#I shall write part four

[qoldenskies]

hrmmmmmm gamers do not panic but i think i might lower the chapter count of CW to 26 in order to condense some stuff.... some Things

[icewindandboringhorror]

The evil slow creep of it being like "haha these will just be quick little side quests, not much effort at all!" and then noticing each one is getting progressively longer than the last, thus no longer being minimal effort.. auGh....

[chirpingchorus]

I almost got this version of Street Spirit done in one go, but the last riff at the very end with the ring and pinky fingers did me in. Curse you, Jonny...

^ BANE OF MY EXISTENCE because the other tricky parts are at least fun to play once you learn them. The pain never ends with this final bit.

[becausegoodheroesdeservekidneys]

I think the reader's response to this post is probably going to either be "That's incredibly minor" or "Holy shit YES I'M ALSO PROUD", depending on people's personal experiences with academia, but:

Today I am incredibly proud of one of my students.

In the interests of disguising identities, let's call them Ceri. Ceri is one of my third year undergrads (meaning their final year, for anyone unfamiliar with UK uni systems.) They transferred to us last year, and within two weeks I was giving them the contact info to get to Student Services and get themself screened for ADHD; they have some mental health struggles, but I clocked pretty quickly that they STRUGGLE with procrastination, and punctuality, and attending 9am lectures in particular. Naturally, as is the way of my people, it took them a further four months to remember to go to the screening. Lol. Lmao. Rofl, in fact.

But, they did it eventually! Their screening lit up like a Christmas tree at the ADHD section, and they got a free laptop and optional one week extensions and a study support worker named Claire. This has helped tremendously, and although mental health + until-then-unsupported ADHD meant their academic profile had slid sideways somewhat, with the new tools available and a couple of resits they passed the year and hit this year running.

Until, that is, the last fortnight.

Now, I take them for a Habitat Management module that has two assessments: an academic poster presentation before Christmas, and a site-specific management plan in May. Naturally this means we are at that happy point in the year for the poster presentations. I give out the briefs at the start of the year, so they've had them since October; I've also been periodically checking in with them all for weeks, to make sure they don't have any major burning questions. The poster presentation was to pick a species reintroduction project, pull the habitat feasibility study out of it, and then critique that study; Ceri chose to look at the hen harrier reintroductions proposed for the southern UK. All good.

Which brings us nicely to today! Ceri's presentation is scheduled for 2.30. At 11am-1pm, I am lecturing the first years on Biodiversity, while Ceri is learning about environmental impact assessment with a colleague I shall call Aeron. This means we are separately occupied during those same hours.

Nevertheless, Aeron messages me at about 12.

"I think Ceri needs to see you after your lecture," he writes. "They're panicking, I genuinely think they might cry. I'm worried. Are you free at 1?"

I say I am. At 1, I get lunch and sit in the common area; Ceri comes to see me. To my personal shame, imagine all of the following takes place while I stuff my face with potato.

Now: this part is going to be uncomfortably familiar to anyone who has ever tried higher education with ADHD, especially unmedicated. It certainly was for me. All I can say is, I never had the courage to take the step here that Ceri did.

"I have to confess," they said quietly, and Aeron was right, they were fighting back tears. "My mental health has been so, so bad for the last fortnight. I've left it way, way too late. I don't have anything to present."

"Nothing at all?" I asked.

"I've been researching," they said helplessly. "I found loads on the decline of the hen harrier. But it wasn't until last night that I finally found a habitat feasibility study to critique. Generally... I've been burying my head about it, and it just got later and later. I thought I should come in for Aeron's lecture, and I should at least tell you."

This part is a minor thing, right? But honestly, I remember being in the grip of that particular shame spiral. I never did manage to tell my lecturers to their faces. I just avoided. I honestly can't imagine having the courage it took them to come in and tell me this, rather than just staying home and avoiding me.

"I think..." they said hesitantly, "I know I can submit up to a week late, for a capped mark. I think I need to do that, and apply for extenuating circumstances. But then I'll have both Aeron's assignment and yours due at the same time."

Which meant they would crumble under the pressure and likely struggle to pass both; so me, being as noble and heroic as I unarguably am, stopped eating potato and said, "Let's make that plan B."

(It was good potato. I am a hero.)

So, we made plan A: I moved their timeslot to 4.30, giving them three and a half hours. The shining piece of luck in this whole thing was that this was the crunch time assignment - if it had been Aeron's, they'd have had to try and write a 3000 report in that time. But for me, all they had to write was an academic poster, and those things are light on words by design. We found them a Canva template, and then we quickly sketched out a recommended structure based on the brief: if it's habitat feasibility, look at food availability, nesting site availability, and mortality risks in the target release site. Bullet point each. Bullet point how well the study assessed each. Write a quick intro and conclusion. Take notes as you go, and present the poster itself at 4.30.

"You think I should try?" they asked doubtfully, looking like I'd just asked them to go mano-a-mano with a feral badger.

"If you run out of time, so be it," I said. "But your brain is trying to protect you from a non-existent tiger. That's why you've procrastinated - it's been horrible, and you've been shame spiralling, and your brain is trying to shield you from the negative experience; but it's the wrong type of help for this situation! So while you're sitting there working on it, hating life, every time your brain goes 'This is hopeless, I can't do it', you think right back 'Yes I can, it just sucks.' And you carry on. Good?"

"Good," they said. "I'm going to mainline coffee and hole up in the library. Enjoy your potato."

And then, of course, I had to go and watch the other students' presentations, so that was the end of me being any help at all. I spent all afternoon wondering if they were going to manage it, or if I would be getting a message at 4.25 telling me they'd failed, and would have to submit late and hope for an EC.

And Tumblrs

Tumblrs

Let me FUCKING tell you

They turned up at 4.15, fifteen minutes early, wearing a mask of grim, harrowed determination and fuelled by spite and coffee, and they pulled up that poster and started presenting and yes, okay, I'll admit their actual delivery was dramatically unpolished and yes, they forgot to include the taxanomic name for the hen harrier on the poster and yes, fine, I admit that there were more than a few awkward moments where they lost their place in their hastily scribbled notebook but LET ME FUCKING TELL YOU -

They smashed it. It was well-critiqued, it had a map, it had full citations, it had a section on the hen harrier's specific ecology and role in the ecosystem, it had notes on their specific conservation measures. They described case studies they'd read about elsewhere. They answered the questions we threw at them with competence and depth. There was analysis. All that background research they'd done came right to the fore. They were even within the time limit by 15 seconds.

You would never have known they'd produced it in three hours, from a quivering and terrified mess fighting the bodily urge to dehydrate via tear ducts. After they left, the second marker and I looked at each other and went "So that was a 2:1, right?"

I caught up with Aeron downstairs and he was beaming. Apparently Ceri had seen him on their way out, and had gone over to talk to him. Aeron said the difference between the Ceri of this morning and the Ceri of then was like two different people; in four hours, they'd gone from their voice literally breaking as they admitted the problem, ashamed and broken, to being relaxed and happy and smiling.

"I reckon I've passed," they apparently told Aeron, pleased. "Maybe even a 2:2. There's things I wish I'd had the time to do better, but I'll be happy if I passed."

They won't know until late January what they got, because we're not allowed to release marks until 20 term days after hand-in, and the Christmas holidays are about to hit. But I'm really hoping I can be there when they're released.

But mostly, I'm just... insanely proud of them. I cannot tell you how happy I am. And I know, I know, obviously this is not a practice I would want to see them do regularly, or indeed ever again, and it only worked because they were fucking lucky with the assignment format, but like... when life is just punching you in the face, and you hit a breaking point... isn't it nice? That just this once, you pull off a miracle, and it's fixed? The disaster you thought was about to ruin you is gone? To get that relief?

Anyway. Super super proud today.

[clxja16]

Not Actually Together

Charles Leclerc X Reader

Genre: fake dating au!

Warnings: swearing, emotionally dramatic

Word Count: 11K+

Author's Note: okay so I tried to do it a little different this time. usually i write like three/four part series, because it's easier for my brain. but i don't think people like that so i just wrote it all, so this is one long part but a somewhat satisfactory conclusion. lmk what you guys thinks.. thank you to anyone who enjoys this. imma be honest it feels a little melodramatic.

---------------

It had been a few weeks since Charles first mentioned Alexandra to you. Since then, you’d pieced together bits of their relationship but he was careful to keep it discreet. You didn’t ask questions, and he didn’t offer details. It was better that way. Today, though, was different. It was the last race before the summer break, and as usual, Charles was driving you to the track.

The early morning sun filtered through the car windows, casting a golden glow over the roads. The hum of the engine was a familiar backdrop to your thoughts. In the beginning, Charles had been rigid about the drive to the track—no touching the radio, no deviations from his carefully curated playlists. But over time, he’d loosened up. First, he’d let you choose the music on practice days. Then, gradually, he began trusting your taste entirely. Now, it was almost expected of you to play the music for the drive. 

You weren’t always sure if he liked what you chose, though. He never said much about it. But every now and then, after he parked the car, you’d catch him adding one of your songs to his personal playlist. It was a small thing, but it made your chest warm in a way you couldn’t quite explain.

Today was no different. As the car rolled to a stop, you saw him pull out his phone and add another song. The corner of your mouth lifted in a faint smile. “Shall we head in?” Charles asked, turning to look at you.  

His eyes—those eyes—always seemed to catch you off guard. People argued over whether they were green or blue, but to you, they were something else entirely. When he looked at you like that, it was impossible not to feel something. Something deep and unspoken. Charles wasn’t yours. He would never be yours. But the way he looked at you—that was yours, and yours alone. 

“After you,” you said, smiling up at him. It was a sweet, genuine smile, the kind that made his heart skip a beat.

Charles wasn’t sure when it had started, but your smile had become his undoing. Every time you flashed it at him—soft, warm, and just a little teasing—he felt his cheeks heat and his stomach flip. It was ridiculous, really. He wasn’t yours, and he never would be. But when you smiled like that, you owned him, if only for a moment.   

He stepped out of the car and came around to your side, opening the door with a quiet grace. He held out his hand, and you took it without hesitation. His grip was firm, grounding, as he helped you out of the car. Together, you walked toward the entrance, his hand still in yours.  

To anyone watching, you looked like the picture of a perfect couple—two people completely in love, completely in sync. But you and Charles knew the truth. Or at least, you thought you did.

-

At the race, Charles had crossed the finish line in fourth place. It wasn’t a terrible result, but you knew he wouldn’t be happy—not when he’d started on the front row, not when he’d been aiming for the podium. You waited for him in the garage, watching as he went through the motions of post-race interviews in the media pen. When he finally returned, his expression was unreadable, his usual spark dimmed by disappointment.

He didn’t say a word as he walked past you. You followed him silently, giving him the space he seemed to need. The two of you entered his dressing room, the door clicking shut behind you, and still, he remained quiet. You didn’t push him to talk. You knew better than anyone how Charles processed his emotions—how he needed time to sort through the frustration before he could voice it.  

The silence stretched between you, heavy but not uncomfortable. You were used to this, to the way he retreated into himself after a race that didn’t go as he planned. But then his phone buzzed, breaking the stillness. Alexandra’s name lit up the screen, her picture flashing brightly.

Charles’s face softened as he answered the call, a smile spreading across his lips—a smile you couldn’t remember ever eliciting from him. It was warm, genuine, and effortless, the kind of smile that made your chest ache. You didn’t stay to listen. Instead, you slipped out of the room, leaving him to talk to her in private. 

As you wandered through the paddock, you felt the weight of your anonymity settle over you. Without Charles by your side, you were just another face in the crowd. No cameras followed you, no fans called out your name, no one demanded your attention. For a moment, you told yourself you liked it this way—the peace, the freedom, the ability to move unnoticed. You repeated it like a mantra, trying to convince yourself that this was what you wanted.

But deep down, you knew the truth. You didn’t mind the chaos that came with being by Charles’s side. You didn’t mind the flashes of cameras, the constant attention, or the noise. Because being with him made it all worth it. He was the reason you endured it, the reason you smiled through it. And now, as you walked alone, the absence of it all felt like a void you couldn’t quite fill.  

You told yourself you liked the solitude, but the ache in your chest told a different story. 

- 

Charles watched you walk out of the room as he answered Alexandra’s call, the door closing softly behind you. For a moment, he hesitated, his gaze lingering on the space where you’d just been. A part of him wanted to hang up the phone, to follow after you, to take you by the hand and  be with you for a quiet stroll. He loved those moments with you. The moments where the world seemed to fade away and it was just the two of you, moving in sync through the chaos of the paddock.

He loved the way you held onto him a little tighter when fans approached, your fingers curling around his arm as if he were your anchor. He loved how you’d gently tug him toward the crowd, your voice soft but insistent as you reminded him to acknowledge the people who adored him. 

And then there were the photos—the endless requests from fans eager to capture a moment with him. You never seemed to mind the interruptions. You’d stand patiently by his side, your hand still in his, as he posed for pictures and signed autographs. 

As he listened to Alexandra’s voice on the other end of the line, his thoughts drifted back to you. He wondered where you were now, if you were wandering the paddock alone or finding a quiet corner to sit and wait. He wondered if you missed him as much as he suddenly missed you. But the call demanded his attention, and so he stayed, his heart being tugged in two different directions.

“Charles,” Alexandra says his name through the phone, “you’re gonna come tonight, right?” 

Charles brings himself back to pay attention to Alexandra, “yeah, yeah.” 

“And you’re gonna bring y/n right?”  Alexandra questions, excitement evident in her voice, “I really do want to meet her.”  

The idea of you and Alexandra meeting sends a ripple of unease through Charles. He doesn’t have a valid reason for the two of you not to meet—after all, you’re his fake girlfriend, and Alex is his real one. But the thought of the two worlds colliding makes him tense. He hesitates, choosing his words carefully. “I don’t know, Alex. I can ask y/n, but she’s not really a clubbing person. And honestly, I’m not in the mood to party tonight.”  

Alexandra’s voice takes on a pleading edge. “Please, Charles. We don’t ever do anything together—not in public, at least.”  

“Alex, that’s just how…” 

“Charles I know that’s how it has to be, and I love hanging out at home with you, I really do. But it would be nice to go out for once, to feel like we’re… normal. And if you bring y/n, it would be the perfect opportunity. No one would suspect anything.” Alex makes her case, and Charles doesn’t want to deny her.  

Her words hang in the air, and Charles can hear the longing in her voice. Alexandra isn’t just asking for a night out; she’s asking for a chance to exist in his world, even if it’s just for a few hours. She wants to feel like she matters, like she’s more than a secret tucked away in the shadows of his life.

“I will ask,” Charles says, his resistance wavering, “but if y/n says no, then i’m not going tonight.  She has made it clear how she feels about this, and I'm not going to make a fool out of her.”  

“I understand,” Alexandra replies, though her sigh betrays her disappointment. She doesn’t like this feeling of being second to you—not when she’s the one in the real relationship with Charles. It’s a bitter pill to swallow, knowing that she has to share him with someone who doesn’t even truly have a claim on him.  

As the call ends, Alexandra stares at her phone, a mix of emotions swirling inside her. She loves Charles, but sometimes she wonders if she’s just another piece in the carefully constructed puzzle of his life. She wants to be more than that—more than the girl he hides away, more than the one who has to beg for a night out. But for now, she’ll take what she can get, even if it means sharing him with you.

-

As you and Charles walk back towards the car, after the events of the day, Charles asks, “what are you doing tonight?”  

You sigh, “I’m hoping to pack, my flight home is tomorrow in the late morning.” 

Charles stops in his tracks, his brow furrowing as his thoughts shift. “You’re not coming to Monaco with me?” His voice is tinged with surprise, almost disbelief, as if the idea of you not being there hadn’t even crossed his mind. 

You turn to face him, noticing the way his expression falters. “I’ll be in Monaco before you have to go to the Netherlands,” you reassure him, your tone gentle. “But no, I’m not going straight to Monaco from here.”

Charles stands still, a few paces behind you, his eyes searching yours. For a moment, you think you see a flicker of pain in his gaze—something raw and unspoken. “I just thought…” he begins, his voice trailing off as he struggles to find the right words. He looks at you with those eyes—the ones that always seem to see straight through you, the ones that hold a world of emotions you can’t always decipher. “I just thought you were coming home with me.”

You offer him a smile, that sweet, reassuring smile that he loves, and take a step closer to him. “Charles,” you say softly, “I’ll be back in Monaco before you can even miss me.”  But the truth is, he’s already missing you. He hasn’t even let go of you yet, and already he’s dreading the emptiness your absence will leave behind.  

You hold out your hand to him, a silent invitation to close the distance between you. For a moment, he hesitates, his emotions swirling just beneath the surface. Then, with a quiet resolve, he takes the first step forward, his hand slipping into yours. His grip is firm, almost as if he’s afraid you’ll slip away too soon. 

The two of you walk toward the car, Charles reaches the passenger side first, opening the door for you with a small, almost reflexive gesture. You slide into the seat, murmuring a quiet “thank you,” but you notice the way his movements seem to slow, more deliberate than usual. As he walks around the car to the driver’s side, his mind races. There’s something he needs to ask you, something he doesn’t want to ask of you. He tries to find the right words, weighing each one carefully. This isn’t a conversation he can rush—it requires caution, a gentle touch. 

When he finally settles into the driver’s seat, the car door closing with a soft thud, the silence between you feels heavier than before. You glance at him, noticing the way his hands grip the steering wheel a little too tightly, the way his jaw tenses as he stares straight ahead. It’s clear he has something on his mind, something he’s struggling to put into words. 

“Charles,” you call out softly, looking at him cautiously, “what's on your mind?” 

Charles freezes, looking like a deer caught in headlights, and you smile at him.  Charles sighs, running his hand through his hair.  “Alex wants to meet you,” he admits.   

You physically cannot hide your surprise, “Oh.” You don’t know what to say.  Your mind races, trying to process the idea of meeting Alexandra. She seems nice—kind, beautiful, and clearly someone who makes Charles happy. There’s no logical reason to refuse, but the thought still makes you feel awkward,  “Sure,” you smile, “when is a good time?”  

Charles hesitates, his gaze dropping for a moment before meeting yours again. “Well,” he begins, taking a deep breath, “she was thinking tonight, there’s this party at this club.”  

“Charles,” you start to shake your head, “that’s not really…” 

“I know,” he interrupts, his words tumbling out faster now, as if he’s trying to explain before you can object. “Alex wants to go, and she thinks it would be something we could do in public if you’re there. Since, you know, all we usually do is hang out at home. But if you say no, y/n, I won’t go. I promise.” He takes another breath, ready to say more, but you cut him off this time.  

“Don’t do that,” you say sharply, your voice rising as your face hardens with anger. “Do not make it seem like you can’t do something because of me, Charles.” The way you say his name—cold, clipped—makes him flinch. It’s not the way you usually say it, and the shift in tone stings. “Do not act like I’m the reason we’re in this situation.” 

Charles’s eyes widen, and he quickly shakes his head. “No, no, that’s not what I’m trying to do, y/n,” he says, his voice earnest. He looks at you with those eyes—the ones that always seem to make you weak—and you feel yourself soften, just a little. “Alex wants to meet you because we spend a lot of time together. And that’s not your fault or your doing. She just wants to know who I’m spending my time with, and she thought tonight would be a good chance for that.” He looks down at his lap, his shoulders slumping. “If you don’t want to go, I won’t force you. We can just go back to the hotel, and we’ll figure out another time for you to meet Alex. I just meant… if you say no, then it’s no. I won’t argue with your decision.”  

You sigh, the tension in your chest easing slightly. None of this is ideal—not the fake relationship, not the secrecy, not the way Charles is caught between you and Alex. But you know it’s not his fault. “I’m sorry,” you say quietly, your gaze dropping as you take a deep breath. “I know this situation wasn’t your idea. It’s what the team wanted, and I shouldn’t blame you.” You pause, then look up at him, forcing a small smile. “I’ll go tonight. I’ll meet Alex tonight.” 

Charles looks up at you, studying your face.  “Are you sure?”  He asks softly, his expression showing a mix of relief and concern.  

“Yeah it could be fun,” you smile, that sweet smile, that Charles loves so much.  There’s a silence that falls over you both, as Charles looks at you with those eyes, and there’s so many unspoken thoughts behind them.  

“Thank you,” Charles whispers to you.  

-

Much later that evening as you adorned an outfit befitting of a night out. Charles and you made your way to the club.  You and Charles walk hand in hand, into the club, he waves at some of the fans that spot him.  Inside, it’s much more crowded than you expect.  Charles pulls you closer to him, as he weaves his way through the crowd.  You know that there were gonna be several of the drivers and their girlfriends out tonight.  

As you approach the area that the drivers are gathering at you spot Kika.  You and her have formed a simple friendship, just from seeing each other at the races.  You and her aren’t exactly close, but she is definitely someone you find comfort in.  You smile and wave at her, as you find a seat next to her.  

“I thought parties like this weren’t your thing?” she shouts over the music in your ear.  

“They’re not, but Charles asked me to come.” Kika nods, as she hands you a shot.  Without hesitation, you down it—and then two more in quick succession. Kika watches with a mix of amusement and concern, giggling at your boldness. She’s not sure if you’re a regular drinker, but your actions suggest something is on your mind.  

Meanwhile, Charles is a few feet away, mingling with fellow drivers like Pierre and Carlos. They’re deep in conversation, their words drowned out by the music. Charles is in his element, laughing and gesturing animatedly, while you and Kika share a quieter moment amidst the chaos.  

You watch as Charles rises from his seat, his figure cutting through the dim, pulsating lights of the club. He disappears into the crowd, his broad shoulders and confident stride making him easy to track—at first. But as the sea of faces shifts and sways, the crowd swallows him whole, and your eyes lose him in the blur of bodies and flashing lights. You crane your neck, trying to catch another glimpse, but he’s gone. 

Moments later, you spot him again. This time, he’s not alone. Standing beside him is Alexandra, her presence commanding attention even in the chaotic atmosphere. The club’s lighting seems to bend around her, casting a soft, golden glow on her flawless skin. She moves with an effortless grace, her every step exuding confidence and poise. Her beauty is undeniable—radiant, almost otherworldly.

You can’t help but notice how perfectly she fits into this world, how she seems to belong in a way you never could. Her smile is dazzling, her laughter carrying over the music as she leans in to say something to Charles. He laughs too, his expression relaxed and open in a way you can’t bring out of him. 

Your eyes follow them as they draw closer.  “y/n,” Charles calls your name, and he looks at you with those eyes.  Those eyes, with that look, that belong to you and only you.  He gives you that look, and your heart breaks knowing that’s the only thing you have.  “This is Alexandra.”  He steps aside, presenting her to you.  His tone is polite, but there’s a flicker of unease in his expression, as if he’s bracing for impact.

“Hi,” you say with a big smile, as she moves to hug you and you are forced to stand and hug her back.  

“Hi,” Alex says breathlessly, and even her voice is beautiful.  “It’s so nice to meet you, Charles says nothing but praises about you.”  

For a split second, your heart skips a beat. Charles talks about me? The thought sends a rush of warmth through you, but it’s quickly replaced by doubt. You force a blush, playing along. “Charles says nothing but wonderful things about you too,” you lie, your voice steady despite the ache in your chest. You realize, with a sinking feeling, that her words are probably just as hollow. Charles doesn’t talk about Alexandra to you, and you doubt he’s ever mentioned you to her.  

“I’m so grateful that you let Charles ask me out,” Alex says with a genuine smile, even her smile is beautiful.  

“Of course,” you say, your smile tightening, “it really isn’t my place to tell him who he can and can’t date.”  

Alex giggles, a sound that’s light and carefree. “And thank god your relationship isn’t real,” she adds, as if it’s the most casual thing in the world. “I mean, I knew Charles was in a relationship when I started hitting on him, so I’m just relieved it wasn’t a real one.”  

Your breath catches, and you’re not sure if you manage to keep your expression neutral. “I mean, thank god,” you echo with an awkward chuckle, your mind racing. Did she really just say that? You glance at Charles, but he’s already looking away, his jaw tight. “You guys should go get a drink or something,” you suggest quickly, desperate to end the conversation.

“Yeah, we’re gonna go check out the bar,” Alex says as she turns back and looks at Charles to point at the bar.  She turns back to look at you, still smiling so radiantly, “it was so nice to meet you, let’s hang out sometime.”  

You nod, “of course we must have lunch or something.”  You watch as they walk away, your smile fading the moment they’re out of sight. You sink back into your seat, reaching for another shot on the table. You down it in one gulp, the burn of the alcohol doing little to numb the sting of Alex’s words. You want to believe she didn’t mean it the way it sounded, but the doubt lingers.

“Did she say she knew?” Kika’s voice cuts through your thoughts, her tone sharp and accusing.

“I think it sounds worse than-” you shake your head as you talk.  

“No,” Kika interjects, “it sounds like she was willing to be a homewrecker.” 

“Kika, I think you’re exaggerating,” you reply, trying to laugh it off, but the sound falls flat.

“Girl, be so for real right now,” Kika snaps, leaning closer. “She just admitted she knew Charles was in a relationship when she made a move on him. That’s not normal.” 

“But we’re not actually together,” you retort. 

“She didn’t know that,” Kika fires back. “All she knew was that he was in a relationship. That’s messed up, and you know it.”

Kika raises her eyebrows, daring you to disagree. You sigh, your shoulders slumping. There’s no point in arguing. Not that any of it matters now.  

-

The rest of that night is a blur, the edges softened by too many drinks and the weight of unspoken words. You and Charles don’t discuss Alexandra again. The next morning, you leave Belgium before he does, slipping away without fanfare. The summer break stretches before you, a welcome reprieve filled with family and distance. The time away gives you space to breathe, to think, to untangle the mess of emotions tied to Charles.

Two weeks pass, and you convince yourself you’ve figured it all out. The conclusion is clear: you don’t like Charles. Not in that way at least. The hours spent together, the shared smiles, the quiet moments—they were just part of the act.  You tell yourself you’ve mistaken his kindness for something more.  That your feelings are nothing more than a byproduct of the close proximity. You repeat it like a mantra: You don’t like Charles. You don’t like Charles.  

By the time you land at Nice Côte d'Azur Airport, you’ve almost convinced yourself it’s true. Charles insisted on picking you up, despite you arguing that a taxi would be fine. You protested, but he wouldn’t budge. And now, as you spot him weaving through the crowd, your resolve wavers.  

He looks… different. Or maybe it’s just that you’ve forgotten the way his presence makes you blush, the way his eyes light up when he sees you. Your chest tightens as he approaches, and you realize just how much you’ve missed him.  

“Hi,” he says, slightly out of breath, as if he’d been running to you. Before you can respond, he’s pulling you into a hug, his arms wrapping around you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. “I missed you,” he murmurs into your shoulder, so softly that you wonder if you imagined it.  

“Hi,” you reply, your voice muffled against his chest. You hug him back, your hands gripping the fabric of his shirt as if to anchor yourself. When he finally pulls away, he looks at you with those eyes—the ones that belong to you and only you.  

You can’t help but smile, and when you do, Charles’s heart skips a beat. He’s waited two weeks to see that smile, the one that lights up your face and makes his stomach flip. It’s the smile he’s come to love, though he’d never say it out loud.  

“Let’s go home,” he says, holding out his hand to you. The word home lingers in the air, heavy with meaning. You take his hand, your fingers slotting perfectly into his, and something about the way he says it makes your chest ache.  

Charles grabs your suitcase, his free hand still holding yours, and the two of you make your way to the car. The airport buzzes around you, but at this moment, it feels like it’s just the two of you, walking toward something you’re both too afraid to name.  

The drive from the airport to Charles’ apartment is quiet.  The hum of the car engine and the soft music you play, filling the space between you. You stare out the window, watching the familiar streets of Monaco blur past. Charles glances at you occasionally, his fingers tapping the steering wheel as if he’s searching for an opening to speak. But the words never come, and neither do yours.

When you arrive, you look up at the building before you.  You try to remind yourself that everything from here on out is just an act.  Charles carries your suitcase upstairs, his movements brisk and efficient. You follow him, your stomach twisting with a mix of anticipation and dread. The door to his apartment swings open, and the smell of something delicious wafts out—garlic, herbs, and warmth. 

“Welcome back!” a cheery voice calls out, as Alexandra rounds the corner to greet you.  

You freeze seeing her standing there.  She has an apron tied around her waist, subtle sweat beads drip down the sides of your face.  The smile she wears is genuine and kind.  She looks breathtaking at this moment.  Even the disheveled, homebody, tirelessly working version of her is stunningly beautiful. 

“Y/N! It’s so good to finally meet you properly,” she says, pulling you into a hug before you can react. Her embrace is warm, her perfume soft and floral. “Charles has told me so much about you.”

You stiffen, your arms moving awkwardly up to hug her back.  Over her shoulder, you catch Charles’s gaze. He looks uneasy, his jaw tight as he sets your suitcase down. 

“Alex wanted to make something to welcome you back,” Charles says, his voice carefully measured.  

Alexandra pulls away, her smile still radiant, and glowing.  “I made pasta, I hope you like it,” she says as she plants a soft kiss on Charles' cheek before returning to the kitchen. The act makes you clench your jaw, how you wish that it was you doing that.  

You try to remind yourself that you don’t like Charles.  “That was really kind of you Alex,” you say walking past Charles and towards the kitchen.  

“I know I love a good home cooked meal after a long flight,” Alex says as she plates the food, “I thought you would enjoy the same.”  She brings the plates to the dining table.  

She ushers you toward the dining table, which is set with candles and a bottle of wine. The scene is so domestic, so perfect, that it makes your chest ache. You glance at Charles, but he’s avoiding your eyes, busying himself with pouring glasses of water.

“Please, come sit,” she says.  You take your seat across from Alexandra.  You can tell she’s worked hard on this meal.  

“It smells amazing,” you say, your voice tight as you smile. You pick up your fork, your appetite gone, but you force yourself to take a bite. It’s delicious, of course.

“Tell me all about your summer,” Alexandra says, she looks more beautiful in the candle light, “Charles said you were with family.” 

“It was good,” you say, “quiet.  Different.” 

“That sounds lovely,” she says, her tone warm. “I’ve been here most of the break. Charles has been such a great host.”

You glance at him again, but he’s staring at his plate, his fork pushing food around without eating. The awkwardness in the room is cutting, though Alexandra seems oblivious—or maybe she’s just that good at pretending.

“It’s nice to finally have you here,” she continues, reaching for the wine bottle. “Charles talks about you all the time. It’s like I already know you.”

“Does he?” you ask with a bit of a force chuckle, “I hope it’s nothing but good things.” 

“Oh of course,” Alexandra says as she looks at Charles, nothing but love in her eyes, “I think it would literally kill him to say a negative thing about you.” 

You smile, looking back at your plate.  Charles looks at you, that smile you wear isn’t the same.  It’s not the smile that he loves.  It’s different, it’s a sad smile.  “I’m glad he’s not telling lies,” you finally say looking at Alexandra.  You can feel Charles’ gaze on you, but you don’t meet it.  

The rest of the meal passes in a blur. Alexandra fills the silence with stories about her summer, her laughter bright and easy. You nod along, your responses polite but distant. Charles stays quiet, his presence a heavy weight at the table.

When the meal is over, Alexandra insists on cleaning up. “You two must be tired,” she says, shooing you toward the living room. “Go relax. I’ve got this.”

“Thank you again for cooking,” you say.  

“Of course,” Alexandra smiles, “It was so nice having you. Now go unwind.” 

You don’t argue. You follow Charles into the living room, you try to remind yourself once more. You don’t have genuine feelings for Charles.  He sits on the couch, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands.

“Charles,” you call out to him softly.  

He looks up, his eyes tired. “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice rough. “I didn’t know she was going to do all this.”

You sit beside him, your hands clasped in your lap. “She’s… really kind.”

Charles sighs, his hands gripping the edge of the couch as if anchoring himself. “Yeah, she is,” he murmurs, his voice low and strained. He looks at you, his eyes searching yours for something—understanding, maybe, or forgiveness. But the words don’t come, and the silence between you grows heavier.  

You lean further back into the couch, your gaze fixed on the ceiling. “When the season is over, you can be more open about your relationship with her,” you say, your tone carefully neutral. “No more pretending. No more… me.”  

Charles flinches, his jaw tightening as he stares at the floor. His fingers tap restlessly against his knee, a telltale sign of his unease. “It’s not that simple,” he says finally, his voice rough, though he doesn’t elaborate.  

You turn to look at him, your heart aching at the conflict etched across his face. “Isn’t it?” you ask softly, though you already know the answer.  

For a moment, he doesn’t respond. His eyes drop to his hands, his shoulders slumping under the weight of everything left unsaid. The sound of Alexandra humming in the kitchen fills the silence, a painful reminder of the life Charles has built—and the one you’re no longer sure you belong in.  Neither of you say anything more for the night.  

-

Time doesn’t allow you to wallow. It never does. It throws you into the next event before you can catch your breath, before you can prepare. Time forces you to face the crowd, to put on the mask and play the part. You sit in the passenger seat, staring out the window at the paddock entrance. The sea of photographers waits, their cameras poised, ready to capture every and all moments.  

Charles comes around to your side, opening the door for you. His hand is steady, but his eyes show his concern.  

“You okay?” he asks, his voice soft, his gaze searching yours.  

“Yeah,” you force a smile, though it feels brittle on your lips. You take his outstretched hand, your fingers slipping into his as you step out of the car. His grip is firm, grounding, and for a moment, you let yourself lean into him.  

“I forgot about this,” you murmur, your voice barely audible over the hum of the paddock.  

Charles’s jaw tightens, guilt flickering across his face. “We can take the other entrance,” he offers, his tone hesitant. The other entrance is quieter, less crowded, but it feels like running away.  

You shake your head, your resolve hardening. “It’s okay.”  

The moment you take the first step forward, the cameras erupt. Flashes of light burst around you, blinding and relentless. Charles’ smile is bright, effortless, as he waves at the crowd. You mirror him, your own smile plastered on, but your grip on his hand tightens instinctively.  

His thumb brushes against the back of your hand, a small, unconscious gesture that sends a shiver up your spine. You glance at him, but he’s focused on the crowd, his smile never wavering. His grip on your hand tightens slightly, as if he’s afraid you’ll slip away.  

“Charles,” you say softly, your voice barely audible over the noise. You’ve just arrived at the Ferrari motorhome, the chaos of the paddock fading behind you.  

He looks down at you, his eyes dark and unreadable. “Yeah?”  

You hesitate, the words catching in your throat. This isn’t real, you remind yourself. It’s just an act. But the way he’s looking at you—like you’re the only person in the world—makes it hard to breathe.  

“Nothing,” you say finally, your voice barely a whisper.  

Charles lets go of your hand, and the loss of his touch is immediate. You clench your hands into fists, your nails digging into your palms to keep from reaching for him. You watch him disappear into a room, his figure swallowed by the shadows. You know you’ll barely see him for the rest of the day, and the thought leaves you hollow.  

Hours pass in a blur. You make yourself comfortable in the Ferrari motorhome, but your mind is anything but at ease. The weight of your feelings presses down on you, a constant ache in your chest. You don’t notice Charles approaching until he’s standing in front of you, his presence pulling you back to the present.  

“Hey,” he says softly, taking a seat across from you. His fingers move instinctively, brushing a strand of hair from your face. The gesture is so tender, so intimate, that it steals your breath. “What’s on your mind?”  

“Nothing,” you say, shaking your head gently. “Nothing important.”  

Charles’s gaze softens, his hand lingering near your face for a moment before he pulls it back. “Everything about you is important to me,” he says, his tone casual, as if the words don’t carry the weight of the world.  

Your heart flutters, a traitorous warmth spreading through your chest. You want to believe him, to let yourself fall into the comfort of his words, but you can’t. Not when you know this is an act.  

“We’re heading to the track,” he says, standing up. “I’ll see you later.”  

You nod, your throat too tight to speak. As he turns to leave, he pauses, his hand brushing against your shoulder. Then, without warning, he leans down and plants a soft kiss on your cheek.  

The act is so unexpected, so intimate, that it leaves you frozen. Your mind races, a million questions swirling in your head. Why? There are no cameras here, no fans watching. No one to perform for. So why?  

Charles pulls away, his eyes meeting yours for a brief, charged moment. Then he’s gone, leaving you sitting there, your hand pressed to your cheek as if to hold onto the warmth of his lips.  

-

The Dutch Grand Prix unfolds like all the others—chaotic, exhilarating, and filled with the same familiar routines. You play your part as Charles’ girlfriend flawlessly, smiling for the cameras, laughing at his jokes, and holding his hand as you navigate the paddock. But every moment together leaves you more confused than the last. 

Time, however, is relentless. As soon as the race ends on Sunday, you’re boarding a plane. The Italian Grand Prix is next, and the entire week is packed with events for Charles. There’s no time to breathe, no time to process. Sponsor appearances, media commitments, team meetings—his schedule is a whirlwind, leaving little room for anything else.

In a strange way, you’re grateful for it. The constant busyness means your time together is limited, and that makes it easier to keep your walls up. If you don’t see him, you can’t fall deeper into the trap of pretending this is real. If you don’t hear his voice, you can’t let yourself believe the way he says your name means something more. Distance, you tell yourself, is your only defense against the ache in your chest.

But even as you cling to that logic, a part of you wishes for just one more moment—one more stolen glance, one more brush of his hand against yours. Just one more chance to pretend, even if only for a moment.

Today is Sunday, race day—the final act of this week-long spectacle in Italy. The air is thick with anticipation, but Charles has been in a slightly sour mood since yesterday’s qualifying, where he secured fourth on the grid. You watch him now in his dressing room, his movements sharp and focused as he goes through his timing drills. The rhythmic sound of his steps fills the room, a steady beat that mirrors the tension in his shoulders.  

“Don’t tire yourself out before the race even starts,” you tease, your voice light and playful, cutting through the silence.  

Charles pauses, glancing over at you. The corners of his mouth twitch, and for a moment, the weight on his shoulders seems to lift. He’s grateful you’re here, sitting in the quiet with him, offering a moment of calm before the storm.  

“I’m just psyching myself up,” he says, flashing you a small but genuine smile.  

You smile, your tone softening. “You’re going to do great out there,” you say, your voice steady and sure. “I have nothing but faith in you that you’ll bring home the results you want.”  

Charles stops completely, his drills forgotten as he turns to face you. His eyes—soft, caring, and impossibly kind—meet yours, and for a moment, the world narrows to just the two of you. The look he gives you, that look.  Something so raw and intimate just below the surface. 

He might not be yours, he may never be yours, but this look—that look—is yours.  

“Thank you,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper, as if the words are too fragile to speak aloud.  

The room feels warmer somehow, the air between you charged with unspoken emotions. You don’t say anything else; you don’t need to. The quiet understanding between you is enough.  

Charles takes a deep breath, his shoulders relaxing as he exhales. He gives you one last lingering look before turning back to his preparations, a small but steady smile playing on his lips.  

You stay there, watching him, your presence a silent anchor as he readies himself for the race ahead.  

-

You watch the race from the garage, your eyes glued to the monitors tracking Charles’s car as it weaves through the pack. The tension is palpable, every overtake, every corner, every lap tightening the knot in your chest. When Charles fights his way into first place, you can’t help but jump to your feet, cheering alongside the rest of the crew. You hold your breath as he maintains his lead, the checkered flag feeling like it’s an eternity away.  

The race drags on, each lap stretching time to its limits. You count them down, your heart pounding in sync with the roar of the engines. As Charles approaches the final corner on the final lap, the garage erupts. You’re jumping, screaming, caught up in the electric energy of the moment. There isn’t a garage in the paddock cheering louder than Ferrari.  

The second the checkered flag waves, you’re running. You sprint with the team to parc ferme, your feet barely touching the ground. You arrive before Charles does, your chest heaving as you watch his car pull up in front of the number 1 sign.  

You don’t have to pretend to be happy for him. You don’t think about the cameras or the fans or the performance you’re supposed to put on. All you care about is Charles Leclerc, standing there in his red Ferrari, victorious at the Italian Grand Prix.  At the home grand prix. 

Charles wastes no time. He leaps out of the car, his movements fueled by adrenaline and joy. He crashes into Fred first, hugging his team principal with a force that nearly knocks them both over. The crowd surges forward, hands reaching out to pat him on the back, to share in this moment of triumph. The atmosphere is intoxicating, a heady mix of pride, joy, and sheer exhilaration. You’re overwhelmed by it all—by the love for Formula One, for Ferrari, for the tifosi, and most of all, for Charles.  

When Charles steps back from Fred, he pulls off his helmet, his hair damp with sweat, his face flushed with victory. His eyes scan the crowd, and when they land on you, everything else seems to fade.  

He doesn’t think. He doesn’t hesitate.  He acts on his emotions alone. 

Charles strides toward you, his hands cupping your face with surprising gentleness. And then he kisses you.  

The kiss is raw, unfiltered, and filled with emotions you can’t name. It feels real—so real that it steals your breath. The world around you disappears, the noise of the crowd fading into a distant hum. All you can feel is the warmth of his lips on yours, the way his hands tremble against your skin. His fingers grasping at the ends of your hair.  For a moment, it feels like you’re the only two people in the world.  

When he pulls away, he doesn’t say a word. His eyes search yours, a flicker of something unspoken passing between you. But before either of you can speak, Lando and Oscar are there, clapping him on the back, pulling him into the chaos of celebration.  

You’re left standing there, your fingers brushing against your lips as if to hold onto the memory of his kiss. The warmth lingers, a bittersweet reminder of a moment that felt too real to be part of the act.  

-

Alexandra watches the scene unfold from her hotel room, the glow of the television casting shadows across her face. She sees Charles leap out of his car, his joy radiating through the screen. She sees him hug Fred, the team, the crew—his smile so wide it could light up the entire paddock. And then she sees you.  

Her breath catches as Charles pulls off his helmet, his eyes scanning the crowd. When they land on you, something shifts. His expression softens, his movements slow, and for a moment, it’s like the rest of the world ceases to exist.  

She watches, her heart pounding, as he strides toward you. She watches his hands cup your face, so gently, so reverently, as if you’re the most precious thing in the world. And then she watches him kiss you.  

It’s not the kind of kiss they share—quick, polite, perfunctory. No, this kiss is raw, unfiltered, and filled with an intensity that makes her chest ache. She sees the way his fingers tremble against your skin, the way his body leans into yours as if he can’t bear to let go. She sees the way he looks at you when he pulls away, his eyes brimming with an overwhelming amount of love.  

Alexandra feels the tears before she even realizes she’s crying. They roll down her cheeks, hot and relentless, as she clutches the edge of the bed. She tries to tell herself it’s an act, a performance, nothing more than a show for the cameras. But deep down, she knows better.  

She’s tried to ignore it—the way Charles’s eyes follow you instinctively, like you’re the only person in the room. She’s tried to ignore the way he speaks about you, his voice softening with a fondness he’s never shown her. She’s tried to ignore how your smile can brighten his mood, even on his darkest days. She’s tried to ignore how gentle he is with you, how careful, as if you’re something fragile and precious.  

But now, watching the two of you from this private hotel room, far from the crowds and cameras, she can’t ignore it anymore. You look like a real couple. You look like his girlfriend.  

Alexandra knows she can’t compete with someone like you. You’re the sunlight breaking through on a rainy day, the sparkle on the ocean under the moonlight. You’re the tinkle of the brightest star, the kind of light that draws people in and holds them captive. You’re a shiny emerald in a sea of diamonds—unique, irreplaceable, unforgettable.  

You are everything.  

And she is nothing.  At the very least she is nothing compared to you for Charles. 

The realization crashes over her like a wave, pulling her under until she can’t breathe. She curls into herself, the tears coming harder now, as the weight of it all settles in her chest. She loves him—she loves him so much—but it doesn’t matter. Because he loves you.  

And there’s nothing she can do to change that.  

-

After the podium celebrations, Charles disappears into a sea of cameras that follow him towards the press conference. You slip away, weaving through the crowd toward the motorhome. The weight of the day presses on your shoulders, but it’s the stares—the lingering gazes of strangers—that make your skin crawl. You can feel their eyes on you, their whispers trailing behind you like shadows.  

You quicken your pace, your heart pounding in your chest, when you hear the rapid click of footsteps behind you. You turn, and there’s Kika, breathless and flushed, her face etched with something you can’t quite place. Pity. Concern. Fear.  

“Y/N,” she says softly, her voice trembling as if she’s afraid to shatter you.  

“What is it?” you ask, though the unease in her expression tells you everything you need to know. Your stomach twists as she hands you her phone, the screen glowing with a headline that stops you cold:  

‘Charles Leclerc Cheating? Two Is Better Than One.’

Your hands tremble as you scroll through the article. It’s filled with photos—Charles and Alexandra, laughing on a sunlit terrace, walking hand in hand through the streets of Monaco in the middle of night, sharing quiet moments that feel too intimate to be real. Some of the pictures date back to the Hungarian Grand Prix, a timeline of a relationship you didn’t know existed.  

And then, at the bottom of the article, there it is: a photo of you and Charles from just hours ago. His hands cupping your face, his lips pressed to yours in a kiss that felt so real, so raw, so yours.  

The caption beneath it reads: ‘Was it just a summer fling, or is it a torrid affair for the Formula One driver?’  

The article is careful to blur Alexandra’s face and omit her name, but the damage is done. The world sees her. The world sees you. And the world sees Charles caught between the two.  

“He said he wouldn’t do this to me,” you whisper, your voice breaking as you hand the phone back to Kika. The words feel hollow, like a promise that was never meant to be kept.  

You turn on your heel, your feet carrying you toward the motorhome before your mind can catch up. Kika follows close behind, her steps hurried and anxious.  

“Y/N, wait—what are you going to do?” she asks, her voice laced with worry.  

“I’m going home,” you say, the words final, absolute. “Tell Charles I had an emergency. Or don’t tell him anything at all. But I’m not staying here for another second.”  

Kika reaches for your arm, her touch gentle but insistent. “Let me come with you. I’ll make sure you get home safely.”  

You shake your head, your vision blurring with unshed tears. “Pierre’s going to be looking for you. You don’t have to worry about me.”  

You step into the motorhome, your movements quick and mechanical as you gather your things. Kika watches from the doorway, her expression torn between concern and helplessness.  

“Thank you, Kika,” you say softly, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “For everything.”  

Before she can respond, you’re gone, disappearing into the chaos of the paddock. Kika stands there, frozen, as she watches you walk away—your figure growing smaller and smaller until you vanish from sight.  

The noise of the paddock fades behind you, replaced by the hollow echo of your footsteps. You don’t look back.  

-

The press conference with the podium finishers is winding down, the atmosphere in the room relaxed as the moderator announces the final questions. Charles sits between Lando and Oscar, his smile easy but tired, the adrenaline of the race still buzzing faintly under his skin.  

Then, like a crack of thunder, a reporter shoots to his feet, his voice cutting through the calm.  

“Charles!” he shouts, not waiting to be called on. “Care to comment on the article that was just released minutes ago?”  

The room erupts into chaos. Reporters scramble for their phones, fingers flying across screens as they search for the article. Murmurs ripple through the crowd, growing louder with each passing second. Charles glances at Lando and Oscar, their faces mirroring his own confusion.  

“I’m sorry, what article?” Charles asks, forcing a chuckle, though his stomach twists with unease. He can’t imagine what they’re talking about, but the tension in the room is palpable.  

The reporter doesn’t hesitate. “Are you cheating on your girlfriend, Y/N?”  

The silence that follows is deafening. Every eye in the room locks onto Charles, every camera lens zooms in on his face. Even Lando and Oscar turn to him, their expressions a mix of shock and curiosity.  

Charles freezes, his mind going blank. The question hangs in the air, heavy and suffocating. He opens his mouth to respond, but no words come out. His heart pounds in his chest, his thoughts racing in a thousand directions at once.  

Before he can gather himself, a Ferrari representative rushes the stage, their voice sharp and commanding. “We’re going to end right there. Thank you for your time!”  

The room explodes into noise as crew members swarm Charles, pulling him to his feet and ushering him toward the exit. Reporters surge forward, shouting questions, their voices overlapping in a cacophony of accusations and demands. Cameras flash, their blinding lights adding to the chaos.  

Charles stumbles as he’s pushed through the crowd, his mind spinning. He fumbles for his phone, desperate to see the article, but the noise around him is overwhelming. The questions keep coming, each one louder and more invasive than the last.  

“Charles, is it true?”  

“Who is the other woman?”  

“How long has this been going on?”  

He doesn’t answer. He can’t. His thoughts are a jumbled mess, his pulse racing as he’s hurried toward the Ferrari motorhome. The crowd follows, a relentless wave of voices and cameras that he can’t escape.  

When he finally reaches the motorhome, he bursts inside, his eyes scanning the room frantically. “Y/N?” he calls, his voice strained.  

The room is empty. His heart sinks, panic clawing at his chest.  

“She’s not here,” a voice says softly.  

Charles turns to see Kika standing in the doorway, her face pale and her expression grim. “I didn’t know what to do,” she admits, her voice trembling. “So I waited here for you, trying to figure out what to say.”  

“Where is Y/N?” Charles demands, his voice cracking under the weight of his fear.  

Kika hesitates, her eyes filled with pity. “She said she was going home.”  

Charles stares at her, his mind reeling. “Home? What do you mean, home?”

Kika shakes her head, her voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know, Charles. I don’t know.  Do you know where home is for Y/N?”  

The words hit him like a punch to the gut. He sinks into a chair, his hands trembling as he clutches his phone. The noise outside fades into the background, replaced by the deafening silence of his own thoughts.  

-

After hours of enduring a relentless lecture from Ferrari’s PR team, Charles is finally allowed to leave. The weight of the world feels crushing on his shoulders as he steps out into the cool night air. His mind races, trying to remember where home is for you. He knows you told him—back at the beginning of the season, right after you signed the contract agreeing to pretend to be his girlfriend.  

It was supposed to be a simple arrangement, a business deal. But that first day, after the ink had dried, you and him went on a little date—just to get to know each other. You shared many little details about yourself: where you were from, your favorite foods, the music you loved. He listened, but he didn’t commit it to memory. He didn’t think he needed to.  

Now, standing alone in the dimly lit parking lot, he curses himself for not paying closer attention. He should have remembered. He could have remembered. If he wanted to, he would have.   

When he reaches his car, he opens the passenger-side door, his body moving on autopilot. He stops, his hand frozen on the handle, as the reality hits him: you’re not here. You’re not sitting in the seat beside him, laughing at his terrible jokes or scrolling through your phone to find the perfect playlist.  

His chest aches, a sharp, hollow pain that makes it hard to breathe. He closes the door gently, as if you’re there sitting inside, and walks around to the driver’s side.  

As he slips into the car, he takes a deep breath, his eyes drifting to the empty passenger seat. For a moment, he can almost see you there—your smile, your hand resting on the console, your voice filling the silence with stories and laughter. But the illusion shatters as quickly as it forms, leaving him alone in the quiet.  

He starts the engine, the sound jarring in the stillness. He doesn’t remember to put on any music. You always did that for him. The silence is deafening, a constant reminder of your absence.  The drive to the hotel feels endless. His mind is elsewhere, replaying every moment he took for granted, every detail he failed to hold onto.  

When he finally pulls into the hotel parking lot, he sits there for a moment, his hands gripping the steering wheel. The weight of his loneliness presses down on him, heavier than any race-day pressure.  He doesn’t know how to fix this. He doesn’t even know where to start.  

As Charles makes his way to his hotel room, his thoughts are consumed by you. The weight of the day, the accusations, the chaos—it all fades into the background as he imagines what he’ll say when he sees you. When he opens the door, the room is dark, but he can see a figure standing there, silhouetted against the faint light from the window.  

For a moment, his heart leaps. He thinks—no, he hopes—it’s you. That you’ve come back, that you’re standing there waiting for him, and that he can fix this. He hopes that home, for you, is with him.  

But as the figure steps forward, the hope shatters. It’s not you. It’s Alexandra.  

Charles doesn’t try to hide his disappointment. His shoulders slump, his face falls, and the breath he didn’t realize he was holding escapes in a quiet, defeated sigh. The reaction is like a knife to Alexandra’s heart. She doesn’t need words to confirm what she already knows: it was never going to be her.  

“Alex,” Charles says softly, his voice heavy with exhaustion. “What are you doing here?”  

He moves to walk past her, not sparing her another glance, but she stops him with her voice.  

“Did you ever love me, Charles?” Her words tremble, fragile and raw, as if they might break under the weight of her own fear. She needs to hear the truth from him, even if it destroys her.  

Charles freezes, his back still to her. He does love Alexandra. He loves her in a way that is unique to her, a way that is tender and real. In another lifetime, in another world, he might have been happy with her. But this isn’t that lifetime, and this isn’t that world.  

“I do love you, Alex,” he says finally, his voice barely above a whisper. He still doesn’t turn to face her. “Just… not in the way I love Y/N.”  

Alexandra’s breath hitches, a sob catching in her throat. “Why?” she asks, her voice breaking. “Why lead me on like this, Charles? Why let me fall in love with you when you knew you wouldn’t feel the same?”  

Charles finally turns to look at her, his heart aching at the sight of her tear-streaked face. The pain he’s caused her is written plainly in her eyes, and it cuts deeper than he expected.  

“I thought,” he begins, his voice faltering, “I thought you could stop me from falling in love with Y/N.”  

The admission hangs in the air, heavy and suffocating. Alexandra stares at him, her chest heaving as she tries to process his words.  

Charles steps closer, his hands reaching up to gently cup her face. His thumbs brush away her tears, his touch soft and soothing. She leans into it, just for a moment, savoring the warmth of his hands one last time.  

“I didn’t mean to hurt you like this,” he whispers, his voice thick with regret.  

Alexandra pulls his hands away from her face, her own trembling as she holds them for a moment before letting go. “Goodbye, Charles,” she says, her voice steady despite the tears still streaming down her cheeks.  

She turns to leave, her steps slow and deliberate. But as she reaches the doorway, she pauses, her back to him. “I hope you get her back,” she says softly, her voice carrying a bittersweet finality.  

And then she’s gone, the door closing softly behind her.  

Charles stands there, alone in the silence, his hands still outstretched as if reaching for something—or someone—who’s no longer there.  

-

“Get up!” a voice barks, sharp and impatient, cutting through the fog of Charles’s hangover.  

His head pounds like a drum, each throb synchronized with the blinding sunlight streaming through the window. He groans, squinting against the assault of light, his mouth dry and sticky as he smacks his lips together. The events of last night are a blur—fragmented images and muffled sounds that refuse to connect into a coherent memory.  

“Get up already!” the voice shouts again, louder this time, coming from the foot of the bed.  

Charles rolls over, his body heavy and uncooperative, to see Pierre standing there, arms crossed and a scowl etched across his face. Charles doesn’t bother with a response. Instead, he collapses back into the pillows, the plush mattress swallowing him whole.  

He hears Pierre scoff, the sound dripping with exasperation, but he can’t bring himself to care. Not until Pierre grabs him by the ankles and yanks him halfway off the bed.  

“What the fuck?” Charles snaps, his voice hoarse and ragged as he kicks out, trying to free himself. He glares at Pierre, his eyes bloodshot and wild.  

Pierre doesn’t let go. “I found Y/N.”  

The words hit Charles like a bucket of ice water. His exhaustion, his irritation, his pounding headache—it all evaporates in an instant. He sits up abruptly, his heart racing as he scrambles to his feet.  

“Where?” he demands, his voice sharp and urgent.  

“Andrea’s already getting the jet ready,” Pierre says, watching as Charles frantically rummages through the room, shoving clothes and belongings into a bag. “You’ve got an hour to get to the airport.”  

Charles’s hands tremble as he zips up the bag, his mind racing. He doesn’t know what he’s going to say to you. He doesn’t know how you’ll react. But he knows one thing with absolute certainty: he needs to see you.  

His heart pounds in his chest, each beat a reminder of what’s at stake. He grabs his phone, his keys, his bag, and heads for the door, Pierre trailing behind him.  

“Charles,” Pierre calls after him, his tone softer now. “Don’t mess this up.”  

Charles doesn’t respond. He’s already out the door, his mind focused on one thing and one thing only: you.  

-

Charles stands in front of your door, his heart pounding in his chest. On the other side is you. You, with your sweet smile that lights up every room. You, with the music he’s come to love because it reminds him of you. You, with all your kindness, your patience, your unwavering love. He hopes that you can forgive him, that you can accept him, that you can love him the way he loves you.  

He knocks on the door, the sound echoing in the quiet hallway. He holds his breath, his hand trembling as he waits. The seconds stretch into an eternity, each one heavier than the last. When the door finally opens, the sight of you hits him like a wave.  

You’re there, standing in the doorway, and for a moment, the world stops. The sight of you feels like the first light of morning breaking through the darkness. It feels like the first sip of a cold drink on a sweltering summer day. It feels like coming home.  

And then, just as quickly, it’s ripped away.  

You slam the door in his face.  

“Y/N,” Charles calls out, his voice desperate, raw. He presses his forehead against the door, his hand flat against the wood as if he can reach through it to you. “Please,” he begs, his voice cracking. “Please open the door.”  

His pleas make your heart ache, the sound of his voice tugging at something deep inside you. Against your better judgment, your feet carry you back to the door. You open it again, and the sight of him is like a punch to the gut.  

Charles looks like he’s walked through hell to get here. His eyes are bloodshot, his face pale and drawn. His hair is disheveled, sticking out in every direction, and his clothes are wrinkled, as if he’s been wearing them for days. He looks broken, lost, and utterly exhausted.  

You don’t say a word as you step back, allowing him to enter your home. He walks in slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. The look he gives you isn’t the one you’ve come to love—the one filled with warmth and affection. This look is different. It’s sad, heavy with regret and pain and loneliness. It’s a look that makes your chest tighten.  

“Y/N,” he says your name softly, so gently it brings tears to your eyes. “I’m sorry.”  

“No,” you say, shaking your head as you turn away from him. “No, no, no.” Your voice breaks, and you wipe at the tears already spilling down your cheeks. “You don’t get to come here and say you’re sorry and expect everything to be forgiven.”  

You turn back to face him, your anger flaring. “You,” you say, pointing at him, your finger jabbing the air with every word as you step closer. “You told me you wouldn’t do this. You told me you wouldn’t make a fool out of me. You told me you wouldn’t let me look like some stupid little girl. You promised me, Charles.”  

Your voice cracks as you say his name, and the tears come harder. Charles doesn’t hesitate. He wraps his arms around you, pulling you into a hug so tight it feels like he’s trying to hold you together. His warmth, his embrace—it feels like home.  

“I’m sorry,” he whispers against your neck, his voice trembling. “I’m so sorry.”  

You break down completely in his arms, your legs giving out as the weight of everything crashes over you. The two of you sink to the floor in the middle of your living room, Charles holding you as you cry. From the moment you saw the article, this is where you wanted to be—in his arms, safe and loved.  

But he’s not yours. He never was yours. And he will never be yours.  

The thought makes you push away from him, scrambling to your feet. Charles reaches for you instinctively, trying to pull you back, but you’re faster, putting distance between you.  

“What are you doing here, Charles?” you ask, your voice laced with disdain. “Shouldn’t you be with Alex?”  

“Why would I be with her?” he says, his voice steady but pleading. “I want to be with you.”  

He steps closer, his hands cupping your face. You lean into his touch despite yourself, not wanting to lose the warmth of his hands.  

“She’s your girlfriend, Charles,” you say, your voice hollow as you look at him but don’t really see him.  

“I broke it off with her,” he says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.  

“Why would you do that?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. You’re still not putting the pieces together, and Charles doesn’t know if it’s because you’re naive to his feelings or if you just need him to say it out loud.  

But he doesn’t mind. He’ll say it today, tomorrow, next week, next month, or ten years from now if he has to.  

“I’m in love with you, Y/N,” he says, his voice firm and unwavering. “I am madly in love with you. I don’t want anyone but you.”  

You shake your head, your eyes searching the room as if looking for a camera, for proof that this is just another act. “No, no,” you say, your voice trembling. “If you were in love with me, why did you go out with Alexandra?”  

Charles sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Because I was an idiot,” he admits, his voice heavy with regret. “I was too blind to see what was right in front of me. And I will spend the rest of my life making it up to you if you’ll let me.”  

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you ask, more tears falling from your eyes, this time for a completely different reason.  

“Because I was a coward,” he says, his voice breaking. “And I was weak. But if you’ll have me, I’m yours. Y/N, I am all yours. All of me belongs to you and only you.”  

This boy—this man—who you’ve fallen so deeply in love with is yours. He’s yours for the taking. He’s yours and yours only. He belongs to you.

-------------------

tags: @charlesgirl16 @janeh22

[bonbonly]

𝐓𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: let her taste the fires of hell, or let her be mine and mine alone! - the young chaplain, charles leclerc, cannot control his desires when the very object of sin crosses his path: you. 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: this is a dark fic! you have been warned! do not read if you are not comfortable with dark fics or any of the following: noncon/dubcon, slapping/flogging, forced breeding, p in v, fingering, cunnilingus, carving, overstimming/edging, bondage, kidnapping 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 7.7k 𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: based on the hunchback of notre dame and hilda furacao! also guys... read the second part: You're My Religion

chaplain!charles waited impatiently at the front doors of the cathedral. his brow arched at the bell ringers who passed by him to attend to the younger chaplains. he bit the inside of his cheek, narrowing his eyes at father gasly who had just received a basket of bread and eggs, enough to share for two; however, father gasly had already promised father ocon the week before that when the bell ringer delivered the next basket of groceries, he would share 30% of the goods with him. that left 60%, and charles had made it very clear that would only have 50% of the basket, never 30%. he would never settle for less, no matter the circumstances. his head snapped back to face the street at the edge of the staircase down below, eyes searching for his specific bell ringer. the items he had listed were very simple: bread, cheese and a pint of milk. yet, the imbecile - as charles would put it - made it seem as if the young chaplain had asked for the finest meal in all of the country. he saw the boy run up the staircase, panting heavily,

"forgive me, father leclerc," the boy heaved, struggling to catch his breath. he thrusted the basket into the hands of the chaplain, "i believe i've bought everything that you asked for."

charles peered into the basket, frowning when he noticed only the bread and milk. the cheese was not present. he glared at the young boy, eyes shifting to the sky as he inhaled, sharply, "lord, grant me the strength to not strike this young lad for his incompetence," his eyes traveled down to the boy once more, "where is the cheese?"

"w-what? i swear the lady in the market gave it to me!" he cried out, burying his head inside the basket. charles pushed his head away as the boy continued to rant, "i swear she did! i even paid for it with the alms that were given to you, father leclerc! she put something inside along with the bread and milk, i am sure of it!" he watched charles shift through the basket once more, his nimble fingers pushing the slices of bread around when he noticed a thinly shaped parchment tucked between two slices. he pulled it out, flipping it around to see that it was folded into four pieces and he tossed the basket to the boy before opening the paper.

"god is a lie, tell your beloved peasants residing in the church that their foolish words shall no longer have appeal, so long as i live!"

charles crumpled the paper and tossed it down the stairs, a snarl on his lips as he glared at the boy, "who gave you this basket? who would dare write such heresy to be given to the devotees of god here?"

"i-i do not know! maybe the baskets were switched!" the boy reasoned, and charles yanked the basket from his hand and stormed into the cathedral, barking at the other men that blocked his path towards his cell. he was stopped quite shortly by father bozzi who beckoned him towards the main altar,

"father leclerc, you are causing quite the storm today," he commented, instantly raising a finger to silence charles' arguable words. he brought a hand over the younger man's shoulder, guiding him to stand right before the holy cross, hung gloriously above for all to see. the light from the glass windows shifted towards the cross, as if god himself was asking of charles to redirect his attention back to the being that expected better of him. he swallowed, thickly, taking in a deep breath as he closed his eyes, letting the still air of the cathedral silence his restless mind. "you must learn to control your emotions. it is bad to let your tongue slither around, you must hold it as you must your anger. you are to set an example to the other chaplains. in a month, you shall become a chapter priest. i have put good word for you to archdeacon vasseur, he cares for you tremendously, you are practically his son!"

the golden child of the cathedral, charles knew what his situation was. yet the pressure of it all, to be better than the others, to see to it that one day he would be the archdeacon. it was all too much for him to handle, to understand the expectations. his heart swelled at the praise, but the nagging sensation of what he had read from the parchment continued to persist and he let his eyes fall to the holy cross once more, "with such a divine presence in our lives, it irks me that there is someone amongst our town preaching heresy to the people."

"heresy? are you sure, father leclerc?" father bozzi furrowed his brows, leaning in closer to ensure the commonfolk around them would not be able to eavesdrop. charles jerked his head to guide them both to a corner before whispering into the man's ear,

"i am positive. one of the bell ringers came to me with my basket of bread and milk and inside was found a parchment that emphasized how god is a lie," charles noticed the way father bozzi's hands flung to his ears, deafening himself to such disgusting words. he shook his head, crossing himself before turning to father leclerc,

"heresy is condemned here. it is imperative to find the man that is behind all this and have him burned at the stake for such insolence. i shall have a word with the archdeacon very soon, father leclerc. as of now, the archdeacon wished for me to tell you that a local hospital is in need of some divine intervention. the archdeacon wants you to go see if you can save the poor souls before he passes away." father bozzi took a step backwards, bowing his head before departing to his cell.

as per archdeacon vasseur's command, charles took his small, worn-out copy of his bible which was a testament to how devoted he was to the catholic church and his rosary, his fingers toying with the beads as he departed down the large staircase out of the cathedral. his foot kicked up the crumpled paper from earlier, and he scowled as his foot stomped it further into the dusty ground before walking off as if nothing had transpired. the hospital was quite the distance, and as he continued to walk he decided to utter a few bible verses to relax his mind. father bozzi was right, he had to control his mind and thereby his tongue. he could not let his emotions flood him, nor could he illicit such hurtful remarks to those that upset him. he had to keep himself in check, and he prayed that the holy father would guide him through the dark, treacherous path of the mortal world. as he turned the corner, he noticed a small, run-down stall of necessities and in front, leaning against the edge was you with your head thrown back, eyes closed as you basked in the sunlight. charles gazed at you in confusion, unsure as to why you were not behind the stall when a large crowd of men pushed past him to gather around your enchanting frame.

"well, well, well... frederick, i expect the usual?" you cooed, running a hand through your hair before letting it glide down your neck to rest on your scantily covered bosom. the man, frederick, let out a hearty laugh, moving to stand besides you as he picked up a pint of milk, tossing you some coins before gulping the liquid down. he let some of it splash onto the top of your breasts, and you squealed at the sensation, swiping the droplets with your forefinger before gliding it into your mouth for a taste. the men around you sighed, dreamily, at your action and as your eyes traveled around the crowd, it fell onto charles who snarled at the sight of debauchery happening in front of him. this was why he hated stepping out of the cathedral, there was so much sin lurking around. he averted his eyes elsewhere, realizing that he had overstood his time in front of your stall and trudged forward, muttering at how lust destroys humans, how it easily corrupts the innocent. he gave you one more glance, and unknowingly, his eyes drifted down your neck to the fullness of your tits, watching the way they bounced as you jumped, clapping your hands at the sight of some man making a fool out of himself just for your entertainment. his gaze roamed down to the way your ass curved against your skirt, sticking out for any man to grab. his eyes snapped down to see his hand reach out into the open air and he took a step back in horror at his own action. you had to be a witch, tempting him into sin! he growled under his breath, storming off to his duty.

you were waiting for him at your stall when he returned, drumming your fingers against the makeshift wooden table as he passed by you with the same scowl on his lips.

"father leclerc!" you stood up, and then you clapped your hands to grab his attention. sensing that he would not stop, you rolled your eyes and hollered, "charles!" the smirk that was on your face was quickly replaced with fear as he charged towards you, slamming his bible down.

"comment osez-vous !" he shouted, watching you cower onto the wall behind your stall, "how dare you address me by my name, you insolent wench! a god fearing woman such as yourself should know better than to..." his words are silenced at the sight of the slightest sliver of parchment poking from underneath the fabric, the raised hand falling down to his side as his eyes flashed in anger. he bit his tongue, remembering the words of father bozzi, "what have you called me for, young woman?"

"i was wondering if you liked your basket of goods this morning," you forced a smile, darting your tongue out to wet your lips, and charles' anger grew once more, but so did a different feeling. those lips of yours, he craved it. he sighed out loud, wanting to open a verse of the bible to school you when his eyes stopped at your barely-covered breast, the parchment hiding in the corner mocking him. his hand delved onto your tits, roughly groping away as you gasped out loud at the sudden intrusion, feeling his fingers roll against your hardening nipples. he roughly yanked out the stash of parchment, tilting his head up to reform your beliefs when in a second, his head snapped to the side as a burning sensation bloomed onto his left cheek. his eyes peered to the sight of you rubbing your sore knuckles, having backhanded him across his face.

"even a man of your supposed god is not free from sin," you whispered, and just as he was about to smash your head with the milk pints, father gasly had walked over to his friend with a smile that continued to die down with each step that he took.

"what has happened here, ami?" he questioned, staring between charles and you. when receiving no answer, he frowned and draped an arm around his friend, turning him around to head back to the cathedral. you were biting your lip in frustration at the fact that your parchments were seized by charles, and even worse, the sight of his dark glare boring into your soul pressed you to find shelter soon for your own safety. charles was bound to inform the church, and while the idea of burning at the stake was gruesome, you believed that death was not one you should fear, but one you should accept.

however, charles did not inform the other fathers about his discovery. nor did he go to confess his sin of having wrongfully touched a woman. in his mind, if he told the other fathers about his discovery, they would ask how he obtained it. he could never lie in front of them, and if he told them the truth, they would be horrified. and then, if he confessed his sin, father sainz would be considered for chapter priest over him. he could not risk such a move. he had to be quiet, but the turmoil swirling inside him forced him to his knees, hands crossed as the rosary dangled from his fingers. he couldn't shake the image of your round tits, the warmth that he felt on his fingers. to be near a woman, to be even able to touch her. he ran his hands over his face, hoping that your intoxicating scent was still alive on his fingers. he glanced up to the holy cross he had perched on the wall, mouth running dry. he glanced over to the pint of milk he had received from you earlier, placed right next to stash of your written poster of heresy. lost in a daze, he scrambled over to unscrew the milk and he remembered the sight of the man pouring it over your breasts, how you licked a stripe of the liquid from your delicate finger. he was drowning in the thought of you, unable to withstand the temptation of sin. he was cursed with having always letting his emotions get the best of him, but this was not an emotion. it was an obsession. he took a sip of the milk, savoring its taste before pouring it down his head, his tongue - now let loose - lapping at the liquid as it trailed downwards, spilling onto the floor. his face covered in your milk, and he envisioned it as it truly being your milk which only made him yearn for you more. he grabbed the stash of parchments, unfolding and placing them onto his face as if they were napkins, the paper soaking up the milk droplets. the warmth of your skin was still imprinted onto the paper, he could smell you off of them. he groaned out loud, wishing his hands were not bound from the constraints of his duty as a servant of god, to be able to bury his face in those tits of yours to sing praises of you out loud. another needy moan escaped his lips, and he pulled the papers off him to see your heretic cries, your hurdled insults. each page a different set of twisted words targeting his church, his people, his beliefs. the bitch had tricked him, she had ruined his once pure mind. he crawled over to the wall frantically, glancing up to see the cross once more as he begged for forgiveness.

he begged, and begged, and continued to beg as tears fell from his eyes, his cheeks all rosy from the woeful tunes he sang. you had destroyed him, changed him. he was meant to be chapter priest in a month, and would soon lead an enviable life. no, no, no, how could you do this to him? you, of all people, a heretic! he sobbed once more, clutching the rosary to his chest as he asked the holy father to pardon him.

"forgive me! punish me but please forgive me!" he cried out, arms outstretched into the air as he kneeled in front of the wall. his chest heaved with each sob that bellowed from his gut. he believed his prayers to fall onto deaf ears, and for penance, he decided to starve himself. no eggs, no bread, no cheese and definitely no milk. he would switch to eating soup even worse to punish himself. perhaps if he did so, he would be forgiven, he would be seen as the ideal role model that he always was. the golden child, the one that was meant to carry the legacy of archdeacon vasseur, to restore glory to the catholic church. most importantly, he would be the one to make sure you pay for tempting to him to sin.

the well-awaited carnival took place in the center of town, a spectacle to behold. the dancers, the food, the jesters, the royal family making an appearance because they loved to take part in the lives of their people. the chaplains had returned to their cells after prayer, their ears stirring at the music that floated through the halls of the cathedral. charles was sipping his bowl of soup, its contents pitiful, when he received word from father gasly that he was to go outside and convince the people to attend mass tomorrow and in order to do so, they must put an end to the carnival. charles grimaced, despising the thought of having to step out of the cathedral once more. he loved to stay inside, loved to sit in his cell and recite the verses that he memorized with such love and adoration. the thought of having to step foot into a place of sin, the thought of you possible being there. it disgusted him.

yet, duties had to be done and he once again found himself with his bible and rosary in hand, watching the village folk run around, laughing with rum in their hands. he snarled, electing to sit beside the king who had beckoned him over with a welcoming hand. you'll enjoy the festivities, you'll feel welcome, the villagers always love to celebrate every good event, the king rambled and charles tuned him out, still holding to his belief that this place was an extension of hell. he was just about ready to excuse himself when he saw you sauntering up to the center of the stage, an outfit that made him part his lips with a dazed expression. your shirt hung loose off your shoulders, the corset tightening your waist which pushed your tits upward as you grabbed hold of your skirt and began to dance, seductively. some of the men from below the stage hopped on to join you, twirling you around while skipping to and fro. your eyes were fixated on charles, calling to him like the siren that you were. he averted his eyes, his grip tightening around his rosary as he saw you approaching the royal family. you curtsied, bowing your head and offered a rose to the princess who beamed in joy at such a simple act. their joy was short-lived when they saw you stalk over to charles, curtsying enough for him to glance at your cleavage, before standing up abruptly. a tease, a temptation, a witch. quite suddenly, you grabbed onto his rosary and wrapped it around his neck, pulling him close to your face as your lips brushed against his nose.

"your tricks won't work on me, satan," charles whispered, breathlessly. his words spoke one story, while his eyes told another. you smirked at his reaction, shaking your head,

"and yet you fall every single time, father, strange isn't it?"

when you pulled away, you let his rosary hit the ground as you went back to dancing. the king laughed out loud, commenting that this must be the chaplain's first interaction with a woman in his entire life but charles wasn't focused on that. he was focused on his cracked rosary, now shaped like a jagged knife. if he had it his way, he would bend you over in front of everyone and show the entire village how much of a whore you were. you would be screaming for mercy, begging him to let you go, and all he would do is laugh. heretics never deserved mercy. they didn't believe in the holy father that would grant them such mercy, so why should he? charles' jaw clenched at the thought, and he stood up and departed the carnival with lust clouding his thoughts.

it was late at night, the chaplains were back in their cells fast asleep before sunday mass. yet, charles was out searching through the streets for something... else. he couldn't hold his desires anymore, he couldn't control his thoughts. your power over him, it was revolting! and the only way to relieve his struggles, was to let it out on some prostitute that would throw herself at him. he remembered when he had been very young how father vettel - who was later kicked out of the cathedral - had been secretly seeing woman for his own pleasure. charles had seen a woman on her knees in the confession booth, her lips wrapped around father vettel's member as he groaned out loud, hips snapping to meet her lips. charles remembered witnessing the sinful exchange and being tempted to try it out on his own. it took weeks of penance to cleanse his mind after, but he feared that in his present day, it was impossible now. nothing could make him forget you. he stopped in front of a small hut, a dull candle shining through the broken window as he pushed the door open to see a prostitute fast asleep on her bed. he shut the door behind him, bringing the cloak down before towering over her sleeping form.

she deserved no kindness, her job itself was that of impurity. he set his cloak on her small table, beginning to undress. the shifting of clothes and jewelry caused her to stir in her sleep and when she opened her eyes groggily, a hand clasped around her mouth as the bed dipped at the additional weight of charles climbing in.

"not a word from you. i shall pay you a handsome sum if you do your job," he hissed, yanking her top down to expose her breasts. his hands came forward to softly knead the flesh, her gasps spurring him on as he began to squeeze, pinching her nipples harshly as she let out a cry in pain.

"father l-lec-"

"no!" he slapped her across her face, remembering when you had done the same to him. it boiled his blood that you would dare raise your hand at him, and he sucked his teeth, "you call me charles. i want to hear you say charles."

she whimpered, nodding her head as he lowered his face onto her tits, burying his face between them as he groaned out loud. they were so soft, so warm and beautiful and he ran his tongue over her hardened peaks, flicking them around before beginning to suck. she moaned, quietly, arching into him further as he wrapped his arms around her waist to bring her closer. whoever this whore was, she was going limp in his arms as he continued to maul at her tits, marking her. his lips trailed up to her neck, biting on her skin harshly as he pulled away to stare at her, "i'll need your help. i'm quite inexperienced in... such... acts of intimacy, but i need it to relieve my anger."

"i can gladly help you father..." she paused, noticing the way his eyes narrowed at her and she gulped, before responding "charles." she let her finger trail down the side of his face, but he caught hold of her hand and scoffed,

"don't... touch me, she wouldn't be able to anyway," he ignored the way the woman frowned at his words, not following along but as long as she paid him, she was happy to fulfill whatever he asked for.

it was hours later when charles exited the hut, glancing through the window to see the woman completely passed out on the bed, not an ounce of fabric covering her form. he smirked to himself, bringing the hood of his cloak closer to mask his identity. he was walking down the street when he saw you, standing there with a disgusted expression on your face.

"for a man of god, you commit every sin in the world and yet you are pardoned. how would the church feel knowing what you have done? with a prostitute?" you questioned, which only darkened his eyes as he walked over to where you stood.

"prostitutes are necessary evils, they help control a common man's lust," he replied.

"common man? or every man? you clearly couldn't control your lust. did you see her at mass? is there an affair taking place?" you snapped, circling around him and he laughed, a dark rich laugh as he took off his hood to stare directly into your eyes.

"you witch, you would know. if i had never seen you, my path would've stayed the same. but you... you!" he thrust his finger into your face, before wrapping his hand around your throat, "you disgusting whore, you've ruined me. you've destroyed everything i spent years working on! that prostitute was only meant to substitute you!"

he let his hand trail down to your arm, placing it behind you as he spun you around so that your back touched his chest. he inhaled the scent of your hair, murmuring praises as his lips danced down your neck. he stretched your shirt to expose your shoulder, the very one he saw in carnival earlier in the day and sunk his teeth, clamping your mouth shut to silence your screams. it was music to his ears. wriggling out of his grasps, you grabbed the rosary from his pockets and swung it at him. he groaned in pain, feeling a gash on his forehead as blood trickled down. when his eyes snapped upwards, he saw your form running away from him and he clutched onto the fallen rosary, seething in rage that you managed to escape him once again. mass would start in a couple hours, and he would pray to the holy father to let him have you, let him punish you for your wrongdoings and teach you how to behave.

charles was always gifted with music. it was one of his defining skills, and he was allowed to play the grand organ during mass. he finished his last drop of soup, shuddering at the foul taste that he created to punish himself and sank down on the cushioned stool, cracking his knuckles. he glanced down at his fingers, remembering the way they were knuckle-deep in the prostitute's cunt, the squelching of her juices as he kept thrusting them into her, his other hand rubbing her clit as she whimpered, telling him it was too much. he remembered slapping her, telling her to hold her tongue as he continued to work her to her climax. he curled his fingers inside her, watching her legs shake as they involuntarily spread further. he twisted his fingers inside her, her clit puffy from the way his thumb massaged it with fervor. her juices splattered onto him, and the wave of realization washed over him as his fingers delicately brushed against the keys. the buttons of music. he pushed them around, his eyes drifting to the ceiling of the cathedral as he played the first few chords he was accustomed to. the calling from god, the spirit that let his gospel be spread for the underprivileged that saw him as their savior. archdeacon vasseur was below near the main altar, welcoming in the devout christians that were attending mass. the organs above, the gold decorations shining in the light. they were curved, mesmerizing. they were you. he swore he saw you in the reflection of the organ, laughing and mocking him. berating, ridiculing, insulting, spitting at him. he felt an invisible force press down on the gash on his forehead, and he hissed as he stiffened, feeling the light above call out to him but the dark temptation pulling him back down.

unaware that the sermon had commenced below, charles smashed his fingers onto the organ, letting his emotions run wild as the chords become darker, more desperate. it was the call of a siren, the lustful whines of the devil that would not let him go. it wasn't his fault, it was never his fault! how could he resist you? the wench who had powers far greater than that of any man, it was hard! he was still young, still had much to learn and he screamed out loud as he felt his heart being torn to pieces, fingers still playing the ominous tune on the grand organ. it wasn't until father sainz and father gasly physically lifted and dragged charles away did his vision begin to clear, and he realized his mistake. no, he'd let archdeacon vasseur down. he made a fool of himself in front of everyone, he'd use his talent to procure something so evil! his despair was heightened when he was placed back in his cell to reflect and seek god to save his troubled soul as he sobbed in his bed, feeling like a disappointment. his tears cascaded down his cheeks, eyes searching for the holy father to lift him to heaven! he could not spend another second in this mortal world, as long as you lived. the parchment paper stash was on his desk, and he scowled at the sight of it, ripping it to shreds before exiting his cell and taking it to the fireplace just outside in the hallway. he tossed the pieces of paper inside, watching the way the small embers of the fire flickered and danced around, its orange tint glowing against the darkness surrounding it. The flame grew, spreading across the small piece of paper, the edges turning from a stark white to a dull charcoal. The visual haunted him, the flames reminding him of your hair, of your burning eyes, that desire that is eating him from inside. he needed you, he needed to have you in his arms. the smoke that emitted from the burnt papers swept over to him and he extended his arms, swiping at them to see if he could hold onto to it. when met with the air of his sins, he stared at the fire with tears in his eyes.

"elle sera à moi" he whispered underneath his breath, dousing the flames with the pot of water beside the fireplace.

the marketplace was rather quiet the very next morning. the men who would come in to have a chat with you found your stall empty, as if you had just left the entire town on short notice. the truth was, these men weren't lusting after you or trying to get a new deal. they were all part of your secret organization to preach athiesm. it was only a few of them anyway, and the trick with frederick a few days ago was part of your plan to gain the attention of a chaplain, any chaplain really, so that they could see god could not control every individual, their mind will wander and it's up to them to help each other to be better, not an invisible force. none of them would have predicted that the chaplain they strung the net for happened to be the worst one in the church. your presence missing sent fear in them, wondering if they would be hunted after by the catholic church for participating in these illegal activities. your friends assumed you to be dead, so did your poor, old parents and any of the bell ringers who brought their groceries from you.

"you should be grateful, mon diablesse," charles' words echoed through the empty corridor, his footsteps approaching your frame, "i could've easily turned you in, had you burned at the stake, stoned to death, flogged beyond recognition."

"death would be liberating," you spat at his face, the glob of saliva hitting the cut on his forehead and he wiped it away with the back of his hand, snarling at you, "you think you're so smart, so witty..." he paused, crouching down to face you directly, "so beautiful..." his knuckles brushed against your cheek tenderly, watching the way you recoiled under his touch, pulling your head far back as you could under the confines of rope that bound you to the corner. he had set fire to your house the night before, and when you fled out you had fallen right into his arms. your anguished screams infiltrated the cold, dead night and he grabbed a cane laying on the road to pummel against the back of your head. your body slipped into unconsciousness, and he carried you in his arms through the back of his cathedral. each step that he took up the staircase, his eyes watched your limp form, your tits brushing against his cloak, your hands hanging with your head thrown back, eyes closed as if you were in bliss. at the top of the staircase, he could see the holy cross from the opposite end of the cathedral, the light dimming, almost leaving him. he frowned, turning back to face you in his arms, "the devil is here, she shall be here until the holy father guides her to a righteous path, and then she shall be mine..."

his lips peppered kisses along your face, hovering over your lips before he let them envelop around yours. the softness of your lips, the way they warmed them. he could not resist the temptation any longer, he needed find a way to merge into you, to live inside you and have all this to himself. no one would ever touch you, speak to you or even look at you. you were his, all his.

your bounds were humiliating, having wrapped around your arms and legs and specifically around your tits to plump them up. they hurt at times, especially when charles would tug on the confines before slapping your tits, watching the way they were swollen and slightly purple from the lack of circulation. your arms were bound above your head, legs anchored to some weights that charles had found in father sainz's cell the other day. you would not escape him, you would not escape your destiny to understand the glory of god. this was your punishment for heresy, charles would see to it that he taught you everything, that you would understand why he was doing this. because he cared for you! he hadn't done anything to hurt you, yet. he was just fascinated, treating you like a child as he would spend hours every day reading the bible to you and explaining god's love for all beings, and strangely enough day by day, it almost felt as if the god he was referring to was him. your eyes should be on him, hands in prayer for him. not god, no charles should be your god. his desire for you was so strong, he selfishly assumed that even god shouldn't be able to cherish his finest creation: you. yes, you were broken and needed guidance, but perhaps thats why god created you! he wanted to spend extra time with you, and charles hated the thought of you with anyone other than him.

he had a flog in his hands, and every time your eyes would droop or you'd turn your head away, he'd instantly flog your tits harshly and grab your jaw, forcing you to look at him. not a fleck of dust deserved your attention. you'd whimper, feeling pain course through your blood as you tried not to cry. you knew you were stronger than this, that you could hold it out and find a way to escape. even if you wanted to grab the attention of the bell ringers, they'd know you as the girl who died. if you came back, they'd accuse you of being a witch and your death would be imminent. charles planned this all out, and you could tell with the way he looked at you that he never wanted you to ever leave him. on days when you would listen obediently, even asking questions for further explanations, he would reward you by loosening the bounds just a bit to let you breath better and he suck on your tits, rolling your nipples around as he watched you whine against his lips, growing needier as the days passed. you were becoming more reliant on him, the fraction of pleasure you would feel consuming your thoughts. you would recite verses and summarize what you learned just for him to reward you, to let you relax your sore limbs and the praise he gave you would go straight to your core.

"mon ange, you are doing so good," he cooed, kissing your cheek as his thumb ran along your bottom lip.

"chérie, look at you, all beautiful and basking in the light as the lord's prettiest creation," he stuck his finger into your mouth, watching you obediently begin sucking just like he had taught you the other day, eyes all wide and eager to worship him. he had you right where he wanted, devout to him so he could bless you with whatever you wanted. but, he should've known that your stubbornness was far greater than his love for god. in fact, it helped you clear your mind one day when you realized that you were acting like a cheap whore for him. you were better than this, stronger than this! you needed to escape, your mind was being twisted by him. after a very frustrating day where he was lectured by archdeacon vasseur about controlling his anger, he stormed to the hidden room to find you to help control his emotions. only to find you out of the confines with a stone rock that you had sharpened secretly, trying to climb through the window.

"espèce de fille insolente!" charles roared, yanking you by your hair as he tossed you to the stone floor. you groaned loudly in pain, your body still sore from having spent days bound like a present for him. he flipped you to your back, a hand on your throat as he brought you up, "how foolish i am to have thought that you were learning, that you were behaving well for me!"

"sometimes the lust clouds one's mind and some can escape, others such as yourself rot in it and becomes the very monster they sought to kill!" you hissed, and he tightened his grasp, watching you squirm, gasping for air. he lets go of you, letting your head hit the floor as he stands up and begins to undress.

"i was trying to be nice, so nice to you. i thought the devil had left you, it seems she is back and more dangerous than ever!" he tossed his belongings behind him and grabbed hold of the rope, pulling your hands to him as he began to wrap it around. he ignored your pleas, your whines at how your wrists were sore, how you would rather die than have to deal with this again and he slapped you across the face, silencing you instantly, "i should've done this the day i met you."

he fished through his discarded cloak for the broken rosary, letting it sway in front of your eyes. you gulped when you saw the jagged, sharp end. He let the broken rosary trail down from your lips to right between your breasts, and he licked his lips. slowly, he began to etch a cross into your soft, tender flesh. each line was precise, each stroke deliberate. he ignored the way tears fell from your eyes, trying your best not to scream in pain as his eyes watched the blood seep from your skin. as he carved, he leaned down and began to lap at the small beads of blood that welled up in the wake of the knife. his eyes never left yours, boring into your soul with deranged intensity. his tongue drifted down to your cunt, and he spit onto it, letting his tongue flatten on your clit before he began to move. thank god for that prostitute one night, she taught him so much. he bit down on your folds, flicking your clit around. his tongue delved into your inner walls, watching you arch your back as you cried louder, trying to push him off you but he quickly grabbed hold of your wrists, preventing you from leaving as he drank your delicious juice. he tilted his head upwards, your arousal glistening against his chin,

"if you want my forgiveness, recite to me one... at least one thing i taught you." he whispered, and you bucked your hips upwards,

"never. you are the very spawn of satan!" you hissed, which earned you a harsh slap on your clit, causing you to whine out loud. he bit the inside of his cheek, furiously rubbing your sensitive nub, your song of lust echoing through the cathedral as you cummed for the first time of the day. his thumb did not stop, instead he kept going faster while adding two fingers into your dripping cunt, curling them inside as you squealed at the oversensitivity.

"say one... say one verse," he spat, "one verse, putain."

"n-no!" you moaned, still feeling the burn of your skin from where he carved the cross on you. you would not give in, you would not let him take control of you again like he did last time. you knew better than this, you were one of the smartest women in the town before this monster took you. his fingers were relentless, scissoring into your cunt as you screamed, lost in the fog of your mind as you kept cumming and cumming around his fingers.

"say that im your god, say that you will only ever worship me, i am your savior, your idol, say it!" charles pulled his fingers away right when you were on the brink of another orgasm, and you let out a guttural scream, sobbing as your hips began to grind the air, searching for your lost release. you couldn't anymore, you couldn't hold back.

"y-you're my god... my savior... my idol," you whispered between whimpers, and a satisfied chuckle escaped his lips. he nodded his head before folding you into a mating press. your sore body was complying with his requests, your mind pounding as he hoisted your legs up to rest against his shoulders. his eyes hungrily soaked up the sight of the bleeding cross on the valley of your tits, and he rolled your nipples around, knowing how sensitive you were. this was the day he was waiting for, this was the day where he could finally claim you as his. he gave the shaft his throbbing cock a couple pumps, before sliding into you with a small moan escaping his lips.

"putain, tu te sens si bien," he whispered, rocking his hips against yours as you mewled out loud. he laughed at the sight of you, disheveled and worn out. even the devil could not be perfect at all times. he felt powerful, having tamed the devil and being the one whose cock was splitting you open. his thrusts became faster, your sobs becoming louder as he took what he believed to be rightfully his. he groped your tits, remembering his fascination with them when he first met you and leaned closed to latch his lips onto them again. the lewd sounds made you snap your head to the side, surprisingly feeling yourself growing wetter at the squelching of his cock inside your dripping pussy. "mon ange, the only way you will ever learn, the only way you will be mine forever is if you embrace what the holy father planned for your kind. bearing children and fearing him."

your glossy eyes flickered to him, a hint of fear at his words and he began to thrust harshly into you, your tits swaying as he began to pick up his pace once more, "a child will put you in your place. you will learn then. your tits will be swollen with milk, oh the thought of it...."

he leaned forward to bite down on your nipples, before sucking them and releasing them with a pop! "your belly will carry my child, and they will follow the virtuous path offered to them, not the words of a heretic who spreads her legs for a lustful man, no this is the union between two devotees in love with the creation of god." he pulled away to kiss your feet, running his tongue over your ankle as you moaned out loud, begging him to go deeper. you could feel your orgasm approaching, your mind telling you that this was wrong but you couldn't resist anymore. he let one of your wrap around his waist, letting his cock dig into your further. his finger brushed against the carved cross, applying pressure at some corners and the pain mingled with the pleasure, finally pushing you past the edge. your screams flooded the empty corridor as you squirted your release all over his relentless cock. he continued to thrust into you, letting your ride your waves of pleasure and with a soft whimper, his cock shot ropes of his cum in your walls. he continued to fuck you, hands on your hips as he wanted nothing to go to waste. when he pulled out, he stuffed his fingers into you, ignoring your wail at how sensitive you were. he was panting, making sure nothing leaked out of you. you would bear his child, you would denounce your heretic practices, you would stay with him forever and love god. you will worship him, and him alone.

the corridor is locked when he leaves, your body placed near a small fire-place as you slept. he draped you in his cloak for warmth, kissing your cheek lovingly before whispering how beautiful you would be as the mother to his children. when he returned downstairs, he was stopped by father bozzi and archdeacon vasseur who smiled at him, proudly.

"father leclerc, your virtuous path has inspired so many, we are seeing new people attend mass! it could not have been done with you," father bozzi grinned. both pair of eyes gazed at the archdeacon who clasped his hand on charles' shoulder,

"father leclerc, tomorrow is your ceremony to become chapter priest. and you will also receive the monsignor title!" archdeacon vassuer announced, and charles smiled, thanking for the honor.

charles stood in front of the altar, staring at the holy cross. he clasped his hands in prayer, smiling as he closed his eyes. he was being rewarded by the holy father for his good penance. he would stop eating soup, and eat good food again. he was being rewarded for his successful missionaries, for having converted previous non-believers into believers.

and most importantly, for having tamed the tempting devil.

[lovelyyandereaddictionpoint]

Yandere Hybrid Town (3) | Only Human

Part One, Two

Before your fateful encounter that led to the attention of your loyal canine neighbors and the adoring affection of cow-woman- Eudora you were left to your own devices. Managing your own chores and the sprucing up of your newly inherited property. But it’s exhausting working day in and out on such a big project; it’s a given that you search for something else to do. Something to keep the loneliness at bay as you endure the sneers and snickers from the townspeople. Specifically found in one of the most abandoned spots of the whole town the library. 

Ring Ring

“Hello is anyone in here?....Well if you are I’m just going to find what I need and check it out at the desk!”

Typically this would seem presumptuous for anyone to do but you had a sneaking suspicion your human status might have something to do with the missing librarian. Nonetheless, you did what you said grabbing a small amount and writing on the ledger conveniently left on the desk. Filling it out hoping that whoever was responsible for the neatly kept interior within the run-down library would realize you’d taken the initiative to borrow. Unbeknownst to you igniting a chain reaction for those who bear witness.

“Did they…take a book?”

“T-t-they took four!”

“Oh, goodness!?”

Now there were quite a few curious souls that looked at you without contempt as they spied on you flipping through your latest borrows as you made your way to your car but none as eager as the librarian himself. It wasn’t bizarre that someone would come into the library to borrow a book…what was odd was that a newcomer had come for it and had full intentions to return.

“I-it’’s them!?? They’re coming back!”

“Eeek I’ll have to hide!”

Ring Ring

“If anyone’s here I’ll just do what I did last time.” 

Out of the corner of your eye, you think you see some kind of appendage but when you turn to follow you find nothing but another row of books. Still oblivious to the hybrid practically gone into heat at the close encounter, they watch you leave once again.

“They nearly saw my tail!”

“T-that has to mean s-s-something good, right?”

 The few citizens of the town who frequented the library considered themselves to be of a different variety than the plebians rest of the town. A more enlightened group that relied on their vast collection of books to inform their decisions. All led by the very man given the honor to run the library.

“All rise for the great Stein!”

“Rest your heads, my enlightened followers a great happening has come upon us and I have our next course of action.”

By day the librarian was the soft-spoken, always flustered snake hybrid—Stein. Hired by the mayor to watch over the library in a building slowly violating the regulations of the up-to-code buildings surrounding it. It was the perfect place for the alarming presence of a snake hybrid feared for their notorious predatory instinct. Hidden, secluded, and generally avoided by the greater part of the town. Even those with a predator heritage were wary of the reptilian hybrid that is if they didn’t know him for the timid, stuttering librarian he appeared to be is.

“I-i-i’m the librarian w-w-w-what do you need help with?”

“Wow happy to finally meet you this time! Anyway I was wondering if you had the sequel to this book? I tried looking for it but I just can’t seem to find it.”

“T-t-t-that’s f-f-f-fine come with me.”

By night, Stein would become the leader that the minority of the town gathered around. Eagerly awaiting his knowledgable word. On an unrelated note, the town’s collection of books has a larger collection of the fictional genre influencing those curious enough to explore. With so much information they only found it right to turn to the hybrid tasked with understanding it all, seeing as no one other than Stein had attempted to learn from the non-fiction section…that is until you.

“My lord what does this mean!?”

“Shall we stake them?!”

“Ritualize them?!”

“Entice them to join!?

“Enlightened, please! Quiet your questions for I have the answer to all of them. The human is our Excalibur!”

Gasps fill the library basement.

“Can this be?”

“As the legend foretells whosoever should hold Excalibur shall hold the keys to the kingdom!” 

“That must be you our great lord Stein! You are the Arthur!”

“I should hope so.” 

“With this knowledge, we can work together to bring Excalibur to you!”

“But we must be cautious! The others of the round table before they become friends will be enemies!” 

“We must begin planning immediately!”

Stein isn’t delusional or an idiot or easily swayed by any means. He’s well aware that the stories of Welsh folklore are obviously not real at least not in this time. He went to school, a private school that accelerated his learning and then he went to a university where he proceeded to get his doctorate. But the bored and uninspired superstitious minority of the town did not. If that wasn’t enough to convince these other hybrids to follow, the fact that his particular origins were that of the venomous Black Mamba with a mix of Boa Constrictor. They were right to be afraid he happened to have both killer traits of his feared parents, it’s a given many insolent prey will rationalize that the one they fear the most must know the truth.

“(Y-y/n) good to see you, checking out the prequels?”

“You know it. I also wanted to know if you had recommendations for building doggy doors?”

“...I might have something…are you thinking of getting a dog?”

“Not necessarily but I’ve got a hole in my door and I think if I try and fix it it’ll just keep happening.”

“Say it! Ask my lord!”

“What was that?”

“I-i-uh I’m not very good with fixing things b-b-but if you like I could take a look…if you like?”

“That’s real sweet of you Stein, I appreciate that!” 

“The steps to procuring Excalibur commences!”

“Shh!”

He figures if he’s happening to start a cult, he might as well get help in his love-life. It might have been foolish to proclaim a poor outcast human the most prized object that this collective could agree upon but knowing the lengths his followers would go to he’d rather you be something adored than hated. Especially since the control he had on the collective wasn’t as straightforward as he had hoped.

“See my lord we’ve brought you the enemy!”

“Mmmffff.”

“Oh my.”

“It will be your first of many meals—I mean sacrifices in your pursuit of the grand Excalibur.”

“I–yes that is the plan.”

“Now eat! This is just fodder for the great Stein! Oh the grand ruler you’ll be!”

“EAT!” “EAT!” “EAT!” “EAT!”

Stein swallows a tired sigh, ‘a wolf hybrid is gonna be so fattening.’

“For your information my lord, he broke the wheels of Excalibur’s wagon–forcing them to buy their overpriced replacements.”

“...I’ll need salt.”

“Yes, my lord!”

When he’s not playing up to the dastardly cult leader he gets to be at night he’s all so shy. It’s hard trying to connect with the human he’s got such a big crush on especially since their outcasted status was beginning to change. Unknowingly harming him, his collective was being much nicer—complimenting you and standing up for you when you have encounters with human-hating citizens. He’s happy for you but he curses the loss he used to have with speaking to you. Now instead of his well-planned bump-ins with you on the way to the market he’ll have to spend more of his evening following far behind. And that’s when your neighbors and roommate aren’t getting in the way

“Don’t argue with me, Mutt I know you did that on purpose!”

“Please, no one told you to where those dumb shoes to a market day!”

“Yeah well appearance is every–”

“...” “...”

“Mutt go get (Y/n), I smell danger.”

“Don’t have to tell me twice.”

It’s so shattering for him to constantly be overshadowed by every interested citizen in town. It’s almost enough to make him give up hope but the remaining thing that ties him to you is his saving grace. 

“W-what if we made a book-club, you and I?”

“I don’t think anyone would want to join. Not with me in it…”

“Mmm–”

“But I’d love to talk about books with you! Over drinks or at my house if that’s better!”

“T-t-t-that’s perfect!”

If he could get past his fears he’s sure he’d be a force to be reckoned with but he’d much rather go the way he’s going now. He often receives letters about how his mother kept his father close to the nest at the beginning of their relationship. And since she seems to believe he can do even better with a mere human, he’d love if it was all organic minus the cults help.

“I feel like I'm on fire knowing such a holy existence is so close to me. I’m going to take full advantage of this. You are just a human it might be better that it’s me you end up with, especially in this town.”

Part 4: Coming Soon

Taglist: @midnight-nightmares@xrenka@candlesworlds-blog@00hellohello00@lem-hhn @kawaii-cakes @ceramic-raven @lilyalone @asleepysouluniverse @mel-vaz @sxftiebee @staarflowerr @horror-lover-69 @stanfordswifey @butratherbutrather

[tiredsmashbros]

SMG34: LIPBITE COMIC WIP UPDATE

oh boy... i know a bunch of folks are hyped for this comic... and boy oh boy are ya'll's prayers going to be heard... kind of... butt for the celebration milestone, and granted majority are from this comic, i thought it was best to give EVERYTHING that i have currently.

starting off STRONG with what you freaks most want: the completed pages. andddd yep that's it that all that i have done LMAO. i've been fixated on my own smg4 oc: tsb, and during the end of my summer was unfortunately fucked over by some personal issues that fortunately got resolved last minute good grief the anxiety prevented me from drawing the gays sigh... aNYWAYS LINEART WIPS!!!!

here are linearts i have completed / in the progress of!! want to aim like i did in the past by finishing up lineart first, and then speed through with color + minor rendering. the reason i have a few colored is to test out what it would look polished and my god... i have improved A LOT. THESE GAY PEOPLE GIVE POWER I AM NOT KIDDING BELIEVE ME IM NOT CRAY- anyways onto wip pages!

jumpscare: tsb stickman sketches. oh yeah. this is how i sketch and i blame sensei eiichiro oda /j. and in case anyone is unable to understand it {i don't blame u LMAO}, smg4 wakes up from the dream and is startled to see mario by his bed. they have a short convo before mario leaves, and we get a job to smg4 in the bathroom trying to put up a brave face. until the moment he leaves he's stunned due to seeing smg3 at his front door. will i elaborate more on specifics or unwritten dialogue? NOPE! gotta keep secrets to make it even more enjoyable at the end!!

currently at 13 sketched pages total, but this is probably gonna be reaching towards 20-ish pages, surpassing part two, but it will depend on how i come up with how to end it. additionally to confirm there will be a PART FOUR / chapter 3, to end this story. my goal is to have it done before i finish my senior year, or at least during the summer after i graduate bc good lord who knows whats gonna happen.

and lastly, before i end this crazy update, SCRAPPED PAGESSS!!!!!

CONTENT WARNING : NSFW SKETCHES !!!! PLEASE LOOK AWAY IF YOU ARE A MINOR OR DON'T LIKE THIS TYPE OF STUFF!!!

oh boy... dont draw comics while sleep-deprived at 6am... idek what i was even aiming with this ngl other than just for fun, but i scrapped it due to not being what i had in mind for the story. if it doesn't serve a purpose or narrative, its bye bye YEAH BYE BYE THIS IS THE CLOSEST NSFW UR GONNA GET FROM ME HAHAHAHAHA- i say that despite writing a nsfw jojo wattpad smh im only confident doing it in words good lord. btw not watermarking these bc i gen don't care since they're legit scrapped {left top part was kept and completed} so idk what to do with these. im just throwing it and walkin away

now to end with this update, i can hear your question, "when will this be done?" and to answer that question: i'm not entirely sure due to my heavy focus on my smg4 oc: tsb, but my best chance is postponing my oc lore a bit and complete this before november UOIYGJDSIUHJKDWSXYUGHJKCS but we shall have too see...

if you want to join the ping list comment on this post LMAO [click]

ignore below if you're not from the tsb birthday partydddjdhdhdjd

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thurs: smg34 is canon in the tsb universe / au. though most of their encounters are platonic or best-friendy-way, they eventually express their feelings to one another and start dating 3/4’s way of the tsb storyline arc. tsb is a supporter of his friend's relationship and admires and takes inspiration from their relationship heavily to input his future love life. yearning to be in a similar position... to learn what is to really love someone... or what it's truly like to be loved...

[katsu28]

i saw requests were open and i simply could not resist

holding both their hands while holding their gaze gently, just before leaning in for a kiss + oscar maybe? honestly whoever you want to write it with, i’ll be happy!!!

you’re the best, love you, hope you’re having the most beautiful day ever💛💛

marissa babe i love you loads, thank you so much for this request <3 i've melted into a puddle writing this i kid you not

oscar piastri x reader, 1.8k. request something from here!

You’ve gone back and forth between canceling your date three times in the past two hours now. 

You should be showering, getting ready, finding a cute outfit, but instead you’re pacing a hole in the floor of your room, staring at your phone on your desk. 

You’ve been going out with the sweetest guy, Oscar, for a bit, and you like to think things are going well. He’s so kind and so cute, and you still can’t quite wrap your mind around the fact that he likes you enough to have gone on five dates with you. 

But for some reason, he makes you so unbelievably nervous. You feel like a bumbling fool around him whenever you’re together, tripping over your words, laughing a little too hard for a little too long at something that probably wasn’t even that funny, but you can’t help it. When Oscar is around, it’s like some little person in your brain wrenches away control from any rational thinking and just goes crazy. 

The worst part is, you don’t even know why. He’s just your type, he makes you feel like you’ve known him for much longer than you have, and you thought that would put you at ease. 

You’ve never felt this way with any other person before. Maybe that’s why you’re acting this way. This thing you have with Oscar is special, however new it is, and you’re afraid of fucking it up. You haven’t even kissed yet, but you’re afraid of fucking that up too. 

At that moment, your phone buzzes with a text from none other than Oscar himself. 

Oscar: Can’t wait to see you tonight. Miss you :-)

You’ve only gone four days without seeing each other and he misses you enough to tell you so. Fuck, he’s adorable. 

You have to go now, because the moment you finish reading his message you’re grinning like an idiot, giggling alone in your room at an eight word message and a stupidly endearing smiley face. 

Unfortunately, your nerves and anxieties have come to bite you on the ass. Now you’ve only got a little more than an hour to do everything you should’ve been doing to get ready for dinner instead of sitting around being indecisive. 

How you manage to get ready and out the door on time is a miracle, and before you know it you’re in an Uber on your way to meet Oscar. The driver is a kindly older man, rather talkative, which normally you weren’t very fond of, but his stories about his grandkids do wonders at providing a distraction from your thoughts. 

You almost forget you’re on your way to meet Oscar until you get out of the car and spot him across the street, slouched against the wall of the restaurant scrolling on his phone. 

He looks devastatingly handsome in a simple black t-shirt and jeans, both of which fit him fantastically, if you say so yourself, hair fluffed to perfection even though you know for a fact he probably hadn’t done a thing to it.

As if he senses you’ve arrived, he glances up, beaming brightly at the sight of you. He raises his hand in a wave, pocketing his phone immediately and coming to meet you at the other edge of the sidewalk.  

“Hey, stranger. Long time no see,” He says warmly, effortlessly folding you into a hug. You let yourself melt a little bit in his embrace, cheek pressed to his firm chest. “You look really pretty.” 

“You don’t look so bad yourself,” You reply. He smiles bashfully, the tips of his ears turning pink. “Shall we?” He offers out the crook of his elbow and you loop your arm through his, happy to follow his lead into the restaurant. 

Dinner goes well, all things considered. You’re frustratingly aware of how Oscar makes you feel the entire time, but you think you’re playing it off fairly well.

Or at least, if Oscar does notice, he doesn’t say anything. He’s absolutely perfect the whole time, polite and engaged with your stories, and funny in that dry sort of way of his that you’ve come to like. 

You insist on splitting the bill once it comes and he doesn’t waste time by fighting you for the check like a lot of guys always seem to do, but he does call dibs on paying for ice cream at a place down the road he’d spotted on his way in, which you agree to. 

He slides his hand into yours almost shyly at the start of the walk over, peering over at you through that one swooping curl of his that never seemed to stay put, as if to ask if it was okay he was holding your hand.

Your relationship (if you could even call it one at this early stage) is still new to the point where both of you aren’t quite sure what’s okay and when. Your response is to simply lace your fingers through his and squeeze. 

You quite like holding his hand, even if it does make you worry about if yours is too sweaty. 

Oscar opts for double chocolate chunk as his scoop of choice, which surprises you a little bit. You thought he would’ve gone for vanilla, but he always finds new ways to surprise you. He even pokes fun at your choice in flavor, bumping his shoulder against yours with that big smile that makes your heart dance in your chest. 

You find a nice place to sit and eat your ice cream on a bench in a cute little park across the way, and everything is going swimmingly, but then he asks. 

“This might be a stupid question, but are you alright?” 

You nearly choke on your ice cream at his words. You’ve learned that Oscar is usually pretty blunt, but you’re still trying to get used to it. “Am I—what?” 

“Are you okay? You seem…different. Was dinner alright? I’ve never been there before, but one of my mates keeps going on and on about it so I thought—” 

So he had noticed. You shake your head firmly, placing a hand over Oscar’s. “Dinner was lovely.”

“Ah. Okay. Is it something else then?” To his credit, he looks genuinely concerned that something’s wrong, even with ice cream smudged at the edge of his mouth. You have to fight the urge to wipe it away for him. “You don’t have to tell me, but you can if you want to. I’m a good listener.” 

You could tell him. It would benefit you to tell him, but for some reason, you hesitate. 

How are you to tell Oscar that he makes you feel like you're not yourself when he's around? That you get so nervous in his presence that you always feel like you're doing or saying the wrong thing? 

That every time he holds your hand or touches your cheek or texts you silly updates about his failed attempts at keeping a plant alive, you have to fight the urge to scream because you like him so much it scares you and you're afraid you’ll chase him away if you let him in on it. 

How do you tell someone all that without sounding completely and totally mental? 

You’ve only been on five dates, for fuck’s sake. For all you know, he could be planning on telling you it just won't work out between the two of you as soon as you get home tonight. You know he wouldn't do that because he's way too nice, but it doesn't stop you from jumping to conclusions.  

You must take longer than you think to respond, because Oscar says your name again. He’s fully facing you now, one hand on your knee when you come back down from your thoughts, brows furrowed. 

“I like you.” You blurt. 

He blinks a few times, then smiles. “Well, that's good, ‘cause I like you too.” 

“No, Oscar, I—” You pause a beat, trying to gather your thoughts into something more coherent. “I really like you. Like, so much that I feel like I’m messing everything up.”

“You could never mess anything up,” Oscar says fondly. So, so fondly. Your heart feels like it's about to leap out of your chest at his sincerity. “I really like you too. It’s a little scary, actually.” 

“Oh, thank god. I thought it was just me,” You breathe, shoulders sagging in relief. 

“That’s it, though?” He prods, cocking his head to the side curiously. 

“Uh…yes? I’m sorry, were you expecting more?” 

“No, no, of course not. I just—I thought maybe you were acting differently because you didn’t like me anymore. Got tired of me, or something like that,” He admits sheepishly, rubbing at the back of his neck.

His shoulders hunch in on themselves, brows knit in something akin to embarrassment as he stares off at something in the distance. “It sounds stupid now that I hear it out loud, actually. Forget I said anything.” 

“Oscar,” You hum, just as soft as the way he’d reassured you moments earlier. His eyes shift over to meet yours, rich, warm brown like fresh coffee looking wide eyed back at you. You ease the nearly half empty paper cup out of his grip, taking both his hands in your own. You don’t miss the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard. 

“Hm?” He sounds flustered, gaze flicking down to your lips momentarily before coming back up. It’s only a split second, but you know what it means. 

He wants you to kiss him. You want to kiss him. You haven’t yet because you’ve been scared, but you don’t feel scared anymore. You’re not at all sure where this sudden burst of confidence is coming from, but you’re sure as hell not about to let it go to waste, so you lean forward, pressing your lips against his gently. 

It’s like he’s been waiting for this moment, because as soon as your mouth is on his, he sighs, tilting his head accordingly so your noses won’t smash together. You can taste the chocolate from his ice cream on his lips as they move against yours, and it’s not a perfect kiss by any means, but Oscar’s kissing you back, so it feels pretty perfect to you. You’re rather sad when you have to pull away, but air remains a necessity. 

Oscar’s eyes flutter open slowly. “That was…” 

“Nice?” You supply hopefully. 

Oscar bobs his head quickly, agreeing wholeheartedly. “Really nice. We should do it again. Can I…?” Now it’s your turn to nod, and he wastes no time in kissing you again, maybe a little too excitedly, because he knocks both your ice creams off the bench and onto the ground with a sad splat. He pulls away just enough to look at the splatter of melted dessert already starting to seep into the cobblestones under your feet. “Oh. Crap, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—” 

“Forget the ice cream,” You mumble, already chasing him for more. You reach around to tangle your fingers up and into the hair at the nape of his neck as a means of pulling him closer. 

Oh, this newfound confidence is really working out for you. 

He lets out a hitched exhale, swallowing hard again. “Yeah, yep. Forgetting the ice cream.” 

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[ateliersss]

Blooming Family Part 4 - He Shall Prevail

Pairing: Yautja x Fem!Reader Summary: In your past life on earth, when someone would ask you how you managed your job as a nurse with the occasional death of a mother during birth, you told them that you never took it too personal because you would never find yourself in their position. Then why were you now so adamant on giving your life for your pup? Cross-posted on AO3: here Warnings: English isn't my first language Word Count: 5,497 Part 1: here Part 2: here Part 3: here Masterlist

⇨ Hey, guys! I‘m back to writing. 6 months and 16 exams later, I finally found time to continue my now called “Blooming Family” series. You have no idea how much I missed it.

⇨ Though I have to say, this will probably be the end of this series. Probably. I got rid of every idea about our little family in those four parts and I don’t believe I can offer much more dramatic and exciting plot.

⇨ BUT! I already announced a Prequel on how Mi'ytiar and the Reader meet. I’m still working on it and the process is going smoothly for now. This means, this is definitely not the end of our story, so stay tuned!

⇨ Want to join the tag list?

 

The metallic smell of human blood that usually made him wallow in delight, now made him feel sick. The feeling of human blood on his skin, which usually sent a rush of excitement down his spine, now made him want to cut off any part of his body that made contact with it. The sight of him tearing a human apart — hurting it, killing it — that usually sated his predatory nature, now made him want to gouge his eyes out.

Blood flowed as he cut you, his beloved one, open under Cahrein's watchful eyes. The red fluid coated first his claws and fingertips, then his fingers completely, and before he knew it his whole hand when he started to reach into you.

Your small, beautiful body, which he had worshipped more times than he could count, had long grown numb, unmoving, lifeless. Your big, gorgeous eyes that had held so much love for him were closed, sparing him to witness the moment should the spark within them extinguish.

He wouldn't let that happen, he was sure of it. He just needed time to close the long, precise cut and get the blood that was stashed somewhere here on the ship. He knew how to stitch you together, God knows how many times he had to do it when you were on your hunting trips together, though it was never this kind of wound.

But Mi'ytiar, your oh-so-loving and attentive mate, had done something quite unusual for his species.

With no profound knowledge of births, let alone human births, he witnessed the act of giving life for the very first time when you had been pregnant with Akail. Even without any previous experience, he just knew that Yautja births were quite different from human ones. Their Females wouldn't have suffered that much from pain during labor and because of that, his already devoting stance towards you seemed to reach new heights when you fought like a warrior on your very own battlefield. He was impressed just as he was scared.

So, when Cahrein had confirmed your suspicions on being pregnant again, Mi'ytiar did what every father on earth would and should do when a baby was on its way: he prepared himself. Mostly, Cahrein showed and taught him the necessities who had studied the human anatomy when you arrived on Yautja Prime for the first time — leader's orders. And because there had never been a human in their clan or anywhere near it, he had to travel some time to the nearest one whose location he knew.

That's how Cahrein learned and that's how he was able to brief his clan leader.

You didn't know, but if you did, you once again would not fathom how lucky you were because how many Yautja out there with a human by their side for whatever purpose would put that much effort into them? Would any of them sit down and listen to their healer drone about the function of the ovaries? Would any of them waste their time instead of just finding a replacement? Would they be here when the chance of saving you was like catching mist with bare hands?

Mi'ytiar did, a leader nonetheless.

And when he felt it wasn't enough, he did his very own research on earth. Stalking through hospitals, invisible of course, thanks to the Cloak camouflaging his massive form and hiding him from the human eye, he was taking everything in. He observed the humans dressed in white and dark blue clothes scurry around before he decided to follow one around.

At nighttime, it was much easier when the staff thinned out. This way he had a better chance to explore the hospital and find his way to the infant ward, discovering it by chance. Fourteen see-through cribs were standing in two rows inside the ward. Fourteen tiny human babies were lying inside, sound asleep.

So that's what they looked like.

For a moment, he thought about being human himself. Not for his own appearance but for the possibility of having a pup who looked more like you, his love. You were such a beautiful creature, but sadly, your genes were practically drowned out by his.

In the daytime, he was lucky to watch five women deliver their babies. Four of them did it the natural way while the fifth woman decided willing to do a c-section. Obviously unaware of what would happen in a few years, he gained very useful knowledge that day.

That's how Mi'ytiar learned and that's how he located the pup in your womb so quickly and pulled it out.

He tried not to let himself get lost in the sight of the newborn, squirming and screeching. As much as he wanted to admire the little boy, another paragon created by you, there was a more pressing matter at hand.

He gingerly placed the flailing pup down on the cold glass surface of the table and against your body, snuggled between your motionless arm and your side. With the greatest care, he angled his son's head to rest against your shoulder and moved your arm so it would keep him in place.

Mi'ytiar wasted no time in turning the Medicomp upside down and finding the needed surgical tools much faster that way. Thankfully he hadn't discovered anything wrong once the pup was free, no suspicious rupture or tear that needed stitching. He was deaf to Cahrein's words as he fixed the cut with wound clamps and started to mix a gel that was able to close a wound of any kind, size or depth.

When he was sure the gel was painstakingly spread on the already healing cut, he grabbed the syringe with the purple-ish fluid and inserted its needle in the crook of your unoccupied arm. There was a 50-50 chance that it would work on you. Sxánxik would close all internal damage and increase blood cell production in case of severe blood loss, though he didn't know if it would work on human blood. But there was still a chance since your DNA had evolved through years of infusions of Yautja blood.

"You should get her blood." Cahrein's voice finally found its way into his consciousness.

"Can't leave." Mi'ytiar growled, his eyes focused on the shallow movement of your chest, scared it would stop the second they would stray from you.

"You need to. There is no guarantee sxánxik works." Cahrein pressed, growing restless at his leader's tunnel vision.

He knew he didn't know what was going through Mi'ytiar's mind, and if he said he knew how he was feeling at that moment, he would be lying. It was obvious to anyone who had ever laid eyes on the Life-mated pair that there was a unique and special bond between the two of you. Yautja were caring despite common belief, but even the most affectionate and compassionate of their species would never come close to the emotions your human heart held for your Yautja. Adding the influence you had on Mi'ytiar, it seemed to be fated.

Soulmates, Cahrein believed you had called the both of you when you told him about certain fairytales your mother had read to you when you were a child. Though you had said it in a joking way, telling him it was something hopeless romantics believed in, he could see it in your eyes that there was some kind of hope there.

"Sometimes two people are destined for each other."

Your human nonsense would always make him scoff in amusement until there was living and breathing proof of you being meant for his leader. Two proofs now, to be exact. When you were able to give Mi'ytiar his long-denied offspring where their Females had failed, Cahrein started to be less derogatory about superstitions on earth.

"Fine." Mi'ytiar snarled, hitting the glass surface of the holo-map table on each side of your thighs with closed fists, only hearing a splintering sound as he pushed himself away.

When he returned, the overwhelming sight of your body made him freeze in the doorway when the automatic doors opened. He tried not to tighten his grip around the blood bag in his hand, tried not to let his claws pierce holes into it and spill the red liquid.

You were lying there, paler than you had been moments ago. Where he had positioned your arm so your pup was safely tucked at your side, the other one was lying along the length of your body. Just as your spread legs were dangling down the table, your hand was loosely hanging down where it had previously been grasping the edge in pain.

"Mi'ytiar."

Cahrein's voice was once again pulling him out of his own head before he could drown in dark thoughts.

"I prepare your home for your return." The healer told him when Mi'ytiar covered your naked lower body with one of your blankets that you always kept on the ship.

When Cahrein received no response from his leader, who was too busy getting the blood into your veins before filling syringes with his own to inject it into you, he made the usual farewell gesture and his holo-image dissolved.

As soon as Mi'ytiar could assess you as stable, he took his newborn — he was so tiny, Mi'ytiar was able to hold him with one hand as he fit so easily in his entire palm — and placed him in the crook of his arm, the upper body of his son pressed against his bicep. The typical instinct of a Yautja pup to hold on made his son immediately cling to him.

With a heavy heart at leaving you alone once again, he went through the ship to take the pup to its sleeping place in the sleeping quarters. Digging out more of the cushions and covers you had stashed away, he created a makeshift crib so his son wouldn't move in a fatal position or roll out of the pod by accident. When he was sure he could leave him alone for a moment, he put the pup down and returned to you.

You were still in the same unconscious state he had left you. With a pained, sorrowful purr he lifted you up and into his arms, the almost empty blood bag held up by his hand. The sight of you like this was hurting him more than any wound he ever got from an enemy.

Back in the sleeping quarters, Mi'ytiar put you down in the pod where the two of you would usually rest. And where the little one was probably conceived, he thought with his eyes looking over at the pup.

Since the ship was not equipped with the necessary medical supplies and equipment, he had to make do with what was available to him. All he could do now was let you sleep and heal. Should the sxánxik not do its job, his blood would do.

To distract himself — because looking down at the device around his left arm, the journey back home would take another hour — he picked his newborn pup up and started to rock him softly. He remembered your reaction when you had seen him do it for the first time with Akail, scolding him for hurling the pup around. Your words.

Trying not to let his amusement show too much on his face, he had explained to you that Yautja babies, even when they were mere minutes old, were quite sturdy. They could endure more than you would think and you had learned that in the following five years. To put it simply, Akail had been a menace when he wasn't a complete mama's boy. He had wanted to explore; first your home, then the clan grounds, and then the whole planet.

Mi'ytiar let out a chuckle-like rumble at the memory of an eager Akail running around, dodging his mother's arms that tried to keep him inside your home and from running around in the village. He had watched you both with mirth in his eyes but regretted it the second a grumbling laugh left his mouth. If it had been possible, he would have dropped dead when you glared at him with a very nasty look. Wincing inwardly, he pulled his figurative tail between his legs and came to your aid, grabbing Akail by the nape and lifting him up. Then you had looked at your son with an I'm-very-disappointed-in-you expression on your face and this time it was the pup that winced (Mi'ytiar almost too if he was being honest).

Like father, like son.

This one will be just as in love with his mother as his father and older brother were, he was sure of it.

Warm, soft and bright.

Those were the things you noticed first, even with your eyes closed.

The next thing your brain registered was that you could move every part of your body, although a little sluggish when you wiggled your toes and clenched and unclenched your hands. You were relieved that whatever happened to you hadn't paralyzed you.

Blinking, you opened your eyes and with a blurry vision, the very first thing you saw was a familiar but somehow unfamiliar metal pole that looked like an IV stand.

But that couldn't be. You should be the only human thing on Yautja Prime, so why…

"You awake."

You slowly turned your head in the direction of the voice. You could only make out a dark, tall figure standing in the doorway, though not tall enough to be your mate.

"Cahrein?" You murmured.

"Mhm."

Said Yaujta entered the room to inspect the stand, tapping the bag with a clear substance inside. He traced the tube attached to it with a sharp claw to the point where it was connected to the needle in your arm. 

"Fascinating, I must say."

"What is this? Why is it here?" You asked and tried to get up, hoping the fatigue would wear off faster in an upright position.

With a deep rumble and a clicking of his mandibles, Cahrein gently pushed you back down. "The great Mi'ytiar always made sure you had everything you need should medical emergency arise."

"He did?"

Cahrein nodded with his head. "He traveled to ooman world to get whatever you need every time oomans developed their creations."

You looked at the healer who now inspected the red bag filled with your blood.

When you started to be more involved in the life of the Yautja, the possibility of getting hurt grew. It wasn't likely, as your mate never let you do anything that could cause even a bruise. Well, except, of course, mating with him. 

When your already drawn blood expired, you would go to Cahrein so he could take new one for emergencies while you sat in Mi'ytiar's lap, his purring and his hands caressing you, calming you down. Despite being a former nurse you hated needles.

"How..." You coughed, your voice hoarse from not being used. "How long was I… asleep?"

"Six days."

"That long?" You whispered to yourself in disbelief.

You settled back into the soft cushions of your nest, watching the healer adjust the blood bag as if there was the perfect angle for it to hang. Ever the perfectionist. 

You carefully lifted the arm with the needle inside while you grabbed a black woolen blanket to pull it over your body, somehow feeling cold despite the fire burning. 

Doing so, you dragged your heavy-feeling arm over your stomach.

Your flat stomach.

You jumped up from your lying position, ignoring the stabbing headache. 

Cahrein turned around, only needing to take one big step to be by your side, and was ready to scold you for going against your doctor's orders, but his words were dying on his tongue when you ripped the piece of clothing you were wearing open. Immediately, he averted his eyes and turned his back to you. 

You may be his patient right now, but he had no death wish. Sure, he had seen parts of you in his role as the healer, but only with permission and in attendance of your mate. And said mate definitely didn't need to be in the room to witness his human being exposed in front of someone who wasn't him to instill that deep-rooting respect (and maybe even slight fear) in Cahrein. 

You were oblivious to the internal battle of Cahrein who was fighting against the urge to make sure you weren't overexerting yourself and the fact that he couldn't do so without having to look at you. Instead, you were frantically tracing the faint scar across your stomach with shaky hands.

Baby…

Where was your baby?

Where was it?!

The maternal instincts were almost animalistic as they made you heave, your lungs starting to struggle to take in air.

It had been here, inside your belly, carried under your heart…

Why wasn't it here?

It should be… it should be…

Cahrein was really tempted to turn around when he listened to your breath getting more and more irritated and uneven. When he heard suspicious rustling, he spun around and grabbed the nearest cover to put it on you — the blanket you had wanted to snuggle into. 

"Calm, (Y/N), calm." He purred as he pushed you back onto the nest when you tried to crawl out of it. 

"My pup, my pup. Where is my pup?" You squeaked.

You were digging your nails into his skin, scratching it without leaving much damage. You weren't really a challenge to him. You were still weak from the blood loss and the week of bed rest. Had it been a female Yautja, Cahrein would have probably been dead by now. They were just as territorial and protective of their pups as you were right now.

"He is fine. He is with his father." He soothed you and tried to push you onto your back and into the nest. "I will call for him."

Still shaking, you ceased your resistance a little, allowing Cahrein to let go of you. Despite everything screaming inside of you to fight your way to your pup, your body in its state wouldn't even make it out of the room. So you settled down but kept your nerves on edge.

You were taking deep breaths in and out as you strained every muscle to prop yourself up into a sitting position, your legs tangled and angled to the side.

Tugging on the soft fabric of the blanket draped over you, you looked around the room. It was just like you remembered — all four walls made of smooth obsidian-like stone, the large window from the floor up to the ceiling behind your nest giving you the perfect view of the jungle-like valley beneath you by the cliff where the village was located on, the build-in shelves that mostly displayed your mate's most valued trophies, but also some of your possessions from your old home on earth like your books and your favorite pot plant, the futuristic wardrobe Mi'ytiar had made for you when he kept gifting you fabrics, feathers, fur, leather and such so you could make yourself clothes with the help of the Females.

It was home.

As your eyes swept over the room from left to right, they stopped when they spotted the small, wooden crib next to the nest. It had been Akail's when he was a newborn pup. It was lovingly and thoughtfully crafted by Mi'ytiar, while you had carved accents, patterns, and little figures into it.

Sure, Yautja Females had their own, traditional way of taking care of their pups, but you were human and your baby was partly human, so you wanted at least a little human influence in raising it. It's the only way you knew and were able to do it. Mi'tyiar let you take the reins since he had no prior knowledge himself. He was a first-time father and would just follow your instructions when you needed assistance. 

That led to you unknowingly breaking a custom. Usually, at this age, the Female was raising the pup alone. The Male was barely involved during that time and would only take over when it was time for the pup to train as a Youngblood. 

Mi'ytiar, on the other hand, the ever-loving father, was there by your side for every one of Akail's wobbly steps, incoherent mumble and mandible click. If he was human, you fondly mused, he would be that kind of a parent who would take photos and videos of even the most random event and unnecessary thing their baby did.

He was such a fierce and strong leader, callous and ruthless when the situation required it, a brutish savage if he was challenged, but when it came to his little family he was so soft and gentle like any human father or husband.

While you were spacing out, resisting the urge to reach over to the crib and check if the bedding was still warm, signs of a little life sleeping in it, you didn't notice the newcomers in your room.

"Yawne..." A voice sounded far away before you started blinking, refocusing yourself.

Your eyes snapped to the now much larger form standing in the entrance of the room holding a small, wiggling bundle in his arms, cradling it to his chest. His yellow eyes were solely on you, looking at you in disbelief as if he thought they were deceiving him. 

Mi'ytiar pushed the bundle in his arms into those of Cahrein, who you barely registered walking in behind your mate, and made his way over to you in a few quick strides. Your eyes were fixed onto the thing your whole being was screaming for the most, but when Mi'ytiar cupped your cheeks with both of his hands, your whole attention was on him — your mate, the love of your life, your sun and your moon.

"Tahní." You breathed and put your hands on his, craving his warm skin closer to you.

He moved forward and gently put his forehead to yours, purring loudly into the otherwise silent room. 

"I thought I lose you. I thought you die. Again." He grumbled, his eyes closed.

You lifted your head and placed a few kisses on the skin of his forehead. 

"I'm a fighter. I thought you knew that by now." You chuckled, your voice hoarse.

Mi'ytiar grumbled again, not appreciating you making jokes when you had been on the brink of life and death.

"What happened?" You asked and pulled away to finally look at him. 

Mi'ytiar — and you really had no nicer word to describe it — looked horrible. If Yautja were able to develop bags under their eyes, he definitely would have some. He looked beyond tired. There was a devastated but also relieved look in his eyes, you had no problem deciphering the reason behind it. 

"I only remember how my water broke… how you carried me back to the ship… and the call with Cahrein." You mumbled as you tried to recall any memory you had stored in the back of your mind.

It was all blurry and tangled and you had no idea what happened when. The only thing you remembered with conviction was the pain. When the contractions started in that forest, it was far more manageable than the pain at Akail's birth. But when the labor was taking longer than it was normal, it got almost unbearable.

"What happened? How did he…" You trailed off as you glanced past Mi'ytiar and to Cahrein who was rocking the whiny bundle in his arm to calm it down.

"Mi'ytiar, please." You begged as you looked back at him, pleading with your eyes. "Please give him to me. I need to… I need to…"

The distress your body was emitting almost made him shrink away. 

"Cahrein." Mi'ytiar grunted and reached out.

Cahrein, who was struggling a little with the fussing pup in his care, was careful not to accidentally drop it as he made his way over to his leader. He would be lying if he said he didn't feel at least some relief when the restless pup left his arms. The last thing he wanted to do was send you further down a spiral of frantic worry about your baby. He had seen enough Females going rogue for lesser reasons and experience showed to never stand between a mother and their pup. It was the last mistake you would make.

Mi'ytiar purred softly at the bundle before he turned back to you and offered it for you to take it. You eagerly engulfed it in your arms and the second you had a hold on it, the fussing pup settled down.

"Leave." Mi'ytiar ordered gruffly when you started to push down the only cover your body had, not taking his eyes off his son and his mate.

Cahrein bowed his head and quickly took his leave. He would talk about anything medical and the further necessary bed rest another time.

You didn't notice him leaving, too busy freeing your newborn son of the baby blanket that was practically drowning him.

You had knitted it when you were six months pregnant with Akail. He had been obsessed with it as long as he was a tiny pup.

Back when you were a nurse, some mothers had excitedly told you about all the preparations they had done before the baby was due. One of them had brought wool, knitting needles, and a half-finished blanket to her appointments. She had explained to you how she learned knitting only for her baby, so she could make all this stuff for it.

It was a sweet memory.

Mi'ytiar, of course, went on a trip back to earth and got you anything and everything you wanted and needed, even more than you originally needed, in hopes his offerings would please you. And you hadn't even needed to use much persuasion. Looking up at him with those big eyes of yours while rubbing the prominent baby bump was enough to prepare a ship and fly to your home planet the next day.

Sweet, sweet memories.

You were humming as Mi'ytiar crawled on the nest behind you, setting the blanket you had shrugged off to the side and pulling you on his lap. He wrapped his arms around you and watched over your shoulder as you cradled your pup against your bare chest. You sighed in contentment when you could feel your son's skin against your own like it was the final thing you needed to reassure you that you were actually here, that he was real.

Without the baby blanket covering him, you finally got a good look at your son. And god, you didn't know you could fall in love a third time in your life.

He was perfect.

Unlike his big brother, he was the carbon copy of his father. While Akail did look like his father, having the same color scheme as him, the patterns were of opposite colors. His younger brother, on the other hand, didn't only have the same color pallet as his father, but the patterns of his skin were colored just the same as Mi'ytiar's. Otherwise, he didn't look much different from Akail when he had been a newborn — the same numbs on his head where his dreads would grow, the same thin and undeveloped mandibles around his mouth, the same arms and legs.

He was about the size of a human baby. It was incredible to think how big in size and height he would grow in the coming years.

You inspected every aspect of his tiny body, your fingers gliding over his torso and limbs, admiring every centimeter of him.

"You were right." Mi'ytiar suddenly said. "He was in abnormal position. He was stuck."

You stilled for a moment before you continued to coo at your baby.

"You begged me to get him out and I did. I cut in you and you…" He trailed off and grunted at his wavering voice. "You stopped moving when I pulled pup out. You were gone."

"No." You interrupted him and turned your upper body to look at him. "If I was gone, I wouldn't be here with you. With him." You moved your arms with your turned torso so his son was back in his sight. "I wouldn't be here to tell you how happy I am, to tell you how glad I am that you handled it so well. You saved his life. And mine too."

You shifted your pup into one arm to reach up and place your hand on his cheek. You didn't even need to pull him in for him to move closer and put his forehead once again against yours, closing your eyes. Since his anatomy made it impossible to actually kiss him, you decided that forehead-against-forehead was an acceptable compensation. Although it wasn't anything special, it felt so intimate with him that you didn't really miss the ability to kiss your partner.

"I'm here. I'm alive. I'm not going anywhere, Mi'ytiar." You told him softly, rubbing your skin against his like a cat. "Thanks to you I'm able to continue to breathe, to walk and talk. Thanks to you I'm able to continue to love you and live my life with you, my strong and handsome mate, and our pups."

You had so many other things to say to him, but you started to choke on your words. Tears were dripping down your cheeks.

You opened your eyes when you felt something rough rub the skin under them and saw him wiping away the tears with his thumb. His other hand came up and its thumb did the same with the tears coming from your other eye. Mi'ytiar looked fondly down at you, his head cocked to the side.

"Thank you so much." You mumbled, your voice a little shaky, and buried your face into his chest.

Mi'ytiar clicked his mandibles softly and carefully pulled you closer, making sure not to crush the pup between your bodies.

"Anything for you." He purred.

He felt the wetness dripping from your eyes to your cheeks and down on his chest ease after a while. And when you lifted your head to look up at him, you gave him one of those dazzling, soft smiles he loved so much.

Mi'ytiar wanted to reach out again, wanted to pull you closer and snuggle his face into the crook of your neck to smell your sweet, familiar scent he missed so much. But sadly a certain someone demanded your attention more loudly.

The pup in your arms started to fuss again, causing you to use both arms again to hold him tight against you. Shushing him, you nestled him in the crook of your neck and stroked his back.

Mi'ytiar let out a displeased grunt before he could stop himself, glaring at his son being in a place where he wanted to be just a moment ago.

You, of course, didn't miss your mate fixing the pup with a dismayed look and you immediately knew why. This wasn't your first baby, after all.

"Mi'ytiar, don't tell me you're jealous again." You grinned up at him, not even trying to hide your amusement.

"'M not." He grunted.

"You are."

"Not."

"Mhm." You hummed, unconvinced, raising an eyebrow. "Just as you were not jealous when Akail was occupying my boobs as a pillow for a year? Or when I tried breastfeeding with him? Or when he challenged you every time you came near me even though he had just learned to walk? Or when he-"

To silence you, he bit down into your throat and you immediately went slack. It was a somewhat trained reaction every time he would do that. Where a human would shut you up with a kiss, your mate bit you. A show of dominance, without a question, and you would lie if you said it didn't turn you on. The moan that would have proofed it had almost slipped from your lips.

"Not jealous." Mi'ytiar insisted gruffly and licked over the bite mark.

"Fine, fine." You mumbled, still a little dazed from his little display of power.

The two of you stayed silent for a while. The only sound was the occasional chittering and cooing of your son, who was looking up at his parents with his big, pale yellow eyes. They would grow more intense in color in no time.

"Did you already name him?" You asked and giggled when your pup tried to snatch up your finger with which you were drawing patterns in the air, moving it around in front of his face.

You watched as your pup finally caught your pointer finger and inserted it into his mouth. You laughed when you felt his gums chew on it. His teeth would develop only in a few weeks.

"The name you chose." Mi'ytiar grunted softly.

You hummed in understanding and snuggled your face into the side of your son's head.

"Hi, Toyah."

Tag List

⇨ Hey guys, despite having only some requests to be tagged in this part, I wanted to tag any and everyone who ever left a comment on one or more parts of this series. I'm seriously so thankful, you have no idea. Thank you so much for showing interest and voicing it. Thank you so much for your kind words that kept me motivated to continue this story. But, as I said at the beginning, this is not the end of Mi'ytiar, so lets hope we see each other on more of my works in the future!

@lil-lilacwitch, @zaky-ller, @eternalmoonshineofahopelessfan, @haleypearce @montybooks,

@ailujsenutna, @rorrika, @h0n3y-l3m0n05, @mahirublue, @00justanolive00,

@mortuaconjuga, @victor-rose, @screechingenemy18, @thewitchesofart, @skibbiescoober,

@pyreemo, @han-sirentell, @dd122004dd, @milkzze, @wildaces,

@serendipitous-fernweh, @misspendragonsworld, @bunnymysteriously, @ladygrimmx, @thelrina,

@quaritcxswifewh0re, @imaginarydreams, @vintage-bumblebee, @blaxkmagix, @beelievit,

@blmcd57110, @mythirdlife235, @the-artistic-devotee, @jojooasis, @pipocfamily,

@bimboreader, @noname2246, @sawendel, @being-worthy, @xcol2sblog,

@panpandeep00, @maxismp1, @bastet222, @candyladycry, @crowleysthings

[cheapshrimpysheep]

Meaningful Kiss 4

SUMMARY: Would they make Public Displays of Affection? If not, are they protective instead? And how do they show you how much they truly love you through their kisses? 💋

CHARACTERS: Cater, Trey, Floyd, Rook

TAGS: Fluff; GN Reader; Established Relationship, Kissing, Flirting, Slightly Suggestive

WORD COUNT: An average of 430 words per character.

COMMENTS: The last part of the Meaningful Kisses series. These were the four least voted characters, however, I had a lot of fun writing them.

I hope you enjoy reading it too. 😘

Meaningful Kiss (Riddle, Leona, Azul, Jamil, Vil, Idia, Malleus)

Meaningful Kiss 2 (Ace, Deuce, Jack, Epel, Sebek)

Meaningful Kiss 3 (Ruggie, Jade, Kalim, Silver, Lilia)

CONTEXT: This can be seen as if you were at the beginning of the relationship, or already in an established relationship.

Cater is into PDA for sure! He likes to be lovey-dovey and flirtatious. And especially enjoys showing it on his social media. EVERYONE knows about your relationship. You are "that" couple. Or at least that's what Cater's photos and PDA suggest.

Whenever you two are together, you are glued to each other. He will always have one or both arms around you. Especially if you are on a date. Of course, if you're not that into PDA yourself, he'll respect it, but in that case you'll have spoil him with cuddles in private, kay~?

However, this fact that Cater likes to show his feelings for you in public and on social media will end up bringing you some "hate". People saying he's only with you because your relationship is aesthetic pleasing. That you like to have coordinated clothes is just a facade for an exaggerated and false romanticism.

He gets a little sad and hurt when people say bad things about him in the relationship, like when they imply that he's just using you. But whenever an attack is directed at you, like when saying that a person like you doesn't deserve a boyfriend like him, the people pleaser side of him disappears. And he starts using his social and conversational skills to defend you, even if he has to insult the other person to do so. This is if it is IRL, which rarely happens. On social media, he just deletes the comment and blocks the person. Good vibes only.

But of course you also feel bad when you read or hear things like that. A lot of people criticize the fact that Cater only shows the good parts and that's why it's all fake. Of course he only shows the good things, that's what social media is for. He likes the popularity and all that, but, unlike certain influencers, he knows what limits are. He would never publish anything bad about you, much less humiliating like an argument or you crying. Mainly because at these times, if they happen, he will be more concerned with consulting you or making you feel better to the point of forgetting his cell phone somewhere.

This can lead to his most meaningful kisses. The ones he gives you when these things affect you, to prove that those things people say are lies and they don't know anything. When he is hugging you and saying cute and funny things to make you feel better. Everything he does in public he also does in private, including kissing your cheeks and lips. But this specific kiss is one that is exclusive to the private sector.

It's not extravagant like the ones he usually gives you, this one is soft, sensitive, and slow by his standards. Basically the opposite of what he usually shows himself to be. You feel that they are calm and that he is enjoying the moment.

Trey is not really into PDA. I mean, it's not like he's averse to it, but it's just not his thing. He is a simple man, he shows and knows how to see love in small things. That and he's not, shall we say, the flashy and extra type. Too much attention can embarrass him.

However, even though he's not much of a show-off, he thinks it's fun to mess with you in public without anyone seeing. Like kissing your cheek discreetly and casually when no one else is paying attention to you and surprising you in the process. Beside that, you continue to behave like good friends. Nothing very different from how he would treat any other friend.

In private, it often doesn't change much. Just like I said, he's a guy who likes his peace and quiet. So the two of you end up looking like a long-term couple even if you aren't yet. However, it is also in private that he feels most comfortable hugging and kissing you. He's more welcoming to you doing the same to him.

If there's one type of surprise he's a fan of, it's you hugging him from behind when he's cooking. Many of your cutest moments happen in the kitchen. He likes to have you as a tester to his food and sweets.

The problem is when he feels more naughty and takes advantage of your trust in him to use his signature spell to change the flavor of what you taste to play a trick on you. For example, you're expecting to taste the sweetness of strawberry cake, but instead you taste the saltiness of an oyster. He will laugh at your reaction and your sulky face.

Then he will apologize, without regret for what he did, and that won't be enough for you. By feeling comfortable being himself with you, you'll end up getting to know his cheekier side. He hugs you around the waist with his rare smug expression and his gaze fixed on you. He's "really sorry" but maybe he can redeem himself. He runs his thumb over your slice of cake to remove some of the icing and puts it on his own lips. Why don't you try it again? No tricks this time, he promises.

And this leads to his most meaningful kisses. Not the soft, sweet, affectionate ones he usually gives you in private, but the ones that show that sassy side of him that most people don't think exists.

It depends on Floyd’s mood, obviously. But as a general rule, he likes PDA, more giving than receiving. He likes to be in control of these things, he doesn't like to be the one being "squished", you know.

He does what he wants, if he wants to hug you, he will hug you, if he wants to kiss you, he will kiss you. And no one will even have the courage to look at him the wrong way. No one wants to get in trouble with an Octavinelle student, especially Floyd Leech. This ends up guaranteeing you instant security and a sense of immunity. Everyone will know that you are together, not in a gossip way, but more in a sense of warning other students of the danger of messing with you.

He will hug you and kiss you however he wants, whenever he is with you. This part doesn't differ much from public to private (with one or two exceptions of course, chill!) If anyone can be embarrassed by PDA here, it's you, because he's never embarrassed. If others have a problem with it, that's their problem, and if they upset him... well... let's just say it will be the first and last time.

His affection only fluctuates when he is in a bad mood, and he becomes even more unpredictable. You can never predict whether he's in an "I want to be alone" bad mood or an "I want to hug you like a stuffed animal" grumpy mood. Either way, you don't need to know because he'll tell you. When he's in a bad mood he's not one to make people guess what he wants, he'll tell them directly and specifically.

Floyd’s good-mood kisses range from casual and lazy kisses just because to passionate and cheeky kisses to mess with you. But surprisingly, his most meaningful kisses are when he's in a bad mood and wants to be with you.

Just like he secretly likes to entertain and cheer you up when you're in a bad mood, he loves that you can do the same for him. He can be very clingy when he's in "I want you to hug" grumpy mood. He likes that you let him hug and kiss you however he wants to make him feel better.

This may lead to him starting to kiss your cheeks, moving on to your neck and finally your lips. His kisses are like his mood, in this case, grumpy, but not for long. Kissing you is fun for him, so you'll start to feel the kiss change at the same time as his mood. His pout starting to change into a lazy smile. And if you're not “careful” and he ends up in a REALLY good mood...

If words of affection could be considered PDA, well, I think you know. Rook is a man of words and everyone knows it. Some even know it too well. Prepare to receive the same treatment as Vil.

Surprisingly, he's not much of a toucher. He’ll never think twice before greeting you with charming words and a tender kiss on the cheek, or on the back of your hand like a prince, but never on your lips. At least not initiated by him.

He won't take the initiative to hold your hand or hug you. He will only do so if you ask or in response to your initiative. In this case he will gently hold your hand and caress it with his thumb, or hug you gently as if you were a precious little thing.

And why? One of the reasons is because he likes it when you ask. There's something about the need for his touch that he enjoys. Luring you with words to deliberately make you fall into the “trap” of wanting his touch. And the more “difficult” you are, the more he loves it.

Another reason is that, when hunting, touching the prey is usually the last step, right after finally catching it. He's a hunter, not a pet owner. He uses words because they are his bait, physical touch is the prize. And he likes that each other's touch is as much a reward for you as it is for him. He wants to make you want him as much as he wants you.

And that's why true physical touch only happens in private. He likes to show through words how much he likes something or someone, but he is also a man of secrets, and how he enjoys the prize of having you in his arms is one of the secrets between the two of you. Especially because his touch manages to be as flattering and appreciative as his words.

He likes to run  his hands over you like someone appreciating a work of art. Kiss your neck and lips like someone savoring an exquisite delicacy. And these are his most meaningful kisses. Kisses of appreciation, of care, of passion and at a certain point, of desire, for a prize that can slip out of his hands at any moment because you have your own free will and that is exciting.

If you would like to read more from me, you can find it in my pinned post: INDEX

[darkroom-fanzine]

[And the curtain opens...!]

[Image Description: a black and white banner gif showing Siffrin from In Stars And Time as he wanders through the third floor of the House. He is posed in the center of the image, faced to his left (viewer's right) as if moving in that direction. Behind him are four trailing repetitions of his image, each one losing opacity as they get further away, with a final fifth one having its values inverted, appearing instead as Mal Du Pays. Floating around them are six polaroid photographs, the first covering up the right half of Siffrin's face, showing instead a values inversion of it within its borders, their expression blank. Beyond that in order from closest to Siffrin to farthest away, the polaroids show Mirabelle, Isabeau, Odile, Bonnie, and one that is indistinguishable, all members of the party with their faces distorted out, while the last one is distorted beyond a potential for recognition. On the other side of Siffrin, to his left, is a flash-like burst evocative of a camera flash or a star (much like Loop's head), partially hidden over by Siffrin's shadow. Around the brick walls in the background and partially growing over the bottom left of the foreground can be seen the King's hair, and in the bottom right is text reading: "Darkroom | an ISAT Fanzine". The entire thing has been animated to look as if the lines around Siffrin, their shadows, and all the distortions over the polaroids are boiling, while light shines off from around the flash/star. End ID.]

[Hello, stardust~! How can I help you on this wonderful new loop?]

Welcome, everyone! This is the blog for the upcoming project, "Darkroom: an ISAT Fanzine". We are excited to finally announce our beginnings, and hope you will stick around to see what it is we have to offer!

Firstly, let us introduce ourselves. The mod team for this fanzine comprises of myself (@actingwithportals), as well as @voidedtea, @publiccmenace, @astrangeavenue, @sundimus, and @plasticteabag. Between the six of us, we have experience as leads, co-leads, moderators, and contributors on four individual fanzine projects, and are all excited to begin work on something new!

Now, let's get to the fun part, shall we?

[Darkroom: Negative Space, Long Exposure, Afterimage.]

The theming for this fanzine centers around the idea of distortions, how they obscure what we see and perceive, and how they can bring to light an entirely new perspective hidden behind the more easily comprehensible. In Stars And Time shows us throughout Siffrin's loops how the order of a carefully curated script can bring about a chaotic mental state, and how the chaotic breaking down of these self-imposed walls can bring about the order of accepting vulnerability.

Change is often destruction, and in the midst of that destruction can be found something beautiful, something to live for. This is the idea we hope to present through this fanzine.

[Fanzine Content.]

The Darkroom Fanzine will be a multi-media culmination of fanworks created by fans, for fans, and available for free download on Itch.io. Creations can vary anywhere from art, to writing, to music, to essays, to crafts, to whatever you can think of that you would like to see included in this project!

The only restrictions we will be enforcing is content that lies outside of the existing rating for the game, meaning no 18+ subject material.

However new you are to your Craft—whether it be writing, art, edits, collages, or anything beyond—your skills are welcomed here. From beginners to professionals, all are encouraged to apply! Once we hit an internally agreed upper limit of participants, we will lock the sign-up form should that limit be reached before the end date of the sign-ups occurs.

[Interest Checks.]

To kick this off, we are opening an interest check form to gauge interest for this project. The form will remain open from January 23rd through February 22nd, upon which the following day (February 23rd) the sign-up form will go live.

[Curtain Call.]

Thank you all for taking the time to read this far, and if you have any further questions/inquiries/concerns about this project, our askbox is open! Relatedly, you can also shoot us an email at darkroom.fanzine@gmail.com.

INTEREST CHECK FORM HERE.

[See you under the Favor Tree soon, stardust~ ✨]

[the-darklings]

Oh god please write the timebomb fic!!! (or several lol)

ೀ pairing: ekko/jinx

ೀ wc: 5k

ೀ summary: "Always a dance with you, huh?" Or: two years after the battle versus Noxus, Ekko receives an unexpected visitor.

ೀ author notes: ask and you shall receive!!! I wrote this in one sitting in some weird ass haze and barely edited it, but this is the most fun I had in a long while so I hope you enjoy!!!

ೀ read it on ao3 | listen to the playlist

The first few days after the battle, Ekko doesn’t rest. He barely sleeps or eats, or allows himself time to think. 

He can’t. 

There’s too much to do. The dead are in their dozens. His Firelights took a major hit, and he knows that for the next few months his fingers will be numb from painting their pictures on the mural day in and out. So many who could have lived but didn’t. So many could have had better futures. But if he just runs, if he keeps pushing on, he can outrun these regrets and his grief, too. This way, he doesn’t remember Vi’s heartbroken expression when she pulled him into a bone-crushing hug after the fight, blood and sweat still clinging to her, her words choked when she told him��

Four seconds. 

He could have saved her. He would have hauled her snarky ass out of that tunnel, ripped that bomb from her hands. He would have—

He runs from those thoughts, too. They suffocate him, and Ekko has too much to fix to be suffocated by his grief right now. 

He sure as hell didn’t fight for Piltover. He fought for Zaun, for Firelights. Because he knew Ambessa Medarda would never settle for anything other than complete subjugation. She would have destroyed Ekko’s home. She was already busy murdering and imprisoning their people, and nothing but complete eradication would have followed in her wake. 

Ekko did it for… her. The blue-haired symbol of defiance, of uprising. A loud declaration that they won’t live under Piltover’s oppression forever, that they’ll reach greater things one day and won’t be silenced. They won’t wait for permission to breathe again. It’s what she would have wanted, he convinces himself, even though part of him knows Jinx would have enjoyed the chaos of the fight more. Or maybe not. Not since that little girl. Not since he had to save her from herself over and over again, only to lose her anyway. 

Undercity mourns her. Her visage is everywhere. Jinx the Saviour. She would have hated it, he thinks wryly. She never got to see just how loved she was. 

Maybe he should have grabbed her and ran away. Maybe he should have let the world go to hell and saved her instead. The thought, born of fatigue, lingers only for a few fleeting seconds, a rare moment of selfishness amidst a day spent fixing the world around him. 

Maybe, maybe, maybe. If only he had tried harder when they were kids and saved her from Silco. If only he didn’t give up on her. 

She’s always been his biggest maybe. And now they’ll never be more. Not this version of them. Never him and her as they were. 

Aw, are you gonna mope now, boy saviour?

“You’re not here.”

It punches clean through his chest. The realisation of it. The sheer, horrible weight. He’ll never see her again. 

Constants and variables, Benzo told him once. Constants and variables, young Ekko.

A week after the battle versus Noxus, Ekko sinks to his knees inside his room, exhausted and heartbroken, and sobs. 

.

Things begin to settle. Slowly, at first, the city might have been gutted after the battle but not destroyed, the morale low but hopeful. Hexgates are gone, and Ekko is glad when he finds out. He doesn’t want to see or hear anything about the arcane for a while. No magic in the world could fix the pain festering in his chest. 

Sevika, Silco’s old second-in-command and once his sworn enemy, comes to him two weeks after the attack. 

“They’re making me a council member,” she says, grunting when she falls into the tiny wooden chair inside his room. 

She’s always been a threatening figure, power rippling from every shift of her body, but Ekko isn’t sure he wants to fight anyone right now. Nor does she seem interested in strangling him. She lights a cigarette, her scarred features set in a fearsome scowl. 

“And?” he asks for anything better to say. “How is that any of my business?”

Sevika exhales through her nose, reminding him of an angry bull, all smoke and steely resolve. “I’m the only one presenting Zaun or her interests.” 

Ekko almost rolls his eyes. Of course she is. The Council is simply falling over themselves to fix the situation. After months of harassment and oppression, false arrestments and beatings, they asked them to bleed for Piltover and its interests with nothing but the bare minimum courtesy extended towards them afterwards.

“I could use you, kid,” Sevika continues, and Ekko forces his anger away, loosening his fists. “Exactly for that reaction. You’re smart as hell, and been a pain in my ass for years. Pilties will try to walk all over us again in a few months’ time. You and I both know it. We gotta beat them in their own game. Not let them silence us again. I could use someone like you. Be my adviser. You’ll have a direct line to the Council. We’ll make an actual change. It’s better than whatever this is.”

Ekko’s expression sours at her words while Sevika’s gaze flicks around his room in contemplation. He works all day to a point of exhaustion, then passes out. It’s the only way he’s been able to continue, day in and day out. Being in a leadership position means you can’t take time off to grieve. Too many people are relying on him. It’s bad enough that he accidentally abandoned his people for months without meaning to. The guilt he still feels over everything has been nearly suffocating. 

It’s a good gig, hero! You should do it and be a thorn in her side.

Ekko blinks the flash of blue from his vision, rubbing his brow just as Sevika adds: “It’s what she would have wanted, you know.”

A jolt of electricity runs through him. Everyone, even Vi, has been avoiding mentioning Jinx in front of him.  

His jaw clenches. “You don’t know that.”

“Kid, I know what not letting go looks like,” she says, and it almost sounds compassionate, or as close to it as someone like her can get. “We had our differences in the past, I know as much—”

“You killed my people,” Ekko snaps. “Do you know how many lives you destroyed with Shimmer?”

“Sure do,” she replies listlessly, smoke billowing past her lips. “I won’t try to justify my actions to you. But y’know, when you were gone, Jinx united Zaun in a way I haven’t seen since Vander. Beats me how she did it, but people believed in her. Even your Firelights.”

It mirrors everything he’s seen and heard for weeks. Jinx freeing their people, Jinx the Saviour, the beacon for their new future. The one who set and lived by extreme examples, who made Piltover back off and take the Undercity seriously. Because they all finally realised that there can never be peace without a fight. She should be here to fight this battle with him. Ekko should be busy arguing with her that blowing up another building will not make things right. He shouldn’t be walking around with her ghost a step behind him, tormenting him with ideas of what could and should have been. 

“And now she’s dead!”

His ears ring, his chest heaves, and he clutches his thudding heart, willing it back in its cage. He didn’t mean to come undone so easily. 

“Yeah. Yeah, she is,” Sevika says, and there’s a grimness to her when she says it, an unexpected pain buried somewhere deep in her gruff voice that makes Ekko see her differently. “I get it.”

“No,” he whispers, pained. “You don’t.”

.

Seven months pass before Ekko finally picks up a brush for her. 

He sleeps better at night but not without nightmares. Not without remembering Powder from the alternative universe and how they danced. How sweet her kiss felt. Not without that memory smearing to finding Jinx with a grenade in her hand, again, ready to disappear, go somewhere he could never reach her. 

Ekko still hears the detonation in his ears, over and over, on a sickening loop. His mind likes to torture him with ideas he failed to save her. That no matter what he does, or how he mends time, she’s forever out of reach. His blue beacon, his lighthouse he can never find in the depthless ocean of reality. 

Many have drawn her, but he still thinks that no one knows the exact hue of her hair or the wicked shine in her eyes better than him. He’s spent an entire lifetime examining them, looking for them in a sea of thousands. 

Their city is rebuilding. He agreed to Sevika’s request after a few days of contemplation. Caitlyn Kiramman’s expression when he ambled into the Council room was worth the additional burden now on his shoulder. But she’s changed too, matured, and now fills her position as the Council’s leader well. 

Ekko won’t forget how she allowed his friends to be imprisoned, tortured, and, in some cases, killed, but her regret made her side with him and Sevika more often than not during voting, and maybe he could at least one day forgive her. Another maybe. For Vi, if nothing else, who clearly loves the blue-haired woman fiercely. 

The barren wall stares at him. He’s painted Powder before, but this is different. One day, his friend, his dearest friend, was simply gone. Without a goodbye, in a wake of tragedy. The life Ekko once had disintegrated beneath his feet overnight. Benzo killed. Vander dead. Mylo and Claggor too. Vi died as well. Or so he believed for years. Powder was missing until a different knife was delivered to him weeks later, when the word on the street spread about Silco being seen with a little girl with blue hair. 

Ekko sighs, hanging his head. The city is healing, but he isn’t, or at least not as quickly. 

He runs his hand over the white wall, picturing Jinx as he saw her last, those precious hours between talking her down from the abyss and their joint attack on Noxian forces. It felt so good to rely on her again, to stand with her, side by side. As natural as breathing. 

You’re the order to my chaos, hero. 

“Leave me alone,” he says quietly, head hung low. “It’s been months.”

A figment of Jinx chortles, arms crossed over her chest as she leans back against the wall. You would get bored to death without me. Ha! Get it? 

Shooting a glare at her, Ekko picks up a brush, his fingers quivering. Tears burn in his eyes when he dips the brush into the paints he painstakingly mixed. He works, and works, until his eyes are dry and his wrist hurts. Ekko doesn’t stop until he loses light and when he steps back, he is looking at Jinx. Equal parts chaos and something ethereal. 

He wipes angrily across his mouth when he tastes saltiness pooling there and goes home. 

There’s no sleep that night. 

.

Time is a strange thing. It weaves and flows. Without his Z-Drive, he has no control over it. Time simply goes on, and he’s the passenger in a vehicle he doesn’t want to move. 

He’s important these days. He’s one of the few bright minds still left, and he’s endlessly busy with something. City of Progress needs every mind that can be spared. Wounds heal, and time dulls the memory, but not everything is so easily forgotten. Piltover moves quicker, but the Undercity erects a statue for Jinx beside Vander’s. He sees Vi at the ceremony, and they exchange strained smiles. They speak sometimes, but it’s not as often as it used to be. They’re both dealing with their grief the best they can.

At least Vi has Cait. Ekko has nothing but a cold bed and purpose. 

He and Sevika make a good team. It almost makes him wonder what could have been in a universe where they were on the same side from the start. His Zaun, cracked but not broken, is resembling the bright version of the Zaun and Piltover he saw in the alternative verse. There're years of work still left, but there’s something like hope in him, fragile and misplaced as it might be. 

A year passes. Then two. He visits the graves; he lights candles for those lost. Some days Ekko sees her, other days he doesn’t. He hopes for a glimpse, even when he knows he shouldn’t. It should be easier to let go of what you never had, right? 

His mural for Jinx grows. Other faces join her, people who died believing in her, surrounding the one they placed their trust in. And, at the centre of it all, her, her, her. 

Still her. 

Always her. 

. 

He’s not sure what arouses him. He hasn’t slept well in years, perpetual exhaustion clinging to him like a shawl. Some would call it the weight of living, no doubt. 

There’s a shift in the air, a disturbance that’s not enough to make Ekko jolt awake and reach for a weapon, but enough to make his eyes flutter open. He breathes the cool air, pushing his grogginess away. 

There’s a shape at the foot of his bed. Small and round. It takes several seconds for his vision to adjust, for him to realise that a hooded figure sits perched on his bed, knees pulled to their chest.

Ekko hasn’t had to rely on his battle instincts in two years, but there’s enough left in him to attack without hesitation. His fingers tangle in the cloak, shoving the figure down, his knee pressing harshly into their abdominal, hands seeking the intruder’s throat—

“Wow, little man, you sure know how to roll out the welcoming mat,” the all too familiar voice drawls before his fingers tighten instinctively around the slender, warm throat. 

A haggard breath forces from Ekko’s parted mouth. In the wild struggle, the stranger’s hood has slipped down, revealing a familiar face with a startling crop of blue hair. His heart squeezes painfully, forcing him away from Jinx’s apparition. 

“Leave me alone,” he croaks, rubbing his eyes till his vision swims. “Just leave me alone! I don’t want to see you anymore!”

“Huh, fine. I thought after two years, the welcome would be a tad warmer. Brrr.”

Ekko pushes himself to his feet, stumbling away, watching warily as the young woman sits back up, picking at her messy hair. She looks different. A little older than Jinx from his visions or memories. Her hair is longer, though nowhere near the same length she once had braided into two twin braids. She swings her leg back and forth, another pulled up to her chest while she watches him. And… her eyes. Ekko was the last person to see her with blue eyes before their battle on the bridge. The last time he saw Jinx alive, they were a dangerous, burning violet. 

Now, even with the shade of the night, they’re a muddy mix between the blue he once knew, and the piercing violet that made her so deadly. As if that restless edge in her has calmed down and settled. 

Ekko’s chest heaves as he stumbles back a step. 

“Soooo—” she begins.

“You’re alive.”

Jinx shrugs her shoulders. “Yup. Clearly. In the flesh even,” she crows, but it’s more muted when compared to the wildness he once faced off against. 

His hand flies to his stomach, and Ekko distantly wonders if he’s about to throw up in front of a girl he’s spent his entire life loving. 

Mercifully, his stomach settles, but his heart beats so loudly he can hear the blood rushing in his skull. 

“You’re alive,” he repeats, harder this time. “It’s been two years.”

“Yeah.”

She doesn’t offer more than that, but there’s a shadow over her narrow face. She’s healthier. There’s more weight on her bones, her skin has lost some of the pallidness. As if someone took Powder and Jinx, split them clean down the middle, and fused them into one body. Stronger, more self-reassured, less teetering on the brink. 

“Would have written but mail is crappy where I was,” she jokes, her voice a familiar, drawling litany. “Besides, this is so much more mysterious—”

He closes the distance between them in two steps. His room isn’t big but he would have walked, ran, sprinted if needed to close the distance between them. His arms wrap around her and Ekko squeezes her so tightly he hears a small breath escape Jinx. She’s solid and warm. Smells faintly of sea and something metallic. Ekko buries his face in the soft crook of Jinx’s neck, gasping for breath. 

“Woah, hero, you’re gonna break my ribs,” she whispers, but her arms wind around him, more careful, unsure. “I thought you hated me?”

Even when he releases her, Ekko’s hands linger on her, go to her face, examining her through the crack of light illuminating his room. 

“I saw you,” he breathes, devastated. “I saw you everywhere. I hoped to see you everywhere.”

Something flickers over her face, an unknown thing, secretive and distant as she’s always felt to him. 

“Geez, seeing things? And they call me crazy.”

“You’re not crazy.”

There’s such vehemence in his voice it startles them both. Jinx nibbles on her inner cheek, searching his face cautiously. “I thought you’d be mad.”

Ekko laughs, a low huff of amusement. “Do you think I care for you so little, huh?”

Too late he realises he’s without a shirt, and is, in fact, mostly bare before the girl he’s harboured a crush on for years. Near boyish shyness forces Ekko back, making him clear his throat. His hands tremble when he reaches for a discarded t-shirt, hoping it doesn’t smell bad when he pulls it over his head. When he glances at her over his shoulder, Jinx is still there, still watching him, though there’s a thoughtful air around her. 

When she notices him looking, she offers him a sarcastic grin.

“No need to get shy, stud.”

“Shut up,” he grumbles.

He plops down on his unmade bed, watching her watch him. Her face is half hidden by her arms propped on her bent knee, but the silence between them isn’t awkward. They’re taking each other in, taking in the changes that have touched them both in the last two years.

“Why come back now?” he asks, eventually. 

Jinx blinks, near feline-like, dropping her head back to stare at his ceiling as if it may offer an answer. “I’m a crappy friend, but not that crappy. Happy birthday, wonder boy.”

There’s a creak in his heart, a lightness in his ribcage, a balloon of affection despite their troubled history that inflates just for her. “You remember my birthday?”

She makes a sound at the back of her throat. Glances at him from the corner of her eye. “Well, we picked it together, silly, so sure I do.” Shadows fall over her features when she angles her head away. “I… I never thought I would come back—that it was better this way.”

“I’m glad you did.”

Something close to a smile ghosts over her face at his response. Ekko can’t rip his gaze away from her. He fears that if he does, he’ll wake up and she’ll be gone again, and he’ll have to relive the agony of losing her again. 

“Does Vi—”

“No. No. And it’s better this way.”

“But—”

“Drop it, Ekko. Please.”

He does. Because this is too good to be true, and he doesn’t want this to end. Emotions mix inside him, battling for dominance, so he sits there, letting them all wash over him. 

“You’ve been busy,” she says abruptly, nodding her head in the general direction of the outside world. “Their new wonder boy. I’m not surprised. You’ve always been good at creating things. Good things.”

“And you’ve always been good at fixing them,” he says. 

Ekko thinks back on the countless times she helped him to fix up old rubbish others have discarded and sell them in Benzo’s shop as small treasures. It feels, now, like a lifetime ago. In a sense, it has been. 

She snorts; it’s an ugly, hateful sound. “Not always.”

There’s weight to how she says it. Pain lingers in each syllable, more so a whispered confession. She’s thinking of others, those lost through accidents or her own direct involvement. 

“I’m sorry about Isha,” Ekko says carefully, thumb pressing into the hollow of his bare knee. He itches to take her hand, to smooth his thumb over her knuckles instead, but he doesn’t. She’s never been his to touch. “Vi told me about her.”

Jinx shrinks, turning away and he mentally curses. A sore spot even years later. Understandably so. 

“I… shit. Sorry.”

“What’s with the long face?” she exclaims suddenly, jumping to her feet and twirling. Her hands drop to her hips and she grins at him, all mischief. “C’mon, we gotta get out of here.”

Ekko squints. “Uh, what?”

“It’s your birthday, silly,” she says, like it should be obvious. “We’re going to spend the day together.”

.

Jinx keeps her hood up, her gait steady. Any sign of blue tucked away. She’s changed her attire to draw less attention, and as they walk in the hazy dawn light towards the bridge separating the sister cities, it feels almost normal. Casual. Not at all like the last time they spoke, they were about to fight side by side in a battle for their lives. Not at all like he spent two years thinking she’s dead. That still stings, but knowing how she felt back then, the state she was in before he talked her down from the edge, the pain she’s been through, Ekko can’t bring himself to feel resentful. He only wants to hold her and tell her it’ll be okay because she’s not alone. 

“You’re not saying, are you?” he asks, hands in his pockets. 

“Nope,” she replies, popping the p. “Can’t.”

Words rush to his tongue. Insistence that she can and should stay—that there’s space here for her, not just in his life, but in the new Zaun he’s helping to shape. He almost admits it to her then. That he’s built this for her and the ones they lost along the way. 

Ekko continues walking, staring at the ground, noticing too late she’s fallen behind. He peers over his shoulder and freezes when he notices what’s caught her attention. The mural. Welcoming anyone coming into Zaun. Her face, slightly younger but now immortalised, peers back at them. 

“You drew this.”

He loosens a breath. “Yeah, I did. I, uh, just…”

Jinx reaches for her own face, fingertips ghosting over the painted wall. There’s tension on her face when she turns to look at him, something piercing and hard and thoughtful. Same pinch to her eyebrows he saw earlier in his bedroom. 

“I won’t let them take you,” he says softly. “If they came for you. I would fight for you.”

She doesn’t break their eye contact. “I know. You shouldn’t, but I know you would.”

“Then stay.”

She saunters forward, stopping only when they’re almost chest to chest. “I’m not her, y’know? The other me. The one you love.”

He smiles, huffing a small breath, refocusing on her and her small pout. Ekko reaches forward, tucking a few stray strands back under Jinx’s hood, lingering for a beat. “I wasn’t her Ekko, either. That’s why I came back. I like this version of you just fine. But just so we’re clear, every version of you is a pain in my ass.” He tugs on a small braid, grinning when she shoots him an annoyed glare and slaps his hand away. “But I won’t have it any other way. Wait, no. It sure as hell would be simpler if you didn’t try to kill me anymore, but I guess I’ll deal with that, too.”

Jinx snorts, absently reaching for the spot he touched, her gaze softer than before. “Ha! You hit like a girl, by the way. I never got to tell you.”

“You tried to blow us up.”

“Eh,” she whines. “That was one time. You gotta let that go.”

Ekko exhales a small laugh and realises he hasn’t smiled or laughed this much in years. Joy was leeched from him with her absence, and while he did his duties, there was no security of Jinx’s usual push and pull to keep him balanced and focused. Even when they were enemies, hunted each other down and attacked each other, they existed on opposite sides of a perfectly balanced sphere. 

Her nearness, the relief of having her there, overshadows the darker recollection of that afternoon when she tried to blow them up more than once. Memories so painful Ekko wishes to scrub them from his mind forever, yet they remain seared into his psyche. 

She grabs his elbow, dragging him forward, breaking the surrounding gloom. “Come on then,. Things to do, things to see.”

And Ekko does what he’s done since they were young. He follows her. Because they might not have tomorrow.

.

The day goes by too fast. Almost a blur. A series of snapshots Ekko will lock away in his mind forever. He never expected he’d get to do this again. This is something his younger self could have only dreamt about once. When they dreamt of simpler things; flashy toys and delicious sweets, things only a young boy could fantasise about, aside from a loving home, because at least that much he had. 

They walked and talked and joked around, eating street vendor food all day. Ekko knows they’re pushing their luck, but he can’t help himself. Jinx grew up here. This is her home too, and he wants to show her the progress they’ve made. There’s something comfortable about her snarky commentary and ill-timed jibes at the Council members. She asks about Vi only once, in relation to Cait, and Ekko tells her the truth. 

They’re happy. They’re together. She nods, satisfied, and moves on.

“We should go see Jericho next.” It’s an offhand suggestion while they walk the newly paved river path. Now people from the Undercity can enjoy the same luxury of having a peaceful sidewalk to take their kids down. It’s amazing how it’s the small things that bring people happiness. 

“Can’t,” Jinx replies, glancing towards the setting sun. Her smile twists; it’s still a smile, but it’s sad, in a way. “Sorry, hero.”

He takes several seconds to speak. “So, you’re leaving anyway.”

“Yes. I told you I can’t stay.”

“It’s a pity, then.”

She tilts her head. “Why?”

Damn her for even asking. Damn her and all the shitty circumstances for keeping them apart. Damn her for picking him during that game of hide and seek years ago. Damn her for being there for him and not being there at the same time. Damn her for being his entire world for years. Even when Ekko thought he hated her, he wasn’t free of her. He never could be. His girl with blue hair. 

He’s in love with her, in every possible way, but they both know they can’t work like this. There’s too many ghosts for Jinx here, and despite the changes, Ekko can’t promise her she won’t get dragged off to Stillwater the moment authorities find out she’s alive after all. 

Ekko frowns, clenches his fists, and walks away. 

But she’s like an anchor to him. He stops several paces away, tied to her. “You’re gonna break my heart.”

They’ve been everything from friends to enemies and strangers to reluctant allies again. So much of his life has revolved around her. Continues to revolve around her. Past and present. But if Jinx sends him away now, if she walks away, Ekko will let her go. Because he can finally rest easy, knowing she is alive and well, even if they’re apart.

“In any other universe, I might have loved you,” she breathes. 

He pivots towards her, his nostrils flaring. “Love me in this one,” he insists, reaching for her. Ekko cups her cheeks, tilting her head until her hood slips back down, exposing her blue hair to the setting sun. He’s glad there’s no one in sight because he can’t think straight right now. “Choose me now. Ask me to go away with you. Ask me.”

He presses his forehead to hers. Jinx’s empty gaze appears glazed over, her thoughts far away no matter how hard he tries to grip her and hold her close. 

“I don’t deserve you, boy saviour,” she whispers emptily. “You’re good.”

“No one decides for me, Jinx. Not even you.”

She blinks owlishly, searching his wild stare, a pained expression on her face, her fingers knotting against her chest. “What if you don’t want me after a while? I’m… different and if I get bad again... What if—”

“Ask me, damnit.”

Jinx loosens a shaky breath, jumping through a hundred micro-expressions in a few seconds. A painful mix between hope and dread. 

“C…” Her eyes squeeze shut. “Come with me.”

Ekko sags in relief. “Yes.” He holds her, wraps his arms around her despite the unsure way she folds against him. As if she’s unsure where to put her hands. If she should. “Yes, I’ll come with you. I don’t care if you’re different. I want you as you are, okay? No matter where we are.”

A tremulous breath wheezes past Jinx’s lips. But with that, she melts into him, burying her face against him. Her embrace grows desperate and tight, a tremble shuddering through her body. 

“Always a dance with you, huh?” he says after a moment.

She chuckles, the sound warming his collarbone. “And you still got two left feet, boy wonder.”

Constants and variables, young Ekko, Benzo told him once. Everything bad that can happen in this universe might come to pass, but so might everything good.

----

an: ahh I know this isn't really my usual offering but I really hope you guys enjoyed, it's been a while since i've cared enough about canon/canon ship to do this.

[becausebuckley]

michelle's buddie fic recs: week 49!

oh, how time flies... i can't believe the end of the year is this close already! not a massive fan of that, not gonna lie, but i am a fan of all of these fics, so let's focus on that, shall we?

this is a mix of fics with all ratings, so some include NSFW content. please take a look at both the ratings and the fic tags before reading! some might also contain spoilers for season 8.

if you come across something you like in this list, remember to show some love to the author by leaving kudos and a comment!

built a house in the middle of your chest | LongConvolutedSimiles | 5.3k | M

Five times Buck and Eddie touch platonically plus one time they realise it's not platonic at all. i do love a good platonic-to-not-platonic-touching type fic and this hit the spot so perfectly <3

carpe diem | writingcap/@gibuckaroo | 2.6k | GA

Eddie rests his head on Buck’s shoulder and he lets himself follow. eddie's love language might be physical touch but my love language is reading about physical touch <3 so good!!

everything is fine (everything is perfect) | Kwills91/@kwills91| 4.1k | GA

Buck gets sick and Eddie takes care of him. Then Eddie bares his soul and Buck takes care of him. Because that's what they do. because that's what they do!! i love how they take care of each other here, written so perfectly <3

hen wilson's four part guide to making your stupid friends date | songbvrd/@songbvrd | 25k | M

When Buck and Eddie aren't speaking, Hen decides to take matters into her own hands. outsider pov!! hen wilson!! buddie being idiots in love!! what else could a girl (me) want (nothing) <3

i can tell just what you want (you don't want to be alone) | Talls/@tallsinspace | 12.6k | E

In which Eddie keeps secrets and Buck is incredibly normal and rational and even brave about his reaction to this. buck being so normal and rational and brave is my absolute favourite <3 love his inner dialogue here!

i don't swim and you're not in love | hattalove/@hattalove | 32.4k | T

eddie cooks, chris domesticates a slug, and buck tries to figure out why he hates his best friend's girlfriend. to everyone's immense shock and surprise, it goes badly. blanket rec for an author whose work i've really been loving this week <3 been making my way through hattalove's entire profile and having such a good time. this one in particular has such a delightful buck and such lovely buddie and all of the yearning!!

i have had enough of crime | lamardeuse/@lamardeuse | 8.1k | T

Josh's view of Eddie's journey in 8A and beyond through the gay Olympic sport of competitive brunching. this fic captures josh so so perfectly and the josh & eddie dynamic is just brilliant <3

i should be pushing daisies | 42hrb/@exhuastedpigeon | 5.5k | T

Eddie goes to Texas to fix things with Chris and Buck pines. pining buck <3 this is such a brilliant character study and i love it so very much!!

practice makes perfect | greenbergsays/@greenbergsays | 6.5k | E

When the subject of Buck 1.0 arises, Buck worries that the reminder will make Eddie rethink their relationship. Eddie reassures him. oh my this is such a perfect way of buck 1.0 coming up in buddie fics... genuinely unmatched i saw the ao3 email in my inbox and audibly gasped. so good!!

properly | EiraLloyd/@unlifeira | 3.9k | T

“’ve got it, Eds,” someone murmured close to his ear in a way that made him shiver, and oh, that was Buck’s voice. Eddie would know him anywhere. This time, his questioning noise sounded a little more like a hum. “‘ve got it,” Buck repeated, attempting to truly drive in the message. “Y’can sleep in.” this is the loveliest mutual pining/sharing a bed/misunderstandings fic ever <3 honestly everything this author writes is just incredible, i know i'm in good hands when i see her name pop up

somethings said (to turn you inside out) | taegyungie | 12.2k | E

Buck catches Eddie on Grindr and now he can't stop thinking about it. i need ALL of the buck and eddie on grindr fics honestly they always hit the spot <3 this is hot and perfect and so so good!!

the arms of the ocean | anatargmova/@anatargmova | 9.7k | T

after Christopher leaves with his grandparents, Buck notices just how much touch-starved Eddie is — and decides to fix it. listen okay we all know by now how much i love a fic about touch starvation. however what you might not know is that i especially love a fic about touch-starved eddie. and this one has exactly that, but is also buck POV, which is just incredibly well-written and so soft and lovely and feels like a hug <3

trade all my tomorrows | ipretendtobesane/@userbuddie | 74k | E

Buck’s the god of love and was cursed to never fall for anyone, Eddie’s just trying to explore his newfound queerness with someone he trusts, striking up a friends with benefits agreement is the perfect arrangement. this is hands down the most beautiful fic i've read in a long long time. it's so well-written, so fleshed-out, just so good! i'll be rereading this many many times, i just know it <3

[pellucid-constellations]

If It All Fell (6)

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Summary: If it all fell apart—if you forgot who you were—would you love him again? Would the bond guide you back? Azriel doesn't know if that uncertainty is one he can bear.

Word count: 3.5k

Warnings: Angst, PINING

a/n: Sorryyyy for the wait <3 As a lot of you know I have been going through it lately, but I really enjoyed writing this and hope to post more immediately 🤜. Let me know what you think :))

Part 1 ♡ Part 2 ☆ Part 3 ✶ Part 4☼ Part 5 ☁ Part 7 ☆

Series Masterlist

~~

Day Court was immeasurably beautiful—with all of its pristine columns reflecting orange light. Marble flooring shone with distorted images of acrylic brush strokes that hung on granite walls. Fountains billowed at the mouth of every doorway, sculpted fixtures at their bases. Warm wind kissed your skin and glistening waters welcomed you and Day Court was so incredibly beautiful. 

You were sure, if given the chance, you would think the same of its residents. 

Unfortunately, you were not given the chance to come to that conclusion. 

“The High Lord is in a meeting. He sends his apologies for not meeting you upon your arrival—the merchants of Day can get a bit rowdy,” the servant laughed. “I can show you to your rooms in the meantime.”

“Rooms?” Rhysand posed. You attempted to look over Azriel’s wing to gauge the conversation, but Cassian took another step to the side, halting your movement. 

“Yes, Helion informed us that the four of you would be here, so we prepared four rooms. If that’s not—”

“Three rooms will suffice, thank you,” your High Lord drawled. 

The servant squeaked, and you were sure if you could see her, her nerves would be evident. “Of—of course, High Lord. I assume Lady Y/n will be with—”

“We will deal with the division of our rooms on our own. Thank you…” 

“Amira,” the servant offered. “My name is Amira. I will be attending to you, Lady Y/n, during your time here.” 

You knocked your head to the side, brushing Cassian’s bicep as he stood beside you. You barely caught Amira’s mousey brown hair before the membrane of a wing flushed out and pushed you back. 

“She doesn’t need an attendant,” Azriel bit out, misplaced malice creating tension in the hall.

“Oh, it’s okay, I—” 

Apparently, not even your voice was allowed to be heard. Rhysand cut you off. “No attendant,” he confirmed, after sending his spymaster a sidelong glance laced with reproach. “No servants in our rooms, either. We are rather private, you understand.”

A pause. 

You wished you could see anyone’s expression. 

From beside you, Cassian offered you a pity smile, nudging you with his elbow in an act of comfort. 

“Anything you require,” Amira shakily responded. “Shall I walk you back, then? Just to show you where you will be staying?” 

“Lead the way.” 

Azriel immediately stepped back, his shadows scrambling past him to enclose you in dim light. You felt his presence, firm and tall, looming at your back as you took the first few steps down the hall. 

This all felt entirely misplaced, with the bleakness of your group extinguishing some of the vibrance of the court you walked through. Cassian kept close to your side, some of Azriel’s shadows drifting off and cloaking the red glow on his hands and chest. Rhys, ever the High Lord, took up the front, footsteps light but purposeful. 

Everyone looked grim. 

Except for you. 

This court held no negative connotations for you, no malicious undertones that impacted the rest of your family. It was simply beautiful, and your family was simply cloistering you. 

But you agreed to this; anything to make them feel better. 

To make Azriel feel better. 

You turned your head to the side as you walked, catching the shadowsinger in your peripheral. Tense, on-guard, unyielding; Azriel’s jaw was set in a firm clench, but it was different from what you were used to. When he was tense at home, it was almost out of… anticipation? Trepidation? 

Here though… here his posture was derived from rage. From practiced, honed fury. 

You turned your head away before you attempted to fix it, to comfort him. He wanted to be angry, told you as much before he winnowed you to Day in a flurry of his shadows. 

I’m going to be different, he had told you, I need to be different. It can’t be like the last time. I can’t let you get hurt. 

The fear in his eyes had melted away in the Day Court sun; the second your feet landed on meticulously carved cobblestone, Azriel was no longer just your friend. 

Amira led you to three doors along a wall, mumbled a few parting words, and bowed away before anyone could send her a second glance. You attempted to offer her a reassuring smile amidst her flee, but Azriel’s shadows were too dense. A hand on your back led you into a room and Amira was gone. 

“That went well,” Cassian breathed, a long sigh punctuating his descent into a loveseat by the bed. “She didn’t look terrified at all.” 

The bedroom door clicked shut. Rhys raised his brows. “She’ll thank us later.” The High Lord’s eyes drifted to the shadowsinger sulking by your side. “This isn’t exactly a leisurely visit.” 

Your gaze shot around the room in the following lapse of silence, analyzing the tense nature of each male. The air felt stagnant and stiff, the light somehow dimmer even with the open windows, and you weren’t sure if your voice would make it worse or ease some of the pressing emotions. 

Rhys took a seat in a chair by the door, and you decided speaking was better than leaning into the uncomfortable silence. 

“It’s so beautiful here,” you began, playing with your fingers, second-guessing your decision to stand. Azriel remained motionless at your side. “The sun feels different somehow. Brighter, maybe?” 

“The skies have an affinity for their namesake in the solar courts,” Rhys offered kindly. 

You hummed, rolling onto your toes and then rocking back on your heels. “I suppose that makes sense. The nights are incredible back home.” 

The use of that word—home—did not go unnoticed by the group. Not by you and certainly not by the male standing guard at your side. The replacement of the word had been relatively common since you woke up. 

Here in Velaris, there is…. 

When you came back here all those years ago…

Let’s go back to the house…

Never home.

But being in Day—being away from Velaris—just solidified what you already assumed. Velaris was your home. You were sick of letting your family dance around that truth. 

~~

“Mother above, I was sure I would never see you again,” a strange voice tore your attention from Cassian’s vivid retelling of your first time flying with him, and although it was an interesting story, the man before you was even more enticing. 

With deep skin and an even deeper smile, white linen billowed around his confident figure. The man appeared to glisten as he walked toward your small group, golden sandals trailing up bronze calves. Even the air around him seemed to glow. 

Enticing didn’t seem to be the correct word. 

You’d been directed into a rather large study after a brief lunch and a “tour” of the grounds that only included the wing you were staying in. Rhys had chalked it up to Helion stalling for time. You’d tried to coax a more comprehensive tour out of the guard leading you around, but a sharp look from Azriel was enough to put that conversation to rest. 

“You look just as you did. Perhaps a bit gaunt but…” The man—Helion, you’d deduced—trailed off when the whisper of a shadow trailed at his neck. “I am Helion,” he smiled. “You have known me for many years. In love with me, as most are. But, alas, it is not fated.” 

Some of your awe shifted to shock. “I am—I’m sorry, I am in love with you?” 

In front of you, Cassian let out a long breath and fanned his wings out before letting them hang behind his chair. You sat straighter in your own seat, mortification creeping into your chest at the small laugh Rhys let slip across the room. What set your mouth into its flurry, however, was the raised brow you received from Helion. 

“I didn’t mean that to offend. I mean—what I meant was just that… Well, no one said I had a lover or even mentioned you in that way so it came as a shock. But I presume there is much about myself I have yet to learn so… you are a very beautiful man and I’m sure—” 

“Y/n, it’s alright,” came Azriel’s soothing voice from beside you, his scarred fingers pushing hair behind your ear halting your apologies. “He was only joking.” A pointed look in the High Lord’s direction. “He does that from time to time, unfortunately.” 

More mortification made an appearance. 

“Oh.” 

Helion’s raised brow had morphed into an unsure expression at some point amidst your rambling. “When they said you had no memory… You will have to excuse me, y/n. I assumed you’d have more… context. Especially with your abilities.” 

“We told you she remembered nothing and had no access to her magic,” Azriel defended, his fingers dropping to rest beside your thighs. 

“Well, yes, but often when magic tampers with the mind, the personality remains intact. Like a muscle memory.” 

“Oh, her personality is there,” Cassian retorted, a bittersweet smirk playing at his lips. “Just not when she’s met you five seconds ago and you’re revealing fake truths. Sarcasm doesn’t often work with strangers.” 

Helion nodded grimly, turning back to you. “I apologize.” 

“It’s really alright,” you comforted, attempting to calm some of the twisted guilt marring the High Lord’s face. “They worry too much. Right now everything I do is without context and I find myself embarrassed more often than not. It’s not your fault.” 

Helion did not look convinced or reassured. His eyes simply traveled to the corners of your face and tracked down to the patterns Azriel was drawing into the skirts of your dress. 

“Do you see now why we needed to come to you,” Rhys chimed in from above his crossed arms. 

Helion hummed. “Yes. Shall I get started then?” 

The room shuffled. You were informed that Helion had to be touching your head to assess the injury—unlike Rhys’s assessment—so you were sat atop a table to give him better access. Azriel followed by your side, his front pressed against the table, Cassian stood his ground behind Helion, and Rhys took up residence on your other side. 

“In Day, we have a type of healing that extends to magical wards and enchantments, was that explained to you?” Helion asked, kind eyes never leaving yours. Too kind—uncertain and full of reproach.

“Yes, they said maybe the witch put something in my mind. Like a blockage.” 

“Precisely. And I was informed about Rhysand’s unsuccessful attempt at entering your mind. That could be due to a spell, which is why I would be more useful.”

Rhys scoffed. 

You let a smile tug at your lips, but it was quickly extinguished when you considered the outcome of this process. “Will it feel the same? What you’re doing and what Rhys did?” 

You could almost hear the way Azriel ground his jaw. 

Helion glanced at him from the corner of his eye. “It will feel different. I am not in the business of thoughts or memories. I won’t be able to access anything other than any inflictions you may have.” 

“So it won’t hurt?” 

“I cannot promise anything.” 

The table beneath you shifted an inch, just to be caught by hands glowing with blue light.

I need to be different. It can’t be like the last time. I can’t let you get hurt.

“Still sure you can’t just beat the crap out of whatever’s going on in my head?” you posed to Cassian, tilting your head up to call over Helion’s shoulder. 

The general’s chuckle eased some of the tension in the room. “I would if I could.” 

“Promise?” 

“Always.” 

With a resigned breath, you nodded to Helion. The High Lord’s hands glowed a golden white, he lifted them to your head, and then there was nothing. 

~~

Azriel

If he hadn’t shot his hand out when he did, Azriel was sure your head would have fallen out of Helion’s grasp and plummeted to the floor. 

You were limp. 

Eyes closed, neck bent—completely and utterly limp. 

Azriel took the liberty of tugging on the bond just to make sure you were still alive. He hadn’t done so since you woke up in the forest, remembering the fear in your eyes, but you looked so incredibly lifeless. 

“Helion,” he barked, his worried expression never turning from your face. 

Icy panic gripped his stomach, twisting it with fervor. 

Cassian took a step forward. 

“Why is she unconscious?” his brother gritted out. His tone was an empty threat; he couldn’t hurt a High Lord, and neither could Azriel, but Azriel would do much more for much less. 

His life had become a nightmare. 

Literally. 

On his worst nights, he relived the time you went missing and the subsequent loss of your memories over and over until he woke up screaming. His heart would beat so rapidly it seemed impossible to slow and he would be inconsolable for several minutes, but he always had you there. He would wake up from that nightmare and you would be there. 

He had that dream every night now, and he woke up to the same. The guestroom he occupied didn’t smell like you, and even though you were just on the other side of the wall, he couldn’t make out the sound of your breath enough to let it lull him back to sleep. Nothing you owned was in that room. Everything he owned was still in a pile by the door after Feyre had rushed to clear the evidence of him from your space. But why did that matter? What were books and trinkets and clothes in a room that was otherwise devoid of everything he loved? 

Leaving his room was worse. 

Gods, all he wanted to do was hold you. To really, truly hold you and for you to hold him back. But you looked at him cordially, the same way you looked at Cassian and Rhysand and Mor. 

When he left the house he had to deal with Feyre and Nesta’s constant questioning. Even Amren had taken an interest in your well-being, and while he appreciated the care for his mate, he couldn’t take it. 

He couldn’t take echoing the words, “She’s fine. Healthy. Less pain today,” over and over when he could tell what they really wanted to know were things you wouldn’t share with him. He couldn’t take the fact that you didn’t tell him you loved him—that he would whisper it at your back every time you turned around and you never heard. You were skittish at his touch and shy when you spoke and you were never the first to voice your opinion and he just couldn’t take it. 

With your head in his broken hand, Azriel felt another piece of him crack. 

“I did it.” Rhys broke the silence, a concentration twisting his brow. “Helion and I agreed it was the best way to go about this. It had to be sudden though—unexpected. We needed a moment where her mind was completely unexpecting.”

Cassian cursed. “You couldn’t have told us that before you made it look like she died, Rhysand?” 

“If y/n were dead no one would be standing here right now and you know that.” 

“Still,” Cassian mumbled. “Warn a guy.” 

“I’ve felt this before,” Helion said, shaking his head. “But that’s impossible. Rhysand, you would have—” 

“I would have, yes, but not if it was created through other means. It was a witch, not a daemati.” 

“She could have been both.” 

“Extremely unlikely. Keep going.” 

Azriel watched the way your lashes fluttered, counted the beats of your heart and pretended you knew who he was. 

“What’s happening?” he asked. “You’re both in her head. Talk.” 

“I couldn’t get through the wall myself because it wasn’t her magic,” Rhys explained. “I assumed it was the witch’s, but this signature is too similar. It’s exactly like it was before, just muted.” 

“Like it was before?” Azriel repeated, finally turning his head up. 

Rhysand looked grim. “Almost identical.” 

“That isn’t possible,” the shadowsinger immediately refuted. “I killed that bastard myself. There is no way he could have done anything to her.” 

“Azriel, I think it’s possible that—” 

But Azriel did not let the High Lord of Day finish his thought. “You don’t speak to me about her,” he seethed. “Not when she came to your court and one of your people did this to her. I trusted you with her. I sent my mate here and she has been paying the price for that ever since. This is your fault, so you do not tell me what you think. You tell me what is certain.”

The room went silent, and Helion looked back at you, eyes glazing as he continued his work. 

A strong, steady hand clapped against Azriel’s shoulder. It took Cassian three tugs before Azriel reluctantly let your head go, but only after Rhysand placed his own hand at your back. 

“Look, I get it,” Cassian comforted, hands on his brother's arms. “If this was Nesta I’d probably be tearing this room apart right now. But he’s all we have here. And you know it wasn’t his fault last time. You remember how hard he worked to get her back.” 

Azriel ignored him.

Cassian roughly shook his frame. 

“Hey, you know that. And you know y/n’s going to be pissed at you when she gets her memories back and hears how much of an ass you’re being to Helion. She’s going to be severely pissed if you start a war trying to kill the guy.” 

“If.”

The small smile Cassian was sporting faltered. “What?” 

Azriel finally met his eyes. “If she gets her memories back. It was an if last time and it’s an if again.” 

The two High Lords discussed quietly in the back, their hands still on you. Azriel’s shadows refused to leave your side, weaving through your hair and your clothes and the fingers against your head. 

“Well last time she got them back, didn’t she?” 

“You truly believe that will happen twice? I was praying to the mother for luck the first time, Cassian. She won’t listen again. I guarantee she won’t.” 

“Az…” Cassian trailed off. There was no speech to formulate, not when defeat and resolution were so clear on his brother’s face. 

“She won’t love me a third time.” 

Your cough had Azriel bolting away from his brother’s concerned gaze in an instant. You were no longer in Helion’s grasp, instead leaning against Rhysand’s arm as the High Lord of Day scribbled something in a book.

“Ow.” You rubbed at your head with a pinched expression, squinting up at Azriel as he leaned down. “I think I passed out or something.” 

It was mostly out of hysterics, but a small laugh escaped the spymaster. “Or something.” 

Gods, you sent a spark of joy down the bond and it was all-consuming. You did that from time to time, unintentionally flooding Azriel with whatever emotion you felt the strongest. More than once he had to stop himself from opening his side completely just to relish in the reminisce you offered him. 

“What about this time? Did we figure it out?” you slurred, squeezing your eyes open just to have the drop closed once again. 

Azriel tucked his hand against the back of your head and looked expectantly at the two High Lords before him. 

When Helion spoke, Azriel let him, if only because he was still living on the high of his mate’s lingering amusement. “Whatever the witch did, it was a mimicry of the daemati that tore into her head all those years ago. I need to do more research, see if I am able to undo whatever it is she redid without irreparably damaging her mind. If I can’t, the only answer is the witch.” 

“Is that even possible? To mimic something like that?” Azriel asked, stepping forward so your drooping head would fall against his arm. 

“Witches draw power beyond their reserve and even beyond the cauldron. We know so little about them. Tamlin should not have been making deals with them,” Helion curtly replied. 

Any lightness in the room had very clearly disappeared. 

“Take your mate back to your room. We can discuss this when she no longer looks like she’s fighting to stay awake.” 

“I am awake,” you argued, trying and failing to haul yourself into an upright position. 

Rhysand huffed out a laugh. “I wouldn’t even be awake after having two high lords in my mind. Go rest. We will talk in the morning.” 

Azriel assisted as you stood on unsteady legs, but the attempt was futile. The shadowsinger gathered you into his arms as you sent an accusatory finger in Rhysand’s direction. “Liar.” 

It wasn’t until you were alone in the hallway, your head against Azriel’s shoulder, his arms beneath your body, that you spoke again.

“Azriel?” 

He hummed in response. 

“What’s a mate?”

Part 7 ☆

[yoonia]

Ever A Never After — story masterpost

⟶ Title | Ever a Never After (adaptation from Enchanted movie) ⟶ Summary | Growing up in the fairy tale land, your whole life seems to have been written perfectly in the books, with the picturesque life and the Prince Charming that you can see yourself having your happily ever after with. But your entire world turns upside down when you are suddenly sent into a whole new world, a different kind of universe where happily ever after doesn’t exist. Thrust into a new challenge and shown a new side of life, you find yourself standing in a crossroad. When the moment arises, would you find your way back home to your true love, or is the universe trying to show you that sometimes happy endings don’t have to be written so perfectly?

⟶ Pairings | Jungkook x female reader; Seokjin x female reader ⟶ Genre | Strangers to lovers!au, Fairy tale retelling!au, Angst, Smut ⟶ Ratings & Warnings | +18 / M for Mature; specific warnings will be added accordingly on each published chapters ⟶ Status / Current word count / Total word count | ONGOING; latest update: Ever A Never After: Act 2 - Part 2 (Oct 7th, 2024) - 51,865 words of n/a words  ⟶ Main Masterlist | Mailbox | Feedback | Ko-fi | Music companion ⟶ Cross-posted in AO3 and Wattpad

⟶ Special Taglist: Ever A Never After

⟶ Story Note | Written in 2nd person POV (in case you’re new to my writing, I don’t use ‘y/n’ coding as all of my lead characters are considered as OCs). In place of the coding, you’ll find a blank space as her name. Please also note that our main character/reader insert for this story has her own nickname that will be used in the scenes. While the story is adapted from the movie, Enchanted, with some characters and places that were mentioned in the movie added into this story, I will be adding changes in the story settings, characters’ names and background stories to fit the plot. That being said, as someone who has never set foot in the land of America, forgive me if there are some inaccuracies in the details that are being added here. I hope that doesn’t change your reading experience with the story.

⟶ Chapters

⇢ Act One. Andalasia, The Maiden, and The Dream Prince [“It’s you. The boy I saw in my dreams.” “It’s me. Your Prince Charming.” | Word count: 19,688 words | posted: May 21st, 2024 | Chapter Teaser]

⇢ Act Two. The Alter World and The Saviour [“I need to find my way back to the castle.” “What castle?” “Why, of course, I’m talking about Andalasia.” “Huh, right. Why don’t I just call you an Uber?” | Word count: 32,185 words | Chapter Teaser]

— Part 1. Welcome to the Alter World [Word count: 15,410 words of 32,185 words - posted on: Sept 16th, 2024] — Part 2. The World Without Magic [Word count: 16,755 of 32,185 words - posted on: Oct 7th, 2024 ]

⇢ Act Three. Fairy Tales and Bittersweet Endings [“You forgot to say the part where you lived happily ever after.” “Happily ever after? That thing doesn’t exist, not in the real world.” | Word count: ��� | Chapter Teaser]

⇢ Act Four. The Ball for The Kings and Queens and Dragons [“There is a ball for the Queen and Kings at the start of spring. Shall we go together?” “As your Prince Charming, I’ll be happy to escort you.” | Word count: — | Chapter Teaser]

⇢ Act Five. Prince Charming and a Happily Never After [“Look at how the tables have turned, as now I have in my hand the Prince who is supposed to protect the princess.” “Come along now, dear. You wouldn’t want to miss the ending.” | Word count: — | Chapter Teaser]

⟶ Fic talk & references

⇢ image reference

⇢ readers feedback & discussions

⟶ Patreon specials

⇢ visual inspiration board

⇢ fic commentary (coming soon)

⟶ Author’s Note | Originally commissioned by @pinkbtsarmy | It’s finally here! I’m so sorry for taking so long with this one. Thank you so much for commissioning me and for your endless support. As mentioned in our last talk, there will be some changes from the original prompt/details that I’ve made to make the story work better, but I hope you’ll be able to enjoy it still. I have decided to release this one as a mini-series to present the timeline more appropriately and make the storyline work. Have fun reading!

— © Yoonia, all rights reserved. reposting/modifying of any kind is not allowed. unsolicited translations are not allowed.