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h3ffleyswife · 1 year ago

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"i cant hold my alcohol" (r. heffley x reader)

desc: fem! reader who's ben's little sister. drunken mishaps, you sleep in rodricks bed, just read it

warnings: slightly ooc rodrick ngl, i wrote this when i was tired lolz sry

word count: 2480

You buckle your seat belt and throw your purse on the floor of your brothers car. "We're going over to Rodricks, his parents are out of town so he's throwing a party, sound good?" Ben, your brother, says while reversing out of your guys' driveway. You furrow your eyebrows, "Rodrick? The hot one in your band?" You questioned, picking at the chipped nail polish on your fingernails. Ben looked over at you and scoffed, "I mean, whatever floats your boat. But no way would I ever let you two date. You guys would make my life a living hell." You roll your eyes and sigh, "Whatever, leave me to my fantasies, Ben."

Your brother's face contorts into one of disgust and he pulls in front of a house that you can only assume is the Heffley's. "Please, spare me with the details of your Rodrick fantasies." Ben says, putting the car in park and taking his keys. You giggle to yourself and hop out of his shitty, beat up car. You can see lots of kids already here, most of them already wasted out of their minds. Ben walks in front of you towards the front door, and your heart flutters with nerves.

Stepping through the door, the first thing that hits your nose is alcohol, and it almost makes you nauseous. Ben's already gone off somewhere, so you walk around until you can find the drinks. Peeking your head into the kitchen, there's a couple borderline fucking on Rodricks kitchen counter. You scrunch your eyebrows and turn around, there didn't seem to be any drinks in there anyways.

It takes you about five minutes and squeezing your way through a bunch of intoxicated, smelly teens, but you finally find the drinks. Gwen Stefani is blasting in your ear while you pour yourself a coke mixed with a little bit of whatever shitty alcohol Rodrick managed to get his hands on. You take a sip, there's not too much alcohol in the drink, which is good. You don't plan on getting drunk tonight.

Rodrick is standing in a corner of his living room, chatting it up with his band members when Ben walks up to him. Rodrick greets him with a high five and a large grin on his face, "What's up dude? What took you so long?!" Chris asks Ben, also giving the boy a high five. "Sorry guys, my sister took hella long to get ready, but we made it!" Ben said and took a sip of his drink, he's lucky you already agreed to being designated driver, because there was enough alcohol in his cup to kill a victorian child. Rodricks ears perked up at the mention of you, "Your sister's here?" Rodrick questioned Ben, who looked at him with a raised brow. "Yeah.. she's somewhere around here, why? Is that okay? She's in our grade, it's not like I brought my 7 year old sister or anything." Ben rambles, Rodrick's now scanning the room for your familiar face.

It's been a running "joke" between the band that Rodrick has a thing for you, Ben's sister, for a while now. Any time you showed up with Ben to practice because of convenience, Rodricks playing would be off, and he'd be distracted the whole practice. There was just something about you, Rodrick thought to himself. "Hey man, stop daydreaming about Ben's sister!" Chris waves his hand in front of Rodricks face and laughs, making Rodrick blink a couple times before laughing nervously and looking at Ben. Ben rolls his eyes before making eye contact with Rodrick, "I wouldn't actually be upset if you tried to date my sister, but I swear on my mother, Rodrick, that I will put you six feet under if you screw her over." Ben places his hand on Rodricks shoulder and tightens his grip, making Rodrick gulp nervously before nodding quickly, "Of course dude, I wouldn't do anything to purposely hurt her!" He swats Ben's hand away, "I have business to attend to, gentlemen." Rodrick shouts, walking- maybe skipping- away to go find you. Ben sighs and takes another swig of his drink while Chris laughs to himself, turning to go try and talk to a girl.

You're leaning against a wall, starting to get mildly bored, when someone taps your shoulder. Turning around, you see Rodrick. Your face immediately gets hot and you give him a small smile, "Hey!" Rodrick says with a smile, giving you a quick once-over. You pretend not to see him looking you up and down, feeling an unfamiliar feeling in your stomach. "Hey Rodrick, how's it going?" You ask, your voice shaky and hands clammy enough to open a seafood restaurant. You cleared your throat awkwardly, normally, you were able to hold a conversation with him, why was it so different now? Rodrick gives you a nervous smile and stutters out a reply, "Well, throwing a party is way harder than it seems, y'know. How've you been? I don't really see you around school much." He smiles at you and you feel like you've just levitated off of the ground, "Haha, yeah I bet. I'm not doing too bad, just kind of doing my own thing, you know? I haven't been doing a lot recently, but I did just pick up a new guitar the other day, learning it's been kind of a pain in the ass though." You find yourself starting to ramble. Rodrick just looks at you and melts into your voice, nodding at certain parts. "You should teach me how to play once you've got it down. I could teach you how to play the drums, not to flex or anything, but I'd say I'm pretty good" Rodrick says and crosses his arms, smirking to himself. You laugh and shake your head, "If you sound anything like you did a couple months ago, I think I'll pass on those lessons, Rodrick" You giggle, watching his face fall.

"Hey! I've improved, thank you! And I wasn't even that bad..." Rodrick looks away with a pink face, and you find yourself smiling at the boy. "Sorry, sorry. I'll have to take you up on those drum lessons, then." Rodrick looks at you and laughs, "You want another drink?" You look at your empty cup and shrug, "Sure, why not."

Rodrick leads you into the dining room where he had drinks laid out on the table, "Let me make you something, are you driving later?" He asks you, and you pause, "I could find a ride home". He raises his eyebrow, "You could always just crash over here if that's okay with you?" Your stomach twists in excitement and you nod, "That's fine by me, why are you trying to get me drunk, Heffley? Don't try anything funny" You say and take the drink he's made you out of his hands, throwing him a smirk afterwards. Rodrick's eyes go wide and he stutters and trips over his own words, "W-wait!! I'm not trying- that's not-" You cut him off by laughing loudly, shaking your head. "I'm just giving you a hard time, if I didn't want to drink, I wouldn't have agreed to you making me drink." Rodrick lets out a loud sigh and playfully glares at you, "Gave me a heart attack" He grumbles and you giggle again, taking another sip of your drink. It was pretty strong, and you realized you should tell your brother to figure out a ride home because you were no longer going to drive him home. You take another sip, "Hey, do you know where my brother is by any chance? I need to tell him i'm not gonna drive him home, maybe Chris can?" Your words start to slur together and Rodrick nods, "I'll go find him and tell him, stay right here, 'kay?" You nod and pour yourself another drink.

Rodrick shuffles through his now, very full, house and looks for Ben. He finally catches sight of the boy, but he's on his way out of the house. "Ben! Hold on-" Rodrick catches him walking out the door, Ben looks back and tilts his head to the side, "What's up dude?"

"Hey, do you have a ride home tonight?" "I was about to leave and drive mysel- oh shit I forgot about my sister, have you seen her?" Rodrick swallows nervously, "Yeah, we've been hanging out all night. Is she cool to stay here tonight? No funny business, I promise! She's just starting to get kind of drunk, and I need to stay home to like... supervise this party, you know?" Ben sighed and nodded, "Yeah, that's cool. Let me know if I need to come get her at any point. Don't do anything stupid, Rodrick. See you at practice tomorrow." Ben says, shutting the door after he does. Rodrick hopes he's not overly upset with him.

Making his way back to the dining room, Rodrick sees you beeline to the bathroom in front of him suddenly. He looks around confused for a moment before quickly following you to the bathroom, making sure you're okay. You slam the door behind you and Rodrick can hear the sound of you throwing up on the other side of the door. He winces and knocks on the door gently, "Hey, it's Rodrick, can I come in?"

There's a pause of silence. Rodrick can hear you cough, and then throw up again. After a minute or so passes, your voice can be heard weakly behind the door, "...come in". Rodrick opens the door, shoves himself in the bathroom and then quickly shuts it behind him again. You look up at him with tears in your eyes from throwing up, and the sudden motion of looking up makes you nauseous again, immediately throwing your head back towards the toilet bowl. Rodrick quickly kneels down next to you and holds your hair behind your head, and rubs your back.

After you're done throwing up, you look back at Rodrick, wiping your mouth with your sleeve. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to throw up like that. I can't hold my alcohol very well, I guess" You say, thoroughly embarrassed and wanting anything but to be here right now. Rodrick shushed you and tucked your hair behind your ear, "Here, I have a shirt you can change into, do you want pajama pants too? I'll get you water and you can lay down in my bed." He offers, holding you and slowly standing you up. You shake your head, "You don't have to do tha-" "I want to do that, do you need me to walk you upstairs? Or do you got it while I grab you some water?" He asks gently while walking you out the door. Your face turns pink and you sigh, knowing you couldn't avoid it now. "I got it, which room is yours?" "All the way down the hall and to the left, you'll know which one when you open it." He says, smiling and walking away to grab you a glass of water once he sees that you're walking up the stairs. Once you're up the stairs, you go to the room Rodrick told you to. Surprisingly, his room isn't terrible. Could it use some tidying up? Yeah, but for a teenage boy, it was fairly well kept. You sit down on his bed and wait for him, slipping your shoes off.

Rodrick opens the door, and cracks a small smile once he sees you sitting in his bed. You look up and give him a small smile back, grabbing the glass of water he offers you. He walks over and opens his wardrobe, grabbing you a black graphic tee and some pajama bottoms. When he hands you the clothes, you notice that he gave you one of his Loded Diper tee's, and you smile to yourself while your heart flutters. "I think I have these same pajama pants" You state, the pants looking very familiar. Rodrick laughs, "We should totally match, wouldn't that be cute?" He says, with a joking tone, but he meant it.

You looked up and giggled, "Turn around for a minute while I change" Rodrick's face goes red, and he nods before turning around. You take your shirt off and put on the Loded Diper shirt. It smells like cheap cologne and... Rodrick. You can't describe how he smells, but it makes your heart jump in your chest. You slide your pants off and put on the pajamas, looking up at Rodrick, who's still staring into the wall, focusing on anything but the fact that there's a hot girl changing in his room. "You can turn back around, Rodrick"

He turns around and his stomach flutters at the sight of you in his clothes. "Drink some water and lay down, you can go to bed if you want to. I'll sleep on the floor tonight." Rodrick says, taking a pillow off his bed and tossing it lightly on the floor. "I can sleep on the floor, Rodrick, I don't mind" "No, I'm not making a pretty girl sleep on the floor, do you think I'm crazy?" He says, almost offended at the thought of letting you sleep on his floor. You blush, and look away awkwardly with a quiet laugh. He smiles at you, and walks towards his door. "I'm gonna go tell people to go home, I'll be back up in a minute" You nod and he leaves the room.

Laying back in his bed, the situation you're in starts to sink in.

You're in Rodrick Heffley's bed. And you're wearing his clothes. What the fuck? Your heart pounds and you turn onto your side, closing your eyes and cuddling into his pillow. It wont hurt to close your eyes for a minute until Rodrick gets back.

Rodrick goes around downstairs, telling people that they should start to head home because it's getting late. People leave, and Rodrick has to kick a couple people awake off of his living room floor. He looks around at the mess that he'd have to deal with tomorrow and sighs. He'd probably just get Greg to help him with it.

Rodrick walks up the stairs and gently opens his bedroom door. He walks in, shutting the door behind him and then looks over to you, and his heart soars. He swears he can feel his heart pouring out of his chest, how was it possible for a girl to look so beautiful? He walks over to your sleeping figure and tucks your hair behind your ear, "You're so pretty.." He says quietly, and kisses the side of your head.

Rodrick makes himself a makeshift bed on his floor, staring at the small portion of your sleeping figure that he can see. "Goodnight" He says to you with a smile, turning over, thinking about you.

What an eventful night.

hey!!! first fic in a while, let me know if you'd want a part two, thx!!

#rodrick #rodrick heffley #rodrick x reader #rodrick heffley x reader #doawk rodrick #doawk #diary of a wimpy kid #x reader #rodrick fanfic #rodrick rules #diary of a wimpy kid x reader #h3ffleyswife

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magpod-confessions · 6 months ago

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I hate how so many of the women on the podcast are either Literal Cops or like. narratively given the "yes you are correct to be saying this" but are deeply unpleasant about it. georgie is probably the least assholish about the whole matter and i get where she's coming from but she's still a bit of a dick about the cutting jon out of her life for. not quitting his unquittable job? backing out of the supernatural shit that infests his job? I am honestly forgetting exactly what her reasoning is, so I'm willing to cut her more slack. I understand her wanting to be safe. But Melanie, Basira, Daisy? :/ Took Daisy being buried alive for months to get out of the cop mindset. Basira refuses to give anyone ground on any matter, consistently thinks herself completely in the right for anything she says or does. Maybe I exaggerate a bit with that one, but it sure doesn't feel like it. Melanie,,, I REALLY liked her before the Slaughter business, which I get is. Yeah hurting people lashing out at a moment's notice, so on, but even then every argument she enters ends with a comment Mel makes and no one refuting it.

I want to like all these characters. I want the women in the podcast to have been characters I could've listened to for a while WITHOUT getting annoyed at the narrative deciding that their endlessly being waspish towards anyone and everyone was something that should be kept up and encouraged. Didn't realize until writing this out that I felt this strongly about it. 🗣️

a lot of their character choices make sense though . [ aside from basira , she barely has a character of her own imo ] daisy was stuck in her cop mindset because being a cop was the reason she got caught up with the Hunt in the first place , and being Buried for so long snapped her out of it because it basically took the Hunt out of her during that period of time . melanie i will say i have a bias for due to being one of my favourites , but the Slaughter amplified her anger , and gave her a ' reason ' to be so Angry . i can barely remember any arguments she was in so i can't really comment on that , but i do agree that there probably should have been more fightback with her remarks . georgie had every right to cut jon off , especially because jon did not even tell her that he couldn't quit ?? he was bringing horrific paranormal things into her home [ including a clown who steals your skin ] , without any warning before even starting to stay with her that those things might happen . she could have been home when nikola came , and could have gotten hurt because jon didn't tell her anything . plus , iirc , they hadn't spoken since college anyways ??? it isn't like they're close friends or anything , they're exes ! georgie has every right to ask jon to leave her alone . and again basira has barely any character of her own aside from daisy , which i hate and i wish she had more character . - deceit

Sry anon I am so tired rn and Ive gone off abt this before so uhh i like the characters in tma and how theyre written yay hooray bye - rosette

#magpod #tma #the magnus archives #magpod confession #🗣️

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miimo96 · 7 months ago

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Thoughts on My Adventures with Superman S2 episode 9

So you're probably wondering what heck took so long for me to make this, and well ya see thats because I actually had to wait for this episode to come out on the website where I watch all my TV shows and anime on, and since That was taking so long to be released, I wasn't able to watch this and thus give my review on it, But now that it has officially come out I can finally Get my thoughts out there and Share it with you all, anyway that's mainly because why I've been gone for so long, that because depression kicks in at the most random times in my life and so I wasn't feeling motivated, but aside from that I'm finally ready to get this done and thus give you my review, anyway yeah Sorry for the wait but let's get into it^^;

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Starting off I actually wanna talk about a few things regarding this opening, mainly about Clark's kindness; I love the fact that even tho this is a world where didn't never up and thus he never became Superman, he still has that kindness within him, and from the way he talks about wanting to help the creature and show him that it's not Alone, just shows that No matter what reality it is, he will always be compassionate and thus want to help people, hence what makes him Superman in the 1st place; also I didn't expect that in this episode we were actually going to be seeing an Evil version of his parents, because it's always usually just him getting the world he always wanted, I actually like that they took a different approach this time and thus gave us a reality, where he still has his parents, and where he basically got to grow up on krypton as a completely different person, also it's really interesting to see that in this version, the Black Mercy is more or less giving him a dream world where he basically has no control over, and Is kinda just gaslighting him like Brainiac would, I think that's because in this version, the black Mercy isn't a plant like most irritations, but is rather just a piece of technology, and since Brainiac was the computer system for krypton, he is able to access all the technology created from krypton, hence why Clark's mother Laura was talking to him that voice for a second,

Also this Shot right here is really Menacing AF, like Jor El looks seriously scary, oh and it looks like lois lost her memory so I'm wondering how that's going to play out

I fnd it very weird that Kara thinks Brainiac is Unstoppable Just because he's in Clark's body, like may I remind you of the absolute beatdown you gave your cousin a few episodes ago, like I'm really starting to believe that whole thing that people say of people who join the quote unquote "good side" end up effing sucking afterwards, like what is with that stuff, also before you say she was only able to beat him bc she was being controlled by Brainiac and therefore wasn't in control of her actions/ Strength, yeah sry but No, she wasn't being controlled by him at that time and was completely aware of what she was doing, the only time he was controlling her, was when she was hesitating to use her Heat vision to kill people, aside from that she was fully aware and wasn't Holding Back on him AT ALL; Also Mandy is such a bitch, that is all

Omg lois lost her memories I wonder this gonna play out, will she fall in love with Clark again, will clark remember who he is, will they even get along with each other, the possibilites are endle- Oh, well Never effing mind I guess, huh that was fast 😅 Also I really love the fact that Clark instead of becoming a warrior in this reality, became more of a scientist, it's funny because in the original animated series he was kinda like that as well, heck even in the comics I think he was like that, it just shows that Clark no matter what, really was never a fighter to begin with and only really ever does it in the name of Defense, with his real goal being to want to just help people through whatever means necessary, mainly through the power of science, like how in that 1 comic when he found the cure to cancer or something, Also can someone really explain to me how lois was able to prevent herself from being deleted, like I don't think it was ever explained and I'm really starting to believe it was just because of PLOT

Bruh Jimmy looks So heated at the fact that Steve of all people was the reason he and Kara were able to escape, like are you kidding me, THIS GUY!? 🤣🤣 Also shout out to my boy Steve for coming in clutch for our boy Jimmy, like he really is the Homie and I gotta say, the best get away driver like how do you sneak from Amanda waller of all people Undetected, dude's got skills

Hey Lois Idk about you but In my opinion This was the Worst explanation I ever heard, like I understand that time is resetting and so you've probably explained this to him like a hundred of times but Wow, you Really couldn't go any other way about it, like ya do realize this makes you look like a Crazy person right?; Also I legit could Never understnd Why she straight up tell couldn't tell Clark she loves him, like Omg wasn't you 2 already in a relationship at the beginning of this season, why is it So hard for you all of asudden o say I love you, when you LITERALLY established relationship early on, like WTF I'm sick of this trope already

Ok 2 things: 1 Jor El is scary in this sequence, like the way he screamed "Find her" really sent chills down my spine, and 2 why does this shot with him peeking out of the Bushes feel incredibly meme worthy?

Tbh I actually don't have much to say regarding Kara and Jimmy this time, aside from Jimmy being the GOAT due to how beautiful pep talk was, and how much I want them to end up together now, like I've said it before but I absolutely love their relationship in this series, and I really hope they get together by the end of it or at least if she ends up leaving earth like people theorize, in order to atone for her sins across the galaxy, at least get to confess his feelings for her ^w^

"Because the real lois wouldn't come for me" Ngl he deserved this exact response from her, bc wtf do you mean bro, i mean underrated your reasoning but just because you 2 had a fight doesn't mean she Stopped loving you, because you KNOW she wouldn't be here rn if she didn't; Also I find it very funny that her revealing What she did and how dangerous it was, is what brings Clark back, like it just shows how much he cares about her and how overprotective he is for her safety, Also I think i understand why she was able to do all this stuff in the 1st place

THROUGH THE POWER OF LOVE!! 💖💖😭😭😭

Tbh This is probably 1 of the best versions of Task force X I've seen so far, like this Roster goes Hard and so does this entire Shot like Damn, also whoever's Idea it was to Not include Parasite in this Scene Needs to be fired, like I understand why Livewire isn't here But PARASITE!? I mean the guy is seriously OP when given enough energy, as proven by his Kaiju form last season, and I could've sworn Amanda does has control over him now thanks to Lex, so WHY THE F$%k HE ISN'T HERE!? I bet he would've came in Real handy tho 😂

Ok 2 thing's again: 1 YEAH LET'S GO KARA! Eff you Brainiac you Piece of S#%t i hope you effing Die, and 2, Eyy i looks like I was on to something about Them being infused with Kryptonite; Also i see were Still stuck with these robot designs I guess, *sigh* look I've said it before and I'll say it again, These designs absolutely Suck, like No offense to the Animators But you're Really telling me we couldn't have gotten Anything better, I understand animation is Hard So you Need simple designs but c'mon, you couldn't at least go with the skeletal design he has in some iterations or even make Them look more like a Megazord than whatever the Hell this is? man I really hope this gets fixed in season 3 or something because I Just can't with this anymore; Also is it me or does this whole setup kinda feel sorta familiar, because I feel like I've seen this before, hmmmmm 🤔 eh whatever

God I love this Scene, from the scenery,to the lighting, to even their effing confession everything is Just AAAAAHHH So effing GOOD, Damn it Love this Series!! Especially the music in this scene like Omg it's such bop to listen to, and the fact that it's even the extended version of the God Damn intro is freakin Amazing ^^ Like this belongs in Top 5 motivational scene alongside You say run from the ending of the 1st MHA movie, like it's just That Good

OOOHH I'M LOVING THIS NEW SUIT Omg like this has everything I've ever wanted in a Superman suit, it has the perfect amount of gold to contrast the Red and blue, it reminds of Man of Steel and New 52 with Lack of shorts even tho I personally prefer the shorts, and it just Screams Superman, the only thing I would change about this would be those big ass Shoulder pads and i think maybe those finger straps, but aside from that, PERFECTION 😘

Small little animation error regarding Kara's eyebrows But not even that can Ruin this epic moment ^^

Finally It looks like people may be on to something about Amanda Waller possibly Framing Lex, setting him up to be the fall guy and making him look like he was The 1 responsible for everything, possibly losing his fame and setting him up as the Villain Next season, after all he is the 1 who built the Metalos So if anything went wrong, it is technically his fault, anyway however this plays out, I'm sure it will all end horribly for Lex in the end, overall amazing episode can't wait for the next one, hopefully it doesn't take too long to be released like this one, fingers crossed ^^

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ishomieokay · 4 months ago

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Hi! (Big rant I'm sry, I am such a yapper)

What do you think of homelander x starlight ?

For me atleast, I think it's a missed opportunity to develop both of their characters. They have so much parallels going on. I wouldn't say I wanted a full blown romance in s3, but more of a confusion about who is really is the enemy from starlight's side- since homelander is the biggest victim of Vought . And from homelander's side, every women in his life except for maeve have somehow used and taken advantage of him, starlight is the last person who would do that ! He would be really confused that she isn't doing that. She also never knew his horrid past that too.

I don't think homelander is a character who could really be redeemed, he is so long gone for that. But their fake dating arc could have opened so many doors for both of their character development.

I knw I am being delusional enough to think that he is very much obsessed with starlight in s4 as much as he is obsessed with butcher. Like she is his nemesis who stood up against him for godsake idk why the show has watered down her purpose to petty rival with firecracker. Eric kripke is so bad at writing the show Lord 😭✋

Yes, she was watered down without a doubt. And again and again, Billy is given an importance he doesn't really deserve. The whole nemesis thing he has going on with Homelander makes no fucking sense to me. Ryan has no reason to care that much about Butcher. Beyond the fact that Butcher is relentlessly trying to fuck him over, Homelander has no reason to be so obsessed with him either. Narratively speaking, Starlight should be his nemesis, not Butcher.

I actually am such a BIG FAN of Starlander. Weakness by RovingOtter is an amazing fic about them that honestly changed my brain chemestry. Not to mention it's the main reason why I like Homelander so much.

I realize this is an unpopular opinion in the fandom, but I don't think the issue is so much that Homelander is past redemption. It's just that the writers don't want that to happen. The narrative is not going there, even thought THERE ARE elements that would allow it to happen. For example, I don't see Homelander becoming a hero in any capacity, but after all the abuse he was subjected to by humans, he could have easily fallen in a more morally gray area a la Magneto. The writers are just not interested in exploring that because they are all about politics (which I do believe was a direct result of the US elections) and to get their message across Homelander needs to be an irredeemable Big Bad. If they redeemed fucking A-Train and even made Hughie forgive him after *killing Robin and laughing about it*, everyone gets a pass in my opinion though.

Also, it's about the times. You'd find that the main reason why many people don't want Homelander to be redeemed is that he is a rapist. Nowadays that's just unacceptable. Believe or not, back in the 2000s it was something forgivable and sometimes even expected in certain genres (I'm looking at you yaoi). Talking about Western media, I think the most obvious example of this is Spike trying to rape Buffy, his love interest, in Buffy the Vampire Slayer. That wouldn't fly today, lol.

The dubiously consensual (or just uh, not consensual) sex scene or attempted rape between the main couple was also a super common trope in Soap Operas back in the day. Don't mind me I'm Latin American and for a long time I didn't have cable.

Anyway, I'm rambling. My point is Homelander is never going to be redeemed in canon, but as far as fanfiction goes, who cares? It's fiction, and you can do whatever you want with fictional characters. The world is your playground!

Homelander does have some parallels with Starlight, but tbh, that's not really the reason why I ship them. He actually has much more parallels with Kimiko (which is also an amazing ship in my opinion, and it really doesn't get the recognition it deserves!). He also has parallels with Butcher, with Soldier Boy, and even with Frenchie. So that's not really what I look at when shipping.

I think Starlight is the only character who could potentially see anything good or worth saving in Homelander, and just that makes their relationship very interesting to me. The fact that they are archenemies (or they would be, if the show made any sense), is the cherry on top. We love some good enemies-to-lovers here!

#my babygirl #homelander #antony starr #the boys #fine i'll create my own content #homelander fanfiction #the boys fanfic #homelander x starlight #homelander x annie january #homelander x annie #annie january #starlight

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fever-project · 11 months ago

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LU Superhero AU Rambling

It’s so hard to write my thoughts about my Superhero AU into words, so let’s skip a good chunk of the lore and talk about the Links. I’m going to be a bit incoherent because I am very tired right now.

Sky - So for starters there are Blessings and there are Powers. Powers are typically biological and Blessings are well, blessings from the gods. In Sky’s case, his Blessing was his prophetic dreams from Hylia. His Power is um, honestly somewhat body horror so I won’t describe it too much. To put it simply, he grows a bunch of wings, like a biblically accurate angel. And he has a bunch of feathers. Anyways, his Power is a secret to everyone, including Sun, mostly because he recently discovered that he had this power. Everyone else just thinks that his Blessing is actually his Power. So he doesn’t go out into the fray often, but he is good friends with all of the Heroes and Knights. He also goes go-karting with Wild.

Wild - Okay, it’s crazy time now. So Wild used to be a Hero in training and Flora’s personal Knight, but then the Calamity struck(which was much shorter compared to canon because modern AU) and he lost his memories while the other Champions lost their lives. As well as a bunch of other people like Wild’s entire family but let’s not worry about that. He got trapped in a multiple month coma while Flora held the Calamity in place. Then Wild woke up and helped end the Calamity. He didn’t wield the Master Sword for long(he physically couldn’t after he woke up, it burned him and sapped away his life force)but he did speed run fixing the Divine Beasts and gaining the Champion’s Power, since his Power is being able to use the Powers of ghost/spirits. But he kept this Power a secret mainly because he was in complete and utter denial about the ghosts of his friends following him around. He still thinks that he’s just gone crazy, because he would rather have that.

Twilight - Heheh. So, he doesn’t have a Power but does have a Blessing, which is his ability to turn into a wolf. He parades around in his wolf most of the time, the public believing that he’s just a magic wolf spirit that decided to protect humans. Time also used to do that, so everyone thinks the two wolves are related somehow. Twilight and Time are actually cousins in this AU, because they have to be related somehow. He has a heavy face of goth makeup to cover up his markings whenever he wants to go out. But he generally just stays in wolf form most of the time, his Hylian form having the wolf pelt covering his face-with the Hawkeye mask on underneath it-so that when he is forced to transition into a Hylian, no one would know who he was. He also doesn’t talk too much while disguised, only talking to Wild and Red.

Time - He’s a Hero, but not for the reasons you think. He doesn’t use his Power, or even most of his masks, he’s just a great fighter and can be very intimidating. He wears the Mask of Truth almost all the time while on duty, with some people thinking that it allows him to read the minds of his opponents. It doesn’t do that, but it does helps him talk to Twi while he’s in wolf form. When not on duty, he’s on the farm, with his lovey wife Malon and occasionally blessed with the appearance of Twi in his full face of goth makeup. Time knows that the wolf is Twi but doesn’t tell him, it’s a lot funnier this way.

Wars - So there was this time war that no one remembers except for him, Lana, Commander(aka Artemis but I don’t like calling her that sry), and General Impa. So most know of Wars as an exceptionally excellent Knight turned Hero, who is currently training a younger Hero, Wind. Wars’ Power is the ability to use and identify different magical attributes, like Light, Dark, Fire, Water, and Lightning. Also because of the time war, everything kinda got messed up. Basically, it’s the cause of this AU every existing. Wars is very aware of this. He feels very responsible for this, because the whole thing started because Cia is a horrible person and wanted to be with him.

Wind - His Hero name is Wind Waker. Need I say more. He has wind powers. I honestly can’t think of much for him rn, I’m so sorry.

Four - He still hides the fact that he can split into four, but now he is split into four all the time while on duty. Legend is the only one who is aware of this, mainly because he had used the 4Sword before. Four’s Power is being able to turn into a Minish. Also Red is besties with Wolf Twi, they care so much about each other it’s so cute and I wish I could share all my thoughts about it. But alas, I am not going to, because I am far too tired.

Legend - The most famous Hero, unfortunately. He has no Powers of his own, but he does have a fuck ton of magical items and is very skilled with them. Before the story starts he had just came back from Hytopia, being a Triforce Ranger and having the time of his life. But now he has the Power to move his soul between the Doppels, and potentially…other vessels. He’s not going to tell anybody about this, of course not. Currently is training Hyrule, because he feels like Hyrule is connected to him, somehow.

Hyrule - He has a lot of Powers, he is the magic man. He’s a Hero in training even though he already saved two Zeldas, but that’s partially because his area of Hyrule he was from was far away from the area of Hyrule the story’s set. They don’t know much about him and his Zeldas.

Also this is all subject to change and may not be indicative of my actual thoughts and plans for this AU since I am not great at explaining things, especially right now.

#linked universe #linked universe au #lu sky #lu wild #lu twilight #lu time #lu warriors #lu wind #lu four #lu legend #lu hyrule #super hero au #god this kept getting more and more incoherent as I wrote on. literally have to stop myself because no one would understand what I’m saying #I barely understand what I was saying ngl #I’ll uh revisit this one day #I got a lot to say about four twi and wild specially #fever rambles

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percy-eats-souls · 25 days ago

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I'M BACKKKKK

Sry for being gone so long 😔 a bunch of stuff came up but I swear I'm going to post a new story soon. It'll be out in a few days, I just have to reread and make sure there's no Grammer mistakes or plot holes that will drive me insane.

ANYWAYS BYYEEEE

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thesoleilla · 2 years ago

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okay this is a long and specific request (sry just a random thought)

Dazai X Reader (with teleportation ability)

background story

Y/N (16 at the time) was a half time worker at the ada but was very often at the PM (btw she didnt tell that they worked in the ada) because she was Chuuyas younger sibling (only by one year) and looked at Koyo like a older sister. she was the one that trained Gins assation skills. She was also kinda close to Dazai, and was bestfriends with Yosano. But since she was 16 she had to go somewhere to study, so she decided to study somewhere in Europe to study coding or something and got in. But while she was there she needed a job so she went around and looked for a job and she found a good paying job but ofc it was a trap that was setup by Nikolai cuz he just wanted to. But somehow she was able to become Nikolai`s student and Sigmas bestfriend. She did finish studying and all that before becoming a DOA member. Years later (21 years old now) went back to Yokoami because Fyvodor was able to get arested. She finally got to catch up with everyone both from the pm and ada (but left out that she joined the DOA) Even though she was with everyone she was alot with Dazai, so Yosano and some other ADA memebers gets curios over this and the do some thing random you decide.

the plot and the request

the reader wants to quit the DOA but feels bad about it beacause she has been with them for a long time so its hard for her (but ends up leavinf before the end)

Dazai x reader

pls no NSFW or smut

chuuya finds out about dazai and reader

looks : 155 cm, Ginger with a white streak of hair, no specific e/c, loves baggy clothes but dosent wear all the time

personality : kinda like Oda but a bit more expressive and lower chanse to get angry than Chuuya but close, loves Cheese chocolate and cats. Dislikes killing for fun, rats (fyvodor PTSD) and creepy people (cough* cough* Mori cough* cough*)

the rest is up to you

its ok if you dont want to do this :) hope you have a wonderful day/night

Dazai x F!reader: falling between stools

A/N:Thanks for the request lovely anon! Sorry for how long it has been sitting in my askbox lol- but now that my break is ended I finally wrote it! I hope you'll like it anyways!

Masterlist

You felt like you were constantly falling between two stools - No, three stools now. You knew this couldn't last. You had to make a choice. But your friends were as scattered around the board of enemy organizations as could be! You couldn't bare leaving even one of them... yet you had to make the choice. The weight of that burning pile of lies wasn't bareable anymore.

You had to leave at least one. Of course, you were going to keep some kind of connection with the PM due to being Chuuya's little sister; but you could manage having connections from the PM all while being in another organization; so the only question would be which?

Which friends were more precious? Those from the ADA or from the DOA? You couldn't just rank them like that! It was ...inhumane! Yet... it was the logical solution. And it's not like being inhumane was a new thing for you, sadly. You had been in the Agency for the longest time. It was time to send your farewells to the DOA.

And there you were, thinking about all of that in the ADA's office. Thankfully, everyone had gone home long ago so no one could witness the mess your face was making as you kept debating with yourself on who to betray. Yet, it was better not to take that risk so you headed home-

"Boo!" There he was. Of course Dazai had to be standing just next to the door, in front of a window from where you were pretty sure he could've seen everything.

"Uhm... good evening?" You awkwardly laughed, hoping he wouldn't question what he, let's be honest, probably witnessed.

"Why are you still here? I thought such a lovely lady would be home by now, bella!" Dazai playfully said, but you knew he had noticed everything. He knew what was up. Yet, he acted like he genuinely had no idea. What was he doing?

"Let me return the question. Why are you standing in front of the agency this late?" You tried to play it cool. I'm not gonna say it worked, I'm trying to do my job as a reliable narrator here, I don't wanna get fired...

"Avoiding the question I see..."

"NO! I just fell asleep working! Not that you'd be able to relate to that." You were trying sooo hard to make his mind wander off somewhere else. Not that it worked though Will I get fired if I'm too mean or too dishonest? This job is so hard I'm quitting goodbye I don't wanna be a narrator anymore I'm traumatized the author is torturing me I'm stuck in their attic please help

"How dare you try and mock me! I thought we were close! How could you!" He dramatically gasped and acted, but you knew it was nothing serious, and this banter made you cheer up a bit.

"But seriously, what were you up to? Let me guess, did you find yourself in yet another enemy organization while you were away?"

Right on point. As always. But afterall, he was the only one who already knew about both your ties to the PM and to the ADA, due to his own ties, so...he'd understand your situation more than anyone.

"Your guesses are too close to reality sometimes. Scary. I like it." You laughed as you said this, trying to keep a straight face. God this was supposed to be a serious moment! Author don't bring out the chainsaw please I swear it's not my fault!I'm a good narrator! Yet... you couldn't help but feel good in his presence, changing your normal behaviours... you weren't supposed to laugh at times like this! And this is going to get me killed ahhhhh

"Anyways, I wouldn't let a lady go home alone this late!" He said, as he confidently took your hand in order to lead you out of the Agency's building. And lead you out he did as he was running through that building.

You felt warmth spread all around your cheeks as he did that, your brain soon overwhelmed from the heat rushing so close to it. "Don't pass out Y/N, Do NOT pass out", you kept on repeating to yourself.

"Would you mind letting me accept your proposition before making me run through the halls?" You managed to let out between your needed gasps for air. Fresh air... how nice it must be to have that...can't relate this basement doesn't really have fresh air

"And would you mind being honest with us? Or at least with me?

Uh oh. Honesty certainly wasnt your forte, especially considering you were a port mafia executive's little sister, yet most of your coworkers were unaware of it. But...Dazai knew almost all of these secrets already. Would it hurt if he knew just one more?

And so... you told him. Everything , from all the organizations, to the atrocities they made you witness. As you were both walking towards who knew were, you shared everything, something which you had never been able to do.

You knew that realistically, this wasn't safe, not in the slightest. Yet... yet it felt safe, talking about it with him, right here, right now.

And...he wasn't even answering. But the strangest thing was that it didn't bother you in the slightest. It felt as if you were just writing in your diary... except it wouldn't leave any trace. Which you were quite scared of, considering your past in ennemy organization.

Except of course...Dazai's memory. You thought this would scar him forever, but considering who he was... he had probably seen way worse. Which only made you feel even more comfortable in his presence.

Progressively, the buildings you were passing by got more and more familiar. But you were so focused on your talking, that you let him lead the way to wherever you were going.

Until...you finally noticed it...he was leading you... to yours and Chuuya's meeting point! At which you were supposed to see him 20 minutes ago. Oh your brother was going to be pissed by how late you were... especially when he'll see who brought you here. Maybe you'll start to understand what my life's like as a poor narrator;;

"Y/N! You're twenty whole fucking minutes late! What the fuck were you doing?"Chuuya yelled at you from across the street right when he heard your voice. That was until he saw you... And the man you were with.

"And...What the heck is this mackerel doing here with you?!" Dazai was grinning ear to ear when you finally noticed what his plans were. Which really wasn't a pleasant realization.

"Well Chibi, I'll have you know that if it weren't for me, your poor defenseless little sister would have went home alone, in this dark of a night! She could have gotten kidnapped!" He put his hand on his heart, taking a dramatic tone, which your brother certainly didn't like.

"You know she could have just...teleported away, right?" Chuuya laughed, pointing at Dazai jokingly.

"But if she did that, could I have done this?" Dazai grinned as he suddenly kissed you, making Chuuya run across the street to throw his fist at him.

Well this was going to be one hell of an explaination to make, and you weren't looking forward to it

A/N: Thank you for reading! I'm so sorry this is almost a whole year late, but I'm finally doing my damn requests now! Sorry for the wait!

#bsd #bungo sd #bungo stray dogs #bungou stray dogs #dazai x reader #dazai x fem reader #bsd x reader #bsd x fem reader #bsd fic #bsd requests #dazai x you #dazai x y/n #bsd x you #bsd x y/n

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loosingmoreletters · 1 year ago

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TW- SA

Hey I'm sorry if your seeing this 2 times im not sure if it went in the first time cause the wifi wasn't working properly😭😭

Can you do a fic where wei ying was sa'ed by some wen soldiers before being thrown into the burial mounds set during the sunshot campaign. after he cones back as the yilling patriarch they captured one of the soldiers who sa'ed him and interrogate him,the soldeir makes comnent on wei ying and they(nie mingie,jiang cheng,jin ziuxunl,lan xichchen) find out and they confront him about ,but hes nonchalant about it.They also end up finding about his lost golden core.

Sry if its too uncomfortable❤ don't do it if it is💜

The prompt, if I wrote that all, would be more the 10k type of fic, but I hope you enjoy this scene! Also are you the anon who sent the other dark fic prompts??? My guy (gnc) I continue to be curious why you picked me of all people for them.

CW: derogatory language, mentioned past rape, WWX is dissociating pretty hard but the POV character doesn’t realize

Lan Xichen stared at the boy—the man his brother loved and found Wei Wuxian look at their captive like all the vile comments he was spewing were beneath his notice. He sounded bored of them, his expression not dissimilar to the one he used to wear at the Cloud Recesses, paying no attention to Lan Qiren’s lectures. This only seemed to enrage the Wen General more as he shouted, not stopping even when Jiang Wanyin demanded he ceased his lying. If not for the silencing talismans in the room, drawn by Wei Wuxian, quicker with his blood than anyone could procure ink, you’d be able to hear it at the other end of the camp.

Lan Xichen isn’t sure how to take control of the situation again. He’d gone because they needed someone to play Inquiry in case the prisoner died, Jiang Wanyin was there as the Jiang had long since staked claim on every Wen from Wen Chao’s posse, their blood was Yunmeng Jiang’s right to spill. Nie Mingjue could hardly be left out of the interrogation of such a high-ranking Wen soldier and excluding the Jin, even when Jin Zixuan looked like he might lose his breakfast any moment now, was a political nightmare waiting to happen.

And yet, the nightmare happened anyway, Wei Wuxian standing impassively as the soldier spoke of acts so depraved that Lan Xichen wished they were nothing but a taunt.

“Are you done?” Wei Wuxian interrupted finally.

He moved past his sect leader, hardly seemed to notice Jiang Wanyin at all, even when his martial brother reached for him. It was, Lan Xichen realized, as if none of them seemed to be there for Wei Wuxian. In the corner of the room, a shadow flashed red. It had to be one of Wei Wuxian’s brides, they never strayed far from their master, even when unseen. It should disturb Lan Xichen that even at the camps they surrounded by barriers, Wei Wuxian’s ghosts slipped in and out and yet—

“You’re nothing but Wen Chao’s whore, good for a quick fuck—”

The soldier hadn’t finished his sentence before the bride in red had her hand to his throat, bloody fingernails digging into his throat, squeezing it just hard enough to leave the man choking.

“I asked if you’re done,” Wei Wuxian repeated, his voice lacking all inflection. “Where are your troops stationed?”

“You—”

The bride in red squeezed harder before letting go of the man’s throat to pull his head back by his short hair. She grinned, teeth as sharp as blades, looking proud of herself, like a child endearing herself to her mother, waiting for Wei Wuxian’s benign approval of her actions.

The soldier spat at their feet. “You won’t be able to stop them, boy. You’ll be left begging again.”

Wei Wuxian tilted his head. “I didn’t beg then, I had no need to, unlike your Master when I tore him apart.”

Lan Xichen hadn’t been present for Wen Chao’s murder, but the stories following his execution hadn’t been kind. If even the least of the brutalities the soldier had tossed at them was true, it was understandable why Wei Wuxian would’ve lashed out so much at Wen Chao, if it was not just to avenge his sect, but also the hurt dealt to him personally.

“Besides,” Wei Wuxian continued, seemingly unbothered. “All Wen Chao did to me? Do you think the dead did any less? They repaid any hurt twice over and I told you what I’d do to you when I returned.”

And then, the soldier’s eyes widened. He wasn’t given the chance speak as the bride in red plunged her hand into his throat, effortlessly ripping it out. The solider choked, once, then drowned in his own blood.

“Be good and quiet now,” Wei Wuxian said, sounding faintly as if he were echoing another’s words. “Your screams are ruining my mood.”

The soldier’s corpse dropped to the ground and Wei Wuxian’s bride left it to return to her master’s side, handing off him like one would imagine a living bride, clinging to… not her husband. Someone she’d be less shy around. A sister perhaps, someone who might have understood.

“Wei Wuxian—”

Jiang Wanyin reached out, but when his hand touched Wei Wuxian’s shoulder, the other man pushed him away. His eyes widened and, though Lan Xichen hadn’t realized it before, it was as if a fog cleared in them. Wei Wuxian’s gaze drifted to the corpse he’d left behind and all neutrality of before washed away by pure horror. He took a step back, then another, a next one, and rushed from the room in a panic.

Jiang Wanyin didn’t even hesitate, chasing after his martial brother without another look at the slaughter behind him.

“Xichen?”

Lan Xichen tore himself from the empty hallway and faced Nie Mingjue. “I’ll play Inquiry,” Lan Xichen said and settled on interrogating the spirit. It hadn’t been torn apart, though had Wei Wuxian thought of it, perhaps he would’ve done it.

Out of respect for the Jiang Head Disciple, Lan Xichen never allowed himself to ask, is it true? All you did to Wei Wuxian?

It wasn’t for him to know.

#ask #anon #mdzs #mdzs fanfic #wei wuxian #first time using a community tag on tumblr

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enlighten3d · 11 months ago

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okok soo gonna try to put a timeline for janette and adele’s relationship/story! (in order)

-They both meet at the town’s pub (adele being there after an argument with josh, her husband, and janette being there after a problem at the church)

-They end up flirting, adele lying about being married and end up hooking up basically (but before that janette explained her being aro-spec to just put put there that she isn’t wanting anything romantic and adele pretended to listen)

-They then end up in a friends with benefits relationship (adele’s husband josh is oblivious to this she’s definitely not telling him) for a couple of months and janette says that she hopes they can be friends as well

-Adele refuses that, since she has very complex feelings about aro-spec people (adele your arophobia is showinggg/hj) and thought they had a romantic relationship(since she didn’t believe janette) and they don’t speak for a while after an argument over that

-During that time, Janette has to (forced by her mum’s ghost) carry out a ritual of sorts to solidify a next heir to run the cult when janette’s dead and she doesn’t want to give up her nephew so she chooses a girl named Carmela (i have lore for her too) and due to the prophecy (that this ritual is based off) carmela has to hurt/kill a loved one, and it ends up being her boyfriend ryan beckett, adele’s son!

-This ends up with him loosing an arm and adele immediately knows who’s behind this (janette) and decides to carry out her own form of revenge (of her son and herself since she thinks janette was manipulative in their short lived relationship- adele darling stop making things worse)

-Said revenge ends up being burning down the cult building and Janette ends up being in it when that happens and she burns alive (uh oh) and adele thinks that’s been taken care of

-Until Janette comes back alive thanks to weird monster/spirits that give her life basically except with a catch- which is that if she cuts her skin in anyways, blue flowers and vines will burst through her skin and probably kill her again

-She’s forced to stay out of the town since if she walked back in, she’d be killed on sight (weird rules that i can explain) so she has to figure out how to kill adele

AND THATS ALL I HAVE! FOR NOW! So basically yeahh adele is kind of a shitty person!!! I have more lore for all the characters so if you have any questions pls do send them my way! (i live for questions about my lore/hj) :D these characters stay in my head aghh toxic yuri beloved uhmm okok byee this was longer than i thought oopsies

(sry this took a hot sec to reply to)

oooh boy.. this truly is VERY toxic yuri... i want to fight adele ngl. as an aromantic person, i am staring at her and Judging.

adele is on some shit.. sgdhdnf

ARSON. ARSON AS REVENGE 👍👍 IS YOUR SONS ARM GONE?? ARE YOU AROPHOBIC AND VERY GAY?? THE SOLUTION IS ARSON.

gods i feel bad for josh... he knows Nothing. poor guy.

OOH THATS FUN.. (janette being cursed like that). are bruises and shit okay?? if its severed skin specifically... oh boy yeah shes not gonna last long is she.. paper is her mortal enemy...

whys she gotta stay out of town?

ALSO WHAT DOES THE CULT WORSHIP. I AM SO CURIOUS. IS THE EXISTENCE OF THESE SPIRITS WIDESPREAD KNOWLEDGE, OR JUST SHIT THAT THIS CULT KNOWS?

was adele insane before she met janette or was she always this way

does janette know it was adele who started the fire...

WHAT ARE CARMELAS THOUGHTS ON ALL THIS (esp the having to fuck up her boyfriend... do they break up afterwards.. does he know it was her...)

i have so many questions /pos

#asks #i am Fascinated 👁️#murder lesbians

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amastelaire · 1 year ago

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Hey mutuals!

Been totally bed-ridden for the past week so didnt get to hop on the app that much :/ (sry)

If there was anything I was suppossed to do that I forgot because of me being sick please remind me!

I'm still sick but most Of the symptoms are gone now and i've got a pretty strong immune system, which make it incredible I was even able to stay that sick for so long...

Anyway, don't worry, i'm not dead, still thriving, I might not come back as regurlarly yet, but I need something to procrastinate on while I recover!

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dzvagabond · 2 months ago

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I know nothing about Alan wake, other than a IRL rock band is involved (???) and also that first game is from 2010 (wow that game is… fifteen years old…) but take this ask as an opportunity to infodump about it if you’d like! /genuine

@malewifehenrycooldown I AM SO SORRY FRIEND ;A; I've been so busy with work (I just started back after being on break) but I will take this opportunity to infodump about one of my fav game franchises.

There IS an actual rock band involved! It's Poet's of the Fall's in-game band called Old Gods of Asgard (please listen to their tracks for AW 1&2 + Control highly recommend) and their members Tor and Odin are characters that you interact with in both installments!

But anyway anyway!!

So AW 1 came out in 2010 (yea can't believe it'll be 15 in May holy fuck), and you play as the titular writer himself Alan obviously. The first game has a very big Stephen King vibe, and it's honestly different than any other survival horror type game I've played.

I'm gonna put a read more here because this post might get a bit LONG.

But yea, pretty much what's the synopsis of the first game is Alan and his wife Alice go on a trip to Bright Falls Washington to help clear his head. They go to a cabin on Cauldron Lake that Alice had rented for this trip, and unbeknownst to Alan until they get there, set up a typewriter so he could write while they were out there. This makes Alan upset because all he wanted to do was go on vacation and spend some time with his wife so he storms out of the cabin. While he's outside, he hears Alice scream and come to find out she had fallen into Cauldron Lake. This prompts Alan to jump in after her and goes unconscious.

When Alan wakes (haha sry sry), he gets into a car crash and there are these shadowy type enemies, which we come to know as the Taken later on; attack Alan in the dark and he finds out that the cabin no longer exists. Alan does go on a kind of wild goose chase trying to find Alice after he believes she's gone missing. Enter Sarah Baker the town sheriff who wants to take Alan into custody (iirc) because of how skeptical she is. She later rescinds her skepticism after she gets attacked by Taken as well.

Throughout your time playing the game, you find manuscript pages of Alan's horror story that are seemingly coming to life.

Before Breaker does get attacked however, Barry Wheeler Alan's manager comes to help him and defend him against the authorities. Breaker does help albeit a bit cautiously, but an FBI agent known as Nightingale shows up and accused Alan of killing Alice (iirc). Alan avoids him, you run around killing Taken, and he then gets contacted by someone who claims to have kidnapped Alice. Come to find out the guy is just a lackey for a local therapist by the name of Dr. Emil Hartman. This location is the 2nd time you meet the seemingly insane Tor and Odin Anderson of The Old Gods of Asgard (you first meet them in the Oh Deer Diner where one of em asks you to play Lime in the Coconut on the jukebox. Gotta love them). But anyway, Hartman gets taken over by the Dark Presence and attacks Alan. He makes it out obviously, and goes to the Anderson's place with Barry where they said they would give em answers to what's been going on.

To make a long story somewhat shorter, Alan gets the answer that the Dark Presence uses art to make itself stronger and expand its domain known as "The Dark Place". They perform a rock concert where you have to fight off hoards of taken, and go find a person known as the "Lady of the Light" who ends up being a woman named Cynthia Weaver. She tells Alan that this isn't the first time this has happened in Bright Falls. In the 70s, a man by the name of Thomas Zane was manipulated by the Dark Presence as well and it took over his then lover Barbara (who you do see/hear throughout the game). Now there has been a guide helping you through the game that I forgot to mention. It takes form of a ghostly diver, and it's at this point in the story you find out it's Zane trying to help you not make the same mistake he did and rescue your wife. Weaver then takes Alan to what she calls The Well-Lit Room where you find The Clicker, a little portion of a broken light switch given to Alan by his mom as a child. This is the thing he needs to save Alice.

Pretty much the ending goes like this:

Alan fights through hell after coming to the conclusion horror stories requires sacrifice and balance.

He comes face to face with the Dark Presence who's taken the form of Barbara.

Alan writes a new ending to the story, "defeats" Barbara by using the Clicker.

Alice escapes the Dark Place and emerges from Cauldron Lake unscathed and Alan takes her place.

This is when Mr. Scratch, Alan's doppelganger who later turns "evil", takes his place and Alan begins writing Return.

It's a wild ride and the gameplay relies heavily on dodging & flashlight usage to weaken the Taken to then shoot and kill em. The first game is a little clunky, but my god is it so much fun to play :3

Sorry it's so long (there's a lot of stuff I might have left out), I just have a lot of love for this series (I have an insert & lore n shit) and I hope you might give it a shot!

Canonically, it has 2 sequels, 3-ish if you could the DLC for Control. The first is American Nightmare which is where Alan is in the Dark Place getting pretty much tortured by Mr. Scratch with a timeloop. And the second is the ACTUAL sequel Alan Wake II which is even more batshit than the first imho.

I'm gonna be streaming the entire Remedy Franchise (which is kinda all connected in a weird way because Sam Lake is batshit insane just like Kojima [affectionate]) if you're interested or again, pick up the game yourself! It's not that expensive on Steam OR there's always a way around that without spending if you catch my drift 👀

But yea!! Please tell me if you play the game, I would LOVE to talk about it with more people!!

#shallow tag #alan wake.tm #infodump #AGAIN IM SO SORRY IT TOOK ME FOREVER TO ANSWER AND THAT ITS SO LONG

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acourtofquestions · 8 months ago

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Me: *crying* because HOW DID IT END? fits the TOG series & Aelin WAYYY too well for comfort😅😭

IM SORRY IN ADVANCE IF YOU READ THIS BECAUSE OW! BUT ALSO TAYLOR & SARAH WHY DOES IT FIT SO WELL? AND ALSO WHY BRAIN? — WHY NOTICE?? — OW! OW!! OWW!!! SRY BUT FANGIRL BRAIN GO BRRR😅😭🖤☠️🤷‍♀️🤦‍♀️

He was a hot house flower to my outdoorsmen — from Dorian & his cold blue yet sweet soul of a good man not a ruthlessly weighted King, the Chaol & his “classic sensibilities”, to Rowan her carranam (her old life burning with it as it all changes for good)

Our maladies were such we could not cure them — Sam😭 they tried to get away, but they were always trapped (by the same thing that caused them to meet), the Assassin’s Keep (it’s called keep for a reason), Arobynn (🖕I hate him so much more by the day😅😂) the “guild”… they couldn’t run far enough even if they’d had the time to try… but they never would🖤

A touch that was my birthright became foreign — LOSING HER MAGIC & parents & home & kingdom & crown (all the times her very being was pried from her; an unfortunately long list… Arobynn… Endovier… Maeve… Erawan… Deanna… it goes on & on💙) and reclaiming it, to have it stolen again (she learns in Wendlyn & and then back to Rifthold with it gone, she unleashes magic only to be drained, gains strength & is possessed by Deanna until she burns out). Plus another “incurable malady” because the power talk she has with Brannon, how it makes her lose them, her, it’s hers but it’s always been her fear too (her parents) it goes on…

Come one, come all, it's happenin' again — her refusing to think Sam is dead, even seeing it, then fighting Rourke for him, and ending up trapped anyway. The King (who killed her family) facing her again, and off to Endovier (pried from her freedom or even a chance). Back to the King to be his butcher, still chased by monsters. Running through the castle to save Chaol from a fate she is screaming to her fear is not true (not again) only to find the letter and go cold & off to slaughter for him again. Running for Nehemia because “this time she would be fast enough”. The look in Rowan’s eyes as he turns to tell her & she begs him not to but Endovier’s people (her people) were slaughtered. “Ellywe is burning”… That crippling ache & fear & rightful paranoia; death always too few steps behind her. The “fate” for her by Elena, Deanna, & Mala… the lock, the key; the love, the losses.

Soon they'll go home to their husbands, Smug 'cause they know they can trust him— the bitter resentment of those who get to have that; trust, family, happiness… something more… something not lost… then when she does, the ache of the world they remain stuck in.

Walking in circles like she was lost — her going to the grave veiled in black as they avoid her grief like a plague

Say it once again with feeling, How the death rattle breathing, Silenced as the soul was leaving, The deflation of our dreaming, Leaving me bereft and reeling, My beloved ghost and me, Sitting in a tree D-Y-I-N-G — I mean this has been Aelin’s entire life, so much feeling so much silence so much screaming, not believing Arobynn, or Dorian, or Chaol, but seeing it. Being forced to take lives, and watch people lose them. Almost having hope, Chaol, or Dorian, or freedom, and then it happens again. The shell of herself and the “death she became”. Her watching the world from the woods on the anniversary…

*I’m in pain now… time to go read…😅😬🤦‍♀️* but hey Who’s Afraaaid of Little Old Me? also works and that’s way more pump-up kick-ass jams😅😂🤣

#more bar of sanity #sorry in advance iwantvaldezinator😅🤣🫶#How Did It End?#Aelin Sardothien #Celaena Sardothien #Aelin Ashryver Galathynius #traumatized children of Terrasen #the lost Queen of Terrasen #little Aelin deserved better #Swifties #Maasverse #TTPD #tortured poet indeed #😅😅 laughs then cries #ow in advance #I hate Arobynn #I love Rowan #oh back in the Chaolaena days OW #pulling a Michael Scott make myself cry for a tagline poster for a movie idea I had lol iykyk I understood that reference #sry #I need to go read and stop crying about this #but I also know EoS will destroy me so…#too close for comfort songs #songs that remind me of characters #and now im crying again 😂#I think this post is evil be warned #fangirl problems #too in the feels #associating fictional characters with songs is too dangerous #laughing coughing throwing up etc hehe

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lunarcat982 · 10 months ago

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okok sry again for the delay anyway yh! chapter 3 hope u like it

Tw: depressing thoughts

chapter 3

there and back again

Felix:

Felix hated himself. Again. Maybe the world would just be so utterly perfect if he just… went. Being the idiot he was, he’d broken a heart. For fuck’s sake! What was wrong with him! Why couldn’t he just be normal. His best friend of 2 years just tried making out with him, and he just shoved her. Shoved her. Why couldn’t he like it, enjoy it, just be with her. He didn’t understand. Of course. The world denied him that, like so much more. Everything was so confusing, and again he was alone. He had no one to blame for this but himself, he was a worthless piece of shit causing his own suffering.

Felix noticed tears had been falling down his cheeks for what must have been… a while now. He looked up, everything was the same, trees were bullied by the wind, and birds tweeted their happy songs; he wasn’t gone. And the world wasn’t at peace. Fuck. That’s all he really wanted right now; to be gone. He looked back down; his shirt was damp with tears. He hated his clothes. So much. He could tell he was emotional now; he was… he didn’t know the word, spontaneous? He couldn’t be bothered to think about it too long, he was just stupid, that’s all he needed to know.

He’d stopped crying now, his eyes must’ve finally run out of juice, he refused to believe he was feeling better; he wasn’t. He checked the time: fucking hell, 18: 16. He’d sat there crying and hating himself for two hours now, here he thought there was no more reason to hate himself. He just needed to go home, his mum was going to yell at him when he did, he knew that much. He really needed to go. He was just making this all worse for himself, the longer he stayed here the more angry she would get and the more he would hate himself. And yet he sat there still looking out at the receding light emitted from the sun that shone over his head just hours ago.

This wasn’t normal was it? How could someone go from being so pleased and joyful to going back to being a miserable fuck and hating himself more than he did it before. All in the space of 3 hours. There and back again. With a short break in between.

Felix sat there for half an hour more after that. Most of the tears had been once again drained out of him and his blotchy red face was cooling. Why was he crying so much? Freak.

He started moving now, and had gotten off his lazy ass. He descended the old makeshift ladder Isabell had clambered down only three and a half hours ago. And yet it felt like days had passed. The ground felt… refreshing to stand on; something stable, something safe. What was he on about, just shut up. He needed to go.

OK. he was out of the woods and back on the familiar pavements and roads snaking around the neighbourhood he’d known for 15 years and yet felt like he’d only just joined. His mind was still dazed but less fractured. .. He thought. He still hated himself of course and what he’d done to himself and Isabell.. And well everyone really at this point; he just pushed them all away. Because he was stupid. His steps became stronger, his shoes slapping the tarmac: the only thing keeping him from sinking into the ground and being swallowed completely, honestly he might’ve preferred that at this point. … Wow, that was melodramatic and stupid. But it was what he felt right now, which to be honest probably wasn’t healthy.

He was nearly home now. It was setting in only now that he had no hope of finding another friend, Isabell was gone, forever. And well nobody talked to him. Which was, haha, really depressing. The sun and sky hung above him in a mess of reds and oranges as the sun barely peaked over the horizon painting the atmosphere. It looked like fire. A chaotic messy.. Fire.

Great, he was crying again. It wasn’t the ugly sick crying it had been before though. Just tears falling, as he thought, about himself, about his parents, about the world, his future. Everything. It hurt. But then he looked to his right, toward the blaring sun cutting through the thinning leaves. And then he saw the boy. And he was.. Nice, his hair shone in the sun. ginger curls set ablaze by the light.. And it was beautiful. He quickly looked away not wanting to attract attention, and he covered his what felt like red face with his fringe.

No. what? This was stupid, he just thought the spectacle was beautiful, and his face was red from crying. And he needed to go home and forget about this and just.. Go.

He was stupid. So stupid. Felix was ten paces from the cold grey door of his home, and was trying to prepare for the screams and slurs he would be hit with when he walked in, rather than think about the stupid boy across the road. The boy was stupid, and nobody cared if he had blue eyes or vibrant freckles. Nobody cared. Please, he just wanted to rest and hate himself. He didn't want to think anymore, not about this, not about him, the boy, or mum. And he walked in, where as he presumed his mum shrieked at him, something about worrying her and next time she’d kick him out herself or some other lie. And he tried to hold back the tears, because they needed to flood out of him, but he wouldn’t let them, never infront of her. And he couldn’t explain or think of why right now. He just wanted to go.

So he clambered up to his ugly grey room, where he fell into his ugly bed in his ugly clothes. Crying his ugly face out, and letting go of every ugly thing he’d ever loved. And he slept for 6 hours. Trying to forget everything and leave everything. But he couldn’t or wouldn’t? Who cares? And all the while Felix definitely didn't dream of the boy across the road.

Untitled book

ok so here's chapter 1 of a story I'm writing I've already written the first 3 chapters so will prob post them at some point. Also this is rly long so if u want me to post further chapters like split into different posts or something js say! and pls give ideas and feedback (it won't be perfect so I'll defo need like improvements lol) :))

Chapter 1

Meet Felix

Felix sighed as he walked down the crowded hallway of his school, his thoughts drowning in the chatter and enjoyment within his peers. you could vaguely hear his timid footsteps echo around the school. He had bags under his eyes with a tint of red. He’d been crying again. It was so hard sometimes… It hurt. He couldn’t bear it. It was the end of another day just like the others, painful, emotionless and hell. Felix's phone buzzed in his blazer pocket, probably mum or dad asking him for something as they always do. Oh… it was Isabell. They used to be friends a few weeks back, good friends, but she said she wanted to find some new ‘people’ and maybe find love, or some generic shit like that anyway. He couldn't remember what she said exactly, but it didn’t help with his mental state, she was one of the few people who kept him at least a little happy in this fucked up world. Haha probably the only person, and then when she went away, he couldn’t help feeling empty and alone, not even his parents talked to him anymore.

Apparently, she wanted to meet him somewhere today at 4:00, she wanted to talk about how things are going and maybe hang out a bit more. Felix managed a meek smile, maybe he did have someone to relate to, maybe his existence wasn’t so meaningless. He was getting his hopes up, that was the mistake.

Felix walked up the steep hill that led to the long winding road that accommodated his house. His feet gently smothered browning leaves that had recently fallen from their respective branches. He had already started conjuring up what to say, what to ask. The only problem was getting out of his house after he was in it, of course mum would start bombarding him with questions about girlfriends if he brought up the fact he was going out with a girl. He would have to lie, not that it meant anything, it was almost instinctive now. He just couldn't get why they didn't understand he wasn't interested in any girls! It angered him more than it should have.

He had arrived, he stood tiresomely in front of the bleak grey door he knew only too well; something about impressing the neighbours, his mum had said. Lazily he pulled on the handle and slowly opened and closed the door. Nothing, he was safe. Carefully Felix ascended the stairs and changed into something more suitable than his confining uniform; and yet even after this he still felt constricted by his parents' choice of clothes, he yearned for something more… expressive. It-it didn't matter now, he had to go, he was going to be late. He was downstairs now, and was about to leave, but.

“And just where do you think you’re goin?” her voice was slurred and slow, she had been drinking again. Felix sighed, “I-I’m going to see a friend”

“Which friend!” His mother snapped at him drawing another gulp of wine from one of her already half empty glasses.

“It’s a boy mum! Okay?” Felix said, actively avoiding looking at the mess, which was his birth mother, he couldn’t stand to see anyone, not even her like this.

“Eugh, fuckin’ hell Felix, you keep on seein’ all these boys, you’re gonna end up a fag,”

Felix shut his eyes and tried ignoring the comment, even though the anger was begging to be let out. He never supported his mum’s or, well, the whole town's view on the LGBTQ+ community. But he couldn’t think about that right now, he needed to go, and with that his mum slunk back into the living room in which all the blinds were drawn down, and Felix swung the door open and slammed it shut behind him, ready to see an old friend.

He was starting to smile more now, he felt heavy weights he’d been carrying for God knows how long lift off him. He felt a sense of escape rush over him; escape from his family? guilt? He wasn’t sure, but it made him feel better and that's all that mattered right now. And then it hit him, they hadn’t even organised an area to meet up. That was stupid of him. He quickly pried the phone from his pocket and texted asking to meet at… maybe Grey Heart woods? Yeah, that was a good place, he had an idea of something to show her. Felix smiled at the thought of this, he hadn’t been given the chance to express his interests for a long while now and he was eager to do so. His phone buzzed in his hand “yh ok” she replied.

15 minutes later Felix was outside the field by Grey Heart woods, he used to hang out here, back when everything was simpler, and he didn’t feel alone all the time. This was where he first met Isabell, they were both 13, wow 2 years ago. Heh, time flies when you have nothing to do with your life.

At this moment Felix realised Isabell was nowhere to be seen, he checked his phone: 16:01. She was late, eh it was ok people are often late- he had suggested the meeting spot rather late. It only bothered him when he was late, he couldn’t stand that- it made him very uncomfortable; he still wasn’t sure why.

5 minutes passed and eventually he saw her come out of an opening to the right. She still had glasses although they were new, a ginger ponytail hung from the back of her head and she seemed more confident than the last team he saw her, taller too. He put on a smile and tried cleaning the mop of black hair that draped over his forehead. In truth he was nervous, it had been so long, and he didn’t want to lose this like he lost it before.

They walked towards each other, both smiling, “H-hi!” he said, raising a hand to wave, his attempts at hiding his nervous-ness were poor. “Hellooo!” she giggled. He smiled at this, she hadn’t changed, quirky and weird.

“Heheh, so how have you been? It's been a long time, "he said, more confident now. “Well, let's see, parents still divorced check, no friends check, oh! And still single, definitely check," "and you?” she asked with a beaming smile.

“Wow ok, let me think, I’ve been rotting away in my room, been crying in the school bathrooms and been completely and utterly alone,” he said, hinting at how much her sudden leaving hurt him.

“Yeah, I’ll cheers to that!” She said, distracted, looking into the woods to the left of them both. “So, you wanna go in?” she asked signalling towards the woods

“Um yeah sure,” “I actually have something to show you!” he said remembering what he was planning. “Oh, you do, do you?” she said once again with that cheeky smile.

They’d been walking for around 5 minutes into the woods now and Isabell was getting restless, “when are we getting there?” she asked.

“Hehe don’t worry we’re nearly there, I promise”,

she wasn’t convinced, he could tell. And she was starting to move her body closer to his as they walked. That was... new, eh it's probably nothing.

Finally, the pair came to a stop in front of a large tree, around 5 metres up the trunk were 10 wooden planks nailed into various branches, although some appeared to be losing their grip and leaning off the edges. “Um what's this?”

“A treehouse!” He said. He was feeling more open with her now, he didn’t mind her judgement.

“okayy , how are we gonna get up?” she said a little more interested now.

“Ladder!” he said, smiling and gesturing towards an arrangement of horizontal wooden slabs scaling the trunk of the tree.

Isabell frowned at the state of the wood but climbed it, nevertheless. Felix followed her up, close behind, smiling more and more. He missed this place.

Eventually, the two of them had reached the top, Felix was surprised at how well the place had held up, only a few patches of moss growing here and there. “So, what were you gonna bring me up here for again?” She said, her voice smoother and fluid. It was probably just him.

“Well,” he said, a little nervous, again, “I actually wanted to show you something I’m really interested in… paradoxes!” he said, smiling once more.

She frowned at this, “what?” she said coldly.

“Y'know, a statement or question that contra-”

“Are you kidding me?”

“W-what?”

“I’ve been acting like all nice for you, like we used to be” “And this is what I get…” “Felix, I LIKE you”

“I” He didn't know what to do, he was panicking and confused.

She sighed, “I guess I’ll have to do it myself” she whispered as to not let him hear. He did. “Felix, I’m sorry” she started cooing, that same smooth tone in her voice again, “come on we can just be together, I Know you like me” she started moving towards him on her hands and knees. He froze, he didn’t know what to do and was so confused. She was on him now. “W-” he managed to get the start of a word out before she pressed her lips against his own, closing her eyes she moved her hand to his cheek. He felt her tongue progressing towards his mouth, his back now pressed against the wood beneath him, as she leaned into him. He was scared, so scared, he didn’t like this. Without thinking he pushed against her, releasing himself from her clutch. She got back onto her knees and looked at him with disgust. He hadn't realised, he was now crying, and his eyes were now red with worry. “Fuck you!” she said now angry, “Y-you freak!” she was hurt too, and he could tell in her voice she was on the brink of tears herself. Without warning she descended the ladder two steps at a time, and ran away from him, all the while he sat there, tears rolling down his red cheeks. Felix sat there for half an hour more, crying harder than he had in months, as that word repeated over and over in his head, “Freak”.

#lgbtq+#lgbtqia #books and reading #books #creative writing #writer stuff #writing stuff #writers things #writeblr #writers on tumblr #story #art #chapter 3 #gayboy

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leclsrc · 2 years ago

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stay, at least for breakfast ✴︎ cl16

genre: angst, just. angst, fluff

word count: 9.2k

You love once and miss always.

notes... internet translated ita/fre, non linear format so might b a tad confusing but thats it

auds here... this fic is a tad long sry. many thanks to mack who recommended the most painful songs to me that got me through writing the last couple of scenes. ik i said i wasn’t sure when i’d release this but here it is :)

You’re the only person Pierre knows in New York, so you’re the first one he calls. You suggest you meet just at your place, so you can smoke more freely, because so many people complain about the smell these days. You stall. You say the L train is broken. You say you’re tied up with work at the firm. But Pierre sees through you and eventually you meet anyway.

He looks the same, and just seeing him reminds you of so much. Shadows and outlines of memories long gone. You try to keep up the pretense of being okay, to remember that truly, your mind has been elsewhere lately—off everything, off the memories, on work, on cases. You try not to bring him up, even if it’s inevitable that he arises; you keep conversation to a polite minimum.

Pierre offers a cigarette, a Camel light. You’re a fourth’s way through the stick.

“He asks about you, sometimes.” And then just like that, your world has ceased to turn.

“Oh?” A beat. “What do you say?”

“Just the usual. You’re working on this and that case for the law firm… you went to Greece in the summer.”

You and Pierre are still close, but it’s difficult to forget why. You two are connected by Charles, by a friendship so sacred it warranted a dinner for a Pierre-exclusive introduction. You’d grown close then, and when the breakup happened, it became hard for Pierre to maintain close contact with both of you.

Selfishly, you wanted him to see how broken you were, so he could report it all back to Charles, etch every last detail of your pain. But Pierre is more mature than he’s given credit for.

“Okay.” You say blankly, unsure of how to bridge a less tense topic.

Perhaps sensing the apprehension, Pierre does it instead. “Do you remember when we bought shaving cream and made Charles look like Santa?”

It was in here in Manhattan, you recall, when Charles had dragged Pierre along with him to visit you over winter, when he’d been dating you for nearly two years at the time. Your flat was just above a bodega that had a comical amount of cheap cans of shaving cream that you and Pierre had found so absolutely silly, birthing a series of Charles-related pranks. After your grocery run, you’d returned to your place, where your boyfriend was fast asleep, mouth half open.

Shh. Quiet, you’d said, spurting shaving cream along his chin, his jaw, laughing silently.

Pierre had followed suit until finally, a beard of Nivea Men bounded down to Charles’ torso. You’d snapped a picture; the shutter sound had woken him up to a red-faced you and Pierre.

He was a good sport about it, kissed you with laughter, so you, too, had a beard of froth. Pierre took a Polaroid with a gifted camera of you on Charles’ lap, arms entwined around his neck, both of you bubbly with the cream, cheeks achy with smiles and laughter. You pretend to forget where it is, to forget that it’s tucked in a box you open once in a while.

“I miss him sometimes, you know.” The confession rips through you, exacerbated by the cigarette.

“I know.” Says Pierre, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. You realize maybe it is.

I still have so much love for him, you wish to say. But where will I put it? Will I keep this inside of me forever? A great, monstrous, shameful thing it is, to love somebody who’s left. But here I am doing it, trying to fill a void that feels like a crater. Where do I put this love? Maybe I can give it to somebody else, somebody new—but I’d say it’s not the same.

You think you’ll always hold a torch to Charles, even when the fire burns through the wood, ash trickling onto your arm until it hurts. And even then, when the light’s gone, when the flame’s wounded you and licked deep into your heart and bones, like it has now, you’ll linger, still holding this torch, still yearning, still unwanting to let go. Still loving. How desperate, you think. How human.

You clear your tobacco-flavoured throat. “It’s em—it’s embarrassing,” you say instead, throat closing up midway, in a futile attempt to water down your intense emotions. They threaten to crawl up your throat, force secrets out of you with the ease of ripping a piece of paper in half.

“Is it?” He asks, open-ended. “N’est-il pas honorable d'être si aimant?”

“Pas si ce n’est pas réciproque.” You scoff.

But he’s relentless, persistent in his pursuit to prove a point. “No. Love isn’t embarrassing, or pathetic, when it’s one-sided. It means more that way, when it’s not reciprocated. It means you’re selfless. It means the love is real.” He turns toward you, and in a billow of smoke, asks, “Does it not?”

You stare, left speechless. All you muster is: “Va te faire foutre.”

—

You exit the room at eight-thirty with your toothbrush still foaming in your mouth. You stretch your arms over your head, combing a hand through your bedhead. Your eyes are half-shut, and already you smell it before you see it.

Pausing in your tracks, you rub the sleep out of your eyes. “Charles?” You call out, still out of the kitchen’s view. You try to remember if he was in bed when you crawled out, but your mind was still cloudy then, and the desire to pee took precedence.

You turn toward the bedroom door. “Charles, come out here. I think something’s on fire in the kitchen. Babe!”

You speedwalk, concern taking over—you didn’t pay enough attention to fire drills in primary school, clearly. Once you peek into the kitchen, however, your concern is only exacerbated, but not nearly as much as the extreme confusion that begins to well up inside you. There, at your stove, is your boyfriend himself, clearly fully awake and conscious, and holding a frying pan in mid-air that’s billowing smoke.

Having heard your voice already, he feels your presence and turns slowly. His gaze blinks from the pan in his grip to your totally incredulous stare.

“I can…” He pauses. “I’ll try to explain.”

“Very smart save, babe,” you say, but it’s muffled by your toothbrush.

“You sound stupid,” he retorts.

You remove the toothbrush and try to speak as coherently as you can through the spearmint foam. “I don’t think you’re in a position to be giving me criticism right now.”

“Fair,” he says, flitting his gaze over to where he holds the frying pan in mid-air. “I will explain as soon as you rinse your mouth. I promise.” You narrow your eyes, wondering if maybe this is another tactic to get himself out of trouble, but you figure it makes sense. If you’re going to scold him, might as well not spray toothpaste everywhere.

You grab your phone on your way back, where the disarray has not subsided in the least. He’s wearing your kiss the chef apron, stained with grease and pancake batter, both vital ingredients to bacon and flapjacks, neither of which are to be seen anywhere.

“What’s going on, Charles?”

“I wanted to cook you a surprise breakfast. But I can’t get the stove right.”

“Tu es fou.” You laugh, inspecting the smoke-scented pan. “Pourquoi n'avez-vous pas simplement pris à emporter?”

“Je voulais être pensif!” He defends, pouting. “Sorry. I’ll clean up the mess.” He deposits a batch of dishes at the sink as you watch in amusement. Your boyfriend is usually a good cook, you’ll say—he makes a mean stack of pancakes, and anybody can cook bacon, really. You suppose this is all just one honest mistake, born from a desire to surprise you on this morning.

He’s scrubbing at the pan when you wrap your arms around him in a backhug. “Thank you anyway. You’re the sweetest, Charles.”

He turns, a bubble of dish soap on the tip of his nose and hums. “Does this get me boyfriend points?”

“Alright, Jesus, a hundred of them.” You smile fondly, meeting his lips in a soft kiss. He makes you toast as compensation, takes the time to cut the crusts off the bread and the pulp out of the orange juice and the big bits out of the jam. He does his best, perfecting the art of toast and breakfast and, by extension, making you happy.

—

“Un amaretto sour, une bouteille de rose et un dirty martini,” you order smilingly in smooth, sure French.

The waiter nods and after thanks are exchanged, he leaves your table alone. In your limited knowledge of Paris, you’ve chalked it up to a few things: many people will be rude, the serving sizes will be petite, and the men will be anything but trustworthy. You’ve tried them before and they all go the same way, slipping out of hotel rooms with disarming desolés, buttoning their polos as they go.

So here you are, characteristically silent, because your friend is flirting with a guy and you refuse to do the same.

“You speak French?” The guy across you asks curiously. He talks like he’s always smiling, eyes turning into half-crescents. He’s accented, but you’re unsure of the origin—it sounds French, in the same way it kind of doesn’t. You nod politely.

“Ah? Où est-ce que vous l'avez appris?”

“Université,” you respond. “J’ai etudie le langue français, mais… est trés difficil.” He laughs, nodding like you’ve said the funniest thing in the world. Half-crescents.

“I’m Charles. I grew up—I’m from Monaco, so I speak it. And Italian. Joris and I.” He elbows his friend, who your friend is flirting with. Oh, Monaco. So… not French.

“I’ve never been,” you say, letting yourself loosen up a bit more.

“It’s very small. You should go sometime.” An implication of something hangs in the air, like clouds over France. You smile, bashful, nodding along.

“I’ll make sure to.” The drinks arrive and flow through the night, laughter passed along the table like wine. At some point you and Charles get up to dance, but are quickly put to your chairs by the waiter—you mutter some slurred remark about how why play music if you can’t dance?!

But he is funny, and charming, and pretty. You find yourself staring at him in a very desperate, schoolgirl crush way, lip bitten and cheeks warm when he catches you.

Later that night, tipsy off the alcohol, Charles the Monegasque presses a kiss to your cheek and asks, shyly, if you’d like to come to his hotel. You tease him, just to see the half-crescents again, and then you’re in his car and in his room, top pulled off and bra unclasped, laughing drunkenly into his neck when the pleasure reaches its crux. And you hope he doesn’t ask you to leave the next day, drifting into sleep with his arm slung over your waist.

—

You like Charles’ voice in real life.

This is because it means you feel it more than hear it, a low thrum through his chest and into your ear. It lets you know he’s close by, which is the best kind of reassurance, because he never usually is. It doesn’t matter what he talks about—the day past or about to begin, racing, family—all you can really digest is the amount of love and care he puts into his words.

Most of the time you hear his voice through the layered, stuffy audio of your phone or your laptop, when they can’t quite catch up to his lips, when the Internet lag is just that awful. If you’re lucky, he sounds more like himself, but nothing compares to hearing it for real, the whispers and murmurs and roughness of it all. He’s here, and you’re home, content just to listen.

You’re in Monaco; it’s your fourth day here. You’re off school for two weeks before you dive into midterms, so you spend it in Europe, because you haven’t seen Charles in ages. Lately he’s been pixels, voice memos, bubbles of words. But now he’s Charles, real, tangible, yours.

Life has become easier when he’s around, a fact wholly owed to his presence. When he’s here, you feel at ease, like laughter is effortless and loving is natural. But there is a ticking timebomb you sleep on, and it’s your impending departure, your flight back to the city, your resuming of normal life. Of life without him.

“I’ll be in Geneva next week,” he tells you, voice throaty from having just woken up. They’re the first words out of his mouth after he hangs up the early morning phone with Andrea. It’s an invite, even if it’s phrased as a statement; he awaits your affirmation, should it come. He invites you to these things often, as a way to introduce you more into his world. The words rumble through him, slowly onto your fingertips that waltz silently across his bare chest. They skate while you formulate a response.

“Okay,” you say quietly, half-asleep still. “I have… a huge recitation coming up, so I don’t think I can make it. Criminal law.”

He tenses, and you feel it. But his words say something else. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I wish I could,” you say, as compensation. It’s what you’ve both grown used to lately, wishing. Wishes that, for all your trying, never seem to come true. I wish I could make it. I wish I could visit. I wish we could celebrate together. I wish I was there for the podium, or the grades release, or the job offer phone call. I wish, I wish, I wish, and not much of anything else. Just wishing. Wishing, wanting, never getting.

“Yeah,” he says, sighing. “I wish you could, too.”

The dissonance between the voice that rumbles through him and into you—comforting—and the words that leave—a touch too sharp—strikes through you like electricity. “I’m sorry,” you say achingly, and the morning is silent as you both fall back into ignorant, blissful sleep.

—

“Aaaaand that pretty much evens us out to a solid 12-3.”

You finish tracking the score on your Notes app, closing your phone and facing your boyfriend’s pouting face of defeat.

As always, the loser packs up the chessboard first—the wooden pieces click noisily against each other as he folds up the game, to be won (by you, no doubt) another time. Between work and the general upkeep of a relationship that’s constantly long distance, you and Charles find it difficult to begin and maintain romantic traditions.

But there’s always the assurance of chess. To air out grievances, to pass the time, to play footsie under the table. You and Charles always play, keeping a seasonal tally of near-daily games—during flights, pre and post race, after sex, at brunches with family.

“You’ve been cheating,” he accuses jokingly, storing the chessboard and inviting you onto his lap.

You’re in Nice today, housesitting for a friend while Charles spends time off racing. He claims it’s sufficient practice for when you one day buy a place together; two, at that: one in New York and one in Monaco. The days have passed in chess games, pots of coffee, and slow dances in the kitchen while you wait for pasta to boil or rice to cook.

“You’re just jealous,” you tease, clambering atop him. Your arms loop around his neck, his around your waist. “Don’t worry. The tally will restart in September.”

“I’ll best you then.” Here, in this still moment of silence, where the sunlight from outside filters in just right and illuminates every detail of Charles’ face, you can almost feel your heart swell to an unimaginable size. You connect the moles and freckles with the tip of your pinky, traveling lower until it rests softly against his lips. He smiles, flexing against your touch.

“Sore loser,” you say, flirtatious, playing with his hair.

“I think I keep losing,” he starts, hands tightening around your frame, “because every time I see you, I forget how to do the most ordinary things.”

You bite back a smile. “Hey, don’t try to charm yourself into a win.”

“Can’t help it, the winner’s too pretty,” he teases back; your lack of retort leads you to press your face into his chest. He smells like he always smells, clean and woody and a bit like your own perfume, your pretty boy. You inhale, breathe him in and ground yourself. Here, miles away from Monaco, even farther from Manhattan, you are home.

—

“How do you tell people you broke up?”

“I say we wanted different things,” you reply, two puffs into your second Camel.

A white lie, a half-truth, a rehearsed answer after being asked the same repetitive question so many times. You and Charles broke up because at that point, nothing about you made sense. You were growing older, and with age came the stupefying realization that nonsense wasn’t always romantic. If it didn’t make sense, it never would. But you did want the same things, you suppose, at least to some extent.

You know you wanted marriage. After law school, it had to be, and in Europe, somewhere sunny and windy and flowery with a sea nearby. A small affair, family and friends. You know you wanted kids, two or three, a bunch of Charles lookalikes, tufts of light hair and bouts of crazy energy. You know you wanted a house—not a flat, a house, a brownstone in Manhattan, a big property in Monaco. You wanted so much of the same things.

Perhaps that is why Pierre will never understand the magnitude of the way you miss Charles. You dream of him when you’re awake, of the times you spent together that finished abruptly. You look for him in everyday objects. You keep the tissue paper conversations, you want to say, even if it’s so, so mortifying, so raw to admit it.

“But you didn’t,” says Pierre, because he knows it.

“We didn’t. But what other explanation is there?” Where a concrete summary of your breakup is supposed to be, there lies grey matter, webs of explanation spanning years and months and questions unanswered.

“I get it,” he replies. But he’s not you, or Charles, so he doesn’t.

—

Charles looks at you and imagines your smiling face in every moment of his future. Holding a child, under a veil, half-asleep in the morning, flushed and warm after a few beers.

You’re—you’re you, and he just loves you, in a way he will never be able to articulate. He drives for a living—he looks at all kinds of statistics, worded and encoded onto machines and computer screens. But this love isn’t quantifiable. Not in numbers, not in speed, not in words, stanzas of Italian. His love for you is indescribable; it exists in a wordless plane, massive and all-encompassing, carved and chiseled finely.

When you’re absent, the world seems duller, a bit more empty. But it’s okay, he thinks—you’re here now, across the room, in nothing but lingerie, your dress pooled at your feet. You’ve both just arrived from another social gathering, with so many people, and an afterparty arranged by Max.

You’d utilized your well-used secret signal for parties that directly translated to “let’s go home”—bringing up peanut butter meant you were well past exhausted and needed to leave. One “the dessert would’ve been so good with peanut butter” later and you’re here. Years of being together means you’ve both created a vocabulary all your own, lexicon and phonetics making up a language of love and familiarity. Nobody else will ever get this, he thinks. It’s just yours.

You’re removing your makeup in the mirror, and oh, well, you’re beautiful. He wonders what he has to do now to be able to find you in the next life, to be able to meet your eyes again for the first time and fall in love with you the way he did.

You’re what he looks for after a race, after a win, after a DNF. So he can, if just for a moment, let his guard down and allow himself to be yours, yours and only yours, collapse into your arms from ache and overwhelm and find reprieve there. With you, he lets himself go, lets the façade fall, lets himself stay in your touch before he deems himself ready to be with the rest of the world.

“Hey, you,” you call, and he blinks. “Eyes up here, buddy.”

“I just love you,” he says sleepily.

You tug on a nightshirt—his, from ages ago—and crawl into bed beside him, raising a teasing brow. “Sex is off the table.”

He laughs. “I wasn’t trying to get into your pants.”

“Good,” you half-yawn, yanking the lamplight closed and nestling yourself beside him. “I look horribly un-sexy.”

“The shirt’s kinda doing it for me.”

“Go to sleep.”

—

It’s raining today, for the first time in a dull stretch of weeks. The fall comes in angry, noisy sheets, made more furious by the wind. Wrapped in one of his hoodies, you clasp a mug in your hands, staring sullenly out the window, wondering when Charles will be home. Something has shifted in the weeks since you last saw each other, since you flew back out to New York and Charles didn’t finish in the last race.

Sometimes everything feels impossible to touch, like you don’t know what the next step is, let alone how to take it. There’s a certain uncertainty to where you stand, a possibility that, if the seconds tick just right, everything will crash down. This isn’t a feeling you’ve ever had before, but you suppose this is the only way to learn how to deal with it.

It’s comforting, then, when you hear the keys jingle at the door.

Your flat, as expensive as it is, has a quirk to it; the door only opens when you jerk it with your knee twice. You hear it, the double thump, and in almost childish excitement, you set your mug down and pad gently over to the foyer, so you’re ready for him when the door opens. Everytime you’re apart for this long, the routine is standard, and first thing you do is hug—so hard, so tight, your legs wrapped around his waist, his face in your neck.

“Hey,” Charles says, seeing you wait idly by the front door. You inch forward, but freeze. He heaves his luggage in, smiling softly, tiredly almost, pressing a brief kiss to your cheek and then disappears into the bedroom. The lump in your throat doesn’t go away when you slowly realize the hug you’d awaited, prepared for even, does not come.

You follow him instead, to the bedroom, where he’s still quiet, shirtless and picking out something from the drawers. He turns when he hears you. “Have you seen my grey hoodie?”

“Yeah, it’s in the wash.” You pause. “I used it last week, sorry.”

“I tol—it’s,” he says, inhaling, “it’s fine.”

“I’m sorry,” you repeat, taken aback by how affected he is. “I can get it dried.”

“It’s okay.” He insists, a bit sharply, tugging on a different shirt instead.

The air is thick, threatening to break, and you’re hopeless, lost, left wondering—what the hell is going on. You try your best anyway, humming as you take a seat on the bed and fold the bits of laundry you’d abandoned in the morning.

“Pascale’s inviting us over tomorrow,” you open, finishing a pair of shorts and depositing them into the drawers. Your arms wrap around him, and he holds them there. This is good, you think. This is okay. “For brunch, because Arthur’s going to be home. I told her okay—since I’m back in New York by Tuesday and you’ll be in Italy then, too. We haven’t had brunch with your family in forever. God, they’re going to be asking questions about marriage, and engagement, and ki—”

“Stop.” The room goes still. “Why did you tell her okay?” He asks, disengaging the hug and turning toward you fully.

You’re like a deer in the headlights, confused, lost all over again.

“Charles?” You prod, gently. “Is… are you okay? I mean, we always greenlight brunch.”

You watch him pinch his nose bridge, exhale, close his eyes.

“What’s wrong?” You echo, stepping forward. He steps back, avoidant.

“Don’t,” he says. “Please, just… don’t.”

You’ve heard this often lately. In fact, no—you’ve maybe felt this more than heard it. This—this distance, this space, this push. Every call unanswered, every flight missed, every text answered with a brief, apathetic OK. You can’t quell the fear, the panic swelling in your chest, because you can feel him floating away, just out of grasp.

“Talk to me,” you say, because it’s the only thing that can bring itself to leave your mouth. It’s weak, it’s desperate, lacking composure and firmness. “Nous pouvons travailler à travers cela.”

“Non,” he says, as if he knows it already. “This, I—I just. I think I just need some space.”

Space.

“Okay,” you say. “I’ll be in the living room.”

“No, I’ll go,” he insists, like he’s doing you a favor. I’ll save us the nasty fight, he seems to convey. I’ll go. So he does—grabs a coat and wrestles himself out of the door, with barely anything left to reassure you, just a short kiss and a hand on your hair. It’s performative, you know this, but you’ll take it. You don’t have much to accept these days.

The night passes, still and quiet, without the jingle of keys or the double thump at the door.

Even in memory and introspection you will come to find this moment and remain capable of recounting every thread of detail, ones as small as the eyes of needles, every prick of pain that pokes at you. Because even if you see him the day next, and even if he greets you with a kiss, and pulls you aside to apologize profusely, and even if you feel so loved in this very moment, with hugs from Pascale and jokes from Arthur and check-ins with Lorenzo, the fact has secured, burrowed itself into the dark crevice of your heart.

You will look back on this one day, and think, with the kind of certainty so crushingly absolute: yes, this is when it all went wrong.

—

“Is he seeing anybody?” Halfway through the third stick.

“No,” Pierre says, blowing smoke out into the air.

“Be honest.”

He snorts. “D’accord. An Italian girl, few months ago, but it’s over. It was quick. Very. And you?”

The information makes you weak in ways you refuse to share. “Just… testing things out with this guy.”

“Does he know about Charles?”

The silence is telling. “About Charles” is an awfully broad topic.

Charles was such a big part of who you are, and who you’ve been, and what you’ve been through. How would you even begin telling somebody about you both? The bits and pieces, the great figure eight, the tiny infinity. The moments within the moments, memories within memories. The love. The way you loved, the way you sought him, the way you have yet to replicate the feeling of loving him, the way you wait for the next life, so you can seek him all over again.

There is “does he know Charles,” and there is “does he know about Charles,” and the two are so cruelly separate and different. Anyone can know Charles; he is, after all, world-famous. You don’t know how he’s doing in motorsport these days, because a lot of the time the Google search for his name suggests ex girlfriend right beside it, and that’s enough to stun you into not searching again. But still he’s famous and renowned, so of course he’d be known. But for someone to know about him, what he meant to you—it feels like you’d be reciting a novel in an effort to explain how the both of you began, became, and ended. Reciting sonnets and stanzas of prose, of moments painfully intimate, of habits that have yet to die, of things you wished to be taught by him.

“So, no.” You nod softly.

—

The possibility of spending Christmas with either of your families grows thin as December begins. Between final exams and racing meetings, neither of you give, discussing over hours-long calls and coordinating calendars. You find that your only common free day is the seventh of January, which is effectively well past the holidays. You’ve sunk into a pile of misery at the very real chance of spending the holidays by yourself. It’s not a pretty idea, despite the fact that you’ve befriended loneliness lately.

Outside your window, Manhattan is caked in snow; it reminds you of Santa Claus Charles, with his foamy frizzy beard and kisses of froth and the Polaroid on the fridge. You wonder if Charles, wherever he is in Europe now—traveling multiple times a day—remembers you, too, in these little mundane things.

He’d called on the third of December, when it was three in the morning in New York. You picked up after two rings, busy studying, and mumbled a sleepy hello into the receiver.

“Merry Christmas,” he said, clearly excited over something.

“Bit early, honey.” You’d said back amusedly, highlighting phrases on the textbook.

“Just saying it now, because the next time you hear me say these words, it’ll be in New York.”

You didn’t register his words until you realized you’d tinted two entire paragraphs fluorescent yellow.

You blinked. “Wait, what’d you say?”

“I’m there by the twenty-fifth, evening. Found a sweet spot in my calendar thanks to Joris.”

“If you’re joking, Charles, I swear—”

“I’ll see you then,” he had said; even then you could hear his smile through the scratchy audio of international calls.

That’s what you’re doing here, over your stove cooking chicken to commemorate your first Christmas together. You stick a thermometer inside it, busying your mind with thoughts of dinner instead of the fact that you haven’t spoken to your supposed guest in over a week.

Like many fights lately, this began over something irrational and grew into a serious, temperamental discussion about your future.

About moving in together and how impossible it seemed. About raising kids or getting engaged. Everything was written on different pages for the two of you. Your plans were always years too early, years too late, never aligning. Bilingual paragraphs eventually devolved into exhausted intermittent texts, check-ins if it mattered, and barely any concrete discussion at all.

It’s mortifying to have to say the phrases “like many fights lately.” You wonder what it proves about the two of you, about the relationship you share. Has it gone sour? No, you tell yourself. But this yogurt dip will, if I don’t put it in the fridge. You wipe your hands off after you do, rechecking your phone; still no texts or calls or updates. He’d texted this morning, a brief and simple see you soon, but hadn’t responded to your text.

Chicken, mashed potatoes, candles ready to be lit. You fiddle with the pink Bic, lighting and unlighting, sighing.

You dial the airline eventually. They man both public and private flights, so they should know something about his jet. Something, anything—any tidbit of information is useful to you right now. You’re embarrassed, alone on Christmas in a dress you thought was beautiful hours ago but now only seems over the top and mocking. A woman picks up your call after it’s transferred thrice.

I just need to know the ETA of this flight, you say. Under Charles Leclerc. He gave me the flight code.

Silence. You hear the bustle of the airport on the other end and wonder if Charles is there in that bustle, in his puffer jacket he uses in the winter, holding a suitcase and waiting for the delayed plane. Or maybe he’s already here in your timezone, in a cab bumbling with excitement, or in the elevator, or right outside, fist posed in front of the door—

A snowstorm, she says, her voice tinny through the phone. The pity in her voice makes you want to smash the landline to pieces. So sorry. If you’d gotten your husband to book just two days earlier, you two would’ve been together. Why don’t you call him, sweetie?

She is right about the unsolicited booking advice, wrong about the title. Charles is not your husband. You hang up after mumbling something you can no longer remember, too exhausted to be rude or polite at this point, and turn to face your dining room. Your texts go unanswered, and in your earlier effort to save energy, the lack of heating has caused your phone screen to grow cold to the touch. The roast chicken is getting cold now, too, the mashed potatoes cool, the sourdough stale, the butter melted into ugly coagulated puddles, the wine sweating all over the table.

You eat two bites before depositing a clean plate at the sink. The flat smells of pine and citrus; it’s stronger because you’re by yourself, with no Charles to cloud the room with his own scent. Your phone remains silent, your heart drowning slowly in a cloud of imprecise sorrow. And you realize, remembering the airline officer’s words as you unplug the lights from the Christmas tree and let the moonlight swallow the room, that Charles is not your boyfriend, either.

He texts the morning next, says he’ll make it on the next flight, twenty-six. He doesn’t apologize and you unwrap presents alone, from friends, shipped from family. You wallow in your loneliness, humiliated by your need for him, a need that is met only on the seventh of January.

—

“Are you and Charles okay?”

Lorenzo is always the first to ask. He’s intuitive, and you think maybe it comes with age, but damn if it isn’t infuriating when he knows something is up before anyone else. You purse your lips, hope your laugh is a good enough substitute for an answer.

“Are you?” Obviously, it’s not.

“We’re… we’re just working through things.” You’ve had two glasses of bourbon, and your eyesight is blurring the way your words do. You’re in a big Manhattan ballroom, just several floors underneath your hotel room. Charles is somewhere socializing, because of course he is, and you can’t take your mind off school, because of course you can’t.

“But you’re good, right?” He sounds hopeful, like your answer is the only thing that can convince him. Does he think you aren’t? What has Charles been telling him? Your breathing quickens, grows frantic.

“Yeah.” It convinces nobody, not even yourself. He nods, smart enough to drop the subject, and you’re alone again. This is the umpteenth gala you’ve been to this week alone, all for something or other along racing. You grow used to the faces, the introductions, the gentle nos when asked if you two are engaged, because why would you be? It’s a farfetched idea, engagement.

The bathroom is half-full when you usher yourself inside in your gown, almost tripping with how fast you try to make it to the mirrors. There are two middle-aged women beside you lazily drawing lipstick onto their faces, their French accents thick as they converse.

“…So I decided to divorce him.”

You stare deep into the mirror. You look like a caricature of yourself, a puppet. Where is Charles? He overestimates your capability to be alone.

The other woman goes, “I can’t believe he didn’t see it coming.”

“I know! You’d think he would notice, no? Bah, men.”

“You’d felt it for a while then, too.”

“Tch, I really did. Just goes to show.”

Before you digest it, you’re turning and intrusively asking: “How did you know you wanted to divorce him?”

They exchange a look that’s as condescending as it is patronizing. Here you are, a naive twenty-something asking for relationship advice like you’re some know-it-all. You feel like a child suddenly, meek and curling in on yourself. Answer me, you want to say, tell me how it feels, tell me how you knew. You look petulant.

“Well,” she says, eyes meeting yours as she closes the tube of lipstick, “sometimes, dear, you just know.” It clicks closed.

“Yes,” says the other. “You just know. When you wake up one day and you feel it, that’s just it.”

Bullshit. Easy answer. You won’t know, you want to say.

No matter how stupid, how cliché, it sounds, you’ll never know this feeling. This feeling of nonchalance over a relationship lost, of laughter over unsuccessful love, of casually coloring the same lips that talk so abrasively of a lover. Because you have Charles, and Charles has you, and what else is there to know?

The rest are candles on a cake, kisses under a blanket, orange juice served over toast, arguments that end with compromise and a hug. The rest is love. These two know nothing about it. They know hurt and heartbreak and denial. They know nothing but this sad, sad feeling.

It must be sad to know, you think, even if the exact suffocating feeling crawls up your spine and wraps around your throat on the elevator ride back to the room.

—

This is boring

You scan over the scribbled phrase on the embossed, no doubt above asking price, tissue paper given at this (granted, boring) charity ball. Stifling a laugh, you fish a pen out of your purse, rereading the words and judging your outgoing response. In neater penmanship, you quickly write a message below it.

OK let’s end things.

He laughs when he reads it, eyes crinkling into half-crescents, mouth in a wide, silent smile. He mulls over a response and when you get it—

No goodbye sex? Quelle poisse. You giggle, rolling your eyes and squeezing his hand underneath the table, putting your little game on pause lest you get in trouble for not listening to the speaker onstage. This kind of lovely, comedic push and pull is what keeps you always entertained with Charles; he always, without fail, manages to make you laugh. Your easy, instant, but equally profound connection to one another constantly has you revisiting the idea of soulmates, of destiny.

Prior to meeting, your and Charles’ lives were barely entwined. You were a law student in America, Charles a racing driver based in Europe. A year ago, to the date, you’d been in Paris on vacation, when a friend invited you out to get drinks somewhere along the Seine. You had three case studies waiting on your laptop, but something tugged at you to accept the invite.

Had you not been up for drinks in Paris that night, for instance—you’d never have met. And the drinks wouldn’t have been suggested in the first place if Charles got home from a meeting early, expressing boredom over the phone to Joris, who relayed it to the girl he was currently flirting with, who relayed it to you. You would never have talked if you didn’t order cocktails in French, prompting him to ask where you learned the language.

And if you hadn’t, in a haze of rosé and amaretto sours, accepted the handsome guy’s invite back to his hotel—where would you be now? The series of little things make up where you are now.

“Je t’aime,” he whispers into your hair.

But, then again, Charles has never felt like a stranger. You’re so sure that if you’d declined, or if Charles’ meeting ended on time, or if Joris was single, or if you ordered in meek English instead, you’d still be here, laughing over irrelevant tissue paper conversations, holding Charles’ hand under the table.

“Moi aussi,” you murmur. So sure.

—

God is the best scapegoat.

You first realize this when you’re ten and your favorite necklace snaps in half. You’d been running around, you moved too fast, it stuck on a branch, and became forever unfixable. You’d skipped on the usual nightly prayers as some sort of petulant, rebellious counterattack. You’re fifteen when you’re friendzoned, a first for you. You convince yourself it’s God playing tricks on you. You’re sixteen when you get an F for skipping class too often; you tweet God wtf is happening to me and you giddily watch it get thirteen likes. You’re not alone in this revolt, you think. You’re seventeen and a half when you lose your virginity; it sucks. You’re on top and you learn the art of faking. So you lay on your bed and bemoan Him for the misleading introduction to sex.

It becomes easy to blame God, moreso than usual, when the matter is one of life and death and danger. Being with Charles puts you in this position often. You curse God when something happens during a race that causes your heart to snag in itself and skip a beat or go five times faster. Inversely, it’s dreadfully difficult for you, innately unreligious, to pay thanks to God. Charles knows this, and is always the first to say “thank God” when a race goes well.

You throw around the phrase a few times, but it’s rare. Most, many, all times—it’s “oh, thank fuck” or “I’m so happy you’re safe.” It’s almost like you actively avoid the phrase, so whenever you say it, Charles is momentarily stunned; sometimes it’s after a particularly nasty circuit, or a rainy race day when you physically cannot withstand the stress of watching the love of your life drive fast under such bad conditions.

You have nothing to thank God for.

The hotel room is thin-walled and cold. Just last night you’d been tangled into each other for warmth, but now you’re throwing your suitcase onto the same bed and shoving laundry inside. No folding. No organizing. You make quick, messy work of it to avoid the conversation Charles so desperately tries to coerce out of both of you. The chessboard from last night’s game—5-7—lies abandoned, folded up at the foot of the bed. You ignore it.

“I’m sorry I left you alone,” he says, lazy almost. He seems to say oh, fine. If you need me to say sorry I’ll say it, here.

“You don’t understand.” You say, cutting phrases short to avoid saying anything you’d rather harbor inside yourself.

“Then enlighten me,” he shoots back. “Please, really. Dis moi tout.” He sounds sarcastic.

“I don’t fit here,” you respond cuttingly. If he chooses to be sarcastic, you think—then be it. You’ll be blunt. You’ll exaggerate. You’ll be impulsive, if for once in your life, you have to be.

“Here, in your life.” You clutch a shirt to your chest. “We don’t make sense. We never did, and you know what? We never will. I honestly don’t know why we keep trying. It’s pointless to believe this could ever work. In between our careers, friends, and schedules, it takes more work for us to see each other for just a day than to push a fucking rock uphill. Ç’est inutile et tu le sais—tout ce travail pour rien.”

Your words sting, join the draft leaving through the crack in the window, turn into dew that stains the vines of the hotel exterior. The ones about to leave his mouth, though, stay put, cement themselves in the grooves of your brain. You’ll think of this exchange years from now, and the words will never blur, sore on your tender heart.

A pregnant silence follows your soliloquy, prompting you to look up and meet his eyes. He says it then. “Pourquoi se disputer pour rien? Let’s just end things.”

“Fine, let’s just end things.” You repeat. Struck, hurt, and angry, you say one last thing, in a valiant attempt to get the last word in. “Thank God.”

The seconds tick by like days, where you look at one another, thinking the same thing. So that’s it? When did it all turn to this? You push past him, bearing your suitcase and messily wiping your face of tears, pretending not to notice the hitch in his voice when he mumbles a quiet goodbye.

Your steps to the elevator tick by like hours, and you take the time to think of how you’d lived much of your relationship thinking that, with how strong your and Charles’ personalities are, a breakup would be messy. Loud. A yelled out fight, tears, thrown curses and hurtful names. You’d always thought, with much conviction, that you would end with a bang.

Many previous fights had gone something like that. There was Thanksgiving, where you ushered him out of your family home to avoid anything escalating into a yelling match. Bang.

There was post-race, where, in the throes of frustration, you two had a heated exchange and you left the paddock in tears. Bang.

There was nothing, however, that couldn’t be solved without a shag and a kiss and an apology. So, reasonably, you expected the final fight to be the loudest. The angriest. This relationship, you were so sure—this would end in a bang. Because you and Charles love the same way: strongly, with so much conviction and noise, and the line between love and spite is more frail than you think. A great big bang, where finally you collided in ways you’d never done before, every frustration, every complaint, thrown back and forth like comets, like war.

But you are wrong. It doesn’t.

It ends with you softly sighing, arms crossed over your torso to shield yourself from the ache in your chest, tears slipping then falling unstoppingly in the elevator. It ends with a night’s sleep taking up one side of the bed. It ends with Charles deceiving himself into thinking you didn’t just thank the Lord that your relationship has just crumbled to nothing in the bounds of this thin-walled, cold hotel room.

—

“Say something to me,” you say quietly, like you’re afraid to disturb the still morning silence of Paris. “In Italian.”

It’s a corny, cheesy request, no doubt inflamed by the butterflies in your stomach when you think about the night before and one romantic comedy too many. But you ask for it, anyway, your leg bumping his under the too-thin cotton blanket of his hotel. You found yourself here this morning after a night of sweet French alcohol and slurred, flirty conversation.

“Assomigli al resto della mia vita.” He says, smiling.

“Okay. What’s it mean?”

“I won’t translate it for you, because it’s a bit cliché.” He narrows his eyes.

“All of European language is cliché.” You laugh. “Come on, tell me.”

“I will one day,” he says, “I promise. I swear!”

The promise of “one day” is upsettingly romantic. Barely a day after you first met, first bonded, first kissed, first had sex. Okay, fine, you two hadn’t really gone the traditional route of dating, but here he is waxing poetic in Italian, finger tracing your bare arm. “One day,” you say, just so you’re sure.

“Yeah. One day.”

His hand finds yours, and fingers are laced together. Words wrestle themselves out of your throat nervously, a question that might seal the morning. “Should I go?”

The question rests in the air. How do you want your eggs, he wants to ask. Or would you want pancakes or waffles or bacon? Or bread, a croissant with coffee and compote? He wants to know all these things, hear all your answers, watch your eyes twinkle with amusement at the silly questions. So he’ll ask them, he figures. He’ll ask them if you don’t go.

“Stay,” he says. “At least for breakfast.”

—

Pierre leaves after a few more hours. He says Yuki texted him about some Mexican place they need to try. The night next, he is brought up in conversation: “Who were you with last night?”

“A friend,” you explain. “He’s an old friend, Henry.”

Henry Maxwell, the Wall Street guy you’re seeing, who’s inviting you to a charity ball a month into dating. To you, that’s basically a sign to end things, but you allow him to explain his invitation. Babe, don’t you think networking in New York is a gold mine for everything great these days? Don’t you think we need to network if we ever move in together?

“Henry, n—I mean. It’s just going to be another one of those stuffy city galas where everyone tries to out-wealthy one another,” you half-joke. In truth, the reason why you’re so adamant on not going is because this is just about the worst first date idea ever conceived—from experience, you’re sure you’ll have barely any time alone to get to know each other, whisked away to socialize with groups of other people.

“Oh, lighten up,” says Henry, with a sheepish smile. “You’re my plus one on the RSVP, so you can’t complain.”

“Am I?” You ask, chuckling. It’s a bit weird. But he’s excited, and asking, and convincing, so you tug a green silk dress out of your closet and take an Uber to the hotel address. Nevermind the fact that you’ve been here before.

You squeeze Henry’s hand when you walk into the massive ballroom, and not five minutes later you’re facing a crowd of people, drowning in taffeta skirts and wool suits and champagne and snooty small talk. Henry is charming, Henry is kind, Henry is a smooth talker.

He’s the ideal prototype of a guy you should be dating right now. His hand never leaves the small of your back, playing with the satin of your dress, laughing into your neck. You’ve faced several groups of business magnates and supermodels; right now, he’s introducing you to a big journalist for the Post.

She’s in the middle of talking about some hippie retreat to Thailand or somewhere or other when your eyes glide across the room, bored, searching for something to occupy you. To be frank, you really don’t care about ayahuasca.

The hands on the clock seem to halt just for you, just for now, suspending this moment in time like a mosquito in amber. Your eyes meet—and if you’d been less careful or maybe more tipsy, you might have mistaken his gaze for a stranger’s. But your heart demands hurt, demands the memories, demands the sick, sweet nostalgia threading through you like needle to cloth. Your heart demands you to remember, but the demand is so painfully easy to obey because you’ve never forgotten. All at once hate and love arise in you, like great big waves conflicting against one another, until you feel swollen with longing and spite, finding reprieve in the green of his eyes.

Timing, destiny, God. Whatever it is, it’s decided to play some silly joke, because here you are. In the precarious balance of a memory and a figment of your imagination, here you are. In the gap between never and always, here you are. You might appear to be strangers, stranded across opposite ends of this marble ballroom, but to both of you, the idea is almost unfathomable. No, not strangers; you two are anything but.

You are you, and he is Charles, here again in the place where it all ended.

He is never a stranger, and he could never be. He is Charles, your Charles, the beautiful boy who took up years of your life and explored every inch of your heart and mind. He is Charles, who broke your heart, he is Charles, whose heart you broke. But now, he is just Charles Leclerc, racing driver and charity gala attendee, conversing with the same crowds, mingling as he always does. Did. The usage of past tense is a painful pill to swallow.

Charles feels like it’s torture, suffering, a slow punishment, to be rooted to the ground and to do nothing but look. How can he look away now? He is rooted to the tiles, thick vines keeping him here, even if his heart tells him to go, run, now. He is stuck, tacked by the stillness of the memories that play back through his head, the love and the sorrow. You’re still you, hair a little shorter, brows a little darker, but you’re still you. The you he had once, held once, loved and lost once. The you he wishes to have, hold, and love once again.

For a moment, a fleeting, short, moment, he wishes to blink, to nod and to signal for you to meet him outside, on the balcony, so he can straighten his tie and press a polite hand to this person’s shoulder and say excuse me and leave, slip quietly into the night. So maybe you can tug on Henry’s suit jacket and say I’m sorry and join the crowd of gowns and satin and leave, run, go. Because you’re you. And what a sweet lie it would be if he said he wouldn’t do anything for you.

In the end you stay, and you stare, rooted still, time moving the way grass grows. When he smiles, you smile back, and the answers to what if are quietly fabricated in the limits of your imagination.

—

“I miss you. I know it’s—I know this is weird to say, after so long. After not talking for such a long time.”

“No, I understand. I miss you, too.”

“Right… well, how have you been?”

“Same old. You?”

“Yeah, same. How’s everything?”

“It’s… it’s okay. How’s life?”

“Tough, but great.”

“I noticed you were with someone.”

“Yeah, no. That’s—it’s sort of—I don’t see it going anywhere, really. It’s kind of over.”

“Oh? Is it?”

“Listen, I’m… sorry. For—just for everything. I’ve lived the past few years thinking about everything and still hoping I could someday apologize properly. I’m just glad I’ve been given the chance. And I think things ended without… without… I just don’t think we were mature enough. And sometimes now I think—it’s you, it’s still you.”

“Don’t apologize. Can you believe it happened right here?”

“I know. It’s almost crazy—”

“You left a bottle of scent at my place. It’s… it’s still half full. Sometimes I—nevermind. I mean, I think of you a lot. Probably too much for my own good. I think of us, our past, our relationship.”

“So do I.”

“—I love you. I try to stop it, I keep trying but I always end up here. Always here, back here, loving you.”

“If you didn’t see me tonight—would you have felt this way?”

“Oh, I feel… I feel it everyday. I think I’m always going to love you.”

“I’m always going to love you, too.”

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