell Township, or a least they did before they were dissected, cooked and served at a neighbourhood 4th of July barbeque hosted by the same people that were once referred to as their neighbours.

This line adds an interesting level of patriotism to the song and criticism of how America utilises patriotism and their love for their country as means to justify harming the youth, however a 4th of July neighbourhood barbeque is also commonly associated with white picket fence gated community America, which ties us back to the base criticism of that style of life and how it is seen as the “proper” and “perfect” way to live.

These cannibalistic sentiments are followed up with the line “smile and wave boys, kiss the cook, live laugh and love, please pass the pills.” which brings us back to the repeated use of commonly known sayings being taken directly or modified only slightly to remind the listener of the setting were in, that being a seemingly 1950’s era tight knit neighbourhood.

Phrases like “live laugh [and] love” or “kiss the cook” are both phrases that could easily be seen in a setting like this, especially “kiss the cook”, as this is a phrase commonly associated with aprons worn by grillmasters at neighbourhood barbeques, not unlike the cannibalistic 4th of July barbeque that this particular neighbourhood seems to be hosting.

These phrases being immediately followed up with a sentiment such as “please pass the pills” serves to entirely undermine the pleasantries that, until a moment ago, seemed to be plastered all over the faces of the people living in this fictional town that Wood has created. I think that final phrase brings the listener back to the realisation that not all is right here, quite the opposite in fact, and drags them from their momentary paradise.

Circling back very quickly to the phrase “smile and wave”. I felt the need to point out that this phrase has been used for centuries as a way to say “stop talking and act normal” which once again reinforces that these people are pretending to be something they’re not in order to fit in.

We enter the next verse with the repeated phrase “it's only culture”, after that line is repeated three times we hear “sulfur, smoke and soot”, which could either be a reference to how dirty and disgusting the ‘culture’ is, or it could be a different way of saying that this culture and the people participating are going to hell, as per the common phrase ‘fire and brimstone’ and the fact that sulfur is another way of saying brimstone, and smoke and soot are both byproducts of fire.

The last line of this verse and the first line of the chorus blend into each other, so I’ll speak on them both.

First, the last line of the verse. It goes “you cocked and sucked your lack of empathy, pulled the trigger with your foot to prove you've got-”

Putting aside the clear innuendo, this line refers to the idea of ending one's own life with a long shotgun. According to the media, by the time the gun is cocked and the barrel is in your mouth, you're not able to pull the trigger with your hands due to the length of the barrel. This line instead presents the solution of pulling the trigger with your foot to end your life.

So this person “cocked and sucked” the gun (cocked the gun and put the barrel in their mouth) before pulling the trigger with their foot to prove they’ve got-

And here's where the verse blends into the chorus.

Because the first line only consists of one word.

“Blood”.

The person who was shooting themselves with a shotgun only to prove that they bleed. Which is where the title of this section comes in. “(Vampire) Culture”. This section seeks to portray either the people in this culture or, the more likely option, the culture itself, as metaphorical vampires, who aim to destroy those around them. This knowledge makes the next line “didn't they want your blood, so why apologise for being blue and cold” make a lot more sense. After all, if these culture vampires have drained you of your blood, is it not their fault that you’re now “blue and cold”, as bodies tend to be if they lack blood flow. However, if you look at synonyms for the words “blue” and “cold”, you could also interpret this phrase as meaning “sad and apathetic”.

A sad and apathetic person doesn't seem to be the kind of person this ‘culture’ seeks to enlist however, and so one who is “blue and cold” is shunned as an outsider.

What Wood is getting at is that if this culture is the one who made you sad and apathetic, then you should not apologise to it for being so.

The next verse is short, and like the previous one, also blends into the chorus in the same way, by having the last line of the verse cut off right where the chorus would finish the sentence with the word “blood”. However in this verse, there's an interesting line. “It's only culture and it's more afraid of you than you are of it”, which is a sentiment usually used by adults to attempt to subdue a child's fear of something, usually insects. However it's interesting in the fact that it brings up the idea that this culture that has caused so much damage and harm is actually incredibly fragile, and would, in theory be very afraid of the concept of the individual, because if this ‘culture’ is only being held together by the silent agreeance that everyone will simply pretend, then the idea that there is people who refuse throws the whole idea into jeopardy.

This line is followed up however, by the line that blends it into the chorus. “Go on drink that-”, clearly intended to be finished by the first line of the chorus, making the full line, “go on drink that blood”.

This line is in reference to the phrase “drink the kool-aid” which essentially means to pledge your undying loyalty to something, a concept, a person, a god, etc. and it derives from an infamous mass cult suicide where over 900 people drank poisoned Kool-Aid and subsequently died for the cult. It is not a far cry to believe that this event and this phrase is what the line is referring to, as it's something that Wood has referenced in other songs, so it only makes sense to believe that this is what he means here.

After that chorus we move on to the bridge, which begins by listing 3 pairs of names, all famous or semi famous, and each pair being similar in one right but opposite in another, the line goes as follows; “were you Nabokov to a Sallinger, were you Jung to Freud or Dass to a Leary”, so let's break down these pairs one by one.

First “Nabokov to a Sallinger”, these names belong to Vladimir Nabokov and J.D. Sallinger, both authors who wrote famous books that both surround the theme of innocence, but in very different ways. Nabokov’s book “Lolita” is a story told from the perspective of a grown man about his sexual obsession and attraction to a little girl, and his desire to ruin her innocence, exploring the theme of innocence in a grotesque and frankly horrifying way, which is in stark contrast to Sallinger’s book “The Catcher in the Rye”, which explores the topic of innocence through the main characters desire to preserve their little sisters innocence, and in that desire displays hesitancy at the idea of sex themself. Both books explore the topic of innocence, however while one seeks to preserve it, the other seeks to destroy it, two sides of the same coin.

The next pairing is “Jung to Freud”, meaning Carl Gustav Jung and his mentor Sigmund Freud, who once again are similar in one right, but opposite in another. Jung and Freud both had theories on the nature of the human mind, but where Jungs was all about the concept of spirituality and how that ties into the collective unconscious, Freud's approach was much more focused on the individual unconscious and the concept of sexuality.

The final pairing is “Dass to a Leary”. both psychologists, both at the forefront of the ‘Harvard Psilocybin Project’ (before they both got dismissed from harvard entirely following controversies around the project) Richard Alpert and Timothy Leary were both psychologists and eventually authors who studied the effects of psychedelic drugs on the human mind, and while they were co workers they ended up with pretty conflicting views. Dr. Richard Alpert, who apparently ‘died’ and was ‘reborn’ as spiritual guide Ram Dass, centred his teachings heavily around the concept of living in the moment, (in fact his best selling book, written in 1971 was titled ‘Be Here Now’) and he believed that psychedelic drugs were not needed and that a permanent version of the same effects could be achieved through meditation. Whereas Dr. Timothy Leary advocated heavily for the use of psychedelics, believing that LSD specifically had great potential for therapeutic psychiatric use.

All of these pairings and examples utilise the concept of duality and speak on how every coin has two sides, which can easily be tied back to the idea that the picture perfect suburban life is just one side of the coin. This idea is then reinforced by the next line, “were you mother, daughter, subject and author?”, The use of the word ‘and’ here shows that it's possible to be two sides of the same coin at once, just like how this town, which is perfect on one side of the coin, is still terrible on the other side of the coin. The line is stating that it's possible to be both at once.

The very last line in this section is; “you don't make the rules, you just write them down and do it by the book you throw around”. This line combines a few relatively well known phrases. The first being of course ‘i don’t make the rules’, which can have two distinct meanings. The first is to express a kind of sympathy for someone being punished, and the second is to absolve yourself of the blame for that person being punished, a sort of ‘don't shoot the messenger’ situation.

The ‘rules’ that are likely being referred to here are the societal norms and expectations forced upon people who reside in these towns, the standard for ‘perfection’.

However, following this sentiment up with the phrase “you just write them down” is essentially saying that while it's not the fault of the people in these towns, they didn't create the norms, they still enforce them. They expect everything to be in line and perfect at all times, they follow these ‘rules’ to a T, and they shun and punish anyone who doesn't fit the standard and/or refuses to follow these ‘rules’, which is where the line “do it by the book you throw around” comes in, doing something ‘by the book’ means to follow rules strictly and to the letter, nothing out of line, and to throw the book at someone means to punish them as severely as possible, usually used in the legal sense to mean punishing someone for their crime as severely as the law will allow. So in all, the lyric “you don't make the rules, you just write them down and do it by the book you throw around” ends up meaning ‘you didn't create these norms but you still enforce them by following them to an absolute T and punishing anyone who doesn't.’

With that we enter the third and final section of the song, entitled ‘Love Me, Normally’, a title it shares with another song on the album, but of course this song is partially meant to serve as an overture for the whole album, meaning it shares some similar lyrics with lyrics from other songs on the album, so sharing a title isn't all that surprising.

The first lyric in this section is “do you know the difference between blazing trails and slash and burn?” which is another instance of duality in this song. Trailblazing or being a trailblazer means doing something no one has done before, paving the way for other people to follow in your footsteps, it comes from the literal act of creating a trail in the woods for people to follow, usually by creating notches in trees or setting small fires, hence ‘blazer’, as blaze is another word for a fire. However “slash and burn” is a method of deforestation that involves cutting down and burning a section of forest to create a field. Both examples include using fire to change something, but where one is seen as progress and positive, the other is negative, and seen as a means of destruction. Once again, two sides of the same coin, innovation and destruction.

This is followed up with the line “going against the grain and catching splinters”, which is a line i particularly like because while it is something that literally can happen, if you run your hand along wood in the opposite direction to the grain, you're more likely to get a splinter because you're essentially pushing your hand against the chips of wood, but it also is another metaphor for the dangers of not being the same. Going against the grain in this instance means daring to be different, not going the same way everyone else is going but instead the opposite of that, and in this example splinters are the consequences one would face for being different, especially in a setting like this perfect town, where everyone is the exact same as everyone else.

A little bit later you hear the line “well Lot he had his lot in life, Job his job and i guess you’ll too, and die”.

Lot and Job are both figures found in the Bible, whose names both share spelling with common English words, but are pronounced slightly differently.

Job, from the Book of Job, was a man that was tested by God, made to suffer to test his loyalty, his ‘job’ was to believe unendingly in God and see Him as always correct no matter what.

Lot, from the Book of Genesis, was a man who went through a lot, and the phrase ‘my lot in life’ is a phrase commonly used by people to write off/explain why they don't have it as good as others, they say it's simply their ‘lot in life’.

The end of this line “i guess you’ll too, and die” i believe refers to the fact that everyone will have their own job and their own lot in life, and then everyone in the end will die.

This theory is solidified by the fact that the next line is “The Lord looked down and said ‘hey, you're only mortal’” which is a play off of the phrase ‘you're only human’. Wood himself said that the phrase ‘you're only human’ has always felt weird to him, he says, “cause like, of course I am, aren’t we all? How is that fact supposed to help? I still feel bad. What does being human mean to you?”. He follows this up by saying that the idea of God saying "hey, you're only mortal" offers the same kind of sentiment, but in a “cosmically condescending” sort of way.

The following line reads “giveth and taketh away, till things come out a certain way, leave you wondering when they might go back to normal… leave you wondering why they can't have just been normal”.

This line presents a sort of hopelessness in the realisation that things are constantly changing, nothing is any more ‘normal’ than anything else, there's no such thing as ‘normal’, which is an overarching theme found throughout the album. Once again bringing back the fact that for all intents and purposes this song is an overture for the rest of the album.

To conclude, ‘Suburbia Overture’ is, in my opinion, one of the greatest criticisms of suburban, middle class, gated community, nuclear family life i've ever seen, it highlights the problems in that life and showcases how this kind of lifestyle in its incredibly rigid and restrictive standards is incredibly harmful to the very concept of individuality, because the expectations and unspoken rules set in communities like this and the widespread idea of forced normality seeks to crush any individuality before it even has a chance to blossom.

The use of metaphors and phrases that are well known and are likely to be seen in settings such as this gated community suburban town that Wood has created really paint a subconscious picture of what this community looks like, the use of duality, how every story has another side, and how nothing that is seemingly perfect from the outside is actually perfect on the inside.

Will Wood is an incredible lyricist and the fact that he was able to cram so much symbolism and such a powerful message into a song just over 6 minutes long is genuinely incredible.

Thank you for listening to my/reading my autistic hyper fixated rambling, i hope i didn't melt your brain too badly <3

[virtualtadpole]

Behind the blue shorts: How an all-boys Catholic school sparked the origination of Thai BL

(Cross-post from Reddit)

One evening this past July in Bangkok's long-time youth hangout of Siam Square, a crowd was gathering in the street, around an area set aside for busking musicians. The mostly young-adult female audience politely applauded as several high school bands took turns performing, but they were actually waiting for a different act. After some time, the crowd began to stir as members caught sight of some two dozen teenaged boys, all in a uniform of white shirts and bright royal blue shorts, headed towards the gathering. As they filed out onto the makeshift stage area, the boys were loudly greeted with passionate, enthusiastic screams, all too characteristic of fans cheering on their idols.

But these boys weren't actual idols - not yet, at least. They were all brand new actors, yet to appear on screen anywhere. They were the cast of Love Sick 2024, an upcoming remake of the pioneering Thai BL series whose tenth anniversary they were celebrating that day, in one of their first public appearances.

Why, then, would such inexperienced newcomers inspire such fervent devotion?

The Love Sick 2024 boys (and three girls) with their audience (Tia51)

Well, for starters, the original Love Sick series is a quintessential classic of Thai BL, arguably the one pivotal work that kick-started the entire TV genre - which in the decade since has developed into an industry worth multi-millions and recognized as a major cultural export. It still holds a place close to many long-time fans' hearts, and BL, like other phenomena of fandom culture, has been known to elicit very enthusiastic emotional responses from followers.

But the scenes witnessed with Love Sick 2024's actors are actually quite reminiscent of those previously seen during the original's release, when BL series didn't yet even exist as a category. Surely, there must be something else underlying this series' - and its actors' - popularity.

Let's take a closer look.

Love Sick's real-life inspiration

In chapter 21 of the original Love Sick novel, Noh, having taken delivery of the music club's new set of drums and overseen band practice for the evening, spends some time sitting around on the stands along the sports pitch next to the F. Building, wondering how he's going to pay for them. It's not long before Earn shows up to rescue him from his financial troubles, but let's pay attention to the location.

The F. Building Noh mentioned is an actual place - F. Hilaire Building at Assumption College (AC) in Bangkok. It is named after Frère (Brother) Hilaire, one of five French missionary teachers of the Catholic Brothers of St. Gabriel who arrived in Siam in 1901.

In the late 19th century, Siam (Thailand's historical name) was rapidly modernizing in response to colonial pressures. American Protestant and French Roman Catholic missionaries played a large role introducing technological and medical advances, and also established some of the first schools in the country as the royal government introduced reforms to formalize the education system. Father Émile August Colombet, the head priest of what was then Assumption Church, founded Assumption College as a school for boys in 1885, and after a decade of growth, the Brothers were invited to help run the school. A convent school for girls, run by the Sisters of St. Paul of Chartres, was established next door soon after.

While the early government schools mostly served the aristocracy, the missionary schools catered more to the general populace, especially the minority ethnic groups who also formed the majority of their congregations. However, while they are remembered today for their legacy of modernization, the missionaries had relatively little success proselytizing, and the large majority of their students remained Buddhist.

Over time, these schools expanded and grew. The St. Gabriel's Foundation now operates over a dozen schools, as well as a university, and Assumption College is regarded as one of the most elite private schools in the country. Its lengthy list of famous alumni includes names from several of Thailand's biggest business families, as well as major political figures, demonstrating its historic stature and the strength of its alumni network. Today, the stereotypical image of its students is of those coming from wealthy or upper middle-class families of Chinese descent, and hefty donations are the norm for families looking to secure placement for their sons.

AC student Keen (Only Boo!) giving a presentation in 2022 on his team's experience joining a NASA-sponsored CanSat (miniature suborbital satellite) competition. It's not like every school has an aerospace program. (Assumption College, via Workpoint Today)

Brother Hilaire, barely 20 when he arrived in Siam, spent his next 67 years dedicated to the school. He learned Thai well enough to write the foundational Thai textbook series Darunsueksa, which remains in use over a century later. Along with Father Colombet, he is memorialized as one of the school's two most celebrated figures.

Today, the building which bears his name overlooks the school's central courtyard, an assembly ground of red brick facing the apse of Assumption Cathedral, an imposing Romanesque Revival structure nestled in Bangkok's old European district along Charoen Krung Road, the city's first modern paved street. Guests headed to the famous Mandarin Oriental Hotel nearby might catch glimpses through the steel palisade fence of boys in their white-and-blue uniforms playing football in the tiny sports pitch - the very place where Noh and Earn had their conversation in the novel. The stands are no longer there, but were present in 2007 when The Love of Siam was filmed at the school. Also appearing in the film, and the site of Noh's classes in the novel, is the 13-storey school building which now towers over the cathedral in order to accommodate its secondary student body of some 2,500 within the limited historic space. (The primary section had been split to a different campus in 1966.)

The F. Hilaire Building clock, and Kao Jirayu as young Tong in the sports pitch, seen in The Love of Siam (Sahamongkolfilm International)

A nativity play right in front of the cathedral would be epic. However, this is artistic licence, as the school's primary section lies elsewhere. This area is now the red brick courtyard; Noh actually mentions in the novel that the school was undergoing a lot of landscaping projects. (Sahamongkolfilm International)

The Love of Siam may have been one of the first few instances where the wider public got to actually see what things looked like inside the school. Although it was only standing in as a location for the fictional St. Nicholas School, there was something about seeing students in their sea of blue uniform shorts that tickled the imagination. Such was the effect that when Love Sick began serializing as a web novel on Dek-D.com a year later, the Thai subtitle, usually translated as The Chaotic Lives of Blue Shorts Guys, undoubtedly helped fuel its popularity.

But what's so special about these blue shorts anyway?

This might come as a surprise to international viewers who've only primarily seen Thailand through its TV series, where they tend to be over-represented, but school uniforms with blue shorts are actually rather uncommon in real life. Let's look back again to Brother Hilaire's time, to find out more about their origins.

A history of the blue shorts

In the early days of formal education, most schools did not have defined uniforms, and AC students wore a varied assortment of costumes according to their ethnic background. The school first introduced a uniform in 1933, consisting of a white standing-collar jacket with metal buttons bearing the school insignia, blue shorts, a white pith helmet, white socks, and black leather shoes (though the helmet, socks and shoes remained optional). This was similar to a form already used by some royally affiliated schools since the 1910s,* though their shorts were navy or black. The reason AC opted for blue shorts is not recorded, though some writers have postulated that it may have been to reflect the common colour of the raj pattern costume, the formal dress of the time.

A class of AC students, with their teachers, in the 1940s. It's unclear whether the shorts were the school's original blue, or khaki green in accordance with the 1939 law. (Assumption Association, via The Cloud)

The first piece of legislation governing school uniforms came out in 1939 under the Fascist-leaning regime of Prime Minister Plaek Pibulsonggram. Male students in government schools were assigned a khaki green military-style uniform to match that of the government's Yuwachon Thahan military youth movement. Some AC students also joined the movement, though those who didn't continued to wear the white uniform, creating an interesting contrast which we'll come back to later. In 1943, at the height of World War II in Southeast Asia, a new law extended the khaki green uniform to all schools, but it's unclear whether it ever took effect as Pibulsonggram was ousted the following year and the Yuwachon movement was dissolved after the war's end.

In 1949, the old regulation was scrapped and replaced with a new one, which codified school uniforms to the almost exact same appearance we see today: for boys, a white shirt, shorts, a belt, socks, and shoes. But the shorts were to be khaki for all schools, except those who requested otherwise to the Ministry of Education. Assumption, together with its sister Gabrielite schools, were among the first to register exemptions and became the only schools with blue shorts for their uniforms for several years.

In 1961, the national regulation was changed again to allow schools to choose between khaki, blue, navy, or black shorts. As time passed, boys' uniforms developed into the convention we see today: black or khaki shorts for government schools, blue or black for private schools. But given their prominence, the image of the all-boys Catholic school has remained one of the strongest associated with the blue shorts uniform.

Not that it mattered much back then, though. In the pre-digital era, people's exposure to different schools was mostly limited to their immediate locality and depictions in the media. While blue-shorts uniforms did feature in some teen movies and sitcoms in the 1990s,† those works didn't really play into the stereotype, and the 1997 financial crisis soon disrupted most media production anyway.

Attracting attention

Then several things happened. The BTS Skytrain opened in 1999, and Bangkok became much smaller overnight - at least for the middle class. Cram schools moved into building spaces in Siam Square left vacant from the recession, and saw an explosion in popularity. School students from all over now flocked to Siam Square in the evenings, and the video classrooms became something of an inter-school melting pot where one could catch sight of all sorts of uniform styles and colours.

And the AC boys, they very much stood out.

It's unclear exactly when things began, but throughout the years, Assumption students had developed a fashion culture of their own. The school is one of a handful that require leather shoes (as opposed to canvas),‡ and its upper-secondary students usually opted for a certain pointy style produced by a couple of old shops on Charoen Krung Road. They would also have their shorts tailor-modified to be very short - typically 15 inches or less, while uniforms coming out of the factory are usually 18 inches at the shortest for high-schooler sizes - and wear them with waists pulled very low. This was despite the rule book stating, like any other school's, that shorts should reach no more than 5 centimetres above the knee. It's actually a common refrain of experiences retold by AC students and alumni that they'd get into trouble for their shorts and shoes whenever the disciplinarian teacher would inspect their uniforms. But it was also part of the challenge, to stay on top of the fashion of their peers and at the same time get away with it.

This fashion only added to the fact that those vivid blue shorts are very visible, like, even from 100 metres away. So, coupled with the stereotype of them being rich kids with likely above-average attractiveness, these AC boys' uniforms easily caught attention, whether they were entering late into a cram school classroom or queuing for the train at the BTS's central interchange at Siam Station during rush hour.

This group strolling down the streets of Siam Square would surely draw plenty of eyes in real life. (Sahamongkolfilm International)

The turn of the 21st century also saw the spread of internet access, and with the early web came the proliferation of online discussion forums, both smaller ones serving specific groups like schools and larger public communities like the youth-oriented Dek-D. Suddenly, it became possible to peak into some of the conversations kids elsewhere were having and share in the knowledge of their hijinks at school. This, in some ways, helped fuel the fantasy of this exclusive boys' world, filled with good-looking guys in revealing shorts who weren't averse to having physical contact with each other.

The online forums also gave birth to web fiction, which soon expanded to include the emerging Y (BL) genre. Naturally, these trends eventually converged to give us plenty of Y fiction set in all-boys schools. But the epitome of these wouldn't arrive until after The Love of Siam hit screens in 2007.

The Love of Siam was probably the first major work in a decade to prominently feature the blue shorts uniform,§ and this time it was actually used to highlight the Catholic boys' school setting, employing AC itself as the location. Though it appeared only in a few short glimpses, they were powerful images that further inspired fascination with the real-life school.

It might be because it's accurate, or because the film has completely coloured viewer's perceptions, but this scene is exactly how one would imagine things to be like in those Catholic boys' schools. (Sahamongkolfilm International)

Then in 2008, Love Sick quietly began serializing on Dek-D's writers' section. The story's premise was simple, but it so effectively tapped into this collective fascination and quickly rose up the site's readership charts. Its popularity came no doubt thanks to author Indrytime's extremely lively and enjoyable writing of Noh, who narrates the story throughout. But a large part of the appeal is also attributable to the lifelike portrayal of his school life, with plenty of references to actual locations both within the school and outside - including the convent school next door and the numerous shops of Siam Square. The novel also name-dropped some of the school's actual teachers who, in Catholic school fashion, are addressed as Miss and Master, and Noh even mentions specific happenings at AC, like the new belt buckles that had been added to the school uniform for younger students that year. The only thing not mentioned was the name of the school, which was intentionally left blank. So close did the story feel to real life that the author had to emphasize its fictional nature when people started speculating about the real identities of Punn‖ and Noh and tried to identify them with actual AC students.

But the most significant reference to real life in Love Sick by far must be its descriptions of what is clearly meant to be the Jaturamitr football competition - a biennial event between Thailand's four oldest boys' schools: Assumption College, its Protestant counterpart Bangkok Christian College (BCC), and the royally founded government schools Suankularb Wittayalai (SK) and Debsirin (DS). The tradition is a HUGE part of school life at these four schools, which pretty much share this culture of intense collective institutional pride.

These boys and their ball game

It's kind of hard to explain all that the competition entails, but the football is just a small part of it. This YouTube video looking at the BCC side makes for a nice intro.¶ There are parades, mascots, Thai-style cheerleading (featuring not acrobatics, but synchronized arm movements), and most notably, the spectacular card stunt displays, which involve the entire student body from the lower-secondary years. The students will spend months practising to perfect their card flips, under the direction of the cheering president. Sounds familiar? That's Earn's position in Love Sick.

Fourwheels (Oxygen, Nitiman, La Pluie), wearing the cheering crew overalls that Noh dreams of, addressing the AC crowd in 2017 (AC Ed Tech)

Beam Boonyakorn (Make It Right) as AC's eagle mascot, though it's often teased for looking more like a chicken, also in 2017 (TTaewTaew Twitter)

The card stunt tradition actually originated at AC in 1942, from the aforementioned contrast between the military youth and regular uniforms. A teacher came up with the idea of having the differently dressed students arrange to form the school initials on the stands. This eventually developed into the elaborate displays done today, which use coloured card booklets to create pixels that together form a detailed aggregate image. Crowds of 1,250 from each school, seated opposite the paying audience, are needed to perform these.

Oat Tharathorn (Fourever You) in the card-stunt-performing audience in 2014; note the plates of colour card booklets set on the racks in front of them. (oattrt Instagram)

Such plates appeared in Love Sick 2024's episode 4 behind-the-scenes clip, but didn't show up in the actual episode. They later appeared in episode 5. (Tia51)

Regular fixtures among these displays include school logos, the royal family, and sponsors. There are also have these coordinated sequences with portraits of students and alumni greeting the crowd, which may feature some familiar faces.

A sponsor ad for Est gives way to AC student Chimon greeting the audience in 2017. (AC Ed Tech)

Alumni PP Krit (AC), Ice Natara (DS), Nonkul (BCC), and Sky Wongravee (SK) welcoming the audience, 2019 (AC Ed Tech)

GMMTV's Marc (AC) and Ford (SK) from the same sequence in 2019; Inn (BCC) from before 2014; AC alum Net Siraphop in 2023 (AC Ed Tech; Suankularb Photo Club; inpitar Instagram)

This attention to popular students didn't exist during novel Noh's time, though. Back then, few people followed the event apart from the schools' students and alumni, and football people scouting for young talent. But the 2010s' "cute boy" craze brought a sharp rise in attention from the sao-Y and cute-boy-following crowds, who flocked to the matches, some equipped with huge telephoto lenses to capture not the football action but cute guys in the audience.

BCC alumnus Inn Sarin photographed in the audience in 2014. Photos of him from the event were virally shared and boosted his following and "cute boy" stature. (inpitar Instagram)

BCC cheerleaders Winny Thanawin (2017) and Ping Krittanun (2019) (BCC Jaturamitr)

The origination of Thai BL

In some ways, the Love Sick novel helped lay the foundations for the phenomenon. It gave readers this imaginary connection to the school, which drove interest in seeing what its real-life students shared on social media, especially as Instagram exploded in popularity around 2012. And of course, attractive boys in revealing uniform shorts was already a winning combination in itself (and the fashion soon spread to other schools).

So it's appropriately fitting that things would come full circle with the 2013 announcement of Love Sick The Series, which generated huge amounts of engagement as fans recalled their impressions of the characters and shared pictures of real-life AC students whom they saw as the perfect Punn and Noh.

As it turned out, recent AC graduate White was cast as Punn, and several other AC boys were also chosen for the many supporting characters. Fans readily took to following these budding actors from the moment they were announced, gathering to meet them after acting classes and supporting them through to the last post-series events. It was a revelation in how dedicated such a fandom could be, without seeing even a second of these actors' work.

For the production, though, it could hardly be expected that explicit reference to the real-life school would be allowed, so they named the school Friday College in the series. (Which kind of bugs me. Couldn't they have at least come up with a vaguely Catholic-sounding name? Anyway, they developed it into a brand and it's stuck now.) They did model the school emblem and uniform exactly after AC's (in its 2008 form, before the new belt buckle), and the same uniform was featured in Thank God It's Friday, a 2019 spin-off set in the same universe. However, the school emblem was redesigned for the 2024 Love Sick remake, maybe because the resemblance now felt too close for comfort. (Another detail that bugs me is how the 2014 series had four-digit student IDs, while the 2024 has six. Most real-life schools have five digits!)

While it would have been a dream come true to see the actual original locations in the series adaptation (even if unnamed), this was not to happen. In fact, unlike its sister school Assumption College Thonburi, which served as the location for Hormones and numerous other works, AC seems to no longer be keen on allowing access as a filming location, and hasn't been spotted in anything since The Love of Siam.

Anyway, Love Sick's broadcast was a turning point in several ways. Of course, it most importantly kickstarted the Thai BL industry,** but this also led to a shift in Y culture where shippers turned their focus from real people to actor pairs from series. "Cute boys" from social media were now regularly tapped to join the many budding modelling agencies, who would try to push them as actors and influencers, and AC students attracted particular attention. Make It Right (2016)'s Peak, Ohm and Beam, for example, were all scouted from the school.

AC students Peak, Ohm and Beam, taken by a fan account in 2016. (allaboutpeak Twitter)

The boys made use of their newfound cult. Popular AC students were tapped to promote the school's annual Christmas Fair, which drew an influx of visitors from their followers, who happily contributed to their fundraising efforts. This was much changed from Noh's time in the novel, when the fair was still pretty much an internal event for students and their immediate friends and family.

Turbo (Love Stage!!) promoting merch for AC's 2015 Christmas Fair (turbotb Instagram)

However, this trend, as with the cute boy craze itself, seems to have largely petered out, especially as life was disrupted by the COVID pandemic and the 2020 protests brought about sharp changes in ideology among young people. Another victim of this has been the Jaturamitr competition, which was postponed for two years before taking place again in 2023.†† But it then became the topic of a huge online drama over the compulsory nature of attendance for the card stunt performances (which not everyone willingly enjoyed), and the negative public attention soured the experience for a lot of the students.

These new concerns seem to have influenced Love Sick's 2024 remake. In the novel, during preparation for the football competition, Noh talks about how hard the marching band was practising, and how he and the band leaders felt the need to push them to perfection, in order to uphold the school's reputation. There's a clear institutional pride in the way he says, "I'm sure the young ones understand. (Or if they don't now, they will in a few years.)"

This stands in sharp contrast to Earn's stance in Love Sick 2024, where he says in episode 4, "If the formation fails, the school’s reputation will just take a hit. But the school doesn’t have feelings, does it? It is they (the young ones) who have feelings."

We'll find out in a couple of hours how else they're updating the depiction of the competition, which was one of the highlight scenes in the novel thanks to how detailed it was with insider info of the behind-the-scenes workings at the Suphachalasai National Stadium in real life. It's an unfortunate fact, though, that it's near impossible that any TV production with a normal budget would even come close to the spectacle of the actual event, with its crowds in the tens of thousands. But let's see how creative the production crew can be.

After all, it's the emotional threads that make the real highlight of the story, isn't it?

Footnotes

* These schools had been set up after the English public school model by King Vajiravudh, who himself was educated in England. Vajiravudh College still uses it as its ceremonial uniform.

† One of these was I Miss You 2 (1996), which was filmed at Montfort College in Chiang Mai, another Gabrielite school. Incidentally, The Love of Siam director Madeaw Chookiat was a student there and became an extra in the film, an experience which inspired him to go into filmmaking. He would later base the Nay-Beam segment of Home (2012, one of the most significant mainstream proto-BL works) at the school.

‡ Most other schools allow both, and their students usually prefer canvas shoes. Nanyang, with its iconic green soles, has long been the most popular brand.

§ Actually there's at least Yong Songyos's Dorm (2006), set at his alma mater Assumption College Sriracha, but it's a horror focusing more on the boarding-school aspect. Yong also created a short film dedicated to the school in 2015, starring four Hormones Next Gen actors (no English subs, but there are hardcoded Thai captions that maybe a tool can translate).

‖ Sorry, but I just can't accept the spelling Phun, as it's plain incorrect. The /p/ and /ph/ are supposed to represent different sounds in Thai, but most Thai people don't understand the system as it's not taught in schools.

¶ As an expat, the video creator misses the meanings of some of the things that happen in the video. The yellow chicken is a reference to a Facebook satirist who's said to bring bad luck to sports teams, while the no-banana sign is a response to the angry chant the BCC side was yelling. It's an expletive that rhymes with the word for banana in Thai.

** Isn't it ironic that a genre revolving around a topic so controversial with the Church should be inspired by a Catholic school? But then, as director Madeaw demonstrated in The Love of Siam, religious conflict has always played an important role in driving social issues, while in the case of Love Sick, it's not actually relevant at all.

†† Yet another victim is the Chula-Thammasat Traditional Football Match, a competition between Thailand's two oldest universities which features similar elements of parades, cheerleading and card stunts. It hasn't been properly held since 2020, and when a substitute event was held in 2024, a huge online drama erupted over the student body's decision to alter certain elements.

[finsterwalds]

Got a very inspired ask inquiring about the villains in my Better Call Saul french AU so here's Gus aka famous chef Gustavo Faure and his main waiter Léo haha. More info under the cut as always...

So at first I thought about making Gus a fast-food owner like his canon counterpart, but it just doesn't fit really well if you wanna frenchify it all with nuance. We have fast-foods ofc and we do enjoy fried chicken lol, but Los Pollos Hermanos has this very distinct "patriotic" feeling that wouldn't translate as well in France, as fast-foods are american in conception. I thought about making Gus the owner of some cheaper chain like Courtepaille lmao, but it feels too memey and doesn't have the prestige that his character has canonically. Gus assimilates perfectly into american society with his brand, and caters to the people locally, so I thought it would be fair for him to do the same in France. And if you wanna cater to lovers of chic, gastronomy and prestige, what's better than being the chef of some fancy restaurant, right? It felt cliché af and looses the "close to the people" part but it honestly fits his character well, imo...

He would be extremely respected locally but still friendly and approachable due to him crafting some kind of tragic backstory for himself and his restaurant. Basically he would play the "Chilean refugee that climbed to the top of foreign cuisine" card and everyone would buy it. French people love to eat and are fond of mixing their culture's meals with more international food, so yes: I think he would serve a fusion of french/Chilean food!

He'd also be an entrepreneur as famous french chefs often have side businesses like bakeries or published books, which I think respects his canon personality pretty well. Fancy french chefs also like to hang out outside their kitchen to greet their guests and I can totally imagine Gus do that. He'd still be able to conceal his shady side nicely. He's canonically seen to like fine wine, good products, and cooks Paila Marina for Walt, so congrats to Gus for already being french in conception and not making this idea feel like a stretch lol.

I have no idea about his exact role concerning drug traffic in Europe, as I said I'm pretty ignorant about that… But he'd use his business and image to form connections and launder his money. His backstory with Max stays the same in the AU aka Max was his business """"partner""" who died killed by the Salamancas.

I don't think changing his first name was necessary, but his last name sounding american I thought I would just frenchify it a bit lol. I don't know what the name of his restaurant would be, but definitely something short, spanish, and aesthetic/poetic. Maybe a reference to Max to allude to the Hermanos part.

Bonus : I know they don't canonically meet, but in my AU I think Chuck, as a rich lawyer, would eat at Gustavo's often. They'd be acquainted :) And maybe Jérôme aka Jimmy meets him thru his brother and later discovers Gus' shady side, when the events of BrBa start.

[stick-by-me]

Puppy love 🐶

[trashmouth-richie]

⛧「 ✦ 𝔞𝔩𝔩 𝔥𝔬𝔭𝔢 𝔦𝔰 𝔤𝔬𝔫𝔢 ✦ 」⛧

⛧tattoo artist! steve 💋 ⛧rising rockstar! eddie

⛧eddie x fem reader | previous steve x fem reader

⛧reader is nicknamed cherry 🍒

⛧summary: series of blurbs revolving around you, eddie and steve. after vecna: eddie sold his soul to remain alive— him and steve leave hawkins and indiana to go to college and leave what happened in the past. eddie is on the rise of fame while steve is still battling his demons. they both meet reader at school. reader has no idea what happened, and never finds out the truth. eddie progressively turns into a mentally abusive asshole throughout this story so keep that in mind. he’s not our lovable boyfriend.

⛧part one summary: a surprise for your boyfriend, you decide to get a tattoo of his name in a very private spot, from the only one he would trust to do it, his best friend… whom you have a past with. 

⛧warnings: implied smut, depression, anxiety, possession, selling soul to devil, post s4 where both eddie and steve leave hawkins. there will be a few blurbs in this au, (in other parts: smut, degrading, possessive mean! eddie)

It was your idea to surprise your boyfriend with a tattoo. After months of him joking around about branding you as his in a more permanent way, you decided to do it.

A tattoo would last forever, it wouldn’t heal like teeth marks did or fade away like his hickeys would. His dick kicked up at the thought of his name scratched into your delicate skin. The same night he had mentioned it he had you face down in the sheets, burying himself deep within your walls until you were both out of breath. Panting, aching for and from one another. 

The date was set, and you knew better than to go to anyone but Eddie’s best friend to get it done, and Steve agreed to do it for free, since you’re Munson’s girl. 

He agreed to keep it secret because you had wanted to surprise Eddie, but as the appointment creeped up, you became more and more nervous about trying to keep your present for him under wraps. 

The day of the appointment landed on a Friday, the same night Eddie’s band was set to play at The Bloody Dime, an up and coming bar that was known for fights breaking out and drinks being cheap. 

Per his demands, you weren’t allowed within 10 feet of such a place, already having to find out the hard way when he beat the bricks off a guy who wouldn’t stop staring at you. 

Pretty baby like you doesn’t belong there, kitten… understand?

Steve’s shop was downtown from your apartment, a cozy little space nestled into a black brick building—Inked Demo spelled out with neon blue lights. 

The walls were covered with paintings of strange creatures you couldn’t imagine in your worst nightmares, deep reds and violent shades of purple. Various plants hung from the ceiling and were potted in planters or tucked into ornate little terrariums. 

It smelled of rich cedar and hand rolled cigarettes. The bell on the door dinged announcing your arrival and Steve stepped from behind the back wall. His hair was how it always was, slicked back in a dark wave, and he merely nodded to acknowledge your presence. 

“Cherry,” he greeted, using the name Eddie had introduced you to his friends. He wrapped you in a bone crushing hug, kissing your cheek gently before he held you at arms length. 

Out of all of Eddie’s friends, Steve knew you just as well as your own boyfriend did. 

A smile creeps across his lips as he lets your arms go and walks to a small desk. His tall frame slinking like a shadow as he clicks on a slim lamp and begins flipping through a binder full of current work and past tattoos. He finds the heart shaped cherries with Eddie written in pretty cursive underneath. 

They were perfect— Steve was able to capture your ideas through horrible explanations and give his own little twist to them. A modern mockup of American traditionalism with the speckles of glitter you had seen on Pinterest.

His eyes sparkle through the shadow from the light as he proudly holds up the drawing, “so… where we puttin’ this sucker?”

Originally you had thought to put it on your chest, but decided against it when Robin had told you how much her tattoo had hurt there, even more so when she had to get Barb’s name covered by a butterfly. 

Crossing the tiger print carpet to the black tattoo chair, you sit down gently with your ankles crossed, “umm, would it be weird to put it on my thigh?” you asked meekly, “kinda high up so it’s a little more private?”

Raising your skirt, you show Steve the placement. A slivered peek of scarlet lacy panties are visible beneath the hiked up fabric in your fingers, and he nearly bites a hole in his cheek to not look. 

“You could put it there,” he ponders, moving a large veiny hand through the slick of his hair, only to land on his chin to really sell the act of him thinking, tapping his bottom lip, “but ass tats are really popular.”

Eddie would go berserk seeing his name anywhere on your body, but you had to admit— there was something a little bit sexy about his name being tattooed only somewhere he could see. 

“Will it hurt?” 

His eyes light up as he grabs supplies to sanitize his work area clearing his throat, “haven’t had anyone cry yet, so I’m gonna go ahead and say no.” 

Steve’s reputation for his artwork spread far and wide, he was booked solid for months on end, self taught, making tons of money for a college drop out— despite what his dad had said. 

He had done all of Eddie’s tattoos including the enormous stretch of bat wings that spread across his shoulders and down the expanse of his back. Sharp talons protruding onto the beginning of his hips, curved around to his wrists. Steve had freehanded most of it, as if it were from memory. 

Biting your lip contemplating the placement, you think of Eddie and the swelling size of is cock as it split you open once he laid eyes on his name branded into your skin. 

“Okay,” you smile, “let’s do it.” 

Steve smirked and rubbed his jaw, “cool, lay on your stomach for me.”

Flipping onto your front you lay with your hands under your chin, looking up at him through your lashes, “like this?” 

Steve sits on the stool facing away from you, straightening his table and tattoo gun, looking over his shoulder meeting your eye, “yeah… that’s perfect, Cherry.” 

You watch in amusement as he sterilizes his work station and sets up the ink, “Eddie playin’ at the Dime tonight?” 

“Yep,” you sigh, thinking of all the time you’d spent alone while he was gone, “last show of their College Daze Tour, then back to finals, and normal life.” 

A scoff rumbles from Steve’s throat as he wraps his gun, “what’s even considered normal? Everything is pretty shitty around here.” 

Propping up on an elbow you set to argue with him, “going to class is normal, hanging out with our friends, partying, sleeping in the same bed instead of him crashing in the back of someone’s van— that’s all routine for me, for us…” you sigh a little, picking at your thumbs. 

Steve looks over and sees the sadness in your face, grabbing the pink disposable razor, “last I heard from him, he was looking to leave Corroded and start up somethin’ with a few guys from here. Can’t say I blame him, anything to do with home is hard to deal with.” 

Eddie never talked about Hawkins. The only thing you knew about it was that he and Steve got the hell out of there the year he graduated, never looking back, never visiting. 

“That’s the plan for now at least… honestly, I wish he would take a break for a while, but you know him— he’s really driven to be the best he can be.” 

Steve knew all too well. Spending nights awake staring out of his large apartment windows, missing the way things used to be, regretting everything that happened in Hawkins. 

 “Eddie’s…passionate…about the things he cares about, he’s always been that way.” 

That part was always true, Eddie carried his feelings on his sleeve, never afraid to show his emotions, or make sacrifices for people he loved. Steve himself was a living breathing reminder of that. 

“…alright Cherry,” his voice dripped with smoothness as he got closer to you, “everything’s ready…I’ll need to lift your skirt so I can prep the skin, you cool with that?” 

You reply with a yes, and feel the goosebumps prick at your skin as the cool air hits your exposed cheek. The rubber of Steve’s glove drags across your skin as he rubs in the sanitation spray. “‘m gonna shave you now.” 

This being your first tattoo you didn’t know what to expect, heat flooding your cheeks immediately, “oh my God is it hairy?” 

Steve chuckles low, a fan of his breath blowing warm against your skin, “not at all honey, it’s just standard procedure for any tattoo.” 

He was delicate as he ran the blade across you in small motions away from him. One rubber gloved hand held your skin taut, the other on the razor. Your ass bounced back to him after the last drag of the razor leaves your skin, and you swore you heard him suck in a breath. 

Steve had always been handsome, ever since the first time you met during that freshman year mixer in the backyard of some random frat house it was that he was rushing for. 

He was different then, preppy clothes and expensive shoes, surviving during the week just to live for the weekends. A flask with his name claim permanently pressed to his palm. King Steve. 

But somewhere along the lines of college stresses and life back in Hawkins— he changed, dropped out of college completely and dove into his natural talent. Making a name for himself, carving his own path. 

That was why you had fallen for him to begin with. 

“E-Eddie said you have a date this weekend, are you excited?” 

Steve wipes your skin with a paper towel and spreads a thick ointment to lay the stencil, “I wish he’d stop trying to set me up.” 

His thumbs sweep across the stencil laying it firmly in place, “oh c’mon Steven…Lydia’s cute, she’s in one of my elective art classes, she reminds me of you.” 

Steven. Nobody ever called him by his full name.

“Of me?”

Looking over your shoulder you meet his deep mossy eyes, “in a weird way I guess, yeah.”  

He looks back into your eyes, watching as you slowly blinked and drifted your gaze downward to where his large hands were still splayed across your ass. 

The dusting of hair on his arms tickled your skin when he pulled back gently, pinching a corner of the transfer paper and peeling it from you. He purses his lips and blows on the stencil lightly. 

Steve often thought back to the way things were three years ago. The way your eyes gleamed under the string patio lights, the scent of your vanilla perfume and how it seemed to bake deeper with the sun's rays on your skin. 

He remembered how your lips tasted like melted ice cream against his, and how deeply he craved to be floating in the candy confectionery of sugar and sprinkles with you in the center of it, center of his world. 

Steve shakes his head, trying to erase that time in his life but always coming up short. “This won’t hurt too bad, I’ll stop whenever you need, okay? It’s best if you lay down.”

Your chest tightens with nerves as you nod your head, pressing your cheek into the vinyl of the black headrest. 

The gun starts and Steve tells you he’s going to do the outline of the cherries first. The needle vibrates into your skin and you wince at the first few lines made but eventually getting used to the way your skin buzzed and the pain that came from it. 

You whimpered out in a few spots and Steve’s velvet voice shushed you gently, telling you the worst was almost over. 

“Outlining is finished,” Steve murmurs, rubbing ink from your skin, “you’re doing really good, honey.” 

Your mind slips to him saying those words in a different setting, a miniature golf course with clubs that were too short and a go-kart track. He had said it when you finally sunk your ball after par ten thousand on hole eleven. 

Sarcasm spread across his face and you wiggled your tongue at him and threw a middle finger his way. Only for him to chase you around the tiny windmills and grassy hills, catching up and tickling you under your arms until you were near to tears. 

You thought he would have kissed you that night, but to your surprise and dismay— he had waited for the third official date.

“Thank you,” you smile weakly. 

He returns the smile and looks away, clearing his throat, “the shading will be a cake walk, we’ll be done here before you know it…might even catch the end of Eddie’s show.” 

“Really?” you say with a spring of hope in your voice. He couldn’t dismiss how his friend's name made his mouth taste like poison, but how it made you weak in the knees. “That would be great, Steve.”

“Sure thing princess,” he nearly whispered, “lay back now, I’ll be done soon.” 

Steve tried to blank it all out as his tattoo gun spelled  Eddie in a cursive calligraphy he knew was yours. Letter by letter he swallowed down the feelings he had been harboring from you, from him— from everyone. 

He wished he had never taken you to that concert. He loathed himself for the way Eddie slithered between the two of you, how Eddie could have had any girl at that after party but he chose you simply because you were with him. 

Steve tried to deny him of it, tried to steer him toward another girl, a girl who wasn’t you. One he hadn’t been in love with, one who didn’t appear in his dreams despite the nightmares clouding in. But one low growl and a flash of those sharp fangs and Steve knew he didn’t stand a chance. 

Letter by letter he branded his friend’s name into your skin, giving the girl he loved a silent goodbye with every curve and final dot of the ‘i’.

“All done,” he said with a shaky throat, cleaning you up, “wanna see it?”

You nod and reach for his outstretched hand,  swinging your legs and standing to follow him to the mirror. It was perfect. Equal parts colorful yet traditional with a spark of modern flare added to it. 

“Steve,” you gasp, mouth hung open in adoration, “it’s beautiful!”

He rubs his neck and watches your reflection in the mirror, the way your mouth ticks up on the ends into the sweetest smile he’d ever seen.

His heart was aching knowing it wasn’t for him

[tiredofthehumanlife]

Exquisite dancing and a loving married couple

Part one

Barbie dolls: husband! president!Coriolanus Snow x gn! Reader

Word: 5.3k

Summary: your joints are shit and you Coryo go to a gala and you guys are freaking cute

Warning: mentions of cream be mature it's like icy hot cream ok the brand is made up don't go looking for this magical blue flower joint cream, you like ceramics, you know that sound that goes okokokokokok and lalalala yeah that's y'all, you yap and coryo listens, you think you're a hassle and Coriolanus is like 😡hey shut up 💗, ypu have chronic pain/disability its mostly vague but your joints hurt, coriolanus is a lil ooc bc I wrote this before I finished the book and movie, his job is a lil vague but it's insinuated he's president, also speaking of president if you're American please go vote every vote counts plz, a man tries to flirt with you I didn't want it to be like traumatic but he is gross so he's like comically creepy, you're a smidgen oblivious but consider it in the autistic way not the "oh I'm a ditsy innocent Virgin reader I wear Velcro shoes and lace panties always what's body hair" way, old lady bothers yall, you kinda ignore what's going on and let coriolanus handle all the social interactions, mentions of sex and mildly nsfw, its kissy and light touching, you don't drink alcohol or at least not at this specific gala, yea that's it

With the warm dinner in your shared bed still feesh on his mind, Coriolanus decided he wanted to get closer to you. If you would grant him the friend title, he'd accept it. If he could choose, you'd both use kisses as greetings and know everything about each other.

Truly he worried more about how much pain you went through in your day-to-day life. Coriolanus decided there were going to be changes in how people treated you. Mavvy was going to be your right-hand-maid, ready to jump into action if you ever needed it. If he even caught a whiff of someone making an off-handed comment about you, he planned to leave his precious gem cuff links in your hands and start swinging. On the topic of him, he decided he was going to spend every minute of his free time worshiping you if it meant you'd be more comfortable. 

One evening after work he stopped by a local cornerstone with racks upon racks of simple medical supplies. Coriolanus followed the clerk around as he spit possibly thousands of words all about the best ways to help with joint pain.

Coriolanus came home with bags so stocked full of supplies he stumbled through the sunroom door, almost dropping them all. After you swallowed your shock, you two started experimenting with all the new supplies. Some of them helped, some of them didn't, but your favorite was the cream that had a blue flower on the bottle. 

For one Coriolanus was adamant on not letting you do it yourself. He just had to rub it in for you. After the third time, you didn't mind it at all. You liked him massaging your joints. You felt like it was the only way they felt any better. The cream helped definitely, his hands were just a bonus. 

Just like that, your relationship started to shift. After the bath situation, you had more good days than bad in your body. Some days you would rest more than you truly wanted but for the most part, you were doing pretty good.

 Though sometimes you mentioned the pain to Coriolanus even if it wasn’t all that bad just so he’d rub your joints and muscles. He got so used to it, that he started to do it absentmindedly. Coriolanus rubbed the muscles in your hand as you two were settling into bed. He rubbed the back of your calves when he massaged the cream into your knees. He rubbed your shoulders every time he pulled your coat on or off.

His dresser became more and more cluttered with your creations as time went by. You laid in bed longer in the mornings so you could compliment him on his clothes before he left.

 Coriolanus sometimes even changed outside of his closet. Every time he looked up, you’d be watching him. It made his chest puff out. It gave him so much confidence he thought about always undressing and redressing in front of you. You talked almost constantly around him, he loved every word of it. You didn’t stop talking and ask him about himself, you just talked. He listened and when the conversation floated back to him, you listened to every bit. 

Soon enough you became friends that happened to be married. You both secretly thought there were some simmering romantic feelings that grew with every touch and laugh. You didn’t sleep on other sides of the bed now, you actually scooted into the center to hold onto one another. You always used the ruse of hurting arms that just needed to be wrapped around someone. Coriolanus saw through you like glass but played along. He held you just as tight as you held him. He thought if he could choose where he got to die it would be right there in your arms. 

Months flew by with you just inching closer and closer. You both became comfortable with each other. Dinners were one of your favorite times of the day. You got to talk with Coriolanus and laugh over good food. Halfway through your rant about the difference between Earthenware and Porcelain, Coriolanus touched the back of your hand to silently ask you to pause for a second. You paused your sentence, looking away from the food you had been pushing around. Coriolanus wiped the corners of his mouth with his napkin before setting it back in his lap. 

“This weekend there is a gala I need to go to for work,” Coriolanus said, hoping you caught on to where he was heading. You smiled and set your fork down. 

“Okay, I hope you have fun. I can handle the house on my own for one night, no problem.” Your tone was so bright he felt like you might be more excited to stay home. Coriolanus shook his head. He gripped onto your hand, making sure his seriousness was received. 

“I’d like you to go with me.” He clarified, watching your expression closely. You stared at him like you didn’t understand why and looked at your plate instead. “You’re not being forced to go. I just want you to be there. I know I would have a much better time if you were there. I think you would enjoy yourself.” Coriolanus waited for you to look back to him. You peeled your eyes away from your plate. Your other hand came to rest on top of his, making a sandwich with your hands. 

“Are you sure you want me to go? I might just end up being a hassle. If it’s a work thing I want you to be able to meander about. I’d just weigh you down.” You said, staring into his eyes so sincerely it hurt. He shook his head at you, upset you could even think those words about yourself. 

“You’re not a hassle. I want you to come with me. I want to spend the night with you. Also, I’m forced to go, so taking you with me would make the night enjoyable.” Coriolanus’ hand was warming from yours. He wanted to flip his hand over and hold onto your other one but he was trapped. You finally nodded. 

“I’ll go.” You whispered. Coriolanus let you continue your speech on clay types, returning to his food. 

The rest of the week flew by and before you knew it, you were getting ready with Mavvy next to you. You took a bath and there she was, clipping her nails while sitting on the bathroom sink. Mavvy helped you dress, smiling at you when she finished. You hated to have favorites when it came to people but you liked Mavvy much more than any of the maids or butlers. Mavvy walked with you as you made it downstairs. Mavvy lead you to the Library. Coriolanus heard your footsteps and stood from the chair he was sitting in. He paused when he looked you up and down. He smiled and nodded at you, holding his arm out for you. Coriolanus muttered compliments as you walked into the venue. 

It was stunning, the decorations made you want to inspect them and dissect them to find out what they were made of. You held onto Coriolanus’ arm and tuned out his words. He pulled you towards a wall but you didn’t watch where you were going, staring at what looked like fake dragonflies and butterflies dance around in the air.

There was soft music playing from the wall across from the entrance. There was an orchestra whispering out tunes towards the chattering crowd. It wasn’t packed but there were definitely plenty of people. Against the wall Coriolanus was dragging you towards was food and drinks, plenty of glittering small foods and dishes.

Around the floor were round tables that could sit eight at maximum. Towards the orchestra was an empty space of floor that had a few people casually dancing on. You decided you and Coriolanus would be dancing at some point tonight. On the opposing wall from the food, was another row of long tables, though you couldn’t make out what was on those. Coriolanus’ fingers brushed against your cheek, dragging your chin back towards him. You understood and focused on where you were heading instead of the room. 

Coriolanus walked towards a group of maybe six people. They all greeted him warmly. He introduced you, you gave them a short smile and nod. He listed off their names and you committed none of them to memory but pretended you did.

Coriolanus wandered around the room, greeting plenty of people and talking plenty of business with them. You got bored quickly, slipping away from his side with a kiss on his cheek. You headed straight for the table with beverages, at least you’d have something to hold onto. You wandered around the table, holding your hand up to cover the card that had the name of the food on it, guessing and revealing the answer to yourself. You had gotten 7 right out of the 10 you tried but it was more entertaining than listening to Coriolanus yammer about business. 

A man came and stood next to you, picking up a Meat Stick Thingamabobber, as you had named them. You moved on to the next item, guessing Brie and learning it was actually some other fancy cheese you didn’t know how to pronounce. The man moved with you, scooting over one. You moved over two, staring down at the Rosemary Crackers you had no interest in eating. The man finally greeted you, still following after you and scooting down the table. 

“Vinal. Richardson.” He stuck his hand out towards you, a crystal plate stacked with Meat Stick Thingamabobbers in the other. You could not want to shake someone’s hand less. You still shook it though, giving him a quick smile. You gave him your first name, looking back at the stupid Rosemary Crackers. 

“Do you work here? I’ve never seen you in the Office?” He asked. When he said here you assumed he meant do you work in Coriolanus’ office. You shook your head. 

“Oh no, I’m a plus one. I very much could not work in the Office.” You chuckled, thinking of the way you felt incomplete without looking or making art at some point during the day. Like just today you walked into your sunroom, realized how much work it would be to paint, and left. How could you live without that joy in your life? Vinal chuckled like he was inside on the joke. Which he was not. You glanced over his shoulder, trying to spot Coriolanus without looking like you were looking. 

“Guess not. You’re too pretty to sit in the office all day.” Vinal said. You moved towards the end of the table, picking up a drink. You already tried one and they were quite enjoyable. They had a fruity taste to them and even though they weren’t alcoholic they made you less nervous. You had a reason to be quiet while you were sipping. 

“Well I don’t know, I know at least one very pretty person who works in an office.” You countered, thinking of Coriolanus getting dressed in the morning. He didn’t know it but the sun always peaked out from the curtains and caught in his hair while he buttoned his shirt. He might think you liked to watch him dress for more lewd reasons. Though maybe he wasn’t completely wrong, you liked watching his gears turn. Watching him get ready for the day always felt so domestic you might even think your wedding was sparked by love. You knew he thought of all the words you told him in the morning so you planned them out as he pulled his outfit together piece by piece. As you looked up from your drink, the smile on Vinal’s face set you on edge. 

“Aren’t you a little tease? Well, where do you work then?” You furrowed your eyebrows at Vinal. What did that have to do with being a tease? You weren’t sure how you should answer his question. You didn’t really work. 

“I make art. Mostly I stay at home.” You gave Vinal a half-shrug. He oooed. 

“You make art? What kind? My mother is actually a painter. I’m sure she’d love you.” You took a sip from your glass, glancing around the room like you were lulling his question over. You still hadn’t caught Coriolanus. Damn your husband for wearing neutral colors. Why could he not where bright neon orange, at least you’d find him when you needed him. 

“I do all sorts of things.” You finally answered. Vinal nodded. 

“I’m sure you do. Where’s your friend? You’re a plus one right, I wanna meet your friends.” Vinal asked, glancing around the room with you. You shrugged. 

“I’m not sure actually.” You whispered into your drink. Vinal reached out for your face, turning your head to face his again. 

“Or we could just get out of here…go somewhere quiet?” Your skin crawled and you realized just how extremely happy you were married off to Coriolanus instead of some freak like Vinal. You sucked in a harsh breath, that he probably considered a good sign. You looked away from him, begging for Coriolanus to appear.

He must’ve heard your thoughts because he took a step back from the group he was talking to, smiling and taking a step forward again to join the conversation again. You shoved your drink into Vinal’s hands and stepped away from him. You moved as quickly as you could from him, hoping he didn’t follow. You glanced over your shoulder, glad to see he stayed in his spot. You swerved around the people moving about the tables.

 You felt your anxieties slightly ease when Coriolanus was close enough you could hear his voice. You dipped into Coriolanus’ group, joining him at his side. You pressed your hand into the small of his back.

Coriolanus kept his eyes on the coworker he was speaking to, nodding with whatever they were saying. He still showed you he recognized your existence, pulling his arm around you and tucking you into his side.

You glanced over at Vinal to find him still standing at the table with your plate in his hands and staring at you upset. You reached up to tuck a stray hair behind Coriolauns’ ear. You pressed your knuckle against his cheek for a second longer than you normally would. You were silently telling him you needed his attention. Coriolanus’ brows pinched but he still stared at the person talking. When his coworker finished talking and a new coworker started he turned to face you. 

“Do you know a Vinal Richardson?” You whispered. Coriolanus gave you a confused look. 

“Yes, he’s a vile little worm, why?” He answered, keeping his tone low. You held onto Coriolanus’ back tighter. 

“I think he just tried to get me to go sleep with him. And meet his mother. I think I accidentally flirted with him, but I really didn’t mean to it just came out wrong. I was talking about something else but he must’ve taken it to mean I was talking about him. Now he’s all upset because I ditched him and every time I look over my shoulder he’s staring-“ Coriolanus tugged you forward into a hug, using it to comfort you and look over your shoulder. There he was, Vile Vinal. Pouting away and glaring at Coriolanus. Coriolanus pulled you back and knocked his nose with yours. He gently kissed the corner of your mouth and rubbed your back. 

“Don’t worry about him. How is your body feeling?” Coriolanus asked. You pressed your nose against Coriolanus’ collar, breathing in the scent you started to associate with your home. 

“I need to rest soon. I feel hot.” You whispered into his clothes. Coriolanus pressed a kiss to your forehead. He gave his coworkers a goodbye and a promise of later returning. He gently pulled you away from your hug and held onto your elbow.

He moved you towards a nearby table and pulled out a chair for you. You slumped into it, fanning your face with your hands. Coriolanus picked up a piece of very thick paper that held the details of the reason and funding for the gala. Special thanks and all that. He fanned you with it. It helped greatly, the soft breeze cooling the burning under your skin. His hand slipped over your shoulder, rubbing the tension from it as he fanned you. You hummed and leaned your cheek against his forearm. You heard the chair next to you drag across the floor. You didn’t worry about it, focusing on Coriolanus fanning you. The voice you assumed from an older woman asked Coriolanus if you were alright. 

“Just fine, Ma’am. A little hot, that's all.” Coriolanus answered, you could hear his smile. His hand traveled up your shoulder and neck. He gently tilted your head back against his abdomen, fanning your neck and chest. The old woman started rattling off about how much she loved watching newlywed couples interact, it reminded her of her last husband. You peeked an eye open at that, tilting your head to the side, much to Coriolanus’ disapproval, making eye contact with the old lady. 

“Are we still considered newlyweds if it’s been months?” You asked. Coriolanus kept fanning you. His other hand resting on your cheek and rubbing his thumb in soothing circles. The old woman raised an eyebrow. 

“I suppose not, keeping the love young then. You two still have the Glow.” You quirked an eyebrow, confusion lacing your face. Coriolanus trailed his fingers up to your brow line, massaging away the wrinkle. You closed your eyes, not caring again, and leaned your head back against him. 

“You just have the look of young and new love. Must be the honeymooning, that always keeps the stress and anxiety of marriage sedated.” The old woman muttered. You furrowed your brows again, turning your head away from the woman in disgust. Coriolanus rested his hand on the side of your neck, reminding you he was still right there with you. Like you could forget that amazing makeshift fan of his, oh is that a cooler brush of air than last time? 

“Trust me, Ma’am. The love of ours is something much more pure. Honeymooning can only get you so far. Care and trust is what takes you to the finish line.” Coriolanus defended. Was it even really defending? You supposed so, this old woman just said you two only worked because you fucked. Which was falsities at best. You reached up and held onto Coriolanus’ wrist. He kept the fan going with his other hand. He twisted his hand in a strange way to release your grip and intertwine your finger instead. The woman smacked her lips. 

“Well, I suppose that’s true. You don’t hear that often from young birds like you two. All the yougins think about honeymoons.” She said. You sat up straighter, feeling like you could handle another hour or two before you needed to go. Coriolanus ignores the woman, putting his focus on you again. 

“How are you feeling?” He asked, slowing his fanning. You clenched your teeth. You could lie and say you were fine but that’s exactly how you ended up stuck in the bathtub. 

“I could probably power through another hour or two.” You answered. Coriolanus dropped the paper onto the table. 

“That’s not what I asked, How are you feeling?” Coriolanus repeated. You felt too tired to be scolded. 

“Tired and my legs hurt. I know you have more to do though so I can wait here and we can stay for longer.” You said, trying to cover up how badly you just wanted to go home and go to sleep. Coriolanus clicked his tongue. The old woman nodded in understanding. 

“Ready to skip town and get back that honeymoon bed?” She asked. She must’ve felt like a genius detective coming up with that one. 

“Chronic pain.” You answered, tired of her blabbering in your ear.

 “No,” Coriolanus said in sync with your words. He sent a look over toward the old woman, if you didn’t know him you’d think it was just a confused look. You did know him and you knew he was beyond annoyed with her. 

“I think I’m actually feeling exhausted, all that classical music tuckered me out. What do you think, Darling?” Coriolanus asked. You stood from your chair, leaning into Coriolanus. 

“I think, we ought to get you home. You must be running a fever, sweetheart.” You pressed the back of your hand to his forehead and yanked it back. You shook it out sucking in a breath. ”Oh you’re burning up, we must take you home immediately.” Coriolanus smiled at you joining in on the ruse, sticking his arm out for you to hold onto. 

Your driver made quick work of getting you two home. In the car, you leaned against Coriolanus and felt your heart soar when he wrapped both his arms around you.

In no time Coriolanus was pulling you through the bedroom door. Mavvy followed both of you inside, trying to help you out of your clothes. She had placed your shoes back on the rack, moving back to you. By the time Mavvy had finally started the process of getting your first piece of clothing off, Coriolanus was taking over her responsibilities. He was already half undressed, his pajama pants on and his matching shirt waiting on the edge of the bed. Mavvy seemed hesitant letting him take the reins. When you smiled at her and rubbed her hand soothingly, she left the room. 

Coriolanus was much slower than Mavvy. Mavvy was destination-focused. She was just trying to get you into your pajamas as fast as possible. She wanted you in bed and her shift over as quickly as possible. You tried to tell her she could go to bed already and you could undress yourself, you were an adult after all. Yet she waved your hands off and continued. 

Coriolanus was path-based, moving his hands terribly slowly. He took plenty of time just pulling your clothes down to the floor. His fingertips dragged across your skin, making you shiver. He rested his hands on your hips as he moved behind you to work the rest of your clothes off of you.

You waited for his hands to move, but they were frozen on your hips. They ran up your back, making you stand straighter, before dipping over your shoulders. He ran them down your arms and stopped at your hands. He fiddled with your fingers, running his fingers against your fingertips. He moved his hands around to the back of yours. He felt the way your knuckles flexed with your finger twitched, felt the underside of your wrists, and felt the wish of your hands always being on him get caught behind his teeth. You tilted your head to the side, trying to meet his eyes. Coriolanus turned his body slightly so you could see him staring into your soul eyes. 

“I think I like this better when you do it than Mavvy.” You whispered. You wanted to mention the differences in pacing, how his fingers made your skin burn, how much you wanted him to just spend the next hour running his hands over your body. Coriolanus’ face stayed neutral. It scared you slightly, maybe you spoke out of turn. Maybe you should’ve stayed silent entirely. His eyebrows twitched up and the smallest, tiniest, most minuscule grin pulled at his lips. 

“Why thank you, I like this more too.” He thought of all that was running through his mind. Romance was something you two hadn't even tried to approach, it was all about reaching friendship so you could withstand each other.

Npow the electrics that ran through your fingers when you touched his skin, the way your eyes pulled him closer, and just the way you two moved with each other physically and mentally, he could feel something stirring. It was so easy for you to catch what he was thinking without even a word, you both could communicate with nothing but a touch, and oh man the way your compliments sent waves across his body.

He could hear the storm approaching. The relationship was about to take a massive hit and change for better or for worse. Whether he liked it or not, the friendship you two had just built was about to come raining down on the both of you. Coriolanus hoped it would be used to blossom a gorgeous flower that would allow him to kiss you with a thousand unspoken words. There was always the chance that it could start a flood and you two would be whisked away from each other and end up on opposite sides of the bed again. 

As you stared at him, he was certain you could read minds because you spoke again. You nudged him towards the storm and he was almost entirely certain you knew what you were doing. 

“You know, I wanted to dance with you tonight. Too much happened before we could do that though.” You said, facing the front again. Coriolanus would’ve stayed silent but a crack of metaphorical thunder pushed the words out of his mouth before he could stop them. 

“I planned on asking you for a dance before we left as well. Great minds, I suppose.” Coriolanus ran his hands down your arms again, intertwining your fingers. You leaned back against him and pulled his arms to cross over your body. 

“Wish we brought our dancing shoes home, then.” You muttered. You tilted your head at a strange angle to catch a glimpse of him, hoping he caught on to what you were hinting at. Coriolanus smiled and dipped his nose to your temple. No, he caught it. He tightened his arms around you. 

“Think you could manage just one dance?” He whispered, pressing his lips to your cheekbone. You nodded. You turned around in his hold, pressing your chest to his. You slipped your arms around his waist, knocking your nose with his for a second. 

“As long as it’s slow and gentle. Think you can handle that, Mr. Snow?” You said, a smile still pulling at your lips. Coriolanus pulled one of your hands from his back, intertwining your fingers. He held up your hand, slippingll into the dancing position. He rested his other hand on your back, just as yours was on his. He started to slowly sway with you, tipping you around the carpeted floor of your shared bedroom. He leaned towards your ear. 

“Coryo. Please, darling.” Coriolanus whispered. 

”How many more times are you going to change your name?” You joked, enjoying the swaying pace he started. Coriolanus shook his head. He gave you a light shrug and continued your dancing. You were terribly happy he had already made it halfway into his pajama set. His fancy shoes definitely would’ve hurt if there was a misstep. It was just the two of you, half-naked, socked feet moving in sync, and absolutely no music. Probably would’ve been better if he started some tunes but you didn’t seem to care at all, grinning up at him. 

You tried to imagine how this dance would’ve been if you actually did dance at the gala. Coriolanus would’ve been uptight. He moved differently with his coworkers than he did with you. His back was straighter, his smile was tighter, and every word was calculated. You imagined how he would’ve danced with you in the way he was taught to as a child. Not like he was now. 

You liked this much more. It was just a simple way that rocked you back and forth. Coriolanus was relaxed, pressing his skin against yours. He was humming in your ear like he could hear music you couldn’t. His hand was gentle rubbing your back, keeping you close to him. You enjoyed this much more than the dance that could’ve been at the gala.

 Coriolanus’ hand slipped down from the small of your back to the top hem of your underwear. You cocked your head to the side, asking him what he thinks he’s doing with your look. Coriolanus peeled his eyes away from the space over your shoulder he was staring at to meet your eyes. As you two slowed your moves in your swaying circle with connected eyes, his fingertips under the band of your underwear. It wasn’t traveling just dipping in to test you, your feelings, to test it all.

Coriolanus raised an eyebrow at you, asking you what you thought about his move. Your hand on his back shifted to his chest, trailing up to his neck. He tilted his chin up as you ran your fingers over the side of his throat. He pressed his fingertips into your skin, begging you for more. 

You held onto the back of his head. You pulled his face closer to yours, knocking your noses together. Coriolanus slowed your sway, pulling you into a standpoint. He brought your intertwined hands to his shoulder, dropping your palm onto it. His now free hand found your cheek. He glanced between your eyes and lips. A question was laced in his flickering gaze, were you ready to step into the rain with him?

A small grin reached your lips. That was all the answer he needed, leaning closer to you. He was taking his sweet time inching his lips closer and closer to yours. All of his tailing fingertips the past few weeks made you impatient. You lurched forward and pressed your lips against his. 

After getting married, all you could think about was how intimidating your husband was. How were you supposed to grow closer to him if you couldn’t even look him in the eye? He just set you on edge so you tried to avoid interacting with him. You wrote to him instead of speaking because it was easier. All you could think about in those first months was staying away from Coriolanus. 

Now all you could think about was how to get closer. He moved his lips against yours in perfect harmony with your movements. Coriolanus left a buzzing against your skin. Even with his mouth on yours and hands pressing into your flesh you couldn’t think of anything but more more more more and more. You pulled back enough to suck in a breath, your lungs straining under your ribs. Coriolanus dipped his mouth down, kissing under your chin. You breathed hard, your skin pressing into Coriolanus’.

You pulled his mouth away from your neck by the back of his head. You pressed your lips against him before he could complain. Coriolanus must’ve felt the same way you did about him needing to be closer because his hands started to dig into your back again. Coriolanus’ fingers rested on the edge of your underwear and slipped further inside, pressing his palm against your ass. He tugged you closer to him, pressing your body fully against his. He hummed into your lips like he was finally happy with your proximity. 

As much as you wanted to kiss him until you both decayed into swaying skeletons, your lungs needed substance and your knees were hurting again. You slowly pulled back. Coriolanus was clearly not agreeing with this move, chasing after your lips by pressing his lips back to yours in brief kisses and trying to draw you back in. You tapped his shoulder, telling him to pull away. He pulled back, finally giving you time to breathe. 

That night he rubbed the cream into the joints of your legs and kissed you again before slipping into the covers. You two had never slept so close in that bed. Your legs were tangled. He was holding onto you like you were his lifeline. You were actually incredibly glad you married Coriolanus. Coriolanus added a new flower on top of your dresser in the morning. He couldn’t be more thankful for the very not real and incredibly metaphorical thunderstorm that pushed the two of you together. 

[ma1dita]

heyyyy! can i get a ticket for the graveyard smash! starring steve harrington with chocolate and ice cream??

1980s horror film

[STARRING: STEVE HARRINGTON x reader ;  “Really? Now? God, you have terrible timing.” “How long have you been watching me?” ] wc: 1.3k warnings: MDNI- mentions of unspecified drugging, kidnapping, dubcon, light bondage, biting biting biting, slight p in v at the end; hot topic was first opened in 1989 but i couldn’t care less about accuracy rn okay go be horny and enjoy

monster mash-terlist

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This happened because of an ice cream and an offer.

It was after 9pm already with Starcourt void of mindless Hawkins crowds, and the building dimmed to help the few poor souls who close up shop on $3.35 an hour.

You were a pretty thing that walked by every so often and quite frankly the only reason he’d always find himself looking in the direction of the brand new Hot Topic that opened up three stores down—powdered skin and blood red lips dressed straight out of a dark fantasy. Pretty weird—Dustin swore he’s seen a picture of you in the Dungeons and Dragons handbook. But something about you was captivating; Steve would choke on air every time your eyes would meet over the register on days his friend would drag him in to look at collectibles and game pieces. This looks like a store the freaks he used to bully would frequent more, but as he moseys around the aisles pretending to look interested in merch from bands he’s never heard of and a wall of different fishnet stockings and nose piercings—he doesn’t realize you’ve snuck up next to him.

“Find what you’re looking for?”

Steve flinches slightly when your voice cuts through a lull in the incomprehensible screamo music that reverberates through the store. He’s an oddity here, the all-American sweetheart standing against your rack of black lace and ripped jeans.

“Um, I’m not…sure,” he stutters, suave confidence quickly broken at the sight of you smirking at his discomfort. He booked it quickly after that, opting to stand outside and stare through the window while Dustin’s gummy grin greeted you with his purchase.

You haven’t left his mind since—so his way of coping was to lean against the counter of his workplace keeping his eyes peeled for a cloud of darkness to walk by.

“You’ve always wanted things you can’t have, huh dingus?” his best friend said, nudging him roughly as she chucks her sailor hat at him and swivels toward the exit, “See you tomorrow!”

“W-what? You’re not gonna help me close up?”

Robin smirks as she walks backwards, pointing in the direction of your store and grinning at his dumbfounded expression, “You got it, tough guy. Here’s your opportunity!”

And it came in the form of watching you throw your whole weight on the rolling storefront gate, grunting as it bounced back to the midway point.

Thankfully Steve was always a helpful guy, especially with pretty girls in need.

“Need a hand?”

“God, how long have you been watching me? This is embarrassing,” you laugh—and the sound of it sounds cool to the touch. Your platform boots thunked against the tile floor, his attention gravitating upwards from your stockinged legs up to the corset that pushed your ti–what is he doing here again? Steve clears his throat, looking in any other direction, licking his lips as his hands pressed against yours to push the gate shut, and it felt like magic. Electric, he thinks, and he looks at you with bated breath before asking if you want an ice cream before he closes the shop.

What a treat, right?

The last time Steve had a headache this bad, Billy Hargrove had beaten him to a pulp and given him a mild concussion.

He’s laid out and completely bare, hands and ankles bound with ropes to the posts of your bed. Blinking slowly, he realizes he can’t see much in the dim candlelight that fills your bedroom, twinkling through the gauzy fabric that hangs from your canopy. Your weight is almost comforting against the firmness of his torso if it weren’t for the fact that goosebumps cover every inch of his skin. And you’re looking down at him with your canines bared in a toothy grin.

“Been waiting for you to wake up, pretty boy,” you coo. Steve groans at the sight of you wearing nothing but moonlight, sitting atop him like a queen on her throne. He can feel his cock standing at attention and resting against the plump of your asscheeks, soft and smooth like the rest of you. Steve can’t tell if this is his worst nightmare or biggest dream come true, still in a haze as he watches your black claws for nails rake slowly up his hairy chest, index finger grazing a nipple and he hisses— a sound you’ve pulled out from deep within his core. You laugh at his utter desperation; it’s a funny thing to be wanted by someone so completely opposite of you, so good it almost feels wrong. But nothing about the way your lipstick marks dot his skin could ever feel like this was not meant to be.

“How…what ha—” he slurs, until a perfectly manicured finger taps against his open mouth, dragging the digit down towards his Adam's apple. It almost scratches at him, the stiletto shape sharp enough to pierce his jugular if you pressed down with force. Your tongue peeks out from behind your plush lips, messy and stained dark red which is now becoming your favorite color with how good Steve makes it look.

“Shhh….” you pout, “Don’t ruin it baby. Gonna make you feel good, okay?” There’s a breathiness to your voice, sounding like something out of a black and white film. Your makeup is smearing further when you bite your lip like that, staining the front of your teeth as you languidly kiss and lick at the sensitive spots on his neck, to his collarbones, and down to his nipples. Spit gurgles in his throat as Steve moans, writhing against his restraints at your actions.

And then you bite him.

Teeth sinking into the meat of his pec, Steve Harrington howls in surprise as you mark him, fingertips soothing over the indents as you place your mouth onto his open one, remembering to grind your wetness onto his cock and he’s gasping for air between kisses. The sensations are overwhelming—his brain short-circuits before kissing you back, opening up to let you devour him, teeth and tongue and spit. The balmy texture of your lipstick has made its way onto Steve’s taste buds and he swallows it whole to try and remember you in case this isn’t real.

But the hood of your clit catches on his cockhead after you swipe your hips against his and the both of you moan into each other’s throats. He has a hold on you too, even if you can’t see it. You bite his bottom lip before detaching from it, watching it swell under your constant attention. Leaning over him once more, he croaks at the feeling of your tits pressing against his chest, someone pinch him if this isn’t real—but the pain spikes through his system when you bite the soft of his neck. Again, and again, and again, hickeys mapping down his pulsepoint at your insistence. 

Steve doesn’t see it coming, the pain building at the heat in his stomach until his cock physically throbs against your folds and his vision blurs at the sensation until he feels your palms against his chest and hears you clicking your tongue.

“Really? God you have terrible timing, Stevie. I’m still having fun.”

Cum leaks between your thighs as his body twitches beneath you and you sigh, “That just won’t do, baby. You can handle it can’t you?” Your hand slithers down to cup his balls, massaging him as he spurts onto his lower stomach. There’s tears in the corner of his eyes as he pleads, “Wait…” The blood pools to the surface of his skin, sensitive to the touch. Steve’s a pretty thing underneath you, decorated in blooming bruises, and you decide that red must be his color.

He looks good enough to eat.

You hitch your leg over his hips properly mounting him as you sink yourself onto his overstimulated cock. The way your eyes roll into the back of your head, he’s not sure if he’s hurt you—and then your mouth pulls into a smile, almost as if a form of self-destruction as you lift up onto your haunches again, about to strike.

“Ready?”

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ma1dita's monster mash is closed for requests but ongoing for the rest of october!

[goldflinches]

the same difference (snippet)

Summary: A friend is a friend, even a few realities removed.

(or: Hob meets a different Dream. He deals with it with as much grace as he can. Which is to say, not much at all.)

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Square/Prompt: B3 - Obsession | @dreamlingbingo

Rating: Teen

Ship(s): Dream of the Endless | Morpheus/Hob Gadling

Additional Notes & Warnings: Show!Hob meets Comic!Dream and Comic!Hob meets Show!Dream (Yes, Based On That Fanart by Alexxuun), First Meetings (Sort Of), Matthew Being A Menace

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Hob’s day starts with a rude bird.

Matthew, the aforementioned rude bird, announces his surprise visit with a loud “INCOMING!” All before swooping into Hob’s small apartment through the open window, honing in on his toast, landing, and then tearing into it with gusto.

It’s six thirty-nine on another gray, drizzly morning. Hob is still groggy and his lukewarm coffee is mostly on the floor, partially on his shirt. A talking raven is eating his breakfast. Surely, this has to be some sort of ominous thing and not just the actual baseline mundanity of his life. Talking ravens have to be harbingers of…something. Lost breakfasts. Crumbs. Friends who haven’t been in touch for the past three weeks and five days—okay no, it’s too early and he’s too caffeine-deficient for that train of thought right now. Sighing, he tries to pick at the piece of toast Matthew hasn’t devoured yet, only to be met with a quick snap of a beak. “Good morning to you too,” grumbles Hob as he gets up to make his breakfast. Again.

In the kitchen, he hears the telltale susurration of sand from behind him. Hob feels a smile steal across his face immediately, then bites it back almost just as fast. He continues making his second breakfast. As he’s adding another piece of bread to the to-be-toasted pile, he says over his shoulder, “Dream, your bird is eating me out of house and—“ "Oh fuck," croaks Matthew suddenly, “Shit, I forgot—“ Alarmed, Hob whirls around, butter knife and Dream’s favorite brand of strawberry jam at the ready. And he comes face to face with his friend. Or at least, some version of Dream. One with wilder hair and sharper angles, drawn like dancing shadows of tree branches. This Dream smiles with more fang in tooth when he greets Hob with a familiar, resonant tone. “Hello, Hob Gadling.” Hob drops the jam jar.

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Hob’s day ends with a rude bird.

It had been a long day in a long line of long days and all Hob wanted to do was enjoy a nightcap before sleeping the weekend away. The loud, insistent tapping on the door was not part of the plan. Even as he’s standing in front of the door, Hob contemplates just pretending to not be at home. The hammering on the door gets more intense, almost as if sensing his thoughts. With a defeated sigh, Hob opens a door. And of all things, a raven swoops right in.

It flies down the hall, towards the rest of his condominium with a battle caw, doing a sweep of the space as Hob trails a few paces behind it, utterly bewildered. Ravens are…omens aren’t they? Bad luck or some shoddy housekeeping in this case. He wonders what his old friend would have to say about that, might bring it up next time he deigned to drop by—no, not something worth contemplating right now. At least without a good amount of alcohol in his system.

By now, the bird has perched on his leather sofa, making its mark on the upholstery. Hob slowly approaches it when it opens its beak and, in a clearly American accent, announces, “ALL CLEAR BOSS!” Another layer of confusion is added when Hob hears a deep sigh from the entryway. The raven continues on, “C’mon Boss, you know I had to vet this rando—,” and Hob cannot believe he left the door open. He tunes out the talkative raven as he makes his way down the hallway. On the way, he grabs an…umbrella. It has some heft at least but he’s definitely had to make do with less in the past. Twisting it around in his hands, Hob starts thinking about different scenarios and exit strategies and how he is not in the mood to move on to a new life, whoever is at the door better be ready for his ferocious umbrella backhand— At the doorway stands his friend. Or some other form of his friend. One with a softer lines and sleek planes, like a reflection on the surface of a still, fathomless lake. This version of his friend smiles with only a small curl of his lips, greeting Hob with a voice he misses despite himself.

“Hello, Hob.” Hob grips the umbrella tighter.