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agendabymooner · 1 year ago

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colour me your colour || toto w. x ofc (4)

Summary: Tilly Marie nearly loses faith in her passion as she refuses to listen to everyone who told her to quit. Everyone but one. And it’s the man she met years ago at a racing event she didn’t want to attend. Who would have thought that her father’s partial ownership of three brands could take her to the zone of Mercedes and meet the love of her life?

Chapter summary: Can you actually fall in love fast? or is Tilly just fortunate enough to catch Toto's attention and gain his respect and determination in span of a day? As of this point, she might as well host a slumber party as Daniel and Lewis continue to pester her with the most important topics of her life right now: her family and the hypothetical ones she'd make with Toto.

Content warning: Age gap, brief use of explicit language, discusses the 2014 austrian gp, flirtatious banter, mutual pining kind of romance, platonic relationship with Lewis Hamilton and Daniel Ricciardo, fictional family and business involved (Hearth family and Hearth Automotives Group). NO PERSONAL RELATIONSHIPS INVOLVED SORRY

Note: Thank you all so much for the 50 followers! I honestly have been writing these just because I didn't have anything occupy my time and it's a good idea that I posted them up here. knowing that you're enjoying my brain's ideas, it fuels me even more into writing. As of this point I'm currently writing a spin-off for Rush and this series so keep an eye out, I suppose. I hope you all enjoyed today's race because I certainly did (Albon was way too fucking good this weekend, I shit you not). And I hope Alonso's 2nd place makes up for the Father's Day that I'll never get to spend with him. Enjoy xx

masterlist

iv. fast lane but not the race weekend kind

“Regards,

Tilly Marie F. Hearth…”

That should be okay, I tell myself silently as I put away my laptop. It’s only 6 pm, and I already wish to retire to my bed early.

I can be doing a lot, but instead I’m moping inside my hotel room while I’m waiting for Lewis. Being on a paid vacation is nice; I don’t have to do anything and deal with people. But at the same time, I’m craving more tasks to occupy my time because truthfully, I do NOT want to be stuck in a hotel in Silverstone with nothing to do. I spent my early 20’s being away from people, but now I’m entering my early 30’s, I’m slowly thinking that I probably should’ve done more than attend festivals by myself or with my sisters.

None of the people I was around with earlier had looked my way until after they'd been told that I was working in communications and was a boss’ child. The staff from the other teams also did the same—but some of them knew who I was already and had already made themselves comfortable. Just how I wanted.

But then again, this is my first day. And Sunday would probably be my last considering that I’ll be back to my stuffy office the next week.

I can take up the role as a consultant for communications. My father did offer me that role for Ferrari, Red Bull and McLaren—telling me that I can do so much more in Formula One than my no-good employers.

Bunch of bullshit, I curse out. He wouldn’t let go of his legacy like that.

I already told him about writing for magazines or simply writing in general, but he still placed these executive positions in front of me as if he knew I’d give in. Sad fact is that he actually is right; I’m close to giving up on my job. If The Devil Wears Prada didn’t warn me the first time, Lauren Weisberger should have at least taken both of my shoulders and shaken them.

It didn’t hurt to think about balancing Formula One and journalism out. After all, it’s what I can do as a journalist—know enough about racing and engines and ensure that my knowledge is being shared through my writing and published works.

I try my best to relax in my bed, lying flat on the mattress with my hands resting on my stomach. The silence is deafening and I can hear my steady breathing. My eyes are growing tired as they continue to look up at the ceiling of my room.

For a moment, I debated whether or not I should come downstairs for dinner with Lewis. If there’s anything that I know about him, he takes his dear time to get ready—and I have an endless closet at home. That’s telling you a lot.

A knock on my door makes me stand fast and rush to open it. Daniel Ricciardo stands there with a grin.

“Oh you,” I blurt out.

Displeased with my response, Daniel cries out, “I’m not terrible all the time, Tils.”

“Sorry,” I shake my head as I correct myself, “I meant that I thought you were Lewis.”

“He phoned me and said we should head down instead of waiting for him,” he shrugs as he sticks his arm out and offers, “let’s go?”

I nod and head to where my flats are, slipping them on with ease as I grab my keycard and wallet.

Daniel only pulled his arm back when I wrapped my arm around it. We descend to the ground floor where the restaurant is located.

A host takes us to a four table seat at a corner. Seeing familiar faces from the venue, I nod at them as a greeting before I find myself sitting across Daniel.

Soon enough, Lewis arrives and we begin to talk about today’s events. Forty five minutes had passed, and we found ourselves conversing in front of our already empty plates.

Daniel asks about my family and all I can tell him has something to do with my mother’s side of the family. I guess out of the wealthy people in my family, I can understand my mother’s connections to the automobile industry. My toxic trait is that I despise my father but love my mother.

The difference is that my mother loves us more than anything and cares for our half-sister more than he does.

But it seems Daniel has focused on a different matter.

“Your mother is— you’re a Ford, Tils,” his eyes widen like an owl as his mouth gapes open. I can practically see a fly entering his mouth.

“My mum is,” I laugh, looking at Lewis as he, too, laughs at Daniel’s shocked expression.

“Mate, she’s a Ford,” Daniel reaches out to nudge at Lewis and gestures at me. “You carry that information around just like that?”

“She’s not really putting it out there for everyone to know,” Lewis chuckles, sipping on his water as he puts it down. “Besides, if you were really into racing you probably have heard about her dad or mum’s family one way or another.”

“I don’t really go digging for information about old money families,” Daniel rolls his eyes as he looks at me again, “you don’t look like you’re happy to be here. For someone who came from families who are into cars.”

“My father insisted on having me work for his teams,” I tell him, “I’m not exactly the brightest for motorsport. I prefer the media more than what my father wishes me to pursue.”

“Have you raced before?”

“I had a karting career at some point,” I shrug, “or at least I started at the age 4. Mum didn’t agree with it and I should’ve started at 7, but my father insisted. I was already competing by 7. My sisters were too, but some preferred equestrian over racing.”

“If my dad was a twat, I’d stop it just to spite him too,” Daniel says as I raise my brows at the statement. He then corrects himself, “What I mean is I’d pursue the karting career for me, not for him.”

“Gotcha.”

Lewis pipes up, “Blanche is a pretty decent woman. You should see her, mate.” He turns to look at me and asks, “Is she coming this weekend?”

“With Aimee and Sylvie,” I nod in confirmation, “I’m not quite sure about Stevie yet but she wouldn’t want to miss out on your home race.” Not elaborating any further, I return to the topic, “My father is absolutely baffled when I quit karting but he can’t do much because Poppy, my mum’s dad, was still alive. So between him and Poppy, he chose not to interfere.”

“But you’re still here on behalf of your father though,” Daniel points out.

“It’s to secure my position and family’s future,” I tell him with a sigh. I look at him then back at Lewis before I say, “Whether I like it or not, I still need to do my part regardless of how much I hate the surname. It’s an obligation that I can’t avoid but it’s alright. It’s not just for me— it’s for my sisters and my future children.” Wow, I’ve only been friends with Daniel for a month and I’m already airing out my dirty laundry to him. Is this what happens when your friends are your sisters and just Lewis?

“You’re taking your elder sister role way too seriously. You can’t even catch a break,” Daniel says incredulously.

I can only nod as I agree; my mother’s capable enough of worrying about them and I should just be doing whatever I want. She cares for my sisters as much as I do but being cut off from my father’s side of the family isn’t something that I’d allow.

It’s not as if my sisters don’t want to join me at the trackside; they want to keep an eye on one of each team in fact. They want to be able to know what kind of thing our father brags about. But much like me, they don’t want to be on the track itself—they’re better off being models because that's what they wanted to be. They’ll join me soon enough, they just need to make a career out of modelling and come to work for the driving teams whenever they’re ready.

“They’ll be in a lot of magazines soon enough,” I shrug nonchalantly. “I’d like them to do that first unless they feel like carrying a headache coming from either Brown or Horner.”

“There are three of them,” Lewis chuckles, “if anything, those three would outnumber your team principals. With you alone I got scared, could you imagine Sylvie? She’s feisty.”

“It’s not just to keep them sane,” I roll my eyes, my foot underneath the table kicking Lewis in the leg. The table shakes lightly. “I just started working in this kind of industry. What kind of a big sister would I be if I’m just as clueless? I need to know more, especially if I want to be able to teach my potential kids about it.”

Lewis, the piece of shit, decides that this is the right time to joke about it and say, “I didn’t know you’re already thinking about a future with my boss, Tilly.”

I snap my head to Lewis’ direction too much that I’m thinking I just got a whiplash. My glare hardens when Danny and Lewis’ faces turn red from laughing too much.

“You ought to quiet down, boys,” I hiss, not wanting to look at the people who are giving us the unnecessary attention being gathered by their laughter.

“You have to admit,” Lewis breathes deeply to refrain from laughing again, “you two got along well. Was it because of Dubai?”

“I told you that in confidence,” reaching down in his thigh, I pinch it as he whines quietly. He slaps my hand away as I say, “You’re a shit secret keeper.”

“Wai— what about Dubai?” Daniel, clearly not understanding what’s going on, asks as he looks at me while he expects a context.

I muttered to him, “Met Toto Wolff in 2006. Spoke to him and all that.”

Lewis nearly cries in laughter as he speaks, “She told me about it years ago. She never knew his name–or she refused to tell me who. She said he was attractive alright but—ow, stop it, Tils.”

I pull myself away from Lewis and sit back straight on my seat as I claim, “He doesn’t remember nor think of me like that, Lew. He’s just a silly crush.”

“Is he?”

“He was,” I correct him even if I’m wrong. It’s like Toto Wolff got an on-and-off button in my life. One moment he’s there making me blush the next thing he’s already gone.

“You’ve been single for as long as I know,” Lewis huffs out, “why don’t you try dating again anyways?”

“With your boss?” I raise a brow, “Are you that obtuse?”

“What? He isn’t bad,” Lewis shrugs, returning to his usual composure as he crosses his arms, “the opportunity’s right there. Why are you adamant on not taking it?”

“Because she doesn’t want to get on Christian’s bad side for fraternizing with the enemy,” Daniel jokes.

“I’m gonna kill you, Daniel,” I threaten him emptily, making him giggle again.

“I’m repeating what you said!” He cries out, still laughing as he laughs obnoxiously. Men! Seriously.

“He’s quite interested you know,” Lewis states, his arms now crossing as he leaned against his seat. “He’s playing 20 questions with me whenever you leave. I’m not sure if he’s interested in me winning or you.”

“He’s not interested like that,” I insist, “I’m sure he means well because I just popped up all of the sudden today. Nobody likes to step on the wrong foot of a newcomer. You’ll just make an enemy.”

“Yeah, sure,” Daniel scoffs haughtily, “the guy who’s been asking Christian questions about you left and right— the same person who doesn’t like Christian— isn’t interested.”

“I haven’t been in a relationship with anyone since 2004,” I scowl, trying to keep my voice quiet as I say, “What makes you think I’ll be able to have an interesting relationship with him?”

“He isn’t subtle about wanting to spend time with you,” Lewis answers, “what did he say again? You’re welcome to be in our paddock anytime? Does that ring a bell?”

Of course I do, I almost huff out, it’s one of the things that I intend to do. Be able to spend enough time admiring his team…

“I know men,” Daniel adds, “and with the way of how he’s looking down at you during the interview? With the heart eyes making contact with another pair of heart eyes? Yeah, that man is in loooove~”

“Like it’s a fast lane.”

Now I can’t deny it.

I like being around Toto Wolff, more than anything. Speaking to him is like a breath of fresh air after stepping out of a cigar lounge. He’s a gentleman; I’ve always wondered how he’s not married. Women deserve him. Yet he’s here, being the most eligible bachelor in the grid following Fernando Alonso. God, I will snatch him up if I can even meet his level. I doubt he likes his women like me… trashy trying to be classy.

But it turns out, my cynicism is unnecessary. I find myself thinking a lot about the things that could be. In an empty elevator, I wait as it slowly closes. But the call from outside forces me to keep the door open until the person catches up.

The man makes it inside as he stands tall, trying to catch his breath. There’s no way in hell—

“Tilly,” oh my god. I’m seeing too much of him today.

I turn to my left as I dumbly ask, “Bonjour, what floor?”

Toto looks at me with confusion in his face, probably wondering if I’m playing stupid or just stupid in general as he looks past me and says, “You’ve got it.”

Wow, not only am I seeing too much of him, I’m also on the same floor as him.

I nod and look back at the front, I can see him through the reflection from the doors. His polo remains unbuttoned and his hair unruly after running his fingers through it. I can see traces of sweat dripping down his forehead. I probably shouldn’t do a physical examination on him.

I look at him and ask politely, “Have you had dinner yet?” It’s a polite thing to ask, right? Like I’m not coming off as desperate to speak to him?

“Ah,” he keeps his mouth shut for a second and answers, “it is something to take up in my room, unfortunately.”

“Is it?” I ask out of curiosity, “You could have joined others for dinner?”

“Busy, as always,” he smiles sadly, “it’s an endless battle.”

“Quite a shame,” I tell him with a shake of my head. “Do people know time zones or just business hours or is it just something written on papers?” I ask no one in particular.

“My brain doesn’t shut off the moment 7 pm hits,” he tells me with a rueful smile. “It calls for work all the time. So, no. I don’t follow my own business hours policy.” God, I feel sorry for him.

“It’s like a wire, Toto,” I nibble on my bottom lip, not knowing how to express my empathy without looking like an arse, “you can’t plug it back in if you’ve something to prevent it from happening. Like a baby proof.”

“You’re right,” he laughs. “What do you suggest I should do? The baby proof, I mean.”

I watch him as the door slides open, thanking him as he gestures for me to walk out of the lift first. Then my mouth does not stop speaking, “Have a dinner away from your work, for instance. Never hurts to isolate your work once in a while,” he laughs at that, “read a book? I love reading novels— I am currently skimming through Das Parfum. You can even time your break before going back to work because I can assure you that habit isn't good.”

“Do you understand the German language?” He asks me. Mentioning Das Parfum clearly piqued his curiosity.

It was smart of me to bring it up. When he told me earlier that he came from Austria, I knew I could talk to him in so many languages. Like I knew what I should say next. Like a mastermind.

I'm such a fucking mastermind.

My mouth quirks up and I answer, “Wir haben schließlich viele deutsche fahrer.” We have a lot of German drivers, after all.

He nods at me like he listens to everything I tell him. As if he’s following an order or he’s rather impressed with my pronunciations. Nice.

Our conversation leads us in front of my hotel room.

I look at him and gestures to the door, “This is my bat lair.”

“Bat lair?” He chuckles.

“My little humble abode,” I joke. “I can unfortunately hear my bed calling for me. I have to go.”

“Right,” he nods as I open my door and step inside my room. Telling myself to get my shit together, I turn around to see him still waiting for me to head in. That was a surprise.

I suggest, “One way to turn your stressful work day around would be breakfast. If you’d like, you can have one with me tomorrow?”

“Are you asking me on a breakfast date?” He teases, watching me fall apart with my face flushing red. He stops eventually and answers, “I would be more than happy to accompany you before we head out.”

“Okay good,” I laugh nervously, “I’ve no one else with me anyways so there’s that… does seven sound okay?”

“You can ask me for anything I think I’ll say yes, liebling,” boom. There goes my heart once more. He grins gleefully as he says, “I know a place nearby. Would you like me to pick you up tomorrow?”

“As far as I know I’m the one who asked you first,” I roll my eyes in a joking manner, smile escaping my lips.

“I’d love to have you pick me up but I know the place,” he tells me with a shrug. “Besides, it’s by the tracks. We can head down there together before they start piling up for the day.”

Not wanting to fluster myself anymore, I nod almost eagerly and he exclaims, “I’m looking forward to it.”

“Have a good night, bello. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, schatz. Sweet dreams.”

Oh I really am going to have the sweetest dreams ever. Trust me.

#formula one fanfiction #formula one fic #formula one imagine #formula one x oc #formula one smau #f1 fic #f1 imagine #toto wolff fluff #toto wolff imagine #toto wolff x oc #toto wolff fic #toto wolff x reader #mercedes amg imagine #formula one fluff #f1 fluff

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glitter-gutzzzz · 2 months ago

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A dark and stormy night (Cliff Burton x reader)

author's note: This is the fic I was talking about in that post I made last Sunday. I finished it last night, I'm finally (somewhat) happy with it. It's been storming a lot where I live, cant really go out much, so I was inspired to write something about it. I'm sorry that there's no cute banner or whatever, I don't know how to make those yet ˙◠˙ Anyway, enjoy this cringe, lol.

summary: a typical hangout with your friend Cliff during a thunderstorm ends up leading to something more.

warnings: none, really, except a very brief mention of alcohol and cigarettes? It's just tooth rotting fluff, lmao

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚˚ʚ♡ɞ˚˚ʚ♡ɞ˚˚ʚ♡ɞ˚˚ʚ♡ɞ˚˚ʚ♡ɞ˚˚ʚ♡ɞ˚˚ʚ♡ɞ˚˚ʚ♡ɞ˚˚ʚ♡ɞ˚˚ʚ♡ɞ˚˚ʚ♡ɞ˚˚ʚ♡ɞ˚˚ʚ♡ɞ˚˚

The sound of rain drops against the living room windows coupled with the occasional roll of thunder in the distance created a sort of hypnotizing white noise, nearly putting me to sleep.

Cliff and I had been chilling on the couch in my living room for a little while now. We were just hanging out, not really doing anything, but still enjoying each other's company. Earlier in the evening, we were watching some crappy horror movie he had rented and laughed at till our sides hurt.

The film had ended a while ago. We had our fun. Now, it was just us in our little bubble, and the storm outside. The only light in the living room came from the dull glow of the TV screen and the sporadic flashes of lightning outside.

I made myself comfortable on Cliff's chest. He was warm and comfortable, and made for a perfect pillow. The steady up-and-down motion of his breathing was extra soothing, too. He just has this sort of energy to him that made me feel so safe. I rested my chin on his chest so I could take a peek at him. He seemed to be fast asleep. Eyes closed, arms behind his head, and a peaceful expression on his face. He looks so sweet, I thought to myself.

A smile slowly creeped onto Cliff's face as he opened his eyes. "You having fun there?", he jokingly asked. I guess he wasn't as fast asleep as I thought. Feeling more than a little flustered, I hid my face in my hands. "Sorry! You just looked so relaxed." He laughed lightly, and the sound was music to my ears. "It's all right. Not the first time I've caught you looking."

I felt my face heat up as he said this, and I attempted to cover my face even more. Cliff stopped me from doing so by taking my hands in his. "So....you know?" I timidly asked. He just nodded and kissed my hands, which kind of tickled because of his moustache. I couldn't help but giggle.

My attempts at hiding my love for Cliff had failed, it seems. He's just far too observant.

"How long have you known?" I asked again, though my shyness was slowly dissipating with every kiss he placed on my hands. "A good long while. I was beginning to wonder if you'd ever tell me!" He flashed me a grin as he answered, that adorable grin that never failed to melt my heart. "I was afraid I'd ruin our friendship if I told you. You're so special to me, Cliff, the most special person in my life. I didn't wanna ruin our friendship if I ever told you.." I sort of trailed off and looked away from him.

He gently turned my chin so that I'd face him again. His expression looked to be the most focused I'd seen him all night. "You're not ruining anything. I love you, too."

Pure joy overtook me as I closed the gap between our lips. Kissing him was even better than I had imagined. I didn't care that he tasted like cigarettes and beer; in the moment, he tasted like absolute perfection. I felt his arms wrap around my back as the kiss deepened. I wish that moment could've lasted forever.

We stopped to take a breather and started giggling like idiots when we realized how disheveled we both looked. Cliff looked utterly gorgeous; messy hair, blown out pupils and all. "That was...." I started, but I struggled to describe the happiness I felt in a single word. He ran a hand through his long hair and sighed in contentment. "Yeah. I know." There were no words that needed to be said, it seemed. The two of us were on the same wavelength, and we both knew it.

A low rumble of thunder interrupted our little moment, reminding us of the downpour outside. Cliff turned his head to look out of one of the living room windows into the rain. "Doesn't seem like the rain's gonna let up anytime soon" he spoke softly. I only hummed in response, feeling that drowsiness from earlier coming back to me. "You don't mind if I stay the night, do you?" I heard him ask. I could hear a smile in the way he spoke.

"Nope. Not at all."

Thanks for reading! ♡

#metallica #cliff burton #cliff burton x reader #metallica x reader #cliff burton x reader fluff #fanfic #metallica fanfiction

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silkendandelion · 1 year ago

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Mirage In The Desert - Chapter 7

Summary: Back in the present, River becomes increasingly worried about Alabasta’s drought and suffering citizens, believing there is a larger force at work than a corrupt king. Meanwhile, the timer on his year with Baroque Works has run out.

AN: To clarify the timeline, Chapter 7 takes place approximately one month after the events of Chapter 2.

Rated Teen and Up Audiences for violence, mild sexual content, strong language. Ongoing, will cover the Alabasta Arc. Cross-posted to Ao3, same username. Send me a DM: yell at me, send flowers. Cheers.

~*~

A warlord and his mercenary. Almost a king, but not yet, and his left hand, sharper than steel.

Though they couldn’t be seen fighting together—even being recognized as an employee of a warlord was more complicated than Crocodile liked—here, in the desert dunes and between the cities they could let loose. Whether foolhardy wildlife or unlucky pirates, neither fare well against an admittedly sadistic ex-pirate and the man who needs to be praised by him.

River’s smaller stature and short swords require him to get close to his opponent, leaving him no choice but to be quick, deadly, and end fights fast to avoid being overpowered. Crocodile often times waits to be tagged in, smoking patiently even as he feeds him prey.

“Seems Mr. 2’s kenpo lessons are paying off,” Crocodile said with a smirk. The fight was beginning to feel too long, but it wasn’t often they got a pirate of bounty of over 100 million in Alabasta’s wilderness. “You look tired, Kingfisher.”

“Kingfisher?” River yelled over the sound of steel on steel.

“I was trying to remember the name of the bird you remind me of.”

The pirate was becoming frustrated with River’s haphazard attention. “Am I even here to you?!”

“It’s not an ugly bird is it?” He kicked his chest to embed him into a nearby rock face with a thunderous crack.

“That’s what you’re worried about? It’s a hunter.” Crocodile called back, and pointed to remind River to not take his eyes off his opponent.

Arms coated in haki came up to block the pirate’s sword, flinging it away easily and pinpointing the gap to fly forward and grab him around the throat. “You still didn’t answer me—” A fist to his face interrupted him.

“Focus,” Crocodile tried not to laugh as he re-lit his cigar.

The pirate forced him to the ground, grinding River’s back into the sand. “I came here to fight the warlord, not his air-headed dog—”

“And you might have if you were smarter. Why would I fight you on a dune where there’s no one to see it?” Crocodile said, and the blood drained from the pirate’s face. “River. Let’s head back now.”

With the bored tone of his voice their game was over, satisfied with River’s demonstration and irritated that their toy didn’t care to respect his opponent.

“Yes, Sir.” A haki-coated fist shot into the pirate’s diaphragm—crack—his body sent flying clean through the rock to an unseen place. Dust settled to leave the desert quiet, all wildlife within a mile unsure yet if they could emerge from their holes. He wondered if the man would survive, but recalled what Crocodile had said about him, and decided it wasn’t anybodies loss.

Crocodile watched him stand and dust himself off, the ficklest of remorse on his bruised lip when he smiled.

“I’m getting better,” he panted.

“You’re getting good.” Crocodile reached out to kiss him, mindful of the blood. “I would never allow someone so close who wasn’t at least exceptional.”

Could you kill me, I wonder? He pondered a situation where River knew the rest of his secrets, and decided to take revenge instead of bowing out. Have I failed you if it turns out you can’t?

And on a bright, sunny morning, they are out of time. ____ ___ __ _

“Send Miss Wednesday and Mr. 9, that will be their detail until further notice,” Crocodile said into his snail phone, his grinding molars the only tell that he was close to losing his temper.

Miss All Sunday hummed on the other line, careful to appear surprised by this decision to entrust Whiskey Peak’s threat of starvation to the gaudy pair. “Oh? Even if they’re currently being investigated?”

“Are you questioning my decision?”

“No, Sir. Consider it done.” She closed the line, and Crocodile gently replaced his own receiver.

How long had it been? 8, 9 months? And he was still dealing with the ghost of Miss Saturday, her vow to destroy him slowly, molecule by molecule, it seemed, either by his own paranoia or else. Miss Wednesday will be the end, I’m sure.

A slamming thunk woke River from a sound sleep, eyes bleary and hand seeking the other side of the bed to find it cold.

“Hm? Croc—dile?” He tried to say, voice too weak to call. It was definitely Crocodile’s voice down the hall, at least, and he gave a long stretch before searching for his house shoes. The ones by his side of the bed (his side whenever he borrowed it) were too large for his feet, but they would do.

Robe, robe, ah—robe. He found a dressing gown, again too large, and was looking for his cigarettes when Crocodile appeared in the doorway.

“Good mor… ning,” River stopped, seeing his lover’s jaw tight, sans cigar, and hair looking like his hands had been running through it. “Are you all right? You look almost sick.”

“Yes, I’m fine.”

He rounded the bed to make a show of checking him for injuries, smug when Crocodile leaned away from the palm that tried to take his temperature. “Well enough to be difficult.”

Crocodile picked the robe off one of his shoulders with two fingers. “You look ridiculous.”

“That’s no way to speak about your fashion choices.”

He huffed, as close to a chuckle as he could bear. “It’s not a morning for your quips.”

Nevertheless, he scooped him up, allowing River to move his hair out of the way before he laid him back on the duvet and kissed him, long and deep.

Mm. He hasn’t smoked yet, River smiled into the embrace, lapping the almost licorice taste of fennel toothpaste from soft lips. He yielded easily to Crocodile’s tasting of his own mouth, so tight he could barely breathe.

“You only kiss me like this when you’re going away.”

“Like how?” Crocodile said against his ear, savoring the smell of day-old perfume on unwashed, sleep-warm skin.

“Like if you let me go, I’ll turn into sea foam.”

A gull cries in the distance. “I thought you hated that book.” There he goes, deflecting again.

“So you admit something’s wrong,” River says and hushes Crocodile’s smart reply with his finger, the thumb that has a jewel on it the same color as his eyes. “You don’t have to tell me. Take from me what you need, all I have is yours.”

He’s quiet again, his hand dragging up River’s chest to part the robe, memorizing the pattern of his skin and the twitch in his diaphragm when he makes an inviting sound. But it can’t chase away the replaying of the phone call in his mind, the lingering investigation of his officers, and the new situation at Whiskey Peak. This pushed Operation Utopia back a whole 2—maybe 3 months. Not part of the plan, but he decided it didn’t matter. For this, he would be patient.

He would miss this, though. The Oasin’s contract was up, and he knew he would spend this unforeseen extension in solitude again. He supposed it must be a fitting dress rehearsal for the loneliness he would have found anyway; his poet was too kind to stand beside him at the top of the world.

Crocodile had his wings clipped even before he was the age River is now, and scavenged his flight back in molten metal, creating a deadly weapon that ensured he was never, ever vulnerable again. But he wanted more for River, and kept him safe while he grew his wings back as nature intended, as soft and vibrant as any bird of the Grand Line paradise. A fitting atonement, he believed, for his own self mutilation.

“There’s no time,” he said as he took back his hand and made to get up. “I need to be going.”

“I’ll see you when you get back.”

“You won’t, actually,” he says too casually.

River racks his brain to remember the calendar date when Crocodile kisses his cheek, dressed and ready.

“Don’t look so sad. It doesn’t have to be a loud, dramatic thing,” Crocodile says quietly beside his cheek. “Tomorrow is your last mission, and then you’ll see your mother again... It was fun, wasn’t it?”

You won’t even want to remember me, anyway, a few months from now.

“Don’t—don’t say things like that!” River shouted, startling the warlord to step away. He scrambled off the bed, the too-large dressing gown tangled around him—he really did look ridiculous if it wasn’t for the fire in his eyes, a conviction that made Crocodile’s chest tighten. He could imagine him as a prince or even a king at his side when he looked at him like that.

“Don’t say that, implying I might never see you again. Did you even think about asking me if I wanted to stay or go? Or… both, I can always visit and come back! I—” Suddenly overwhelmed, his emotions pricking behind his eyes, he catches his breath and steels his shoulders.

“If you want nothing more to do with me, tell me now. Otherwise... I’ll be giving you my answer when you get back, Sir Crocodile. Is that understood?”

The scowl as he lights his first cigar of the day makes the hair on River’s neck stand up. Smoke curls from his lips and up above their heads, the first brick in the wall between them. “Safe travels, River.”

“You stubborn—” A single finger silences him, and River hates how he relents without question, his instincts hammering at him to protest, be loud, be heard, and yet obey so maybe the warlord will want him to stay. Is that so wrong?

“Goodbye, River.”

Please don’t leave like this.

“… I love you!” River calls at his back.

His hand hovers over the doorknob for a fraction of a second, no tell in the smoke curling over his shoulder that he even heard him. He leaves before River can sniff out the crack in his mask, or worse, repeat himself.

Go home, River. I’m sorry. ____ ___ __ _

Downstairs and sometime later, River greeted Mila with a bottle of water and a treat.

“Oh! River, how thoughtful of you. But I couldn’t, I’m working—”

“Of course you can. I’ll even stand here while you sit down.” River posted himself beside the door, perfectly perky and ignoring the strange looks he got from tourists coming into the casino. “Good morning! Morning to all. Around the corner there, sir, yes you’ll have to talk to the man with the mustache.”

Mila stared up at him from where she sat with her snack. He looked silly directing guests back and forth in his tailored suit and flashy bobbles, but she couldn’t bring herself to stop him when he smiled down at her so happily. You think I can’t tell when you’re hurting, she thought.

She leaned against his leg, water gripped in her little paws, and he reached down to touch the top of her head. “Are you all right, sweetheart?”

“You’re going to leave, aren’t you?” She spoke into her drink.

“What? Who told you that?” He bent down to sit next to her on the ledge, letting the guests go by as they pleased.

“Sir said I should say goodbye to you as he left this morning. Is your business here finished?”

He chewed on his lip before replying. “My contract is ending, yes. It’s been so long since I’ve been home—”

“Oasis?”

“Yes,” a tired grin washed over his face. “My island, it’s been a whole year. I need to at least visit, but I’m trying to decide what I will do next… If I will be welcomed back here.”

Mila placed her empty bottle on the ground beside them, her hands coming up to hold River’s larger ones. She had freckles on the back of her hands, he noticed, and her bitten nails avoided his polished jewelry like she was still thinking of them as separated by class, even now.

“I think Sir is very fond of you. He won’t turn you away.”

Even as she held his hand and he squeezed back, needing her to say she would miss him, he knew she was thinking of him as an extension of her boss, just a wealthy socialite (a fraud) with whirlwind emotions, homesick and too friendly for his own good.

Even in her arms (he thought them friends), he managed to be put into a box on a shelf, labeled by someone else and meant to smile as he’s cajoled. Not that he felt he could complain when he helped to build his prison, and neither did he sense anything but sincerity in the kind brown eyes of his almost friend.

“Thank you, Mila,” he said anyway, kissing the back of her hand.

“Well…” She blushed. “I should get back to work—” A pair of men arguing across the street interrupted their goodbyes.

“I told you, no exceptions.” The smaller one shouted, holding a broom to defend himself.

“You’re gonna fault us for what we can’t pay? Say it in front of everyone here that you’ll deny us food and water in this heat.” The second man gestured with his arms open to the people that stopped to stare. More people filed out of the restaurant, this time a woman with her little ones.

“Let’s go, Shin, please don’t make a scene.” She said, her children against her skirt. “We’re sorry to bother you, we’re just exhausted from traveling—”

“No, I’m not backing down! We offered what we have, and people need to know what’s happening in the rest of this country.”

Mila sighed, turning to River beside her, “It’s getting worse now, refugees are coming into Rainbase too—,” but he was gone.

“Huh? River? Wait!” She reached for him but he was already halfway across the street.

“Is this about money?” River asked, and the crowd turned to look at him. The angrier, larger man looked him up and down; did he even recognize him as Oasin in these clothes? Either way, he seemed unimpressed by River’s curiosity in his expensive silk and gemstones.

“This doesn’t concern you, prince. Or are you mad the downtrodden are spoiling your view?” His family looked away, and River thought the children were too young to be ashamed by what they couldn’t control.

“I can pay for your meal, if you like. We can spend the day buying what you need.” He met eyes with the children staring at him. “Yes? What about a pretty dress for you too?”

Their widening eyes, hopeful, were blocked by the father getting so tight into River’s space that he could see the dirt in his pores. “Don’t you speak to them. They’re my responsibility, and we won’t take charity from some foreign aristocrat like you. All safe in your alabaster temple on top of a lake until it suits you to come down and pity us—”

“Darling, stop!” The wife shouted, suddenly clutching her daughters close. They both looked down to see that River’s coat had moved and his swords were visible behind the small of his back.

No, don’t. Don’t look at me that way, he wanted to plead, snapping his coat closed to hide his shame.

“I’m sorry… So charity won’t help, what would help? I—I'll cook for you. I can build you a home, if I remember how. Let me get you a room for as long as you like—”

“Who are you?” The father said, with little more than pity.

I… I don’t know, he almost said out loud.

“Let’s go. We’ll figure something out.” The father said as he ushered his family away, leaving River to stand alone in the street. A camel nibbled on his shirt sleeve from where it stood tied to a post outside the restaurant.

“Stop that, you.” Mila scolded the animal, freeing River’s arm and trying to tug him back towards the resort. “The drought is hard on everyone, River. You did what you could.”

He took his arm back from her, noticing the button was gone, probably swallowed by the camel. “It hasn’t rained since I came here a year ago. Rob—Miss Manager said it hadn’t rained for years even then… I travel so much, I never paid much attention. When I’m not off the island, I’m here.”

Mila looked him up and down from the corner of her eye. “Well, this city is the last lush place in the country. We avoid a lot of the backlash from the drought, I mean, since the people here have enough money to demand comfort. And the tourists don’t care, I think. They only deal with the heat for the few days they’re here.”

River looked to see the family in rags wandering out of his sight down the road, surrounded by jewelry stores and restaurants with concierge. “What can be done?”

He had never seen her look at him that way, the way Crocodile did, calling him naive without words. “If you knew that, they’d make you king.” ____ ___ __ _

The nearest library was almost halfway to Yuba, the only place of interest in the outskirts of Rainbase, now neglected ever since the tourist industry blossomed. River almost never traveled by camel but he also hardly traveled alone. Funny how the appreciation of something with a mind of it’s own between your legs changes wildly upon context, with him awkwardly yanking the reigns this way and that to try to coax the animal into doing something even close to what he wanted.

What should have been a short and easy trip by hearty animal turned into a slog twice as long, a thorough inspection of each and every bush, shrub, and burrow.

“You’re not making this easy for me, and after I went to all the trouble to—leave my boots alone!” He snapped. His best efforts to throw a fit were moot, the camel content to stop whenever River moved too much, and the latter stopping his wiggling just to get moving again. At least he could see the town by now.

After about the thirteenth time, River flicked their ear with his finger.

“Oi. Are you training me to be still? I hate you… NO!” He yelled when they grabbed the ankle of his pant and tried to yank him off by force.

“Hold!” Someone barked at him to stop, the abrupt stop slamming his face into the back of the camels neck with a grunt.

“What’s your problem?!” He yelled at the blonde man, a soldier judging by the weapons all over him, though River didn’t recognize anything about his clothes, hardly a uniform. Not unusual, it had been years since he saw troops of the king’s army.

“Hold your camel. We’re passing through,” he said, stern and unwavering while River nursed his smarting nose.

“Are the king’s men always so rude?” River said, almost sticking his tongue out at him.

“We’re not the king’s men.”

He blinked, looking back at the men going by with a second eye. Sure, they had guns, but they didn’t look like soldiers anymore. Their clothes were plain, civilian, and what armor they wore was dirty and incomplete. Some of them even had identifying tattoos on full display, a stark ‘BW’ catching River’s eye.

These are the rebels. What are Baroque Works millions doing with them? He wondered if Crocodile had some monetary incentive to loan his foot soldiers to the militia, but his instincts screamed at him: “unlikely”.

“You’re free to go. Be careful.” The man released the camel’s reigns and adjusted his sunglasses as he finally noticed River’s eccentric appearance, and the fact his saddle was laced incorrectly. Out here, in a mostly abandoned city, alone, he must look insane. “You’re a long way from home, aren’t you?”

“You have no idea.”

“Bandits and pirates like to rest in deserted places like this. Don’t stop until you get to Yuba. Okay?”

“Thank you. Good luck to you, I guess,” River says while the man gets on a horse. Is my saddle on wrong? His look’s different.

“Keep your luck. I’m going to make my own.” The blonde said as he waved goodbye.

“Well, he was nice... Not really, actually,” River spoke to his camel while he looked for the library. “You’re being obedient.”

His victory of riding comfortably was short-lived, and the camel sat down hard on the ground to take his break when he pleased.

River struggled out of the saddle to stomp away, helpless to use his only clue to the library's location: a poorly drawn reference that the Raindinner’s bartender gave him on a discarded receipt. “It looks like there’s a, what word did he use? A life—”

“Library? I can think of one, but it’s been a few years. It’s the only one even close to us, but I don’t even know if it’s still open. It’s got a fountain out front, and there’s some likeness’ lined up beside the door.” The bartender had said, drawing River a crude map and sketch of the building with the pen from his pocket.

“Look, being fluent in the common language doesn’t mean you can just say whatever you want,” he says, squinting at the human-like sketches on the paper.

“Did he mean lifeless? Are these bodies? Not bodies, what’s the word—eeh?!” River yelped when he heard a crash beside him. Just some rotting wood, knocked over by an annoyed lizard.

He figured Crocodile would laugh if he could see him, jumping at strange sounds and talking to himself to fill the quiet. Would Robin? Definitely, but you wouldn’t hate it. Mr. 2 would threaten the ghosts back to whatever realm they came from, saying “Stay behind me, baby! I’ll give ‘em an ‘Un, deux, ORA!’” and they would be back in time for tea.

How can I leave them? They’re my friends, they—

They don��t know you. The voice inside his head reminded him. Their relationships were carefully constructed, meticulously monitored, and had only ever existed under a certain layer of anonymity, as long as Baroque Works tied them together. He wondered if their friendship would fail without the organization as their glue.

But how can I leave the only life I’ve known outside of my island? How can I stay? And live inside a box on a shelf, on display and existing as little more than art in a museum?

His cheeks flushed at the memory of that morning, of fennel toothpaste on his tongue and a fond kiss to his cheek.

But then the sounds of the desert left all at once, startled away and pricking at the edges of River’s hearing.

He waited a moment. Quiet? No, the world isn’t silent, it has clumsy lizards and the sound of horses in the distance. He stood still, pretending to look at the map when he heard a ‘click’ that could only be wood on wood.

The arrow that shot by face seemed to move slower than it actually traveled, but even as he leaned to dodge, the ramshackle fletching whizzed against him and left a scrape on his cheek.

He could track the arrow’s trajectory with a glance, seeing a nearby rooftop on the verge of collapse but probably strong enough to hold a single archer. Deciding to give chase instead of surveying for other assailants was definitely a mistake Crocodile wouldn’t tolerate, but he was lucky enough that the fleeing archer, hooded and cloaked even in the Alabastan sun, was actually alone.

“Wait! Stop!” River called out.

“Why would I stop—?”

They grunted when their path was caught off, crashing into River’s chest and bound to slam to the ground if they weren’t suddenly restrained. Pinning the smaller person was easy work with haki coated hands, after deciding their skinny body to be unsuited for a hand-to-hand fight.

“Get off me, you’re an animal!”

“I’M an animal? You nearly shot me in the face.” River tightened his grip until they stopped squirming. “Why did you try to kill me? Who are you?”

“Too many questions. And why should I tell you anything?!” They almost bit their tongue when River shook them to bring attention back to his demands. “Ow! Help me!”

“Stop your shouting.”

He released them, careful to snatch their bow as they staggered away. With the adrenaline coming down, his heart rate falling, he watched them pull back their cloak to adjust their clothes and try to dust themselves off. A boy, no more than 15, he guessed, with hair that would be dark if it wasn’t so dirty with sand, and a pale complexion that was sunburning around his cheeks and ears. His cloak clearly took the brunt of the weather, torn and sun-bleached, the same color as his hand-me-down boots with repaired soles.

“… You’re just a child.”

“Fuck you! Whoever you are, and give me back my bow!”

He held it out of their reach when they tried to run at him, a single forearm without haki able to keep the child away. “Why did you shoot me?”

“Because you’re a pirate! Or a spy for the King, who else walks around these ruins alone in broad daylight, looking for something, looking like that?”

“I’m a mercenary—and what does that mean?!”

River screamed when the kid pulled a knife from under their cloak and stuck him in the leg. Obviously the word “mercenary” didn’t clear anything up, and worse, he’d underestimated the scrawny sand cat. He yanked the puny knife out with a grunt, stomping it out of shape under his boot and giving chase to the child as he fled between the sagging buildings.

One well-aimed short sword, thrown like a knife, was enough to pin him by his clothes to a wall he failed to skirt around fast enough.

The child panted, squirming, trying and failing to rip his clothes free, yet he paused to study the shiny silver sword that trapped him. “… where’d you get this knife?”

“Huh? Bought her in Rainbase. Her name’s—”

“Amigo! I know!” Their shout stunned him to silence. “Do you have—”

“Amante? I do.” River showed him the sword’s twin. It looked like the child had stopped struggling, trapped but docile for the moment.

“… My dad made these swords.”

“What a small world,” River marveled, beginning to undo the holster that he wore threaded through his belt.

“What are you doing?”

“Don’t you want them back? You can have them.”

“I don’t want them…” The child refused to meet his eyes, brow scrunched and bangs in his eyes. “Not after someone like you has used them... For who knows what.”

That doesn’t look like a face of disgust. But I’ll accept your answer. His belt clinked quietly as he fixed it back around his waist. “All right then. If I take Amigo back, are you going to talk to me?”

“I don’t talk to mercenary dogs like you.”

“We’ve been talking a little bit already. I just want to ask if you know where the library is. Was, I guess.”

“The hell do you want to know that for?”

“Is this you not talking to me? Ah—kidding, kidding.” River held up his hands when the child looked like they might chew through their own arm just to get free and take their revenge.

“Let me go and I’ll show you.”

“I’m ditsy, not dumb.”

He didn’t like that at all. “All this for the stupid fucking library?!”

“You tried to kill me,” River said calmly while they thrashed.

“Fine. Go down the road that way to where the old butcher used to be, make two lefts. And when you circle back around the inn, the one with the blue canopy, the library is on your right. Not the building with the sidewalk in front of it, the library faces the west so it always gets too much sand and you can’t see the path anymore. Got that, ditsy?”

They stared at each other with contempt, and River finally broke the silence. “I’m going to let you go. And you’ll show me where the library is.”

“Like I already suggested?”

“Keep being difficult and I’ll leave you here for the animals.”

“Takes one to know one—” River smacked the back of their head before pulling his sword from the wall.

Following him between the buildings, and along a notably less complicated route than what he had described, sat a building in front of a dried fountain. Statues of previous kings and queens lined the front wall, their regal detail out of place among the deprecate city they occupied.

Inside, broken windows had allowed frequent sandstorms to tear through the aisles, and whole piles of sand left some areas of the library inaccessible with anything less than an excavator. River and the child meandered along the path that was walk-able between the shelves, both of them covering their mouths to the gritty air.

“What are you even looking for, ditsy?” The kid coughed.

“… I don’t know,” he admitted.

“Are you kidding—?!”

“Hush,” River put his finger to his lips and swiped clean some sort of directory with his gloves. The sections on politics and psychology were all but buried, but a few shelves between “geography” and “law” were mostly clean.

“These books, they’re…” He searched for the word.

“Useless? A waste of time?”

“History books.” He climbed the shelf to grab one that intrigued him, his hand making a smear in the dust across the words ‘The Great Warlords of Alabasta’.

Not warlords in the definition created by the world government, these people were conquerors, some tyrants, a few liberators, all willing to raze and overthrow entire states for the sake of their ambitions. One name jumped off the page, dubbed “the Last Warlord of Alabasta” by modern historians, his moniker “Hunter of the Ennead” the only remaining piece of his identity.

“You showed me to the library. Aren’t you going to leave?” His voice startled the kid, having spoken without looking up from the book.

“Not a chance.” They visibly stiffened as River looked over. “You’re a mercenary and this is my turf. Grab what books you want and I’m going to make sure you leave in the direction I want you to.”

“Oh? How scary. Young boys always puff up too much when they have something to protect. I’ll only be a moment, and then I’m going home.”

A sketch of the warrior, who knew how accurate it was, colored the opposite page, depicted talking over piles of maps with his most trusted general. In contrast to his commander, the general was covered head to toe, the only feature allowed to show being his dark eyes, in frightening detail compared to the rest of the sketch.

The general wasn’t named by the book, but River knew. The Oasins called him Seth.

Inside his blouse, warmed by the sun and carrying a golden diamond, sat his worship talisman. The Oasins have always struggled to find faith in the gods of the Alabastans, choosing instead to worship their ancestors, the people whose life and love created them, their legacy preserved through centuries of gratitude.

“How long are you going to read?”

“Longer if you keep interrupting me,” River said.

Seth’s fight with the Hunter was legendary, changing the geography of the island and severing a lifelong relationship between them with lightning on the horizon, blood in the sea foam, and spires of shattered bedrock.

All so his people could live.

Consumed by the grief of killing his best friend and most trusted soldier, the Hunter could no longer draw his power, and would be beheaded by the Alabastans with no protest. Decades of power and a lifetime of attempting to unite the island’s warring states undone in a single day, meanwhile his promise to Seth lay shattered worse than the families they fragmented in their relentless campaign. Their history hadn’t been preserved by the mainland, but Seth’s descendants on Oasis carried his legacy of sacrifice.

“Thank you.”

“Who the fuck are you talking to?” The kid said around a mouthful of rations from his pocket.

River thought back to the rebel army that had marched through the ruins, presumably on their way to Yuba. How could he go home now? Another civil war crept onto their island, this time on a dust storm rather than a typhoon. He struggled to think of anything he could actually do from his little pedestal in the sky but, equally, he couldn’t go home to pretend war wasn’t coming.

“Kid.”

“What? Find anything interesting? You looked like you were gonna throw up.”

“I have a question. And answer me honestly; we’ve been doing well, you and I. Is your father still alive?”

“Yes.”

“And do you both live in Yuba?”

The boy’s cheeks colored when he realized he had been figured out. “Why do you want to know that?”

Not a lie. Good enough. “Do you want to take Amante and Amigo back to Yuba? I promise they aren’t sullied, unless you count being wielded by a ditsy fool.”

He stared at him for what felt like hours, the gears visibly turning across his honest face. River thought perhaps this is what Esai saw when he asked him a hard question.

“… No. He sold those swords to feed us. It would be too embarrassing for him if some dandy just gave them back.”

“Oh?”

“When this war is over, we’ll have our own workshop again.” He looked to where the sun was passing over fragmented windows. “And we’ll make a thousand more swords.”

River tried to keep his smile subdued, hoping to not anger the child when he was being so forthcoming. “Well, it’s settled then. My, what a manly answer.”

“Eat shit, ditsy!”

River just laughed, loud and bright. He figured the sand cat would have no trouble getting home even with the sun setting, and the two parted ways, the former with his fussy camel walking beside him, arms loaded with the books he needed to read.

He still had no idea how he was going to attempt to help their situation, but at least he had managed to begin understanding. Regardless of their individual inclinations, a country’s heart was it’s people.

He was one of them, after all. Even separated by miles of ocean, this was still his country, and would always be his home. ____ ___ __ _

On a nearby island, Crocodile pondered his watch beside the fireplace. “Any moment now,” he said, referring to River’s eventual departure with their partner, Mr. 2.

It was a fetch mission, simple and safe, a fitting end for his tenure. “And then he’ll be gone.”

For all River’s protests, he couldn’t accept coming home to anything other than an empty house. A sentimentality crept into his chest, warm, familiar and unwelcome as it seeped into to his face.

A piano for his first house, a watch for his first ship (first love), and a ring for River.

His thumb spun the ring on his first finger, an amethyst on a gold band. River had been given the same one, never told that Crocodile had it’s twin. He would keep it safe, too hesitant to move it to his third finger, but treasured nonetheless. Another prize, another piece of himself, polished and placed on a shelf just like everything important to him that he couldn’t manage to keep.

But not this time. Alabasta would be the difference, the time everything went right. Shame he wasn’t the kind of man anymore to make it a more noble venture. River too—his love, his shame.

You deserve better than what I’ve done to you.

Crocodile wanted to save him one last time, and send him away before the blood stained him too.

Goodbye, River. And fair weather. ____ ___ __ _

“Ah!” Esai cradled his thumb, the digit beginning to bleed from a shallow cut. No matter, it was a normal hazard from all the tinkering he did on his days off. Those precious days he didn’t go to market, or help the fishing party, or help the foragers, or find some problem to fix—

“Well.” He sighed, sucking the blood off briefly to go right back to the sawed-off bolt that betrayed his grip and cut him in the first place.

“Esai—”

“AH!” He shouted at the tiny woman in the doorway to his workshop. Ines dared to snicker at him, though she knew if she pointed out his embarrassed pout he wouldn’t speak to her for the rest of the day.

“Sorry… need something, Ima-ma?” He said, using the tongue-tied nickname a small Esai gave to her when he became frustrated at all the people who called his mama by ‘Mama Ines’.

She wiped dirt off his cheek with her clean sleeve, a gesture he shooed away to try to save her bright tangerine shirt from his messy hobby. “I made lunch. Fetch Claudia, will you?”

“Claudia? Sure,” he said while wiping off his hands. “You two doing something later?”

“You know how she is. Wouldn’t remember to eat if somebody didn’t pound on her door with a plate. She’s spent the entire week getting things ready for River to come home.”

Esai paused as he unplugged his power tools to look at her. “You really think River is coming back?”

“Claudia does. We won’t be the ones to ruin that for her,” she said, an edge to her voice that brokered no argument.

Esai nodded his agreement, telling his mother he needed to switch off the generator before he left to get her, and Ines scuttled back to their home.

“Claudia?” Esai called as he walked down her road, met with silence from the trees. “Claudia!”

Not foraging (she hates fishing, always made River do it), not in her garden, not at home.

“Where could you be?” He wandered away from her house, passed all the homes towards the center of the island and along a path beaten smooth by feet, the ground spotted by a rainbow of sea glass.

At the end, sheltered beneath wide palm leaves, were their ancestors. Or, what was left of them. Most of the statues were fragmented, harmed by storms and such, or weathered by the wind. These original creations, carved thousands of years ago, dwindled along with their memory, transformed by story into what their people hoped resembled the truth. Not many of them came down the path anymore, except the leaders (tasked with culture preservation), and a few that needed prayer.

Esai didn’t want to disturb her where she sat bowed, stepping quietly over fallen leaves to wait for her acknowledgment.

A large, sliced Ki-ki fruit sat beneath the feet of the youngest statue, it’s cerulean fruit bleeding purple over the lip of a plate and onto the sand. The stone man above Claudia stands with his strange eyes fixed to the horizon, one hand outstretched to his people, and the other beside his back, broken at the wrist, his weapon missing.

Seth is said to have been able to eat the Ki-ki fruit, and his people take pride they can at least drape themselves in linen dyed from it’s flesh.

“Lunch is ready,” he said when Claudia finally lifted her head.

She sighed, weight dropping from her shoulders. “Tomorrow, Esai. Tomorrow this will be all over.”

He stared at the ground. “I don’t—”

“I know. No one believes me that he’s coming home, but I feel it. A shift in the weather,” she breathed deep even as the sky darkened at the edge of their southern horizon.

“It’s not that we don’t believe you, Claudia… But a lot can happen in a year. And we haven’t even heard from him in months.”

“Don’t ruin this for me,” she said and, remembering his mother’s voice, Esai shut his mouth on his reply.

“Do you know who stopped to talk to me at the market yesterday?” She went on, barely heard, and Esai shook his head. “One of the rebels, a recruiter.”

“You never told me this,” he said, louder than he meant to.

“They want to know where we stand, with the people or with the king.”

Esai gestured to their island. “We have never stood with any king.”

“Yes, but we’ve existed so far apart from them—everyone, for so long. They don’t understand that while we are fortunate to not suffer the drought neither do we have anything to give that might help. This is going to turn to war, Esai, and our way of life might end.”

His hand came out to try to rub her back where it shook. “Let the leadership and I worry about that. You have to prepare for River coming home, right?”

“What if he doesn’t come back?!” She finally yelled, her voice cracking around tears. “I can’t leave him on that island; how can I just stand here and wait, and, and pray that he comes back? What if something’s happened to him, what if he’s being made to fight in this war? If he’s not home tomorrow, I’m going to get him.”

“No, you’re not.”

“You’re not going to stop me, that’s my son—”

“Claudia, STOP!” He shouted, causing birds to evacuate the canopy as Claudia was finally silent.

“Stop, please… Let’s see how tomorrow goes. Okay? Let’s talk to Ines and Ramon. Like we should have done a year ago.”

She nodded after a moment, relenting as reached down to help her up. Clouds were already rolling in, a sudden wind disturbing the offering that Claudia had left in the leaves at the statue’s feet.

#one piece #sir crocodile #sir crocodile x reader #sir crocodile x oc #crocodile one piece #male reader #ao3 fanfic #fanfiction #oc fanfiction #mirage in the desert #silkendandelion #x reader #x oc

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phoebe-ofthe-cosmos · 1 year ago

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going through my tweets from last fall to try to remember when i read each book in the series

i did them on audiobook last year. i remember it took me a while to really get into acotar (i went in verrry skeptical because it was a "tiktok book" and i'm pretentious). goodreads data tells me that i finished normal people in early september and then there's a bigggg gap until my next logged book at the end of december (which was the first book i read after finishing acosf). so i think i started acotar sometime in september, but i don't have an exact date (i curse my past self for being too stuck up to log audiobooks in goodreads).

i think this tweet was right around when i finished acotar, although it's possible i had finished it and moved on to acomaf by this point:

i loved the action-packed, fast-paced ending of acotar and so even though it took me a while to get through that one i started acomaf right away. i did acotar on audible with a credit but did the rest of the series on youtube because i'm broke, so definitely by november 5th i had started acomaf:

november 6th 2022 is when my brain broke irreparably:

november 7th is also when the first acotar memes/fan arts start showing up in my camera roll.

i ended up extending that ban from 3 days to a "weekends only" rule. i proceeded to spend all weekend every weekend in november holed up in my bedroom knitting and listening to these books. i began to structure my weekends around listening to them. i spent my entire week looking forward to friday night. if i had to do something on a saturday or sunday i did it as early as possible to maximize my available listening time. as soon as i could, i closed myself in my bedroom for 4-6 hours every weekend night to listen.

there's a great text post in my drafts from november 14th where i talk about how mentally ill these books were making me (and to be clear i consider this a good thing, as frustrating as it was, because this was the first book series i'd read since middle school that was making me feel this way and isn't it incredible that a story can affect someone so deeply??). at this point if i wasn't listening to the audiobooks, i was listening to midnights by taylor swift. that album and this book series are inextricably linked in my mind, i can't hear a song from midnights and NOT associate it with some plot point or character from the books. i couldn't sleep. i would wake up sweating and gasping for air in the middle of the night thinking about feyre or lucien or cassian and simultaneously have a song from midnights stuck in my head. i couldn't turn my brain off EVER because these two pieces of media were consuming me. the shared starry nighttime aesthetic of midnights and acomaf absolutely did not help this.

i remember i did acofas right around thanksgiving, because that book (heavily) influenced me making up my mind about having a baby someday and it was after coming back from seeing our families for the holiday that i told my bf about it. i have a picture in my camera roll from november 26th of the physical copies of the books that i'd bought. i remember that the youtube video i listened to acofas on had a chunk of a scene missing and i had to read my physical book to fill in the blank.

and then by the end of november i was onto acosf, according to another text post that i have saved in my drafts from the 29th. here's a dramatic tweet from the same day, vaguely referencing my acotar-induced mental illness again:

i was much more normal about this book and was able to consume it in smaller doses and during the work week. i remember being so eager to know what would happen but also knowing that i was approaching the end of the ride and wanting it to last as long as possible. still pretentious about it though lol:

i finished acosf on december 19th, i think, because my next logged book in goodreads was started on december 20th and i remember going to the library immediately to check out books and keep the reading bug going. i don't think i've gone more than a day or two without a book in progress since.

it isn't an exaggeration to say that these books have changed me as a person and by extension have changed my life

#long post below the break but idk i think it's fun and i wanted to share!#i think i'll finish hosab this week and then im revising the series that started it all for me!#i'm starting to really look forward to my reread #i need a personal post tag #ummmm #my posts #personal acotar

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distantlaughter · 2 years ago

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Nico Rosberg was already sure of his plans at the age of 15 - "My goal is F1"

By Raila Kinnunen for Apu, posted 28 November 2016, originally written in 2001 (x)

Nico Rosberg became Formula 1 World Champion on Sunday night. The Rosbergs, Keke and Nico, are only the second father and son duo in history to both win the F1 championship. Apu met 15-year-old Nico in Monaco and is now re-running the story to celebrate the historic championship.

Keke Rosberg sighs deeply and says that it happened yesterday on a farm in France: a son beat his father 6-0 in tennis.

The gust echoes with both regret, the nagging thought of his own aging, and pride in his son. But Dad quickly recovers and, under the cover of his walrus moustache, his mouth turns up in a grin. Yesterday may be the most illegal time to play on a fast surface, as long as he pays for the pitch, he chooses the surface.

It's the same turn of events that awaits every father. Keke is 52, Nico 15, the son is almost a professional tennis player, having played since he was two, and in the last couple of years he's closed the gap on his dad: 170 centimetres against 176.

But when Keke is told that if Nico loses next time, the loss will be intentional and the tax will soon be paid in the form of "Papa, how about a scooter, a party…", Dad gets nervous.

"A year ago, we almost had a fight when my son announced a couple of weeks before his 15th birthday that you must be thinking of buying me a scooter as a present, I've been thinking about it, don't buy it as I won't have time to use it anyway! And Nico didn't even know that I had already arranged it. "After digesting the story for a while, I asked if anyone had threatened to scrap or steal the scooter. Something like that must be behind this, because he can't be that sensible. And that's what got him angry, claiming I underestimated him. "For me it was once the most important thing in the world to have a moped at 15, and this one says it's not worth it! Maybe he gets to ride so many other motor toys that the normal desire of a normal teenage boy to get a ride is already satisfied," Keke muses.

The story is actually a very typical example of the relationship between the men in the Rosberg family. There is partnership and love, the difference between generations, eras and situations in life, and a father's wonder at these.

That's what it's all about: winning

Nico Rosberg was 11 years old when he won the French karting championship in his second year of driving. He started cornering on a karting track at the age of two, around the same time the kid was using a tennis racket the size of himself to pull 50 metres of well-placed serves. I can testify to this as an eyewitness.

"Tennis was the other option for a long time. I was too small for tennis at first. I was very short until I was 13 and then I suddenly stretched," says Nico, making the all-important whoosh sound. "At some point, I decided that driving was the choice after all. That's the goal, I'll try to do as well as I can and then see how far I can go. I play tennis for fun now, and football. "When I won the French championship, I had an awful lot of fun. Winning is amazing, so sweet! The feeling is great, the whole atmosphere. That's what it's all about, winning. The funny thing is that in tennis, winning doesn't bring nearly the same joy. I guess racing is about the whole package, the pace and everything else. It simply feels good," Nico describes. "Sometimes when you feel like you're driving to the limit, everything is going smoothly and all that's left is the speed and the driving, it feels great. But that doesn't happen very often," Rosberg Jr. regrets.

He is a nice-looking young man in his last moments, somewhere between childhood and manhood. His body still has a cherubic softness, his blond hair curling in the same pattern as Keke's, which has begun to grey elegantly at the temples. His behaviour is almost that of an adult: a straight look, a brisk handshake, good manners, clear speech and then, in the middle of it all, he gets excited and starts giggling like a brat. Quite disarming.

And the eyes, they're a combination of green and blue among the curled lashes.

"Yeah, and grey. At least that's what the girls have said," Nico enlightens me and beams happily.

So Nico didn't want the scooter that people use to shuttle through the narrow streets of his hometown Monaco. It will be more than two years before he gets behind the wheel of a car. Does he mind?

"No, there's plenty of excitement to be had in Papa's car!"

Keke, the 1982 Formula 1 World Champion, one of the most brilliant and accomplished riders on the track, is a legendary and terrifying rider in civilian life. So ferocious, in fact, that wife Sina and Keke have jointly decided that to save their long marriage they will no longer share the same car. Sina is scared to death of Keke's driving, and Keke is uncomfortable in the passenger seat - so they take off in two cars, or in different modes of transportation altogether.

After receiving a burst of honesty, Keke calls himself an even worse hooligan behind the wheel.

"Nico certainly won't learn anything worth repeating while riding with me!" his father confesses.

"My dad is always telling me, 'don't learn anything from me behind the wheel.' I'm not scared at all when I ride with my dad, my trust in him is complete. He drives fast, but I trust him more than anyone else," says Nico. "Obviously, I'm not going to drive on the road like my father. First of all, I would never be able to pick up my mother, and I probably wouldn't even get a car!" the boy reckons.

How do father and son differ as drivers on the track?

"That's quite different from me. I was fierce and wild, the boy is totally controlled, calculating, and never looks fast on the track, you can't see how fast he is with your eyes," Keke defines when the main characters of this story were interviewed separately.

Nico never saw his father behind the wheel of a Formula One car, Keke quit when Nico was one and a half years old. As a DTM driver, he got to know his father.

"Dad is a bit of a bzzzzzz," Nico describes with a wasp tongue, "crazy, or not crazy but aggressive and wild while I'm calmer. Dad says that Alain Prost was very similar—I don't mean to compare—but that he thought Prost was also very calm, untempered and icy."

When it is said that his father described him as a calculating driver, Nico briskly asks what calculating means, explain.

He does the same a couple of times during the interview. When an unfamiliar English word comes up, he immediately asks what's that, explain.

The father tells an anecdote about the same thing.

"I have a friend who is totally impressed with the way Nico does things. He took Nico to a board-level meeting, so a big conference table, five adults and Nico. The idea was, of course, to leave a good impression of yourself, as you usually do when you want something, right? "I was really proud of the kid, but the water is pretty deep when you throw someone that age into a situation like that. My friend was speechless, told me that Nico did fantastically well and that it was the fact that he said ‘I don't know’ when he didn’t know that impressed him the most. He doesn’t try to pretend to play a role and be knowledgeable when he doesn’t know."

There you have it, you can see how successful you have been at parenting!

"Successful where? We have not raised a son. He's probably grown up under the influence of his environment, his friends, their parents. We haven't had to raise him once yet!"

Sina Rosberg, pretty, elegant, and slim, happens to arrive at this very moment on the balcony of the Rosbergs' studio apartment home in Monaco.

"We have never had any problems with Nico. He hasn't been mean, late, cheated, caused worry - not even now, even though he is in puberty. No worries whatsoever," his mother marvels. "When Nico was two years old, everyone said, wait until he's three and you'll know what the problems are. When he was five years old, they told you to wait until he was six, or nine, and at puberty you'll know what the trouble was! Now I just wonder how long you have to wait!"

Putting on the brakes next year

Nico is in tenth grade at the International School of Nice, where he is taught English and French. Next spring, he will have his matriculation exams, and because he skipped a grade at the suggestion of his teachers, he will finish his schooling before he turns 17.

Nico is now in his first year in Formula Super A, driving for Mercedes Benz and McLaren's teammbm.com team, as one of the junior drivers of Keke Rosberg’s team, alongside Lewis Hamilton, a 15-year-old dark-skinned Englishman, the other junior driver. There are 14 races during the season, with World Championship races in Canada, France, Italy, Belgium and Japan, plus six races in the Italian championship series and a couple of other races.

On weekends, he either competes or tests. Most of the testing is done at the team's home track near Venice, but recently Nico went to Montreal for a couple of days to test Bridgestone tyres.

"I thought I'd put the brakes on my driving for next year, so I can finish school in good shape. I’ll still drive, but as little as possible. Once school is over, I'll concentrate on driving hard. I'll still be so young, 16-17 years old, that it won't make sense to go to university yet." "Even if I do well in driving—which is my great hope—I will still be doing something else all the time. I'm very interested in aerodynamics, I like physics and mathematics. I'm going to look for university courses related to these, for example six-week courses in the summer. And then another course at a business school, maybe in Monaco or Germany. There are often suitable breaks while driving," Nico plans. "In any case, I would like to go to university and get a degree. Because what will drivers do when their career is over? My father was lucky to find a career in driving."

Do you have as good a business instinct as Keke?

"Absolutely," Nico laughs. "I'm studying business at school and I'm top of my class. I'm very interested in the subject, let's just say I'm excited, but I don't know how far I'll go yet."

Keke, the first Finnish athlete who knew how to make money out of sport, how to handle money, and make it work, answers the same hereditary question like this:

"At that age, how would you know? He's a thrifty boy, that's for sure. Otherwise, I can say that he hasn't inherited much from me, judging by his school performance. There are a lot of absences because of driving and yet his school results are really good! "The certificates came last week, and Nico warned me that tomorrow it's coming, and it was scary good! Maybe he’s so ambitious at school with the absences being exceptionally high. Or maybe a little bonus of such a hobby is also the ability to focus and set goals. "Never have I had to tell him to do some homework, but ‘that's enough, it's so late you're going to bed.’ That a boy of that age should be dragged away from his books, there was no such thing in my day!" his father wonders.

In almost identical words, father and son describe on successive evenings how meaningful it is to have two plans for the young person's future, A and B. If one fails or circumstances change, the second plan is put in place.

"I don't push or advise. The boy does what he wants. I hear much more about his plans for the future from my friends than directly from the boy, with whom he discusses them in the sauna in the country. Apparently it is easier to discuss and spar with them and when they ask questions, he answers." Keke knows that when dad asks questions, his mouth goes agape.

Nico says he has only just now realised the joy, benefits and advantages of sports.

"I look at my friends whose lives are dominated by school. They go to school in the morning, come home, do their homework and go to bed. Weekends are spent preparing assignments and holidays catching up on backlogged studies. I don't think you can live like that. That’s how youth is wasted and ruined! "I think it's nice to be able to take a break from school, do something completely different and enjoy it. "I don't really know how I'm going to get through my homework in the time I have to do it. Every night I work out, take a 45-minute swim and play football or tennis. On the weekends when I'm driving, I don't think for a moment about school, and I still have no problems at school. Teachers don't give me any slack or leniency for my absences—I have to keep up with everyone else," says Nico.

Short-haired little baby

The Rosbergs speak German at home, Sina's language.

Keke grumbles that he was in a terrible situation when he fell into speaking German—a language he had gotten out of at school by telling the old maid that he would never need one— when he really wanted to speak English, an easier and more familiar language.

"I was probably so blindly in love that I chose her language, and once you've said yes, you can't change it."

At the wedding, Keke does remember saying 'I do'.

"And you [Sina], who always protested against everything rigid and formal, answered the priest's question with "why not?", Keke still marvels.

Keke also regrets that the teacher from Iisalmi died before the cosmopolitan, who had moved to Germany, could confess to them that he had made a colossal mistake.

So Nico, who has dual Finnish and German nationality, learned two languages in parallel, German for the parents and English for the nanny, and then, as the environment shifted from home to yard to school, French. The three languages are still on equal footing. A couple of years ago, Italian was added to the mix, which Nico picked up from his best friends. Just the other day he announced: "From now on, please only speak Italian to me.”

In Finnish, he only gets a few words.

"I really got an earful about it ten years ago when someone in Finland found out that Nico doesn't speak Finnish. There were a lot of scolding letters. I think the language decision was quite sensible: one more language would have taken away far too much capacity. If the boy ever wants to move to Finland to live, I'm sure he'll learn the language too. The likelihood of him settling in Finland is quite low. Unless some pretty girl tempts him, and if she does, he's sure to be able to speak the language," says the father.

It is only in the last few months that Nico has become enthusiastic about Finland. He takes his dictionary with him on his travels and is very interested. Jatta Rosberg, Keke's younger sister, who first lived in London and married an Englishman, then divorced, moved to the outskirts of Nice, married a Belgian and now works in Keke's office, has been teaching her son Nikolas, a couple of years older than Nico, to speak almost perfect Finnish. Of course, things were easier in those days, when there were only two languages, English and Finnish.

Nico was motivated to learn Finnish for many reasons: to get to know Keke's mother, Grandma Lea, better, to have his own special language with his cousin Nixu. But the main reason is very clear.

"I want to be Finnish. In the world of racing, I want to move and be known as a Finn, not a German. I can't really explain why. Part of the reason must be that there are so many Germans, being Finnish is more fun!" Nico reflects.

So maybe one day we will hear the Maamme song when Rosberg Jr. climbs the highest podium?

"Let's hope so!"

"In any case, I think it would be wise to learn Finnish. I only know a few words. Bun, potty, short-haired little baby. The latter came from when Nixu and I were joking on the bus with a guy who had shaved his head bald. When there was nothing better to do, Nixu taught me: short-haired little baby. It would be nice to surprise Grandma Lea one day by speaking at least a little Finnish! I'm not afraid of grammar or pronunciation, it's in my head somehow, because I hear my dad speak Finnish every day."

Keke is very calm about Nico's preference for citizenship.

"At some point in the future, the boy will have to think about whether, if he goes to Germany to drive, he should be an exotic Finn or a German who’s more interesting to the sponsors. I can't answer that, and I don't think it's a burning question at all at this stage. Either you are a good driver or you are not."

Nico, when you watch a hockey match between Finland and Germany, which side are you on?

"In this case, you should be on Finland’s side, because they are so much better. In football? I haven't had time to pick a side because it's so funny to watch my parents in that situation, it's hilarious! I suppose I wisely try to be neutral halfway through. No, of course I would hope Finland would win, because that would be a surprise and newsworthy!"

And when you watch teammates Finnish Kimi Räikkönen and German Nick Heidfeld on the Formula 1 track, who do you root for?

"The Finn of course!"

Your cousin Nixu said that Mika Häkkinen is like a big brother to him, that they spent a lot of time together before he got married. What kind of relationship do you have with Mika?

"Not that close at all. Nixu is Mika's friend and the difference comes from the fact that Nixu speaks Finnish and it's easy for Mika to talk to him. But Mika is by far the best, I respect him enormously as a driver. I don’t like Michael Schumacher. Of course he is damn good, but I don't like his character and his style. Schumi doesn't seem fair, but what luck he has!"

Scared, of course

Keke Rosberg's team has three divisions, two junior drivers, two lower Formula drivers and two DTM drivers. Keke also manages Mika Häkkinen and Olivier Panis in Formula One, Kalle Palander in alpine skiing and partly handles Jyrki Järvilehto's affairs.

He is now rarely seen in F1, as Nico's racing schedule swallows up a couple of weekends a month.

"Nico already does the tests on his own, but I go to all the races." It's actually a deal with Sina: if the son drives, the father goes with him.

According to Keke, it's quite easy to keep the roles of team boss and father separate, as for Nico he's always first and foremost the father.

"The separation became even easier after Nico fired me from the mechanic job, and it didn't take long to get fired. At one of the French championships, when the front wheel came off, my son announced that it might be better if you didn't touch the car. I forgot to tighten the wheel. I'm not mechanically gifted at all," says Keke.

Keke's father Lasse, a veterinary surgeon by profession, competed with his son year after year. Keke often went along on his father's nightly sick trips, not so much to meet the cows, but because he was allowed to drive his father's Peugeot on the gravel side roads, kept secret from his mother.

"Nico has had a professional mechanic for four years, I used to have a veterinary mechanic from one year to the next. The biggest difference between my time and now is the professionalism of the work. We were hobbyists, they have computers and tuners, they have a lot of material, the drivers are involved in the development of the machines. I got the number 24 engine for the World Championship, the one that no Italian or Central European wanted. "When I was 28-29 years old, I was at the same level of technical understanding and comprehension of the material as Nico is now," Keke explains.

When Keke failed at the races, father and son sulked for three days, not talking to each other when he failed like that.

"I've always told Nico about these things. Yes, we may have a quiet life, but luckily I'm not a mechanic, I'm not in the line of fire and partly to blame. Sometimes, during the weekend, I say, 'I wonder what I'm doing here when you won't even talk to me! Good morning you have said today, nothing more.' The boy is so in his own world. "Of course a father is scared, it's only natural. When two cars go around a bend side by side, the insides turn. Then there's no other role in your mind than that of a father. The top speed in karting is not huge, 125-130 km/h, but the cornering speeds are tough. Fortunately, nothing out of the ordinary has happened to Nico. A few times he's been to the hospital for a mid-race X-ray—all fine. Nothing has been told to his mother. "Many times while I was standing there on the track, it also occurred to me that my father never saw Nico drive anything, he died just before Nico started. I think he would have liked what he saw," Keke says.

You can't watch Nico drive. Not on the track and not on TV either, when he moves to the televised leagues.

"There are mothers who want to be there and see everything and then there are those like me," says Sina. "I'm scared when Nico drives, it's terrible. I was there sometimes when Nico was younger, and I was terribly unhappy if Nico was unhappy when he was unlucky. And the parents would fight amongst themselves that your son was blocking our son's way, pushing! "When Nico was little, I was like a hen, always spreading my wings to protect the chick. Now Keke plays the same role, he is the rooster, ready to defend the chick and the rooster has even bigger wings," Sina defines.

Nico says that when things go very wrong at the races, Keke leaves him to his own devices.

"Usually Keke waits for me to start ranting, and then he says it's not the end of the world, that these things happen," Nico explains.

Rosberg must be beaten!

Is the Rosberg name a joy or a burden?

"In the beginning, I was worried that the name was definitely a burden," says Keke. "The attention Nico got as a ten, eleven year old was definitely a burden. Soon it became a burden in another sense: in many races you could see that they had nothing else in mind but to beat Rosberg. Today, in the world of karting, it no longer matters, since Nico stands so firmly on his own two feet. When Nico moves to the big cars, the same thing will happen again. First you get too much attention, then it's Rosberg's turn to get beaten up, and then he stands on his own two feet," Keke continues. "And there is no way to prepare a boy for that. He will walk there himself and learn. Next time it will be easier, Nico will be older and stronger to understand and accept it."

Nico himself has a much more positive view of his surname than his father.

Obviously it has been an advantage. It's probably impossible for me to even assess what the benefits are.

Is it obligatory?

"Of course it means you have to maintain a certain level, you are being watched. And maybe someone wants to pick on you. I hope one day to have a reputation and a name as my own person, so that people don't see me as just my father's son, but as an independent athlete. All will be well the day they say he's a pretty good driver and, by the way, Keke’s son, if you didn’t happen to know! "I've had more of a problem with always being the youngest and smallest in everything I do. It's hard to fight against the bigger ones, they were always pushing and shoving me off the track in the beginning. I'm a Rosberg and the youngest of the bunch, so I have to earn double the respect of others! "At the front? First some lower formulas, I'm too young for F3 or Formula 3000. No point trying to get in too early when I can't get to the top yet—what would I do in the meantime? I'd better go step by step, I've got time. The goal is definitely Formula 1," says Nico Rosberg.

By the end of the year, I'll be trying to explain to Keke and Sina what a great son they have, a nice, smart, multilingual cosmopolitan, a future charmer and champion.

Sina has the final word.

"Nico has inherited his father's intelligence."

Pause.

"Because I still have mine."

#preemptive apology to the country of finland for probably committing at least ten different crimes of translation for this article #nico rosberg #keke rosberg #sina rosberg #nicology #my post

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nincompoopydoo · 3 years ago

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PAIRING, BAGELS, REPEAT

— HYMN OF THE LOVESICK ; PART 5 / ?

( gif from this beautiful gifset by @knightwayne )

PAIRING: Bruce Wayne x reader

WORD COUNT: 2k

SUMMARY: Alfred definitely knows something about Bruce that you’re not willing to think about and Bruce has an epiphany that changes the way he sees you.

A/N: Guess who forgot which day pbr is usually posted? This idiot here. God, I’m sorry and this chapter can be boring. Next chapter will have a lot more going on, I promise. Also, this might end in the next chapter or two. Enjoy, folks.

WARNINGS: Kinda dramatic because I’m dramatic.

MASTERLIST ; MASTERPOST

Driving through the Wayne estate gives you a sense of much-needed peace. The never-ending tunnel with walls of identical colossal pine trees as you faintly hum to Aretha Franklin over the low whirring of the running engine. It’s a quarter to noon, and the sun doesn’t seem to shine in the city of Gotham—clouds of grey constantly shield its optimum shine, only to ever allow rays to seep through the gaps in the moving Autumn wind. You don’t mind it and you never did, growing up in the city left clouds unnoticed to you unless it signified the arrival of a thunderstorm. Weather and nature are the least of your concerns but you would appreciate it now and then.

The tunnel of trees comes to an end as a clearing of extensive fields emerges into view. What is left of the Wayne Manor still stands with ostentation, despite its skeleton along with its dignity rotting away to be eventually consumed by mother nature herself. There’s a sense of eeriness to it; you find it odd how a building could seem so alive at times, like it's watching you, despite its apparent decay.

You turn your head away and focus on the road.

A glance at your hand on the wheel, you’re reminded of last night, when his hands held yours—it burns at the mere thought of his gentle touch. And the drive home, silent with the occasional glances and small smiles. You recall how the passing streetlights cascade hues of orange on his wearied expression and how his eyes were bright when they flit to your figure in the passenger seat for just a moment. Something must have changed between the two of you, but you can’t quite tell what. Maybe it’s your undying love for Bruce. Maybe he feels the same way. You snort to yourself, alone in your car, one can only dream but it doesn’t mean they all come true. Bruce may love but he doesn’t commit. You can’t commit too. Now, you’re starting to believe you’ve been lying to yourself.

The glasshouse comes into view as you steer around the bending road and into the driveway. It contradicts everything the manor was but only shared its sense of glory. You like the glasshouse, less deafening and structured with the purpose of bareness and vulnerability but its dark furnishings keep it grounded and secure. Its sense of balance tricks your mind into thinking you’re stable. His car is still around, parked by the porch but you don’t see him, ambling around the household.

Switching off the ignition, you snatch the paper bag from the passenger seat and clamber out of the car. Darker clouds begin rolling from afar, your hair flying in the strong wind. A storm is coming, you’re sure of it. One of the rare times it rains during the season. You dread the thought of having to drive back into the city and across Westward Bridge. Driving over bridges built over the water in the rain scares the heck out of you.

As you swing the car door to a close, you hear the shuffling of feet amongst leaves behind you. Alfred, with a barrel of chopped wood—stocking up for the winter. There’s a glimmer of amusement in his eyes albeit startled by your sudden presence. He mentions your name with endearment; you greet him with a small smile. You always liked Alfred. You enjoyed his company.

“What a pleasant surprise seeing you here,” he says, pushing the barrel aside as he nears you. “I’m afraid you just missed Bruce. He left for Metropolis an hour ago—duty calls.”

You nod, ignoring the clench in your heart. He hadn’t told you anything but frankly, you weren’t expecting him to anyway.

“Well, I just came by to drop off this,” You lift the paper bag, swaying it a little within your grasp. “As a thank you gift, you know.” Alfred smiles at this, gestures towards the house in a beckoning manner. “Come on in, I’ll make you some tea.” Before you could even protest, he’s gently guiding you to the door by the shoulder. It’s hard to say no to Alfred, especially when he offers tea.

Your mind wonders as you watch the drizzle of rain form ripples in the lake. You sit on a chair with a contemporary structure to it; it digs into your lower back, due to your bad posture. Uncomfortable but nice-looking and great armrests. Contradicts everything a chair should be. Alfred emerges from the kitchen with a black ceramic mug in hand, steam from the brewed tea lingering above it. He holds an identical mug, for himself. With two hands, you clasp onto the mug with acceptance, a radiant appreciative smile upon your lips. “Thank you, Mr. Pennyworth.” Alfred shoots you a look of disdain, “I’ve told you many times, Alfred is fine.” Taking a sip, you shake your head, a smile still lingering. “No way. I have too much respect for you to call you by your first name.” Alfred mirrors you, settling for the chair to your right, swiftly sliding the scatter of papers to the corner of the table. You find it easy to fall into a natural conversation with the older man—the two of you are mutuals after all of a certain billionaire. Yet, Alfred is more of a father figure, having practically raised Bruce and you, well, it’s complicated. It always is. You don’t know where you stand in his life, and you're not sure if you want to know.

“Anyway, where have you been? I haven’t seen you in weeks.” It’s true. The usual sight of the butler sauntering around the glasshouse or somewhere in the Wayne Estate was absent during the last two weeks. Alfred is always around, his disappearance was glaring, impossible to go unnoticed.

He shifts in his seat, placing his mug on the table, teaspoon moving with a soft clang. “I was visiting family back in England. I appreciate that you have noticed my absence,” An eyebrow raises, your laugh comes out more like a huff. “Always, Mr. Pennyworth.”

Family. Mother. Dinner—you remember the dinner with your mother on Sunday night, and you’re the host. The host hasn't decided on the menu for tomorrow’s meal. Oh God, it’s tomorrow. Procrastination is your friend but your family’s expectations for you aren't. If you pop enough wine bottles, maybe she'll be too drunk to be disappointed by the end of the night.

And the wedding. The mere thought makes you sick. You don’t want to bring a date, but you don’t want to be alone. Weddings, love, couples—it makes you tick. It’s a glaring reminder of how your love life is an absolute disaster and your inability to maintain relationships. It’s hopeless, you’ll die a spinster and everyone lives happily ever after.

“Are you alright?”

It’s funny how those three words have been the most frequent words you would hear from those around you. You appreciate the concern, really, but you can’t help but feel there’s a stronger and deeper meaning to those words. It’s a question of assurance, a reality check, and a realization that you might be broken. Everyone is broken—in their own ways.

Although you seem reserved to some people, your tendency to open up about your issues to those close to you contradicts that though you instantly regret it. Especially when people tell you to change. You hate change. It’s terrifying.

You pause, suddenly feeling...fidgety. Yet, in the words of Bruce: In Alfred, you trust.

Remember, keep it light. You don’t want to haul all this luggage of yours onto an aging man. He’s already got Bruce’s luggage.

“My cousin’s getting married in two weeks and,” you sigh, he listens intently. “And as pathetic as this sounds, I really don’t want to go to it alone.”

Your words are direct, straightforward and you sound like a whiny teenager or the main character in a Wattpad story but truth be told, there’s an underlying meaning to it and you know, Alfred knows it. You just don’t want to admit it.

He takes a beat, assessing your sentence like he’s a therapist, wanting to select his words carefully. “Well, I don’t think you’re pathetic. It’s...understandable,” he flashes you a pointed look and you find yourself straightening your back. “Why don’t you ask Bruce?”

Your brain must have short-circuited at that moment.

Oh, hell no. Not in a million years.

You’re shaking your head, laughing nervously. “No, no. No. Never. I couldn’t possibly ask him to do that. He’s already done so much for me—”

“You’ve done a lot for him too.”

A pause, words stuck in your throat. You just look at Alfred through confused eyes. You’re not sure what that means. He’s staring at you with a knowing look. You sigh, shaking your head in denial once more. “No, that’s...that’s not true.”

It’s almost infuriating how stubborn you can be sometimes that it’s even irritating yourself. You’re staring at your fingers, playing with the tag attached to the teabag by a thread. As far as you’re concerned, Bruce is...the greatest friend you’ve ever had. Through thick and thin, he’s been there for you. He’s always there. It’s partly the reason why you have fallen for him in the first place. Hard. He’s easy to love when he wears his heart on his sleeve. It’s rare but it’s beautiful. You almost feel ashamed to be allowed to see him in that light.

“Bruce will do just about anything for you,” Alfred says calmly as he watches you avoid eye contact. “And I know, you’ll do the same for him.” You throw your eyes at the older man as he cops you a look. Your heart is beating so fast, so thunderous, you hear it in your ears. He’s right and you know it. That accidental kiss to your forehead on the night you asked him to come for the play comes back to mind in a flash. It feels like a mark on your forehead, it feels like it’s burning.

“Would you like a scone with that?” He’s pointing to your tea and with that, he’s off to the kitchen once more, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

It’s late—a quarter to four in the morning. He spends most of his nights in the Batcave, hidden away from all the sounds and tumult of the world, shrouded in the darkness as the light of the computer screen cascades on his tired eyes. He ambles through the glasshouse, weary feet against hardwood floors, body begging to lay on grey sheets though he dreads a vacant bed.

He strains his eyes peering into the gloom when he perceives a paper bag, sitting idly on the table by the window. Nearing it, there’s a yellow post-it note stuck onto the bag and under the gentle light from the moon that reflects against the lake, he can make out words written on it.

It’s from you.

Thanks for coming to the play. I would have bought you something else, but I’m really broke. Sorry. I owe you one.

A drawn heart follows it. It’s tiny. His chest feels warm.

He should have recognized the paper bag because inside, there are four bagels. Four Asiago bagels. He laughs, it comes out more like a puff of hot air, feeling the warmth that resides in his chest spreading throughout his body.

Then, it hits him like a bullet to the heart. The impact is strong, powerful. Your impact on him is strong, powerful. There’s no mystery to his feelings for you but at this moment, he’s completely certain. For the first time in life.

He loves you.

Bruce staggers into the chair, hand carding back the strands of his hair. He can’t keep doing this to you. Whatever the hell is going on. Your friendship, the...stupid agreement. He wants none of it because it feels like he’s constantly going around in circles.

But what do you really want, Bruce?

TAGLIST

@raineeace

#bruce wayne #bruce wayne x reader #batman #batman x reader #bruce wayne imagine #batman imagine #bruce wayne x you #batman x you #alfred pennyworth #justice league

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devilatmydoor · 4 years ago

Text

the calm // l.r.h

A/N; This two part mini series would be nowhere without the supportive help @twilightmomentswithyou ! It was her concept that brought this piece to life!

A mini series following the triumphs and hardships with dating Luke as you recognize the signs of his alcohol abuse. Your relationship is put through the ultimate test; will he go to rehab and get sober?

This is part 1 of 2. Part 2 before the storm will be linked once posted.

(this is not part of the life with luke series) masterlist

pairing ; female reader/luke II word count; 3.9K

warnings; alcohol abuse, angst, drinking, language

Act 1.

The sounds of glasses clinking, unpalatable voices encircling you as you sighed deeply; you hadn’t been at the restaurant long before unintentionally separating from Luke after entering the building due to the fact his friend hadn’t seen him in ‘forever’. Your eyes scanned the room in search of your boyfriend hoping to be heading soon.

When your eyes met him- his smile evident as he spoke to his friends- you knew tonight’s end was nowhere in sight. Your gaze fixed on him as he took a shot of tequila like his glass was filled with water alternatively sent a chill down your spine leaving you with goosebumps.

The night’s festivities didn’t start with drinking, nevertheless, you knew better than to expect everyone to stay sober. It quickly turned into every party you had gone to with him. You weren’t completely against alcohol but it frightened you how easy he tossed back Tequila or finished a bottle of beer.

You wanted him to be sober so you wouldn’t have to take an Uber home but here you were; standing across the room from him seeing him drinking with his friends. You eyed Ashton as he carefully watched Luke’s behavior as he was aware of how much he had drunk in the past. You walked across the room to Luke while his eyes met yours as he gave you a look that you were familiar with. He set down his glass as he kept eye contact with you.

As he stood in front of you and could easily smell the liquor he had consumed, you attempted to ignore the foul odor “Hey you.”

“Hey gorgeous, can I get you a drink?” He asked with a wink; his arm snaking around your waist as he walked with you towards the group of people he was talking to.

“No thanks, I’m okay.” You said firmly knowing his friends would chime in any second to convince you otherwise.

“You sure? I can get you your favorite.” Luke insisted as he waved the bartender down with his hand, you sighed not wanting to waste the bartender’s time as they walked over.

“Luke, it’s fine really.” You attempted to decline his offer but he ordered your favorite, his friends gave you a look as you looked for a familiar face that wasn’t Luke’s.

Your gaze fixed on Ashton as he knowingly nodded as he slowly walked up to you; awaiting Luke’s response to Ashton nonchalantly monitoring him. Luke looked at you and then at him and back at you. He shook his head frustrated as he let go of you and walked towards the bathroom.

“I guess I wasn’t being discreet enough.” Ashton apologized, you thanked him for trying; Luke knew you didn’t love when he drank but this was different. You’d never asked or had Ashton watch him before and you knew he wasn’t going to be pleased with you.

You briskly walked towards the bathroom to find Luke with his back against the wall nearest to the back door leading outside. Surprised he didn’t just exit the building waiting for an explanation. The look in his eyes disappointed as you reached for his hand, he shook his head and walked towards the back door and opened it. Not even waiting for you to step outside he leaned against the wall and waited for you to say something. The tension between the two of you was evident as his jaw clenched and he crossed his arms. You stood in front of him taking a deep breath, “I don’t need a babysitter.”

“I never said you did, Ashton wasn’t babysitting you.” You pressed your lips together.

“Really? Then what was he doing?” Luke huffed as he narrowed his eyes, he uncrossed his arms letting them fall to his sides.

“I asked him to,” You took a deep breath before biting your lip anticipating his reaction “Monitor your drinking.” You mentioned as you stepped closer to him closing the space between you.

Luke shoved his hands in his pockets, creasing his brows as he looked into your eyes. “Why? Because you think I’m some uncontrollable drunk?”

His words hit a nerve as you thought about why you asked Ashton in the first place; you’d spoken to Luke before about his drinking habits but you weren’t sure if he even recalled the conversation.

“Luke.”

“Don’t.” He bossed, you cupped his face with your hands and he looked at you. He took a deep breath as you followed his actions.

“I’m worried about you.” You confessed as Luke set his hands on your waist.

“I know, I get so wrapped up in what my friends are doing, it’s hard not to join them. I’m sorry.” His pleading eyes evidence he meant what he was saying.

“I can’t help but worry about you, let’s go home.” You asserted as he nodded in agreement as you walked with him leaving the building. He handed you the keys to his car knowing he was too drunk to drive, surprised he wanted you to drive his car.

Act 2.

Sunday mornings were your favorite with Luke; the lazy make out sessions and giggles between soft touches and sweet glances. You awaited for an entire day with him with no distractions from the noise outside. Waking up to Luke’s snores instead of his morning voice wasn’t the morning you had in mind. You didn’t bother waking him, you knew he was tired.

Shifting your plans for the day consisted of cuddling with Petunia and spending the majority of the day indoors as the summer heat became unbearable. You decided to make lunch since your stomach began to rumble, you opened the fridge as the slam of the cupboard jolted your body. You slowly turned around to see Luke still in his boxers and tank top. It was almost 2pm and he had spent the entirety of the morning in bed avoiding all responsibilities. His tired eyes met yours as you sighed- not realizing he heard you - his eyebrows raised, “What’s that for?”

“I should be asking you the same question.” You scoffed as he looked at you, you could easily tell he was annoyed by his body language.

“We ran out of coffee.” He huffed crossing his arms.

“And your first instinct is to slam the cupboard and not ask if we have any in the pantry?” You asked as you shook your head closing the fridge door.

He rolled his eyes as he raised his eyebrows, “Whatever.”

“I was going to retrieve the coffee from the pantry but with that attitude, you can get it yourself.”

Perfect, you spent all morning and the start of the afternoon cuddling Petunia waiting for Luke to wake. Now that he was awake, you wanted him back in bed.

.You avoided making eye contact as he didn’t reply as he walked toward you, his arm bumping into yours as he passed you in order to get to the pantry. You left the kitchen and sat on the couch, reaching over the arm rest to turn on the television in front of you. You turned the volume up, quickly followed by a loud groan. “Jesus Christ, can you turn it down?”

“What is your problem?” You asked as you turned to face him, as he started brewing coffee.

“What’s yours?” He spat as he shook his head.

“I’m the one with the problem now?” You chided as your heart rate increased. “You spent the entire morning in bed!”

“Because I went out with the guys, you know that!” He pressed, rubbing his temples.

“Your barley home anymore! When you are, you are hungover and in a shit mood! Somehow everything is always my fault!” You argued.

“Do you want to know why I’m barely home?” He asked, waiting for you to answer for him.

“Please Luke, enlighten me.” You scoffed, hoping he’dtell you why he wasn’t home as much as he used to. You knew he was working on the new album with the boys but this was different than previous times; he’d come home no matter what time it was and tell you he was running late.

“Whenever I’m home you are bitching about every little thing I do or don’t do! I can’t win with you!” He protests; his frustration obvious as he clenches his fists.

His words weigh heavy on your heart; his face turning red as you distanced yourself from him. Feelings of doubt and insecurity flooded your psyche as his tall frame closed off from you. He bit his bottom lip, without hesitating you ran to your shared bedroom before closing your eyes. Tears falling from your eyes fast, throwing the nearest blanket over your body as you cried into the pillow to muffle the sounds of your cries. You lost track of time as you laid in your bed, cold and afraid if this was it for the both of you.

You heard the wood creaking by the door, your body shifted in the mattress as you took deep breaths. You heard his soft voice at the door saying your name, he knocked on the door softly not to startle you. You decide to get out of the bed and walk to the front door to face him; opening the door you see Luke standing in front of you with his eyes showing signs of the tears he shed.

“I-I’m sorry.” His voice cracking, he cleared his throat before stepping closer to you closing the gap between the two of you. “I know I’ve been drinking a lot.”

“Luke, you’re drinking too much.” You expressed, your voice shaky from crying.

“I know, I-I wish I could stop completely but I can’t.” Luke admitted with a sigh, you looked in his eyes and held his face in your hands. You knew he was being honest, the defeated look in his eyes proof.

“Can you at least try to get better?” You asked unsure of his reply; you weren’t asking for a lot. Just for him to try. That’s all you wanted. He needed to get better before it got out of hand, with the road he was going down it wasn’t inconceivable.

“I promise I will try and get better, for you.” He kissed your forehead, “For us. For me.”

“I love you.” You comforted as you felt his hands resting on your sides as he pulled you against his body.

“I love you.” He echoed with a familiar tone; less condescending as before. He held you in the doorway of your shared bedroom for what felt like hours as you stood in silence. You spent the rest of the evening basking in the presence of each other with Petunia by your side. He ordered pizza while you cuddled watching your favorite movies together. His arms holding you tight; both of you wanting to freeze the moment forever unsure of what was to come.

Act 3.

Luke seemed to be getting better, as far as you could tell; he’d text you when he’d be leaving the studio no matter what time it was and you waited for him awaiting his return. He’d come home wanting to talk, completely sober and fully attentive to you.

You wanted him to stay in this sober state forever but you both knew it wasn’t going to last. Your 2 year anniversary was approaching and he made reservations at your favorite place canceling any attentive plans interfering with your date.

You spent the entire week looking forward to it; you couldn’t remember the last time you went out on a date with him like this. Ashton asked him to go to the studio to do last-minute vocals, he promised Luke would meet you at the restaurant if he wasn’t home in time.

You spent the morning looking at your favorite pictures of Luke and you throughout the two years you spent loving each other. The trips to Australia, you visiting him on tour and the late nights talking. After lunch you decided it was time to get ready for your long-awaited date; you dressed in his favorite outfit of yours and did your makeup and hair. You put on your heels and left the house anticipating seeing Luke.

Traffic wasn’t as unbearable as usual, nothing was going to get in the way of your mood. The radio playing in the background as you drove to the first place Luke took you out for dinner. He wanted to take you somewhere special after your first date went off without a hitch.

Valet parked your car for you as you entered the building, the smells of wine engulfed your lungs. “Reservation for 2, under Hemmings” You informed the greeter. Moments later a hostess showed you to your seat, you sat down as you anxiously awaited Luke’s arrival.

You looked around the restaurant before checking your phone for an update from him, you hadn’t heard anything but you were sure he’d arrive soon. Shoving your phone in your pocket the hostess returned to your table asking if you wanted to order drinks. You were confident Luke would arrive any moment, he promised he’d be there when he finished at the studio this morning before he left.

The waitress brought the drinks you ordered for the both of you, she smiled as she set them down. “Are you ready to order?”

“I just need another 10 minutes, I haven’t had time to look at the menu. I’m waiting for my boyfriend to arrive.” You clarified as she nodded and walked away from the table. You scanned the area to see if Luke had arrived yet.

You grabbed your phone and it had been 15 minutes since you last checked your messages. You sighed opening your conversation with Crystal. You texted her; hey! is Michael home from the studio?

You nervously awaited her response, your phone vibrated in your hand and you saw her message. He texted me that he was on his way about 30 mins ago, he should be home soon. What’s going on?

You reread the text and tried your best not to overthink; Luke hadn’t even texted you that he left or was running late. Every scenario you could think of ran through your brain as you tried to focus on looking at the menu. Was he okay? Did he get into an accident? Was he still at the studio? Was he running late and just couldn’t get to his phone?

Your confidence disappearing as time slipped by as you couldn’t make a decision; you sipped your water anticipating his late arrival.

You replied to Crystal I haven’t heard from Luke since this morning! He’s late for our anniversary date

You sighed deeply as the waitress returned to ask if the second person was arriving soon. You weren’t sure how to reply so you lied and said they were on their way and stuck in traffic.

Your phone vibrates repeatedly as you look at the screen to see if it was Luke; Crystal's name flashed as you clicked on the green phone. “Hey.”

“Hey are you okay?” Crystal asked sweetly on the other line.

“Not really, I don’t know where he is.” You sighed before flagging down the waitress, “Hold on I need to get the check so I can go home.”

You asked the waitress for the check and she told you she’d get it for you as soon as possible.

“What do you want to do?”

“I think I’m gonna go home and see if Luke is there. If he isn’t then I don’t know what I’m going to do.” You admitted as you saw the waitress walking over. She handed you the check and you put your credit card in the slot and tip your waitress. She grabbed the envelope as you anxiously waited for her return.

You couldn’t wrap your head around Luke’s negligent actions; it was his idea to go out to this specific restaurant and he even made reservations. Nothing made sense as you drove home, you tried not to cry as your hands gripped the steering wheel.

Arriving home with your heart rate increasing as you pulled into the empty driveway. Luke’s car was nowhere in sight, you locked the car before going inside the house. You walked down the hallway towards the living room as Petunia walked up to you, she trailed behind you while you searched for him.

You opened his studio and sat in his chair anxiously as you looked through the drawers in hopes to find any clue where he was. You opened the biggest drawer as glass clinked together. To your shock and dismay, at least 6 bottles of tequila sat in the drawer. Some of them almost empty as your heart sank into your chest. Air escaping your lungs as you pieced it all together.

You grabbed as many bottles as you could before entering back into the living room. You set them down in the empty drawer placed in your kitchen island as you began to cry, tears falling without stopping. You lost track how long you hunched over the island and cried before you heard the garage door close.

“I’m home!” Luke yelled out as he entered the living room.

You wiped your tears before your eyes met, “Hi.”

He walked up to you to give you a kiss and you moved your face, “Since when do you deny my kisses?”

“Since now. Where were you?” You asked, stepping away from him.

“What are you talking about?” He asked confused as he furrowed his brows.

“You seriously don’t remember?” You answered his question with another.

His voice sounded uncertain as he asked, “Babe what do you mean?”

“Tonight was our 2-year anniversary date and you didn’t even bother to call or show up.” You spat as your hands began to shake.

“Oh fuck that was tonight? Baby, I’m so sorry.” He apologized stepping closer to you, you backed away as you held back from crying anymore.

“D-Don’t call me that.”

“Baby please, I understand your upset and you have a right to be but please don’t talk like that.” He pleaded as you shook your head.

“I went looking for you in your studio, take a look at what I found.” You insinuated as you reached for the bottles of tequila and set them down in front of you.

Luke’s eyes widened as he realized his secret was out, “Baby I can explain.”

“I don’t want to hear it.” You sighed as you sucked on your bottom lip.

“Baby I’ve been trying to stop, it’s not an easy habit to shake.” Luke expressed as he stepped closer to you.

“That’s because you're not actively trying to shake it!”

“Yes I am!” He pressed as he fidgeted with the rings decorating his fingers.

“No, Luke if you were trying there wouldn’t be more bottles in your studio.If you cared about me, you wouldn’t do this.”

“Why is it so hard for you to believe me?” Luke’s voice was shaky; his eyes watering as he stood less than 4ft from you, the distance felt like miles.

“Because Luke, you promised you’d be better and you're not!” You sniffled as tears began to fall from your eyes.

“Baby, I’m trying! You said it was okay if I tried to get better.” Luke asserted as he attempted to get closer to you.

“This isn’t the person I fell in love with. I don’t know if I can do this anymore.”

Tears shedding between the both of you as you wrapped your arms around your waist.

“Why are you saying these things?” He sobbed as he watched you intently.

“Because it’s true. You promised.” You wept as you listened to the silence surrounding the living room that once was filled with laughter and happiness.

“I know but please give me more time. I promise I'll make it up to you. Please.” He pleaded as you walked away avoiding eye contact as you walked into the storage room in search of your suitcase. He realized which room you went inside and followed, “What are you doing?”

You didn’t answer as you grabbed your biggest suitcase you used when you went on tour with him and walked past him. Walking down the hallway to your bedroom as he followed behind you. Through your tears you packed whatever clothes were nearest to you and packed them in the suitcase; a mixture of your tops and his went inside as you packed bottoms and underwear. You ignored Luke’s presence as you walked into the bathroom and found your toiletries before throwing them inside your backpack along with your laptop and chargers. You faced him as he covered his face with his hands to muffle his cries. You stepped closer to him, “Luke look at me.”

You wiped your tears as his ocean eyes met yours, “I love you, please get help.”

“Please don’t leave, I can’t lose you.” He begged, his broad shoulders slacked.

“You already did.” You voiced before leaving him in the bedroom. You walked down the hallway as Petunia got off the couch. You tuned out her whines and Luke’s pleading as you stepped out of the house and walked down the steps into the sunlight.

You were gone. He looked at the door, angry and frustrated. You left him when he needed you. He let you down, he didn’t get better. He looked around the quiet and empty room; your vacant presence evident as he longed for your voice. Your smile. The way you’d cuddle next to him. How you’d hold him when he was sleepy.

Leaving the bedroom he entered more emptiness. The sound of soft snores from Petunia in the background, he sighed as he walked to the counter. His arm stretched across reaching for the bottle and his eyes widened; what he feared was true. You wanted him to get help, he had a problem that was out of control. The epiphany rushed through him as he truly realized that he clung to the bottles on the counter as a lifeline.

He sent a text to the group chat with the boys letting them know you had left and that he needed to get help. Michael, Calum and Ashton sent their support and encouraging words as they offered to help him get through everything. Michael informed Luke that Crystal offered one of their AirBnB places to stay in the meantime, Calum told him he was on his way over to Luke’s place as Ashton searched for places he could get the help he needed.

taglist; @lilacsos @suchalonelysunflower @calumrose @softlrh @clemmings @esbisos @burstintocolor @redrattlers @himbocalum @sanrioluke @blackbutterfliescal @honeybunchcalum @sublimehood @talkfastromance4 @lukeysdimples @myloverboyash @littledrummeraussie @flowers-on-the-graves @calumthomcs @feliznavidaddycal @calswildflower @haikucal @ukulelecal @highscal @sexgodashton @currentlyupcalsass @calmlftv @castaway-cashton @mashlums @boytoynamedcalum @wastelandcth @spicycal @cxddlyash @pxrxmoore @wonderland-irwin @theharriediaries @i-like-5sos @karajaynetoday @lashtonswildflower @wontlastimokwiththat @theshyspy @twilightmomentswithyou @cxddlyash @myloverboyash @littledrummeraussie

#luke hemmings fanfic #luke hemmings x reader #luke hemmings blurb #luke hemmings fanfiction #luke hemmings one shot #devilatmydoor

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gureishi · 4 years ago

Note

prompt 2 with v tysm take care of you ^^

Thank you for this wonderful request, and apologies for taking my time writing it!

I thought a whole lot about this prompt and Jihyun and my mind said PINING and I wrote this long, sprawling thing. It’s a slightly different format from my other requests—I hope you don’t mind! Writing this made me feel all kinds of things. ♡♡

two: fall into yours arms again

JihyunxReader, G, words: 3620

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

97 days

It’s windy today.

You wake up late and throw open the window that you can reach from your bed. The sun’s already high in the sky and beating down through the thin, gauzy curtains. You need to buy new curtains.

The window sticks; you push; it opens. The cool breeze whips through your hair, in stark contrast to the sun—nauseatingly hot and dry. The wind cools your neck, wipes away the last remnants of what you suspect was a nightmare.

Though it’s June, the air still smells of spring. The azaleas in the community garden down the street have wilted, but some of their fragrance is in the air today, and it startles you, spins your head around.

He left in March and the chaos of April and May have been locked away in your memory, behind a wall that says think about this later. Now it’s undeniably summer, the days lengthening, your tendency to sleep through the morning worsening. Time has slowed: the afternoons feel languid and the nights unbearably long. You stretch, letting your shirt—his shirt—fall off your shoulder. It’s long lost its scent by now, grown softer as you’ve slept in it, worn it while cleaning up the little loft you once lived in by yourself. You lived here what feels like forever ago, before you made the misguided decision that led to your life turning upside down and now, somehow, righting itself in ways you still don’t understand.

“I miss you,” you mouth into the wind.

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191 days

When you get home you’re shivering, underdressed and underprepared for the turn in the weather. You turn the key in the lock, shoulders hunched against the cruel chill that has abruptly permeated your quiet little neighborhood.

You slip inside and shut the door, the wind chimes jangling harshly. You toss your things haphazardly to the side—keys, bag, sunglasses, coffee cup. Everything you needed for the day except a stupid jacket.

The house is cool, too—the wood floors retain some of the warmth of summer but you haven’t turned the heat on yet out of some convoluted mixture of stubbornness and frugality. You shrug on your thickest, floppiest sweater and move through the house, closing the windows one at a time. You shouldn’t have left them open to begin with.

You survey the mess you’ve made: bag spilling out onto your multicolored shag rug, sunglasses hanging over the hand-painted lamp on the side table. You decide to leave them there.

As you so often do lately, you slip into the well-worn chair at your small desk in the corner, under the little window that faces north. You rub your hands together, gaze at the growing pile of paper, stacked precariously high. You know there’s work to be done, emails to be answered—instead, you pull a new sheet of paper toward you, begin a letter than can never be sent.

“How are you?” you write. “It’s getting cold here. I hope it’s warm where you are.” You pause, well-chewed pen cap in your mouth. Scrawl the words you know he won’t read on the paper you have no way to send to him. “I think about you,” you write. “Every single day.”

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277 days

You laugh and wave and laugh again as you see the grey cloud your warm breath makes in the air.

You call out a last goodbye toward your friends’ receding backs and then wrap your scarf more tightly around your neck, feeling the cold more strongly now that you’re alone. You make your way back through your neighborhood, stopping only to pet the head of the tabby cat that your down-the-street neighbor lets roam free. The sun is setting—the midday chill is turning to a biting evening cold.

You approach your little loft: open the gate, half-run down the path. When, you think, will this feel like a home again? How long, you wonder, till this feels more real that those two weeks that are still illuminated in your memory, brighter even than the events of yesterday or last month or last summer?

Automatically, you check your mailbox. Automatically, you riffle through the bills you can just barely pay and the magazines subscribed to by the apartment’s former occupants. At the very bottom, there’s an envelope, one side covered completely in stamps. You climb the steps, peering at it curiously. You recognize the writing.

You trip.

You should get back up and go in the house and turn on the lights—open the letter where it’s warm and bright. But instead you stay right where you are, on the bottom step, jacket twisted up under you. You tear off one mitten, your hands shaking a little, and open the envelope.

“Dearest,” he’s written. “I don’t know if I’ve sent this the right way or how long it will take to reach you.”

There are already frozen tears on your eyelashes, blurring your vision. You wipe them away frantically with your other hand, still engulfed in your warm, chunky mitten.

“There’s no regular post office where I am so I had to improvise,” he goes on. His thin, messy scrawl is the same as you remember it. You can feet your heartbeat in your fingertips. “Still, that’s no excuse. I’ve written so many letters to you and thrown so many away. I never knew where to begin. I hope you can forgive me.”

The tears are falling hard and fast now, and you give up on wiping them, squinting to read the minuscule letters he’s crammed onto one single sheet of paper.

He describes where he’s staying in detail. It’s beautiful and evocative and you can tell that he’s stalling.

He asks after you—how your work has been going, how you’ve settled back into your own home, if you’ve been eating well. He asks after the RFA too, one at a time, by name. This answers a question that’s been lingering in the back of your mind—so it’s true, you think. He’s written to no one else.

The final paragraph is neater that the rest, as if he’s written and re-written it, practiced and copied it over.

“I am trying to live in the present moment and not worry over the future,” he says. “But every night I can’t help but imagine the life we could have together, when we are both ready. Do you imagine it too?” Your eyes are blurry with tears. “I miss you,” he writes, and you mouth the words as you read them, almost able to hear them in his sweet, gentle voice.

“If you don’t feel like writing me, I’ll understand,” he says. “But I’ll be at this address for some time, so please do write, if you like.” You think of all the letters, the ever-growing pile on and under your desk. You giggle through your tears, imagining how much it would cost to send them all.

He signs the letter “Yours.” At the bottom he’s added cramped letters, so small you have to bend over, nose almost touching the paper, to read them. “By the way,” he writes. “Please call me Jihyun.”

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352 days

To you, March will always be him: the sudden rain showers in the midst of sunny days are his eyes and the scent of plum blossoms in the air is the indescribable warmth of his arms.

There’s a string of pictures now above your bed—you’ve hung each one that he’s sent, strung them up on a piece of bright green yarn. When you told him you’d started doing this, he began sending them with a hole already punched in the top—delicate, perfectly round, just the right size.

You sit on the floor, bare legs extended in front of you, a book propped on your lap.

“All the snow has melted except for the one, long icicle outside my window,” you write. “I think I’ve grown attached to it, and I’ll be sad when it’s gone.”

Your letters have grown longer over the months—his last was five whole pages, front and back. He sends photographs he’s taken of the beautiful landscape where he’s living and sketches he’s made, mostly of nature—and a few of you.

He includes vague references to his companion, and though he’s never mentioned him by name, it’s become clear to you who he’s with. It’s brought you immense comfort to know—if not in much detail—that he is alive and well.

“Tomorrow I’ll be seeing everyone,” you write. “I know you both still need more time, but not being able to give them any news is killing me. Not everyone is doing so well, you know.” You bite your lip, consider crossing off the last few lines. You don’t. He’s healing—and you’d give anything in the world to ensure that he has the space and time he needs. That they both do. But the time you spend with the other members has been dwindling and the evidence of their suffering—some of them more than others—is becoming abundantly clear.

“I think I want to have a party,” you write. “Not for months, maybe longer, but I want to start thinking about it. I think it might help.”

You sip from the glass of water you’ve set on the floor next to you, swirl it around a little to listen to the sound of the ice clinking.

“I miss you desperately,” you write. “And I love you, Jihyun.”

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478 days

The song that plays through your headphones is soft and pretty, not nearly loud enough to drown out the shouting of the street vendors and the overall atmosphere of chaos. It’s Sunday, and you’ve ventured into the city to shop. You don’t love the crowds or the fast pace, but you do relish the savory scents drifting from food stalls and the feeling of your thin pants swooshing against your legs.

You hoist the two large fabric grocery bags up; they’re nearly slipping out of your sweat-slick hands again. The mid-afternoon July sun beats down on you. You slow your pace.

It’s been a few weeks since you’ve gotten a letter. This isn’t shocking—he’s staying somewhere new now, and it’s even more remote than before. He has to travel into town to mail his letters, so the gaps between them have grown longer. You’re used to it, but you still can’t help feeling like a cold hand is clenching around your heart whenever you check the mailbox and find it empty.

You reach the train station, grip both bags with one hand so you can tap your card. You go through the motions: standing in the station, boarding the train. As you have so many times, you repeat the words of his last letter in your mind. You know it by heart.

“I bought plane tickets last week,” he wrote. “He hasn’t been feeling well the last few days and we decided together to cancel them.”

This isn’t a first either—the tickets bought, the tickets cancelled. And you know that it isn’t just Jihyun’s “companion” who needs more time. They are both still healing—physically, mentally, emotionally.

“Please tell me when you decide on a date for the party,” he wrote. “I’m sorry to hear the plans aren’t going smoothly. And I’m sorrier that I can’t offer the other members some solace—particularly where it concerns him. I must respect his wish for privacy.”

The train is packed; you set your bags at your feet so you can hold on. The gentle rocking motion is familiar; the air conditioning is a relief.

“I saw a flower yesterday that I couldn’t identify. It was raining here, but the flower’s petals were open. I was afraid it would wilt from the force of the rain, but it didn’t. I watched it for a long time, and saw the raindrops collect inside it. I thought of you.”

The train rumbles to a stop. More people get on. You adjust. A new song plays in your headphones—it’s slow and a little melancholy.

“Every morning I imagine the things I will do with you in our bright and beautiful future,” he wrote.

The train picks up speed again. Sweaty people read newspapers and speak quietly to one another, underscored by the gentle music in your ears. You close your eyes.

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555 days

You run to catch the bus, the leaves crunching delightfully under your feet. It’s pulling into your stop as you’re crossing the street and—why does this always happen?—you bow your head and sprint, waving frantically at the driver.

The driver sees you. Smiles. Waits.

“Thank you,” you pant, jumping the steps two at a time.

“It’s okay. I remember you.”

Ouch.

You stumble to a seat and collapse into it. If you’re late for the bus often enough that the driver remembers you, you’ve really got to try and pull yourself together.

You comb a hand through your sweaty hair. It’s hard, as it turns out, planning an RFA party while keeping up with your old life—you’ve got one foot in the world of working and cleaning and paying bills and the other in the world of CEOs and mysterious guests and anonymous donors.

As you’re catching your breath, you pull the newest letter from your bag. It arrived just this morning—perhaps that was why you almost missed the bus again—and you’ve only read it once so far. You scan the page with eager eyes, searching as you so often do for clues and hints and promises hidden between the lopsided words.

“I made a painting today,” he tells you. “I won’t describe it to you, because I want to show it to you in person.”

But when? you want to ask. You can’t help the frustration that’s creeping under your skin. The bus rocks; you lean your head against the window.

“I’ve realized something,” he writes. “I wonder what you think about it. I feel closer to you than I’ve felt to anyone before. And yet every day I find things I still don’t know about you, because of our circumstances. What are your favorite things to eat? What smells make you reminisce about the past? What music makes you sleepy?”

You sigh, fold up the letter. It’s true, you think. You love him with a warmth that encompasses your whole being—a feeling you’d never even dared to imagine. But how does his face look in the morning when he sleeps through his alarm? Which groceries does he always forget to buy?

You don’t write these questions down. Instead you turn over the letter, scribble on the back.

“The party will be March 24th.”

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641 days

It hardly snows this winter, but it rains. The sound of the rain fills your dreams: it pounds on the roof of your little apartment, and you wake up and run to the kitchen to check that the window is closed. It fills your waking hours, thrumming on your giant umbrella as you navigate the narrow streets of the city. When it lets up, you still hear it, humming in your eardrums, reverberating inside your chest.

You sit at your desk again. No longer is it covered in stacks of paper, records of yearning—those letters have been long sent or put away in pretty boxes with colored lids. Your laptop buzzes, hopelessly trying to cool itself down. You press send and cut the frightening number of messages in your inbox down by just one more.

You lean back in your chair. The rain goes tap tap tap on the roof and you rub your sore neck. It’s a Friday night and even in this weather, you can hear the distant sounds of people gathering at the bar on the corner. You open another email.

“I’m working hard,” you wrote in your last letter to him. “Sometimes I feel that I can barely keep up with it all. Other times I’m sure I’m burying myself in all of this work on purpose, making myself busy so I don’t have to feel lonely.”

You scan the email with expert eyes, dash off a quick reply. Both are true, you suppose—planning a proper party, not one hastily thrown together in a few weeks under extreme circumstances, is a full-time job all on its own. But you are lonely, you think, taking a break to stretch your arms over your head. There are people around you all the time, but your chest feels hollow. “I’m taking good care of myself,” you wrote to him last week. “I do feel fulfilled. But…”

But you can no longer re-create in your mind the exact way that he smells, the sweet freshness of nuzzling your face into his shoulder. You can’t always hear his voice clearly in your mind when you read the sweet, beautiful words he writes to you. “I love you like the way the ocean crashes into the rocks and then spills peacefully over the sand,” he writes. “Does that make sense?”

It does.

You shake your head to clear it, type a few brief, carefully-worded lines.

“I’m ready,” you say out loud, and the words echo in your apartment: warm and cluttered and bright and full to the brim with thoughts of him. “I’m ready when you are.”

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702 days

For the first time, you wait to read his letter.

You find it in the mailbox as you’re leaving in the morning and you whisper “patience” to yourself as you walk to the bus. You wait at the light, you cross the street. You sit at the bus stop for two whole minutes before the bus arrives and the driver raises his eyebrows at you in surprise.

“Patience,” you whisper to yourself again as you exit the bus, breathing in the fresh, early-spring air. And “patience,” you think, as you greet the venue manager and listen to her running through the event checklist for what feels like the eight hundredth time.

“Almost,” you tell yourself as you leave, taking a picture on your phone of the orange and purple sky. You board the bus again, watch the sunset fade into star-speckled navy through the smudged window.

“Now,” you say out loud as you unlock the door to your flat, hanging your light jacket and keys on the hooks you’ve recently mounted by the door. “Now.”

You tear into the letter as you make your way to the bedroom, turning on lamps as you go, bathing the room in amber light.

You pull out the paper and your hands, steady all day, start to shake. You hold it up to the light. It’s shorter than usual. He’s written your name at the top and he’s answered your questions, described a walk he took on the waterfront yesterday, offered updates on the plants growing beside the house where he’s staying.

And at the bottom, he’s sketched a picture in light blue ink. His lines are soft and wavy, but the details are clear: it’s two plane tickets. They’re dated.

You inhale sharply.

Thirty-two more days.

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734 days

It’s warm, but not too warm. The lights are dim, but not too dim. The air is lightly scented like spring flowers and rain, but it’s not overwhelming, and the chatter of the crowd is enthusiastic and warm.

In other words, you’ve done a very good job.

You step onto the balcony for a moment, patting your red cheeks with both hands. You’ve been receiving compliments all night and it’s made you feel like you’re floating several centimeters off the ground. You’re proud of yourself—you worked hard for this.

But as the night’s worn on, your anticipation has built to a fever pitch, and you have to keep reminding yourself to breathe. If he were arriving on any other day, you’d be meeting him in private— and would you feel more or less nervous, then? You can’t decide.

But of course it’s today, because the most important events of your life always seem to coalesce around each other. There’s a beautiful garden surrounding the party venue and you take comfort in the ivy wrapped around the wrought-iron trellis; it reaches almost as high as your eye level and its balance of sturdiness and delicacy gives you strength.

You slip back inside, take in the groups of expensively-dressed people clustered around tall, elegant tables. There’s a string quartet in one corner and a mouth-watering array of hors d’oeuvres arranged toward the back wall.You straighten out your clothes surreptitiously, sneak a peak at the clock, flash a bright smile at the nearest group of guests .

And then, for a reason you’ll never be able to explain, you know what’s about to happen. Your eyes fly to the door. You gravitate toward it like a moth to a lamp and you know no one else has noticed but somehow you feel that the room has quieted for you.

The door opens. Your hands fly to your mouth.

“Hi,” he says.

He’s always been spring to you but it’s as if he’s brought summer with him. He’s taller than you remember and his collared shirt is open and he’s got the warmest smile you’ve seen in your whole life. Your thrill and worry and hope are reflected in his bright eyes.

He holds out a hand—cautiously, as if afraid you’ll float away. You take it and his fingers are soft and cool, like the petals of a flower.

“Welcome home,” you say. “Jihyun.”

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged in my future mysme writings <3

@currentlyprocrastinating @thesirenwashere @ultrasupernini @cro0kedme @otomefoxystar @dawn-skies06 @nad-zeta

#mystic messenger #mysticmessenger #mysme #request #gureishi writes requests #jihyun kim #v #jihyun x reader #v x reader #hunterelys

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meepmorpperaltiago · 4 years ago

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Stranger Things future headcanons

My Stranger Things hyperfixation is Strong rn so I’ve slowly been piling up all my future headcanons into this way-too-long monstrosity ✌️

– Hopper and Joyce get married in 1987 and basically live happily ever after

– They get together pretty much as soon as they’re reunited – as the cabin has been destroyed beyond repair and Joyce wants to move back to Hawkins, Hopper and El end up staying at their new house in what’s supposed to be a temporary arrangement but becomes permanent pretty fast

– Hopper struggles a lot post Russia but with the support of Joyce and the kids he gets through it

– Murray is his best man

– El waits a year to go to college and then moves in with Mike when she’s in her second year and he’s in his third. They don’t go to the same college but they get a place close enough that they can both commute to their respective campuses

– They also get a cat named Leia and both get jobs to earn a bit of extra money considering they’re still students – El works at a local library and Mike works in a coffee shop

– Max and El are roommates in their first year of college (Max took a gap year) and Max moves into the apartment opposite Mike and El’s

– Lucas and Max are basically the Ross and Rachel to Mike and El’s Chandler and Monica, they have constant on again off again drama for years until they finally get together and stay together when they’re a little older

– Will goes to art college in New York, while Dustin also goes further afield to study communications, but they keep in touch with the others as much as they can

– Having already had their first concert experiences back in ‘87 with Madonna’s Who’s That Girl Tour, El and Max go to the Blonde Ambition tour together and have the best time

– The gang also all go and see Nirvana together because the image of them all huddled together jumping up and down to Smells Like Teen Spirit is too precious

– Mike proposes to El on a quiet Sunday morning in their apartment – he makes her Eggos on a special plate that says “marry me?” on it

– They find out there’s a clearing in Mirkwood that’s become popular for weddings and they have their ceremony there, on the 7th November 1994, 11 years after they first met. Literally everyone sobs.

– Once she graduates El continues working at the library while she works to get a master’s degree to become a therapist. In the year following whatever’s going to happen in season 4, with the help of Doctor Owens she started going to therapy and it helped her so much that she eventually realised she wanted to help people that way – and with a heck of a lot of hard work, she succeeds!

– Mike studies literature and eventually becomes a high school English teacher, with an ambition to become a writer someday. He stays that way for 6 years, until him and El start having kids and he decides to become a stay at home dad, especially because El earns more than he does so financially it makes more sense for him to take time out of work, plus he really wants to be a more active dad than his own father. While he’s at home with the kids, he writes his first full fantasy novel, which eventually becomes a massive success and allows him to fully launch his writing career in the way that he always wanted.

– Mike and El have 3 kids – Lily (b. 1998), Ryan (b. 2000) and Emma (b. 2004). All 3 kids inherit El’s powers and they work incredibly hard to make sure that a. The kids are raised to keep it concealed and that b. They never experience the pain and fear that El suffered.

– Nancy and Jonathan become a highly success journalist – photojournalist team, eventually getting married and having 2 kids after a few years of travelling the world, Jason (b. 1997) and Clare (b. 2001)

– Steve and Robin remain lifelong friends – they end up working together when they’re older, because he eventually becomes a gym teacher and she becomes a language teacher

– Because I’m basically projecting Ross and Rachel onto them, while they’re on again and off again Max and Lucas end up with an unintended pregnancy, which Max discovers at Mike and El’s wedding – their son Ethan is born in 1995 and they’re great co parents even before they properly get back together

– While Lucas becomes an aerospace engineer, Max becomes a skateboarding instructor and eventually starts her own skate school

– They finally get together permanently in 1999 and never look back, eventually getting married in 2002 and having a second child, Marcus, a year later

– Will comes out to everyone at the end of his first year – he becomes a comic book illustrator and ends up with a comic book writer named Chris Cole. They get a civil union in 2000 and then get married as soon as they can and they adopt twin babies named Matt and Emily in 2005

– Dustin does something techy with computers for a while but him and his wife Demi get a farm out of nowhere (I just love the idea of Dustin’s life taking a completely random direction and everyone being shocked ok) – they say that their animals are like their children

– In 2007 at a party reunion Lily, Marcus, Ryan and Emma put on a truly epic performance of the first two high school musical soundtracks, with Ethan, Matt, Emily and all the adults as their audience

– The party eventually get a group chat that they post in constantly

– Once a year they also all get back together in person specifically to play a big game of D & D (they do it over zoom in 2020 and are planning to do the same this year)

– Leia passes away in 2006 and a year later the Wheelers get a labradoodle named Chewie

– Max and El get a podcast together. I don’t know what the heck they talk about, but they have a podcast. Their children are highly embarrassed by this but they don’t care at all.

– When El first moved out to go to college just over 30 years ago, she promised to phone Hopper every Sunday – they call each other every Sunday afternoon to this day and when lockdown started it became a FaceTime with the whole family.

#stranger things #mileven #jopper #the party #eleven #hopper #Joyce #mike wheeler

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hhunjins · 4 years ago

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Pairing: Minho x gender neutral reader

Genre: body changing!au, angst

Word Count: ~2,800

Warnings: none

Notes: By body changing, I mean like the movie The Beauty Inside except I’m putting a little twist on it. Also rewritten for Minho because I liked the idea of him on a bike :’)

Summary: There was no way this was going to end well, but it was so easy to fall in love with Lee Minho.

The timer on the inside of your wrist tells you there are five minutes left. You rub your finger against the black numbers, knowing that trying to erase them was as hopeless as trying to pluck a star from the sky above you.

The world is dark, allowing you to see the faint glittering stars dot the black expanse of the universe. You feel so small, so insignificant like this. After five minutes are up, Earth will continue to spin, time will continue to tick by, life will continue to go on. After five minutes are up, the person in this body will wake up on the roof of their car on the side of the highway, wonder for a moment why they’re there, and drive home.

They’ll question the past few days but once they find the little post-it note on their fridge that says, “Hope you found yourself!” they’ll remember bits and pieces of their impromptu road trip…at least the pieces you want them to remember. They won’t question the gaps, filling them in with their own made up memories. Eventually, the past few days will be forgotten as nothing out of the ordinary.

Your eyelids are getting heavy, breathing slowing down as sleep beings to creep in. You close them willingly, letting the darkness finally overtake you. The last thing you see is the twinkling of the faraway stars. The only thing that stays constant throughout your constantly changing lives.

Your breath catches in your throat, like someone has forced all the air from your lungs yet you can’t breathe out. A tick, tick, tick echoes in your ears.

Finally, darkness.

The first thing that you register when your eyes open is how warm it is. There is a weight draped over your stomach and when you finally will yourself to open your eyes, you realize that there’s someone else in the bed with you. It’s his body heat and the blanket covering you that’s making it so warm.

“Hello. You’re finally awake. It’s noon,” he laughs, bopping your nose with his finger.

You blink slowly, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes. “Noon?”

Your voice sounds foreign to yourself, but this man’s voice sounds like you’ve known him for years.

“Yes, noon. Come on, get up.” He slips his hand under your shirt and tickles your side, letting out a bubbly laugh when you swat him away with an indignant squawk. “We can go out for lunch,” he offers. He untangles himself from you and rolls out of bed.

You watch him rummage through a closet, pulling clothes off their hangers. He’s effortlessly attractive, even with nothing but sweatpants on.

He turns around. “Hey, get moving! I’m hungry.” With a crooked smile, he walks out of the room while trying to smooth out the mess on his head. You can’t take your eyes off him.

Once he’s gone, you look at your wrist.

Three months.

His name is Lee Minho and he’s been your boyfriend for two years and your best friend for much longer. He stays at your place over the weekend because his roommates are obnoxious. You don’t get to see him often on the weekdays because of your job, but sometimes he’ll drop by with food and a kiss. He has the softest smile, the most genuine eyes, and the most infectious laugh.

He loves you.

You’re so screwed.

You’ve never experienced anything like this before. There were lives where you were married or had significant others, but they never felt like this. Your body loved them, instinctively knowing which places to touch to bring the most pleasure and the right words to say when conversations about the past arose.

But with Minho, there was more.

There was something so pure about this relationship, so fulfilling and warm even after two years of being together. Minho’s partner loved him wholeheartedly, and with every interaction you had with him, you could feel that he reciprocated that love with the same intensity.

It was hard to push those instinctual feelings away. It would be easy to say that whenever you ran your fingers through his hair and kissed his cheek that it was his partner’s mind urging you to, but that wasn’t really the full truth.

You may or may not be falling for him too.

“Why aren’t you eating? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” you say quickly.

Minho tilts his head to the side, raising a concerned eyebrow. “Are you sure? You’ve been out of it since Sunday.”

You swallow. “I just have a lot of things on my mind.”

“Baby, you have three months off for the summer, why are you stressing?” Minho’s hand pats your head gently as he gives you his most sincere look. “Relax. It’s not like this is your first year teaching, you should be confident! It’ll be fine!”

You grimace and duck your head away from his hand. “I know,” you say meekly. You’re glad he doesn’t try to pry more. Being in a two year relationship has taught him a lot about your boundaries. Still, it feels weird to lie to Minho, even if you’ve only known him for less than a week.

You’re sure it’s because you’re in his partner’s body. Because there are so many overwhelming feelings associated with the man sitting across the table. Even though you have control of this body, you can’t control these impulses because the connection they have transcends Earth. If soulmates were real, Minho and his partner would definitely be the picture perfect pair. And, if an anomaly like you exists, then who is to say soulmates don’t?

But even without all of that, honestly speaking, it’s hard to not like Minho.

“Stop thinking,” Minho orders, “I can see the gears in the brain turning. You’re using too much brain power for summer break!” He takes your free hand and holds it to his face, so your palm cups his cheek. His skin is soft under your touch. When he smiles, you can feel the movement against your palm. “Eat faster! We have things to do!”

You crack a small smile. “Okay, okay.”

It feels a bit cruel that whatever entity in charge of the arduous task that was finding bodies for you to switch into chose someone close to Lee Minho. This higher being must either have it out for you or taking pity and presenting you with an opportunity.

Minho loves late night drives just as much as you do…the real you, whoever or whatever that form was. But the problem is that his partner doesn’t like sitting on his bike as he speeds down the highway. There was no way you could really do this without making something seem off.

“I’m going to for a drive,” Minho says as he grabs his keys from the coffee table you have your feet propped up on. “Don’t stay up too late. I know it’s summer, but you really shouldn’t be pulling all-nighters.” He pats your head with his hand, smiling when you frown at his action. “Don’t give me that face. I’ll be back safe and sound.”

The corner of your mouth twitches as you try to stem the urge to ask to come along, but Minho takes it as distaste.

His eyebrows furrow, smile slipping off his face. “What? I promised to be safe.”

“Could I come along?” The words leave your mouth before you have a chance to stop them, the urge too strong. You wanted to feel the wind in your hair, to breathe in fresh air, to feel free.

Minho’s jaw drops and he looks like you’ve grown a third eye or something. “You? Want to come with me?”

You scrunch up your face and avert your eyes, regret filling you up. Your fingers tug at the loose string on the pillow on the couch so you don’t have to look at him and see the surprise on his face. The rational side of your mind is telling you that this is too big of a change, but the other side is giddy with excitement. “Maybe? Just thought I’d give it a try. If you’d let me.”

Minho lets out the most wonderful laugh and you feel his hands pinching your cheeks. “Who are you and what have you done to my y/n? Yes, of course I’ll let you!”

If only he knew how funny the answer to his question would be.

As much as you love zipping through the lanes of the highway, no doubt going over the speed limit, the body you’re occupying doesn’t. The moment you two hit emptier roads, you tap frantically at Minho’s shoulder to signal him to pull over. The cheap pizza dinner you had is emptied out onto the side of the road. Your eyes are watering from the acid burning your throat and your head is spinning from how dizzy you are. This really wasn’t a good idea, but it’s too late to regret now.

But the one good thing you could feel was Minho’s hands holding your hair back and pressed firmly against your back as a reminder that he was there.

When you’re done heaving into the grass, both of Minho’s warm hands hold onto your shoulders to steady you. “Damn, sorry. I probably shouldn’t have gone that fast,” he laughs nervously. He gives you an apologetic smile, already grimacing at your inevitable complaints.

You wave your hand dismissively to his surprise. “It’s really fine,” you say. Your voice cracks at the end, which prompts a soft chuckle from him. “I liked it,” you add. “Really.”

“Your stomach doesn’t.” Minho walks you back to his bike and guides your hands to hold onto it so you don’t fall over on your jelly legs. Then, he flips up the seat and pulls out a water bottle. He twists open the cap and holds it out for you to take. “Drink up.”

The cool water soothes your throat and gets rid of the nasty aftertaste that lingers on your tongue. As you chug the water bottle, you see Minho pull out a thin blanket from the same compartment. “What are you doing?” you ask as you crush the bottle in your fist and twist the cap to tighten it. “How much stuff do you have in there? Where are you pulling all of this from?”

Minho smiles softly, spreading out the blanket on the flat ground beside his bike. “That’s all I have. Come here and sit with me.”

You place the crushed water bottle in your lap when you sit down, settling into the space right beside him. It’s partly instinct but more because you want to be close to him, to feel the warmth emanating from his body.

Minho is leaning all of his weight on one hand while his other arm is slung lazily around your shoulders. You take advantage of the position to lean your head on his shoulder. “What are we doing exactly?” you ask.

“Look at the stars. Aren’t they pretty?” He points to the distant sky.

“Is this what you normally do on your drives?”

“No, I usually just drive, but someone has to settle their stomach first,” Minho teases. He plays with the strands of your hair, stroking them between his fingertips absentmindedly. “I’m really glad you decided to come out with me today,” he murmurs. “I like doing fun things with you.”

You finally look up.

No matter where you are, no matter whose body you’re in, no matter how you got there, the stars always look the same. It was the one thing you looked forward to seeing. It was the sense of consistency, of familiarity in an always changing world. They were the most beautiful thing, and if there was one good facet about changing bodies, it was the last moments before you fell asleep where you would be surrounded by nothing but the vastness of the universe.

But today, there was something better.

The sparkles in Minho’s eyes put the stars to shame.

There’s something different about Minho that leaves an impact. He doesn’t love by telling you he does, it comes in the little things. Whenever you meet, he comes early and has your favorite drink ready for you on the table. Whenever you’re out shopping, he’s always cracking dumb jokes and making you laugh. Whenever you part ways, he gives you a small smile, cups your cheek, and presses the softest of kisses to your forehead. You find yourself jealous of the person who gets to see him like this, soft and smiley and oozing with nothing but affection. For some reason, you know he’s only like this with you – or rather, his partner – but the thought of it makes your insides tingly and your heart beat a little faster.

Maybe for these few short months, you could let yourself be loved by this man. Maybe you could pretend like it’ll all be okay. Maybe you could hope that you wouldn’t wake up after it’s all over and be in a different body.

Maybe Lee Minho could be yours.

It was so easy to fall in love with Minho that you forget how time isn’t on your side. Three months fly by. You forget that your time with him is fleeting because every moment spent with him feels like a lifetime’s worth of happiness. You forget that you’ll have to leave him eventually because he promises forever. You forget that he isn’t yours to love because in just five hours, you’ll fall asleep and wake up in another body, another life.

And you won’t see him again.

But what hurts the most is that when he gazes at you like you’re his world, he whispers his partner’s name instead. It’s a brutal reminder that you’re not his, that you’ll never be his. You’re just not meant to be.

Of course, he doesn’t know that. That’s why when you’re mentally breaking down at the thought of no longer seeing Minho and being held by him and being kissed by him and being loved by him, he’s doing all the things that hurt you the most.

It makes letting go so much harder.

“Is this going to become a new thing for us now? Are you going to finally stop nagging me to stop driving?”

You give him a weak smile. “Maybe.”

You might be able to leave Minho’s partner with the wonderful memories of being on that bike and feeling him so close. When they come back, they’ll hopefully continue this routine with him. If doing what he loved with the person he loved made him happy, at least you could leave Minho with that much.

The drive feels shorter this time, much to your dismay. Your stomach feels like it’s still spinning in circles but at least you don’t throw up when it’s over. Minho spreads out the same blanket and you sit like you did months ago. It’s a warm sense of familiarity, of being close to someone who has made you fall so damn hard, that makes your eyes burn and your throat form an uncomfortable lump.

Minho doesn’t notice, too busy rattling off about constellations he’s learned over the past few weeks to show off to you.

Your eyes are closed to keep the tears at bay. The beating of your heart is loud in your ears. You don’t want to leave this. You know the clock is ticking down and that there are only a few minutes left until midnight. And when you wake, the grass will be gone. The bike will be gone.

Minho will be gone.

“I’m so glad I’m here with you,” he whispers.

“Hmm?”

“I’m glad I exist here with you,” Minho says. “In this universe. At this moment.” You can hear the smile in his voice when he says, “How lucky am I to be here together with you?” He presses a kiss to your hair. “I’m so ready to spend forever with you.”

“Me too,” you whisper back, not daring to actually speak in case your voice cracks. Pushing the ache in your chest away, you force your tone to be light. “Can I take a nap? I’m comfortable,” you ask.

Minho laughs at that and nods.

You change your position so that you’re curled up on your side with your head on his lap. His fingers are stroking your hair, something you’ve learned he tends to do without thinking and something you’ll definitely miss. You wonder if you’ll remember it tomorrow. Remember this feeling. Remember him.

“I’ll wake you up in thirty minutes. Then you’ll have to point out all the constellations I showed you before we can leave,” Minho jokes.

“Alright.” The tendrils of sleep are pulling you down. “I love you,” you murmur.

He manages catch it. “I love you too,” he replies.

Minho doesn’t see the tear that slips down your cheek as you fall asleep.

Your breath catches in your throat, like someone has forced all the air from your lungs yet you can’t breathe out. A tick, tick, tick echoes in your ears.

Finally, darkness.

#minho #stray kids #stray kids scenarios #stray kids imagines #lee know #stray kids lee know #lee know imagines #lee know scenarios #minho imagines #minho scenarios #lee minho #i need to stop writing sad stuff for minho but i can't help it he's so angsty

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omg-imagine · 5 years ago

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⊱ Forget Me Not (1/15) ⊰

Pairing: Keanu Reeves x Reader

Summary: After you wake up from a coma and realize that your memories from the last five years have been erased, Keanu works to bring back what you have lost.

Words: 2k

Warnings: Mention of car accident, injuries

A/N: This is my first attempt in doing a series and I’m super excited/nervous. Everything’s mostly outlined already and I’m hoping to post a new chapter every Sunday. If you’d like to be tagged in this, let me know!

As always, I hope you enjoy!

The heavy rain poured down from the dark skies, battering against the roof of Keanu’s Porsche like a hail of bullets. Loud roars of thunder filled the gaps of silence every few minutes, followed by bright flashes of lightning that illuminated the world outside. The wipers moved impressively fast as they tried to sweep the droplets of water away from the windshield. Still, they could barely keep up with the torrent of rain hammering the city of Los Angeles.

Turning down a corner, Keanu cursed under his breath when he realized that the road was flooded. He quickly made a U-Turn back onto the main street, his tires skidding across the wet pavement. He searched for an alternative way that he could take, but the chaotic storm only made it more difficult for him to do so. He could hardly see what was ahead of him, and he was beginning to lose his patience.

Fortunately, Keanu was able to find an access road leading to the freeway. He knew it wasn’t safe going twenty miles above the posted speed limit, but he had already lost too much time trying to navigate through the storm. All he cared about at that moment was that the faster he drove, the quicker he got to you.

He could still remember every word of that phone call from nearly an hour ago. It was from an unknown number, and initially, he didn’t want to answer it just in case you decided to call him back. But something in his gut told Keanu to answer, and he did. It had been a nurse on the other line saying that you were in an accident, and you were rushed to the emergency room in critical condition. As soon as he heard that you were hurt, he was already running out of the door.

His eyes glistened as he thought back to the moment before you had left your shared home in such a haste. Keanu blamed himself for giving you a reason to leave the house while a storm raged outside. He should have held back his tongue, took your car keys, and convinced you harder enough to stay. If only he had done just that, you wouldn’t be in this situation right now.

The rest of the drive to the hospital was a blur. After driving for fifteen minutes when it should have taken Keanu at least thirty, he finally arrived in front of Cedars-Sinai Medical Center. He parked his vehicle in a nearby lot before rushing towards the entrance, the pitiless rain soaking his hair and clothes in an instant. Reaching the glass doors, they parted for Keanu to step inside, and he immediately headed to the main desk ahead.

“Hi, I-I’m here for my partner, Y/N Y/LN,” he managed to say as he caught his breath.

The nurse nodded, checking her system for your information. “Yes, I was the one who called. Your name was listed as Y/N’s emergency contact. According to the last update on here, it says that she was wheeled into surgery about thirty minutes ago, Mr. Reeves.”

“Is she going to be alright?” Keanu asked wearily, hoping that her answer was what he wanted to hear.

It wasn’t.

“We don’t know yet, sir,” she replied sadly before placing a clipboard on top of the counter. “You can sit in the waiting room until the procedure is over. In the meantime, we need you to fill out these papers on her behalf.”

With a nod of his head, Keanu walked down the hall with the paperwork and a pen in hand. The waiting area was stark and quiet. The television mounted on the wall was playing a movie, not that there was anyone paying attention to it. There were a couple of other people scattered in the room, though most were asleep due to the late hour of the night.

Keanu took a lone seat in one corner of the room, ignoring the uncomfortable sensation of his drenched clothing sticking to his skin. He then pushed his long hair back, letting out a deep sigh. The adrenaline had finally subsided, and he had the opportunity to just breathe. He already knew that this was going to be a long wait, and he didn’t want to spend the whole time mulling about the things that he could have done to prevent this. As a start, he decided to concentrate on filling up the paper with your information first.

Most of the questions it asked were basic, nothing that Keanu couldn’t answer. After being together for nearly five years, he knew everything there was to know about you. He knew all of your favorite songs, the foods you liked and disliked, the names of your closest friends, and more.

You had been nothing but kind and understanding to Keanu from the moment you two met. It wasn’t an easy life living under the public eye because of his job as an actor, but you’ve always handled it so well. No other person he has ever dated had made him feel so happy and complete. To him, you were the most precious thing in the entire world, and he has never loved someone so deeply until you came along.

God, why did he have to screw up so badly?

Keanu set aside the clipboard and buried his face in his hands. He needed to call your parents and tell them what had happened. With a sharp exhale, he fished out his phone from his pocket and called your father. As the phone rang in his ear, he planned inside his head how he was going to break the news.

“Hi, Keanu,” your father greeted. He sounded as if he had just woken up, which he probably did. It was only five in the morning where they lived on the east coast. “Is everything okay, son?”

Son. Keanu was very close to your parents since the day you introduced him to them. They had quickly taken a liking on him, seeing that he was the first man you’ve dated that treated you right. Your parents loved Keanu as if he were one of their own, and it broke his heart knowing that this was all his fault.

“I’m sorry for waking you up, but...” Keanu began, his voice starting to break as he tried to find the right words. “It’s Y/N.”

“What? What happened?”

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Keanu told your father about your current condition. As expected, your parents would be taking the first flight out of New York to be with you. After an exchange of reassuring words, the call ended, and Keanu couldn’t hold back any longer, letting his tears finally fall.

An hour went by, then another and another. The clock on display made time felt as though it was moving much slower, making the wait much more unbearable. Keanu would glance up, and in every instance, he swore that the second hand would linger an extra minute at every passing second.

The padded chairs didn’t bring much comfort throughout the night. Every so often, he would walk around the room, stretching his legs for a bit before returning to his seat. Despite exhaustion threatening to take over, Keanu pushed it aside for as long as he could. He was afraid that if he dared to shut his eyes, he would see the nightmare that was already haunting him even while awake.

Keanu did whatever he could to pass the time. He texted his mother and sisters about where you were, not expecting an answer right away because he was sure they were still asleep. He then attempted to read some of the outdated magazines available and watched whatever was on the television. He even resorted to simply staring at the window and watching the rain as it pelted against the glass.

But none of them were enough to distract Keanu. All he could think about was your well-being, and how you didn’t deserve to go through this. He didn’t want to lose you, and the mere thought of it was scaring him. You had so much life left to live, and it wouldn’t be fair for the universe to suddenly take it away.

Eventually, the storm relented, and the skies that were black shifted to blue, signaling a new day of life. The sun rose slowly yet surely, its natural light bringing a sense of calm to Keanu. For a brief moment, he basked in the peacefulness, only wishing that you were there with him to enjoy it.

“Mr. Reeves?”

Keanu turned around, his eyes catching sight of a doctor standing before him. He instantly pushed himself up from his seat, extending his hand for a shake.

“Keanu, and you must be Y/N’s doctor.”

“Yes, my name is Dr. Henderson,” the older gentleman introduced. “How are you doing?”

“I’m doing alright, I guess,” he replied with a slight shrug. “How’s Y/N?”

“Well, when Y/N first arrived, she was in bad shape, but we managed to stabilize her. The car accident caused a lot of internal bleeding that we were able to stop during the surgery,” Henderson explained as Keanu took in every word that was said. “Unfortunately, she’s not out of the woods yet. She did sustain severe head trauma, and as a result, she’s currently in a coma. We won’t know the extent of her injuries until after she wakes up.”

Keanu lowered his head, releasing the breath he was holding. “And when will she wake up?”

The doctor sighed, and that’s when Keanu looked up, seeing the uncertainty painted on the other man’s face. “I’m sorry, Mr. Reeves. We don’t know how long it’ll take. It could be days, weeks, maybe even months.”

“Okay,” was all that Keanu could say after a while. “Can I see her?”

Dr. Henderson gave him a sympathetic smile and a nod. “Of course.”

Henderson led the way as Keanu trailed closely behind. The walk to your room seemed endless. Every hallway they turned down to looked the same as the last. The blank white walls of the hospital felt cold, constricting and unwelcoming, it was becoming a place where a person like you shouldn’t belong.

Soon, they reached the foot of your door, your last name printed on a placard just below the room number. All Keanu had to do now was push down on the handle and open the door. His mind prepared him for what he was about to see. But as soon as he entered inside, it was worse than what he could imagine.

He crossed the room with cautious steps, afraid that if he were loud enough, it might disturb you. Your body was hooked on many machines, none of which he could possibly know what for other than they helped keep you alive. Once he reached your bedside, Keanu saw your delicate skin littered with the reds of your scratches and the blues of your bruises. Seeing you this way made his chest tightened, and if he could, he would trade places with you so that you no longer had to suffer.

Your body laid very still, and it was unnerving for Keanu to witness. Bringing a chair closer, he then sat down beside your bed, reaching out to hold your uninjured hand. He asked himself how you could look so peaceful after experiencing so much pain. If you had been awake, you would have surely given him a smart answer, and the two of you would then laugh about it.

Keanu felt the tears pricking his eyes as he continued to grasp your hand in his. He would do anything in the world just to hear the sweet sound of your laughter again. Though he was unsure of what tomorrow and the following days would bring, he knew that he would be right there by your side, waiting for you to wake up from your deep sleep.

Because despite everything that has happened, Keanu loved you, and he made a vow that he would never give up on you no matter what.

Part 2

Tagged: @penwieldingdreamer

#keanu reeves #keanu reeves x reader #keanu reeves imagine #keanu reeves fanfic #keanu reeves x you #reader insert #my fics #rpf

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farmlesbians · 4 years ago

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Hello! Happy Easter or if you don’t celebrate, happy Sunday! I’ve seen some great posts about fast fashion and ethical consumption. I know that shops like H&M, F21, etc are the most popular culprits, and I’ve stopped buying from there for a few years now. I primarily shop at Old Navy and Gap, but I’ve no idea if they are actually any better and there aren’t many thrift stores close to me to go to, but I would like to do it more. Do you or your followers know of any resources for finding retailers that are the least ethically questionable or good quality thrift stores online? Have a lovely day! 😊

hiii!! i’m probably not the best person to ask bc i don’t shop too much online but i know that imperfectidealist on tiktok talks a lot about it and makes videos about how ethical certain retail stores are!! also depop can be a hit or miss (usually miss) for resale also poshmark is a resale website but i’m not too familiar with it and ebay can also have some cool stuff if u know what ur looking for!!!

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demonicintegrity · 4 years ago

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oKAY heres the details on that depressing Devildice human highschool au i made with a friend back around 2017/2018. Kinda a mess so bare with me. long post with themes of abuse, depression, and other nasty stuff.

- Lucifer Angelo grew up in a pretty bad place in Texas. The details werent fleshed out other than that it was a pretty ignorant place.

- The important fact of the matter is that his dad (who we never did settle on a name for lol) was a Christian preacher. Charismatic man, but an absolute shithead to Lucifer. Even with his other kids he was strict and pushed his ideals and plans onto them. Also had a temper and a loud voice.

- Preacher Angelo was once a pretty alright man, although very self-centered and was pretty condensing. He had a marriage early on in his life and had a few kids, named after archangels. Marriage fell through, and he starts drinking and moves on the next one a bit after. Have a couple more sons named after archangels. It also falls apart. On number 3? he has the final sons to complete his arch angel themed kids. At first it was just in honor/inspired by the angels and his Christian lifestyle, tho i think around the second marriage is where he just started getting delusional and started thinking himself as godlike and thought his sons will spread his word and whatever. Needlessly to say, his partners once they found this out went :/ and it went downhill from there.

- Man we really just took every flaw and worse thing to have in a parent and shoved it into this bastard lmao

- Lucifer was actually the product of an affair within his final marriage. Ofc cheating was a dealbreaker and they divorced. The girl he was cheating with stuck around a little bit, but died in childbirth due to complications. Thus he was left with this child that wAs BoRn FrOm SiN so he named him Lucifer. He would be his son of sin while his other sons would be Perfect People. (Even though they and their mothers started to want nothing to do with him lmao)

- He got by and took care of Lucifer decently but because this was an AU of Angst(TM) Preacher Dickhead became an alcoholic, had money troubles over time because economy troubles or whatever, and took out his temper on his son more and more. Luci was taken to church every Sunday by his dad.

- Kingsley Dyce was born in Lousiana to his parents Patrick and Fahri. We had a whole separate story for Fahri’s family and how they met, it was cute but that’s completely irrelevant right now. They lived modestly and were technically stable but there wasn’t always extra money for fun stuff and there were times were they were just getting by, but they never let Kingsley onto it.

- Kingsley (nicknamed King or KD by his friends) was a pretty cool kid. Had fun in Louisiana despite being a bit flamboyant and full of himself, made good friends. His relationship with his parents were fairly okay. He was a total mama’s boy, loves his mother to death and would do anything for her. As he became a teen his relationship with his father got a bit more strained because Patrick was a very Traditional person and into his teenage hood Kingsley had a habit of dancing not-so-masculine or modestly. He also was getting into makeup.

- Stepping back tho, as a kid he was in the church choir. His family is Catholic and his parents took him to church every Sunday. His favorite activity was to rollerskate. He and his friends were always skating to each other’s houses or skating at the rink. Skating, video games, and singing was his life.

- During his 6/7th grade his family moved to Maryland because of a job opportunity. King was suuuupper bummed. Maryland isn’t like Louisiana at all so there was an adjustment curve. Despite that, he didn’t have a hard time make friends. (insert humanized casino crew here)

- Side note: KD had a tooth gap as a kid and got braces during middle school to correct it. It gave him a lisp. He also had glasses and a questionable sense of fashion throughout middle school. This isn’t super relevant but its important to me that you can imagine this kid as the doofus he was. He also was roughly at an average height.

- In 8th grade there was a new kid that came into his class; Lucifer. Luci’s dad had also moved to Maryland for a job. Despite his entire class wondering what the hell was this southern emo kid’s problem, he wasn’t overtly bullied, just ignored. KD however, was intrigued by this asshole and made it his goal to figure out his issue and be all up in his business.

- Luci is currently dealing with some of his hardest years here. In Texas he had a hard time making friends, was bullied, and wasnt surrounded by the best sort of people. His abuse was getting worse as his father struggled more and more, and the move wasn’t the greatest fix considering he was still drinking and getting himself into debt. Luci didn’t care about school nor about life in general. But then this asshole waltz into his life and boy golly was he feeling things about it.

- The relationship at first just KD latching onto Luci and talking to him about any and everything and trying to drag him around town. Slowly, Lucifer began to be amused by this jerk and his friends. He also didn’t live too far away so KD was able to easily bike to his place even though he never wanted KD over.

- KD picked up on the abuse Luci was going through, and honestly didn’t know to confront it. At first it was just sharing food cuz Luci wouldn’t eat and chatting to him because he got uncomfortable seeing Luci alone with head down all the time. Eventually he talked to his mom about it and the two of them kept inviting Luci over. Fahri became the mom Luci never had and Patrick despite working long hours and extra shifts, would take time to give Luci practical lessons and be a better masculine figure in his life. Luci was slowly being given a family but he also was pulling away from it. He was in the midst of a depression and he was pretty mean to everyone to deal with it, and pulled to himself more as he began to love KD and his family. The new friendships doesn’t cure depression, nor was it helpful against abuse.

- TW under break for more details of abuse, neglect, depression, and suicide

- His abuse was verbal and physical. He got yelled at for being a failure, yelled at because he didnt care about school, drunk his fathers booze, got into trouble and lashed out. He got beat for back talking and whenever the drunk asshole wanted to fight with him. It had been going on for years. He was also neglected pretty bad. Food wasn’t super plentiful in the house, he lived on fast food and luci didnt know how to cook. There was more booze in fridge than food. Power/water would sometimes not be on if his father forgot about certain bills. It was bad.

- Some time during this 8th grade year he also developed a crush on KD, he didnt voice it because his dad was homophobic as shit but also because he certainly didnt know how to navigate love and didnt want to ruin his relationship with KD. So he repressed it.

- Also during this 8th grade year Luci tried to commit suicide. He had texted KD before hand too, with some note that boiled down to he cared a lot about KD but couldnt stand anything in the world/his dad/bringing KD down/whatever and it was obviously a suicide note. KD freaked out and immediately got his ass over there, kicked down the door, and found Luci in his dad’s room with his dad’s gun to his head. I don’t think we ever settled on the details of the situation but it was traumatizing for both individuals to say the least. KD was able to talk him out of it.

- That incident made them inseparable. Luci never had someone care for him like that, cry for him like that. KD had grown attached and close enough to consider him his best friends, the incident only solidify his want to make his best friend’s life better. It was a rough few months after that and KD was sworn to never tell his parents what happened.

- TBH that was about the worse of it, this was an high school AU and high school became a bit better for them in certain regards. KD got his braces off, got contacts, and had one helluva growth spurt going into HS. Luci went deep into a punk-emo phase his freshman year which killed his fashion, but was slowly becoming a bit more confident in himself. KD and his parents were able to help him a lot. Emotional support, practical life lessons, and food was always a given.

- Its a bit of an up and down throughout high school. KD gets into makeup, heels, dancing, and bisexuality and it causes a major strife with him and his dad who wanted a “real” son. The relationship went through major struggles and would take a couple years to really heal.

- Luci struggles a bit with drinking and deals drugs and booze to get his own spending money. He starts somewhat taking his school seriously, but even though he does work in class he doesnt always do homework or projects and whatnot. He has a habit of physically intimidating other students and occasionally tries to pick fights.

- The “casino gang” also have their own things going on. If a recall correctly, Wheezy was also in a neglectful house, Pip and Dot ( ??? and Dorothy) were twins from a wealthy well off family but were ignored and were terribly bratty, Piroeutta was just an quiet Russian outcast, Mango had 7 siblings and no space to himself and who was bullied for his large off-putting appearance, Chips was just loud, and i completely forgot what everyone else’s deal was. KD and Luci mainly hung out with Chips, Piro, Pip, and Dot. They were still pretty close to the others but those four were the only ones they regularly hung out with at lunch and outside of school.

- There are a couple things that could happen throughout high school. My personal fav i can remember is a particular angst with KD trying to get with another dude and Luci being Upset and lashing out at him at a party result and ugh that scenario was angsty but also turned very cute???

- Regardless, when they do get together they’re unstoppable tbh.

- and yes, the gang would readily throw hands with anyone who said shit. Barely any of them care about suspensions.

- I kinda forget a bit of stuff. I know misc. scenarios here and there both fluffy and angsty, but this post is already long enough lmao so feel free to hit up my ask box with any questions/comments. I dont really think Ill come back to this au?? If i do Im gonna edit a ton of stuff because looking back certain themes and scenarios seem borderline insensitive and/or poorly thought out. I did found a fic of this au on my phone with KD and Luci as adults tho and Im v tempted to rewrite some of it and finish it because it was good.

#long post #tw abuse #tw physical abuse #tw verbal abuse #tw suicide #suicide mention #cuphead dont deal with the devil #ch devil #King dice #devildice #snakeeyes

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finch-writes · 4 years ago

Text

veneration

✧ haiba alisa x gn!reader / fluff, meet-cute ✧ warnings: there’s one out of context timeskip spoiler here

✧ is there a word for, even if it is only for an instant, falling in love with a total stranger? ✧ cross-posted to my ao3 here

You first meet her in the early afternoon of mid-spring, when the seasonal flowers are in full bloom and the air has the slightest promise of summer ahead.

The corridors of your university are familiar territory by now, winding stairs and questionably rickety elevators, narrow hallways that are way too claustrophobic in the midst of students leaving their just-finished lectures. Honestly, you’re just glad that the majority of your classes are just a little out of the way. They can be hard to get to at some times, but there are less people to contend with.

With your lesson finished for the afternoon, you’re on your way out of the building (something easy to eat sounds really good right now; maybe ramen? Though you aren’t sure you’re that hungry), when you cross paths with someone you haven’t met before. You stop in your tracks; she’s the only other person in the hall, but you feel like you might just have fallen into the role of an unwitting voyeur just by being in her presence.

She stands by the bay window, one hand raised to the curtains to keep them out of the way. The slight tilt of her chin turns her scrutiny towards the garden, attention fixed firmly on something amid the flowers two stories below. The golden light of late-afternoon shifts in ripples over platinum hair, a well-kept silken wave that cascades down her back. Her blush-pink blouse has a red pattern you can’t quite make out, but you suspect they might be a fruit of some kind.

There’s a curious grace to her posture that belies the youth in her face, reminiscent of a monarch whose compassionate eyes constantly trace the well-loved lines of her kingdom. How long has she lived to see her people flourish under love and guidance? What has she seen, who has she loved, in the eternity that trails in her wake?

If she were an everlasting queen then oh, what you wouldn’t give to be a knight in service to Her Majesty.

The curtains fall and sway when she lets them go a moment later, dancing in the peculiar rhythm of gravity. She turns to you without losing a single line of that peculiar posture.

Her eyes are so green. You’d liken them to emeralds, but that might be cliche, so you settle to file them away as chips of green-glass bottles caught by the sunlight. But they aren’t just that either; they’re just a touch bluer than that, as if someone had dusted the finest layer of a winter sunday’s morning beneath the verde.

The corners of her eyes crinkle just so when she smiles politely, melting any lingering frost that your mental comparison might have garnered, and your breath catches. Did you die? Surely you have. There's no way someone like this exists on your earth.

“Hi.” You say, eloquently.

“Hello.” She responds. Her voice is high and clear, flush with the ring of a thousand chimes even if you cannot find their source.

Is there a word for, even if it is only for an instant, falling in love with a total stranger?

(Maybe not, but you know there are words to describe falling in love with someone you have grown to know as well as yourself. Perhaps that will suit your heart a little better.)

“Are you new?” Your venture is shaky at best, but apparently this peculiar piece of divinity has chosen to humour you because her eyes sparkle when she shakes her head.

“Ah, no - I don’t attend here. I’ve been hired to model for an art module the university is teaching this semester.”

“You’re a model?” You echo, barely catching yourself from voicing the awe-filled murmur of that makes a lot of sense.

“I am!” She chirps, enthusiasm shining through the cracks in her eloquence. You suspect that you’re being bathed in sunlight just from the upward twitch of her smile.

“Do you know which building you’re going to be in?”

“Well …” The smile slips from her face, replaced by a soft frown. She places one hand on her cheek, averting her eyes for a moment. Her brows furrow. “I was looking for the administration building, so that someone could point me in the direction I’m meant to be going. I came here today for that reason, actually. But I must have taken a wrong turn somewhere!” She buries her face in her hands, and through the gaps in her hair you can see the tips of her ears turn red.

“Oh, I- I can show you back if you want!” The offer slips out before you can really think to catch it, and you raise your hands a little in a placating gesture. She peeks through her fingers at you, blinks a couple of times, and slowly lowers her hands from her face. There's still a slight pink tint to her cheeks.

“Really? I don't want to cause you any trouble.”

“My class is finished and I was heading back that way. It's no problem at all, promise.” You smile, and the reassurance seems to settle her somewhat because she relaxes back into that easy grace she'd transfixed you with when you had first seen her. Hope blooms across her features.

“Thank you so much!”

You wonder briefly, as you exit the building by her side, how she managed to get this lost. Your building isn’t exactly easy to find (unlike the admin building where she claims that she needed to go). It’s both exasperating and incredibly endearing at the same time, and you can’t quite keep the smile off your face. Despite appearances, maybe she is simply human like you.

At the side of your nameless sovereign you walk in companionable quiet, as if you've known each other for scores of years rather than a few moments. You keep an eye on your surroundings with the practised ease which speaks of your being a student here - perhaps more so than usually would. She does not know the little pitfalls and potholes of the campus paths as intimately as you, so you feel duty-bound in a sense to make sure she doesn’t trip.

Perhaps there is still room for a knight in slightly dented armour by the side of a clandestine queen.

“This is the one. I’ll walk you to the building, if you want.”

Her response is an affirmative nod, and the small motion warms a hollow space in your lungs that you hadn’t quite been sure what to do with until that moment. You take a breath to ask a question; you aren’t quite sure what it would be, however -

Pushed by fate, or perhaps just right on cue, her shoe catches on a notorious crack in the pavement as the two of you approach the administrative building. The question dies in your throat as she yelps, tottering forward, but - by some divine intervention - you're just as fast.

Your grip on her arm isn't exceptionally graceful but it's enough to stop her fall, and you haul her upright in one smooth motion. Her hands are warm against your forearm as she steadies herself. You catch a whiff of perfume, somewhere between peach and vanilla; soft and sweet, like she.

The two of you linger for what might just be a heartbeat longer than necessary before dropping your hands, shy smiles directed away from the other. Your gaze is caught by the shift of her shirt against her arm; her shirt is patterned with what you think might be lychees, but you'd need to see the fruit in person to be sure. It’s you who breaks the silence first, piping up among the brush of a soft breeze that rustles at your clothes.

“You okay?”

“Yes. You saved me again.” There's a teasing lilt to her voice, that soft smile back in place which instils a soft sense of yearning. She brushes pale strands out of her eyes, tucking the wave of platinum behind her ear. She startles slightly with no trigger, and reaches for the bag slung over her shoulder.

“Here.” She searches through her bag for a moment, pulling free a pen and a notepad. Brows creased, she scribbles something on the page and folds it over before pressing it into your hand. Warm, you note, but the fleeting moment ends before you can form enough thought to follow the impression. “I have to get going now before the office closes but thank you for helping me!”

She flees with a wave and a swirl of peach-vanilla perfume, that soft pink flush back on her cheeks. A cape would not be out of place trailing in her wake, tangling in the wind left behind by hurried footsteps.

As quickly as she entered your life she’s gone again: leaving you with your thoughts, oath-bound with nothing to shield once more. A fleeting moment granted by fate at the side of a nameless regent, light personified in the form of unlit hair and green eyes. You remain in the late afternoon sun for a moment, free hand raised in farewell, thoroughly stunned by her sudden departure.

I forgot to ask her name.

...

Alisa rustles through her bag and laments over the fact that she had her business cards with her the whole time. It must have been awkward, watching her scribble on a note like that, but she'd seen no other option.

Her phone lights up with a text from an unknown number, your introduction sitting on the screen alongside an affirmation that you'd been the one to help her out today, and she smiles. She didn't fancy herself a queen by any measure besides confidence, but maybe there was something to be said about a knight in shining armour coming to her rescue in an unfamiliar place.

#haikyuu #haikyuu x reader #alisa haiba #haiba alisa #my writing #1500 words of me being a hopeless gay? yeah

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