#Anyway yeah they could have cut half of that movie and it would be way more. Easy to digest?

[shima-draws]

Speedrunning Dune by watching Dune Part 1 for the first time yesterday and then going to see Dune Part 2 in theaters tonight. LMAO

[star--stilinski]

at first, stiles didn't even notice it. the way his heart would race and his cheeks would flush; he was used to having that reaction around you. so used to it, in fact, that he had stopped letting it be a distraction. you'd giggle at his joke or look up at him through your lashes and he'd blush, fidget, move on. like his own little routine.

what got distracting was when he had made the sudden realization one day: you're hot. 

the two of you had been friends for so long, crushing for almost that whole time, that by the time stiles looked up and saw you in your bikini, it was too late to turn back. he was a goner.

literally-he was out of lydia's backyard and in her half bathroom before you could even ask him to help with your sunscreen.

holy shit. he gripped the sink, glaring at his flushed reflection. get yourself together, perv. so she's got nice tits. really, really nice tits and thighs that could suffocate you and jesus her hips-

no! nope, no no no nonono. it is way too early for this. get real. she's seen you recite the entire opening crawl of the force awakens. she is not going to do that with you- woah! or that! get it together. get it together. get it together.

and so stiles marches back out where you and your friends are gathered, playing marco polo. you glance at him and smirk in that way the tells him you're totally cheating, only proven true when allison calls out "marco!" and you slide past her in the water without joining in the choruses of "polo!"s from all over the pool.

stiles stiffens. your goddamn smirk. 

this is going to be a loooong day.

☆

and it was. a long day that ended in his right hand wrapped around his cock and a fantasy he wouldn't repeat even if there was a gun to his head. 

but that was over, and it was three days later, anyway. the pack was meeting at the movies to see a new romcom, which the girls were excited for, and the guys were... hoping it had a good soundtrack. it's not that they didn't want to go, it's just that their time- well, stiles' time could be better spent on things like useless research and avoiding his homework. that was his mindset walking into the theater.

now, he's about three inches from having no mindset at all. you're sat next to him, too close for him to remember a single detail of the movie, and you're wearing a tank top. low cut. lace trim on the top. prettiest color he's ever seen.

and stiles can see straight down it. 

every time he glances over at you, whether it be an excuse of reaching for the popcorn or making a joke or listening to you talk, he has a view down your top right to where your tits are pressed together, rising and falling subtly with each breath. he wonders what the smooth skin of your breasts would look like covered in hickeys. he imagines the sounds you'd make if he had you pinned down, mouth enveloping your pert nipples. he-

he gets up a little too hastily when he rushes out of the theater, into the quiet hall.

"god," he mumbles, tugging his own hair. "fuck."

he has to will his blood to cooperate before he can show his face again.

☆

it's getting worse. 

stiles is chewing on the cap of the marker he has in his hand, eyes darting all over his murder board.

"wouldn't they hunt in packs? this fable here, it reads... stiles?"

stiles turns on his heel, watching you now as you sit on his bed. he's been avoiding looking at you lately, since just recently he had a close call when you hit your knee on scott's coffee table and whined a dramatic 'ahh', leaving stiles to imagine that noise, that face you made in other scenarios.

it's been harder (ha, ha, yeah, no pun intended. he's struggling.) since you asked to come over and help with some research he was doing after a meeting with deaton. you sat all pretty and focused on his bed, twirling and tucking and sometimes tugging your hair when you read out of a book he had borrowed (stolen) from the argent's.

so when he looked at you now, it was with great mental strength. especially when you started rattling off a really smart point he didn't think anyone else would notice that he had realized twenty minutes ago, giving him some time to zone out and watch as you gather your hair behind you, tying it up in a ponytail while you look up at him through your lashes. giving him a second to imagine you looking at him like that with your lips wrapped around his cock, letting him guide you by the ponytail-

stilinski! great. mental. strength.

he turns back to the murder board and nods, eyes squeezed shut as he feels the familiar heat spread all over and his jeans get tight. "yeah, that's- i know, that's a good point."

he hears you shift, the way you get noticeably quiet. "stiles, are you... is everything alright? you seem off."

he shrugs, nods, shrugs again. swallows. "yeah. just a bit tired, that's all."

he can feel your disbelief, but he'd rather feel that then disgust. you both sigh at the same time, and the evening moves on.

☆

it's pretty much every time he sees you now. he's a mess, unable to choose between relieving himself and willing his dick to cooperate. you've made a mess of stiles, and he's dying.

you're wearing leggings today, talking to scott while stiles watches from the bench. coach is barking orders at a couple of stray lacrosse boys, and stiles is lucky enough to have dodged his attention this evening.

game night is usually when he's free of the hold you have on him, too busy gnawing on his goalie gloves and tracking scott across the field. but you and allison showed up early (curse scott and his happy relationship), so his pea-sized brain has time to imagine sliding the buttery fabric down your legs, kissing exposed skin as he goes. he'd definitely pay close attention to your thighs- he thinks about those more than he'd care to admit, and he's aware of how idiotically insecure of them you are. 

because of his train of thought, he doesn't realize you've caught him staring until it's too late. you're prancing over excitedly and leaving scott to smirk at stiles all knowingly, and stiles resists the urge to flip him off.

"you gonna play, 24?" you nudge his foot teasingly with your own. he looks up at you and feels those telltale signs as he fanaticizes about tracing the line of your jaw with his finger, both of you panting softly as he coos at you while you whine pathetically. he has to blink away the thought before he can speak.

"um, i hope not. it's an important game." he leans back a bit and you tilt your head, clearly mulling over your next words. he fills the space in the meantime. "but if i do, i'll be sure to keep away from the ball."

it's music to his ears when you laugh. finally, finally he's blushing about something normal, having regular fantasies instead of these hormone fueled pornos that seem to be on repeat in his head lately. he smiles up at you and you take a small step closer to being in between his legs.

"i don't mean to bring it up so randomly..." you avoid his eyes, fiddling with your hands. "but i was just wondering if i've done something to upset you?"

he blinks. "what?"

"it's just that you've been distant and honestly, you're acting kind of like you're allergic to me. if i did something or there's something going on just tell me. it's kinda driving me crazy." you ramble, brows drawn together in discomfort. 

stiles' eyes widen and he shakes his head, standing. his heart skips a beat when you have to tilt your chin up a bit to keep his eyes. "no, of course not. i didn't know... i guess i've... it's just-" he sighs and rubs the back of his neck. how is he supposed to explain this? 'oh, hey, girl i've been super into for a pathetically long time, i've been imagining what you'd look like if i pinned you to my bed and drove us both insane from a sex marathon! that's cool, right? not objectifying at all!'

you frown, crossing your arms. "just tired?"

it's bait, he knows it is. the same excuse he used less than a week ago to keep you from figuring him out. you're a clever girl and he's stupid when he's horny, so he has to play his cards right here. if you think he's lying, things will only get worse and there's a hefty chance you'll distance yourself. but if he tells a lie a little too well, you're going to be around him constantly again. either way, he's starting to wonder if he's a masochist from the amount of pain he's going to inflict on himself.

"it's nothing, really. i didn't mean to get distant." he clenches his jaw as he gauges your reaction, which is a less-than-ideal-but-not-terrible pout. he wants to smooth the lines of your forehead with his thumb and make you laugh again, but he has to focus. "let me make it up to you?"

you turn your face away (very, very not good) and huff. "no, don't worry about it."

stiles cringes internally and bites the inside of his cheek. how can he un-dig this hole he's in? "no, no, i want to. i shouldn't have made you worry. that's my fault. i'll pick you up tomorrow, we can get food. my treat."

you turn back to face him, and the way your bottom lip just barely juts out tells him you're playing it up, but he doesn't mind. he's come to realize that you like to feel earned, and he's more than happy to earn you. he takes a breath, eyebrows raised. "what are you thinking?"

you drop the pout (much to his relief, he was just starting to imagine you using that face on him when he makes you tell him exactly what you want him to do to you) and put your hands on your (perfect, sexy) hips. "i'm thinking that if you didn't mean to get distant then it was subconscious, and it's going to be more of an effort to be around me than not."

so clever. god, you're so hot when you use critical thinking skills. 

stiles sighs and shuffles a bit. "yeah, okay, i can understand where you're getting that but it's wrong-"

"but it isn't. you've been proving it right all week and-"

"hold on, no i haven't, i've just been-"

"-you definitely lied to me in your room a few days ago-"

"-there's no way you're actually believing-"

"STILINSKI!" coach's voice booms over both of you, halting the beginning of an argument that probably would have only turned stiles on more. he whips his head around to where the entire team is gathered, and realizes he was so wrapped up in you that he tuned out everything around him, including the team rallying together to talk strategy before the game started. he blinks, distantly hearing you mumble a mortified "oh." and skitter off, leaving stiles to be completely embarrassed alone.

"would you like to join us or are you too busy harassing the young ladies in the general area?" coach's tone is strung with impatience, eyes wide.

"ah..." stiles glances to the spot you just stood in and then back to the team. "no, coach, 'm coming."

"fantastic." he drawls, before turning back to the team and continuing his rant. stiles is half-listening, half-daydreaming about 'making it up to you' in many different ways, positions, and places. for many hours.

yeah, he's dead. for sure. you're killing him.

☆

although making it up to you currently involved a lot more clothing and a lot less begging, stiles was having a really good time. sat in his room, arguing about book to movie adaptations, both of you holding your own milkshakes. with all his time spent avoiding you out of... sex-driven fear? he really forgot how much he enjoyed your company.

"you wouldn't get it," you shake your head stubbornly as he stands and sets his milkshake on his desk so he can use the dry erase board in his room. "you don't read books."

"i do-"

"yeah, i don't count the bestiary."

"that's besides the point, anyway. i don't have to read the book to know whether the movie is a good adaptation or not!" he starts writing down movies he knows are heavily based off of books while you crawl across his floor to his desk, sneaking a spoonful of vanilla ice cream and whipped cream. he's too busy to notice that the half-melted treat dribbles off of the spoon and spills above the cut of your tank top (the same one as the movie theater, actually) and onto your exposed thighs.

"fuck." you hiss under your breath. stiles turns to see what caused your quiet outburst, but his brain screeches to a halt at the sight of you.

perched on your knees, you're glaring down at the mess that's been spilled on the top of your tits and thighs, white sliding down to the line where they're pressed together. stiles doesn't even blink, just stares with a slightly open mouth at the sight of you. a small noise leaves his mouth and he can feel the tent in his sweats, but he's a bit frozen.

you look up when he makes the strangled grunt, looking caught with his milkshake in your hand, as if that's his issue right now. "uhh... whoops? i swear, it just flew into my hand! how crazy is that...."

your joke trails off as you really see his face. his eyes are dark and hungry, almost predatory as they sweep over your body, hanging on the spills that you made. his mouth shuts and his jaw clenches. his hands are curled into restrained, white-knuckled fists. and...

he's hard as a fucking rock.

it's easy to tell, with his grey sweatpants, and you feel your mouth water at the sight.

"it's fine." he mumbles, voice dry. you take a second before you realize he's talking about the milkshake. both of you are bright red. you force out a breath and he seems to come to, turning back around quickly. "uh, s-so, harry potter-"

"is that because of me?" you blurt, getting hotter in the cheeks every second.

"is... oh. um, i'm sorry, sorry, fucking shit-" he's not facing you.

"stiles."

stiles quiets, turning to face you finally. your stomach swoops and you shuffle barely closer. his adams apple bobs.

"yeah. it... it is"

that's it. a simple confession, but it feels like a chord being snapped between the two of you. your confidence grows. you made stiles like that.

"are you gonna do something about it?"

his head snaps up, eyes wide as he looks at you. "you want me to?"

"why else would i ask, stiles?" you sound almost exasperated, like he's taking to long. he swallows and drops to his knees in front of you.

stiles. is crawling towards you. on his knees.

"are you... do you really?" he's close, so close now. looking into your eyes like they'll answer for you. like they contain every 'yes' you've been too scared to whisper.

which, honestly, is probably not far from true.

"i do. i really, really, d-"

his lips are on yours before you can finish, one hand cupping the back of your neck to bring you closer. you let out a muffled noise of surprise, mouth opening on it's own accord as stiles takes the kiss deeper, tongue exploring your mouth hotly.

"you're impossible-" stiles gasps, going in for more before he can finish. "-to be around-" his teeth nip your bottom lip. "-when i can't have you."

his lips leave a wet kiss on the corner of your mouth, so passionate that he misses, and he continues that trail onto your neck until he finds the spot that makes you squirm. his hands go to your waist, pulling you closer and knocking your knees together. you feel dizzy with want, barely registering his words.

"what-" you gasp, blinking and leaning into his demanding mouth. "what is that supposed to mean?"

stiles groans against the skin of your neck, kissing lower, closer to the sticky mess you made just minutes ago. "i can't think... can't even... fuckin'... breathe when you're near, y'look so pretty. j'st wanna make you-"

he interrupts himself again, opting instead to lick the ice cream off the top of your tits like he's starving. you gasp as the feel of his tongue against your skin, pressing your thighs together to try and relieve some of the sudden pressure shooting down your stomach to your core. he's barely making sense and he still has you all foggy brained, swaying just a bit under his touch.

"you-you've thought about this? befo- oh-" you stumble, as he tugs lightly against the low cut to give himself better access to the sweetness melted onto your skin. he laughs, seeming to clear up a bit.

"yeah. you kidding me? i've basically been-" he's kissing back up your neck now, seeming to track a path to your lips. "-perpetually hard for the past three weeks."

you swallow thickly and he captures your lips. stiles tastes like vanilla ice cream and it's the most tempting sin, luring you over the edge. enticing you to do things you'd normally pretend you weren't into. he runs a hand down the side of your body, squeezing your hip lightly. "you're torture, you know that?"

"i could say the same to you."

he smiles at you, like a sap, like a saint. you feel your mind fall into his hands and your heart nestle against his ribcage. you no longer belong to yourself. you never have. and neither does he, it seems, as his eyes wander all over you.

"wanna move to the bed? i can clean up your thighs..." his tone is low, clearly suggestive in a bad-pickup-line way. you nod, giggling girlishly and stiles hauls you up to gently lay you back on his bed, tugging your tank top off on the way. his eyes linger on your chest before moving along, kissing a wet trail down your body as he hooks his fingers into the waistband of your shorts. "god, look at you. you're gorgeous."

it's not like you're wearing lingerie and sexy makeup- you went to stiles' place to lounge, so you're wearing your lounge bra and some comfy shorts. stiles looks at you, though, as if you invented beauty. he sighs contentedly as he pulls your bottoms off slowly, eyes drinking in your stomach and hips and thighs like you're the first woman to have them. once he's got them far off enough, his hands press your hips back down and his eyes meet yours.

"not to late to back out. well- obviously it's never too late, it's just... okay, this is me asking for consent. i was trying to make it sexy, but it sounded a bit rapey."

you laugh breathlessly and nod at him where he stands, towering above your almost-naked form. "stiles, please stop talking and fulfill both of our fantasies already."

stiles grins and tugs his shirt halfway off before stopping abruptly. "wait- both?"

you roll your eyes. "stiles, why would i be so... so..."

"obedient?" he offers with a cocky smirk. you flush.

"agreeable, if i didn't want this?" you nibble your lip as he pulls his shirt the rest of the way off his body, getting on his knees at the edge of the bed and spreading your legs. your body moves pliantly under his hands. the sight of it all is downright promiscuous.

"well," stiles presses a kiss to the inside of your knee. it would be sweet if not for the sinful way his eyes are preoccupied with the wet spot on your panties. "i heard girls find consent sexy. maybe i screwed that one up a bit. what do you think is sexy?" 

he asks in that absent tone that tells you he's storing away information as he kisses further up the inside of your thighs more fervently. you let out a breath that feels too shaky too early and watch as his pink tongue swipes out to lick up some ice cream spill. it makes you clench around nothing. 

"any day now." his hand is gently rubbing your thigh as he moves to lick and suck almost crudely at your other thigh.

your eyes narrow slightly. "gimme a second."

he gets closer to where you're literally soaked for him, nibbling lightly at the plush flesh of your inner thigh. you shove down a low whine of impatience to avoid your already growing embarrassment.

"your attention to foreplay is- i like it." you admit softly and he hums, licking a stripe of ice cream out of the way. taking a second to think, you continue. "i like the... the desperation. how you took me without really... um... i like it when you just do what you want, i mean."

it's difficult to form a single thought once stiles presses a kiss against your clothed clit, being sure to add plenty of pressure. almost like a reward. "what if you don't like what i want? will you tell me to stop?"

you nod, chest rising and falling heavily with every breath. you glance down at stiles, and a small sound leaves your lips when your eyes catch his hand down his sweats, slowly stroking himself. he flushes. 

"you.... can't i help?"

he lets out a small moan and his eyes flutter as he halts his movements. "i don't- i don't have a condom."

against all better judgement, you shake your head and thread your fingers through his messy hair. "it's okay. just pull out, yeah?"

his brows shoot up, and you wonder for a moment if he's about to cum in his pants. but then he nods and rises, standing in between your legs now. his fingers deftly tug off your panties, pocketing them in his sweats (for "safe keeping") and his lips part silently once you're exposed to him.

your legs begin to close, feeling suddenly too naked and too insecure for his hungry eyes, but his hands catch your knees easily, even giving you a little tap as a sign to scoot further onto the bed.

before you comply, curiosity takes over and you tug at the strings on his sweatpants. "wait, what about you?"

he tilts his head. "what about me?"

you narrow your eyes, fingers dipping under the band. "can i take these off?"

"oh!" his brows shoot up, as if he forgot about himself altogether. "oh, yeah, of course. please."

you waste no time pulling his bottoms off, his cock springing out. it's flushed and leaking, looking properly erotic in the dim lighting of his room. your eyes flutter up to meet his and you wrap your hands around him, pumping twice.

stiles moans, hips twitching into your hands on their own accord. "holy shit."

part of you just wants to finish him that way, positively fucking hooked on the look he has, pleasure pinching his pretty face all tight. he pants and pulls your hands away, eyes squeezing shut for just a moment. "y're gonna make me cum, holy shit."

"i'm sorry, you just..." you fluster, laughing a tad at the both of you. he shakes his head, though, so you fall silent and let him crawl over top of you, kissing you deeply. he unhooks your bra with a bit of struggle and you both have to cooperate to get it off of your body. you giggle, and his eyes are locked on you as your smile slowly fades.

"don't be sorry," his voice is gentle, "i've imagined that so many times it should be criminal." he kisses you again and you feel his fingers graze along your stomach. stiles pulls back far enough to see your whole face and you wonder why- then his thumb is circling your clit.

the high-pitched gasp you suck in is not as embarrassing as the louder whine that leaves your lips once he's slid a finger into you, eyes closing for a moment to soak in the bliss. it feels like heaven, for a long moment. but his fingers are slow. too slow. and even when you cant your hips, he doesn't speed up enough to have you seeing stars (like you know he can). instead, he has you writhing impatiently. "you're... stiles, please."

it's whiney and pathetic, but stiles seems to stifle a smirk when he hears it, covering it with a sympathetic pout instead. "i know, pretty girl, i know. you gonna ask nicely?"

and you knew you gave him permission to do whatever he wanted. but you didn't expect to be into it. your lips part and you almost tell him to shut up and fuck you already. but you're hot with embarrassment and something else he can totally feel when your walls clench around his torturous fingers. so instead, you opt for falling right into his hands.

"please, stiles, fuck me already." you whisper, lips brushing against his when you speak. "please."

"there we go." he presses a peck to your lips and slips his fingers out. "such a good girl."

you aren't given any time to process that and the fact that it made you throb like a personal whore- stiles is already swiping his tip through your folds, making you gasp when it catches on your clit. he's panting heavily as he lines himself up, and you're a little surprised when he finds your hand and laces his own against it. 

then, he's stretching you open and you're seeing stars, just like you knew he could make you do.

stiles is sweet, but he's not exactly gentle. hips rolling into you and his tongue pressing against your own. a hand pinning you to the bed and keeping him upright, the other tweaking your nipples or teasing your clit. he's all over you, pulling back every once in awhile to watch the way you arch your back and gasp out unintelligible pleas. his moans are about as pathetic as yours and he hisses "fuck" into your ear when you clench around him tightly. your dance goes on like this for a moment, and he's rambling horny nonsense constantly.

"stiles, 'm close-" you whimper, free hand pulling him closer by the hair. he gasps out and his hips snap roughly. 

"yeah, me too. jesus, you're so perfect. look at you." he pushes some of your hair out of the way, eyes meeting yours. "you gonna cum for me?"

you nod, eyebrows turning up as you feel the warmth crawl up your belly. your free hand tugs at his mussed up hair again and his expression matches yours. he speeds up and you gasp and whimper, pliant under his body as he fucks you into his mattress.

"stiles, fuck, stiles, i'm-"

"that's it, there you go, hooooly fuck." he holds your hips down when you finish, rutting into you with an open mouth. he's got his forehead pressed against your own, swallowing each others desperate moans as he rides you through your orgasm. stiles' moan is sudden and loud when he pulls out in a rush and finishes on your cunt, his tip pressing into your overstimulated clit and making your legs twitch.

you gasp out a breath and sink into the mattress, sighing contentedly. when your eyes flutter open on heavy lids, stiles is gazing at you. he leans down and kisses you, soft and sweet and full of a confession long coming.

"that was..."

"amazing." he finishes dazedly, hands running over your bare skin anywhere he can reach. "want me to use my mouth?"

your brows raise. "stiles, i just came."

"i know." he sighs, playing with some of your hair. "it was so fucking hot."

"you said you've been perpetually hard for three weeks?" you attempt to change the subject, but stiles only grins wider.

"yeah, so i've got plenty more fantasies to play out before i'm out of steam."

you shove him lightly, fighting a flustered smile. "just- give me a second, you dog!" 

"awooooo." stiles deadpans an imitation of a howl, nuzzling into your neck. "let me know when you're ready. i'll just be here. naked. on top of you. in the mood to make you pass out from orgasms. willing to learn every kink you have- which, hey, the praise kink was a good guess, right?"

you groan, pushing him off of you. your face is flushed red and you snatch his nearby discarded t-shirt when you sit up. "that was so out of left field."

"yeah, but was it? i mean, you-"

"i'm getting in the shower, stiles." you stand and take a few steps away from him before you turn to gauge his reaction.

his eyebrows shoot up from where he sits on the bed. it makes you bright fucking red when his eyes trail down and he watches a bead of his own cum slide down your inner thigh. he licks his lips.

"i'll come with."

☆

this is from the vault, so if you've read it already, that's why! don't be afraid to interact with it anyway, i love crazy readers and feral responses sjdjsaskdj

[suzukiblu]

Day fifteen of “obligatory sugar baby Kon” behind the cut. tw: mentions of past grooming/abuse; mentions of homophobia. prev: (( chrono || non-chrono ))

“Naw, naw, it was his name-name,” he says with another laugh. “Dude swore up and down it was Greek. And then I’m pretty sure he specifically went out of his way to find a ‘Leander’ to date just so he could validate that shit, because he absolutely did in fact date a super-ripped alien named Leander.” 

Tim pauses again, and isn’t sure if . . . 

Just something about the tone Kon was using and the look in the back of his eyes is sticking in his head a little, maybe. And he does in fact want to know if this guy at least is a valid source of intel in regards to anyone he might need to put on his supervillain hit list, so . . . 

“But he was cool?” he asks carefully. 

“Um–yeah,” Kon says, tearing up the last bite of his sandwich stack a little restlessly and watching himself do it more than making eye contact. Tim represses a frown. “Just, um–I wasn’t into him or anything, for the record, just he was, like . . . I kinda didn’t really know anybody else who was, like–who liked guys or whatever, before him. I mean, like–other guys who liked guys, I mean. And I didn’t know why I felt–like, how I felt about that. And then, like, not everybody was actually cool with him liking guys, and it was just kinda like . . .” 

He shrugs a little, then glances back at him. Tim stomps on so many invasive questions, and wonders again if Tim Drake is, like–an experiment, or if Kon has dated other guys before. Or at least liked other guys, anyway. He already said he hadn’t really done anything with any, and he said he wasn’t into this guy, but . . . 

“I didn’t even ever tell him I was, you know–like–” Kon shrugs again, then takes another grilled cheese off the stack and starts ripping bites off it too. “Like, whatever I am. Did not actually know that I was that at the time, admittedly, but then Tuftan put a collar on me and not remotely unclearly kept me as his pet and I had some memory problems goin’ at the time, and anyway I woke up to some real interesting, uh, realizations or whatever after that one.” 

“. . . I’m sorry, I know this is a serious conversation and you’re telling me something important, but did you just tell me that your gay awakening was a tiger-king who was keeping you as a pet?” Tim asks, trying not to laugh because, like, clearly Kon is being serious, but oh god, what are their actual lives? What is Kon’s actual life? 

“I mean, technically he was still the prince then,” Kon mutters under his breath, flushing in embarrassment with a sheepish laugh and half-hiding his face with the hand not currently full of incredibly-cheap-but-still-calorie-packed grilled cheese. “Listen, he was just real nice to me while I was all fucked-up and freaked-out about a whole lot of shit, okay, and I swear to god, babe, if you make one single furry joke I will actually go throw myself in a volcano and die, so please have mercy?” 

“I am the most merciful guy you know,” Tim lies, and feels a weird sort of–just a weird feeling, kind of, because Kon would never ask Robin something like that. He’d just get irritated or pissed off or defensive. He wouldn’t just–ask, and think there was any chance he’d actually agree not to do something like that. “Won’t hear a word about it out of me.” 

Though he’s not gonna pretend that the fact that Kon apparently had a crush on a guy who was effectively taking care of everything he needed in life isn’t a good sign for his cul-de-sac plans. 

Maybe Kon’s just more into castles. Tim could get him a castle. Get one built or just import one, he doesn’t know. 

“Uh–thanks,” Kon says, still looking sheepish even as he smiles at him again. “Look, literally not even my fault, alright, if you’d met the dude you’d know. He is literally the tiger from Zootopia who would treat you right, okay? Like, I watched that movie and was like ‘huh okay this is a mortifyingly familiar experience’ the friggin’ moment that scene came on.” 

Tim briefly remembers a couple of tiger-themed memes that he remembers seeing around the time that movie dropped, then decides not to go down that rabbit hole or learn anything new about himself today. Like–not anything else new, anyway.

He has maybe learned a few too many new things about himself lately, admittedly. 

Or, uh . . . definitely, yeah. 

[seokgyuu]

The Sweetest Thing - Teaser

All your life you’ve been your sisters’ punching bag. Never good enough. Never fully accepted. When your mother makes one of them choose you as her maid of honor you reluctantly agree. Semi-vacationing in Tuscany with your ‘beloved’ family, you meet two handsome strangers one night and let them do whatever they want with you. Too bad you didn’t ask for their names first.

Pairing: Heeseung x F!Reader x Sunghoon 

Genre: Strangers to ???, Porn with Plot

Warnings: CHEATING!!! reader is hooking up with her sisters’ fiancés, sisters are horrible and suck, mentions of past verbal abuse, reader is somewhat a pervert (she defo is), heeseung & sunghoon definitely are perverts, heeseung & sunghoon are mean, they have nothing good to say about their fiancés, alcohol consumption, adult content MDNI! smut warnings will be in actual fic

Word Count: 5.7k (so far)

Release Date: August 8th

Taglist: @skzenhalove, @haelahoops, @deobitifull, @shiningnono, @jakeswifez, @slut4hee @gyuhanniescarat , @branchrkive @doublebunv , @capri-cuntz, @jaehyuniewifeu, @whateverhoon, @c-oupsie you can be added by replying to this post or sending me an ask <3 there must be an age indicator in your blog since this is a nsfw fic! 

Something about the Italian sky seems different. Maybe it’s because you’re not close to a big city, but the stars shine brighter than you’ve ever seen them. It feels like a movie; the stars and moon so visible with no cloud in sight, the small street of Arezzo you’re currently sitting in - a small restaurant with a small menu but a nice older man that speaks decent English. A glass of wine standing on the small table beside you and the first bit of peace you’ve felt in days. 

It’s when you take your next sip of wine you see them. 

Two men straight out of a magazine walking towards one of the free tables next to yours and sitting down. There is nothing you can do but stare. Both of them have dark hair, one of them a bit shorter than the other. They are dressed elegantly, designer shoes and pants, blazers hanging over their chairs. Even if you wanted to - you could not possibly say which one was more attractive. 

What a nice way to end a horrible day, you think. Smiling, you finish your glass and immediately order the next, not entirely used to drinking so much, but not caring since you are miles away from home and no one here knows you anyway. The waiter nods and then proceeds to go over to the newcomers. The one with the slightly lighter hair and the mole on his nose orders in perfect Italian, with just enough of an accent for you to know they aren’t from here. Your choice of table appears to be perfect for watching them, listening to them converse in a language you understand. 

And it all stays innocent like this - they talk about their flight and about friends - until suddenly the conversation sways.

“I honestly- fuck, I can’t believe we’re actually doing this, you know?” The one with shorter hair says and his friend sighs, taking his wine glass and finishing it in one go. Impressive. There was at least half left in yours. 

“I don’t know what to tell you. We committed and now we’re fucked.”

“Just that we aren’t getting actually fucked.”

They look at each other before they laugh, shaking their heads. Meanwhile, your ears perk up. 

“Fuck, I really don’t know the last time she let me hit it, Hoon. I think I’m going crazy.”

“Yeah, same here. Like, yeah, we fucked once the day before her flight. But literally only missionary and she didn’t suck me off.”

“Again? Dude, is she ever even putting her mouth on it?” 

“Nope. Ever since we got engaged she’s like this fucking prude. Is yours like that too?”

“Yeah. I got her flowers and her favorite chocolates and she still wouldn’t even jack me off, like fuck, if it’s gonna be like this forever I can just go cut my dick off.”

Jesus. These two seem to be in very happy relationships. Makes you almost feel better to not be in one. Even if your mother would beg to differ. She’s been desperate for you to find a match for ages. For whatever reason, really, considering her two golden girls were about to get married to rich and handsome heirs. 

“Just one good blowjob, man, that’s all I want, really. I miss getting some good fucking head.”

The way short hair looks at mole - with so much understanding and pity, you can’t help but chuckle. Chuckle loud enough for them to take notice. 

Their gazes burn on your face before you even see them. But when you do your smile dies and instead makes room for horror. They heard you laugh at them. Even worse, they know you’ve been listening. Shit. 

Thankfully, you are three glasses of delicious white wine in and the fourth one is almost empty. Which means you aren’t the sweet little wallflower you’d usually be. Scary, how alcohol can change people.

“Oh, I am sorry. I shouldn’t have eavesdropped.” You apologize, placing your hand over your heart. 

“Agreed.” Short hair says, his eyebrow raised. Now, with both of their eyes on you, it seems like they are even more attractive. Perfect faces with pretty eyes and soft looking hair. Handsome men in unhappy relationships that fail to give them what they need. It’s almost comical how the switch in your head turns over, how the persona you normally never let anyone see until you’re in a secluded space comes out and gives you the courage to speak your next words.

“I just couldn’t believe my ears,” you let your finger glide over the rim of your glass, eyes on the two men with your tongue slipping out to lick over your bottom lip, “how anyone would be opposed to having sex with you.” 

Oh.

Sunghoon and Heeseung’s ears perk up just like yours did earlier. Eyes widen slightly as they understand the innuendo in your words. 

They think about the same thing - the last time they took a girl together. Probably during senior year in college. Back then, they used to do that regularly. Having almost the identical type in women. Instead of having to let her choose, she’d get them both. 

But it’s been years since then. They are in committed relationships now, about to get married. And still - neither of them can deny that you fall right into their usual prey, or well, the prey they’d chosen back in college before their parents had picked out their wives for them. 

It’s the way you look at them, the way your eyes say so much more than your words. It is also the way both of them feel like they are 22 again with nothing but getting their dick wet on their minds. One thing about Heeseung and Sunghoon - they always worked perfectly in a pair. Back in college and now, too. They can almost read each other’s minds at this point, only a short exchange of looks needed to know neither of them gave a single fuck about anything right now.

“Want to sit down with us?” Sunghoon asks and points at the free chair opposite them. You smile. 

“It’d be my pleasure.”

header credit @wongyuseokie <3

[leclsrc]

more than anyone ✴︎ cl16

genre: childhood friends to enemies to lovers (a mouthful), smut, humor, Fluffff!!!!, angst

word count: 13.7k  

You moved out of Monaco at fourteen with an unrepaired friendship hanging by a thread. Ten years and a whole lifetime later, you’re forced to work with him confront it all over again.

auds here… hi hi hi!!!! HAPPY 4k to us guys!!!!! i am so insanely thankful for all of u and i will make this a longer note when i wake up tomorrow because i have so much to say but have this for now. i hope u like it,i love love love u guys forever also i changed the banner because i wanted to

nsfw warnings under the cut!

18+ because... penetrative sex, semi public sex, praise central, size kink (pretty tame smut in auds world)

You know it’s bad when your assistant-and-friend-aka-friendsistant (her vernacular) Rachel walks in with a free coffee without a quip about how dependent you are on this exact order of coffee (she’s a millennial, so caffeine and lack thereof are in her arsenal of Funny Jokes). You fear you didn’t correctly anticipate just how bad it was going to be when she stays instead of leaving to work on your schedule, combing a few fingers through her fringe and sitting herself on your couch stiffly. Maybe you’re intuitive, maybe you spend too much time with Rachel and you can spot the way she scratches at her eye, maybe both—but it’s bad.

You don’t take a sip from the Starbucks that sits idly on the coaster, opting to watch the latte sweat instead. You do stare, though, at Rachel’s stagnant posture, scrutinizing her every movement. She takes a few deep breaths and drops the bomb.

“David sent me to tell you he has good news. But there is, um. Bad news.” Dread writhes through you at the mention of your manager with bad news, and you clear your throat to compose yourself.

“What’s going on?”

She purses her lips. “He’s on his way over here. Just…” She cocks her head sharply to the glass door of your home office, expression antsy. “Sorry. Wait for him. I can’t tell you anything yet.”

You take a swig from the pity coffee. “Am I getting blacklisted?”

“God, you dumbass, no—” She makes an incredulous noise, but before she can open her mouth to elaborate, your manager walks in with an excited expression on his face, pocketing his Juul to take a seat by your table. His smile is the radiant one of a man over forty with a comical amount of Botox.

“Rachel told me you had”—you stifle the adjective—“news.”

“That I do, yes.” He hums, tracing the edge of your table. “Did you enjoy Paris Fashion Week?”

Beside the brash Frenchmen, God-awful timezone differences and consequent calls at half past three, hungover show attendances, posing for pictures until your ankles blistered, and a temporary diet of black coffee, cigarettes, and stale croissants—sure, it was fun. It was your job to attend anyway, your obligation to shake hands with important people and be photographed in designer clothing and benefit from the PR, but how often could people call work fun? 

“Sure.” You take another gulp off your coffee. “It was… fun.”

“Well, since your movie’s doing well,” David pauses and hums, “how do you feel about another few weeks of fun?” 

“Like Paris Fashion Week—weeks… this month?” You frown, eyebrows knitting together. Is this a new Vogue thing? You’re not sure how many updates they give the schedule, but you wouldn’t mind too much if you could travel again for a little bit. “So soon after spring? Did Anna want this?”

“Iiiit’s, er, Vogue’s new project. Capsule shows in Europe, coastal and summery. She wanted an exclusive guest list. She asked for you by name,” David says smugly. “Well, she called my office, granted. But to ask for you—”

“Are you fucking serious?” You stand up, and if you hadn’t had some fix of coffee you would’ve gotten dizzy. “David, tell me you’re serious.” Time seems to have suspended itself as you await his answer—which, if affirmative, would be a pretty big deal to you. 

“Yeah, I am.” He plays off a grin. “She loved your movie with Greta, and would love to send you to Europe to do PR on a few shows and pair up with some guests on a couple features. Exclusive stuff.”

You sit back down, mouth slack. “Oh, my God. I can’t believe it.” Your eyes dart to Rachel, who’s caught between a smile and an awkward purse of her lips. “Fuck! This is huge, David.”

“Yeah—okay, yeah, it is.” David shifts in his seat and crosses, then uncrosses, his legs, then his arms. He stutters for a second. “Good and bad news, remember?”

You blink a few times. You’d nearly totally forgotten the fact that this good news—and it is overwhelmingly good—comes with a bout of bad news, so bad apparently that it’s noteworthy enough to state alongside this massive deal. But it’s. Fine. It’s whatever. Worst case scenario, you’re going to need to fucking swim to Europe sans oxygen canister.

“So… the shows? Events, and shit?” He watches, waiting for you to signal that you follow. When you nod, he continues, averting his gaze to the face of his Patek. “They’re all in Monaco.”

Wrong.

“Monaco.” You repeat, deadpanning your delivery. It’s not out of the ordinary, the glitz and coast of the city being a perfect venue for high fashion. But Monaco is different for you, vastly different, and you tend to avoid the place to the best of your abilities. “Monaco. Are—you’re sure?”

“Mmm,” he hums in affirmation. “I know, I know you’re not exactly privy to Monaco because, bleh, childhood shit, whatever. But this—like you said, this is huge! And I don’t think we should jeopardize that.” He pulls a piece of paper from the folders tucked in his arm and waves it around.

“Well—yeah, I suppose. I’ll deal with it.”

“Yeah.” He sucks his teeth, eyes gliding over the scenery of L.A. that your window offers. “Okay, that’s it, so. Byeandhaveagoodlunch.” He slams the paper onto your desk, jostling you a little, but as he makes his exeunt, Rachel raises her arm to stop him.

“Is that it, David?” She asks, an edge to her voice.

You pick up the paper as they make hushed, stifled conversation, and find that it’s a call sheet of sorts, listing all the collaborators traveling to Monaco and what or who they’re in charge of, or paired up with, there. Models, athletes, celebrities, influencers—all making TikToks, or appearances, or brand deals, or interviews, or YouTube videos, the whole shebang.

“Yeah,” says David dismissively—nervously? “That’s it.”

You search for your name. “Okay. Um, hey.” Rachel turns to you, trying to catch your eye, which is busy scanning the sheet. “Did, um—did David mention you’re paired up with Charles Leclerc for a feature? Because you are. Paired up with Charles Leclerc for a feature, I mean.”

David sucks his teeth. “Thank you very much for graciously reminding me of that, Rachel.” 

Still half-distracted and growing increasingly worried with the exchange happening in front of you, you make haste in your search—eventually, you find your name, printed in plain letters beside one you’ve wished to never read over ever again.

“Wait, my Charles?” You pause and look up, suppressing a yell as your eyes widen, and you blunder over a pathetic self-correction. “I mean—no, sorry—Charles, as in Charles Leclerc? I can’t work with him, you know this!” 

“Wh—well, Vogue apparently wanted a really good Monaco-born pair and they seriously lucked out on you two. Also,” Rachel says, adamantly defending herself, “you’re always saying you can work ‘with anyone’!” She raises two comically vigorous air quotes to further her (moot) point.

“I didn’t ev—I never say that,” you lie straight through your teeth, mouth dry. You definitely do. You can place all the exact moments. “I would’ve known if I did. Rach—David—I cannot, absolutely cannot work with Leclerc. He’s my… we…” You shut your eyes and sneak two fingers upward to massage your temple, slowly caving into defeat.

David makes an oh well face and shrugs passively. “Fine. Then it’s either Anna Wintour’s special job that will help the Academy campaign or not meeting the ex-bo—”

“—friend.” You look up to cut him off, eyes narrowed. “Ex-friend.”

“Alright, kid. Suuuure.” David leans against the back wall of your office as Rachel comes to comfort you, her eyes already sympathetic and droopy. It shouldn’t be so bad, right? She asks sweetly, nudging the latte closer to your catatonic figure. You have seen him since, anyway.

With a despondent gaze, you just remain silent, refusing to state the negative aloud, opting to stare at the latte. At your disagreeable silence, Rachel continues, tone anxious: You have seen him since. Right?

You moved out of Monaco at fourteen, right after the school year finished and your father had gotten the opportunity to transfer out. The whole thing would’ve—should’ve, even—been a sentimental affair, full of tears and dramatic caresses of your bedroom wall, whispering thank yous to the city air in French and Italian, but it wasn’t. Months prior, you’d been preparing yourself for this kind of goodbye; but when it came to it, you merely kissed your extended family goodbye and slept en route to the airport, silk sleeping mask pulled taut over your shut eyelids. The only thing you left in the city was a letter written only to Gi and Cha about how much you’d miss them, with your email address scribbled at the bottom for an added touch, in case they felt like sending you longer messages.

“Do you two at least get along?” David asks, noting how genuinely aghast you appear.

“It’s not that simple.” You tap a nail against your desk a few times. “But I think it’ll be fine. I hope, at least. We used to be… good friends? As teenagers.”

You feel like an alien hearing yourself talk about it, talk about him and the whole circumstance a decade later. Your friendship with Charles was the only thing that mattered to your adolescent self, all lemonade stands and long car rides and stealthy conversations about your futures (racing and acting, respectively). It was happiness, in what you consider to be its truest form, it was lovely and real. And it ended abruptly, no goodbyes, no nothing.

“So it’s a no.”

“I’m just saying it’s impossible for me to work with him, and in Monaco no less?!” Your eyes are wild with frustration and anxiety at the prospect of your past whipping you in the face, full-fledged. “I don’t even talk about the guy or the city, how can I spend time with him there?”

“Are you seriously going to junk this amazing fucking opportunity just because of some petty childhood fight?” David’s tone is comparable to that of a dad’s, scolding and horrified, almost. “Look. If you don’t take this, career-wise, it doesn’t mean much. You get paid a shit ton, you’ll survive—you’ll do well. But emotions-wise? Maturity-wise? Be the bigger person and do it—I mean it.”

You stare back at him because you know he’s right. “Maybe it won’t be a big, long feature?” Rachel offers as some advice, some comfort. “If you reject it, his team will know, and so will he.”

And yes, you were fourteen, and yes it was petty and unexplainable even for fourteen—but there was a catalyst to all of this, a reason why the move became easy and forgetting childhood memories became second nature. A reason why you’re selective with who you make contact with from home. A reason why Giada and Charlotte are selective with topics they choose to bring up with you.

So, fuck it, really. That’s how you end up in Monaco, booked for the next three weeks, sharing a studio and public appearances and a 24-hour shoot with the last person you’d ever want to be in a room with. Ten years later—the person still is, and no doubt will always be, Charles Leclerc.

—

“MAMAN!” Charles’ voice was loud, loud, and so incredibly loud. You followed not far behind, legs running at full speed to try and leap onto his lanky figure and wrap an arm around his head to quiet him. It’d been futile: he ended up at the dining table facing his family with a victorious smile on his pink face. He breathed heavy, waiting for everyone to turn their attention to him.

“Charles,” you chimed in warningly, breathing even harder with the effort you had exerted to chase him from the sidewalk to here. “Don’t.”

“Guess who got the lead spot in the recital.” He slowly turned to point at to your angry face, and then bent, rifling through his already messy, grubby knapsack for something that he raised with glee: a headress that read…

“But-ter-cup.” Hervé sounded amused when he looked at your fuming expression. “You?”

“Yes, Papa! Maybe, just maybe,” he sing-songed, using the term wrong yet again, “she got the titular role!” He walked over to you and placed the headress square on your head, beaming. 

“There is no titular role in a school recital,” you seethed, burning with embarrassment. Your stellar academic record had apparently granted you incentive to be centre stage during the routine year-end recital, where years were lumped into twos or threes (in your and Charles’ cases, Years 8 and 9) and the student body would dance or sing a variety of teacher-selected music.

In your case, it was Build Me Up, Buttercup, complete with choreography you’d be practicing over the next month and a half. Charles laughed at your pouting expression, didn’t stop laughing even when you’d both sat down and twirled through forkfuls of spaghetti, didn’t stop chuckling even when Lorenzo got the turn to speak and he started talking about how Bringing Up Baby was his movie of the month.

You allowed him to laugh—even laughed yourself at some point—because all day, you’d been absently wondering how you’d break the news about your moving away to him.

—

Charles is not okay. He’d gotten off a red-eye from a short vacation stint, and now he’s back in Monaco, sleepy and a bit jetlagged, being briefed on brand deals and press junkets he has to accomplish by three p.m. today. “On the dot, sharp,” said his assistant, like the two didn’t just mean the same fucking thing. He’s patient, though, smiling through the exhaustion, through the dressing room, the tape around his waist and legs to measure clothes for this fashion… thing.

“A meeting for Ferrari, two TikToks, a vlog for your personal YouTube channel, three stories by noon… oh, and in the next few weeks, you’re going to film a Vogue-sponsored 24 Hours With… with—”

“D’accord, thank you,” he cuts in, already exhausted from the spiel alone. He’s a professional; no matter what people believed or what gossip rags liked to say about him, he maintains a well-kept reputation of being polite and kind to people he works with. Maybe it’s the jetlag, maybe it’s the lack of sleep, maybe it’s the heat outside, but today he just wants to close his eyes and sleep for days.

But the assistant follows, clipboard and Excel sheet and all, still spouting all his media obligations lest he forget (and mark his words, he definitely will). “Sorry,” he says. He’s new, probably assigned as a part of the Vogue team, lanky and tall and nervous looking. “I’m new. I’m Greg.”

Briefly, Charles is left alone to stare at his tired reflection while the assistants reconvene and connect. There’s several of them, each assigned or already committed to a different celebrity. Charles should know more details, but there’s only so much reading of a call sheet he can do before he’s conked out on Ambien; he trusts he’ll be around people much more famous than he is, probably American or English, actors and athletes alike. He’ll figure it out.

Yeah, she’s almost ready. Is Charles here? One of the assistants says, a bright-eyed American. They need to be introduced before 11. Her voice is quiet, quick and hushed, and Charles has to focus to hear what she’s saying. Greg chips in with something he can’t decipher; in response, the American whispers, Yeah, I’ll get her to sign it for you. Bring Charles out in five.

In five, he is indeed being brought out to the lobby of this hotel; the outdoor area is decked out with models, cocktail tables, Vogue signage and a carpet for pictures. It’s even busier inside, wait staff and event coordinators conversing in angry, aggressive French—table settings, mineral water, extra forks are needed. Greg keeps a steady pace transporting Charles through the indoor throng, and at 10:59, Charles is outside, by the pool.

“Um, right, yeah. Okay, uh—wait here. Your partner—not really partner, but like, mate? Fuck, definitely not. Um, partner. She’s on her way heeere…” He checks his phone. “Okay. You caught her name, right?” Charles nods to fend him off. “Okay. So, wait here.”

There are cameras taking pictures of him when Greg departs, some microphones waved his way; in the distance he spots fans waving crazily, sporting Ferrari merch. Charles is doing what he’s told (waiting, maybe posing a bit) when an even bigger crowd appears, surrounding one person; with their arrival, ameras click even faster, and an uproar follows. Greg waves him over, pointing at the person frantically, so Charles smiles, extends a hand, and when the crowd parts—

There you are, in all your glory. Pink dress, hair clipped into a bun, a tanline on your exposed skin, lithe hand coming up to shake his. Your eyes are flat but the lack of expression doesn’t inoculate them from beauty; they remain sparkling and pretty all the same. Cameras snap the interaction, seemingly innocent, seemingly the first.

He fights, he really does, to keep his hands shaking yours. He forces himself not to hug you, press a kiss to your cheek even if that might look friendly, caress a hand across your cheekbone, brush the tendrils of hair out of your eyes. It’s a valiant effort.

A valiant effort that pays off because, as soon as you’re ushered into a room by yourselves, your smile turns into a scoff; your hands are kept to yourself, slipping a pair of sunglasses on, and; underneath them, your eyes begin to roll. “I need a drink,” you huff, not even looking at him. 

You’re on two couches opposite each other, in what he assumes to be a foyer to a hotel room that’s much bigger than the one he was in earlier. A-list fame and that. The girl he’d seen earlier scurries off, mumbling something about a martini. Greg, beside him, goes: “Do you need a drink, too?” But he shakes his head.

“Are you voluntarily working for this guy, Greg?” You refer to his assistant by name, offering a sarastic, honeyed smile. You adjust the strap of your dress and he blinks his gaze away.

“Oh, no. I mean—yeah. Kind of. I was assigned to him.”

“It’s okay, I don’t expect you to do it of your own will,” you joke, crossing your legs.

Charles laughs dryly. “Who asked?”

“So he speaks…” You ping off his retort without missing a beat, a sardonic smile playing at your lips. 

“In the two minutes we’ve been around each other, you’ve insulted me and my assistant. I’d prefer silence, your highness.”

“Aww, did my joke and asking Greg a question piss you off?” You suck your teeth. “You must be fun at parties.”

“Do you two, um. I don’t want to, like, overstep, but do you know each other?” Charles notices that Greg’s forearm is signed by you and realizes he has no allies here, with an inward grimace. “Or if you don’t, like, are you two just… not in good moods or something?”

The girl comes in then, saying here’s the martini and catering you a sweaty glass with a smile. You offer up the empty space beside you, patting the white leather for her to sit down on. Your eyes meet his again briefly, catty and a bit challenging, before you turn back to the girl. “Sit.”

Maybe Charles spends too much time with Max, because he’s starting to become more and more inclined to getting the last word in lately. “Bossing people around, eh? Fame really does change you.” He offers a smile of his own.

“She’s my assistant, Rachel,” you say sweetly, but your smile is gritty. “We need to check my schedule.”

He wants to slap himself. “Too busy to open your calendar?” Nevermind, he’s a god.

Your sarcastic smile drops. “And what’s on yours? P6 this week, P7 next, DNF after?”

Fuck. The tension is so thick at this point, it’s almost steaming hot. Both the assistants stare at you, waiting for Charles to wedge something in, but he bites himself back. Thankfully, right as the silence just begins to settle like oil on water, the door swings open and one of the coordinators steps in, noisily rattling off the week’s plans and proclaiming you’re both free for the remainder of the day before things pick back up—Schiaparelli show at noon, both of you, front row—tomorrow.

The four of you filter out of the room, and you make a quip about your autograph on Greg’s arm, which grants your assistant some face time with Charles. She turns to him, combing a hand through her hair and furrowing her thick eyebrows. “Hey, I’m Rachel, by the way.”

“Charles.”

“I know,” she says sheepishly. “Listen. I know you two have history, she—we—she’s, um, told me about it before. I don’t know the whole story, and I’m not… like, I’m not saying I do, so I respect it, whatever it is. But I hope you can find it in you to work with her properly. It’s a huge gig for you both. So—yeah, uh. Great job, and good luck.”

She smiles with a nod before exiting the room, leaving Charles alone and stirring with thoughts and memories woken from wild unrest.

—

“Alors,” Charles had said, not turning from his position in front of your vanity mirror. He’d been picking at his face, stopping only when you tsked at him not to. “What is the problem?” His eyes flicked over to you, your lying figure on the bed exhaling little puffs of frustrated air to the ceiling. “Are you missing the recital?”

“Quoi? Non.” You gnawed at your lip, accepting your defeat. You couldn’t lie for much longer, not when you’d been keeping this under wraps for two months. “Listen. Charles.” He nodded, clearly preoccupied with something. “Charles.”

“Hmm?”

“Can you ple—look at me.” Your voice hardened.

He’d noticed it then, the curt cutoff of your voice, the absent look in your eyes. He knows you even through a mirror, even in the low light of your room. “Desolé. This pimple won’t go away.”

“Charles,” you said, groaning but allowing yourself to laugh. “Listen.”

“Okay.” He turned to face you, a spot on his chin red from how long he’d been scratching at it.

You shrugged then, suddenly scared to deal with the realness of it all. You didn’t understand why you felt so torn. “It’s something to do with me,” you said.

“Yeah.”

“I’m moving.” You rubbed at your nose, the cold draft coming in through the window causing you to sniffle. “Out of Monaco.”

A beat. “What?”

You closed your fingers around your necklace, scratching absently at the divots of the pendant. One, two, three little dips in the gold locket, tiny but comforting. “Yeah. In a few months, like, after school. It’s Papa—his job. It’s a whole thing.”

“Europe?” You shook your head. America.

“What… well, what does that mean, then?” His expression didn’t waver but if anything did, it was his eyes—desperate, seeking more answers, wanting them with a guttural, belly-deep desire. You’re his best friend, so if he has to let you go in this life, he at least needs to know everything about the move. 

“We’ll keep in touch,” you reassured, kicking your leg to further your point. “You were bound to get busy with karting anyway, so it’s like. Ça revient au même.”

“It isn’t the same,” he said, his voice thin and cracking. 

“You’ll be fine.”

“You have a very misguided idea of who I am.”

“Shut up. Come off it,” you laughed, sitting up straighter. “We’ll call everyday, and I’ll meet all the famous people who’ll get me a real acting job, and I’ll come for the holidays or summer or something. Things won’t change. Not that much, at least.”

“Maybe, just maybe.” He pauses. “Will you be here for my birthday, at least?” He’d made a big deal all year of his turning sixteen on the sixteenth.

“Charles,” you sighed. 

“No, yeah. I get it.” He looked down, rubbing his thumbs together, like he’s just been hit across the face. He will tell you one day it felt infinitely more painful than that. But at the time he shook his head and looked up at you, reached his pinky to yours, a thin slip of paper around the finger that matched your interlocked one, and didn’t say anything else.

Just: “We’ll be okay.”

—

You could pin a lot of adjectives on Monaco: picturesque, without a doubt; warm, glamorous, but you’d sooner die than pin the word home over it. The city is sprawling even with the little surface area it possesses, and only few things seem familiar. Your lodging is a hotel in Monte-Carlo, a penthouse suite that requires you to travel very little. It feels like a vacation.

And you embody the role of a vacationer very well—the first five, six days of your stay in Monaco went great, mainly appearances that lasted a few hours at most and several junkets to promote Vogue and your latest film, before you were free to do whatever you wished. You’d gone the touristy route already: shopping more times than you could count, trying your immense luck at the casinos, and eating at Michelin-starred restaurants; eventually all the fun blurred into each other and you found solace in naps instead.

Your troubles are not far behind, however, and they finally come after you on Day 7. The event coordinators had informed Rachel, who in turn informed you, that the first of next week’s agenda would be a photographed tour of the Musée Océanographique de Monaco, a grand seaside building right at the edge of the water. Today is, apparently, a day for you to “fraternize with” Charles, which meant you would once again need to put a façade over your less-than-kind appearance toward him.

Those are the concluding words of David’s very firm text, encouraging (read: coercing) you to settle things with Charles into some approximation of civility. You resolve things by calling him to skip over the awkwardness that comes with texting. It takes you all of twenty minutes and twice your body weight in courage to press the green telephone button.

“B’jour,” he goes, his voice quick. French people (he will hate that you called him French, even if it was just in your head; you relish in this) always talk rapidly. After some silence, he clears his throat: “Hello?”

Butterflies—some form of them, whatever—flutter in your stomach. “It’s me.”

He drops formalities and adopts a disinterested voice. “Huh. What do you want?” The butterflies have rotted to death.

“I need to talk to you.”

“To insult me again?” He sounds a little amused even over the phone, a breath of laughter landing in your ear. “Bah, I get it. We are enemies. You have no interest in reconnecting, et cetera. C’est tout ce que tu as à dire? I gotta go.”

Your face warms at his accusatory tone. “Wow, leave it to a guy to be charming, huh?”

“Why should I be charming with you?”

“At least be polite,” you taunt, but your voice lacks its usual edge. On the other line, Charles lets his own defiant tone ebb downward.

At least be polite. It’s the least he can owe you after ten years of forgetting. It wasn’t as if you two had a mutual agreement then, in 2013 when you moved away, to stop becoming friends. For months before you moved out, he completely stopped talking to you, like he’d forgotten you two were even connected, were even friends. What little words you two shared became petty and abrasive, and suddenly Monaco lost its color. The closeness you had with him, which for so long you’d convinced yourself was once-in-a-lifetime, was ripped from you, robbed from you—by him, no less, which hurt all the more. You’d given up on finding out why at some point. You waited for him to reach out. Maybe, you told yourself, just maybe, it would take a few months, a year.

Ten years of radio silence. He owes you that: politeness.

“It doesn’t matter,” you say to nobody in particular, in an effort to segue into the topic of your choosing. “Look, we’re supposed to be friends. In… on camera, at least. It’s disastrous if we look like we, you know, hate each other. We need to be professional.”

“For the cameras,” he says back, solemn.

“Yeah.” You wind a finger through your hair. “Just… for the sake of civility.”

You hear his little hums of consideration. “D’accord,” he says after a few minutes. “Truce, then.”

“Sure.” You smile a little. “I have to go.”

—

You were halfway through your mess of clothes when your mum peeked through your door, her hair held back by a headband. “Call you yet, poppet?” 

“Non,” you said, decimating your voice to a monotonous murmur. You looked up from the dress you’d been folding and offer a half-hearted, sardonic smile. “Je t’ai dit qu’il ne le ferait pas.” You were right: he wouldn’t call. What difference did a month make, anyway? This time, though, the usual victory of being right settled into an ugly disappointment in the pit of your stomach.

You wanted so badly to be wrong. To clamber to the telephone, to your Skype, to your cellphone, any of the three, and see his name flashed across the helm or his voice in your ear. Maybe he was dialing your number now, to ask if you wanted to grab dinner after the year-end recital, or to update you on karting, or to tell you Pascale wanted lunch.

She could tell, as all mothers can, that you’d been upset. The knit in your brows that didn’t go away, the bottom lip being chewed, the tight clutch of your fingers over the already-folded dress. She sighed. “I’m sorry, baby.” 

“It’s fine.” Your voice came out sharper than you intended and you have to roll it back, recede it, to sound more relaxed, more at ease. “It’s… fine. I’m fine.” She knew better than to pry, closing the door softly to continue packing up the living room.

You heaved a dry sigh to express the nausea that came with his absence. It began a month ago, two days after you first told him about it and poked at the zit on his chin. He’d buried his head in your shoulder until tears seeped into the cotton sleeve of your shirt, and you let him. You felt guilty, after all, for keeping it a secret for so long. You would leave in September, you told him. We have time.

Two days later he walked you home as always, on the “dangerous” side of the street, lanky legs skipping to the tree in front of your house. You pointed at the beginnings of clementines on its dewy branches, smiling, inviting him in, but he remained leaning against the trunk, playing with his mop of hair that covered his forehead.

“Bah, trop dramatique,” you said, poking fun. Lorenzo had showed you both some art house films he studied in class, and with the bout of French cinema, you and Charles had grown obsessed with making fun of overdramatic stills that often included the classic leaning-against-a-surface. “Come on, Mum made bouillabasse, I smell it.”

“We need to talk,” he eked out awkwardly. “I have something important to tell you.”

You dropped your knapsack, leather scratching against the concrete of the steps to the front door as you walked over to him. “Ouais?”

“I…” His lips moved, wobbled, but nothing left, so he shut them and his eyes, like he was considering something. His breathing slowed into one rhythm you find yourself unconsciously matching, just two kids looking at each other in the dusky breeze of Monaco, the orange sun casting shadows over the clementine tree. You closed your hand over his, a tight clamp over his knobby wrist with certainty. “I…”

“Say it.”

“I want to.” His eyes were shut. Exhale. Inhale, open. “I… I’m going… going home.”

You breathed out apprehensively and relaxed. “Oh.” You blinked. “That’s it?”

“Ye—ouais. Yeah. I gotta.” Already he was climbing to the gate, waving a half-hearted goodbye. “Save some for me, oui? Bye.”

“Charles,” you warned after him, voice tinged with concern. “That’s it, promise?” Your hand flexed around air.

“Cross my heart!” The last thing he ever said with any bit of something genuine.

—

You reunite with Charles at a meeting; under the guise of your truce, he makes the barely-necessary small talk. The rest of the staff file out of the restaurant in due time, but you both stay. You ask about Lorenzo and Arthur, leaving out questions you’d rather not listen to him answer, and he tells you they’re both alright. That his mum asks about you sometimes. That makes you smile. He asks if you’re still dating the guy you’d most recently been partnered with in Us Weekly.

“God, no. We never even dated, the�� um, tabloids always make shit up.” You purse your lips. “Anyway. Is Lorenzo still in film?” You ask, turning your head a little. You don’t think you’ll ever forget his affinity for cinema.

“Not professionally, but I still sit through hours-long… you know, reviews, and stuff.” He laughs when he sees you laugh, eyes half-closed and meeting the ceiling.

“He introduced me to some of my favorite movies, especially when I got into acting and I was kind of… like, I wanted some inspiration, acting-wise. But not my actual favorite movie.”

“Which is?” He segues into a more personal topic. “Is it still Bambi?”

“Oh, it was, for the longest time!” You almost squeal with excitement. “Not anymore, though. It’s been dethroned, ha ha. I think it’s… I’d say it’s maybe Casablanca now.”

“How American.”

“Shut up.” Your face warms. “It’s so romantic. When he says—when he goes, um. We’ll always have Paris. And then, God—when Ilsa goes, I said I would never leave you—and Rick goes, And you never will… isn’t it so classic? Romance movies nowadays are—I, I, I… I get scripts sent to me that are just so bad, and they’re either too idealistic or too pessimistic, or too indie or too commercial, and.” You sigh. “It’s like nobody gets love right anymore.”

“Us Weekly disagrees,” he says weakly, after a period of silence.

“Stop,” you laugh warningly. “And don’t act like you’re not being paired up with different girls, too.”

For a minute you sit with the realization that you’ve both been keeping tabs on each other all these years, even just a little bit. It’s a bit jarring, it’s a bit warm, it’s a lot confusing. You make a move to ask for the bill but Charles is quicker, opens his mouth to implore your presence.

“Come see me tonight.” He says it like he didn’t mean to, like it escaped him on a whim, a blurted out confession born out of your memories and conversation. His voice is dreamy, faraway. “Earth to…?”

“Wh—sorry. Fuck.” You clear your throat and deduce your next words. “Where?”

“I’ll text you. A club, near your hotel.”

“Yeah… yeah, sure.” You hum an affirming noise. 

—

Your name is on the list, though you’re sure it doesn’t matter whether or not it was. No ID is needed, and paps catch a bouncer being dispatched to guide you through the nightclub toward the elevated area with significantly less people. It’s low-lit, smoky, vaguely blue and purple, smelling of flows of alcohol and fresh ice. An Azealia Banks song is playing, pounding through your head.

Tabloids don’t care about nightclubs. They care if you come out drunk or with a smidge of snow under your nose, neither of which have happened to you; entering is fair game, a fun affair, especially in a district like Monte-Carlo. You don’t have any explaining to do, not even to questions like are you clubbing with your professional Vogue collaborator, Charles Leclerc?

The collaborator in question is the first to greet you, getting up and approaching you with a smile so obviously tense. The picture in front of him is like if he’d conjured up a forlorn fantasy of his to life—your hair fell loosely over black lace, a hand pinched around the hem of your dress. “Hey.”

“Hi.”

“So.” He realizes he’s in charge of the socializing, and turns to properly introduce you. “Um, guys, this is my—friend—you already know”—he fusses over your name, which everyone in the world knows, anyway—“and these are my friends. Pierre, Alex, George, Lando, Daniel… you know Joris.” He points to each guy's face as he goes, eliciting a beam every time he gestures.

You wave with a polite smile before you station yourself beside the only one you know: Joris, with whom Charles shares a longtime friendship. He greets you first, with a side hug. “Long time.”

“Yeah, it’s been.” You watch him turn toward the low table, and back around with two shots, offering them to you with haste.

You thank the Lord that he makes quick, dextrous work of it, and before long you’ve downed a glass or three of some strawberry four seasons thing, socializing with the different people around the table. One of them, Lando, talks about your latest film for five whole minutes (“I rated it five stars on Letterboxd. I left a review, if you wanna see”) before he leans close and asks: “Are you his girlfriend?” His is obviously referencing Charles, and you pull back from the proximity to shake your head.

“No,” you holler to emphasize it. “We used to know each other. I grew up here.”

“Oh shit! Native!” He whoops, offering you another glass. This must be your fifth, maybe, fifth G&T or Cosmo or something or other of the night. You take it, drinking as you walk, planning to collect your bag to take with you to the bathroom—another hand takes yours, though, dragging you down the steps. Halfway through, you realize it’s Charles.

“How’s the drink?” He asks, brows straight.

“That’s all you wanted to ask?” You raise your voice above the bass. “Someone needs to teach you fucking… proper small talk.” A laugh involuntarily bubbles past your lips, eyes crinkling. 

He laughs, too, despite himself. “Non, I was—I was just asking. We should—I brought you over here to—so we could…” He realizes he’s been talking too fast without getting to the point and pauses, resetting himself with a pinched sigh. “Dance.”

Your heart pulses. Dance? You hear yourself ask. For wh…Why?

“For the sake of the truce.” His voice is light. “We should try being closer.”

“We were close once,” you say, loose. “Did you forget?”

He’s looking right at you, and you’re warm all over. “How could I?”

It feels too real. Not the words—yes the words—but the alcohol, the alcohol is what you’re referring to, and all those shots and drinks suddenly seem not as harmless as they’d seemed earlier. You scan the periphery for the WC sign and try your best not to look deranged on your way there, offering the same pretty smile to recognizing passersby. Behind you, Charles calls out; but you wave him off, heaving dryly.

The restroom is clean because the nightclub is outrageously expensive; you push yourself into the available stall that’s in your direct path and crumple above it. You heave. Heave some more. Nothing comes. The nausea rises and recedes, so you decide to wait it out.

The bathroom door hauls open, bringing with it a few seconds of noise before it swings heavily onto the frame again, sealing the sterile silence. The momentary return of the bass from the dance floor sends your head spinning all over again and you freeze, willing yourself not to wind up hurling your guts into the toilet. It’s a futile effort, though, because you’re feeling nauseated beyond your limit again, and you need water and maybe a salve or something.

“This stall is open,” somebody says, a chipper American voice that grows in volume as it nears you. A gasp follows, and then: “Oh, my God. Are you okay?”

You turn, your face flushed and lips parted. “I’m so sorry. I just—I’ve been nauseous all night.”

“I have water,” she answers, reaching her arm outward, as if seeking it. “Carmen, the water!” A bottle of Evian is thrust into her hand by another girl (Carmen, you presume), and she doesn’t hesitate to bend next to you to feed it into your mouth. She stares for a second, then goes: “On the off chance I’m lucky, and you’re the famous actress, by the way, I just want to say I’m a huge fan of your work.”

Eyes wide, you lock eyes with her and pull away from the water. “Oh, God. Yeah, that’s me. I’m so sorry—this is so humiliating.”

“It’s not—it’s normal,” she assures, nodding. “We’ve all… y’know, puked into a club toilet before.” From the stall doorframe, Carmen nods. “What’d you drink?”

“Fruity stuff,” you recall, eyebrows knitting at the memory. “And shots.”

They both grimace at the same time, knowing the exact feeling, the exact taste, it seems. “Are you heartbroken or something?” Carmen asks; Lily shoots her a look that can only really mean don’t ask the world-famous actress if she’s heartbroken. But you laugh it off, shaking your head.

“No. There’s a guy, though, and he’s… we’re… it’s a lot. I think I thought alcohol would absorb all of it, but… clearly, it did not.” Your lips simmer into a straight line and you’re quiet for a few moments before remembering you’re on a dingy club floor being supported by two nice girls who are strangers. “Anyway! Sorry. I’m clearly, um, delirious.” You get up on semi-wobbly feet, swallowing the nausea as you go. 

You walk to the sink, and behind your back, the girl and Carmen share a telepathic exchange (should we ask her to elaborate? Yes! Should we really? Fuck, no.) You rinse your mouth out, washing your hands and focusing on your reflection—your tired eyes, your smudged lip gloss, your fussed-up hair. You turn after rinsing, offering a small smile. “Thank you.”

“It’s nothing,” says the first girl, offering her hand and a tube of lip gloss. “I’m Lily, by the way. And just so you know—I’m so sure that guy has nothing on you.” Carmen, beside her, nods in solidarity, and your heart blooms.

Your smile grows as your hand shakes hers, accepting the lip gloss. “You’re too kind. Thank y—” 

“Lil? Baby, are you puking?” Comes a disembodied male voice from the door, ajar ever so slightly. Lily visibly cringes and walks over to the door, pulling it open further. On the other side—the detective of sorts—happens to be Alex, who you’d been introduced to a few hours ago. At the sight of you, his eyes widen with recognition. 

“We’re fine. Leave us alone,” replies Lily in a conspiratorial whisper. “Carmen and I have a new friend.” She doesn’t even need to drop your name; your face alone is enough to make people recognize who you are.

Alex, however, refuses to admit defeat. “Try harder next time.” He pumps his eyebrows. “We were introduced earlier.” He looks up and waves to demonstrate his truth; when you smile back, Lily’s jaw drops as she turns to her boyfriend again, aghast.

“What the hell? How?” A pause. “No offense. It’s like. Two levels of fame, right there.”

He makes a pinched face. “She’s Charles’… friend? I don’t—coworker? Something, something. They were both vague about it. Actually, George and I were talking about it, and we both think something is up. With them.”

“Wait—you might be right.” Her eyes are hyperfocused, and her voice drops to a whisper for a second. “Let’s talk about it at the hotel.”

You and Carmen watch their hushed exchange, and eventually Alex leaves you three alone again with a loud goodbye, which allows Lily to rejoin your conversation. “Sorry,” she says with a smile. “That was my boyfriend, Alex. I didn’t know you two were introduced! He told me you knew Charles?”

“Oh.” Your shoulders relax. “Yeah, um. We knew each other as kids, but I moved away and we kind of—we drifted apart, so. I’m here on a business trip, and he’s just welcoming me.” You try to reduce the decade-long mess into a sentence.

“So you’re friends?”

“Yeah.” You feel like vomiting all over again. 

—

The sky’s a searing blue at noon, silver clouds lining the horizon. Charles has to press a finger to the high point of his cheek to test if he’s sunburned from the heat, and the cameras catch it; he doesn’t doubt the fans will spin that into something cute later. You’re somewhere else on the property, this big, massive thing of a museum that’s crashed into by the waves.

He remembers Andrea first telling him about this whole arrangement. He and the team had deliberately left out any mention of you, like they could predict the immediate veto. He wonders if you knew, or if you, too, had been surprised when seeing him, a ghost of your past looking into your eyes. He wonders if you, too, are now in this endless emotional turmoil. Inside there’s a photoshoot ongoing, with you but also with some models in varying aquatic-related poses to convey the intent of the building; he’s done his share of pictures already, just needs to sit down with you for an interview. 

“And a B-roll of you guys, um, like, walking, like—around?” Greg’s voice invades his head again, the nervous man beside him running through a to-do list like this is boot camp.

You’d left him hanging at the club—he couldn’t blame you though. A truce hardly called for the bringing forth of memories you two are now supposed to have buried beneath you. Memories he buried first. But alcohol had loosened him, and maybe you had, too, your eyes in the vaguely bluish light and your smile.

He wishes to apologize. He makes up some excuse and finds you nursing an Evian by a faraway corner, against a screen of stingrays. Your eyes widen when you see him, in recognition. He waves and then, with a thumb, gestures to the catering outside.

You end up by the water eating one of the caterer’s churros, a recommendation he deems “very special.” (“Have you worked with these caterers before?” “No.”) It’s also his excuse to cheat on his diet and eat a churro or three—chocolate dip included, always. You rave over the taste, smile, enjoy the view. Charles realizes this looks deceivingly like a date, and at the same time realizes he would not stop to correct someone if they assumed so.

“Our truce seems to be working.” You say in-between chews, voice flat but eyes bright.

“It seems so. I owe that to my personality.”

You really laugh at that. “I didn’t know you had one. It’s very fit for someone as unapproachable as I am.”

“Who said that?”

“No, noth—nobody.” You comb a lock of hair behind your ear. “Aw, putain. I’m ruining my lipstick. Pat’s going to kill me. I look awful.” There are no reflective surfaces around you to affirm your statement, but you sound so sure of yourself.

He smiles. He enjoys the illusion, the mask that you two seem to wear, albeit involuntarily. The chocolate syrup he squeezes on your little paper box of churros. The muttered back merci when he’s finished. Your flushed face, eyes darting from the delicacy to the ocean, eyelashes fluttering, lips smiling, curving into a laugh at some random realization. Briefly he imagines what he might tell somebody if they stopped to ask if you were dating.

Some old woman, French accent and short in stature. You two are so cute. Si mignon! And she would ask how you two met. Charles would tell her the story. But that is imagination. He blinks out of it and focuses on the beauty in front of him, so very real.

“No. You are very pretty, you know.” He says then, and it’s taken him all his nerves and then some just to wrangle it out of his mouth and past his lips. Anticipatory, he watches you, waits for your response.

You comb the hair out of your face messily, licking over the cinnamon sugar on your lips; then you smile up at him, turning your head in question. “Sorry,” you laugh, and his heart’s frozen because it’s the prettiest sound he’s ever heard. “What did you say?”

The wind roars in his ears, so Charles barely hears himself when he says, stuttering, “What? Nothing, I said nothing.”

You make a face—confused, suspicious—but all your allegations quell once you bite into another churro, stepping yourself a path along the area. Having blocked off the building, production staff and models are all that populate your surroundings, big headphones and even bigger cameras, rolling around racks of monochrome and Hermés, Birkins to match Loro Pianas. It’s easy to get lost in a crowd—in a city—where everyone looks the same, and knows the other’s name. Perhaps that’s also why, even at fourteen, you were excited to leave, he thinks.

“The coast was always my favorite part about the city.”

He notices. The way your eyes have softened, become more fond than when you’re in the centre of it all, in the bustle. Here it’s busy, but less busy; the distinction, perhaps, matters. Your gaze is not one of distaste, of disdain. It’s nostalgic, homesick, yearning. He supposes he describes this gaze so well because it’s the way he catches himself looking at you over the week. 

“I wanted to…” He trails off. “I wanted to talk to you because, ah. I’m sorry. It was foolish of me to put you on the spot last night. I should’ve been more… yeah. I’m sorry. I hope you’re okay.”

You stare at the sea and nod quietly. Instead of responding, you launch a story: “I always…” You’re clearly lost in a different sphere of thought, and you have to fall quiet while finding the right words to say. “I remember, um. In Year 3, we—I came here with my mum. And I was super mad, because I got, like, three mistakes on my Maths paper?” You laugh and he does, too, but more because your storytelling is so effortlessly enthralling and funny and he needs to shut himself up.

“Anyway.” You pace around again, and he follows. “So, I’m mad, and she’s trying to cheer me up, buys me glace and everything, but no. So I go sit myself on a random bench. It must’ve been around here, I think.” You look around and point at an empty area. “There. But it’s—they must’ve ripped it out. Whatever. So yeah, I’m sitting there, and moping, and all of a sudden All You Need is Love by The Beatles comes blaring into the entire area.”

Charles’ eyebrows knit confusedly. “What, the bench area?”

“No—the whole pier, I guess? Like, it was loud, I almost jumped. And then this guy comes in holding this huge—this, um, board? Sign? Poster? And he’s got half the pier in on his whole thing, and I’m totally… it was just… yeah.” You smile. It’s the biggest smile he’s seen on you since you got here and the fact that he’s even around to see it gets him all warm.

“So what happened?”

“It was a flash mob. You know those—yeah, they’re usually insufferable, but that one was a little calmer. Nobody was, you know, dancing and yelling. It was just a bunch of people cheering and all, and the guy was actually proposing to his girlfriend. It was so cute.” You sigh a little, a brief exhale of air, and it turns into a smile. “I’d love that.”

He raises his eyebrows and, despite himself, laughs. “Vraiment?” 

You turn to him, ready to defend yourself, mid-laugh. “Heeey. Everyone says they find big, romantic gestures cheesy, but I think deep down, if you trust the person enough, you’ll like it. Maybe not a proposal, though—can you imagine the pressure?” You pause. “But I don’t know. There’s something so nice about just knowing that person loves you so much they think it’s worth it to share it to everyone around you. So even if it’s cheesy, I wouldn’t mind much. You?”

“It’s cheesy for me,” he disagrees, shrugging. “But I see your point.” Truth be told, he didn’t see you as a romantic type—but all he’s ever seen you do lately is work, and even back in childhood, all you ever did was study. He likes learning these little facts, ones you wouldn’t share in interviews—likes knowing you feel comfortable enough to share with him. “Dancing is a bit overboard.”

“Oh, definitely.” You throw your head back to laugh, eyes half-shut and crinkled and reflecting the sun. Would you look the same if he was dancing to The Beatles, proclaiming all the words he hasn’t had the courage to say?

—

Next question is who your first love was—we’re rolling in three…

“First love?” You laughed a little, facing the camera to continue your Screen Test interview with W. The questions had been candid and lovely, but they were about your career, which you answered with familiar ease. First love is different—uncharted, private territory. But you’d realized all this too late, and the director called go, and you let words spill out of you like a bag popped open.

“I want to be funny and witty and say acting, but that would be a lie. Um, my first love was a childhood friend. We lived near each other, our parents were friends, and I… I really did, I liked him a lot. But these—there were so many factors at tension with each other, like me moving away in 2013—that’s, what, six years ago now? And us being young and not really knowing how to communicate. When you’re a teenager, you’re kind of just like, oh, no worries, um, that’ll sort itself out, and then you grow up and look back and realize, these things never do. But I miss him a, a, a… a lot, and I think of him always.” Your smile didn’t reach your eyes when you looked at the camera again. “We learn a lot from childhood loves.”

Cut. Lovely. Just lovely.

“Thank you, Lynn,” you said with a small smile. A pause as silence creeps up onto the room, and then, quieter: “Could we omit that? I—sorry. I could answer anything else. First kiss, or something? I’m sorry, I just. Sorry.” For the first time in five years, you realize, you’ve conjured his memory again.

—

“Okay. What else do you remember?”

“I… do you remember the recital song?”

“Of course I do! The dance is… that’s a different story.” You’d been at Charles’ hotel room earlier to go over some video shoot regulations for a 24 Hours With video you’re doing in a few days. You stayed because—that’s beyond you at this point, and you’d rather not delve into the rationality of it all. You’re content with thinking about how nice this conversation is, a trip down memory lane.

“The dance, mon dieu, the dance.” He smothers a hand over his face, smiles fondly. “You were at the center!”

“Stop. Stop,” you protest, letting laughter settle into quiet. “It’s crazy, you know? How we… like, we share a life. Not—but like, we had a whole childhood together.” 

“And nobody knows.” It’s not something you keep a secret on purpose—it’s just that neither of you feel like name-dropping the other. Some stories have surfaced, but none of you have fully commented. Somehow, that’s a good thing for you.

“Do people ask?”

“People ask, yes.” His accent is a reminder of your past—you’d once had the same thick wraparound, the loose reign over English you’ve now grown to master. Now your accent is a lot thinner, to the point where it’s barely perceptible, and if it is, your coworkers and fans call it cute, chic, use it as a jumping off point to ask where you grew up. But in this hotel room, legs folded underneath you and glass of wine in hand, you have no coworkers or fans, it feels like; no one to perceive you but Charles. Charles and his accent, nostalgic and so very his, which you wouldn’t describe as anything but home.

“What do you tell them, then?” Quickly, you add: “The truth, or…?”

“That we knew each other as kids,” he says, smiling absently. “That is the truth, no?”

You cover a smile with the rim of your wine glass, nodding. There’s no revisionist history in that statement, but it hides a lot of the truth, the nitty gritty of it. You know it, he knows it, you both know it. “What would you want me to say?” His voice is soft and thin and imploring, so different from the boisterous voice he uses in public, from the slurred voice you heard in the club. This sounds real. This sounds like a conversation you would’ve had years ago in your childhood bedroom before everything went—

“Nothing, that’s fine.” You cut your own reverie off, clearing your throat. You even laugh, to alleviate the tension, but he sees right through you so many years later. “Unless you’re privy to telling people how we didn’t talk for months before I left.”

He blinks, smothers a palm over his face again, and sighs, eyes meeting yours. “I’m sorry. I don’t—I… I’ve wanted to bring it up.”

“I’m not mad.” It’s a half-lie. “Okay, no—I am, a bit. It just—it would’ve been nice to hear it two weeks ago.”

“I know.” He doesn’t even need to say it, but him saying it sends a low thrum of reassurance in you. Charles has found, in the two weeks of being in your company, that he accomplishes a sense of self—a sense of quiet, a sense of privacy—when he’s alone with you. Perhaps it’s your natural ability to bring out the best in people, to talk and loosen tongues and make everyone around you feel safe. Or, and this is on a likely front, maybe he misses being one of those people. 

He pretends he’s back to last week after another club rendezvous left you tipsier than the first time, dropping you off at your hotel room with two hands taut at your shoulders, one pinching a keycard. You’d been muttering something under your breath, stumbling as you went—you weren’t tripping too much, really; he didn’t need to hold you, but he told himself he had to—and leaning against the doorframe of your room, staring at him blankly. When he met your eyes, you said: maybe, just maybe. Just those three words. If he tries to remember right, you’d been smiling, but he was sufficiently tipsy, too, so he could just as well be wrong.

He does remember a few things right. The eyeliner smudged across your lower eye, lipstick smacked to a point where it looked like you wore none, beads of salt by your lip, your hand wrapped around your necklace. 

The silence is anything but awkward; still, he resolves to break it. “When you were drunk last week.” He looks up. “You said—you kept saying, maybe, just maybe.”

A laugh escapes you, stilted and a bit nervous. “Oh. That was—yeah, okay.”

“What’s it mean?”

“You seriously don’t remember?” You’re laughing for real now, your hair bobbing with it, eyebrows furrowed to emphasize your confusion. “Oh, my God. Charles, it’s all you ever said in Year… what, 7? I don’t… anyway. But when we were maybe twelve, I…”

Momentarily, you’re stunned by the memories of him—you’d forgotten they were even there. You press a few fingers to your lips and clear your throat. “Sorry. Yeah, I, um—I think you heard it in a movie or read it somewhere, and for ages it was your favorite saying. Maybe, just maybe.”

“I don’t underst—”

“—You were always just saying it,” you cut in, laughing, your voices layering as you discuss the origin of his former favorite term. “No, you really—”

“I don’t—I do not ever remember say—”

“—Well,” you say,  “I remember.” He stays silent for a few seconds, the intensity of your stare and the little smile on your face and everything beating down on him. For a split second he thinks of opening his mouth and getting on his knees and telling you everything, all the apologies, all the things unsaid in the months and years you became strangers. He seriously does. The pressure is almost physical, beyond overwhelming.

“I have to go.” You swallow the lump in your throat, disentangle your legs and clamber off the couch, setting the empty glass on his coffee table. “Good?”

“Yeah,” he says, blinking. “Yeah. Take care. Should I drive you?”

“God, no.” You laugh breathily. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

He closes the door after you leave, stares at it, as if that will conjure you back to him. It occurs to him, jolts him almost, that he’d almost let slip a quiet utterance of love you as you slipped out. His stomach boils. With thankfulness over not having said it, he wonders—or with regret?

—

“Best friends now, are you?” Lily, Carmen, and Rachel look up to the sound of your voice, their serious faces breaking out into smiles. If you could chart the time you spent here, there are definitely people you’ve spent the most time with—these three are at the top of the list. You hang your coat and drop your Chanel bag on the entryway seat, already picking up on the British noises of Love Island UK from the telly.

“Wait, so she’s hooking up with him?” Lily asks, confused; her train of thought is cut off by your flopping onto the bed. “Hiiii. Where’ve you been?”

Muffled by the bedspread: Charles’ place.

Silence. The television switches off and you hear the precarious preparation of three girls readying themselves for a debrief-or-sobfest of a lifetime, a noise you’ve heard and partaken in countless times over your life. You suddenly feel too watched, too spectated; you break the quiet by looking up, displaying your tear-streaked face.

“Talk to us,” Rachel encourages, her voice raspy with unuse (Love Island will keep one occupied and quiet for hours on end). Three of them are touching you in some way or other, reassuring grips on your hair or shoulders. “Did you two fight?”

And, oh Christ, fight? It’s not like you’re dating. You aren’t even halfway to that (not that you want to be, but that’s a discussion for another time). The idea of a fight with him is so terribly juvenile, so horribly reminiscent of secondary school and Monaco and being together and being friends. You can’t fight with a guy who’s not your boyfriend. You can’t fight with a guy you’re not close to, for Chrissake. You squeeze your tears out of your eyes and breathe hiccups out.

“Do you want gelato?” No, no.

“Love Island?” In a minute.

The truth is, you want both, but you really just want to sort everything out with Charles. It was no use—hating each other was futile, but pretending everything was fine in some pathetic attempt at a “truce” seemed even worse. You just want to talk everything out, even if it excavates feelings you’d once been able to suppress.

“What kind of crush doesn’t disappear after ten years?” You ask through tears. It’s almost funny, but the question comes straight from the heart. “I’ve dated guys, lived across the world, started a whole new life pretending he never—pretending we were—fuck. Pretending he didn’t exist. It was—I’m not lying, it was easy, pretending. But one glimpse—I see him one time and suddenly it feels like all of it was in vain. It’s the same crush I had before, coming back, like it’s never going to leave me alone.”

“Maybe it’s not a crush,” says Lily, slowly.

“So what is it then?” You ask, hopelessly. What is this—this revival of memories? This little feeling, this sense that no matter where he is or what he’s doing, you’ll be just as in tune when you reunite even if it takes a decade? A decade spurred by months of being given the cold shoulder? What kind of magic is that?

She doesn’t answer, because you already know.

—

“Hey Vogue—I’m here with Charles Leclerc, and we’re here to take you along with us on all our little adventures here in Monaco.” Your smile is rehearsed, the perfectly-orchestrated blend of fun and serious, and when the cameraman calls cut, it falls into a more natural resting face. It’s the one Charles turns to and observes for any signs of a grudge.

The day is busy, which is precisely why it was chosen as the film day: three shows in the morning, press junkets for your movie and Charles’ season in the afternoon, and then a gala in the evening, hosted and attended by Anna Wintour herself.

The day’s business is only trumped by its tension, which reaches its crescendo in the janitor’s closet of the fourth floor of your hotel. It’d begun with a fight over the color palette, then a fight over last conversation you shared, then a fight over him fucking up the color palette, and then kissing against the door. Ironically enough, this floor houses a fair number of honeymoon suites.

It’s ironic beause hardly anything about this is or should be romantic—it’s a temporary fix, a pause from the turmoil, his hand squeezing your thigh. He’s gentle but you feel his possessiveness, lingering longer, higher and higher up until he’s playing with the high hem of your skirt. You knot your fingers in his hair, smell the shampoo and hairspray and cologne in the wispy curls there.

He kisses your jaw, then downward, until he’s licking, nipping at your throat. Charles.

“Yeah?” His voice is rough against your pulse point.

“Make it—we gotta—quicker.” Your hands tremble, heart hammering loud and bold in your chest. His voice is sure, gravelly, quiet, and you have to focus on something—so you centre on his hands, up your thighs and slipping under the lace of your skirt, bunching the fabric up around your hips. His hands, big and calloused, fingers resting on your hipbones, on your ass.

He’s hard against your thigh, straining against his jeans. You could cry. “I want more.”

“I know, baby. I know.” The pet name, so new but so natural, sends you into a dopamine rush.

You squirm when he doesn’t let up on his touches, over every inch of your body, groping you. He wants to take his time—he hates that he can’t—and counts on the possibility of a next time. You pull him in for a spit-slick kiss, needy and whimpering, sloppy and tongues knotted. It feels good—fuck, it feels like this was all you were ever made for, his touch. 

You buck your hips into the air desperately. “We really—fuck. We don’t have time.” Cameras, a shoot, a video; reminders ring in your head like alarm bells. He nods, goes I know, and you pick up the strain in his voice as he tugs his jeans down just enough to rub his clothed cock under your entrance, hard and drooling through the fabric.

You moan softly. “Please, I can take it,” you breathe. You’ve never been this wet, this worked up, this teased. You need to feel him, be full of him; he presses you flush against the door with a hand at the small of your back to keep it from aching too much, and drops forward as he pushes into you. Your noses brush and he goes deeper, air thick and muffled with little moans and whimpers.

His mouth is against your jaw, thrusting slowly to get you used to the size of him. The angle gets you dizzy, draws a burst of wetness out and gets you clenching around him. You’re flushed and sweaty, moaning. Feels s’good. So good, Charles, so, so good. He fucks harder, the door rattling, dirty talk cooed from his lips to your ear: Yeah? Feels real good? You’re so good for me, baby, come on.

Your needy voice, needier movements, are driving him crazy, getting him to fuck you harder, licking over his lips as he watches you fall apart on his dick. Relax, he slurs. You squeeze around him and moan, wretched and raw. Oh fuck, fuck, fuck. You’re so big. You’re getting his dick wetter and wetter with every thrust, shiny and drooling with cum.

Yeah? He says it so well, the best kind of reassurance. Come on, we don’t have time, baby. Let me feel you cum.

I know— you whine. I’m cumming—it feels too good—

You cum first, thighs shaky around him and lip curling into your teeth. You lean forward, mouth to his shoulder, and bite at the cotton. Fuck, he grunts, and releases then, a groan spilled into your hair. You watch, laughing breathlessly, and feel the world click into something different. 

You two will do anything, apparently, but talk this all through.

—

The gala is big and extravagant and you’re seated not with Charles this time, but with a roster of celebrities straight out of an LAX red-eye. Anna is at the table adjacent, andy you were able to talk to her about the experience, though not without leaving out bits with Charles in them.

You’re beside Florence and she’s talking about something, about a new movie she’s working on, and you chip in with jokes and laughs but your smile doesn’t really reach your eyes. You’re still caught in a web of fragile confusion. “I need to excuse myself for a moment,” you say after a while, after you’ve done nothing but smile and push broccoli puree around on your plate.

Consolation comes with isolation, at least tonight, at least right now. You find an empty balcony on the third floor, stare into the black sea. You try and try to remember what life was like three weeks ago, but it’s irrevocable now, the change that’s come since then. You tap the glass of your beer bottle against the marble banister, solid and probably expensive—a match for the rest of the hotel, you realize. It’s starkingly clean and smooth, and white, the kind of things you’d only say about a marble banister when you’re trying to avoid an adult introspection.

Behind you: “Are you okay?” 

In response, you say, “We shouldn’t have had sex.”

Charles settles himself into a spot near you, not totally beside but not too far—he, too, holds onto a bottle of beer. There are fancier drinks around, but somehow the dry taste of ale is all that brings you comfort right now. Your gears turn and, without prompt or question, you spill yourself forth.

“It was hard, when you didn’t… when we didn’t talk, and you didn’t ever tell me why, so I didn’t know anything. I keep remembering it, even now, what—ten years later, ha ha, even after… I don’t know, after the fact. We’re supposed to have moved on from shit that happened to us when we were fifteen but I’m finding it to be the hardest thing in the world. It was so… like, I had no trouble saying goodbye to anything else but you. And I’m famous now, my life is a whole thing, a—this whole party, and I’m supposed to… fuck.” You shut your eyes, and you can feel, through the thick fog of embarrassment and delirium, the tears that stain your cheeks. “It’s like. You know when you’re a teenager and you see all of it in movies and TV, this, like, moment where you’re staring at someone from across a room, and you’re smiling and talking to other people and you’re happy because you know in a few hours, you’ll be with that person anyway? At home, rearranging furniture, feeding the dog, eating leftovers? That… I always thought you’d be that person for me. Maybe because you were the only—you know—the only love I ever knew, and now, what. Four? Boyfriends and ten years later, you might expect me to feel differently—hell I expect myself to feel differently, but, unfortunately for you and me, I don’t. Sorry. I’m not—I’m not drunk, or anything.”

He stares at you, his expression soft and unreadable. It feels like it’s just the two of you in the world today, twenty-somethings, ten years later, unearthing all you left buried. “I…” he says, before pausing. “I’m sorry for leaving.”

You nod in response. 

“I always thought you would forgive me.” His face is sullen and handsome and your heart seizes. “I wanted to be your person.”

“How could I forgive you without an apology?” Your voice comes out fragile. “I leave in three days. You’ve fu—you’ve… you’ve kissed me, had sex with me, flirted with me. You’ve done everything but that.”

“I did apologize. I don’t think it was enough, but—”

“But you didn’t,” you reply, a jagged response. “You never said anything.”

“I wrote you.” His eyebrows knit. “I wrote you.” 

“You wrote me.” You repeat, deadpan. Your head spins with it. “What, a letter?”

“An e-mail. Before your first film came out—2014? A year after you… yeah.” He’s quiet and timid and nervous. “I forced Gi to tell me your address.”

“I didn’t… I wasn’t using that e-mail anymore. I haven’t in years.” You pinch your nose and let the silence settle like fine dust onto the room, an unspoken bomb that explodes over the both of you, raining regret and unsaid words. “I have to go.” You push yourself off the banister, turning already to the doors of the balcony. He stops you before you can step any further, a hand closed over your wrist, rough and warm.

“If you find the message,” he says, “will you read it?”

“I don’t plan to,” you lie. “Goodnight.”

—

From: Charles Perceval Leclerc <cmhpleclerc@gmail.com>

Date: 14 October 2014

To: You

Subject: Urgent!

hey buttercup, I asked Giada for this email address. my bday in 2 days. Will you be home for Xmas this year btw? ill show you some new places that open ed + we can bike around. mum misses u a lot too. parfois je souhaite que tu ne partes pas… not sometimes but always. i think i need to edit this a little let me try ag

From: Charles Perceval Leclerc <cmhpleclerc@gmail.com>

Date: 14 October 2014

To: You

Subject: Buttercup

j’appellerais mais je ne pense pas que tu veuilles répondre. it’s been more than a year since you moved out, in two days i’ll be celebrating my second birthday w/o you. i’ve been karting a lot, things are looking up, just like we always said they would :) just want to say i miss you a lot, and i hope you’re doing good. i would say i hate radio silence but i know it’s my fault all this happened in the first place. i’m sorry i stopped talking to you last year when you were moving away. i was being childish, but the truth is it was the only way i could handle it - by pretending we werent friends at all… i don’t want to make you pity me or anything (ne pense pas que je suis) but yeah you’re my best friend and you always will be. i’m sorry for being a knot head.

i was always scared to tell you but it’s been there since forever: i love you. i should’ve enjoyed your months here instead of leaving you in the air. i know i ignored you but it’s the 1 thing i regret. should’ve done a lot more, i know.. but i didn’t. we have a lot of promises i broke because i was being selfish. i kept the paper ring to remind me. remember that? we had a “playground wedding” when we were 5/6?

tu ne me dois rien - i just want you to give me a chance to make you happy, even if it’s just in the way we’ve always been (as friends). if you write me back i’ll try and fly there. mum is always asking me if we’ve talked yet. if not, that’s ok. i love you all the same and i will love you as you reach your dreams. this will never change. 

charles

p.s: est-ce que je te manque?

p.p.s: call me if you can and wish me a happy birthday?

—

“Rachel, I would sooner die than wait another two hours for the tarmac to clear again.” You try to up the firmness in your voice but it fails, only serving to make you sound less angry and more agitated. When all you get in response is a muffled I’m coming! you grumble and hang up the phone. Your plane was delayed all of three times, and the instant it arrives and is scheduled to take off on time, your friendsistant is nowhere to be found.

Lily and Carmen had thrown you a goodbye party the night prior, with sprinklers and music and cocktails, and promised to be on the next flight to L.A. Vogue and David had emailed you for a job done spectacularly, and to watch out for the videos and interviews’ release dates. Twitter is raving about your movie. Everything should be good, and yet, it’s not.

You check your inbox. IM COMJNG LILTIERALLY IM RUNNING THRU AJRPPRT!!!!!! You scoff again, hoping the plane doesn’t somehow take off for the fourth time, and take a seat on the VIP waiting area sofa again, shaking your now-empty chai latte. The room, sectioned off from economy and business, is fairly full.

A woman paces over to you, a bright grin on her face. “Hi. I’m a huge fan.”

“Thank you,” you smile, despite your tiredness.

“This is so embarrassing—but do you happen to have the time?”

“Sure”—you tap your phone open—“half past four.”

“Great,” she says. “Thanks, Buttercup.”

You’re opening your mouth to say you’re welcome, but it catches like cotton in your throat. You watch her depart like nothing happened, a strange feeling settling in your chest. You have barely any time to answer it, because a flight attendant is tapping you on the shoulder, addressing you by name, thankfully. She maintains a tone of professionalism all throughout her announcement that the aircraft under your name will have to evacuate the runway in ten minutes or less.

“I know, I know—I’m just, um. I’m waiting for somebody. She should be near now, though.”

“Tremendous. Merci, Buttercup.”

“Wh—” You stutter, blinking and watching her leave. “What?”

She doesn’t turn, walking to the kiosk to exchange information with her coworkers. You look around the airport, for a camera hidden somewhere maybe. Perhaps you’ve been unknowingly listed in some Impractical Jokers skit.

Rach hurry you text instead, leaning back and hoping you’re in some grandiose delusion. Your phone dings. Omw promise! It reads. Then: Look up buttercup

Your head snaps upward faster than you can register what you’ve just read, matching the opening notes of a song you’ve grown all too familiar with in your lifetime. The opening beat to Build Me Up, Buttercup flows like honey through the room’s intercom and floods it with life.

Mouth agape, you watch as the staff and guests perform the routine you’d learned at fourteen, complete with hops and turns you were too embarrassed to do even then. They’re smiling and whooping themselves and each other as they go, finishing the entire first verse before turning collectively to the entrance of the room. There, in all his glory: Charles, wearing an entirely too-small headdress that reads Buttercup, worn dusty from years of being stored away.

He’s dancing, too, closer to you. You refuse to budge for the express purpose that he dance some more, which he complies with, though not without an eyeroll and an exasperated sigh. Your heart beats with something irregular and warm. You’d told him about this before. He’d listened.

The music settles for a little and the dancers do, too, so he takes the time to raise his sign. Will you forgive me? It reads. No pressure. Except kind of. You laugh, throwing your head back at the gesture, at this entire affair that must have taken some amount of effort to prepare. As the lyric comes on, so does his sign: I need you… more than anyone, darling.

He drops the sign when you approach him, arms crossed over your torso. He removed the headdress and places it gingerly on yours. “I believe that belongs to you.”

And, hyperaware of all the eyes and yet the complete lack of cameras—you’re grateful for it—you finally, finally, finally pull him in for a kiss. You’ve kissed before, done your worst, but still means volumes to the both of you.

In-between kisses and cheers (from voices belonging to Lorenzo, Rachel, Lily—so many familiar ones), he says it again: “I’m sorry. I’ll make it all up to you.”

“You better,” you tease into his lips, smiling. “I know. I love you.” Ten years later—your person still is, and no doubt will always be, Charles Leclerc.

[icomeandg0]

For ‘More than One’ maybe you could detail the relationships between each Link and their y/n or how they met!

Hi Anon!

I'd love to explain and details each Link and Y/n for ya!

I'm addressing each of them as ' Link ' instead of their LU names and that goes for the same as the Y/n's. Also oopies on Times one but it was more of Y/n lore than a detail of their relationship.

Content under cut

Time/OOT Link.

I think this was predictable but you and Link (For majority of the Links and Y/n's) started off as childhood best friends. They met each other while Y/n and Malon were near the fountain at castle town while waiting for Talon.

I think the trope suited for them would be childhood sweethearts/you fell first and he fell harder.

You two met at castle town when you were both young, When Link was going to meet with Zelda for the first time.

I like to think a lot about each of the Links and Y/n's relationships because I want them all to have very different stories to each other.

ALSO! YES YOU TWO ARE MARRIED AND HAVE...Want part two? Hit that follow button (JK, But I won't go into too much detail, yet.)

Oh before I forget, I think it's a relevant fact to mention that Y/n was adopted by Talon so Malon and Y/n are half sisters?

I like dramatic backgrounds and relationships so, You know how on ice age, the first movie where they look after that baby? Yeah so.

Y/n's mother was running away with her in her arms, she was supposidly meant to go to the Deku tree to be looked after but Y/n's mother was too tired as she drifted down the Zora's river.

Talon was delivering as per usual when he saw a woman floating down the stream so he quickly dropped everything and hurried over to the edge and grab onto her arm. Y/n's mother couldn't open her eyes. Too tired to do so, she only pushed the baby into Talons arms which he was alarmed but once he saw your h/c tufts of hair and such a peaceful resting face he couldn't help but have the need to protect you...However he knew better than to take you but when he looked back. Your mother wasn't there.

"I think daddy fell asleep again." Malon comments as the two of you sat on the edge of the fountain in the middle of town. "Definitely" You agreed, "He always does this, I would march up to the castle and find him myself if it weren't for those annoying knights." "Yeah, if only there was someone that could sneak past them all and get Talon"

Just saying that, you watch as a kid in green, around your age ran past...and tripped over a tile. The fairy flew around him 'Hurry Link! We need to get to the castle quickly!' The fairy called out, the boy looked around to make sure no one had seen that but when he looked back he was met with yours and Malons eyes glued on him. It was clear he grew flustered so he quickly stood up and ran off in the direction to the castle.

"Maybe he can!" Malon points at the boy running, "Yeah, Let's catch up to him!"

Warrior/HW Link.

Link and Y/n in this era are a fun duo in my mind, I did think about a soft reader with this Link because I thought it would be funny that a womanizer would fall in love with someone soft hearted and made him want to forget every woman he's ever been with. A quote that would've fit this would be 'I can fix him'

The mischaracterisation for Link hurts me, I don't know what I was thinking honestly.

ANYWAYS! I liked the idea of someone bossing Link around, Do I feel bad? No.

Also I think Link doesn't like sorceresses that much (Because of Cia) so I made Y/n into a witch. Yes sorceresses and Witches are practically the same.

Y/n in this era is self centered, confident, bold—Someone that acts all high and mighty really.

"Move out of my way, Rookie."

"You expect respect? Hah! You have to earn it, especially from me."

"You have to improve your sword skill before I can treat you as an equal. Trust me, You're far from achieving so."

She made him want to pull all his hair out.

Their relationship is a slowburn / Enemies to lovers.

Don't worry, they get better and maybe I'll do a full explanation on their story if anyones interested to also explain on why Warriors was so in shock when he had found her again (Hinting to my last chapter of more of us series)

Fun fact! This Y/n wore high heeled boots during the war…refused to wear any other type of shoes. Still wears them to this day.

"Link, I would like to introduce you to your new ally and commander" Impa says calmly as she led him through the hallways of the castle, "She's a witch but trust me, she's a brave and responsible type" Impa informed.

"That's good to know" Link sighs in relief, he's over dealing with witches and sorceresses but if this witch is just as Impa describes, He can handle it. Impa opens the door to the courtyard to be met with a woman around his age standing in the middle of the field, The woman was sharp and looked back to see the pair.

"Y/n, meet Link. He's the chosen hero of Hyrule." With this, Link bowed his head towards the woman who had only scoffed, "So he's a rookie with a title? I don't get what makes him so special from the rest." Link growled and took a step forward but Impa held him back, "No fighting. You'll look after him during the times on the battlefield whether it be for aiding him or healing." "Tch, I don't remember agreeing to those rules-" "Y/n." "Fine."

Impa looked over Link, "Good luck, she's a hard one to impress. She'll keep you on your toes" Link only sighed. "Lucky me."

Twilight/TP Link

I'm still deciding on a good plot for the two because as you all probably guessed, the two are the ones that can transform.

Puppy love is how I would describe them.

Started off as childhood best friends or sweethearts. To the village it was as if you two were already destined to be. You two were attached to the waist even!

I was thinking that a week from Link officially starting his journey, Y/n had gone missing so he went out and originally was going to try and find her but he got caught up in other stuff.

However, there was a dragon following him during his journey so in his eyes he had two companions being the dragon and Midna.

I Think you all know who the dragon is at this point.

Not much to describe them about, a sappy couple? Like those overly cringey lover types? lol.

I also like to think that Y/n Is more of a city gal despite being brought up in the country sideeee.

Link obviously hitting you up with his southern accent trying to make you fall to his feet but as soon as you start talking like a proper city gal he's on his knees- Scratch that, turned into Wolfie.

Post game Y/n, I like to think she started a daycare or a school for the kids because they don't learn much intelligently but are more hands on. I like to head canon that this Y/n is one of the smartest in the village BUT! She isn't the smartest Y/n.

Meeting this Link was love at first sight...At the age of 6.

One fine day in Ordon Village you were helping about with a few little task such as carrying light things from one place to another when you heard a familiar voice call out.

“Y/n! Meet the new boy in the village! Link” Ilia introduced you to the boy around your age, he smiled sheepishly and you just analysed his every detail.

“Hi Link, It’s nice to meet you” you say softly as you smile back at him, he tilts his head “Hi…Uh, You’re very pretty.” Ilia’s eyes widened as she heard the bold words of the boy behind her, you were just as equally shocked but you only giggled.

“Thank you, Link” you twirl a strand of hair with your index finger. You almost dropped what you were carrying and you were quick to wrap your hand back around the item.

“Well, I've got to drop this off. I’ll see you soon?” You say with a soft smile before turning away and walking off. Link had a stupid grin plastered on his face which earned a sigh from Ilia.

Wild/BOTW Link

The chaotic duo.

Friends to lovers (Strangers to friends to lovers in TOTK-)

Now, these two give the group the biggest headache it's unbelievable.

It's not even Link sometimes!

Y/n in this universe is just overly chaotic and Link is there for it because in some sense he honestly can't talk, on some days he's just as bad.

First encounter? Woke up half naked to one another and Y/n continued with some awkward conversation after that so Link accepted his fate that this was his idiot.

Both Link and Y/n are the life of the party, but Y/n is more extrovert while Link is more of both but it honestly depends if we're talking about LINK or WILD.

Wild is both

Link is an introvert

"So, what’s your name?” Y/n had asked as she grabbed a baked apple from the campfire nearby. Waking up next to one another naked was not how you two wanted to meet but you brushed past it and tried to become acquainted with him instead.

After a few seconds of silence she spoke up again, “Well, not much of a talker huh? I’ll go first, My names Y/n” you say, snapping the apple in half you hold one side out to him.

“If you don’t have a name, I’ll give you one. Nice to meet you, Bob” you grin, you watch his every move and soon he reaches out and grabs the other half of the apple, “Link, it’s Link.” “Well, Bobs a nice name too” that earned a faint chuckle from the boy.

Four/FS Link

Now.

Y/n in this era is a pain in the ass.

as noted in my 'More than one'

She's stubborn, feisty, sharp tongued, short tempered, strong headed but she is reasonably logical and is the smartest one out of the Y/n's.

One more thing to add about her is that she can't fight effectively, she can throw punches at people but to monsters? She rather not. She helps with strategising with Time and Warriors until she ends up in a small argument with either one when discussing plans.

Anyways! Four is our darling, calm and collected but won't hesitate to put you in your place, a perfect someone for our dear Y/n!

Four can tolerate her behaviour more than anyone else because they are childhood best friends, Of course there will be times where Four has to be stern with Y/n but that's only to make sure she doesn't get overwhelmed with anger.

Despite all her negative comments she may say about him she doesn't mean it half the time because deep down she's touched at how he still sticks by her side.

Y/n also likes to make things, like an inventor or fix things. Four makes and Y/n fixes.

Yes she knows the colours and finds them 'annoying' too.

Blue? Loves riling him up and arguing with him

Red? Likes to tease him until he's almost crying.

Green? Likes to point out every mistake he makes which always puts him off

Vio? Can relate to him and genuinely has a sorta connection with him but can end up arguing but Vio would win because his calm and collected self pisses her off because it's like her words aren't effecting him.

Relationship trope? I would say Sunshine x grump.

At the age of 5, you were in your little dress and your mother had just finished doing your hair, You were hiding behind your mother as she greets the new neighbour who was a old grandpa smith.

"Y/n? Go say hi to the nice man's grandson" Your mother encouraged. You looked up at her with a pleading look but she gave you a look that said 'You better go now or else you'll experience the pain when we get home.' You gulp and shuffle towards the little boy.

The boy grins, you could see a gap in his teeth which made you grimace, "I'm Link! Nice to meet you!" Link held his hand, You gently took his hand. "I'm Y/n"

"Awe! They're already getting along!" "R-really? They just introduced themselves-" "Would you like coffee?" "O-Oh yes that would be lovely"

Once the adults were out of sight you scowl, yanking your hand away from him "I don't want to be your friend, If anything keep 10 feet away from me" You point at him which made him blink in surprise but he grins again. "Cool! Let's play!" He completely ignored your words and grabs your hand again and drags you over to a grass patch.

"W-Wait! Gosh dang it!"

(She hasn’t acquired the ability to swear just yet.)

Sky/SS Link

Ah.

I Love this Link a lot.

Which is why I want to give him the most complicated relationship with his Y/n.

Relationship trope? She loved him too early, He loved her too late + SLOWBURNNNN

It's painful, I know.

Y/n in this era is known for her shy exterior, she was easily brushed off since it was as if she was never there. Of course she was in a trio with Link and Zelda but it felt as if she was third wheeling and she was sure Link had a crush on Zelda so Y/n never brought up the fact she had a crush on him. Had a crush on the boy for a few years now.

CHILDHOOD BEST FRIENDS AGAIN!

He began to develop feelings when they were on the adventure to get Zelda back, It was the first time he's seen Y/n so...out there and he can finally acknowledge her as she truly was.

But as his feelings grew, her feelings lessened

He did have a love rival, Ghirahim.

After their adventure with each other he was going to confess his feelings but when Y/n could see the fond look on his face she didn't want to know what would've happened next so she didn't allow him to finish but instead told him she was going to leave and adventure the surface again.

Link was heartbroken, he was a sappy lover type...He wanted to be yours.

He offered to come along but you refused saying you didn't need him and that he should be with Zelda again.

That's when he realises.

"Are you new here?" Link asked you curiously, the young boy, probably just turned 5? You were 4 at the time and the boy smiled "I've never seen you around before!" You only sniffled "I've been here since I was little" "W-wait, really? I'm sorry I haven't noticed you earlier."

"Why's that?" You asked softly, still haven't made eye contact with him yet. "Because we could've been friends a lot faster!" Your head snaps towards him after hearing his words. "So, Should we be friends?" He smiles. It takes a bit of encouragement, you were hesitant at first but you gave a small nod.

"Yeah, Okay..."

Wind/WW Link

Obvious disclaimer this will just reach as far as a crush as the two are underage and I find young relationships (Below 15) Silly/Stupid.

Ironic enough, You didn't meet Link but rather introduced to him after he was allowed on Tetra's ship.

You weren't friends with Link...No. You were best buddies with Tetra!

Y/n is a mermaid, I think it's fitting because there aren't any Zora in this era and it's pirates. Pirates need mermaids to cause chaos duh.

Well ironically enough, You're the princess of the sea so when you heard of Tetra and her crew you were intrigued so when you were having free time from your princess duties you somewhat came across their ship.

They caught you at first and were going to sell you but you convinced them not to and somehow you're a part of the team as a not official- official team member.

Back to you and Link, You had ventured with him at times because unlike Tetra, You could swim beside Link and aid him along the way.

"SHE SPLASHED ME!" Link cried out as he wiped the water off his face to the best of his abilities, "Oh Boho~ Get used to it" You taunted as you stick your tongue out at him.

"You're going to let her talk to me like that?!" Link looked towards Tetra who had only shrugged. "Oh grow a pair. She's harmless" Link looks back at you as you grin up at him, showing off your sharp teeth. "Harmless my ass.."

Legend/LTTP Link

Now.

Link hasn't met his Y/n in this era yet so I can't really comment on anything.

However, Y/n already knew Link before meeting him in the 'More than one' series.

Not because of the tales told about him or his adventures but she's talked to him a few times but just not in her own skin.

Sound confusing?

It is.

Anyways, This Y/n has the most tragic backstory out of them all which made her emotionally reserved but in a way she's not depressed or anything like that, she's content. (Despite everything she’s been through)

That's a story for another time.

Link doesn't particularly like his Y/n at first because of how at ease she is when the situation is serious so he thinks she's just messing around so something stupid might happen.

Relationship trope? A bit of sunshine x grump? Not really but slowburn.

Hyrule/LOZ Link

Another Link who hasn't met their Y/n

Now I think these two resemble puppy love.

His Y/n has bimbo vibes

She doesn't dress like one I swear, plus the others forbid.

She's pretty and dumb.

He's pretty (In your eyes) and dumb.

Y/n doesn't think too much about her actions nor about the consequences which led her to getting hurt many times but with Link by her side there's another healer to take care of her.

(HW Y/n was impressed and upgraded him to her apprentice...Warriors wasn't happy that Hyrule immediately on HW Y/n's good side)

Their relationship is love at first sight? Morley Y/n since she is quite open with her opinions, Know not to tell him until time is right.

Gossips with BOTWY/n the most about it which always results in Y/n to get teased.

His Y/n is overly excited, golden retriever vibes, extreme extrovert.

Link is the complete opposite.

(In my eyes at least)

Opposites attract.

Also!

If anyone's wondering the Y/n's do hold a triforce in position...or should I say Tetra-force?

I like to think that some of the Links have love rivals just to spice things up.

I didn't add a little story for Hyrule or Legend because of course, they only met their Y/n in the more than one series. Also guilty because I did not edit this.

[crazycookies73307]

It's amazing just how much you're willing to do for someone when you like them.

In the romantic sense, I mean.

When you platonically like someone you'd do anything for them, as long as you're able to handle it.

When you romantically like someone, though? That's a whole different level we're talking about.

When you romantically like someone, you'd do anything for them, even if it's sometimes beyond your capabilities.

You might be drowning in your own sorrows, but their suffering always feels like a greater loss. So much so that you feel as though you'd bear their pains on top of your own, just so that they wouldn't have to.

You might find yourself terribly busy, but you always manage to make time for them. You might not know anything related to their interests, so despite being behind on just about everything else, you still somehow manage to learn about them.

Granted, all this is applicable to platonic love as well, but somehow, you felt that romantic love had a certain magical feel to it.

Maybe it was the influence of too many Disney movies, but who cares.

But in the same way, it was also amazing just how much you're not willing to do for someone who you don't like.

Again, in the romantic sense.

See, this is what you meant about the difference between platonic and romantic love. As far as life has worked out for you, when you romantically like someone, you'd find a way to give them the moon and when you just platonically like someone, you'd barely be willing to give them a polished pebble.

Or maybe, you just have shitty friends.

Correction, shitty friend.

You'd do anything for him, even it meant your own doom, but God forbid if the same applied to you.

Their messages were read as soon as they were delivered. Yours was left on delivered for a while.

They ask him for a favour, he'd do it. Granted, it would take a bit of convincing. But for you? Yeah, dream on.

Situations arose where you'd be partnered together. And more than half the time, you know he'd rather be paired with someone else. A certain someone else.

Unless your help was necessary, that is.

Somehow, you had the solutions for everyone's problems.

The advisor, the helper, the mother, the tutor, the therapist, the mentor.

It also sucked that you were an enigma for the rest. You somehow managed to stay on the top of your game despite taking on more and more.

But few knew of your disastrous tendency to procrastinate. Pair it with your perfectionistic attitude and it was a recipe for a disaster, the result being an extremely stressed, sleep deprived and caffeine high you.

You still pushed through, though.

Out of sheer spite and willpower, but still.

The fact was, that you were a busy person. And it's a universal truth that busy people are always stressed.

When you were a busy person with a stupid crush on a guy you know you've got zero chance with, it made your stress ten times worse.

It was as though the universe was against you.

The perfect guy, one who actually wasn't your type, but ended up redefining your idea of your ideal type to fit himself in.

The one guy who you knew, was not necessarily a bad match for you, personality wise anyways. Lord knows if there's anything else lurking beneath.

The one guy who managed to make your tough attitude melt into absolute nothing.

The one guy who managed to make you, who dreamt of lazy rainy evenings and warm tea , end up dreaming about the mushy stuff. Stuff you wouldn't normally dream about, not with a clear cut idea anyway, like your dates, hugs, talks, and even your marriage.

Especially your marriage.

The one guy who managed to break down a lot of your walls, the one guy you felt safe with, the one guy you knew you could trust openly, and you couldn't have him.

For reasons out of your control, you just weren't what he was looking for.

You were good enough to help him.

You were good enough to listen to his troubles.

You were good enough to be used as an excuse for when crap went sideways, because after all, you were trusted.

You were kind, after all. His words, not yours.

It's kind of embarassing, just how much you were willing to do for his sake, and just how little you expected him to do for you.

What you wanted were your thoughts, emotions and actions returned. What you received, was an entirely different matter.

He cared about her,worried about her, and for better or for worse, cried for her. To the extent that you sometimes wished you could stab yourself rather than to witness the scenes unfold.

If he was so capable of such emotions, so capable of freely expressing them, then why was it that he never even gave an ounce of it your way?

Were you worthy of the bare minimum effort? The bare minimum care?

Were you worth so little?

Was that it?

Was that why you were always, always one of the lowest of his priorities?

Maybe it was a you problem, maybe it had nothing to do with him.

But was it really?

Was it really your fault that he chose her over you, every single time?

Was it really your fault, when he made the choice to prioritise her needs over his own, and then come crying to you?

Was it really your fault, when he decided to play a dangerous game of chase with her, willingly allowing you to be the first hand witness to their game?

Was it really your fault, when despite you being there to help him out of his messes, especially regarding hers, he still went running to her for comfort?

They created the messes that you had to clean up.

They were the ones who made bad life choices and come running to you for advice.

They were the ones who were involved in the god forsaken game of cat and mouse, somehow dragging you into the middle of the mess.

They were the ones who forced you into a corner sometimes, with you being needed to cover for them, in the face of a lot of people.

They were the ones who had to be careful in their so-called games, but you were the one forced to enforce the said caution.

In their point of view, you were the villain in their story.

Always poking around, ruining a part of their fun.

But they also know that they were the ones who forced you into the role. That someone was needed to possess the common sense that they lacked. Of course, whether they listened to the said common sense was another matter entirely.

Granted, sometimes you enjoyed putting them in their places a bit too much.

Despite his devil may care attitude when it came to anyone other than her, you knew that he did care for you. You knew that he did consider you to be a friend. After all, you did spend a lot of time together for you to just be named an acquaintance.

It was just that his efforts towards you paled in comparison to those directed towards her.

It also didn't help that he trusted you enough that he knew you'd not betray him, or his feelings that even he himself was kind of oblivious about. It was obvious to you both that he had certain questionable feelings, definitely not of the platonic type, towards her but you knew him well enough to know he'd rather ignore them for the sake of his sanity. At the cost of your own, you admit.

You were the one he cried to about things related to her, you were the one who knew that he was actually completely whipped for her. Not that he was good at hiding it, just about everyone could see it. It was just that you were the only one who was aware of the extent of it.

Sometimes you were sick of playing the adult. Sometimes you wanted to shake him out of this stupid mess he called his feelings. Sometimes you wanted to scream at him, of how you wanted out.

Out of everything that you never wanted to get yourself into.

Sometimes, you wanted him to just get over himself and confess, after all, atleast then you didn't have to see him pine around for someone else.

The rest of the time you were content about being there for him, regardless of the toll it took on your emotions.

Something is better than nothing, right?

And while you were torturing yourself with their roundabout pining, you'd rather be the first to find out if they ever decided to commit. At least you could get the time to prepare your poor, poor heart for when you'd have to break the reality to it.

The same heart, that despite the torturous wait, still hoped that he'd look your way. That he'd find that what he was looking for all this while, was actually right next to him.

That your efforts would be rewarded.

They had to be, right?

No deity was cruel enough to let all those efforts, those feelings, those thoughts, those tears, be for nothing, right?

Your mind said otherwise, but your foolish heart stubbornly kept on believing.

You knew, heartbreak was the only outcome of this stupid situation that you'd gotten yourself into.

You just hoped that when the time came, they would be kind enough to break it cleanly into two, rather than shatter it completely into tiny pieces.

At least it would be easier to put it back together.

Hopefully, anyways.

[b4mpyre-k1zz3s]

can you do one where reader is Dunn’s girlfriend amd they are at a party with the crew celebrating the movie or something. Dunn is super touchy the whole night and they end up in the bathroom for a quickie 🙈 if you don’t write suggestive content they can just sneak to the bathroom to have a makeout session

Sneaking (Getting) Off

Jackass: Number Two has just finished filming, and what better way to celebrate than renting out the hottest bar in LA and hosting a kickass wrap party? Well, your boyfriend could think of a few better ways…

Ryan Dunn X Fem!Reader

(Fluff)

1.3k Words

Warnings: Highly suggestive content, drinking, crude language, injury, implied sex, bathroom sex

An: Thank you so much for the request! If I’m being entirely honest, the way I depicted Ryan and Y/N’s relationship in this fics is pretty similar to how I would like my future relationships to look XD I’ve always thought that Dunn would, for lack of a better word, be the kind of person you could spend a lot of time arround. Anyways, thank you for the request, and please keep sending them!!

Typically, when Ryan and you were together, things could not be more chill. In essence, your relationship could be described as friends who shared the same bed; It wasn’t like a friends with benefits situation, you just weren't constantly on each other and overly affectionate like most couples are, and that low maintenance thing cut through the shit parts of dating. Now, note I specified ‘typically’, because once in a while- for a reason you couldn’t place- Dunn would get this weird bug up his ass and just couldn’t keep his hands off of you, like a male version of baby fever. This isn’t to say you didn’t enjoy it because you enjoyed it a great deal, thank you very much- but it wasn’t always the most convenient thing. Take, for example, tonight.

You arrived fashionably late, as you did to any event you attended. It was hot and muggy, as were most nights in LA, and the moment you stepped into the bar, you were greeted by Bam (one of Dunn’s dumb little buddies), who was visibly a few deep and had a fistful of darts in one hand and a beer in another, “Heyy, Ry! Me an’ the guys’re throwin’ darts at Steve-O’s ass- you gotta come check it out!” Politely palming the beer that was thrust in his direction, Ryan shook him off in the nicest way possible, “Yeah, that sounds cool! But I’ll, uh-“ From behind his shades, he shot a glance down at where he had you on his arm before turning back to Bam, ”I’ll catch up with you later. See ya, man.” Not dejected in the slightest, he just went back to doing whatever dumb shit he was occupied with before you showed up and you and Dunn went to grab a drink.

With how Ryan was stuck to your side like some needy dog that was begging for attention, you would’ve thought one of his dumb little buddies got into the superglue, but it’s not like you minded. You sat at the bar and chatted about the torture he had to endure for this movie, including him showing off some pretty questionable scars. There was something so enthralling about hearing him speak, and the way he looked at you as if you were the only girl in the room helped given the grisly subject matter. “This one’s from that stupid cacti jump stunt, and these-“ Dunn sat up from where he was leaning against the bar top and tugged up the bottom of his shirt, exposing the little red half moon scars that littered the pale skin of his stomach, “These’re from the riot control test. God, that one sucked so bad.” You winced in empathy, inhaling through your teeth. Taking a sip of your drink, you quickly shook it off and shifted the topic to something that had been on your mind for a while now, “Y’know, you can go hang out with your friends if you want. I mean, it’s your party after all.” There wasn’t a trace of sarcasm in your words. Dunn just shrugged, cracking an amused smile as if you suggested something totally ridiculous, “Nah- I’m alright with you.”

It got to the point that you had to practically drag him to where the guys were clustered around a pool table and actively force him to hang out with his friends, but still, your efforts were ineffective. See, your boyfriend can be pretty quiet when it comes to wanting attention. To illustrate this, let’s compare him to Bam. If Bam wanted attention from his girlfriend, he would likely do some ridiculous stunt and end up hurting himself to force her to patch him up or slide up next to her if she was talking to another guy and get real handsy to make a big show of the fact that she was his. Ryan, on the other hand, didn’t look at you like that. In general, he was more subtle. Take for example, the way that he had been eyeing you from across the room even while he was off with his friends. Their stories about sleeping with strippers and getting their stomachs pumped went in one ear and out the other because he was so totally focused on you that night. And you were perceptive to this stuff because you knew Ryan. You knew all of his tells.

After maybe thirty minutes of drinking alone, you picked up on his voice from across the room, “Yeah- I'm gonna go get another drink. I’ll be right back!” You didn’t even need to look over to the previously empty stool at your side to know who sat down next to you. “What do you want?” Raising an eyebrow at your sarcasm, Dunn slipped a hand on your thigh, making you feel even warmer under the incandescent lights that hung above your heads, “You look hot.” Taking a swig of your drink, you turned so that you were face to face and dropped your voice down so as not to be heard over the chatter of the bar, “You’ve been starin’ at me all night like some lost puppy, and that’s the best pick up line you could come up with?” Your boyfriend chuckled, leaning in towards you so there was about an inch of room between your bodies. His hushed words were tinged with this conspiritory tone as he murmured, almost directly in your ear, “I think you know what I want.”

If there was one thing Ryan loved about you, it was how you could keep up with him. It was like some sexy Abott and Costello routine the two of you had- this ceaseless back and forth until one of you caved. Running your hand across the sticky, wooden countertop, you cooed your words slow and heavy with implication, “Right here? Right here on the bar?” Out of the corner of your eye, you could see some of the guys eyeing what was happening at the bar, which only served to fuel your teasing further, “Or what about the pool table over there? With all your friends watching us…” Despite the whole exhebitionism thing and the latent sexual appeal of green felt, Ryan had other plans in mind. Standing up, he cleared his throat before patting you on the back and scanning the room for something, “Nah- you’re a lady with class. I gotta better place.”

What a gentleman your boyfriend is, taking his woman of refinement off to the bathroom to screw. Hell, you couldn’t even say that, because you didn’t even make it into the stall before you were on each other. Yep, he caved all right. Hands on bodies, mouths on bodies- in this hormone fueled haze, it was hard to tell who began where as Dunn had you pressed against the cold tiled wall. The astringent scent of disinfectant mingled with cheap booze and desire as you practically tripped over each other’s feet. Ryan had you by the waist and your hands fisted into the fabric of his shirt and you practically tumbled into the nearest stall, clumsily locking it behind you. It was frantic and passionate- and fuck, it was hot.

Outside the ladies room, however, things were not nearly as sexy. Yep, the guys were still standing around, idly chatting and getting trashed with the occasional prank sprinkled on- think pissing on someone’s leg or sneaking up behind them with a pair of electric clippers. So consumed in their benign antics, it was half an hour before anyone noticed you were gone. It was Bam, funnily enough, who brought this to everyone’s attention. “Hey, has anyone seen Dunn?” Almost as if on cue, there you come totally not suspiciously stumbling out of the bathroom, adjusting your hair and buttoning up your top with Ryan right behind you. Yep, everyone knew. And the worst part was, you didn’t really care.

[elsweetheart]

bsf!hazel being jealous when you’re getting ready for a date and tries to get you to stay home 🤧

omg the tension wait

“so like, who is this girl anyway… do i know her?” hazel shrugs what she thinks is casually as she rests on her elbow on your bed, laid on her side watching you do your makeup through the light up mirror of your dresser.

“i met her on hinge, remember? we’ve been talking and she seems actually not half bad, which is rare for a dating app.” you concentrate on tapping the liquid highlight into the bouncy skin over your cheekbone, not noticing the way she’s staring at you desperately through the reflection.

“hinge? so you’ve never met her? what if she’s like… an axe murderer or something. you know i heard this crazy story about this girl who went on a hinge date and ended up in a suitcase and i’m just—” she starts but you cut her off with a chuckle.

“let me guess, that story involved a man. how often do you hear about women doing that kinda thing? gay women, even?” you spin in your chair, throwing her an amused smile with your head tilted to the side slightly. she didn’t respond, and not because she didn’t have anything to say— ‘cause she totally did, but because you looked like an angel in that moment, mirror lights illuminating you, high points of your face glowing under the low light. she should be the one taking you out.

you speak again before she gets the chance. “whats the issue anyway? its like you don’t want me to go.” you complain, voice quieter as you concentrate on lining your bottom lip, speech a little slurred as you keep your mouth fairly stationary as to not mess up.

“i just… i just think it’s a bad idea. anyway you were supposed to hang out with me tonight.” she sulks, sitting up just to slump her shoulders dejectedly, feet hanging off the bed and hands dangling between her knees. your posture softens, standing up and coming to sit next to her on the bed, wrapping your arm around her, resting your temple on her shoulder.

“i’m sorry, haze. y’know it’s not like that. i won’t be all night, i’ll come right back to you afterwards and we can watch movies.” you lift your head, grinning in a way you hope convinces her. she turns her face to you, sad, and whole body drooping like a basset-hound.

“or just don’t go” she sighs softly. you stare at her, swallowing a lump in your throat, something stirring in your stomach. surely… not?

“why not, haze?” you whisper, looking at her through your thick, mascara’d lashes.

“hinge girl doesn’t love you.” she returns your tone. you laugh openly, shaking your head.

“no shit, dingus — i haven’t met her yet. but she could fall in love with me, eventually, i mean it’s not totally impossible.” your smile is still cemented on your face and hazel hasn’t smiled once.

“she will.” her voice is quiet but firm, 100% factual. “shes gonna totally fall in love with you. maybe even on the first date.” god, the eye contact is intense. you can’t bring yourself to look away. your eyes flutter for a moment, trying to comprehend what she’s getting at.

“well…” you’re at a loss. “so what if she does?”

hazel just stares at you, before turning her face away to stare ahead. she’s met with her own reflection in your light up mirror, watching the sight of you sat right up next to her on the bed, staring at her. this is how it should be. she side-glances at you, eyes naturally dropping to your mouth, and then your outfit, and then back to your eyes, her head tilted back a little. she looked really good.

“‘kay, i won’t go.” you shake your head, suddenly filled with the desire to… please her? you wanted to be on her good side. hazel was good to you and… you suddenly… you just weren’t feeling this date anymore. her expression doesn’t change except her brows raising, head still tilted back a little.

“really?” she asks, like she didn’t think her words would actually move you.

“…i… yeah. i don’t know. maybe you’re right. maybe she’s gonna kill me, or something.” you chuckle nervously, feeling fizzles in your tummy and you wasn’t sure why. anxious? not really. nervous? a little. was it hazel?

“yeah.” she continues staring at you, and you feel hot under her gaze. what had gotten into her?

“stop.” you laugh shakily, half focused on sending your date a shitty little excuse via imessage. hazels brows furrow a little.

“stop what?”

“looking at me like that. you got your way.” you pout, throwing your phone to the side.

“sorry.” she exhales, looking away from a moment before her eyes shift back to you suddenly with a smirk. “you totally dropped your date for me.”

“you told me to.” you huff, turning your body to face her more on the bed.

“and you did it… dude i have power over you, that’s crazy.” she chuckles and you stare at her dumbfounded.

“of course you do you’re…” you cut yourself off and she raises her eyebrows.

“wait, i’m what?” she asks, her usual curious self.

“you’re… you. i’d drop anything for you.” you shrug honestly, looking at your hands before back up at her. she stares at you, jaw a little gaped.

“well… yeah… same goes for you…” she stares at your mouth shamelessly. “or whatever.”

[kabuki-draws]

I watched Ridley Scott's NAPOLEON yesterday and it was a complete Waterloo.

Yes, I am a big history nerd with a giant heart for movie adaptation of historical topics. But when I watched NAPOLEON I sat there... and tried not to laugh. It was not only so historical inaccurate, that I wanted to cry, at the same time it was filled with cringe dialogues, red flags and terrible color grading. This whole movie made me so sad yet so angry, that I HAVE to write this review:

(Disclaimer: This review is based on my own opinion. If you enjoyed the movie, it's completely fine. Btw. in that case or if you agree with me, feel free to tell me your opinion. I would love to know!)

First of all: Don't get me wrong, the medium film has its own rules and you can't put as much historical accuracy into a big scale movie as you would into a documentary - sometimes the story needs to be altered to be a good movie. And that is fine. Even if Gladiator is a complete fictional story set in the Roman Empire, I can still enjoy this movie for what it is: A good-written story with great characters, a beautiful score and iconic scenes. With Kingdom of Heaven it's kind of the same - and while the movie cut was very inconsistent, I still kind of liked it. But then the Directors Cut made it a a masterpiece for me.

Funny enough, both of these movies are made by the same person: Ridley Scott. So naturally I thought: Well, Napoleon won't be a historical accurate film, but I surely will enjoy it anyways. Well, ...no. It is not only historical incorrect, it's also a bad movie overall.

To start it short: NAPOLEON clearly lost itself in all the various topics it wanted to tell within a runtime of two and a half hours. It made the whole storytelling very weird and inconsistent, causing the problem, that the audience even loses itself in the questions of when and where. Where is that scene located? When did that happen? And then comes the question: Why is this even happening?

Ridley Scott wants to depict Napoleon as a lover, a military genius, a big political figure, a revolutionary and more. But in the end he tells all of this in the most shallow way possible, which waters down Napoleons personality traits and achievements to a series of small scenes. You never get a glimpse of the "true" Napoleon, who was described as a highly intelligent and charismatic man. In fact, you never really feel ANYTHING about him except that he was a cringe red flag in front of his wife. He just stands there, stares and has very limited dialogue scenes to get a picture of that man. What are his overall motivations? Only Josephine? If so, why is this motivation only vaguely explored?

The whole love story between him and Josephine feels so unnatural and got to the brink of being disgusting. This is particularly sad because I deeply respect Vanessa Kirby and Joaquin Phoenix, they're both stunning actors. I don't know if they just couldn't fit the role or if it was rather a problem of the script (the last one is my guess). Yet whenever I saw Josephine and Napoleon on screen, I felt like acted very stiff and forced. Napoleon seemed more obsessed with her than actual love and that can be a character trait, but there wasn't a chance to explore that deeper. Before the movie entered the cinema, the lovestory between these two was marketed as intense, obsessive, deeper than you could imagine. What the audience got was a few scenes without real conversation, much staring and a bunch of cringeworthy s-scenes. And seriously, these "sexy" scene were the worst. I was so disgusted by them because they were SO DAMN WEIRD. There are no scenes that undermine ANY deep love between Josephine and Napoleon. It felt therefore so off, when they still longed for each other after their divorce.

And let's not start to ramble about the fact that they depicted Josephine ONLY in a somehow sexual way. Yeah, there is that scene where she says to Napoleon, that he is nothing without her. BUT SHOW, DON´T TELL! You never see her doing something instead of sitting there, talking with others or when the plot needs her to have sexy time with someone (not only Napoleon). As a woman myself this makes me so freaking furious, you have no idea. I don't need a marvel-coded super-strong woman with unlimited talents - I just need a female character that is written GOOD and plausible! Make me CARE for her plot and for the plot of Napoleon! Both of them don't even feel like normal human beings because they're like blank pieces of paper with their names written on it!

And don´t make me start to talk about the historical inaccuracies. At first I didn't want to draw that card. Actually, I don't need a historical movie to present 100% facts. If the movie is still enjoyable, it's okey. But even if many people say that the war scenes were awesome, I can only partly agree. Yeah, we have that cool ice-lake Austerlitz battle, but it took me a couple of minutes and a better look on the uniforms to know that Napoleon is now at war with Austria! You get nearly ZERO context to Napoleons battles. Yeah, nice, the scenes look cool - but there is nothing more to it? Is that all you need to show for the audience to care? For me at least, I just didn't care at all and I was very happy when I got out of the cinema. Overall this movie is full of messy non-sense choices that don't contribute to the story. Many moments just confused me and it left me with the question why Scott couldn't simply hire some historians to put together a consistent story. Everyone who read about Napoleons life knows that there are so much cinema worthy moments in his career that would've been so much better than what we now got.

I could ramble about that movie for hours if I´m honest, but I hope this little TED talk was enough to make my statement clear.

In the end, it just makes me sad. I wanted to like this movie, I wanted it to be good. For months I hyped myself up to this, read books about Napoleon, watched the trailer all over and over and talked with friends about how great this movie will be. Now I am just disappointed and frustrated. Oppenheimer was such a great biopic of a historical person that became a great success at the box office - even without great battle scenes. I hoped that Napoleon would push a cinema revolution, that shows people want big scaled films about historical personalities and history topics. But now I just want to forget this Napoleon movie to be honest.

[the-ghostly-butterfly]

Snippet 1.4

Previous

The next morning, Henchman sat in the infirmary of Villain's Headquarters, the atmosphere as thick as smoke. Henchman figured Villain let slip to someone what they were planning to do the Henchman as a punishment for what they'd done, or maybe even details of how they'd be tortured or killed, or maybe even thrown out for the heroes to round up like a stray dog, most likely with their tongue cut out and hands broken so they didn't stand a chance at revealing anything they'd learned about Villain

They didn't really know anything useful for the heroes anyway. They knew Villain's favorite color (dark blue), favorite foods (anything with chocolate), allergies (blueberries), their least favorite movie genre (horror) and a couple other things they picked up from being around Villain so much.

They learned why Villain didn't get on well with their parents (they very much had a favorite child and it wasn't Villain) and what'd brought on their anger towards the Hero Agency once Villain brought them into their confidence, sure, but they didn't know much more about plans then the average civilian--that would be Right Hand. Their actual duties consisted of watching over supplies, managing other henchmen and keeping an eye on the overall workings of Headquarters.

Henchman hoped that taking down Hero would make Villain proud of them. Would make them allow Henchman into their inner circle and bring them into their confidence. They'd hoped to get as close to Villain as Right Hand--closer, after bringing down Hero. And instead, they'd suffered two humiliating defeats (and several broken ribs).

It all came to a head when Medic came in to check on Henchman's stitches. in addition to the blunt force trauma of being thrown through a window and into a wall, glass shards stuck into their back and left jagged, stinging wounds that oozed blood well into the night. Henchman sat on their cot, facing away from Medic as their wounds were inspected and re-dressed, and even then they could feel the hesitation Medic's hands, which were usually sure and quick.

Silence hung in the room like a dead man.

"What are they gonna do?" Henchman asked in a croaky voice, just barely above a whisper.

Medic paused. Considered. "What?"

"Villain. What are they gonna do to me?"

Again, they were met with silence. Henchman was sure the stress was worse than any answer Medic could've given until... Medic laughed. They laughed. It wasn't a snort or a scoff, or even a giggle--and they didn't even try to hide it! Medic stepped back for a moment, cackling as Henchman's stomach dropped. Of all the answers they were expecting, that was one they hadn't prepared for in the slightest.

"Oh, God, I needed that. You're hysterical."

"I'm being serious!" Henchman whirled around half way before the agony from the mess that somehow made up their abdomen sent lightning-hot reminders of why that was a horrible idea.

"Stop it, you're gonna hurt yourself," Medic scolded lightly, laughter still dancing in their eyes. "Have you really been stressed about that the whole time?"

"YES!" Henchman was near screaming now, though they weren't sure if it was ager or confusion that raised their voice. "Why wouldn't I be? Did you see how furious Villain was before they left? And I haven't seen them since. I left without permission and acted without orders; they have every reason to be upset. And everyone and everything's been so quiet today, it's like I've been handed down a death sentence."

Medic cleared their throat and the last embers of amusement flickered out. "Yeah, well, you're right about that, but you're not the one in danger. Or at least, you weren't when it mattered."

The tone of Medic's voice was dead serious--terrifying--and didn't help the growing pit of anxiety that had hunkered down in Henchman's stomach. They felt like they were going to pass out, woozy and dizzy and like the world was tipping out from under them.

A sharp snap under their nose anchored them a little more steadily to the bed they were sitting on, Medic having circled around the cot to look Henchman in the eyes. "You're fine, relax. The rest of us weren't supposed to tell you because it was bad, even for Villain, but I don't think you're in for anything more than a slap on the wrist, and neither does anyone else."

And they wouldn't understand that even if Henchman wasn't going to be killed, as thankful for that as they were, even a slap on the wrist as Medic said would destroy everything Henchman had been working towards. Everything they'd been hoping for. They should've known going into the fight that they were putting Villain's trust in them on the line, and they had--to a point.

They never expected they would fail as horribly as they did, nor that Villain would react with the kind of quiet fury usually reserved for their rare interactions with heroes or other members of the Agency itself. They hadn't expected to be sent to the infirmary the way that they were, or to be teleported directly to it from an alley just off the main scene of the fight after barely getting away.

And what they really weren't expecting was what hurt most: The fact that Villain had put them here and walked off without another word. They'd spoken in their office, but beyond that, there wasn't even a threatening note, or a warning given through Medic. They'd been effectively put in time out, knowing what might be coming but not having enough confidence to really prepare themselves one way or another.

“Hey, what did I just say?” Medic says, this time with annoyance in their tone. “Even if I don’t know the details, I know you’re gonna be fine, okay? You’re gonna be fine, and I don’t think you’re clocking Villain’s feelings towards what you did to Hero as correctly as you think you are, yeah?”

Their assessment was fair, if not a little stinging. They’d never been good at reading people, but they’d hoped Villain was the exception. Even with their monotone voice and often stony demeanor, Henchman knew how tired they were in a glance after a fight; knew when to call for Medic or coffee or let them get straight to their personal rooms and block everyone else from entering–something Right Hand was usually supposed to do. 

The entire night, they’d tried not to deliberate too much on Right Hand. They’d tried to ignore the stinging jealousy of the fact that there was already someone that was so close to Villain they could almost read their thoughts. They knew Villain kept a certian amount of professionalism and distance between themselves and Right Hand that didn’t seem to be present between Villain and Henchman, but most liekly because it wasn’t seen as necessary. They weren’t close enough for it to matter in the first place. 

“Okay,” Henchman murmured, and one look at Meidc’s face made it clear to even them that they didn’t beleive them for a second. Nevertheless, Medic stepped away. 

“Okay,” they echoed, with much more confidence. “You seem to be healing well, all things considered, and I have other patients I need to take care of, so I’m going to leave you here, okay? Try not to freak out too much on me, yeah?”

Henchman gave a weak nod, and an even weaker smile. They were sure that Medic could see them spiraling form the outside, but if they did, they didn’t say anything about it. “Yeah.”

Next

Tagging: @nameless-beanie @crow-with-a-typewriter @mylovelyme (If you wanted to be tagged and weren't please just poke me with a stick)

[suzukiblu]

Ko-fi thank-you sentences for Karam, plus a cut for more; Billy adopts Conner and it actually goes pretty good!

The walk over to the diner is quiet, mostly. Billy tells Lynn where some things are in Fawcett and points some stuff out in the neighborhood, but Lynn doesn’t really say much back. He nods along, though, and Billy's pretty sure he's listening. 

Maybe sure, at least. 

Worst case scenario, he figures he'll just repeat himself later. If Lynn's a little too stressed or overwhelmed to really be listening right now, well, he definitely wouldn't blame him. He's a baby, basically! Everything's gotta be so new and weird and overwhelming for him right now.

Billy isn’t gonna push. Not on day one, when they don’t even know each other yet. Lynn can take his time all he wants right now. It’s not like he’s hurting anyone, or even himself. So Billy just has to be patient with him while he learns stuff, same as any little kid he’s met in the system or on the streets. 

They get to the diner and Lynn hangs back a little bit. Billy suspects Cadmus did really not prepare him for restaurant etiquette and stuff like that, considering. He’s pretty positive it didn’t, in fact. Billy doesn’t go to many restaurants himself, but . . . 

It’s fine, he figures. He just needs to be a good example for Lynn, that’s all. And that’s what he always needs to do right now, so it’s no big deal. 

He hopes he’s being a good example, anyway. He really wants Lynn to be able to trust that he is one, so he can know he has someone to learn from, so . . . yeah. 

Billy goes to the counter, politely gives their fake last name–Batman would not appreciate them half-assing the new secret identities–and tips the waitress twenty percent and thanks her. It’s kind of a lot of food, but they have super-strength and a fridge for leftovers, so he figures it’ll be fine. 

He does feel a little nauseous over how much money he just spent, though. 

Batman gave them way more money than that, Billy reminds himself as he gathers up the bags. And there’ll be more next week. And if they actually somehow run out or just have an emergency, he can just fill out the League paperwork to requisition funds to make up for it. They could spend way more than this and still be fine. 

He’s pretty sure takeout is still gonna be a special occasions only thing, though. And couponing. Couponing is definitely gonna be a thing. 

It’s just a lot of money. 

Billy gets all of the bags juggled into his arms. Lynn looks awkward again and shifts Tawky under his other arm. 

“I can carry it,” he says stiffly. 

“Well, if you wanna,” Billy says. “We could split it?” 

“. . . sure,” Lynn says, still stiff. Billy smiles at him and offers him a couple of the bags. Lynn frowns, but takes them. Billy figures it makes sense Lynn wants to help; that’s pretty normal with little kids. Like, they always wanna do what the older kids are doing, or the adults, or just whoever. So it makes sense Lynn would too, especially if Cadmus didn’t teach him this stuff to begin with. He’s learning, basically. So yeah, it’s normal. 

And also a good sign, Billy hopes, if Lynn trusts he knows what he’s doing enough to copy him. It’s even sorta cute, actually. 

. . . okay, it’s really cute, but Lynn’s kinda a teenager so he might not appreciate hearing that. 

Still cute, though. 

They walk back to the apartment–back home, which is a weird thought, Billy recognizes fleetingly but tries not to focus on right now–and Billy unpacks all the food onto the coffee table in the living room. He figures that’ll be lower-pressure than the kitchen table for their first meal together, and they can put a show or a movie on if Lynn doesn’t want to talk too much or anything. 

Lynn sets Tawky on the end of the table, looking a little awkward about it. Billy smiles encouragingly at him. Tawky doesn’t really need to eat either in his stuffed animal form, but it’s nice that Lynn’s including him at lunch. And food does still taste good, obviously. 

“What do you wanna try first?” he asks, nudging the open box of onion rings over towards Tawky. He knows he likes them. Lynn frowns, looking a little wary. 

“It doesn’t matter,” he says stiffly. “Just . . . whatever.” 

“Okay,” Billy says, figuring that means he’s a little overwhelmed by the options. They did order a lot, so . . . yeah, that makes sense. “How about the soup, then?” 

“. . . sure,” Lynn mutters, and warily pulls the takeout bowl over to himself and takes the lid off. Billy offers him a spoon. Lynn frowns, but takes it. “. . . thanks.” 

“You’re welcome,” Billy says cheerfully. Setting a good example, and all.

[raccoon-eyed-rebel]

Part 32 - Whose bed have your boots been under?

Masterlist

Series Masterlist

Part 31 -- Part 33

Pairing: Sy x Alicia (trans!ofc)

Summary: Sy finally takes Liz out on a date! (Which he's late for. And we know why.)

Warnings: SMUT, NSFW, 18+, MINORS DNI, anal sex (f receiving), loads of nerves, mentions of transphobia, some angst, there's a horse dildo in there somewhere, Sy not eating a girl out for a change. This one's pretty basic actually...

Word count: 5.5k

A/N: And once again, it's been a while! I've been working on this date for a long time, but I was in a smut-writing-slump for some reason. Looks like I'm out of it now! (Heck yeah!) Now if maybe I could put this energy towards my novels, that would be superduper great, but you know the muse... Finnicky, fickle little fucker. Anyway: Enjoy nervous Sy on a date!

@geralts-yenn @deandoesthingstome @summersong69 @livisss @sillyrabbit81

@ellethespaceunicorn @ylva-syverson @poledancingdinos @thelastsock @wa-ni

@proud-aroace-beastie @totalwool

“Couldn’t find a lower cut top to wear?” Dammit.

“I hate that that’s not even the worst opening line I’ve heard,” I say as I look up at Sy. I’m not wearing heels today, so he’s slightly taller than I am. I like it — not that a guy being shorter than me is a dealbreaker or anything… It’s more like… I’m tall for a girl, and that height sometimes makes me feel un-girly, which I hate. So, the fact that Sy is the kind of guy who looks like he could pick me up and throw me across a room… It helps.

“Hey. Sorry I’m late.” He smiles down at me, leaning in for a kiss. I have to admit I was worried about that. All of it. When he texted me after the party, I was just waiting for him to suggest the typical ‘movie at his place’ date, but he asked me where I wanted to go, and there happens to be a Shania Twain cover band playing tonight at a bar I like.

So, I told him we’re going to a bar. Didn’t mention the part about the Shania Twain covers.

“Wanna get going?” I can’t stop my voice from trembling, and I’m sure one look at my face will tell him more than he needs to know, so I turn around and start walking.

“Any particular reason you’re walking a mile and a half away from me?” He catches up with ease, grabs my hand and turns me to face him. “What’s going on? ‘Cause I’m gettin’ the feeling you don’t want to be out here with me.”

I scoff. “Right.” Do I tell him? He puts his hands on my waist and pulls me close. It makes me feel all warm and fuzzy, and all that heat is making me boil over. “I’m scared you don’t want to be out here with me.”

I’m shaking, and freezing cold and boiling hot at the same time. My heart races in my throat, and I can’t bring myself to look Sy in the eye. I can’t cry. Not here. Not now.

The feeling of his hand cupping my cheek almost pushes me over the edge. “I’m sure you have a reason for feeling that way,” he says softly. I nod — a tiny little nod that I’m not even sure he caught. “Mind telling me what it is?”

Fuck. I screw my eyes shut to stop the tears from falling, but they escape anyway. “I’ve dated guys before,” I mutter. “And they were super-duper okay with me, they said… It actually took me a while to realize — scratch that… A friend had to tell me… It was always their place or mine. Never dinner, or even a movie.”

There’s no stopping these tears now. “When my friend pointed it out, I asked the guy I was seeing about it, and…”

Sy pulls me into his chest and wraps his arms around me. I inhale deeply on instinct. Leather. Spice. Warmth. “I don’t need to know what he said, because I’m pretty sure it would ruin my entire mood,” he says softly. That he didn’t want to be seen in public with me because he was scared it would make him look gay? Yeah, that’ll ruin your mood, alright… “But I want you to know I like you, Liz. Pretty sure I’d follow you anywhere.”

I’m laughing before I know it. “Well, that’s a good thing… Because I might have omitted a tiny little detail about the place we’re going…”

“Alright… I’ll go get us some drinks! Beer?” Without waiting for his answer — it’ll be ‘yes’ — I turn around and start to walk towards the bar. Try to, at least, because Sy grabs my arm and pulls me back until I’m standing with my back against his chest.

“I remember asking you out on a date, Liz.” His lips are right next to my ear, his beard tickles my neck, it’s… That damn cologne. Those damn, huge, strong hands keeping me pinned to him right now. “This is a date, right?”

“Yeah, Sy. It is. Wha—” He’s suddenly right in front of me, gently backing me into the wall, hands on my hips.

He leans his forehead against mine. “Let me make something very clear, sugar.” He speaks slowly, his voice dark and gruff. The sound of it shoots sparks straight down my spine, and I clench my thighs together. “It’ll be a cold day in hell before any woman of mine pays for her own drink on a date.”

Speaking. That’s a thing. Words are a thing. Do I know any? Voice… Where is my voice? Why am I just staring at him? That’s dumb. This is dumb. I’m dumb. Oh my god, what am I even doing here? “I, ehh…” Yeah. That’s not good. “Okay.”

He smirks down at me. “Beer?”

“Wine,” I manage — but barely.

Sy cocks an eyebrow. “You drink wine?” No. I don’t. But it makes me feel more feminine, and I really need that right now. “I’ve literally never seen you drink wine. Besides, people who drink wine usually tell you if they want red or white.”

“Okay, busted… I wanted to feel… girlier,” I admit.

“You dragged me to a Shania Twain cover band. We’re good on girly,” he says with a wink. “Beer?”

I nod, and semi-anxiously await his return. “You’re not mad about the music?” I ask as I take the bottle from his hand.

He chuckles as he shakes his head before raising his bottle. “To Shania Twain,” he says, “and great company.”

“Thanks so much for coming out, everyone! We’re gonna take a little break, and we’ll be right back!” The singer jumps off the small stage in the corner and makes a beeline for the bar, where she spots me. “Liz! I thought I saw you!” She’s got her arms wrapped around me before I can actually see her — during the first half of the set, the bar has gotten significantly more crowded.

“Hollie!” I love this girl, but if she doesn’t take her eyes off my man right this second, I’m throwing hands. “You’re doing amazing! How’s the cold?” It had her down for a good few days, she wasn’t even sure she’d make it tonight. I’m glad to see she’s doing well.

“Getting better! The full set is tough, though.” She downs the glass of water she’s holding. “We could use a little bit of you after this break, girl. But first, introduce me to this handsome gentleman.”

Is it totally horrible that I don’t fucking want to? I look at Sy, who casually reaches out a hand towards Hollie. “Nate Syverson. Call me Sy.”

“Well, Sy,” Hollie says with a sickly-sweet smile. Or is that my imagination? “What brings you here?”

“Liz,” he deadpans. Much to my surprise, he’s looking at me, barely even glancing at Hollie as he speaks. “She agreed to let me take her out on a date.”

“Lucky man… And you bring her here?” She gestures around the room before giving me the look.

“I dragged him here,” I admit. We go from ‘damn girl, nice! Break me off a piece of that!’ to ‘what the actual fuck were you thinking?’ in a matter of seconds. I look over at Sy — he looks insanely hot, the way he’s standing there, leaning against the bar. “Sorry, again.”

“I’ll let you in on a little secret, sugar,” he reaches for me, hooking his fingers behind my belt and pulling me back until I’m standing between his legs. Those same damn legs he’s been spreading a little too casually on that damn bar stool. The ones I can’t keep my eyes off. “I like the music.”

When he excuses himself and heads off to the bathroom, Hollie grabs my arm so hard it almost hurts. “You have to sing!”

“What? No!” Actually, yes. I’m secretly dying to get up there: I love to sing. And not to toot my own horn or anything, but I’m good.

“Your song’s coming up, girl! I’m not giving you a choice.” Just Hollie being Hollie. “You want him to come home with you, yes?”

Duh. Then why is the gesture I make hesitant as all hell?

“Alright! For our next song, I’d like to invite a very special guest onto the stage… Alicia Thomson!”

Sy’s eyes go wide, and he raises an eyebrow. I take a deep breath. “Well, gotta go!”

I walk up to Hollie, who’s busy adjusting the mic stand. Even in this little bar, the lights are hot. And despite that, my arms are covered in goosebumps. Haven’t done this in a while… I can still see Sy, sitting in the same place as before, his gaze trained on my face with utmost concentration.

One side of my mouth curls up into a cheeky smile. “Whose bed have your boots been under?”

“So,” Sy says when I make my way back to him after the song is done. “You sing.”

“I sing,” I reply, my smile stretching ear to ear. I forgot how great that felt… Not nearly as great as the warm hands that pull me forward by my hips until I’m standing between Sy’s thighs again.

“Woman, you are amazing,” he says with a smile. When he kisses me, it’s like my heart stops. My head spins, my knees shake — the whole nine. He keeps it decent. Why? For the love of God: Why? Words cannot express how much I need this man, literally right now, and — if at all possible— incredibly indecent.

“Wanna get out of here?” Not subtle, but incredibly effective, if I do say so myself. He doesn't even answer me; he just grabs my hand and pulls me along to the exit.

We don't talk during the drive back to my place, or on the walk up to the apartment, which gives my insecurities plenty of time to get the upper hand — especially when Sy doesn't make a move as soon as the door closes, other than wrapping his arms around my waist.

“Are you opposed to watching movies in bed in general?” Dirty smirk? Check. Playful glint in his eyes? Check. Me unceremoniously shoving him against his shoulder? Check. Ugh. Get it together, Liz. And try to maybe not maim your date. He seems fine though.

Instead of answering, I grab his hand and drag him towards my bedroom, stopping right in front of the door as a sudden wave of anxiety grabs me by the throat. Did I clean my room? Did I put everything — and, yes, I mean everything, in that way — away?

“Liz?” He leans his chin on my shoulder from behind, while his hands slowly dance over my hips, fingertips barely grazing me.

“Can I get, like... Thirty seconds? Just to see if there's anything you shouldn't be seeing...”

“And what would I be seeing?” I can’t see his face, but I can hear the grin in his voice. Yeah... What would he be seeing? I hate the way his teasing seems to shut down my brain. I hate the fact that I could tease him right back if I could just find my nerve, even more.

Get a grip, Thomson.

I conjure up a grin and turn my head towards Sy, leaning it back on his shoulder to get my lips as close to his ear as possible. “Equipment of the... mature personal entertainment variety,” I purr softly. I can feel his cock twitch against my ass, and part of me really hopes it's the voice he reacts to, instead of the message. Another part of me, however, kinda hopes he’s into… that.

“Just open the damn door,” he groans, digging his fingers into my hips. “If I don't have more of you in my arms soon...”

Despite all this big talk, I'm still more or less mortified when the first thing Sy comments on is my favorite vibrator. It's on my bed, because it needed to charge. Regardless of whether it's actually done charging... it's done now. I yank it off the charger and toss it back in the drawer under my bed.

Sy chuckles as he drags a thumb over my no doubt crimson red cheeks. “The way you're looking at me right now, all terrified and whatnot, kinda makes me want to take a dive into that drawer...”

“You're not, like... pissed? Or, I don’t know... intimidated?” Wouldn't be the first time.

“Intimidated?” He laughs — the deep, full, throaty kind that men do that's hot and, in this particular case, slightly embarrassing. “Sugar, ain't no way I'm going to be intimidated by a piece of plastic.” He's still laughing when he drops himself onto my bed and rolls to the side by the wall.

Oh, what I wouldn't give to smack that cocky smirk off his face... Maybe I can. I lie down next to Sy and reach into the drawer. “Not even this one?” I wave a whole lot of light blue silicone in his face until he grabs my wrist and looks at the toy I'm holding with wide eyes. He's definitely not smirking now...

“Sugar... Before I even ask any questions...” He blinks a few times as if that's going to magically make the dildo I'm holding up disappear — or at least transform into something that doesn't look like it jumped straight out of my — or maybe his, who knows? — OF subscriptions. “I grew up around horses. I know what that is...”

“Oh my god!” I laugh — no. Cackle. — and hide my face behind my free arm. “Sorry,” I mutter, “I'm a bit of a freak.”

“As long as we're keeping that away from me, I'm good with that,” he chuckles. “Now... Where the hell does that even go? Never mind...”  He knows the answer. I know that, because the last time I saw him, I told him there was no way he was ever going to fit in my pussy. And since this thing is bigger than he is by... not even as much as you'd expect, looking at the size of that toy, really... God, the man is massive...

I put the dildo back under the bed and snuggle into Sy's side. I admire the way he just makes himself at home in my room, grabbing the remote off the shelf over my headboard. “Do we go the cheesy romcom route, or do we opt for Mike's favorite tactic?”

“I'm assuming that would be ‘worst horror movie of the century’, then ‘hold her when scared’?” I ask, and Sy nods. “What if I don't get scared?”

“I could pretend to be scared.” He smirks down at me. “But we'd have to switch positions.”

I shake my head. I'm comfortable, lying here with my head on his chest, my leg swung over his. There's one thing missing, though. Blankets. Lots of ‘em!

“It's freezing in here, sugar.” Oh? Really? I hadn't noticed! It's not like I turned the heater off before I left and opened the window... I look up at him like I don't know what he's talking about, but he won't fall for it. “Fucking hell, y'all are somethin' else!”

We get under the covers, and I sigh as I sink into his arms again. “But it's comfy, right?”

He rolls his eyes at me and turns his attention back to the TV. “Horror, romcom or something else?”

“Romcom. Anything Ashton Kutcher is fine by me.” Besides... I was actually hoping we wouldn't be watching most of it because we'd be too busy doing other things. Like making out like our lives depend on it.

Imagine my surprise — and horror — when I see an annoyingly large amount of Ashton Kutcher, and very little of Sy's body. What is he waiting for? An invitation carved in marble? I'm practically on top of him, for crying out loud! This is just rude.

And as if that's not bad enough... “Sugar, would you stop squirming?” he suddenly asks.

“I'm squirming to get your attention,” I huff. “Y'know... so you'll grab me, and kiss me, and we can get to the good stuff? You inside me, to name something...”

He winces when I say it. What kind of man winces at the prospect of sex? Okay, I mean... tons of them, probably, and for all kinds of good reasons... But Sy is known, by and large, as a bit of a slut.

“Hey!” he says, glaring at me when I point that out. “Us sluts get nervous, too.”

“Nervous about what?” Oh my God! “Shit, about what I said last time? I mean... I wasn't kidding, but... Ah. First time, right?” The nod he gives in response is damn near imperceptible. “You know we don't have to go there, right?”

“I, eh... No, that's not... Not that I... Wh— I give up. There's no way to say that in any kind of way that doesn't make it sound like I'm not here for you, but for that, and...”

“The gist of what you're not saying would be that it's every man's dream, right?” I can't hold back my laughter. “Sy, it's okay! You suffered through Shania Twain for me — even though I suspect you secretly love her — and you tell me you like me in public, I know—”

“Is the bar really that low, Liz?” He stares at me with wide open eyes, and I can't think of a single thing to say.

I shrug, tears burning behind my eyes as I barely manage to squeeze the words out: “Yeah. I mean, with guys, it sort of is...”

His fingers trail over my cheek, all the way down until they rest at the nape of my neck, and he pulls me close. “You deserve better.”

I guess we're finally done with Ashton Kutcher for tonight... Sy's lips are warm against mine as he kisses me. It's tender. Romantic. Lacking every bit of the raw, needy passion from the New Years party... I'm sure I'll get to see that side of him again sooner rather than later, though. I can feel in in the way he pulls me in, fingertips pressing into my lower back as he firmly holds my body flush against his.

He's hard — my squirming worked — but there's nothing about him or his behavior that draws any attention to the fact. What a true gentleman.

Sy pulls back and raises an eyebrow when I chuckle out loud. “Not what a man wants to hear,” he mutters under his breath, making me laugh even harder.

“I’m sorry,” I manage between fits of laughter. Am I laughing to avoid having a serious conversation about this? Absolutely! It’s way too early for that. I barely know this guy. That said, the laughter isn’t exactly helping, I suppose, so it doesn’t really matter. “It’s just that you’re trying so hard to be sweet and gentlemanly and I’m over here trying to seduce you and it feels a little… backwards? It’s funny, okay?”

His eyes darken, and when he speaks again, his voice is low and rough. “Ain’t so funny to me, sugar.” If the voice wasn’t doing it, the way he’s squeezing my ass through my jeans right now would. “I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t been dreaming about that pretty mouth on my dick.”

Oh, so we’re playing it like that, all of a sudden? “Including that other thing I did?” I tease. It’s fun to watch his cheeks flush as he tries to keep his composure.

“I’d like to reiterate my disinterest in silicone horse cock,” he says, his voice surprisingly steady. “But otherwise; yeah.”

I look at him for a second too long, and next thing I know, we’re both laughing uncontrollably. “If we keep this up, neither of us is getting laid tonight,” I manage in between fits of laughter.

“Might be for the best…” Hey, what now? I frown — not in an angry way, but in complete and utter confusion. Sy sighs deeply and rests his forehead against mine. “I’m stalling. Under normal circumstances… No, fuck, I didn’t mean— That’s not— All I’m sa—”

He rolls onto his back and groans while I bite back a laughing fit that would most likely make him run.

“Sy,” I whisper, scared that if I speak louder, I won’t be able to control myself, “stop worrying about saying the wrong thing. These are not normal circumstances — well, they are for me, but you know what I mean. You have some leeway in the vocabulary, I promise.”

I take a deep breath and roll on top of him, straddling his hips and sliding my hands under his t-shirt. Don’t feel like laughing now, do you, Thomson? Sy groans when I roll my hips. The way he looks up at me raises goose bumps all over my body. Big hands rest on my thighs, fingers tightening with every move of my hips, squeezing me hard…

My hands are on his chest now, nails digging into his skin, leaving little half-moon marks from the pressure. His eyes are locked on mine, his breathing heavy and quick… As soon as I sit up again, he pulls his shirt over his head, and I follow suit. His Adam’s apple bobs aggressively when he swallows hard, and I smile smugly.

I appreciate being appreciated. Admired. Coveted. And Sy is giving me exactly what I need.

He sits up against the headboard, pulling me in with just two fingers hooked into the waistband of my jeans. Heated moans fill the air as he crushes his mouth against mine, sucking my bottom lip between his teeth while his hands work quickly to undo my belt and unbutton my jeans.

“Could’ve worn one with a zipper,” he growls quietly as he fusses with buttons number two and three. Yeah. I could have. He should be glad they’re not skinny jeans.

The sensation of his warm hands competing with the cold air as he moves them over my waist and the small of my back, is electrifying. To make matters worse — or better — it’s followed by a slow, sensual kiss in my neck. Then another. Then another.

He’s moving, searching, my hands clasping the back of his head, guiding him, until… There. Heady moans escape me with every pass of his tongue over that spot at the crook of my neck, every playful nibble, while every needy roll of my hips earns me a dark chuckle, muffled against my skin. One hand rests on the band of my bra, while the other is draped around my waist, pulling me down while his hand dips into my jeans and squeezes my ass.

Fuck. I need friction. Lots of it. Now! I grind down on him harder, but it’s not working — not like this. There’s too much denim. Too many clothes in general, I—

One simple move of his hand and my bra snaps open. Damn, he’s good. I sigh, my breath quivering with disappointment as his mouth leaves my neck and travels down my sternum.

Sy's barely had his mouth on my nipple for ten seconds when a sudden, harsh bite makes me whimper. “Take these fucking jeans off,” he growls, pushing me back with force. He takes care of his belt buckle with one hand. Why is that hot? “And everything else, too.”

Moments later, we’re naked, pressed up against each other, every atom of space between us one too many. I used to hate being naked — I still do, occasionally, but right now, with him… It’s wonderful. My hands roam over his chest, down his abs, exploring his body. I teasingly run a finger down the length of his cock, and he shivers, moaning into my mouth as we continue making out. It’s his turn to grind against me with burning need and impatience, and I chuckle.

It’s a powerful feeling to have a man want you this bad.

His hands linger on my ass, his touch switching between punishing and demanding, and hesitant and shy.

“You’ll have to, at some point,” I tease. He knows what I mean.

“I—” The end of his sentence is an adorably helpless, clueless look as he shrugs.

It’s a good thing I don’t mind taking point for educational purposes, or else this whole thing never would have worked out. Behind my back, I grab his wrist, and bring his fingers up to my lips. He gets the hint, biting his lip as I suck his fingers into my mouth, his cock twitching against my stomach.

I reach down between us and wrap my fingers around his hard length, while Sy very slowly and very gently eases a finger into my ass. I resist the urge to chuckle when I see his eyes go wide. Sy’s face doesn’t usually have subtitles, but I can see every thought going through his head right now in quick succession.

“I said it would fit,” I say, “not that you could ram it up there within ten seconds, no problem. Just take it easy, take your time.”

“Is it— I mean, does it…” His voice trails off into a desperate moan when I trail my thumb over the underside of the head of his cock.

“Feel good? Yeah it does.” I push back against his finger a bit. I’m five seconds away from begging him for more, faster, harder, deeper, anything… The feeling of the tip of a second finger teasing me gets my hopes up, but he stops.

“Do you have any lube?” he asks carefully.

It takes everything I have to not roll my eyes. Not only do I think that stupid questions do exist, I also firmly believe they deserve an equally stupid answer. “No, I was planning on taking this entire thing up my ass completely dry,” I snap a little too sourly as I squeeze his cock, making him groan. “Believe me, neither of us want that. That’s how you end up in the ER.”

I can barely reach my nightstand from this position, but I don’t really want to move away from him. Finally! I triumphantly pull the bottle out of the drawer. “Here you go! Don’t ration it.” He laughs when I wink at him.

He takes the advice to heart, coating his fingers in a very liberal amount of lube. I continue stroking him as my heart flutters in anticipation. My stomach is sticky with precum — his too, probably — and every stroke draws another deeply sexy moan from him while he explores me with two thick fingers, moving them as if he’s searching for some— Ah! Right.

“Wrong angle,” I moan against his skin, pressing a kiss to his collarbone.

I push his hand away and lift my leg up to his hip. Sy understands immediately, reaching between my legs to continue what he was doing.

“Found it,” I say, smirking up at him when he’s found the right spot. I abandon my attempt to continue the sort-of-handjob I was working on. We both need to focus right now.

One of the best things about Sy is that he seems happy to put his ego aside for the sake of learning. He’s not insulted by instructions, and he takes advice to heart. I’d say I appreciate it, but it’s really more of a hard requirement to even get into my bed — it's been quite a while since I last wasted my time on silly little boys who don’t listen when I clearly spell out to them what feels good and what doesn’t.

Sy is a quick study, too, and I’m squirming in his arms in no time, breathing heavily against his neck, with my arms wrapped tightly around him.

“Don’t change a thing,” I moan. Pressure steadily builds inside me, and I know an earth-shattering orgasm is within arms reach, and all he has to do is keep. going. “I’m so close…”

Every perfectly steady stroke of his fingers winds me tighter and tighter until I snap. A sharp his escapes Sy when I dig my nails into his back and bite his shoulder. It’s the only thing I can do to keep myself from screaming as every fiber of my being unravels around his fingers.

He lets me catch my breath for a moment, then he looks at me, unsure how to proceed.

“One more, to be sure,” I say weakly, not entirely recovered yet. I’m pretty damn relaxed, so I don’t expect much trouble. Indeed, the next finger slips in without a hitch. Good. “Wanna give it a try?”

He nods furiously, catching himself in the act and calming down immediately to a tougher, more laissez-faire attitude. I can’t help but chuckle as I reach for the drawer again and pull out a condom.

“How, eh…” He makes a few vague hand gestures.

“The logistics?” I ask, and Sy nods in reply. “I prefer doggy, but…”

“I want to see your face,” he blurts out before I can finish my sentence. It’s sweet, he doesn’t easily look shy…

I pull him in for a kiss. It’s gentle, sweet, and clearly telling me just how nervous he is right now. When he breaks the kiss, he leans his forehead against mine and lets out a trembling breath.

“I want you on top of me,” I say softly, and he nods, moving to sit on his knees between my legs. He puts the condom on and then takes the bottle of lube, applying a generous amount to his cock before looking at me. There’s a question burning in his eyes.

I let my legs travel up his sides, never breaking eye contact, until my ankles are on his shoulders. He lifts a trembling hand, hooking it around my thigh, and pulls me closer before leaning over me. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this nervous, sugar.”

“Look at me, Sy,” I say, cupping his face in my hands. “Just take it easy, go slow, and listen to me. That’s all you have to do.” Well, that and screw me to heaven and beyond. But let’s not tell him that right now.

He swallows hard, putting more of his weight on top of me as he uses one hand to position himself, and I feel him slowly, steadily pushing into me. It’s impossible to fight back a grin when I see his face: mouth hanging open, eyes wide at first, then screwed tightly shut…

“Easy,” I remind him gently. He’s not hurting me — not yet. “Stop for a second.” He instinctively pulls away, but I stop him. “Just stay there. Give me a second.”

My heart threatens to jump right out of my chest, and it feels like electricity runs through my veins — it’s exactly that excitement that keeps me from being able to handle this right now, and it bugs me.

Deep breath in. Hold. Breathe out.

I repeat it a few times, until I feel Sy sink into me a little further. “We’re good,” I say, my voice barely more than a breath.

Carefully, he pushes deeper into me, until his hips rest against my ass. “Goddamn, sugar,” he pants.

“Tell me about it,” I reply with a smile, relishing the feeling of his thick cock stretching me out. His first thrust makes me whine — then again, louder, when he leans down to kiss me. He sticks with a slow, gentle rhythm, in time with the way his lips move against mine. His low growls mixed with my moans fill the room, and soon I’m begging him to go faster.

“I won’t last ten seconds,” he grunts, but I don’t really care. So he sits up on his knees again and picks up the pace, his thrusts growing rougher with every move. His breathing quickens, his grip on my thighs tightens. I watch his face closely, amusement mixed in with my own desire. His eyes are closed, brow furrowed. A bead of sweat runs down his forehead. He’s clenching his jaw, lips trembling as he tries to hold on — but it’s no use.

“Fuck.”

‘Fuck’, indeed. His last thrusts are reckless, punishing, the low growl he lets slip as he finishes is music to my ears. I whine softly when he pulls out, taking a moment to adjust to the sudden emptiness.

It gets worse when he gets out of bed to clean up. I’m shivering, cold and alone, furiously wishing for Sy to come back and hold me. “Sy?” I plead. “Please talk to me.”

“What? I’ll be right there, sugar.” I know it’s ridiculous. He doesn’t even leave the room, for crying out loud! And yet I feel tiny and abandoned until Sy crawls back under the covers with me and holds me safely in his arms. “Shower?”

“Tomorrow,” I sigh, snuggling tightly against his chest. Yeah. This is alright.

[plzu]

Just Water, Thanks - (Adrian Chase x Reader)

part four☕️

a/n: tbh if my 13 y/o self saw me updating a multi-chapter fic [redacted] months after the last update, she'd be impressed. this is shorter than i wanted it to be bc i had to cut it off. consider this an in-between chapter as we navigate (negative) emotions and such. anyway, hope y'all don't mind as i steer this story into angst territory! Summary: Adrian takes care of you while you are drunk and miserable in his home. Warnings: 18+, no Y/N, ANGST (reader is going thru it), mentions of assault, mentions of gore and blood and nightmares, a reference to one of the Saw movies (idk which, sorry), not beta read, if i missed anything lmk pls!! Word Count: 3.3k+

Revelations are dizzying. Revelations taste like vomit in the back of your mouth, and the backs of your teeth. Revelations leave you sore all over, more sore than you think you’ve ever been. Revelations are exhausting. They leave you parched as shit.

Or maybe that’s just the alcohol.

The night wasn’t supposed to go like this. 

It was supposed to be some girls from high school. Old friends. Best friends. The people that were your anchor in Evergreen, who made everything bearable. Late night talks and laughing over the dumbest things and whisperings about crushes and aspirations.

People you slowly stopped talking to once you moved across the country, to some city that could swallow you whole.

People that decided to return the favor. Two last minute ditches, and one that completely ghosted you. They’re just busy, you thought, a dirty martini and a half in. They have real jobs, and spouses, and… kids? Maybe?

Pouty and miserable at the sleek bar, drowning your insecurities in alcohol, picking at the olives at the bottom of empty glasses. They’re too- too good for me, anyway. 

Having found some semblance of happiness in an unlikely friendship with Adrian Chase, you thought you’d finally venture out, expand your social circle again. Feel like you have everything together, finally.

Learn to experience snatches of happiness elsewhere, outside of time spent with Adrian. Because, face it: there is something that feels slippery about him. Evanescent. Like one day he’s going to disappear, or get bored of you.

Or reveal whatever secrets he’s been clearly harboring, something neither of you could return from, and the wedge that it would drive between you would leave you right back to where you started: a ghost that didn’t even have the good grace to properly die. 

You walk -- stagger, really -- down the empty street, most of your weight supported by the masked Vigilante. Adrian is supposedly under that mask. You cannot wrap your head around this fact, even after watching Vigilante answer Adrian’s phone, and say some bullshit excuse only Adrian could come up with. 

“Alright, here we are!” Vigilante (Adrian?) declares. “The Vigilante-mobile.”

You both come to a stop. You squint bleary-eyed at the 4-door sedan, glance at the masked face beside you, then back to the car. 

“It’s just your regular car.”

Vigilante -- no, Adrian, definitely Adrian -- snorts. “Well, yeah. I can’t exactly afford a second car with a busboy salary.”

This almost makes you laugh, because Adrian is good at that, really. Effortless. But nausea stirs in your gut, so you decide against it. Grumble a wordless response instead. 

Adrian attempts to ease you into the passenger seat, asking if you’re hurt anywhere else. If they hurt you in any worse ways other than the obvious. You can only shake your head noncommittally, fighting back the urge to vomit again. There will definitely be bruises and sore spots on your aching body from the rough way they had handled you, but you know what he’s really asking.

Head slumped back against the headrest, you close your eyes for a few minutes. You have to buckle up, Adrian urges, but you cannot find the strength or the energy to pull the seat belt around your body. A pathetic little huff is all you can really muster before Adrian, patient and gentle, pulls the seat belt around your torso and fastens you in place. 

Unfortunately, the gentle action is buffeted by the coppery scent that washes over you, the roughness of his gloves and suit briefly scraping your skin; this doesn’t smell like Adrian. Not like the familiar Irish Spring soap, or coffee and caramel after visiting you at the cafe. This makes you whine. Whimper, really, dissatisfied and uncomfortable and very momentarily scared. 

Misunderstanding, he tells you you’re going to be okay, in a voice that’s a touch too animated for the general mood of the night.

When the door is shut, you try not to suffocate in the brief silence that follows. Keep your eyes closed as the muffled thud of the trunk jolts the car a bit, willing the queasiness away. Desperately wishing for water, or sleep, or death. 

You do not open your eyes when Adrian finally gets in the car, and starts driving, until he mentions something about taking you home. At that point, your eyes fly open.

“No,” you beg. “No, Adrian, please. I can’t go home like this. I don’t want them to see me like this.”

There’s a quiver in your voice. Nervousness builds in your chest, a rapid flutter in your ribs that makes you feel like crying. Adrian stares, eyes flicking from your face to the quickening rise and fall of your chest, and you realize it’s just Adrian sitting next to you, now. Wearing normal clothes. No blood-splattered suit or eerie red visor. Just the familiar--if slightly disheveled--curly hair and glasses, lips parted in confusion or concern. Seeing his bare face is almost a comfort, especially when he nods, and faces the road again. 

The trip to Adrian’s apartment becomes a hazy memory. He walks you through the corridors of some small apartment complex until you’re trudging through the threshold of his home, where he guides you through the dark into his bedroom. You sag into the edge of his bed once he turns on the light. 

“Gotta get you cleaned up, but… do you need water?” Adrian asks. You only stare back up at him before he goes, “right, yeah, no, you definitely need water. Wait right here.”

When he comes back, Adrian is juggling a couple of bottles of water and a first-aid kit to dress your wound. He sets everything down, handing you a chilled water bottle which you gratefully accept. You cannot unscrew the cap of the bottle fast enough to immediately quench the discomfort of your sandpaper tongue. 

“Slow sips,” Adrian says, after some reckless guzzling causes you to choke and dribble water all over your chin. 

Setting the bottle aside, you notice stands with his back to you on the other side of the room. You realize this is him giving you privacy so you can begin the struggle of taking off the stockings. They get halfway down your thighs, dress rucked up around your hips, before the effort of it unlocks a well of tears; a flash of a memory of being six years old and left to fend for yourself for the first time in a fight to tug on tights for school.

It’s not that you’re so inebriated that you can’t take off your stockings, though it certainly doesn’t help. It’s that once you get the fabric rolled down to your skinned knee, a new wave of nausea overcomes you. You can feel the mesh of the tear sticking to the gooey wet parts of the wound, and your mind reels with the dizzying thought that if you tug anymore, you’re going to make it worse. Take more skin off. Bleed all over Adrian’s bedsheets. Throw up again, probably.

It’s just for a brief second, you don’t let the feeling last too long, but-- the quick snatch and tug of the nylon on the tattered skin of your knee reminds you of one of the Saw movies, and how one of the traps involved gluing some poor fuck’s bare back to the driver’s seat of a car. And the way he had to peel off the seat, screaming and sweating, struggling to reach the -- the brakes? The gas? -- just to try to save some girl’s life. The stretch of skin, the vivid gleam of blood, your memory no doubt enhancing the gore of the scene in a new wave of despair.

When Adrian turns around, he finds you with your face hidden in the cusp of your palms, stockings only rolled down to the tops of your knees. Your dress is still bunched up around your hips, and maybe you should feel exposed, sitting on Adrian’s bed with your thighs bared. Embarrassed, even. But between the ick in your stomach and the sour taste at the back of your throat and the headache that begins to pulse behind your eyes like remnants of the bassline from the club, you don’t have any room to care. 

(And, admittedly. You don’t think you’d mind Adrian seeing this much of you. Under different circumstances, at least.)

You sense him hovering closer, probably paused at the sight of you all pathetic on his bed. Or the bare flesh of your thighs, more likely. Something unintelligible is mumbled into your hands in an attempt to draw his attention. Let him know you’re aware of his presence, and that you’re lucid, at the very least.

“Sorry- what?”

You sniffle, before mustering up the strength to raise your head up. But only enough to stare at his feet. “I can’t- My tights. I can’t… take them off.”

You watch as his scuffed up shoes approach you. Absently, you think about how Adrian hasn’t worn these before, even though it’s gotten cold. And, oh, they’re probably just part of his Vigilante costume. 

Ah. Vigilante. Adrian. 

“Whoa… what do you mean?” Adrian crouches down, his bespectacled gaze in your sight, and you realize the quick, short breaths you hear are your own. “Are you going to cry again? I have tissues here on my nightstand- for, like, normal reasons. Nothing gross. Ignore the lotion.”

There’s a very small part of you that knows this would have -- should have -- made you laugh. It’s the part of you that feels detached from this whole experience, as if watching from outside of your body. Like a muted, sober-ish ghost that can’t do anything but observe. Helpless. Unable to keep you safe.

You can’t even take off your fucking tights by yourself.

“The- the cut on my knee,” you attempt to warble through your explanation. “It’s, um- it feels weird. I don’t think I can take off my tights…”

“Well, we have to dress the wound otherwise it might get infected.” Adrian pauses, raises his hands so they hover over your lap. “Is it okay if I..?”

When you nod -- shakily, fearfully, desperately -- his hands continue their journey to your right thigh. His middle and forefingers, surprisingly gentle, slip into the scrunched up fabric at the base of your knee, and a shiver runs down your spine at the feel of his hands there. There is a feeling that slowly blooms in your chest at the sight of Adrian on his knees for you, taking care of you. But it’s being overshadowed by the anxiety gripping your throat and making your head spin in anticipation of the potential pain to come from your tights being ripped from your bloody knee.

No longer able to keep upright, you gracelessly plop back into the soft sheets, ceiling swaying in your vision. You make no effort to get back up; not like you wanted to watch the horror of Adrian potentially ripping the skin off your knee.

His voice, with a touch of anger that’s still unusual to hear, cuts through the haze of worry. “I hate those motherfuckers for doing this to you.”

A humorless, breathy snort escapes at that, shame sapping the energy out of you. “That wasn’t their fault,” you mumble. “‘M not tryin’ to defend them or anything, but it was my stupid, drunk ass that tripped and got myself into this whole mess…”

Because the truth is, if you hadn’t drunkenly stumbled down the wrong street when trying to find your Uber, if you hadn’t worn heels that don’t feel natural on your feet anymore, if you hadn’t felt so anguished and lonely that you sought solace in a few too many cocktails-

If you had just been a better friend to the people that made your high school years bearable, you wouldn’t have been crowded and overpowered by strange men with horrifying intentions. 

“Were you… by yourself?” Adrian’s voice carries over you while he’s still somewhere at your knees. “Where were those friends of yours? The ones you were meeting up with?”

The heels of your palms dig furiously into your closed eyes until you’re seeing black and red and you’re sure your eyeballs are just about to successfully squish into your skull. “They never showed up,” you admit, hoarsely, dejectedly.

Moments pass. There’s this light, almost lulling feeling, the tug and pull of your right leg. If you weren’t drowning in the barrage of negative thoughts and guilt and the kind of worthlessness that only creeps up on you in your own bedroom, you’d find Adrian’s ministrations comforting. 

“Don’t get mad, but it doesn’t sound like they were very good friends if they abandoned you to drink alone at club a in a sketchy neighborhood.”

But isn’t that what I deserve?

See- 

You left. Most people did after high school, but you made it a staunch point to never come back. 

You didn’t mean to abandon the friends you made in Evergreen. But life went on, and time passed quicker than you could make sense of, and fuck if you didn’t find any excuse to not come back home during breaks -- internships, supposedly important trips for school, job-hunting, moving in with your first love -- all so you could prolong seeing your family again.

What’s so bad about them, anyway?

They make me feel-

A sharp sting of pain rips you out of dark muddled thoughts, hissing through clenched teeth as you shoot into an upright position, lurching forward. 

“Sorry, sorry! But I did warn you.”

Oh, right. Adrian. You’re in Adrian’s bedroom, and he’s currently at your knees, hair still rumpled and eyes shining bright and concerned behind his glasses. And… he’s holding an alcohol pad. And your knee is…

“You got the tights off?” you ask in breathless disbelief.

“Yeah. I had to cut it up, though.” He grimaces. “Sorry. But it was already torn, so…”

Sure enough, the area around your knee is now fully exposed and free of any sticky mesh. The cut was beginning to scab over, but the alcohol pad made it newly shiny. It stings, but at least it doesn’t look like whatever nightmare scenario you’d been afraid of.

Adrian continues cleaning up and bandaging your wound as you look away, too light-headed to watch him work. It’s not until he’s gently pressing a bandage to your knee that you finally let out a breath you didn’t realize you were even holding. 

“There, all done.” Adrian stands, gathering everything up with careful, unrushed movements. “Let me get you something to sleep in.”

“Huh?” You blink up at him, confused. 

He’s rummaging through a dresser drawer, back turned to you when he responds. “Trust me, you’re not going to want to fall asleep in ripped clothes.” Turning around with some folded clothes in his hands, he continues, “I don’t imagine it’d be very comfortable. Plus, what if you wake up, not remembering what happened--you know, because of the drinking-- and you’re in my bed with a ripped dress? How does that make me look? It’d be pretty hard to convince you I didn’t do anything to you.”

He hands you the clothes--a big soft tee-shirt and sweatpants--and turns to leave. There is a cacophony of feelings clamoring around in your head and in your heart, and you find yourself helplessly overwhelmed once again but also, endlessly grateful for this man that saved your life. Not just tonight, but the night he stepped into your cafe painfully close to closing and made things feel silly and good again. 

“Adrian?” you softly call out as he turns to leave you to change.

“Yeah?”

“I think you’re my best friend.”

Something expands in his chest when Adrian hears those words come out of your mouth. Like a frog puffing up with a croak, or a balloon that’s filled to bursting but doesn’t want to pop. He thinks he was a kid the last time he actually heard someone tell him, to his face, that he’s their best friend.

Sure, the admittance wavered out in an alcohol-infused breath, and he’s not sure how much you had to drink tonight but it may be enough to forget this moment.

But he wasn’t drinking. He’ll hold onto this moment forever.

A smile grows crooked on his face as he hovers by the door, meeting your gaze. “Yeah?”

You nod, holding the clothes handed to you lamely in your lap. There’s something glum about the sag of your shoulders, but he can’t think about that too much in his rush to assure you that you’re his best friend, too. Top 3, definitely.

This makes you snort, which he counts as another win for the night since it’s the first sound of laughter he’s heard since finding you in the alley.

He finally leaves you to change, and to get some much needed rest, and grins from ear to ear at the knowledge that the person he’s liked since high school is in his bed tonight.

Despite the comfort of Adrian’s tee-shirt, the smell of him in his clothes and sheets, the softness of it all wrapped around you, you do not sleep well.

You dream of dark alleyways and even darker figures crowding you, overpowering you. Limbs boneless, unable to fight back. When you scream, it’s not loud enough. There’s a thumping bass reverberating off brick walls that drowns out your cries for help. 

It’s frustrating. This powerlessness. The feeling of utter uselessness, frightening to your core. 

Then, the dream shifts. You are no longer being crowded and pinned by the shadowed figures, yet fear still grips you, clings to your skin, hot and wet- when you look down, the sticky wet feeling isn’t fear but blood, splattered all over your clothes and dripping from your arms. You want to feel triumph, search for the feeling in the recesses of your brain, you want so badly for that to replace the anxiousness gripping your lungs now that you’re free.

But when you look back up, you see viscera-laden bricks. Bodies with holes where they shouldn’t be, missing pieces. This is still a nightmare.  A familiar voice, tainted by something dark and unrecognizably sinister, laughs at the mouth of the alley. It’s another shadowy figure, red visor glowing in your direction. “You’re okay now,” he says, tone unsettling, too-chipper. “They’re all dead!”

taglist: @whatevermonkey @nobodys-baby-now @hiddlebatchedloki @pokoyolfhw

[the-knight-of-the-stars]

Okey, I finished Rise of Red.

—First, what a strange movie, truly. It wasn't like, terrible, but...

—Did it feel cut out to anyone else? Like incomplete? Or like they cut a lot of scenes? Some dialogues are strange and the movie expects us to feel things when everything happens so fast there is really no time for it. (And this is without even mentioning the ending)

—You can tell the director was trying to give this movie an entirely different look, and I dig it, honestly. I think this movie was very experimental and in the visuals at least, I have no complaints. The scenarios were more like what I wanted to see in a fantasy land like that, coloful, fun, a bit more creative.

—I miss Kenny Ortega's talent in musicals.

—Okey, the songs, I don't think they were bad, but because the movie is already so short sometimes it feels like a never ending music video instead of a movie.

—I def liked the songs from the second half of the movie better, they felt more in line with the kind of music secuences everyone loves about Descendants.

—Oh, the fist one in Wonderland I liked too, it had energy.

—I would kill for a scene of Chad with the rest of his family.

—I love how in Descendants, you can just intantly tell if someone is an extra or a character with name.

—Mad Hatter??? I liked to see him, he seemed like a potencially interesting character.

—The entire plot needs you to turn your brain off so it makes sense, and after over-analyzing this movies for years I can't do that 😅

—Obviously the the timeline we all though with the Disney Movies is destroyed.

—I loved seeing Merlin, he was kind of fun.

—Honestly they could have just made a movie about Merlin Academy with no conection to Descendants and it could have been more interesting. The movie didn't even seemed interested enough in the two main characters anyway.

—The message is strange too, the way they handdle moral dilemas is so strange. I don't have the energy right now to get into detail, but yeah, there is some strange things there.

—Like, we save Bridget not for Bridget but for Red, and still the possibility of finding redemption for Ulyanna's group is never brough up, even when they have kids who will get abused and neglected in the future too. Why? Because Bridget was "good" from the beggining? Because she didn't beloged with villains, but Ulyanna and the other's did?

—Also, why are they called VKs? I thought the term meant it was because they were the kids from the villains, not because they were kid villains.

—The ending was so?? This movie felt like it had no stakes despite Cinderella getting killed halfway through. (That scene with Charming was really dark, btw)

—The entire movie felt like it was building onto something, like some plotwist, some climax, and there was no payoff. We didn't even see the Dance they kept mentioning like it was going to be an important scene.

—I am not letting go the implication that even if the Queen of Heart's wasn't evil, Wonderland still refused to be a part of Auradon and Red still wasn't invited to Auradon Prep.

[wazzappp]

MOAR SNEK THOUGHTS

I can not belive that this au is what it took for me to realize Lisa has Reptile Nerd Weirdgirl vibes oh my GOD. Anyway once Robbie decides he's finally starting to be alright with this and let's Lisa hang out for Snake Time she is HYPED (poor boy is not used to this much attention and having his scales called pretty is very weird but also??? Very flattering????).

Robbie is not educated in the ways of snakery so when he transforms, ready for his 12 hours of weirdness, it's not GREAT to see his lower half looking like a battered glitter jelly bag from Claire's. Lisa shows up ready for a movie marathon and is EXTATIC. She's honestly been wondering if this was going to happen and has the pleasure (unfortunate duty) of delivering the good news (the dreaded long-ening).

Also. LOTS of my awful handwriting in this I do not expect you to read that so here's a transcript below the cut ok bye luv u

Picture one:

Lisa: ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmyGOD YOUR VENTRAL SCALES ARE AS WIDE AS MY WHOLE ARM!!!! Ohhhhh and your vertebral scales aren't as raised as I would expect! I wonder what species you're most closely related to? Normally you could go based off of color but uh. Not even pink corn or hognose snakes get THIS pink. AND YOURE SO SHINY!!

Picture 2:

Lisa: Ohhhh even your shed skin is sparkly! I wonder if there's magic in it? I wonder if I made a shawl or something out of it, would it keep ghosts off me? Can I keep some?

Robbie: ... Lisa it. It's DEAD. SKIN.

Lisa: I know. Can I keep some? Hmm. I wonder how many sheds you have left. You gotta be close to fully grown by now.

Robbie: What?

Lisa: Yeah! Snakes shed their old skin so they can get bigger and longer! Some Anacondas even-

Robbie: What do you mean "GET BIGGER"