#SOMETIMES when i write fast i stumble over letters OKAY

[enden-k]

"truly a haithnyan main" hes a haravatat scholar and akademiya scribe. i cant even SPELL. WDYM BESTIE WDYMMM

[leclsrc]

it’s never over ✴︎ cl16

genre: childhood friends to friends with benefits to lovers (a mouthful), smut, humor, Fluffff!!!!, several references to 70’s music, 

word count: 12.9k  

You must have lost the plot along the way, because pretending to date your childhood best friend was not on your 2023 bingo card. (Neither was the fact that things are looking a lot more real as time passes.)

nsfw warnings under the cut!

18+ because... handjob (f receiving), penetrative sex, semi public sex, praise central, size kink

auds here… hi hi hi!!! you’ve no idea how much i missed writing posting and interacting w u guys. thank u for all the love & follows i’ve gotten in my periods of mia. more things soon i promise ty for ur patience love love love u allll 🌟🤎🤠💋 this is my love letter to fic tropes. i feared if it was too long i’d lose the plot somehow so i had to condense it. i truly hope u all like it :) will try & reopen reqs sometime soon to get inspo kicking

It’s later than late. The lights are strobing purple and blue, the “let’s get you even drunker than you are” headache inducing kind. The floor is crowded, swelling with teenagers who are probably too young to get in, drunk off cheap aperol and watered-down tequila shots. You’re balancing yourself on a barstool, one hand busy wrapped around a slim glass, the other clawing your miniskirt lower because the air bites at your legs.

“Another voddy Red Bull!” You’re slurring, mind spinning almost as fast as your vision. You almost drop your empty glass in your rush to look for another one—but right as it slips clumsily out of your fingers, it’s caught. 

Charles, your cocktail’s knight in armor and yours just as well, is eighteen. His hair is  light brown and long, but not draping over his eyes like before. You know before because you’ve never not known before—Charles has been your best friend since you were five.

Snoopy, he says, voice steady and calm in your ear. His frame is still lanky but he’s tall and his grip on your shoulders is enough to quell the yelling. You pout. Get me another voddy red, you plead. Charlie, it’s my birthday. He smiles to himself, knowing your vision’s too cloudy to see him and your mind’s too bogged to remember any of this. You’d already slipped up and told two bouncers you were seventeen and not eighteen, like your poorly-Photoshopped ID suggested; Charles had to keep you in check, lest you or your friends end up kicked out of the club.

A song booms in through the speakers and your eyes widen with recognition. Charles doesn’t anticipate your reaction fast enough, affording only a stumble backwards when you attempt to leave the barstool to dance. He swears under his breath, mind recounting the five previous dance sessions that left you exhausted and out of breath earlier.

I’ll get you a vodka Red Bull if you sit down, he tells you. He enunciates because, twelve years later, you still can’t wrap your mind around his thick European accent. Sit down.

Alriiiight! You hoot, throwing two fists up in the air. Customary for many bartenders on nights as busy as this one, a free shot is thrust into your vacant hand and you cheer loudly, much to Charles’ chagrin. With whatever malice the eighteen-year-old can muster, he casts the bartender a dirty look before turning to face you again, worried. He places a hand on your shoulder and watches, half-anxious and half-endeared, you take the shot and visibly grimace at the raw taste. Fuck. It’s gin I think, you sputter. Charles presses: You okay?

More than, you holler, smiling. I am officially seventeeee— 

The bartender’s eyebrows furrow, the thirty-something businessman in the adjacent stool turns to look—so Charles has no choice but to shut you up, leaning in and pressing his lips to yours before you can seal your fate.

Your eyes widen briefly, and when Charles feels the passed seconds are sufficient, he pulls away. You stare, eyes hazy, at the pretty boy you’ve had feelings for since you turned fourteen, and lean in to kiss him again. 

—

Pascale is hosting her weekly Sunday brunch at the Leclerc residence, all French windows and wide kitchens and bowls of fruit. As always, your place is at the kitchen island picking at plates to taste test them. Bonjour, Arthur drawls when he walks in. He turns to Pascale. Mum. Then you. Snoopy.

You halt biting into your forkful of arugula and turn toward the younger Leclerc, eyebrows raised. “What’d you just call me?”

“Snoopy,” he says simply. He’s beside Pascale, one arm wrapped around her affectionately. “Or, Snoops, if you like that. Yes?”

“Who told you about that nickname?”

“Lorenzo.”

“Hasn’t been in use since your voice was cracking every sentence.”

“Tête de noeud.” Pascale swats his arm and he yelps, so you resume your arugula with satisfaction.

Charles is late for reasons he did not disclose, but everyone is used to it. The open kitchen door stretches into the front yard, where the table is set up and Lorenzo is setting the places. You know that although you usually expect a few more relatives, today’s just for the family—and you, but you’re basically family.

“How is Paris?” Arthur asks, licking hummus off a spoon opposite you. Your position is reminiscent of how you spent afternoons after school with Charles before, and the memory strikes a chord in you. Strange nostalgia, fondness.

“It’s fine.”

“Oh really?” He laughs in-between nibbles of carrot.

“I got an offer for a higher position,” you relent. Pascale calls you both, and you get up and walk toward the yard to sit down. “If you must know.”

“Oh? Let me know how that goes.” He follows you, carrot slice in hand, chewing. The conversation is cut short by the smooth noise of Charles’ decidedly un-smooth parking outside.

You’re seated at your usual spot—in-between Charles and Lorenzo, across Arthur—when the former finally walks into the yard. He looks tired, moreso than usual, bags under his eyes deep and hair a bit more disheveled.

He sits beside you. “I need to talk to you.” Then, quieter, “Private.”

You hum confusedly, eyes flitting across the three other people at the table to gauge their reactions. They’re equally aloof. “Wh—now?” He nods.

You end up talking in the kitchen. He’s sighing the whole fifteen steps there, rubbing the bridge of his nose, exhaling, inhaling. Ever observant, and of someone as close to you as he is, you pick up on the tiny actions, behaviors. Charles is wringing his hands. He’s tried to pop the same knuckle twice. He isn’t frantic—he’s scared. You lean against the counter, waiting, eyes looking him up and down to identify his exact emotions.

“Tell me,” you press. “Whatever it is, I won’t judge.”

“The—my—the iCloud of my phone has been leaked. The press found out.”

When you were eight and he was nine, you and Charles summered in Villefranche with your mum and dad. The weather then was the kind you could write love letters to and about—blue skies, salty wind, soft sand. The current was calm enough that you could ride the gentle waves without fear of going under or straying far from the shore, where your parents sunbathed blissfully.

Don’t drown, he’d warned you, ever protective. You wore pink floaties over your arms, so it was already difficult to.

You dove under with great effort, fighting against the buoyancy, and poked his bare knee, surfacing to watch his reaction. He grimaced. Slowpoke, you teased, swimming away. You wondered then what it might feel to drown. Maybe not in the blue water of Villefranche, but anywhere else.

You think it hurts to drown? You blubbered, bobbing above the wave. Charles swam in front of you and wiped water off your face gently. I hope you never find out, he said, smiling.

But this is you finding out. This is it now, the drowning. Your fingers flex over the edge of the counter and you gulp, eyes fluttering with nerves. “Shit?” It comes out like a question from how nervous you are. “Um, sorry. What are we—” But your question is cut short by Pascale’s voice, cutting through the tension like it’s wet cardboard. The agreement is silent and mutual: save this discussion for later.

—

Charles can’t wake up fast enough. There are calls, texts, voicemails from every officer on his team, which isn’t that surprising given he’s up two hours late. But the amount—the sheer amount of notifications is dizzying. Overwhelmed, he finds it in himself to pull up his search engine app and let his fingers possess themselves.

All he types is his last name, and then The Sun article is splashed onto his face like a pot of scalding coffee: “F1 DRIVER ICLOUD LEAKED, PERSONAL PHOTOS ALL OVER INTERNET.” Daily Mail is next, of course, watering down the situation to seem more dirty and scandalous: “Naughty Driver? Charles Leclerc’s iCloud Hacked, Reveals Mystery Girl.” And then of course Page Six, who doesn’t miss a beat—

Wait. He blinks and presses the back arrow to return to the previous webpage. He reads over it again, slower this time. Mystery Girl? Shit—no. No way. It’s almost (it should be) silly, the way he’s reading vigorously over the reports like he’s a fan, but he’s anxious. He scrolls, because if any tabloid is daft enough to publish the leaked photos, it’s got to be the Daily Mail.

He pauses his quick swiping when his eyes harden with recognition, and staring back at him, on his phone’s full brightness, is a picture of you on his lap at Christmas. It’s the one Lance took while attempting to guess Charles’ password, one of you wine drunk with his head buried in your neck.

It’s unmistakably him, at his own house in Monaco where the drivers had a holiday get-together. It’s unmistakably you, hair draped over your face, three gold rings on your fingers. You had just given him a Strokes vinyl, he recalls. That’s why you were hugging.

There’s another one of you playing Scrabble in his bed—he’s not in the frame, but he remembers taking it. This, he could deny. He’s not in it, and he’s pretty sure the fans don’t know his house this well. Already his brain’s doing manual damage control, dread filling his veins at the thought of reading through his team’s frantic messages.

Another message stands out, pinned on top of all the others—from his mum, reminding him about brunch. He gets ready half-focused, half-lucid. Fully worried. He worries about the PR crisis this may cause, about his iCloud security, about the reactions online. Above all, though, he worries about you. About what he should tell the press. About how “actually, we’re not dating, we just fuck constantly” might hold up for the fans.

—

You’re twelve and Charles thirteen, both of you seated across Hervé and Pascale. Behind them stand your own parents, and they all look stern. What this is, Pascale says gently, is a family meeting. Okay?

Okay. It leaves your high voices in shaky unison. You both know what you’re doing here—you snuck out of school to catch a movie earlier, the teacher naturally caught wind of the misdeed, and now you’re in a meeting for it.

Snoops, Charles whispers, trying to ease your nerves with lighthearted commentary. This is the worst.

No, you want to tell preteen Charles—this is. You’re older now, yet still subjected to similar questioning, though today it’s Pascale going solo. It’s been three days since the fated day where the press leaked the pictures of you and Charles in compromising positions, and like any boomer, she’s used Facebook to her advantage and gotten ahold of the compromising pictures, too. 

“How long?” Her voice is enunciated in hard syllables.

“Mum—”

“Answer the question.” She looks back and forth, moving into territory of intense questions. “Both of you.”

“Um.”

“Because… I’ve been…”

You notice it immediately, given your observant track record: her shoulders relax and her lips smile just slightly. You sit still, and wait for the next words out of her mouth. “…waiting for this all my life!”

You and Charles watch in mild horror as Pascale’s face goes from firm to absolutely elated. Her eyes soften and a smile spreads over her face, illuminating her with pure joy. Do you even know how many bets I made with your papa, Charles? She claps her hands together several times.

Charles opens his mouth to verbalize dissent, but she doesn’t take it—she��s already droning on and on about how long she’s waited for this to finally happen. Your eyes glide over to the doorway of the dining area, where Lorenzo and Arthur watch with smug looks on their faces. Little shits won’t help you. You don’t even try to protest, and at some point Charles gives up, too. You don’t know how it’ll come across, anyway.

Ninety minutes later, you’re in Arthur’s bedroom rifling through his desk and praying you don’t find anything too gross. He’s on his bed throwing a bouncy ball up in the air, conversing with Charles about your gameplan with their mum.

The sky outside is in limbo between afternoon and night. It’s cloudy, so the sunset is a pale yellow instead of angry orange. “Why not just tell her the truth?”

You’d also thought that was the easiest option, escape route, exit path. But that would involve breaking Pascale’s heart, and that was out of the question for you, let alone Charles, certified mommy’s boy.

“I can’t, Arthur.” Charles’ voice is steady and unwavering.

“You can.”

“No.”

“Fine. Next best thing then.”

You fiddle with a Rubik’s cube, then turn in the seat. “What?”

“Pretend you’re dating.”

“Arthur,” you say seriously. “Shut up.” But he doesn’t join you, and you realize neither does Charles. You stare blankly at both of them, unwilling to believe they’d actually bank on this as an actual plan. 

“You guys realize this kind of thing never works? Zero percent success rate.”

“It’s just paddock appearences. You’re not pretending for millions of people,” Arthur says, shrugging. He catches the ball and throws it to you—you catch it one-handed. “You’re pretending for Mum.”

“Sure. And by extension, millions of people. Are you dense, or do you think the paddock appearances will just breeze by everyone who saw the leaks?”

“Ughhh. You’re acting like it’s impossible.” Arthur holds his breath before he utters the next sentence. “Like you two aren’t fucking every other w—”

“—oh, my God!” Shocked, you get up, and so does Charles. “Wh—I’m—language, Arthur!”

Charles balks. “How did you even—”

“I didn’t. But merci mille fois for confirming my theory,” Arthur quips faux-sweetly, smiling dopily. “I mean, I was going to find out! Your pictures are so… intimate. So just pretend to date and throw Maman off your scent.”

You protest briefly, wrestling with the option, and reconvene on the bed, you cross-legged and leaning on Charles’ shoulder and Arthur in front of the both of you. He’s always had a knack for schemes—he never got caught sneaking out, which destroyed your and Charles’ record of being caught twelve times by either of your parents. It’s a bit childish, but he gets the job done.

“Do it for… let’s say a month. Tell Mum you’ve been dating a while—Christmas isn’t that long ago, and that was the least recent picture. D’accord?”

You both nod, hyperfocused. 

“During race weekends, be all over each other—shouldn’t be hard—especially in front of Mum. People might catch you doing it, but I wouldn’t worry.”

“No, wait—I mean.” You shrug. “People—tifosi—they know I’m Charles’ friend. They’re going to be all over the fact that we’re apparently dating.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll use palatable density,” Charles says, nodding.

You pause. Arthur does, too, sensing something off.

“You mean plausible deniability.” Your deadpan voice is tinged with amusement, muffled into his shoulder. 

“Right, ouais, that.” He smiles, chuckling a bit; his shoulder shakes with it and your head nearly slips off. He brings a hand to cup over your jaw and hold you steady. “Sorry.”

“S’fine.” You sigh. “I’m totally okay with this. Just worried it’s going to have unintended consequences.”

Arthur quells you with rushed explanations about how it’ll be over and you two can say something like we decided we’re better off as friends to really sell the thing. At the seven-minute mark of your and Charles’ intense interrogation, he promptly kicks you out to figure out if you’re willing to do it yourselves.

You wedge yourself into Charles’ front seat, knowing you were headed to his place anyway. You massage your temples with one hand and fiddle with the hem of your shorts with the other. Nervous. Antsy. “Did Fred say anything?”

“Got the IT team to fortify my account.” 

“You think this thing’s going to be okay from a professional standpoint?” You look up and toward him; he’s already gazing at you, eyes soft. “I’m worried. Plus, with my job offer thing in London and New Y—”

“Don’t be.” He starts the car and maneuvers out of the driveway, into the dips of Monaco streets and the familiar route back to his place. “Bitter with the sweet. The only thing you need to worry about”—he takes your hand in the centre console, laces your fingers together loosely—“is your acting skills.”

“God, you’re right.” You sigh, looking out the window. “How am I going to pretend I can stand you?” Then, for good measure, you squeeze his hand wrapped in yours.

—

You visit Monaco from uni in London over spring, and for the first time in months, your schedule aligns with Charles’—though you learn this indirectly when you visit the Leclerc home. Pascale, of course, is the one who tells you his new flat’s address before she presses a kiss to your cheek and then leaves to run errands in the city. Alone, and in a burst of excitement, you make the drive there, take the elevator upstairs and shove the door open without knocking. He’s there. Your Charles. You can tell because the music he plays is loud—The Kooks—like his ears are still fourteen and not twenty-one, like he’s still in middle school and not in Formula One.

“Save your eardrums,” you say, before beelining toward the couch and leaping onto him for a hug. He sits up to match your energy, arms wrapping around you, sitting up straighter to keep you from totally falling atop him. 

“How’s uni?”

“Shit,” you say into his hair. It smells like his shampoo and his favorite cologne. Clean, soapy. “Obviously. How’s the Ferrari?” 

“Amazing.” He smiles. “Obviously. How’d you know I was in? Mum told you?”

“Ouais. She’s running errands. Listen, can we drink tonight?” You sigh, parting from the hug and sitting across him.

Yeah, sure. His voice is concerned, thick with worry. You shake your head—it’s not that deep, you tell him. It’s just—I had a bad date before I left and it’s put me in the worst mood.

Oh? He leans back, clasping two hands behind his head as he goes.What happened? He laughs. 

You tense visibly, rolling your eyes despite yourself. “He was just weird. Nothing.”

He wiggles his eyebrows. “You shy, Snoops?”

Ha-ha. You roll your eyes, but your face is flushed and your gaze avoids him. You reach up to tuck the loose strands of hair by your ears behind them, face warm. You’d never talked with Charles about boys or flings before—maybe several times, but never in full detail. It was always vague umbrella statements, like Ryan is boring or Greg is such a prick, but never anything beyond that. Come to think of it, you don’t know why, either.

“You can tell me.”

“The—when we—I had to fake,” you say cuttingly. “You know.”

He purses his lips and smiles, eyebrows furrowing. I don’t, actually. Something unnamed trills through you—through your stomach and into your fingertips. Your first time talking to your best friend in real life after months of uni and racing and this is the topic? It’s, if anything, a sign of your growing up, you guess.

Charles lets up on the teasing and you end up rejecting the club in lieu of sharing a bottle of vodka, throwing it back raw and without any type of chaser (to really prove nothing at all; you don’t even know why any sane human would do this). You do a Just Dance party on his TV, even try out drunk sim racing and FIFA, but by the end you’re well exhausted and retired to the couch again.

His voice is wavy and tipsy when he speaks. “You really had to fake it?”

“Yeah.” You pout. “Can never—um, finish, I dunno.” Your inhibition’s gone, shame loosened and untied by the vodka. You shift in your position on the couch.

“Maybe because it was too casual.” His voice hardens.

“So you’re saying I should…” You swallow dryly, eyes fluttering. “Sleep with somebody I know?” You’ve dropped the implication and it floats up, hangs above.

His eyes flick over to your legs, folded on the couch. The hem of your shorts. Your fingers playing with your empty shot glass. He didn’t mean anything by that. He’s half-sure you didn’t. 

“I am just saying that a good friend would do that for you.”

“You’re a good friend,” you say, volume low. 

Five minutes later you’ve properly crashed into each other, him pinning you down against the couch, licking fire up your throat. His lips trail across your jaw. 

He dips a hand into your shorts, presses against your clothed core. He’s smiling. So wet for me. He’s got his mouth pressed messily up to your jaw, when he sinks one finger all the way in, slow and stretching; and you’re clenching around him—

Come on, he’s saying. Insisting. You’re trembling, yanking desperately at his hair as he pumps his finger slowly in and out of you, aching to be full of him, to take him deeper. 

He slips another one in, and you feel the cold of his ring pressed against your entrance, then he’s fucking them into you and you’re leaking around them. 

Yes, yeah, Charles—you’re gasping, airy breaths tapering into whimpers that sound sinful, desperate. He knows you so well already. Presses his fingers against your sweet spot, watches your eyes flutter.

So needy, and you’re chanting his name under your breath as he quickens his pace, craving the stretch of him desperately. I know you want to cum, baby. He’s calling you baby and you’re closer, so much closer. Come on, for me, yeah? 

You melt, crashing and crumpling into him and shuddering as you release all over his fingers. He presses his forehead to yours and lets you take a beat. You feel giddy and dizzy and warm, which is weird because you don’t feel drunk at all anymore. This dizziness is something different. It’s Charles.

“Are we going to do that again?” You ask meekly, hand still in his hair.

“Only if you want. Whatever you want,” he says. He’d do anything for you. He’d do whatever you wanted.

“I do, I do want.” And Charles, the good friend he is, helps you out.

—

Imola is humid, warm, and the racetrack is absolutely teeming with people. But you’re not there—clad in linen shorts and a fresh tank top, you’re walking around the vicinity of the track, cup of gelato in hand, sunglasses over your eyes. The restaurant near you is playing music out loud. Beside you, singing along and drafting a list of wedding appetizers, is Lorenzo.

“Lamb chops?” You suggest, licking amaretto off the plastic spoon. The weather is pleasant enough that people are crowding the streets without it being too unbearably hot. Stevie Wonder flows from the speakers, permeates the entire block.

“I was thinking more seafood.”  

“Tuna? Make ‘em little tacos.”

“Good idea. Think I’ll go for those. Hey, are you sure you’re on board with fake-dating my brother?”

You turn sharply toward him, taken aback. He hadn’t brought it up in the week and a half this plan had been in the works—he’d been privy to it the entire time, too, which makes it weirder that he’s asking so suddenly.

“I meaaan…” You slow your pace, contemplative. A shy smile plays at your lips, brows knitted together. “It’s only going to be for a month. Ish. So, yeah. Are you—do you—sorry. Is it alright with you? Sorry.”

“It is not not okay.”

“So it’s…” You pause. “Okay.”

“It’s—yes, but I worry, is all. How sure are you that this won’t hurt anyone?”

“I don’t know, it’s… bitter with the sweet. And who’s getting hurt… like the fans?” You laugh a little. “They’ll live, won’t they?”

“Like you.” He pauses. “Like Charles.”

—

Pierre is running a comb through his hair, staring at himself in the mirror; his Narcissus moment is interrupted by a banana to the back of his head. Bonjour, he says, monotone and already knowing the culprit.

“We need to talk.”

“Could this possibly be about the news of your brand new ‘girlfriend’ over last week? Where is she, by the way?”

“With Lorenzo. Listen, here’s the thing. Mum thinks we’re dating, and I don’t know how to tell her we’re not—so I won’t.”

“Lie to your mum, go ahead.” Pierre crosses his arms and hums.

“Tais-toi. It’s for her own good.” 

“So you’re going to pretend to date.”

 “Ouais.” 

“Should be easy. You guys are hooking up and making out or whatever all the time.”

Charles pauses and lets the silence speak for itself. When Pierre makes a noise of confusion, he gives. We don’t kiss, he says finally. She thinks it is too intimate, and we ‘are not dating,’ so sex is the only thing we do. Sex, and if you still have leftover antsy energy, you pull on his shirt and sit up against the headboard to finish a crossword puzzle. Sometimes he helps you, but most of the time he’s just there to press lazy kisses to your hair and temple, cheekbone and jaw—never your lips.

“You don’t kiss?” Pierre’s genuinely shocked. “Putain, you’re a hero. How does that even work?”

“We just do not kiss. We fuck, but no kissing.” He shrugs. “It’s always been that way.”

“So how about her birthday?”

“She doesn’t…” Charlex exhales tightly. “Remember.”

“Charles,” you suddenly say, head appearing into the doorway. “Oh, hey. Fred said you might be here. What are you guys talking about?”

“Sprint racing,” Pierre says, an easy lie.

Charles, though, is never good at the lying bit. “International tariffs.”

—

Your only memories of your seventeenth birthday are applying lip gloss and mascara, wearing your shortest skirt and tightest top, and reciting your supposed date of birth in line like a mantra. Anything after that’s been sprayed off by the ultra-clutch strength of vodka. Which, you’ve been told, was your drink of choice.

“Headache’s better,” you moan over the phone, face squashed onto your pillow. “Mum gave me an Advil but I was so sick all morning.”

“Did you snog anyone?” Charles is always teasing.

“God, I wish.” You shut your eyes and try to remember if your drunken stupor had somehow managed to get you successful in lip-locked matters. Nothing comes up and you wipe a dry hand over your face, heaving a sigh. “I really wanted to kiss Matthew but I think he left before you and I did.”

A pause. Then Charles clears his throat. “You mean you and me and the police car that escorted us home?” He snorts.

“You’re such a prick!” You scream into your pillow, laughing. “I already thanked you for being my literal savior last night.”

He smiles to himself. “You’re welcome.”

“Did you have fun?” You flop onto your back and stare at the stick-on stars on your ceiling. You make a mental note to try and remove them.

“Bit boring because I vowed not to drink at all, but I got to dance. Bitter with the sweet, right?”

—

“Nervous?”

“I mean, fuck, yeah.” You fix the hem of your dress, speaking to Giada through the phone. “Pascale’s waiting for us on the paddock. And so are, like, a hundred photographers.” You wince. “Can you even imagine Charles and me? It’s just—I dunno—it’s weird.”

“It isn’t,” she says, laughing. “Not really. It makes sense. Plus, aren’t you on the whole arrangement?” You envision her air quotes.

“Yeah, but”—you slip your sandals on—“it’s on and off, and that’s not dating. It’s sex. Two different things.”

“Is it really, though? Considering how close you are outside of bed, aren’t y—”

“Okay, input no longer needed,” you laugh. “Bye, Gi. I’ll text you later.”

You reunite with Charles just by the paddock entrance. The throng of fans holding cutouts and posters notice you two before anyone else does, inciting a collective bout of yells around the both of you. He notices your blue silk dress first, eyes unmoving. “You look like the sky.”

“Thanks, man.” A beat, and you squint through your sunglasses. “That’s a compliment, right?”

“Sure.”

“Prick.” You peek over them and to the fans, who wave more aggressively when they notice you’re looking. Nervously, you raise a hand and wave back, and the noise heightens. “I think I’m going to be replacing you.”

“Dream on. On y va?”

You turn back to him, smiling, and you both enter at the same time. His hand wraps around your waist, dips a bit lower to rest at the small of your back as you walk—the fans clearly dig it, because everyone’s yelling in a frenzy as you depart. What are you doing, you ask through your smiling teeth.

“Did you forget we’re supposed to be dating?” He maintains an equally pleasant (totally duplicitous) façade, smiling. 

“I didn’t think,” you say, still smiling falsely, “that you’d put your hands on me five minutes into the whole agreement.”

“Smile, honey,” he teases. “I see at least five cameras at us right now.”

“It’s seven,” you beam. “Dumbass.”

“Again with the competitive streak.” memory

“I totally deserved to win last week’s game. You’re just a sore loser.”

“No you’re just a—hi, hi, hello!”

Your walk to the motorhome is interrupted by running into a friend of Charles’—someone from McLaren, one of the executives there. While Lando has been informed of your stunt, nobody else on that team has. 

They handshake and he waves at you politely. “Whole paddock’s buzzing with news of you dating,” he says, smiling. “It’s a tad crazy! I remember seeing you as Charles’ plus one back when he was in Formula Two. And now you two are dating. How did—well, if you don’t mind me asking, where’d it all happen?”

“Oh,” you say, laughing. “Yeah, Monaco.”

“Texas,” Charles says at the same time.

Alarm bells go off in your head at the totally random, unwarranted statement out of Charles’ mouth. Texas? Neither of you have even ever been at the same time. “He means”—you say, coughing and nodding—“we went on this, um. Wild West themed, um, restaurant in Monaco, and that’s where he asked me out.” You make a face that you hope conveys you get it, and it seems to work.

“Definitely not what I had in mind, but if it worked, it worked, eh?” He grins. “I guess I always knew you two would end up together. Alright, ciao!”

You’re smiling and waving after him as he leaves, and then you’re (semi) alone again, or at least within your own space on the incredibly crowded paddock. 

You turn to him, unable to hide your confusion. “Um? Texas?! What’s up with the backstories?”

“It slipped out! Sorry. But nice save.”

“You’re so f—” You try to scold him, but can’t, bursting into laughter and leaning forward to laugh into his chest. “Texas, really?”

“Sorry,” he says. You feel the vibration of his own laugh through his chest and it’s warm and nice. You peel yourself off lest you look too clingy, and resume your walk to the motorhome.

Ferrari is crowded, filled with people and strategists and guests. You’re given a bottle of water and then hounded with questions from the team who haven’t been informed of the situation at hand. David, one of the engineers close to Charles who you’d previously spoken to in one of the earlier races, asks to borrow him.

“Ciao, ciao.” They speak in one of the outdoor patio areas. “Is everything okay?”

“The car is fine. I just wanted to ask about the girl.” David punches his arm, playful. “You finally got her!”

“Oh.”

“It’s just… I remember all the times she would show up and you’d tell me about how much you liked her… I don’t know, it’s perfect for things to end up like this, no? Bravo!”

“Oh, si. I’ve just been, you know…” He looks through the glass sliding door and into the hospitality, where you’re talking to Isa and Carlos, sunglasses over your hair. Your hands are moving quickly, and you’re smiling while talking. He wonders what you’re so passionate about. When you’re caught in fits of happiness and passion, you’re extra animated. Your eyes are lively, and your lips can’t stop curling into a slight beaming smile. Now, maybe it’s France, maybe it’s crossword puzzles, slim chance it’s your job—whatever it is, he could watch you talk like this for hours. He thinks it’s beautiful, the way you transform, the way you smile, when you talk of things you absolutely love. 

“… crazy about her forever.”

—

There are banners, Italian flags, and Charles’ face on every other wall. He’s done his first hat-trick of the season (of several more, you’re hoping). You’ve foregone the usual clubbing for dinner with a smaller group of people, but only because you’ve been told the nightlife is bleak and you’d rather save that energy for the next race.

Lando picked out the restaurant—he’s “on a massive Yelp high” trying to get the best restaurants in every city they get to. He’s tried two over the weekend, and is hoping this guns for first place. The restaurant’s name is long and so very Italian, to the point where your semi-fluency fails you. The food is amazing, though, and so is the wine—a whole other level of grape-flavored bliss.

You’re in-between Joris and Charles, nursing your fourth glass while Charles downs a bottle of beer. Light conversation flows through the table, but your sleepiness only allows you to hear some of it. You’re content with the white noise.

Lando is getting a new cat, Lewis bought a new pair of shoes—oh, no, shares in the company that makes the shoes—Joris bought the shoes, Lorenzo will now buy the shoes, why isn’t anyone paying attention to Lando’s cat. It’s funny, entertaining, and the perfect nightcap to your immensely exhausting day of acting.

Wine tipsy makes you loopy and snoozy. By default, your head lolls onto Charles’ body; he immediately wraps a sweater-clad arm around your frame, leans back, pulls you closer. Doesn’t miss a beat. In fact, while doing so, he’s even able to get a dig in against Lando’s affinity for cats.

“No more wine, m’kay?” He whispers quietly, angling his head to yours. 

“Oh, but it was so good, though.” You mope, but nod in agreement. “I could seriously drink wine out of a keg here.”

“Sure did that a lot with beer.” You laugh, punching his bicep with what little space you’re given. “You sleepy?”

“Yeah. But I’m fine,” you respond, smiling. “Now shut up. I need to know what happened to Lando’s cat.”

Lewis leaves first, claiming he’s into this whole “sleeping at 9PM” thing, and Lorenzo follows to get ahead of an early flight tomorrow. It’s you, Joris, Charles, and Lando now, and you’re good as dead, eyes half-shut and fluttering, head slipping off his shoulder.

How was it? Lando asks, lowering his volume to keep from being too jarring. Day 1, fake dating? I actually read something like this in one of those, um, fanfiction stuff the fans do. Joris and Charles cast him a half-weirded out, half-amused pair of looks, but Lando defends himself. They’re actually pretty good, guys. I read one where I ended up with my rival or summat.

“Sorry to burst your bubble, Lando,” you croak, voice raspy with sleepiness and a day of bubbling laughter, “but Charles and I probably didn’t do your fanfiction kink justice.”

“Ignoring the emasculation.” He says, turning beet red. “What’d you do, then? Wasn’t it hard?”

“It was hard, but it’s like that.” Charles likes to substitute the phrase it is what it is to it’s like that, a result likely stemming from his trilingual childhood. “We just. Pretended. Oi, we held hands in front of the cameras.”

“Yeah, you can get a good wank in if that does it for you,” you joke. Lando hurls a cube of parmigiano at your face; it lands squarely and you flip him off, the table erupting with peals of laughter.

“In all seriousness, though—how are you two okay with this? I know I’d be second guessing my feelings every second.”

You shift, trying to hide your obvious lack of answer. It’s quiet for a few seconds, and then Charles says, “We’re both comfortable with each other, I think.”

“Yeah, comfortable enough that we can, you know, be honest.” You’re looking at Lando when you say that. You don’t know how well you could repeat the sentence if you were looking straight into Charles’ eyes.

You leave the restaurant with a generous tip, and Charles helps you pull your coat on when you’re out the door, back into the chilly night air. It’s then that all four of you catch news via text, of a club invite somewhere in the city.

“It’ll be fun, guys.” Joris and Lando stand in front of you and Charles, bumbling with excitement. “I heard Lil Tjay is going to be there.”

“It sounds very fun,” you say, smiling, “but I might pass out if I drink anything other than water, and I have zero energy. You three go ahead.”

“Wh—no, I’m not going, either.” You raise an eyebrow at Charles. “Serious! I wasn’t in the mood much, anyway. Joris, take Lando’s car and we’ll take mine.”

“Alright,” Lando whistles. “Suit yourselves, agoraphobes.”

“Joke’s on you”—Charles smiles, smug—“I don’t know what that means.”

“Not the dig you think it is, Charles,” you say, rolling your eyes. “Night, Joris, Lando. See you guys tomorrow. Use protection!”

“Should be saying that to you guys,” quips Joris with an evil grin that he closes the car door on.

The climb into the car feels like a chore in itself with how tipsy and sleepy you’ve become. Charles likes to bring his Ferrari to race weekends, but you convinced him to use a different car for this one, because you honest-to-God can’t stand the low seats anymore. 

“You want dessert?” He asks when he’s rounded the car and settled into his seat. “Gelato, a cone, biscotti…”

“No, no,” you say, voice thin. A palm covers your shutting eyes; blindly, you reach for his hand. It’s easy because he sees you searching and takes your hand to cut it short. “I’m good. So sleepy. Can I sleep at your hotel room?”

“Sure.” He starts the car, waves to the wait staff idle by the entrance, and drives off. “How was the day as my fake girlfriend? Anyone ask about me?” He wiggles his eyebrows, flickering his gaze to your figure beside him. “Wasn’t too tough, I hope.”

Imola whizzes by, trees and city, and a poorly stifled yawn escapes your lips, wine stained. You laugh sleepily. “It was a bit awkward, but bitter with the sweet, right?” He smiles, nodding, and you continue. “Yeah, few strategists, some people who knew you from Prema. I was talking to Isa and Carlos, too, earlier. Even if they know it’s fake.”

He recalls seeing you talk to them through the glass. “About?”

“You.”

—

The sun is merciless on the clay courts, and so are your shoes, shuddering against the surface in your continuing attempt to beat the opposing team. Charles cowers behind you—he’s scored less than half of your points thus far—but you’re on a mission, like your competitive self always is when you’re put in a position to be able to win.

You’re two points down now, and the noontime is becoming increasingly itchy and unforgiving; across you both, Giada and Joris call a mutual time out. “That’s not allowed!” You say, petulant.

“This is a practice session,” Charles says gently, nearing you. “Mate, none of us are actual players.”

You wipe sweat off your forehead. “Right. Désolée. I’m just—I’m in the zone.”

“Ouais, I get it. Relax, m’kay? We got this.”

You shake yourself off and hop a few times, skirt bobbing by your waist as you go. Your braid bounces on your shoulder and you nod, turning your racquet over in your grip. 

Charles pings the ball hard and it soars over to land just shy of the line, seemingly scoring a point for you two and securing your win. Giada and Joris chime in with protests, claiming that the ball’s out. You throw your hands up in question.

“Okay, what? That was clearly a point!”

“Snoops, I think they might be right. The ball looked out to me,” Charles says, wrapping a sweaty arm around your red shoulders.

“What are you talking about, Charlie? That ball was in! I saw it!” You elbow yourself out of his grip, aghast.

“How about…” He suggests quietly. “We let them win? You did win the last”—he pauses to count—“five sets. Come on, Snoops. They need this. Bitter with the—”

You take a deep breath, staring into his eyes. “Fucking sweet, right, okay. Fine, fine.” 

Charles thinks he’s in the clear and he’s managed to extinguish your flames of frustration—that is, until you walk into the Leclerc household for lunch an hour later and, after greeting Pascale and Hervé, you point squarely to the jar on the kitchen counter. “Five euros.”

He splutters. “Five? Wh—non, non! I was trying to calm you down.”

“You were blind and gave Giada and Joris a fake win,” you say playfully.

“Saluuut,” Lorenzo greets, sitting at the stool beside yours. “Quoi de neuf?”

“Charles has five euros for the jar.” The jar, the infamous jar, sometimes dubbed the Dumbass Jar when Pascale’s out of earshot. It was Lorenzo who first made it up after three straight instances of Charles pulling a push door (three different establishments).

Arthur’s joined in at this point, but its biggest indirect donors are definitely Lorenzo and Hervé, who view it as just about the funniest thing in the world. Out of pity, you don’t call dumbass too often, but the tennis loss is bruising enough that you warrant the usage.

“You heard Snoopy. Five euros. We’ll be able to get milkshakes with this money after next week.” You high five. “At this rate, Charles, you could open a restaurant in Paris.”

“He’s going to race,” you correct. You both watch a begrudged Charles junk a bill into the nearly-full jar. “What race driver is going to open a restaurant?”

—

You meet Yuki Tsunoda on a flight to Nice. You’ve seen him several times before, not too frequently but enough that his name and face are familiar on your mind. Also a personality trait that Pierre would bring up in fond conversations with you and/or Charles: he loves food, apparently.

“Yuki’s volunteering AlphaTauri to be your hideout,” Pierre tells you and Charles, across him. 

Turns out, the hardest part (insofar) of this whole schtick: the officially appointed paddock photographers are being extra sneaky with it, finding the best vantage points to snap pictures of an unwitting you and Charles.

They’re like hawks, watching for even the slightest glimpse so they can post the photos on Instagram and get clicks.

So, just a few hours earlier, Charles asked if there was a place you and him could talk if needed where photographers wouldn’t be awaiting you already, and this was the answer.

“If it’s too much trouble, feel no need to… you know.”

“Nonsense.” Pierre smiles goofily and Yuki pokes him to stop, pausing his session of eating a quesadilla (where he’d even acquired it, you’re clueless). “Yukino would be happy to.” 

The flight lands and the drive to Monaco is infected with notoriously slow traffic; you pop an Advil to try and alleviate the motion sickness. Pierre and Yuki, it seems, have joined you even outside of the flight. They’re in the backseat offering bits of conversation.

“Oh, mate, we should totally play tennis while we’re here.” Pierre sighs. “Didn’t you guys play before?”

“Mmm, yeah,” you mumble with a lilt of amusement at the memories from basically a decade ago. “At the country club. Doubles always, otherwise I’d knock Charles out of the park.”

“Hey, I won a couple times!” He protests weakly. “Like… twice.”

You laugh out loud. “Anyway, Pierre, do not bring me into tennis. I get all competitive and develop anger issues.”

“I had to calm her down twice a set,” Charles says; you swat him lightly to silence him. “Still do.”

“You know, if the Dumbass Jar still existed,” you say cuttingly, “I swear I’d be able to buy off Ferrari with that money.”

—

Monaco is swelterinly hot today. You know this because you know the weather here, you know the curves and ups and downs of it—this is your home. And today is hot. Every few minutes a breeze filters through the air and you can hear journalists or PAs sigh a collective breath of relief before they’re all subjected to the inane, high-degree weather again.

It’s also, according to Arthur, a good day to kiss in front of the cameras. He says it easily over a plate of sliced kiwi, with a devious smile, because he assumes your friends-with-benefits arrangement equates to constant kissing. But the truth is you’ve never kissed Charles, and it intimidates you.

“Do we have to kiss?” You play with his bracelets, sitting beside him on the sofa. The talk of kissing entertains the thought of sex and you can’t help but mentally complain at the remembrance that you haven’t gotten laid in weeks.

“If you don’t want to—”

“I do.” You splutter, eyes going wide, face warm. “No! I mean I don’t mind. If it sells the thing.”

“D’accord, then we will.” He smiles. “That okay?”

“Sure. First kiss,” you say. Your voice feels as clammy as your hands.

“First.” He looks away.

You take your woes off the kiss by playing a friendly round of tennis with your favourite opponents, Giada and Joris. They bemoan your competitive nature (that, to be fair, allots you and Charles three straight wins), and Giada incites a protest for a girls versus boys round.

You both embarrass Charles and Joris, heckling them as you win another two straight games. Charles runs over to you when you throw up the L sign on your hand, lifting you up and making you squeal.

“Put me down, loser!”

Giada and Joris exchange a look. Amused, knowing. “Charles! You’re such a cunt.” You kick hard, and manage to snag his abdomen, so he gently places you onto the clay again. He laughs and paces back over to his side, and you play with the tail of your braid as you watch.

You play set after set, but the kiss comes anyway. When you know photographers can see you—by the entrance—and it happens faster than your mind can muster. He’s leaning in, you’re reaching up, and your mouths slot together. It’s—and it feels crazy to say it, but—

It’s perfect. It’s lovely. You smile against his lips like they belong there and like they’re familiar and yours and like maybe this is all you’ve ever wanted, and like they deserve the smile, because they do. You feel your need to pull away before you can’t help but keep him tethered to you always. It’s strange and it’s not platonic—you’re mature enough to admit that, but not enough to label exactly what it is.

You spend the day with your fingers pressed to your lips, like you’re sealing the memory. Hours later, Charles wins. There’s massive uproar and you’re in the crowd when it happens, in the sea of strategists going to congratulate him on winning Monaco, which—that’s—it’s winning Monaco. Your ears ring by the end of it and your throat’s dry from your own cheering. Carlos comes in second, and the outlook for their team is going much better than it’d been at the start of the year, so there’s a lot to celebrate.

And celebrate you do. It starts with being pinned up against the door, hungry kisses along your jaw and neck. One kiss, it seems, has broken the dam from the few years you’ve spent abstaining from the kissing. He’s just finished interviews. He’s only just changed into his polo, and now he’s tugging it off again, feverish.

This is rushed and dirty, down low and dark. Only one light’s been switched on and he’s hiking your dress up, panties down with one hand to tug his cock out with the other. He’s kissing you—kissing you stupid, almost. Like he’s waited forever to taste your lips and now he’ll starve if he’s away for just a moment. He needs you. So have me, you want to say, all of me, push me up against the wall again and cover my mouth with your palm. Or don’t, don’t—so everyone knows I’m yours.

He presses your chest against the wall so your back’s turned to him, thrusts in with a breathless, throaty grunt. 

“S’ big,” you’re saying, clawing at words the pleasure bars you from finding.

“Barely even in,” he whispers. “Slow down, baby, come on, take it.”

Your toes curl. You’re high on the win, on the kissing, on Charles, on the slow delicious stretch of his cock. “I’m taking it, I’m taking it,” you say, shaky. He thrusts, slow and deep and dirty, until he’s bottomed out and you’re tiptoeing from the overwhelm.

“I feel you,” you’re whimpering, moans and gasps leaving your mouth. You blindly search for his hand, find it against your hip, drag it to your abdomen, under your dress that he hasn’t even fully removed. “I feel you there,” you say, an edge of teasing to your voice.

His cock’s bulging, almost, out of your stomach, and it’s getting you both all lightheaded. He thrusts harder, a devious smile felt against your neck.

I need it, Charles, you plead, please, please fuck me harder. You feel it coming, the familiar pleasure intensifying so quickly—you don’t usually cum so early, he’s always making you wait for it—pussy squeezing around him.

Jesus, already? He’s groaning but a laugh escapes, breathy and amused and taunting. He’s fucking you harder, faster. It’s so good, each hit getting you closer. Taking me so well, you’re bruised all over now, baby. You hate how well he knows what turns you on; memories of mornings post-sex spent inspecting the purple marks on your hips flash through your head and you’re even closer now, shaking, whimpering, begging.

You’re half-sure someone can hear, but it doesn’t even phase you. Harder, deeper— and you’re collapsing, legs spasming uncontrollably, orgasm so intense it’s on the brink of totally hurting. Tears roll down your sweaty face and he kisses them away, cumming onto your back to wipe off in a few minutes.

“I never even”—you pant, tired—“got to say congratulations.”

“That was more than enough.”

—

Charles is elated when you tell him his family has thrown a party for him the day next. He’s boyish in that way, optimistic and kiddy, the kind of person who’s up at five-thirty to announce their own birthday. 

He drives you both to his childhood home, a route so familiar he could drive with his eyes closed. (“I hope you’re not driving closed-eyed,” you’d warned.)

Even if he could, anyway, he’d rather not. The scenery of Monaco is stunning, ever-changing, and he never tires of it—the buildings, the skies, the trees and shrubbery, stores lining the streets, clean entrances. 

And you—in the passenger seat, humming softly to a song of his choosing. Drives are always better when you’re in the passenger seat.

The turnout is generous: extended family, and several friends from school. There’s bowls of fruit, salad, plates of salmon and racks of lamb, knobs of butter with warm bread. Pascale commands the kitchen—visible in how she leaves it cluttered with bowls, ingredients, whisks still dripping with syrup or batter, spoons licked for tasting. The good kind of clutter.

Lorenzo has also taken reign of the AUX, because it’s 70’s music playing, which is what he’s fond of for family gatherings like these. It’s My Cherie Amour now, Stevie Wonder mellowing across the lawn and into the house.

Charles knows you love the kitchen as much as his mum does, so when you get to the house, he’s not surprised to see you leave him in favor of checking out what damage has been done to your favorite marble countertops. He watches Pascale turn from the gas range, her eyes lit when she sees you, inviting you into an embrace. 

You look like the song playing, pretty and lovely, breeze in the summer. He almost loses himself in thought before his great-aunt Eden places two bony hands on his arms and greets him in feeble Italian.

He flits his eyes away from you, if just briefly, and faces the woman with a smile on his face. “Ciao, zia,” he says, voice buoyant, happy. “You came here to see me, no?”

All five-foot-one of her shakes in disagreement. She wags a finger for extra measure. “No,” she says. “Sono venuto a vedere la tua ragazza.”

His eyes widen. “She’s—” He pauses. He debates telling Eden you’re not actually his girlfriend, that this was a setup to appease Pascale and, by extension, tifosi. But he backtracks.

He shouldn’t, but he gives in, lives out his dreams for a bit. “Ah, she’s over there, zia. Con mamma.” He points to the open door, and to you on the far end of the room inside, holding a spoon. “Beautiful, yes?”

“Molto,” she says proudly. “You marry her?”

Fact: his great-aunt has the worst memory. She forgot Charles’ name twenty times, let alone niche facts like this one. Another fact: she rarely shows up to family events. Maybe now, because it’s a racing thing; but baby showers and funerals, she’s at home. So he indulges a bit more.

“Si, we’re engaged. But—it’s a secret, zia.” He grins. “Non dire a nessuno. Okay?”

“Sei fidanzato?!” She claps once, excited. “Ay, Charles. I waited my whole life for this moment, si?” And she’s wobbling away, still muttering under her breath.

—

“How is my son?” Pascale’s voice is teasing. She sighs happily. “For years I wondered if this would happen. And it really is.”

“Oui, sure is,” you sing-song, laughing a bit awkwardly. “We’re—he’s okay. We’re great. In love.”

“Oh, in love,” she swoons. She leaves you, after fifteen more minutes of detailed discussion, with half a spoonful of vinaigrette to taste-test, departing to check on the guests for a few minutes. In her place arrives Lorenzo, already bearing a shit-eating grin. “Saluuut.”

“Mmm, good to see you, too.” You taste the liquid and add lemon to the bowl. “How’s wedding planning?”

“Think we’ll throw a shower. Is that pretentious?”

“No,” you say, mulling over it. “Sure, a bit. But just don’t make it a whole thing, you’re golden.”

“I see.” He sighs fondly. “You know, many a conversation we’ve had right here at this counter. About anything.”

—

You loosen your school tie, slicing an apple like you so often do, waiting for Charles’ karting practice to end. Pascale had fixed you a bowl of something, Hervé a glass of orange juice. And somebody else would always, without fail, steal your food. A hand swipes two slices form your chopping board and your head whips up.

“Lorenzo!” You stomp your foot. “Stop stealing! That is my apple.”

“You mean the Leclercs’ apple.” He laughs, pops another slice into his mouth, smiling. 

You roll your eyes, shaking your head. The braid beside your head shakes with it as you continue slicing it into perfect quarters. He pipes up again: “How was school?”

“Shit, as usual.” You lower your voice and smile, leaning in. “Pascale scolded me earlier, for saying that word.”

“Did Papa?”

“Obviously not. He fist bumped me.” You share a laugh, both chewing on apple slices now. “Anyway, I aced a math test, had aubergine for lunch… got driven here by Charlotte’s mum.”

“Charlotte?” Lorenzo hums conspiratorially, making a mmmm sound. You look up from the yellow chopping board, furrowing your eyebrows. He persists: “Mmm. Cha-r-lotte.”

“What’s up with Charlotte?” Bit impolitely, you ask, in-between chews.

“I think she likes Charles, a little.” You nod slowly, trying to follow. Charlotte liking Charles. Your Charles. Wait, no. Not your—or nobody’s, really. Just Charles. Yeah.

“What? Bull!” You narrow your eyes. “Says who?”

“Why do you care?”

“Wh—I don’t!” You squeak, caught. “Just… I think I’d know, Lorenzo.” You make a tch noise, crossing your sweater-clad arms. “So—says who?”

“I saw her leering at him during his birthday party.” 

“You’re wrong,” you say, but you don’t really know who you’re convincing. He reaches over for an apple slice, and you move the chopping board out of the way sharply.

“Mon dieu, you’re snappy. Fine, fine. I might be wrong,” he relents, shrugging. He gets up and slides beside you to be able to acquire more slices. “I talked to her during the party, too.”

“Weirdo,” you tease, allowing him to take a few more. “About Charles, yes?

“No, about her brand new dress.”

“You’re the funniest Leclerc brother, I assure you.”

“She told me…” He says, louder this time, shushing you effectively. “She told me she ‘finds Charles cute.’” Air quotes, shrug. “But that they ‘probably won’t’ date.”

“Huh. Did, um. Did she say why?” You play with the tail of your braid, shuffling back and forth on your flats. You don’t know why you’re so fidgety—you aren’t nervous, you don’t think.

“Because…” he says, chewing to allow for a pause. “She said every time she looks for Charles to try and ask for time alone, or on a date, or something, he’s already following you around like some puppy.”

—

You comb your hair into a bun and venture into the patio, having avoided a good chunk of the noon heat. You greet some relatives politely along the way, and receive a hand squeeze from great-aunt Eden. At one of the tables is Charles, beside Joris and another friend, and Giada and Charlotte across them, an empty seat beside the latter.

You seat yourself in it and Giada kisses your cheek. “Hey. Ça va?”

“Fine,” you say, smiling. Then you lower your voice to a whisper. “Do you remember when I told you about my crush on Charlie? For the first time?”

“Yeah,” she whispers back. “Around… 2013.”

“Ouais. And… and it disappeared after that,” you say. “Right?”

“You said it did,” she says. “A year later. When we were sixteen.”

“Right.” You think. Seventeen onwards—you’d never formed a full-fledged crush on Charles. “Okay. It’s nothing. Just a memory. I was just. Yeah, oui.”

“Oui, let’s eat.” The memory fades and so does your running mind. Charles’ eyes meet yours across the table, and suddenly you feel a little less like your thoughts have ripped you open.

—

When you and Charles were younger, you adopted the adage “bitter with the sweet.” Charles will have people believe it was made by the both of you, with philosophical minds stretched so far beyond their years. Well, revisionist history. The truth lay in the Carole King song of the same name you’d heard on the stereo.

Those are the exact words Charles tells Ted when he’s interviewing for the Spain Grand Prix. It’s a hot day and you’re especially doubled down on by the fact that he’s finished ninth. 

You’d been fake-dating for the cameras all weekend. At all costs, you try and avoid interviews, but the damned Drive to Survive producers insist on a soundbite and start following the two of you around everywhere (only to find your conversations sound very weird and niche, and not scandalous or sexy).

Pascale also called—Charles first, and when he didn’t check his phone, you. You spent an hour on the phone just talking about the race. About the penalties and the nasty headlines that followed, and just everything.

“I’m glad you’re there,” she says. “God knows he needs you.”

You end up biking to try and relieve the stress, posing with fans for pictures.

“I’m such a big fan. I stalk Charles’ Insta like, all the time, and it’s crazy how you guys are dating.” A teenaged girl laughs nervously. “Where’d it happen?”

“Texas!” He, again, tries out the bit to appease the fans but you have to extinguish the flames of his blatant lies.

“He’s kidding,” you interject. “It’s just—it just happened, really.”

How does something just happen? Someone told you once, in a Paris bar, that love is like an echo. It’s always there, in the underbelly, underneath it all, and then one day it echoes, like a bass drum or a cymbal. And the echo—the echo is you feeling it. You feel the echo, the all-encompassing echo, even if the love itself’s been there all along.

With Charles, it’s out of the question. You love him. He’s your best friend. You trusted him before you even learned what trust meant, for Chrissake.

How could you not love him? That seemed impossible. The love was there. The love’s always been there and it’ll never go away.

It echoes at half-past-two in Barcelona, when he whips past you on his bike and says on your left. The breeze pulls your hair to the left, covers your face, and when you rake it away he’s stopped to check if he accidentally bumped you in his rush to look cool.

You’re creepily observant; you’ve been told this many times before. What people don’t know is with the observance comes even more questions. Ifs, whys, wheres, whens, hows, God the hows. The questions keep coming because there’s never an answer.

“Are you okay?” He asks. Green eyes glittering like a lake. Smile like the sun. Hair curly at the ends. “Did I hurt you?”

Then you realize. In the matters of love, every question—every single question. Every single one. The answer is Charles.

“Of course not,” you say. And you smile.

—

You almost drop your book in your rush to scurry past the paparazzi. They’re still busy on the two figures (Alex and Lily, you think) on another end of the paddock, which allows you only a few moments to try and evade them.

Others are stationed near the Ferrari hospitality, which means you’re going to need your hideout. Yuki had texted Pierre who had texted Charles who had told you that it was all clear to go there for a few minutes while waiting for the photographers to clear out.

Hurry, Charles is saying. Laughing. His hand’s gentle in yours. You want them there forever. You want to drag the tip of your nail over the barely-perceptible grooves of his fingerprints so he knows how much you need him.

The days post-Spain were spent biking, watching shows, listening to music, eating food. The travel to Canada—long, cold, compression socks. Pascale had called mid-flight to check on her “favorite pair”—you maneuvered yourselves into a much more cuddly position to appease her, and her giddy smile was incentive enough to stay that way for ninety minutes.

You’d been in a weird mental state trying to grapple with your rapidly returning and intensifying feelings for him, which have dawned on you all at once.

But he makes it better. You’re still laughing when you wedge yourselves in, eyes meeting.

And then you’re quiet.

The gaze you share is intense, but almost unsure, like you’re supposed to be looking away anytime now. You step backward shakily, and his hand moves from your waist to the small of your back to keep you from stumbling any further. You’re closer now. But this shouldn’t feel as strange as it does when you two have been in much more scandalous positions before—what’s different?

He’s so close, so so close, his green eyes looking right through you. You lean closer, ready to kiss him like you have before, ready to feel his mouth slot softly over yours, comforting and safe and Charles.

Funnily enough, it’s then that the illusion breaks, his grip loosening and the distance between you increasing. He coughs twice, awkwardly.

“Shit—sorry,” you say profusely, clearly having read the moment wrong. Embarrassment wells up in your system, warming your face. You laugh to diffuse the tension but it barely does anything.

“No, don’t—” He exhales, squeezes the bridge of his nose, trying to find words. “It’s not that I don’t want to kiss you. I do.”

“So kiss me,” you suggest simply, looking around for anything that might stop him. The embarrassment ebbs away, replaced quickly by confusion. 

“I don’t want to kiss you in an AlphaTauri stock room,” he mopes, burying his head in his hands in clear frustration. “An AlphaTauri stock room.” He repeats it in a hushed whisper, disbelief etched all over his pretty face.

“Charles,” you begin, smiling already, the quaint way that makes his knees go weak every time. “You’re acting like you and I haven’t kissed before.” 

“This is different.” He says firmly, looking away lest he lean in involuntarily. He interjects with conviction, not realizing what he’s implying until the implication’s hanging in the air. The longing kills him softly, and he feels if he looks at you a second longer he’ll kiss you anyway.

It’s a wonderfully confusing feeling. You open your mouth to respond but you can’t; your brain tacks itself onto his sentence, the division created between the kisses before now and the kiss that might happen anytime soon.

“H…” you trail off, throat drying. Blinking, you try again, “How different?”

He looks up, eyes conveying all the things his lips never will. This is different. You know it. I love you this time.

The answer is exchanged and accepted wordlessly. You slip out of the room when Pierre tells you it’s okay to, and it’s only then—only then—that Charles’ hand leaves your body. You seem to burn alive with its absence.

It’s a Ferrari 1-2. You snap a thousand pictures with Isa and Carlos holding Carlos’ trophy while Charles is doing interviews, and they invite you to join them for the break. You’re open to it—the win, the good standings, they definitely warrant a celebration for the few weeks’ break. So your original itinerary is Portugal—beaches, coasts, food—but the jet re-charts a route and the flight is cut much shorter because you’re in New York City.

—

Somewhere in Manhattan, a wedding shower is thrown on an outdoor rooftop. “This is one hell of a wedding shower,” you squeal excitedly when you spot him, bringing Lorenzo in for a hug. Your yellow dress flows in the wind. “I thought you guys were going to throw it in Monaco?”

“Yeah, well… why not here, right? It’s beautiful.” He gestures to the skyline, smiling. “Plus, Charles, Arthur, and Mum were already near the country for work, so we got ahead of it. Everyone was happy to fly out.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, I love it.” You beam. “I can’t believe it, either. When’s the final date?”

He opens his mouth to reply, but the wind is knocked out of him by Charles barreling into his arms for a hug. You roll your eyes at the latter’s childish behavior, smiling despite yourself. They part and Charles finds his place beside you, arm snaking around your shoulders. “What a wedding shower!”

“Don’t flatter me, dipshit,” Lorenzo jokes.

“It’s a lovely one.” Lorenzo thanks him. “An amazing shower. You know, it’s a total golden shower!”

You purse your lips. “Charles—”

“A golden shower, mate. Absolutely.”

That garners at least three odd looks and you calmly place a hand on his chest to whisper don’t ever fucking say that again it means something completely different please don’t embarrass me or your brother. 

For all your embarrassment, you make up for it in having the literal time of your life. The food is good, the city view is amazing, the weather is fair and the music—Desafinado now—is amazing. “I could see myself here,” you say offhandedly to Charles, who nods back with a faint smile. He’s half-distracted.

“You look beautiful, by the way,” he says, squinting from the sun in his eyes. “Very.”

You part ways at some point—Pascale whisks him off, no doubt for another long round of questioning about your relationship, and you meander around with a glass of champagne.

You’re halfway through swiping a mini quiche when a hand wraps around your wrist and squeezes to get your attention—Charles’ great-aunt Eden. She speaks only intermittent English, and your Italian fails to carry you through well enough, but you smile and greet her. “Ciao, Eden!”

“Ciao, bella.” She smiles. “Flight was long.”

“Oh, yeah. New York’s far. I might work here someday. I’ll hear results in around two weeks, but I’m hoping for London instead.” You slow your speech.

“When will you two wed?”

“Wed?” Your face warms and you stutter through a giggly mess of a sentence. “Oh, Eden—zia—no, no! We’re just friends.”

“My Charles told me you two are to be married.” You both crane your heads to the right, where Charles is leaning against the terrace railing talking to one of your friends, Matthew, animatedly. He meets your eyes, sees Eden beside you, and seems to connect the dots.

Jokingly, perhaps, he raises his hand and wiggles his empty ring finger. You can’t help but smile as you turn back to the old woman. “Oh, did he, zia?”

“Si, he did.”

“Well, we’re just going to let it happen, then. You’re invited. Front row.” You kiss her cheek and she smiles, wobbling off to drink more wine before any of the adults can stop her.

It’s announced then that the dance floor is open, and many of Pascale’s friends filter through to show off their moves to the 70’s music. You watch, amused, at the display of dexterity to Frankie Valli and Aretha Franklin. You cheer them on, content to watch them against the backdrop of the New York sunset.

When Ain’t No Mountain High Enough plays, the dance floor grows, because nobody can resist the song—not even Charles, apparently, who takes your hand without preamble and takes you, squealing, to the centre.

You sing each of the parts, like you always do when the song comes on. It’s semi-tradition at this point: you take Marvin Gaye’s, Charles takes Tammi Terrell’s. You both exaggerate your dance moves and pretend you’re performing.

His hand’s in yours, winding you around and pulling you close. At some point he starts robot dancing to entertain you. It works—you laugh out loud, your eyes half-shut and faced to the stars above. He could write a poem about this. Or a song.

The song ends and you lean onto his shoulder to take a breather—then the photographer swoops in and takes a picture. “That’s going into the RSVPs!” He says, accent unmistakably American.

“Does he know we’re not the couple here?” You ask.

Do we know we’re not the couple? Charles asks himself.

The night escalates as the “oldies” leave, and Matthew, Joris, and Giada join you both for one last round of drinks again. You’re all standing at the exit making conversation; Lorenzo attends to his friends at the other end of the terrace.

“I feel young again,” Matthew says, liberated by Tito’s vodka. He takes another swig and pulls his coat on.

“You’re twenty-five, calm down,” you joke. “Dodged that bullet.” You’re poking fun at the semi-massive crush you had on Matthew in secondary school, and a laugh passes through the four of you. “Anyway, you three be careful. No driving.”

“Jesus, but really—I haven’t been this drunk since you”—he points at you, laughing—“turned seventeen at that club, Amber? No?”

“Oh, God. Y’know, same.” You fail to notice Charles and Giada share a look. “I remember nothing from that night! Or, like, the first two hours at least.”

“I remember drinking my body weight because of heartbreak,” he jeers. 

“Heartbreak? Were you—were you with anyone?” You ask, confused.

It happens before anyone can stop it. “No, when Charles kissed you. And you kissed him after. Alright, night mates! Lorenzo—merci!”

Oh, fuck, you hear in the back of your now-muddled brain. Giada’s voice.

You open and close your mouth. “Ch—wait, he—what?”

“I—let’s talk here,” Charles flounders, dragging you to a more secluded spot and facing you. The three of your friends exit; Giada waves, apologetic. “When… we were at Amber… and you were absolutely hammered, we kissed. It was twice—just twice. And you didn’t, um. Remember a thing.”

You’re unsure. “In Amber?” You blink, confused. “What do you mean?”

“We… I don’t—I mean, I understand why you don’t remember. We kissed that night.”

“So that’s… Charles… You didn’t tell me.” Your voice quivers, like a wire flicked. “Why didn’t you say it at the time?”

He doesn’t give you an answer. He just looks at the counter, imagines the way your eyebrows furrow, your lips move, eyes glitter. He can’t give you one. He doesn’t want to hurt, disappoint, sadden you. He wants to get on his knees and root you here, so he’ll have all the time in the world to come up with an answer.

“Charles.” But he loves you, and he can at the very least be honest for you. “Look at me.”

“I was scared.” His eyes gravitate to yours.

“Of?”

“It felt stupid, is all. That you didn’t remember, and maybe you did but you were pretending you weren’t. I didn’t—it didn’t—sorry.” He laughs, stutters. “I convinced myself it didn’t mean anything because we didn’t have feelings for each other.” He pauses. “Then.”

“Well,” you say, slow. Eyes stuck to his. “How about now?”

“Now?”

“I love you, now. I mean, isn’t that all this is? Loving? Even if? De—despite of?” 

And this—God. This is how it feels. He’s looking at you and you’re telling him you love him because you do, and finally he’s been over with reassurance.

You love him, too. That way. He trembles with it. His hands are shaky when they lace into yours, like you’re a shrine, a prayer, and he feels like maybe these are the emotions that swirl through the human body when one wins the lottery and gets struck by angry lightning at the same time.

This is it, he thinks. Profound and lovely and an echo of sweet memories. He’s yours. Here in a city unfamiliar to both of you, yet to be conquered, your fingers lace lightly and you smile, smile, smile at each other, as if you’re the last two people on Earth. He’s yours, so foolishly in love with you.

Even far from home, you’re both filled with warmth, with longing. Extended stares, pits of your stomachs welling up with something lovely in between homesickness and nostalgia. Here again, you again, us again—it’ll always be us again, your heart seems to say, surrounded by the same love the same hurt the same sad the same everything, you and me, all the love in the world, all the confusion, we’re here. It’s never over.

Across the terrace, Lorenzo watches. Two figures, laughing, emanating happiness, gentle unkowing love. You two have finally made it here, after what felt like a thousand trials and dreams and stories.

So even if you’re taller, in high heels and a yellow dress—and Charles is broader, in a suit and tie—Lorenzo thinks he can blink and see the two little kids who hosted a tea party in the backyard. He can blink again and see you hugging, eyes shut, his lips pressed to your forehead to convey the intimacy nothing else will do as well. 

“So what now?” You ask. Again with the questions. In your defense—it begs so many follow-up questions. A love so many years in the making—layer after layer after layer—of course it begs all the questions, almost to the point of overwhelming capacity. What’ll we tell Pascale? The fans? The family? Everyone?! 

But one look and he makes it better. His green eyes, bright against the deep black of the skyline. You’ve grown. You’ve done it. You’re here. “We’ll figure it out.” He smiles. “We deserve this kind of ending, don’t you think?”

—

“He has my name.” A tubby finger points to the boy on the greeting card. “That one.”

“And who’s the dog?” Asks the girl beside him, hair wound into a plait. She likes this boy. He’s cute. She plays with the end of her braid and stares, eyes flickering in-between him and the card they’re staring at.

“The name’s right there. They’re best friends.”

“Okay, that’ll be me.”

“So that’s us.”

“Oui.” She smiles. “Charlie and Snoopy.”

–

read an omitted scene here :)

[twola]

Passerine : Chapter 3

PAIRING: High Honor Arthur Morgan x Fem!reader

One step forward, two steps back.

Warnings: This fic has graphic descriptions of non-consensual sex, violence against women, the trauma thereafter, and somewhat unhealthy coping mechanisms. If any of that content makes you feel uncomfortable or triggers you, this may not be the fic for you.

Hi - I know it’s been over a year since I’ve updated this. Passerine is a love letter to trauma and the thereafter. It’s heavy. It’s hard to write. But thank you all for holding on to this. I promise it won’t be another year before I post chapters 4, 5, and 6 to finish it out.

Note: I play fast and loose with the passage of time as compared to the canon game.

➵ AO3 Link ➵ Fic Masterlist ➵ Previous | ➵ Next

Abigail pulls the canvas around the tent’s opening closed behind her. She sighs as she arranges the fabric to preserve the privacy that you so desperately need.

Wiping the back of her palm across her forehead, she squeezes her eyes shut as she tries to stave off a headache.

“Mama!”

She jolts, steadying herself as her five-year-old son barrels into her legs, whipping his arms around her skirts.

“Jack…-Jack,” Abigail reels slightly as she places her hand on his head as he snuggles into her thigh. She pushes gently and he unwinds his small arms from around her. He steps half a step back and she stoops down on one knee to look him in the eye.

She tucks some of his hair behind his ears, her hands cupping his small cheeks, losing the last bit of baby fat from them as the boy grows in fits.

“Can you be a good boy fer me and go find Uncle Hosea? I think he has a new book fer you.” 

His eyes flash in excitement as he nods, and Abigail gives him a wry grin as he tries to wriggle away, not letting go of him until she places a kiss on his forehead. When she takes her hand from his shoulders, he darts away across the camp, calling after Hosea.

Bless him, he’s like a grandfather to Jack. Between him and Arthur, sometimes, sometimes, she can almost forget how terrible of a father John is.

Speaking of which, she finds him staring at her from across the camp, elbows at his knees as he sits in front of the fireplace. She glares back at him before turning away, huffing in a moment of agitation.

She pulls back the tent's canvas slightly, confirming to herself that yes, you are asleep.

Frowning, she lets the canvas go and walks over toward the lakeshore behind where Arthur had set his tent wagon up, crossing her arms over her chest as the red-painted sunset reflected off of the still waters of Flat Iron.

When she had asked you when was the last time you bled, she expected sputtering, anxious eyes and having to come up with a way to tell Arthur that he’d gotten a child upon you.

Instead, your flushed face turned almost white as you shot to your feet and immediately stumbled away from the wash bin and toward the treeline.

Abigail dropped laundry she had been working on back into the tub and hitched her skirt to run after you, catching up only as you doubled over, leaning against a tree as you choked up bile onto the ground.

You had burst into tears in between wet, gasping breaths, your stomach heaving dry when there was nothing left to expel. Abigail rubbed your upper back soothingly as she pulled your hair back from over your shoulder.

“C’mon now, it’s gonna be okay. Arthur’s- he’s the best of the men, he’ll take care of you.” She cooed softly, her hand working in slow circles between your shoulder blades.

You sob aloud, which unseats her. “It’s…it’s….”

You could barely get the words out.

Abigail’s circles slow, “Is… it not his?”

You collapsed to your knees as sobs racked your body, wet coughs echoing through the woods.

Abigail spent the rest of the afternoon trying to console you, able to pry details between your fits of dry heaving and sobs. She narrows her eyes against the red sun in the distance, her shoulders finally letting down from how tightly they’ve been wound all afternoon.

The truth was much worse than she had been expecting.

She had managed to coax you away from the trees and usher you quietly into Arthur’s tent, where she immediately pulled the canvas shut before turning back to you and pushing you down gently into the cot, taking your boots off one at a time and placing them on the ground next to the cot.

In hushed whimpers, you told her about what had happened those months ago when the gang was still at Horseshoe.  Her brow furrowed in shock as she brushed your hair off of your forehead, taking a handkerchief from the pocket of her skirt and dabbing it across your damp brow.

The truth, as terrible as it was, was not unfamiliar to Abigail. A whore by fifteen, she had seen her share of women forced against their will. A customer gone too far, a rat of a man waiting to catch one of the girls alone, not wanting to pay for services.

She herself had experiences with it. 

But you, as you regaled the terrible details in hiccuping breaths, you had never been part of that world, and when the O’Driscoll forced you down on that bed, the act of sex had never been weaponized against you until that moment.

She had finally calmed you down enough that you drifted off to sleep, not more than an hour ago.

Rubbing the back of her neck, Abigail glances back toward where the horses are hitched, Arthur’s mare still missing amongst them.

She lets out a long, mournful breath. As many times as she had tried to assure you that if you were with child it was likely Arthur’s… all you could dwell on was that man who bound and gagged you and had you on the old bed in that dingy cabin.

You had cried yourself to sleep, and Abigail now has to figure out what to do going forward. Obviously, she thinks as she brushes the loose hair at the nape of her neck that escaped her bun, she needs to figure this out with Arthur. No matter what the decision was. She needed to talk to him before she made a trip to Saint Denis to collect the needed items.

A pang of memory flashes in her mind - the horrified look on John’s face when she told him she was with child. How it was months before he had her in his bed again. Only once, when she was swollen with child, did he lay with her - now years ago. 

The sound of hoofbeats draws her from the fugue of her thoughts. She turns partway around to see Arthur ride into the camp atop his mare, weighed down with a whitetail deer strapped across the horse’s rump. Wiping her hands on her skirt, Abigail sighs and moves towards where Arthur dismounts, following him silently as he shoulders the deer carcass and slings it over Pearson’s table.

He scoots over toward the tub of soapy water to wash the blood from his skin.

“Arthur.” 

Arthur looks up, shaking his hands from the wash bin, “Miss Roberts,” he drawls with a smile on his face.

Abigail does not return his smile.

-

“She was raped?”

Arthur stares at Abigail from under the rim of his hat, clenching his jaw, “How-”

“She told me.” Abigail sighs, leaning against the tree a bit away from the camp that she had led him to.

“She alrigh’? What happened for her to tell you?” Arthur mumbles, glancing back at the camp looking for you, but you are nowhere to be found.

“Arthur. I think she’s with child.” Abigail states in a hushed tone, and Arthur’s eyes dart wildly back to her.

“Child?”

“Yes, Arthur,” Abigail retorts, her patience frayed and finally worn out.

Arthur’s jaw clenches before he opens his mouth again, “It’s mine.” He mumbles, almost too soft to hear, eyes shooting down to the ground.

Much like how you refused to listen to Abigail’s pleading and reassurance as she tried to convince you of the same, Abigail brushes aside Arthur’s comment.

“Did he… did he spend in her?” Abigail rubs her eyes with the back of her palm, exhausted as dusk was closing in on the camp.

“I have,” Arthur says quietly, continuing to look at the ground.

“I know you have, idiot. But th’ first thing she thought is that this baby belongs to some dead O’Driscoll that raped her.”

Arthur’s jaw sets, unable to hide the snarl from his tone. “Ain’t no way it's his. We’ve been sleepin’ together for a couple a’ months. And I don’t always-”

“Yes, Arthur, I get that.” Abigail interjects with exasperation, “The question is - does she?”

The outlaw’s gaze flicks upward, landing on Abigail for a moment, before he turns his head to the side, looking over the western horizon at Flat Iron Lake.

“Look - I don’t know what y’all want to do. I don’t know what she wants to do. But…” She trails off, her gaze also looking out to the lake, “I can give her things to make it end.”

Arthur doesn’t respond.

Abigail dusts off her skirt as she begins to step away, “But Arthur…”

He finally can make eye contact as she looks back at him.

“She’s gotta make up her mind - quick.”

-

The dinginess - the sour smell of off-food and dirty men permeated the air. The kind of stink that simple cleaning would never get rid of.

Your head is killing you as you blink away the pain, but you find yourself biting down on a foul piece of fabric tied around your mouth. You try to pull it down, but find that your wrists are bound behind your back.

The door opens and the feeling of dread in your chest explodes into a blazing fire of fear.

“There’s my little girl.”

His greasy, dark hair is slicked back away from his disheveled beard, and he smiles that toothy, nauseating grin at you.

The O’Driscoll pulls up your chemise from your thighs up and over your belly, baring your bottom half to him. You try to clench your thighs together, but as he leans over you, you do not find that he forces your legs apart.

But you cannot fight him as his rough and dirty hand spreads out over your belly.

“Pretty miss - gonna be all big and swollen with my child.”

Your eyes shoot open, your fingers closing tightly around the blanket that you’ve pulled around yourself. You have to bite your lip to stop from screaming aloud. 

Dusk’s shadows permeate through the canvas of Arthur’s tent, and you realize you’ve spent most of the afternoon sleeping. You push yourself up in the cot, breathing out heavily.

You pass your hand over your stomach. As soon as Abigail asked you the last time you bled, the cavern inside you opened up. You hadn’t bled since before the house in Cumberland. The nausea, the vomiting. God, you’ve been so tired too. 

Shit, was it true? Could there be a child there, under the softness of your belly? Would you grow round and hard there beneath your fingertips? 

Not only was there a pit in your stomach, but you felt like your chest had been cracked open - you’re drowning in yourself - why can’t you escape that O’Driscoll and what he did?

You curl up smaller in Arthur’s cot, pulling the blanket over you, trying to hide from the world.

-

Usually, it’s before a job that he reaches for a cigarette. Something to calm his nerves and hone his senses before roaring into a situation with guns blazing.

That’s not the situation he finds himself in now.

Arthur finds himself pacing in the wooded area outside of camp, smoking hurriedly as his palm clenches in agitation. He throws the half-smoked cigarette to the ground and smashes it under the heel of his boot, turning his face upward and exhaling a plume of smoke with a sound that could be described as a sigh.

The lantern lights of the camp start to glow in the distance. He hasn’t worked up the courage to rejoin the group since stalking out to the woods and smoking half a pack of damn cigarettes.

Flat Iron Lake is still in the distance, a few ships passing between Saint Denis and Blackwater illuminate the dark waters.

Arthur grabs his hat off his head with one head and wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of the other. He closes his eyes, letting another long breath out.

Arthur swears he can hear a child’s laughter. It ain’t Jack though. Another young boy - with tawny hair and freckles dusting his cheeks. 

“Papa!”

A young boy who darts toward him as he slides off of his saddle.

The smile of a dark-haired girl leaning in the doorframe.

Fishing rods and toy horses and bedtime stories when he came around. A cup of coffee and pleasant conversation with a girl he shared a night with so long ago…

And two wooden crosses. Silence. Not even the birds sang that day he came upon the little house off the road. 

Arthur continues to pace, cursing under his breath. He goes to reach for yet another cigarette when he stops, swallowing, and grits his teeth.

How goddamn selfish of him to wallow in his own miserable past when you need him. The pit in his stomach reopens as he remembers the sight of you in that cabin. Bound, gagged, and violated.

And now his dumb ass has gone and gotten you pregnant. Foisted this upon you when you were still so vulnerable and hurting and god damnit - he told you he wasn’t a good person. This absolutely proves it.

There’s no lantern light on in his tent, he can see through the woods, and he’s stayed out long enough. Lord only knows Abigail is going to come find him and smack him the way she’s hit John - but he wouldn’t be any less deserving.

With yet another long, burdened breath, he heads back toward his tent.

Arthur Morgan moves as quietly as he can through the canvas, pulling it shut behind him. Darkness has fallen upon the camp, and he’s thankful that he can reach the oil lantern on the table with just enough moonlight for him to light it low. A yellow-orange glow emits from it, illuminating the tent.

You’re sitting in his cot, in the darkness, and in the light, he can see the sheen of tears down your cheeks. Your hair is falling out of the bun it’s half tied into. Fuck, he’s the goddamn scum of the earth.

“Darlin’,” his voice cracks with uncertainty.

You shiver, the threadbare blanket pulled over your shoulders as you sit in the cot. Arthur holds the rim of his hat in his hands, fidgeting with it restlessly as he cannot meet your eyes.

“Abigail seems to think…”

“Abigail’s right.” You mumble, monotone while staring into space.

Arthur chews his lip, “This is my fault.”

“Ain’t your fault an O’Driscoll-”

“I got you pregnant,” Arthur interjects, moving to sit on the small stool across from the cot.

“You don’t know it’s yours.” You snap back with a vicious snarl in your voice and he nearly recoils as if shot. This he did not expect.

Neither it seems, did you. Your eyes widen when you finally meet his, and hold his gaze for but a moment before your brow crinkles and you shove your face into your knees as you draw them up to your chest.

You hiccup a sob, “What if this baby looks l-like ‘im? What if the baby has them cold dark eyes starin’ at me like when when he-”

“Shh,” Arthur hushes you, preventing you from speaking aloud your terrible truth. He wraps his arms around you, drawing you into his embrace, “That ain’t gonna happen.”

You wriggle uncomfortably in his arms, trying to pull away. Arthur lets go of you, but his hands move to cup your cheeks and force you to look at him.

“No matter what, I’m gonna be here for you, sweetheart.”

Your eyes are only able to hold his stare for but so long before you look downward. Arthur lets go of your face and you take the opportunity to scoot further away from him in the cot, unable to look him in the eyes.

You’ve pulled your knees to your chest and hidden your face in them, ashamed of the tears that spill down your cheeks again.

“I had a son.”

Arthur’s voice is not loud, not strong, not solid. You slowly raise your head, sniffling, to find him sitting with his elbows on his thighs and head hung low, staring at the dirt below his feet.

“…had?”

He nods, still not looking at you, “He ‘nd his mother were killed, long time ago. Robbery.”

You remain quiet, your gaze down to the ground also. 

“I wasn’t there.”

You wrap your arms tighter around your legs.

“Wasn’t there for any of it. Wasn’t there when he was born, barely there as he grew up, wasn’t there when he ‘nd his mother needed my protection.”

Arthur rubs tiredly over his eyes, his thigh bouncing slightly with something you recognize as agitation, anxiety. 

Fear.

It is several moments before he looks up at you again, swallowing before the low timbres of his voice fill the tent again.

“If you want this baby - I’ll be here. For all of it.”

-

You curl up on Arthur’s cot and try to sleep. At your obvious discomfort, he maintains a distance between you, pulling a chair in from outside and posting himself in it, pulling his hat over his head to try to get some sleep. 

Just before dawn, the pit in your stomach threatens to open up, and you toss the blanket from your body and pad outside, hurrying toward the treeline for what has become your normal. You’re able to make it a few trees back before you have to stop and hunch over to empty your stomach.

You wetly cough between heaving breaths, and it is not but a few minutes later that you feel his fingers grab into your hair, pulling it up as you vomit into the leaves below. 

You lean into the tree harder as you spit up the last of the bile in your belly. Wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, you stumble slightly when you try to stand up, and Arthur’s hands find your waist quickly to maintain your upright position.

“C’mon there, sweetheart, let’s lay you down again.”

You don’t answer him, instead allowing him to guide you back to his tent as the first vestiges of the dawn overtake the sky. You let him help you lay down, you let him pull the blanket over your body. Exhausted, you finally fall asleep.

You awaken several hours later, when a hand presses to your forehead, checking for a temperature. Your eyes flutter open to see Abigail leaning over you, and you scramble to get up as she moves to the end of the cot to sit opposite of you.

Abigail takes your hand in your lap after a few terse moments. “Y’ wanna get rid of it? I can make that happen, but we gotta do it sooner than later.”

You look up at her, unable to stop the sheen of tears from glazing over your eyes. Tears escape and trail down your cheeks as your gaze moves from Abigail, sitting on the cot with you, across the small tent to Arthur, sitting on an old chair with his elbows on his knees.

Behind those blue eyes of his is a maelstrom, one you know he’s trying to hide from you. Arthur’s whispered voice echoes in your mind as he tells you the sorry tale of his own fatherhood. His loss, the indescribable hole in his heart full of regret and sorrow. Arthur’s gaze moves from you down to the ground.

You close your eyes as another wave of tears slides down your face, sighing loudly as you try to gather what little composure you have left. 

Finally, you look back to the woman gently rubbing your hand.

-

“Seen you hanging all over Arthur,” Grimshaw eyed your waist critically, “It’s his, ain’t it?”

There comes a time that you can’t hide it anymore - the swell of your belly just under your skirts. You’re sure the girls know - you’ve seen their eyes flit on your figure.

You continue to stare at the setting sun over the lake. Part of you wishes you had the wherewithal to respond, but you don’t have the strength to anymore.

Susan had clicked her tongue disapprovingly. “Idiots. The both of you.”

You avoid people. Get your chores done quickly. Don’t complain about not getting jobs. Arthur moved everything of yours into his tent, more permanently letting down the canvas sides.

From that very first day that you cowered in his cot away from his touch, Arthur had given you a wide berth since you pushed him away - hesitant, sleeping on either a chair or laying his bedroll on the ground.

You awaken many days before dawn, silently padding out to the wooded area south of the camp, far enough away that the rest of the folks couldn’t hear your retching. Several times in the beginning, Arthur follows you, and you angrily shoo him away before he stops tagging along behind you.

Over the weeks, your belly hardens, your breasts swell. You have to let out the waist of your skirt, and there is no hiding anything when the height of the summer finds Clemens - it’s so miserably hot that layers to hide your growing body must be shed or you’d sweat to death.

You’ve seen Dutch eye you. You’ve seen him argue with Arthur. You’ve seen Grimshaw join the fray. Hosea has been dropping ginger tea off to you in the morning with a gentle, knowing smile - it tasted terrible, but after the first few bracing sips, it did settle your stomach.

“Mind if I join y’ for a smoke?”

From the grassy spot you sit upon, you look up to find the widow Adler looking down at you. She’s shed her skirts and blouses in favor of work pants. Arthur had dragged her away from Pearson hollering some kind of awful and they returned with her much less agitated. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a braid, the scar above her eyebrow much more noticeable when she wasn’t wearing a hat.

You nod, looking back to the water, and the spurs of Sadie’s boots jingling as she pulls a matchbook from her trouser’s pocket.

“You know me, I ain’t gonna pussy foot about you. I know you ain’t gettin’ fat because of Pearson’s cookin’.” Sadie lights the cigarette between her teeth, continuing to talk through the process.

You remain silent, sitting there on the shoreline, arms looped around your knees, your skirts hiding your frame - your belly, swelling with child.

The match sizzles when she chucks it into the lake and takes a drag.

“Y’got a look about you that you ain't happy bout it.”

You frown, placing your forehead against your knees. “No,” you mumble into the fabric of your skirt.

She lets out a plume of smoke. Silence settles between you before you work up the courage to speak again.

“When they came to your ranch… did they… did-” you swallow, stuttering as your voice cracks.

Sadie drops the cigarette, mashing it into the ground under her boot.

“Yeah.”

You squeeze your eyes tightly shut, sighing before your voice cracks again,  “I… when we just got to Horseshoe - there was a house I was scopin’ a-and then… then an O’D-driscoll-” you start to sniffle as your vision clouds with tears.

Sadie does not meet your gaze, simply closing her eyes and breathing out her nose.

“And you're thinkin’ it's his.”

You nod, the tears slipping down your face. What a miserable excuse for an outlaw you are, weeping like a frail woman in front of someone who endured the same trauma.

She lets out a long, thoughtful breath, heavy with the weight of familiarity, “I know, better than most, that you ain't gonna listen to anyone, but y’know it's probably Arthur’s.”

You swallow, about to retort something back at her when she turns on her heel, her spurs jingling.

“You and he weren’t exactly subtle with what you were up to.” Her hand brushes your shoulder before she walks back toward the camp. You remain still, looking out over the lake with your arms wrapped around yourself.

“Best if you start lookin’ forward instead of lookin’ back. You’re only gonna find pain there.”

You look back toward her.

“Are you lookin’ forward?”

Sadie Adler turns halfway to look at you, her jaw set and eyes hard.

“No.”

-

You dream of blood. Of the overpowering richness and stifling warmth in the stale air of the tent. Of movement, people, murmuring voices, and hushed tones.

You dream of pain. You dream of being torn apart from the inside. You dream of screams, nearly inhumane, echoing in the tent.

You dream of Susan Grimshaw dabbing a damp rag over your head, a soft, pitying look on her face.

You dream of the women of camp surrounding you - of Abigail and Sadie, Tilly and Mary Beth. Karen, even Molly. Sadness, forlornness in their eyes.

Abigail holds a whimpering newborn in her arms, swaddled in a blanket.

The bundle is placed in your arms, and as you draw back the linen, the child’s features are revealed. Instead of Arthur’s dark honeyed hair and blue eyes, the babe has dark, dark hair and near-black eyes that blink up at you. Dark, cruel eyes that are nothing like your own.

Nothing like Arthur’s.

You rocket up in the cot, gasping, holding a hand to your breast to calm your racing heart. Your movement has awakened the other person in the tent, and Arthur shoots up from his bedroll on the ground, his head darting this way and that, looking for potential danger before realizing that you had been plagued by a nightmare.

“Sweetheart-” Arthur reaches toward your face to wipe the tears from your cheeks but you flinch and draw back further so that he cannot touch you.

“I just… I…” your voice stutters in the night, “P-Please don’t touch me.” 

His hand retracts from between you, “Course, darlin’.”

You gather the thin blanket around you closer, refusing to make eye contact with the man who has crawled closer to the cot from where his bedroll lay spread out on the ground. “Why are you doin’ this?”

“Doin’ what?” Arthur says quietly as he pushes himself up, from his knees to sit at the very end of the cot, opposite where you have curled yourself.

“This.” You gesticulate to the distance between you, then to his bedroll on the floor, “You shouldn’t be sleepin’ on the ground. You’re far too high up in this gang to be doin’ that.”

“You’re pregnant. I c’n sleep anywhere, don’t need a bed.” Arthur says, running his thumb over his bruised knuckles, also not making eye contact with you.

“I ain’t pregnant with-” You begin, clenching your fists in the blanket, your voice faltering.

“You are. Don’t start with this - you remember how many times we was stupid.” Arthur looks up, clenching his jaw and narrowing his eyes in a look of irritation before sighing, running his palm down his face against the exhaustion creeping in on him, “Look, sweetheart. I don’t know why you keep thinkin’ the baby’s his. We’ve been sleepin’ together for months.”

You turn your head away from him, setting your jaw. He doesn’t understand, how would he ever understand?

Arthur lets out a breath and moves from the floor up to sit at the opposite end of his old cot.

“But what if he is? What if this baby’s daddy is that O-”

“My daddy wasn't nothin’ but the man that made me.” He interjects, “Hosea and Dutch raised me more than my actual father did.” 

You glance at the mugshot placed on the wagon in the corner of the tent. Lyle Morgan stares at you, with unrepentant eyes, as if he were mocking you from the grave.

“If…if-” You stutter, your eyes watering over again as you draw your knees awkwardly to your chest, your belly getting in the way, The strap of your chemise slips down your shoulder, “If this baby is born and y’ see it’s h-his-”

“It doesn’t matter,” Arthur’s voice raises a bit, and as he realizes it, he slides closer to you on the cot, and grasps one of your hands in his own, his large, calloused hand engulfing yours, “I’m gonna be this child’s pa. Me. I’m gonna be that for the babe, and I’m gonna be that for you.”

You don’t fight his touch. Your eyes water over as you tightly close them, “I don’t know why you’d want another man’s-”

His thumb tenderly swipes your cheek, dashing the tears cascading from your eyes, “Cause I want you, sweetheart. ‘Nd anythin’ you create, it’s gonna be from you, and I want that too.”

You can’t hold back the sob from your throat as you crumble forward in the cot, Arthur winds his arms around you. You breathe in the musk of him - of leather and tobacco and safety.

And in the dim silence of the night, you allow it, burying yourself into his embrace, crying into his collarbone, your swollen belly pressed against his ribcage. 

[foreverrandomwritings]

@laracrofted started a rockin awesome Speak Now (Taylor’s Version) tag game!💜✨

Thank you @sylviebell and @wkndwlff for the tag in this amazing game. Sorry it’s taken me so long to complete it. Adhd is so fucking fun yay! Okay now let’s get started💜✨

Claim a speak now (Taylor’s Version) song for your fic pairings💜✨

Tagging: Anyone that would like to participate💜✨

Enchanted- Natasha "Phoenix" Trace and Controversially Young Girlfriend

They were both so unbelievably unequivocally enchanted with each other the first time they met. They both walked out of the store with excitement and hope in their chest. Natasha regretted not saying more, not expressing her attraction to CYG as well. But you best know that the next time she saw her she spilled her guts like lava out of an erupting volcano.

This is me praying that This was the very first page Not where the storyline ends My thoughts will echo your name Until I see you again These are the words I held back As I was leaving too soon I was enchanted to meet you

I Can See You- John "Ramble" De Luca and Mystery Man

So Ramble and Mystery Man obviously work together so they have to keep it professional. They have both been watching each other but neither of them have noticed yet. They both desperately want to be together yet fears are holding them both back. Mystery Man has yet to come out to any of the team and Ramble is afraid to make a move for that very reason. Also when they do eventually get together things are kept under wraps for a while.

’Cause I can see you waitin' down the hall from me And I could see you up against the wall with me And what would you do? Baby, if you only knew That I can see you Uh-uh, uh, uh And we kept everything professional But something's changed, it's somethin' I, I like They keep watchful eyes on us So it's best that we move fast and keep quiet You won't believe half the things I see inside my head Wait 'til you see half the things that haven’t happened yet

Foolish One- Jane "Mute" Hall and Mickey "Fanboy" Garcia

Even the title screams them I mean come on now. They both are head over heels for each other. But neither of them have said anything because Fanboy thought that Mute was with Ramble then he thought Mute was gonna go after Hangman. Then Fanboy goes on a date with someone else and Mute gets discouraged. One day they will laugh over the fact that they were so foolish with each other. The only exception to this song is that they actually end up together.

You know how to keep me waitin' I know how to act like I'm fine Don't know what to call this situation But I know I can't call you mine And it's delicate, but I will do my best to seem bulletproof 'Cause when my head is on your shoulder It starts thinkin' you'll come around And maybe, someday, when we're older This is something we'll laugh about Over coffee every mornin' while you're watching the news

Timeless- Jake "Hangman" Seresin and Plus Sized S/O

They were meant to be and no one will ever change their mind. They love each other more than anything. I could put this whole fucking song in here because it fits so well. Even if they were in a different century they would be together. Plus the fucking photos come on guys that's literally Jake's favortie thing to do. I think it's 100% possible that Plus Sized S/O would stumble into an antique shop and find books and books of photos and be blinded by the similarity to her and Jake. Jake also definitely writes her love letters. Now to pick out what exactly to put down for this. I picked a tiny chorus even though this whole song is so them coded.

In a crowded room a few short years ago And sometimes there's no proof, you just know You're always gonna be mine We're gonna be I'm gonna love you when our hair is turnin' gray We'll have a cardboard box of photos of the life we've made And you'll say, "Oh my, we really were timeless"

[my-not-so-secret-online-diary]

Things I wish people had told me when I was in high school (Contributed to by my friends)

During the summer of your sophomore and junior year, go visit a college. It can be literally any college, but go visit one

At some point before your senior year, you're going to have to have a talk with your parents. Whether that's telling them that you don't want to go to college, and outlining what your future is going to look like, or talking about your college plans, you need to talk to them. If you are planning on going to college, you might want to find out if they have any money saved for you

Your grades aren't everything. Although important, it's okay if you don't have a perfect grade

Get to know some of your teachers (especially in your junior year!). These are the people that will be writing recommendation letters for your college applications, or giving a reference for a job. Get to know them, and let them get to know you

Learn what your studying/ learning style is

Enjoy the little moments

Absolutely NOBODY is thinking about that really weird/ embarrassing thing that you did. They're all focusing on the really weird/ embarrassing thing that they did

It's okay if your interests change

Try to find at least one reliable person in each of your classes you can count on to take notes for you when you're absent, or re-explain lessons to you that you didn't understand

Don't be afraid to take risks

Stay out of the school bathrooms if you can. Just... you gotta trust me on this one

Your principal can be one of the most helpful people you will ever get to know. Get to know them in good ways though

If you have a friend that's trying to isolate you from your other friends, dump them. They're a toxic friend, and you really don't need that in your life

If you're dating somebody, consider the red flags your friends are telling you about in that person. Sometimes we don't wanna see the bad in our significant others

Stay away from fast food jobs (if you can). It's all fun and games until your nightly routine consists of taking a shower after work because you brought the smell home with you

All nighters are all people talk about, but trust me, you’re going to want to keep them to a minimum, unless you like to crawl out of bed in the morning feeling like you’ve never slept a day in your life, and then the crippling thought will hit you that you still. have. to go. to. school.

Every friend group has a Mom. Embrace yours.

Don’t put off doing things. Go to that stupid football game, join drama club, try out for that sport, go on those field trips, embrace your inner geek. Just have fun. Nobody’s going to judge you… high school is nothing like the movies

Take stupid electives. Colleges don’t put as much emphasis on your high school classes as you think they do.

Volunteer in class, embrace group activities, ask questions. Teachers are still going to call on you, or make you do that project. It’s a lot less scary when you just embrace the fact that it’s going to happen. Nobody’s going to judge you for asking the questions they, too, have, or for stumbling over your words while giving an oral presentation. We’re all human, and have been there at some point or another

Keep a journal of some sort, and write one good (or maybe sometimes bad, but I like to focus on the good) thing about your day. It doesn’t have to be anything big. I swear. Maybe it’s just that you packed your favorite chips for lunch, or your friend returned to school after being sick the last few days. Date each journal, and journal entry, and buy a new one for each year of high school. It’s cool to look back at that sort of stuff; you don’t realize how much you’ve actually changed until you look back

Get comfortable with using a planner. I know. I just heard the “but why would I need that??? I’ve never used a planner…” Trust me. Get comfortable with it. It will be one of the best investments you make

Take the cringy pictures. You’ll look back someday, and be simultaneously disappointed, and happy

Sometimes… adults DON’T have all the answers. That’s an uncomfortable thought. You’ll realize more and more, as you start having more mature conversations with your family, that adults don’t have the answers all the time

If there’s something abnormal that starts healthwise, please, go to the doctor! Learn from my mistakes

As a high school freshman, you qualify for scholarships... check them out

Stop procrastinating.

Just... enjoy it! It goes by a lot faster than you think it will

[julesclues]

hi boooo! You’re legit my favorite author on here! I love your writing so much 💕 was wondering if you could do one: outer banks JJ getting so drunk at a party and throwing up at the party and getting sick all over JB car going back to the chateau with all the pogues. And like reader (not Girlfriend yet) taking care of him please 🥺 thank you so much!!!! 😍😍😍 I know you’re busy so like take you’re time and if you don’t want to it’s fine too 💕💕

Drunken Confessions

Warnings: excessive and underage drinking, cursing

Pairing: jj maybank x reader

Word count: 2.48k

Summary: JJ drinks a littleee too much at a party, which makes the reader worried about him. So being the great person she is, she decides to take care of him.

a/n: thank you for the kind words in your request! It really means a lot! <3

3 things JJ Maybank loves most in this world: sex, surfing, and booze. Emphasis on the booze because once he started, it was almost impossible to stop him which, was currently the situation at the party you were all at.

It was a normal party, one mixed with tourons and pouges. But a normal party for JJ obviously meant drinking. You always worried about him when he would over do it like he is now. Though you were all used to the underage drinking, it was kind of hard to remember that it still is, technically, illegal.

The music was almost too loud. You could barely hear your friends as they each took turns telling stories about their most embarrassing moment. “Mine’s gotta be in 3rd grade when I was in the talent show for dancing and wound up twirling off stage,” Kie exclaimed, making all of you laugh. Pope went next and then John B and as you went around the circle, you realized JJ was no where to be found. You stood up in worry and searched the party for his unique clothing style and beautiful set of hair. “Where is he?” You ask, making John B tilt his head. “Who?” You roll your eyes and look at him. “Your best friend?” You ask with a laugh. Before John B could answer though, you all heard some yelling in the distance. Turning your head to the sound, your question was answered.

There was JJ. Standing on top of a table. Chugging beer after beer, almost as if he was putting on a show for the cheering audience under him. They were all applauding him as he downed the substance, some of it pouring down his chest, turning his dark blue tee into black. You groaned in annoyance as you and the other pouges ran up to him. You pushed through the crowd and made your way to the front, giving you the perfect view of JJ’s drunken state. You sigh and stick your hand out to him. “JJ!” You yell, but he still continued to pour the drinks down his throat. “Maybank! Hey! Let’s go!” You attempt again, but it’s no use. So, you climb up on the table with him, earning even more cheers from the people below. Maybe they thought you were going to join him.

He finally turns to you and his eyes light up. “Y/n!” He exclaims happily. As much as you loved JJ, in this moment, you were pretty upset. All you wanted was for him to just take care of himself so he wouldn’t do stupid shit like this. “Let’s go J,” you whisper only loud enough for him to hear. You reach out to him but he dodges your touch. “No!” He yells, scanning the people below. “Please J. Come on. Please let’s go home,” you plead, making JJ turn toward you. This time, his eyes were soft and warm, almost as if he had turned sober for a quick moment. “Ugh, fine,” he groans, but secretly doesn’t mind the feeling of your finger tips guiding him off the table and back to the pouges. You ignored the boo’s you heard from the others, but they soon forgot about it. To you, they weren’t worth JJ’s time.

“He’s shit faced,” you state to the other pouges, as JJ leans further into your side. Without you, he might have fallen over. “What’s new?” Pope laughs, making you roll your eyes. You knew that this was normal for JJ and that the pouges took it as a joke, but that doesn’t mean it should’ve been normalized. You always worried about JJ and the fact that the other pouges didn’t, made you upset.

You sigh as you sway awkwardly with JJ, thinking about what to do. “Can we just take him back to John B’s? He can’t be drinking anymore guys,” you plead, as John B nods and grabs his keys to the van. “Let’s go then.” You all start walking to the van, you and JJ a little bit behind due to his wonky walking. “You’re cute,” he laughs in his drunken state, making you smile a bit. JJ flirting with you both sober and drunk wasn’t out of the ordinary, but it never failed to make you blush like a middle schooler. “You too J,” you admit, and he chuckles without saying another word.

You make it to the van where Kie holds the door open for you two to hop into the back. You shove JJ in first, having him sit near the window while you sit in the middle and Kie sits next to you guys. John B starts the van and starts driving, which makes JJ hold his stomach. You’re the only one who notices it. “You okay JJ?” You ask him, but all he does it roll down the window. “I’m gonna throw up,” he mumbles, making your eyes go wide. “Oh no JJ, not in the van please,” John B begs. JJ doesn’t say anything as he sticks his head out the window and starts violently throwing up. All of you groan and laugh, as you rub JJ’s back to soothe him. You repeat the phrases “it’s okay” and “you’re okay” like a mantra.

You felt something on your thigh and looked down to see JJ’s hand. After pulling his head back out the window, he plops down on the soft seat under him and looks at you with a sloppy smile while squeezing your thigh in reassurance. “I’m good,” he laughs, looking around the van. “Good cause if you ever throw up in my van, I’ll kill you,” John B chuckles, making everyone else laugh along.

Finally making it back to John B’s, with JJ getting sick almost every 5 minutes, you limp with him by your side as the pouges rush to get the door open for you two. “Come on,” you grunt, finding it a bit difficult to hold JJ up by yourself. He keeps giggling and laughing while slurring his words. “Get him cleaned up in the bathroom y/n,” Pope says, and you nod. “We’ll get him water and some tylenol but until then, just make sure he doesn’t throw up all over my house,” John B exclaims, making you chuckle and adjust yourself against JJ. “Sure thing John.”

You walk into the bathroom with JJ and plop him down on the toilet seat. He sways back and forth, struggling to keep his eyes open. “Jesus J, your clothes are so dirty,” you whisper with a sigh. “Would you like me to strip then, princess?” You roll your eyes but can’t help but grin at his flirty words. “Shut it Maybank. Let’s just get you cleaned u-“

Your words were interrupted by JJ rushing to get off the toilet seat so he could open it. He instantly started throwing up, gripping the sides of the toilet until his knuckles turned white. You instantly got on your knees and sat behind him, rubbing his back to try and soothe him. “Shit JJ..” you say sympathetically. “I fucking hate when you do this shit.” After a minute or so of throwing up, he sits down on the floor and wipes him mouth. “Come here,” you mumble, coming closer to him with a napkin, but he swats your hand away. “JJ..” you warn. “Y/n just get out of here, okay? I don’t need you taking care of me.” You blink in surprise of his words and how quickly he can switch up. “Instead of being petty JJ, how about you be grateful that someone cares about you!” He scoffs and looks away. “Whatever,” he hiccups. “Why do you even care? It’s not like you’re my girlfriend.” 

You freeze for a minute, trying to pretend like his words didn’t hurt you as much as they did. “You’re an asshole sometimes JJ. Girlfriend or not, I care about you. So stop denying my help and just shut up! God, I don’t even know why I’m fighting with you. You’re obviously so drunk right now. You don’t mean anything you’re saying.” You get up and stick your hand out for him. “Come on. Let’s get you to bed.” He looks at your hand and then up at you. You shoot him a smile and he could swear, drunk or not, that smile would be the death of him one day. 

He hesitantly takes your hand, and you pull him up, having him stumble a bit before regaining his balance. You lead him to his bedroom and plop him down on his bed. You kneel down to take off his shoes for him, but he stops you. “I’m sorry,” he apologizes, looking down to the ground. “For what?” You ask him, sitting down next to him. He feels the bed dip down a bit, which makes him sway a little. “For what I said in the bathroom,” he mumbles. You shake your head and chuckle. “JJ, you’re just drunk. I know you don’t mean any of it.” You were always so patient and understanding when it came to JJ. It was one of the many things he loved about you. That’s what made you so different from the other pouges. 

“Y/n?” He whispers. “Hm?” You ask in the same volume that he had used. “I like you a lot.” You smile and grip his shoulder. “I like you a lot too, JJ.” He shakes his head and lays down on his bed, looking up at the ceiling. “No Y/n,” he sighs, while closing his eyes. “I don’t think you understand. I like you a lot.” You tilt your head for a second in confusion, but instantly look at him wide eyed when you get what he meant. “Wha- JJ? Are you serious?” But he doesn't respond. All you heard from him was his silent snores. You get up from his bed and look down at him, to see he was fast asleep. Your breathing starts to pick up as you pace around the room silently. “Oh my god, oh my god. He didn’t mean that, right? He’s just drunk.. right? My god Y/n, who are you even asking? You’re alone. Right.. okay.” You stop pacing and grab a blanket that’s folded on JJ’s bed and cover him, leaning down to give him a quick kiss on the forehead. “You better have meant what you said JJ, or I’ll kill you.” 

You leave a letter for him and go on your way, hoping he calls you in the morning or is not too sick to remember what he meant. 

Dear JJ, 

It’s your favorite person :) You were pretty drunk last night so the pouges left you some water and medicine while I took care of you. When you wake up, give me a call, okay? We kinda need to talk. And please JJ, try not to get so drunk anymore. You worry me when you do. I care about you. Girlfriend or not. 

Love, Y/n <3

-----

JJ wakes up the next morning with a groan and a pounding headache. He felt like he got hit by a truck. He never drinks this much and he knew it, but for some reason last night was different. He was trying to forget. And apparently it worked because he forgot what he was trying to forget. Bingo. He blinks a couple of times to get his vision from blurry to clear before standing up and stretching. He  looks down at his nightstand and finds a folded piece of paper and instantly recognizes your handwriting. 

He opens the letter and reads it. His eyes go wide when he reads “girlfriend or not.” He starts to wonder what he could’ve possibly said to you last night for you to include that in the letter, but his memory is failing him. Nevertheless, he finds his phone and quickly finds your contact, hesitantly clicking “call.” 

You answer after a couple of rings with a chipper yet out of breath ‘hello.’ 

“Hey Y/n..” he says softly, hearing your pants. “Are you okay?” he asks with a hint of concern in his voice. “Yeah J, I-I’m good. Just surfing. Why don’t you join me? None of the other pouges are here, and I’d like to talk to you, if that’s okay.” You didn’t sound mad or upset, which JJ took into consideration. The last thing he ever wanted was to make you upset. “Sure, yeah. I’m on my way.” 

-----

JJ meets you on the beach about 15 minutes after your phone call. “Hey J!” You say, running up to him with a smile. “How are you feeling?” You ask him, and he just rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. “I’m a little out of it but the strangest thing is that I don’t remember anything from last night.” Your face instantly drops and JJ is quick to recognize your disappointment. “Oh..” you sigh, biting the inside of your cheek and looking down. “What’s the matter? Did I say something last night? Y/n whatever I said, I didn’t mean it, okay?” You look back up at JJ with a bit of tears in your eyes. “You said you liked me,” you mumble, making JJ tilt his head. “Of course I like you,” he chuckles. You shake your head, realizing you were mimicking his actions from last night. “No JJ. You said you liked me.” His eyes go wide, immediately realizing what you meant. “Oh.. Y/n, I- I don’t-”

“Did you mean it J?”

“Y/N-”

“Just tell me JJ. Please. Don’t lie to me, okay?”

 JJ looks down for a moment, contemplating on whether or not he should tell the truth to you and potentially ruin the friendship, or lie to you, and ruin the friendship even further. He saw how hurt you look when he said he didn’t remember, so maybe, just maybe, there was a slight chance that you liked him back. 

“I like you Y/n. I do. More than a friend. I didn’t want to tell you while I was shitfaced and with you taking care of me. But I did, and I’m sorry. You deserved a better confession from me. I really do like you Y/n but if you don’t like me back then that’s okay. I ju- are you crying?!”

You wipe the tears away as you chuckle from JJ’s concerned face from you crying. “Of course I am, you idiot!” You exclaim, walking closer to him. “JJ I like you too. So much. I was really hoping you were telling the truth because I don’t think I could watch you have one night stands anymore,” you laugh, and so does he. “So does this mean..” his voice trails off but you knew what he meant. You nod with a smile and he returns it, blinking slowly. 

“Can I kiss you now?”

“Please do.”

[morwap]

ALTERNATIVE ENDING TO THIS ASK

- might make this into a mini 3 part fic

james sat up and hugged you, “thank you” he whispered. “i’ll finish your lines, go and tell them what’s wrong they’ve been worried sick” you said. james let off you and nodded “y’sure?” he asked and you nodded. “y/n when you have bad days please tell me, i’ll be there for you too” james said packing his things up “also james don’t worry to much about the lily thing, she’ll come around” you said with a smile and james nodded with a blush and left.

you sighed once he left, you knew he didn’t have to worry about the lily thing because now lily was coming around, she had even said she’d say yes to the next date he’d ask her on. now crushing your dreams of ever being with james. you had bad days often because watching the person you liked pin after your best friend definitely didn’t want to make you cry so hard you hyperventilated, but you’d rather see him happy and in love than being with someone he didn’t want and you wanted to see your best friend happy too.

you weren’t the only one feeling like the person you liked was someone you’d never get, regulus was feeling the same way.

regulus only wished he had james’ confidence and mind set, the confidence to tell you that he was completely and utterly infatuated with you and thought you were the most beautiful thing to be put on this earth, but instead he opted to write an anonymous (as what he would call lousy) love letter (that pandora had talked him into since he wasn’t going to come out and say his feelings) and dropped it into your bag one day durning transfiguration.

his heart would be so fast every time you give a smile or a wave in his direction even after sirius was disowned, thinking instantly you’d hate him since you were friends with sirius, you two almost like brother and sister which regulus had this jealousy for but he couldn’t be more wrong, you still smiled in his direction, waved and even said a few things “hi reg” “hey reg how are you?” “nice to see you reggie”

pandora was the biggest advocate for his love for you; telling him to just talk to you, write love letters to not bottle up how he feels, just go and say “hey let’s go out sometimes” and each time regulus would shut her down in a nice manor.

regulus sighed as he walked through the cold dungeons to get to slughorns classroom. the stack of papers in his hands were heavy and making his arms burn. he opened the door with a huff and almost dropped the papers onto the floor when he saw you writing the lines on the board.

you looked back hoping it wasn’t slughorn since you weren’t done with james’ lines, you smiled seeing regulus stand there. “well hello mr.black” you giggled and his heart fluttered. “hey, where is professor slughorn?” regulus asked as he sat the papers on a random desk.

“a meeting don’t know when he’ll be back though” you answered, regulus nodded. now was his time, you were alone so if you did reject him it wouldn’t be so embarrassing. regulus was about to turn and walk out the door but a sudden wave of confidence washed over him.

“y/n would you like to get a butterbeer with me?” he asked and instantly regretted it, “like a date?” you asked. “if you want it to be- i’m- never mind. this was stupid” regulus stumbled over his words and started to walk to the door.

“regulus!-“ he heard you say and he turned around wide eyed, “- i cant this weekend -” his stomach turned “i have a quidditch practice, but i can next weekend” you said playing with your hands. “okay that’s fine, next weekend it is” regulus said played with his hair trying to act natural. “and it’ll be a date” you said with a smile before going back into to your lines. regulus hummed in response, his cheeks bright red as he left the room to go tell pandora.

[janetbrown711]

"It won't happen again, I swear" Yax?

Once Wakko ran out of the room, the first thing Yakko did was try and see if he could catch up to Max. He had to make sure things were okay- that Max didn't hate him. If he did- oh god-

Max was... everything to Yakko. He couldn't afford to lose him.

Thankfully, Max still hadn't made it outside, and was at the bottom of the foyer when Yakko called for him to stop.

"Max- wait-!" Yakko shouted as he scrambled down the steps as fast as he could. Thankfully, Max obliged, staying where he was.

"I... I wanted to apologize... for Wakko's behavior," Yakko panted, not bothering to stop to take a breath.

"It's cool, Yakko. I get it- really, i do," Max said, putting his hands in his pockets.

Yakko blinked.

"But..?" He tilted his head slighty.

"'But' nothing. I'll admit Wakko stepped up his game but it's most certainly not the first time I've been locked in a room before, Yakko," Max chuckled slightly.

"B-but you were all snappy before- I thought-"

"Oh, right- sorry about that. I was just-" Max sighed. "I'm just worried what Dad'll think. He's... a bit of a worry-wart sometimes," He scratched the back of his neck.

Yakko bit his lip. "What does that mean for... us?"

Us.

"Hey, don't worry. I'll figure out something that'll keep both you and your brother in the clear- as well as a way to also not make him and at your parents or the kingdom. This isn't my first time," Max reassured.

"How?" Yakko asked.

Max shrugged. "I'll think of something. I always do," Max punched his arm lightly. Yakko laughed.

"Speaking of your brother though..." Max said, and Yakko felt his tone change.

"Let him know I'm not mad or anything, despite lying to me and stuff. He's probably just confused," He said.

"Yeah..." Yakko kicked the ground.

"Also... don't take this the wrong way, but I really think you should be spending more time with your siblings. They probably feel a bit neglected or something, which is why he locked me in that tower and stuff- which from what I've seen doesn't seem like the type of thing he'd usually do," He said, and Yakko felt a knot form in his stomach from the guilt.

"Yeah, he wouldn't. He hates that place- grandma locked him up there twice when he was a kid... bad memories. I swear it'll never happen again." Yakko said.

"Ah..." Max nodded his head.

"But... you're right. I've been neglecting them... I'm just sorry it's gotten this far," Yakko sighed, rubbing his forehead.

"Like I said- no big deal. You just need to go to them and apologize and stuff," Max assured.

"Yeah, I'll do that," Yakko promised. Max smiled a little.

"Good," He punched his arm again. "Now, it's really dark out, and I really have to go before it's too late," Max gestured to the door.

"Right, yes- you need to get going," Yakko agreed.

"I'll write to you," Max swore as he started to head out.

"I know, I know," Yakko smiled.

With a salute goodbye, Max ran out and left the foyer.

Well, all things considered, that could've been significantly worse.

Which meant he totally snapped at Wakko for nothing.

Shit.

Yakko had some serious apologizing to do.

"Yakko? Have you seen Wakko?" His mother entered the foyer as Yakko began to climb back up.

"No, i ran straight to Max. Why? Is he not in his room?" Yakko asked.

"He's not in the playroom, his room, any of the closests I've stopped by- I'm getting really worried," Her voice cracked despite trying to keep it together.

Shit.

"It's been a long night, I'm sure you're just stressed out, mom. You should lay down- I can search for him," Yakko said as he reached the top.

"Yakko, he could be anywhere. I-i can't rest until I know he's okay... Oh god, I feel just terrible," She whispered that last part to herself, clearly also being overwhelmed with guilt of her own.

"Look, we can get the guards to look as well, it'll be okay, we can find him and apologize," Yakko held one of her hands and gave it a good squeeze. Lena squeezed back.

"I'll give the orders..." She said, before squeezing his hand once more and going down the stairs.

Yakko had some serious, serious apologizing to do.

.o0o.

The first place Yakko checked was the playroom, but as his mother had said it was empty. He thought perhaps there was a slight chance Wakko had been moving locations, as under the table was one of his favorite hiding places, but alas, he wasn't there.

He then decided it would just be best to look through every single room he stumbled into, but most were empty or full fo servants who just gave him confused looks before he awkwardly stepped out.

He did run into Scratchnsniff though, and he gave him a quick run down and he too agreed to help.

After an hour and a half of searching, Yakko's concern had nearly tripled as he ran out of ideas as to where he could be. He looked through every room, every closet, every nook and cranny but he was simply nowhere to be found inside the castle.

However, as he was about to start all over again, it occured to the crown prince that perhaps his brother wasn't inside at all- but hiding somewhere in the gardens.

In the dark.

Late at night.

In the cold.

Yakko hurried to grab a blanket, his coat, and a lantern before rushing out to the garden

It was a windy night, and the brisk air sent a chill down his spine almost immediately. However, he just tightened his coat as he began his search anyway, determined to make that apology.

He seriously shouldn't have blown up so much. Max wasn't even mad or anything- Yakko blew it way out of proportion. Mom was right- Wakko was just feeling neglected. Hell, Dot probably was too, which meant he'd have to apologize to her too.

God- with how many times Yakko called him an idiot it's no surprise he ran off and away like this. An insult straight from dear ol' Grandma.

Yakko really had been slipping these past few months.

Though Wakko did still cross a line... but that line could've been prevented had he just listened sooner and not neglected them.

Yakko truly was going to have to make it up to them- both of them.

For awhile, Yakko wandered around the garden, holding his jacket close when there was a gust of wind, and shouting his brother's name to no response. His worry grew more and more as it grew later and later and darker and darker.

He wasn't going to give up though, he needed to find him.

"Wakko!!" he called out once again.

Still no response.

Yakko began to worry more. He had practically searched all of the garden by now- if he wasn't out here he was probably outside of the castle walls, where he could easily be lost or scared or hurt or worse, even.

Oh god, Yakko had really, really screwed up.

"Wakko!!!" He called out again, feeling a lump form in his throat.

God- he couldn't start crying now, he still had to find him.

Yakko wiped his face before going into the last place he hadn't looked- the formation of hedges that led to the flower garden his parents loved working on the most. Yakko continued on in, calling for his brother over and over again, begging to be heard and for a response.

Still, nothing.

Until- out of the corner of his eye, he saw him.

He was curled into a ball and shivering tightly, with his legs curled up under his shirt to keep warm. His face was still tear stained from before, but he seemed asleep.

"Wakko!" Yakko gasped, running to him and quickly wrapping him in the blanket.

"Y-yakko-?" Wakko snapped awake, holding the blanket tightly.

"Wakko, we've been looking everywhere for you- why-?" Yakko stopped, realizing 'why' was a stupid question. "I'm bringing you inside- don't fight," he said, as he picked him up.

Thankfully, Wakko didn't, and Yakko successfully brought him back inside and he took his little brother to the family study and quickly put on a fire to help him warm up while his brother sat in silence.

"Wakko!" Dot appeared in the open doorway of the study in her nightgown. "You're okay!" She rushed and hugged him.

"Y-yeah..." Wakko looked at the ground, but still hugged back (though rather weakly).

"I'm glad you're here Dot- I need to talk to both of you," Yakko said, going to the door and closing it. Dot winced and took a seat next to Wakko. Yakko cringed at that, taking off his coat and putting it on a hook before sitting in a chair of his own across from them.

They all sat in silence a moment, with none of them really knowing how to start. God- how do you start a conversation like this?

"Y-y-yakko, I-i'm s-so, so, so, so, so sorry," Wakko sniffled. "I-i knew it wasn't right b-but I-i really thought he was gonna- i didn't wanna hurt you- I just-"

Yakko sighed. "I know, Wak. I'm sorry for shouting at you so much. You aren't an idiot, or a moron. If anyone here's the idiot, it's me," He admitted.

"I... neglected you two. I was so blinded by Max that i seriously hurt you guys and I'm really sorry," Yakko said.

"I-it's okay, Yakko-" Dot tried to smile, but Yakko cut her off.

"It isn't okay, Dot. I seriously hurt you two. I said some really hurtful things, and I need to own up to it." He ran his fingers through his hair as he looked at the fire.

Another stretch of silence.

"Do... do you hate me..?" Wakko asked so quietly one could hardly hear it over the crackle of the fire.

"Of course not Wakko, I could never hate you," Yakko swore.

"E-even though I locked your boyfriend away? A-and tried to soak him with water? And covered your hands in spices so it hurt? A-and took and read your letters?" Wakko sniffled as tears began to stream down his face as he gripped the blanket tighter.

"Wakko, I could never hate you, you're my little brother." Yakko said. "Though those things did really hurt, I know you've learned your lesson and won't do it again, right?"

Wakko nodded his head.

"And for the record Dot, I don't hate you either," Yakko looked at his little sister, who was hugging the pillow from her chair.

"Yakko...? Do you... consider us like friends?" She asked nervously.

"I think we're friends in a way... but in a different way I think family is more than that, you know?" Yakko shrugged, not knowing how to answer.

"Not... really..." Dot looked away.

It then occurred to Yakko that they hadn't had any friends either.

God- he had spent all this time begin upset they couldn't be happy for him when they literally couldn't understand-

Oh god- Yakko was deeply embarrassed.

"I'm so sorry for getting so bad at you two- I didn't know you felt like that. I-" He sighed. "I think you two need to start meeting some kids around the kingdom and elsewhere."

"But I don't want anyone else- I want you two," Wakko frowned.

"Being friends with other people doesn't mean we're gonna disappear on you- not anymore. I promise, I'm going to make up for all of the time I neglected you two." Yakko side tracked.

"And having friends is a good thing, it means you're growing as a person and forming connections outside of your family can be really rewarding," Yakko said.

Wakko bit his lip, still unsure.

"I'm not saying immediately, I'm just saying... perhaps it'd be a good idea. But we don't need to rush it- I still need to make up that lost time," Yakko chuckled weakly.

Neither of the younger Warners replied, both preferring to look at the fire sleepily.

Yakko sighed. "I think it's late- we should tell mom you're okay and we should go to bed."

"M-mom's worried about me?" Wakko sheeped.

"Of course she is, you ran off and were nowhere to be found for hours," Yakko said.

"R-right... I should apologize..." Wakko agreed with his elder brother.

"Yeah, I should go to bed," Dot yawned, which made Yakko chuckle.

"C'mon, let's go," He said, as he put out the fire, as both of sibs were clearly very toasty.

They didn't have to walk very far before they saw their parents, both looking very stressed before they saw their children and quickly ran to them, giving Wakko big hugs with a jumble of "are you okay? are you hurt?"s, etc. etc.

"I-I'm okay- I'm so sorry for what I-i did- I just-"

"I know sweetie, I know... it's just-" Lena sighed. "I'm just... I'm just happy you're okay now."

"We're both happy," William inserted himself, which made Wakko laugh a little.

"C'mon, let's get you to bed," Lena said, scooping her youngest boy up and carrying him to his bedroom.

"...can you carry me?" Dot asked William, who laughed and nodded, scooping her up too.

"Awww, what about me?" Yakko joked to his father.

To his surprise though, his father just smirked and grabbed Yakko with one arm and carried him away too.

Right, his dad was a knight. Sometimes Yakko forgot that.

Soon enough, he was dropped off at his and Wakko's room, and Dot dropped off at hers across the hall (though she got tucked in). The brother's changed into their pajamas and were about to go to bed, when Wakko stopped Yakko.

"Yakko..?" He asked.

"Yeah?" Yakko raised an eyebrow.

"Is... Max mad?" Wakko looked down.

"No, he's okay. It's not his first time being locked in a room, he was just tired and worried about his dad."

"...would you still be mad at me if he was?"

Yakko paused.

"No, I think I would've had my senses knocked back into me anyway," Yakko said. "Mom couldn't let me be an idiot for too long."

"Okay," Wakko bit his lip and turned away.

"C'mere," He opened his arms. Wakko quickly understood and gave Yakko a hug.

Yakko didn't realize just how much he missed Wakko's hugs.

"What you did did cross a line, but you get it now and that's all that matters: that you learn from your mistakes and make up for it, like I am," Yakko said. Wakko nodded.

"I-i'm sorry for making you worried too," Wakko said.

"It's okay... you're safe and here now, that's all that matters," Yakko hugged him a little tighter.

"...I'm also sorry I keep calling him your boyfriend..." Wakko said. "I know you don't like it."

Yakko laughed at that one.

"It's a little funnier now... but yeah, maybe cut that out for the moment," He snorted. Wakko laughed too, letting go of the embrace and going to his bed.

"G'night Yakko," Wakko said, blowing out the light by his bed.

"G'night Wak," Yakko said, blowing out his light and climbing into his own bed.

Both of them had made a lot of huge mistakes, and both were still a little more hurt than either would ever say, but both knew they wouldn't make those mistakes again. They were gonna make up for it,

No matter what it took.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 The End

[in-tua-deep]

SO i watched the old guard and loved it and i have a habit of combining things i love and it’s 1am and i can’t get to sleep until i purge this from my brain i think SO consider this 

Five jumps in time into the apocalypse and - he dies. Of course he dies. Maybe it’s the time jump itself, managing to rip himself apart because he tried too much too soon. Maybe it’s the apocalypse itself that kills him. Regardless, he dies.

And then he wakes up. And he’s fine. And he continues on.

Except - he has weird dreams. He dreams of - of all these people? He dreams that they’re in the apocalypse as well. It’s weird. He would brush it off but, well, he keeps dreaming of them. Again. And again. And again. 

(He likes dreaming of them, honestly. When he doesn’t dream of them he dreams of ash and fire and his siblings dead and decaying and wailing at him for failing them.)

He continues to live in the apocalypse and years pass and - he’s not getting older. He cuts his leg open on some rocks, and it heals way too quickly. All of his injuries are like that, actually. 

(He spends a whole week starving to death over and over again once. It isn’t pretty. He doesn’t even know he’s dying.)

Eventually he comes to a conclusion - his time jump fucked him up. He’s in a permanent... stasis? Sort of? He keeps continuously returning to the state he was when he jumped through time, including his body now? Rejecting injuries? Presumably because he wasn’t injured when he jumped?

It makes sense to Five, shhh.

And then he gets picked up by the commission. and then he doesn’t shoot JFK. and then he goes home.

(He keeps dreaming about His People. They aren’t in the apocalypse when he isn’t, which is nice. They’re probably some weird manifestation of his subconscious, considering his brain keeps casting them as people during the time periods he’s visiting)

Now I know what you’re thinking - Five is dreaming about these glorious weirdos in the apocalypse, obviously they would try to find him because they’re dreaming about him as well, right?

See, the thing is this: Andy doesn’t remember the exact date she first had a dream about The Boy. 

(The Boy definitely deserved the capital letters, because he’s the weirdest enigma that they never solved.)

But she remembers her and Quynh being horrified because - the next immortal was a child? They freaked out about it and tried to write everything down they could remember to help them hunt the kid down.

And they tried - they did! for a whole three days! except after those three days the dreams just - stopped. cold. nothing new.

This was, of course, super super confusing. And maybe they would have written it off as a shared hallucination if it didn’t keep happening.

There’s no pattern to when they dream of the kid. It just happens. Sometimes a few times in a year. Sometimes there’s decades or centuries between dreams. The first time Nicky and Joe dream of him, Andy has to sit them down and explain that no, don’t worry about it. Yes she knows that it’s a child. No, he’s not a new immortal. They’ll stop dreaming about him in a few days, a week tops, it’s fine. No, she doesn’t know What The Fuck That Is About.

By the time Nile joins the team it’s sort of a weird inside joke. There’s longstanding bets about when the boy will pop up in their dreams again. It’s fine. Okay, so it’s weird, but their lives are already so goddamn weird.

(So imagine the old guard fresh in the apocalypse, no human life on earth. they’re dreaming about the boy again, and the only weird thing now is the consistency of it. maybe they’re in europe or something, but most of the planes have been destroyed in whatever-the-fuck took out the population of the whole ass world. it might have taken years to literally find and dig each other out of the rubble. yeah it’s weird the boy is not a frequent dream thing, but it’s not like it’s urgent.)

Anyway, Five jumps into his family’s courtyard and stumbles out, and eats and peanut butter and jelly sandwich, avoids questions about his age by rambling about quantum versions of himself, and goes to Griddy’s where he ends up getting attacked by commission goons and having to walk home barefoot because he had to ditch his shoes

(The Commission couldn’t put a tracker in his arm. His body kept rejecting them somehow, thanks to his... weird temporal nonsense. The Handler kept promising him that they’d find a way to fix him or whatever, but they never did. Assholes.)

Now, the Old Guard squad go to sleep and, thank you, start dreaming of Five in all his somewhat feral glory.

They bolt awake and - “You guys owes me so much money.” Nicky crows victoriously, because he totally won the pot on the next kid dream year, thank you very much.

And any other time that would be the end of it, because they’re used to these fleeting dreams of the boy.

Except Nile exists now. And of course she’s like, we have to find this kid.

Of course the others try to explain to her - except Nile points out a very important fact: it might have taken weeks or months or years to find other immortals back in the day due to travel times and lack of information and all that. But it’s 2019 baby. They have the internet and very fast plane travel. Did you have that when Booker was a baby immortal? no. it took them like, a day to go hunt Nile down though.

“You say you dream about him for a few days or a week or whatever.” Nile points out to the group’s dawning realization, “Well we have the power to get to him in a few days. So we can find him.”

“If we find him then we can never bet on him again though.” Booker points out, and Nicky who is in the process of gloating about his latest win (Nicky has won three times in a row motherfuckers) looks a bit crestfallen. Andy, on the other hand, just looks determined.

“Get off your asses.” Nile says firmly, spinning her laptop around and showing them the one (1) result for a “Griddy’s Diner” that she found that matches whatever the fuck the dream showed her, “We’re going to America.”

“Again?” Nicky complains, “I thought we swore to not go to America again for at least a century.”

(Until Nile’s family definitely dies, they don’t say.)

So they all begrudgingly go to America, during which time Five manages to get called potentially insane by his favorite sister, not get any sleep, bribe his brother to investigate an eye that doesn’t exist, and mourn losing his one lead to who the fuck started the apocalypse.

I don’t think Five or the og squad were expecting to actually meet.

But they’re hunting Five down and looking around and Five is pondering his next move and then just - across the street, their eyes meet.

“YOU.” The OG squad bellows, because Five has been a goddamn mystery for literally thousands of years.

“Me?” Five says, very confused, like someone who has definitely had trauma induced hallucinations and flashbacks whose dream characters decided to show up on the street outside his house for some reason.

And they go over to Five, and Five is like “wow what a weird hallucination to be having, maybe if i ignore it it’ll go away because that’s a healthy mindset to have (:”

and then one of them touches him and just - 

Five lashes out. It’s instinctive. He has a knife and he just - stabs. Automatically. and his dream person winces and steps back and - 

(He stabbed his dream person. Hallucinations don’t touch him they’re not supposed to touch him and they can’t be stabbed what - )

And then the dream person heals before his eyes.

“I probably deserved that.” Booker muses, grimacing at the hole in his new shirt thank you very much.

“You’re not real.” Five says a little too loudly and a little too insistently to sound at all convincing as he takes a step backwards.

“I’m not real? You’re not real!” Nicky butts in, slightly offended, “You’re the one that keeps - keeps vanishing!”

“Oh my god why are you all disasters.” Nile mourns putting her face in her palms as though she can block out her new weird family by sheer force of will.

“Hey, remember when you died?” Andy offers with a shrug which just makes Nile groan louder. “What’s that about? I’m not even shooting him this time.”

“You can’t shoot him, he’s a baby.” Joe gasps, gesturing towards Five’s thirteen-year-old self.

“I’m not a baby!” Five snaps, bristling on autopilot because the rest of his brain function is stuck on a repeat of “what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck”

“Baby boy. Baby.” Nicky backs his husband up, leaning against Joe and smirking.

“Am not!” Five growls, “And give me my knife back!”

“Finder’s keepers.” Booker says nonchalantly, spinning said knife in his fingers, “If you didn’t want me to have it then you shouldn’t have stabbed me with it.”

“It’s my brother’s knife, you can’t have it.” Five argues.

“Booker.” Andy says firmly, making Booker shrink a little like a scolded child, “Give the kid the knife back. How would you feel if I took your gun?”

“You wouldn’t take my gun.” Booker mutters, handing an increasingly confused Five the knife back, “I would simply shoot you.”

“Ooh,” Nicky snickers, “Fight! Fight! Fight!”

“Don’t encourage them.” Joe says, nudging at Nicky. Which would be fine if he hadn’t added in a slightly lower tone that they could all still hear, “Fifty on Andy.”

“That’s a sucker’s bet, my love.” Nicky laughs, pressing a kiss to Joe’s cheek.

There’s a beat of silence.

“No offense, but what the fuck is going on.” Five states rather than asks, clutching his slightly stolen knife (Diego didn’t even notice when he’s snagged it which honestly means he didn’t deserve to keep the weapon) tight to his chest. “Are you guys... with the Commission?”

“What the fuck is the Commission?” Joe does not whisper to Booker, who is supposed to be the research guy but he just shrugs because he’s useless.

Anyway that’s how the whole Old Guard squad winds up in Reginald Hargreeves creepy ass mansion trying to explain to an increasingly erratic immortal child that, yeah, he’s a little bit immortal. No it doesn’t have anything to do with his powers (powers?? powers??????? what the fuck i mean yes their lives are already so goddamn weird but there is a line and Booker draws it at teleportation what the fuck). 

What’s this about an apocalypse?

(When they asked Five for his age, they were not expecting a curt ‘fifty-eight, probably’. Yes they are now aware there is funky time travel involved - which honestly explains so much about the frequently vanishing immortal - but still. 

He looks baby but also he is baby. He’s younger than Booker!! Not even a century! They have two whole babies on the immortal squad !!)

“The world is going to end on April 1st.” Five explains, looking deeply uncomfortable. And afraid. 

(And young. So very terribly young. He’s been thirteen-years-old for a long time. If these people are right - he’s going to remain thirteen until his immortality, what, wears off? Which could be literally thousands of years in the future?

He has family god damnit. He doesn’t want to outlive them. He just - he just wanted to see them again. To save them.)

And honestly why not. Five has already demonstrated teleportation. Time travel does explain his random popping into their lives via dreams. Why not? And let’s be real, they have way much more to lose by not believing him than believing him.

“Alright let’s stop an apocalypse.” Andy says, clapping her hands together.

“You’re going to help?” Five asks in a small voice, because he had sort of resigned himself to going at it alone.

“Give me the number for the eye.” Nile says kindly, “We have someone we could contact about that sort of thing, or at the very least who can keep an eye out for when it is manufactured and let us know.”

(RIP Copley when he realizes he has to deal with anything involving the Umbrella Academy. I am sure they were a very deep thorn in the governments side for a long time tbh)

“Who The Fuck Are All These People In Our Living Room.” Luther asks, Very Loudly, with Allison close behind.

And yeah. No one really knows how the fuck to answer that, let’s be real. What are they supposed to say? Hey, sorry for crashing, we’re here to lowkey kidnap your newly re-found brother because surprise! he’s immortal! Because that would go over so well.

Anyway, so the Old Guard squad are just there like,, trying to teach Five about his newfound immortality (at least he’s got good at the whole “fuck cameras” thing during his stint in the commission, though admittedly there were plenty of mission from pre-camera times. ah, the age before technology.) and also adopt him? because being immortal means family and family means no one gets left behind (or forgotten, hello Quynh)

(okay yeah they tried to put Booker in time out that one time but after a few years they were just sad and everyone was texting him anyway so now it’s just something they bring up at every opportunity. Joe wants the first turn in the bathroom? Booker, you betrayed him. He was a lab rat, Booker. And on and on until Booker throws up his hands and gives in. Yes, fine, you can have the bathroom first.)

And the Umbrella Academy usually would leave Five to his own devices but... look. Five might have vanished for seventeen years or whatever but he’s still their brother and they can be surprisingly territorial.

At least some people are getting along like a house on fire.

(“You were a crusader?” Klaus asks with wide eyes, “How does that even work?”

“What, being gay?” Nicky asks, tilting his head, “It’s fine. I have a permit.”

“A permit.”

“Mmhmm. From the Pope and everything.”

“I kind of want to be you when I grow up.”)

I can’t tell if things would go more smoothly or if the fuck ups would be even more epic in proportion. On the bright side, the apocalypse probably wouldn’t happen because Andy and Nile immediately clock Leonard-Harold’s serial killer vibes.

(Leonard realizes they’re onto him and tries to kill them which is a big mistake lmao, bye bye Leonard)

It probably ends up in an all out war against the Commission honestly, and the OG squad and the Umbrella Academy teaming up to destroy it.

(“How is this even going to work?” Allison asks at one point, gesturing at Five and the old guard.

“Shared custody?” Joe suggests brightly before doubling over because Five has pointy elbows and is not afraid to use them.)

Andy and Five probably go feral together at one point and it sure is something to behold. 

“Now that is a kid who understand what a signal is.” Booker admires after a particularly large explosion happens. Nile just nods along because yeah. 

(“How come you guys get to call Five a kid without being stabbed?” Klaus complains.

“He isn’t even a century old. I’m 250 and I was the youngest until Nile popped up.” Booker shrugs.

“We’re in our 950s.” Nicky says, “If little Cinque does not want to be called a kid he should have been born earlier.”

“How old is hot axe woman?” Klaus asks, absolutely enraptured.

They OG squad all exchange a look and just collectively shrug, “Old as balls.”

“Besides,” Booker says dismissively, “What’s he going to do about it? Kill us?”

and that ends that conversation)

(They also don’t discuss how young Five is. How young he was when he died. How that’s going to effect him all his life. How he’s going to be old in years, but he’s always going to be thirteen in the same way that Nile is stuck in her 20s. Sometimes it seems like the immortals are getting younger and younger in age and... it sucks.)

anyway just. Old Guard and Umbrella Academy shenanigans as they stop the apocalypse and try to look after the semi-feral teenager they have been saddled with and figure out what comes next

[beanieman]

Shinalice Tattoo And Flowershop AU: Shin Gets A Tattoo

(Their designs in this are from by the wonderful art @yttdie made that inspired me to write this fic. You should go check their art out, it’s so good!) 

Shin lingers outside the door to the tattoo parlor, clutching a bouquet to his chest. He's really going to do it. He's going to get his first tattoo. He's not sure if he's shaking from excitement or nerves as he enters the small parlor. It's the first one Shin's ever been inside. It's not at all the shady place movies depict them as. Abstract art lines, black walls, and Alice's colorful flowers are placed in a vase on the front desk. Next to the vase is a small bell with a sticky note reading "Ring Me!" attached. Shin takes notice that Alice's handwriting is surprisingly neat as he rings the bell.

"Coming!!!"

Alice pops his head out from a small room in the back, giving a wave and genuine grin when they lock eyes. It makes a heat rush to his face that Shin wasn't expecting. Today was an awful day to use a headband to push the hair away from his face. Now all his crimson blushes are on display for all to see. But Alice doesn't seem to notice as his eyes glint with recognition.

"Shin! Did you finally come to take me up on your offer? I remember it vividly! You gifted me flowers for free, and I'll repay my debt by giving you a discount on a tattoo!"

"So you remembered...I want to cash in on our deal. I brought more flowers for your shop. I was thinking they'd be a good reference for my tattoo."

He hands over the bright blue bouquet he was carrying while avoiding eye contact. Handing off flowers may be his job, but most of his clients aren't handsome tattoo artists.

He notices how tenderly Alice takes them like they could be made of glass. For a man who looks so intimidating, he's much more gentle than he looks.

"What are these called?"

"Forget me not's. Ahaha, I was thinking getting a cluster on the back of my hand would look cool..."

"We'll match in that case!"

Alice holds his hand out, showing again the daffodil-covered skull on the back of his hand. It was a big inspiration for him. He loved the way the tattoo looked under the cool blue lights of the flower shop. But for Alice to point it out so bluntly like that....it makes him a little flustered. It doesn't help when Alice puts his hand on his back to guide him over to a chair in the corner.

For a second, he gets so caught up in the euphoria of having an attractive man caress him that he forgets he's about to get a needle shoved into his skin.

But then Alice brings out the ink.

And reality hits.

This is going to be painful.

Looking around, he tries to find anything to distract him as the needle begins to buzz. His eyes land on Alice's muscular arms covered in tattoos. He has a sleeve with multiple sections. At the very top is ink with a deer's head laying on top of a flower bed. In the middle of his arm are chains surrounded by a wall of blue. And at the very bottom, a lone X that looks like it marks a treasure on a map. If nothing else, it's the perfect conversation starter.

"Do your tattoos have meaning?"

The needle is already touching his skin before Alice can respond. Bright colors explode under the tip as the flower begins to form. It's painful, but he tries to focus on Alice, whose eyes are narrowed steadily in unbreakable concentration.

"A few! The chains you see are to recall my time in a band of legends!! As a symbol of the end, I had the letter X tattooed when I departed from that very same band."

"And the deer?"

"They're majestic! Not every tattoo has to have meaning."

Alice's hand works with a speed Shin has never seen. He's grateful for it. His only goal going into this was to not pass out by the end. Which seems more reachable with how fast Alice works.

"What about your tattoo? Do these forget me not's have a meaning to you?"

"N-Not really. I just like flowers."

He gesture's to the tiny daisies plastered around his pale blue shirt as proof, but his words aren't entirely true. Forget me nots symbolize true love and respect. They're a promise that you'll never forget the receiver because of how deep your affection runs. The idea of someone caring that much for him one day... it's a nice thought. But to admit all that to an acquaintance? Not happening.

They banter back and forth for another hour. What he learns about Alice is he can make a conversation out of anything. Even seeing birds soaring out the window gets them on the topic of air travel. His charisma is admirable, but not more than his tattoo skills.

His pen flows quickly and steadily, producing thin lines that pop under the blue coloring. His bedside manner isn't bad either. Even with such an intense pain that pierces his hand, Alice keeps him distracted, making it easier to ignore. He makes it so easy to ignore, in fact, that when Alice proudly proclaims

"It's done!"

Shin can hardly believe his ears. He looks down at the ink that's now stained into his skin. He didn't get his hopes up for the final product, but...he loves it. It's everything he wanted it to be and more. Alice looks satisfied with the final product as well. He beams with pride at Shin's look of awe. He must see that look ten times a day, and yet he still looks thrilled at Shin's joy.

"Are you impressed, Shin? It's some of my finest work! Be proud to be adorned with my talent, mwahaha."

"Heh...looks really good, Alice. The flowers were a good trade….so about paying."

Alice looks down to Shin's newly tattooed hand and back to his face. He glances away and shrugs his shoulders casually.

"Consider it repayment for the flowers. You don't have to pay anything at all! Just leave a good review on our establishment page, please, and thank you."

"Eh?! Well, if you say so...Are you expecting more flowers to make up for the price?"

"W-Well, no, not at all. But perhaps we could get a coffee sometime? To make up for the difference. If you don't want to, don't worry yourself-"

For the second time today, he can't believe his ears. It almost sounds like...Alice is asking him out on a date. Surely he means as friends. Yea, that's all it is. Their places of business are side by side. Why wouldn't they want to get to know each other more? Not that he's opposed to treating it as a date...but no need to make assumptions.

"Uh, yeah-that sounds good! Ahaha, really good! Er...I should get your number…."

They exchange numbers with shaky hands. Both of them trying to look cool as they put the digits into their phone. Shin can feel how crimson his face is. He needs to get out of here before he does something stupid, "I need to get back to my shop. Flowers won't sell themselves. I'll text you later."

"Good luck on your ventures! I'll be searching for the best possible spot to find coffee in the meantime."

Shin turns to wave goodbye, only for the door to stop him as he runs face-first into the glass. A thumping sound echoes through the small shop as he stumbles back.

"Are you okay??"

"Yes!!"

He doesn't look back to see Alice's confused face as he darts to from the shop and back to his own. He's in such a hurry; he doesn't even see a woman dressed in black enter the parlor behind him.

But she distracts Alice's attention from his blunder, as she's a face he knows well.

"The hell? Was that the flower shop guy you wouldn't shut up about?" Alice feels heat rushing to his face at the call out. Okay, he might have a crush on the cute flower man next door. Sue him.

"Yes! Yes, it was."

[dreamescapeswriting]

Friendly Neighbourhood Boy ~ MYG [Request]

WORD COUNT: 2k

GENRE: Superhero AU, fictional universe, marvel characters mentioned, mentions of blood and angst

PAIRING: Yoongi x Reader

A/N: I made this take part in Hell’s Kitchen so I hope this is okay for you my love! Also Yes I know I’ve probably done a huge no no by mixing multiple marvel universes together lmao (Also yes NeighboUrhood cause I’m British 😅😂)

The walk from your apartment to the local corner shop seemed to be taking a lot longer than it normally would all of the roadblocks that were around the city were the ones to blame. 

"Excuse me," You mumbled as you made your way past Josie's bar, ignoring the catcalls from the drunk men that were finally picking themselves up from the bar and heading home for the day. Hell's Kitchen wasn't so bad as long as you knew how to look after yourself and stay out of the way of the wrong people. Keeping your head down you finally made it into the corner store, smiling as the small bell above the door sounded to let Yoongi know that you were there.

"Good morning Yoongi," You called out as you walk around, glancing over at him when you saw him sitting there with his eyes glued onto the screen anxiously. He was a 5''9 boy with dark black hair, always doing the same thing every day you went in there. Sitting on his laptop writing away or watching the news since it was the only channel the TV seemed to get. You didn't blame him for watching this morning though. There had been some bank robbery happening further into the city, the robbery was in the line of so many more that had been happening that week. The whole investigation had everyone on the edge of their seats, no one knew who was the one behind the bank robberies. Just that, whoever it was left everyone alive but not being able to remember anything. 

"Crazy isn't it?" You questioned after grabbing your usual cat food and bringing it to the counter, watching as Yoongi scanned it without taking his eyes off the screen. It was as if he didn't even know you were there, you giggled softly as you waited for him to realise someone was talking to him.

"Yoongles," As soon as your nickname for him caught his attention he turned to look at you and began stuttering, 

"I-I what?- I-I wasn't-" You giggled which made him blush deeply, rubbing the back of his neck as he tried to come up with some excuse as to why he had ignored you. 

"I said, it's crazy isn't it?" You nodded at the TV and he began nodding his head, turning it down so that he could talk to you about it. Over the years of living in Hell's Kitchen, you'd gotten to know Yoongi a lot and considered him to be one of your best friends. Whenever you worked a nightshift down the road he would always come back to walk you home, not wanting you to walk around Hell's kitchen at night by yourself. Everyone knew what on around here, it was no secret that people had "abilities" in and around Hell's kitchen. Even around the whole world. Half of the things you'd seen people would call you crazy for, a woman shorter than you beating someone up, ten times her size and putting him through a wall? You'd learnt to keep your mouth shut about the things you'd seen around you, easier than trying to explain anything to a policeman who didn't care. 

"Wanna know what I think?" You asked, jumping onto the counter and staring at the screen with Yoongi as you watched a reporter talking to the camera about the information the police had...Which was nothing. 

"What do you think?" Yoongi chuckled, sitting down on the counter beside you and handing you one of your favourite chocolate bars. You looked at him out of the corner of your eye and smiled, 

"Someone with special abilities has to be doing it, think about it...They always forget what happened, whoever it is that does this is in and out quickly...It's the only explanation." You waited to see if he would react to it, you'd known about Yoongi's powers for a while but you never said anything to him. If he really wanted you to know then he would have told you but there was one other thing you knew about him that no one else did. There was a local "hero" that went around at night saving people. Moved so quickly it was like a blur to everyone around him, you'd never have seen him if he hadn't stopped you from getting hit by a car on a walk home once. 

"Luke, I'm fine," You laughed as you drunkenly stumbled out of Josie's bar, ignoring the owner who was trying to convince you to let him take you home. If he did that you would have to make everyone else in the bar leave and you weren't going to ruin the fun. 

"Look-" You stood up straight and walked in a straight line, holding eye contact with Luke as you smiled proving to him that you were fine to walk home on your own and that you were at least...A little sober. 

"Fine. Text me when you're home," He grumbled in a thick deep voice and you nodded your head. 

"Yes, Father!" You rolled your eyes as you began to walk home. Deciding to take the main roads instead of all the alleyways where the cameras couldn't see you. At least this way if you were mugged or taken the cameras would be able to see what happened to you. 

"Hey, do you have a light?" A woman asked as she jumped from an alley, holding up an unlit cigarette staring at you as she repeated the question to you again but you shook your head. Feeling soberer now that she's practically scared the life out of you, 

"N-No I don't smoke-"

"LYING WHORE!" She lashed out, jumping at you and making you jump back into the road, everything happened so fast you could barely think about anything. There was a loud horn blaring out with bright lights shining in your eyes, you threw your hands up in front of your face bracing yourself for the impact that never came. 

"Y/n?" You heard a voice call out before you opened your eyes to see Yoongi standing beside you and smiling at you, 

"What-What?" You stuttered out as you turned around, the lady that had scared you was on the other side of the road to you and you and Yoongi were standing together. His arm around your waist as he looked at you, eyebrows raised as he smiled. 

"What's wrong?" He questioned innocently, pretending as though he hadn't just raced over to stop you from getting hit by an oncoming taxi and zooming you onto the other side of the road.

"I thought I was just-" You turned to look over the road again but Yoongi pulled you in the direction of your apartment, reminding you of how drunk you were and that he'd been walking with you the whole time. 

You knew the next day as soon as you saw Luke and he told you that you'd been alone when he saw you. Slowly things with Yoongi began to make sense, like how he would abruptly leave the store unattended sometimes whenever there was something on the news. Only for a boy, his height, his build with his hair to appear on the screens having saved the day from whatever it was this time. As Yoongi heard your theory you watched the colour drain from his face and he began shaking his head at you,

"N-No, not everyone with abilities is bad...It might just be some scum bag," You smirked to yourself as you paid for the can of cat food getting ready to leave when sirens went screaming past the shop. Yoongi's eyes lit up as he turned the volume up on the TV, 

"Police are in a high-speed chase with the suspect, everyone is warned to stay inside as he is believed to be armed and dangerous," Yoongi began bouncing his leg up and down as he tried to come up with some kind of fake excuse to give to you as to why he had to leave the shop. 

"I have to go make sure mum is safe at home-"

"I'll watch the shop, go." You cut him off, he smiled at you before walking out of the shop as calmly as possible but you knew as soon as he was out of sight he would be using his super-speed to get out of the streets and after the car.

"Make sure his mum is safe, who does he think I am?" You mumbled to yourself, sliding down off the counter and looking around for something that needed doing but settling for a magazine instead.

It was pitch black outside, you'd shut the shutters when Yoongi would normally close up and then locked the door, pulling the final shutter down and waiting inside for Yoongi to come back. The lights were all off except for a lamp in the office you were using to do a crossword in one of the newspapers. 

"Six letter word for Liar," You bit down on the pen as you began writing out Yoongi's name in the space and smirking to yourself, 

"Pretty good," You giggled to yourself stopping as soon as you heard a huge crash coming from the basement, you stood up and grabbed the bat that was inside of the office. Clutching onto it for dear life as you waiting for something else to happen, the door to the office swung open and Yoongi stood there. Drenched in sweat and blood as he moaned out, throwing himself down onto the chair not noticing you in the room. 

"Fuck sake Yoongi," You whined out, dropping the bat and grabbing the first aid kit right away. Yoongi's eyes widened as he stared at you, wide eyes as you began sitting down in front of him and cleaning him up without a word. 

"A-Aren't you going to ask how?" He stuttered out an hour later as he watched you burning the bloody bandages and tissues and then turning to look at him.

"I already know-how, you went after the bank robber didn't you, quicksilver?" You smirked as you said his name that the tabloids had given to him recently, giggling when you saw a huge blush appear on his face and he began to stumble over his words. 

"I wasn't as drunk as you thought that night you stopped me getting hit by a cab...Thank you by the way," You smiled at him as he began to get ready to leave the shop with you, shutting and locking the back entrance door as you both headed out into the alleyway. 

"If you knew why didn't you tell me?" You shook your head at him and shrugged your shoulders, 

"I figured if you wanted me to know, you would have told me Yoongi." You both began walking out of the alleyway and in the direction of your apartment building,

"Why did you think I was always so welcoming to look after the shop? You had big hero things to do," You giggled to him as you began to quiz him on everything he could tell you about his life. 

When you reached your apartment door you turned to look at him,

"I don't know how I'm going to make it up to you for keeping my secret and helping with the shop," You smiled at his comment and shook your head at him, 

"Well, there's one thing..." You started slowly as he turned his head to look at you, nodding along. 

"Make it up to me...Over dinner? This weekend?" You smirked as soon as you saw Yoongi blushing and he began nodding his head vigorously, 

"Y-Yeah yeah! That sounds-" He bumped into a table in the hallway knocking over a glass vase but he caught it, 

"That sounds great! I'll pick you up! I'll see you Saturday," You giggled as you watched him trying to walk away from the hall but kept bumping into stuff. 

"Hey, Yoongi?" He turned around as he reached the elevators and you giggled once again, 

"I'll see you in the morning when I come in for my cat food." He blushed once again and you giggled watching as he got into the elevator, never taking his eyes off you.

Tagline: @lyoongx @mitzwinchester @rjsmochii @fan-ati--c @kneel-begyourpardon @taestannie​ @bisexualmess007​ @sweeneyblue1​ @sw33tnight​ @jin-from-the-block​

[dancingazaleas]

jean kirstein | supportive

so this was completely self indulgent. i also wrote this because i’m tired of reading really unrealistic writings of what having a depressed lover is like and how you should take care of them. i’ve been diagnosed with MDD, so i’m just getting tired of seeing misrepresentation for it. i tried to make the reader as neutral as i could, i apologize if i couldn’t. also i don’t feel like using capital letters, i apologize. also sorry the spacing is weird, i originally wrote this when i was half asleep on my notes and just copied and pasted. i have a lot to apologize for.

notes/warnings: depressed reader, mentions of s3lf harm, cursing, reader & jean are 18, slight angst, pure fluff

“(name)... (name).... babe? c’mon, i need ya to wake up for me,” a voice you recognize says as they knock on your bedroom door.

you stumble over the clothes in your room and over to your bedroom door, struggling to open it. despite said struggles, you do manage to open the door. and you end up scurrying back to your messy, and comfortable bed.

jean walks in, one hand holding onto the strap of his backpack and the other holding onto a plastic bag with stuff that smells like snacks. he’s got a soft smile that instantly shifts into shock, disgust, and then into a frown.

your room was a mess. you hadn’t cleaned it since the start of your depressive episode, the same for yourself. you left the trash of fast food bags, unfinished sodas, and crumbled up bags of cheese-it’s. the fact you had been farting in your room and wouldn’t leave the door open to air it out made the smell worse.

he opens his arms, giving you the decision of if you wanted a hug or not, to which you accept. you’re cuddling your face into his chest, and you’re absolutely positive that you rank of BO and greasy hair. he doesn’t joke about anything yet though, he knows not to.

“you okay,” he’s so quiet, you barely hear him.

you respond with a shaky mumble, “no. sorry if i worried you.”

he pulls away and shakes his head at the claim you’ve just made.

“you didn’t mean to. it’s okay,” he kisses your forehead.

“have you eaten today?”

you think a little before you answer, “not much... haven’t eaten since lunch.”

“okay, i got us some snacks if you feel up to it. do you want to start cleaning your room before or after you eat,” he kicks off his shoes—he always waits until he’s in your room since he spends most of his time there.

“after, my stomach might feel fucked if i eat before. even though i’m not really the one cleaning,” you groan, going back under your covers.

“wanna talk about why you’re upset before or after we eat?” he’s tugging the covers off of your body, he knows you’ll try going back to bed.

“before. i’ll get hungry after crying.”

“okay,” it goes silent for a moment, and then, “i love you.”

“i love you too. thank you, and... sorry if i don’t seem appreciative of this, i don’t know what to say other than thank you.”

“i know you appreciate it. anyways, i’m gonna start picking up some of your clothes and maybe some of the sodas. wanna get in the shower while i do that?”

“yea. if you need to air out my room, open the window. close the door while you clean, don’t like my mom knowing you’re cleaning for me,” you sigh, getting out of bed and walking to your dresser to get underwear, a shirt, and shorts.

“okay. don’t miss me too much,” he’s suddenly hugging you from behind, and it makes you think he’s the one who will miss you. his stubble is tickling you a little as he rests his head on your shoulder, he just started growing it out.

you turn your head a little to look at him, taking notice of how long his hair was starting to get. he’d be turning 19 next year and would soon be getting an apartment with you.

and dear god, you were so ready for that to happen. you hate living with your mother.

“i love you,” you whisper to him once again, and for once your mind feels at peace for just a moment.

“i love you more,” he kisses your clothed shoulder and smiles.

“let me go shower so i can stop smelling like shit,” you chortle a little, grabbing a ‘Queen’ shirt—which used to be jean’s but you’ve stolen it—and some shorts.

he rolls his eyes, but obliges and lets you walk out of your room into the bathroom. you try avoiding the mirror as you get naked but it proves to be pointless when you catch a glimpse of a pimple. you almost want to kill jean for not pointing it out, but you know it would only hurt your feelings. you’ll take care of that after you shower.

he’s putting your clothes in the laundry hamper when you’re coming back into the room with the ones you just had on. he takes them from you and you started putting on deodorant and do your hair routine. you’ve taken care of your skin in the bathroom.

jean’s turning on your TV and pulls out a can of cold (favorite soda), placing it next to your hand on your—now—clear vanity.

“thank you,” you smile a little, wanting to laugh at how he’s standing behind you and watching intently.

“‘m almost done, jean.”

“did you brush your teeth? i don’t want to be in a comfortable snuggle position only for you to get up to brush your teeth,” he ignores the comment you’ve made.

“oh shit, no. thanks for reminding me. i haven’t brushed them in a couple days,” you sigh, scurrying off to the bathroom again and jean decides to pull out the vacuum he knows you keep in your closet.

he plugs it in and started vacuuming the best he can, and as he does so his mind shifts to levi. ‘i hang out with him too much...,’ he thinks to himself as he turns the vacuum off to see if the filter is clean.

you walk back in, “what the hell are you doing?”

“vacuuming,” he says nonchalantly, squatting a little to see if he got the floor under your vanity.

you laugh again, “i’m sorry. you don’t gotta do that.”

“i know. just wanted to,” he shrugs, unplugging it from the outlet and wrapping it back up.

you jump onto your bed, which now has clean sheets because of jean, and scoot toward the wall. jean closes your window and grabs your drink and scoots in behind you. he puts your drink onto the nightstand—his is already on it—and shuffles awkwardly to lay behind you.

“you wanna talk about it,” he asks, leaning on an elbow and looking at you.

“yeah...”

“whenever you’re ready, babe,” he takes ahold of your hand and kisses it.

“so, like, other than the shit about my mom i told you about, i don’t know. i don’t know what’s wrong, and i had that urge to just hurt myself. it scared me so bad. and what scares me is that i almost acted on it. like, am i okay? what the fuck is going on with me?? a-and i just kept pretending to be sick to my mom so i didn’t have to go to fucking school,” you start off slowly and start to cry as you think about what caused jean to come here, which was the abrupt disappearance of your presence at school.

“you’re okay. and i am so incredibly proud of you for not giving into the urge to harm yourself and for messaging me. unfortunately, you can’t avoid school until may. i need your dumbass to graduate,” you both giggle a little.

“i just.... i feel so bad about worrying everyone at school. like i didn’t mean to, but i fucking did. eren’s so fucking pissed at me right now, i just fucking know he is. god, i just want to be happy,” you sob and jean rubs your arm with his thumb to help soothe you a little.

“eren’s just pissed because he’s worried, but that doesn’t give him an excuse to be an ass towards you. you’ll be happy, my love, i know you will. you’ve just got to wait—let me finish—and i know you’ve been waiting for a long time, but it won’t just happen overnight y’know,” he smiles with an eyebrow raised at the end, nudging you with his elbow a little.

“maybe start being nicer to yourself, huh? you’re absolutely gorgeous, and i love you just the way you are, but my opinion shouldn’t matter. the only opinion on yourself that should matter is your own. and try speaking up more when floch and ymir hurt your feelings on accident,” jean tells you while he draws patterns into your skin with his fingers.

“it doesn’t feel like that, y’know? and like—i don’t want to be selfish or hurt anyone else or worry anyone else, cause what if that hurts them?”

he shakes his head, “babe, when it comes your own happiness, you’ve gotta be selfish sometimes. and calling floch and ymir out won’t hurt their feelings, sure, they’ll be a little pissy about it for a second but then apologize. it’s not like you’re telling them they’re cunts and to go fuck themselves. also, everyone will understand you being selfish in order to be happy. it might hurt or piss someone off in the moment when you make an action that’s selfish but in the long run, they’ll understand. and if they don’t, they’re a fucking doucher. answer this one question i’ve got for you.”

“okay...?”

“at the end of the day, who’re you gonna have?”

“myself...?”

jean starts nodding rapidly, reaching over to wipe snot off your face, “you’re going to have yourself at the end of the day. preferably, i’d like to say myself, but there are going to be times where i hurt your feelings unintentionally or where you’re pissed at me, and that’s okay. you’ve gotta start being selfish and i know it’s hard, but i promise you it’ll be so rewarding in the end.”

you sniffle a little and nod while you listen.

“and about being sad in general without provocation. it happens. it’s okay to be sad sometimes babe, it’s a normal human emotion and it just means you’re living correctly. but if you’re sad because of nothing for weeks on end, then maybe it’s time to try to do something. it’s okay to ask for help. maybe talk to your mom about increasing the dosage of your anti-depressants and going back to therapy?”

“i don’t know how.”

“you could write her a letter and tape it somewhere you know she’ll look. if you can’t talk about it face-to-face, write that in the letter,” you nod again at him, quietly asking for a hug.

he responds by just giving it, and hums happily.

“i love you so much,” he whispers, squeezing you tighter.

“i love you too,” you laugh and whisper at the same time.

jean knows this isn’t going to immediately make you happy, but sometimes what you need is to just be reminded that it’s okay to feel this way and that in the end it’ll all be okay. and for right now, that’s all you really need.

[sopeyb23-blog]

Love Language

*not my Gif

*I do not own any CM characters

Summary: reader thinks about how their relationship with Spencer  has evolved through touch!

Warnings: talk of past drug use, crying, angst i guess, but mostly fluff

word count: 2.2 K

A/N: this was pretty fun to write, it is mostly little flashback scenes and I love doing those. I did this after seeing  @veraiconcos​‘s writers challenge and thought that was super cool, all of her things are amazing so definitely check out her blog!

enjoy!!

~~~~~~~~~~~

Spencer Reid's love language was never touch. I suppose the burden of all his knowledge is knowing exactly the amount of germs passed by a single touch, and which of those germs are alive, and which could get him sick, and which sickness could take root, and, well you get the point. When I first started at the BAU Spencer still seemed to me like a shy little kid. We were the same age, I like to tell him at least once a day, I'm actually a full month older than him. I think that's one of the many reasons that him and I became friends so fast. My first friend was of course, JJ. After all she is very close in age to me and Spencer, and is one of the first contacts I had with the BAU. She told me before I had met any of the team, that Spencer was, well, different. She made sure to warn me that he doesn't mean anything by his little actions of avoidness. It's just his way of keeping himself safe. This I understood. 

The first time I was formally introduced to the team was much before I joined. The interview process is understandably long, they need to know a person before just throwing them in. After all, these people spend more time together working cases then they do in their own homes. -

“Hi, i’m Y/N , the new agent here” I shook the hands of everyone on the team but Spencers, remembering what JJ had told me. To him I smiled and gave a little wave.

“The number of pathogens that can be passed from a-” Spencer after seeing me wave to him began to do just what I suspected. When confronted with an uncomfortable situation, he began to hide behind his wall of facts.

“It's actually much safer to kiss” I continued for him and the look on his face was priceless.

“Yeah, yes, exactly.” A rose colored blush crept up onto his cheeks as he smiled at me.

“Oh great, now there's two of them” Morgan laughed at us before JJ pulled them away for another case.

The first time I saw someone actually touch Reid was when they returned home from the Tobias Hankle case. It hurt me to see Spencer (now my friend of almost four months) so absolutely traumatized. He would never say this to me or anyone else for that matter, but even at the time he came home, he was still feeling the effects of the drugs he was given.-

“Here they come, here they come” Anderson walked over to me as the team approached the glass doors of the BAU. I was surprised to see that Spencer was with them. I had assumed they would have taken him straight home, or maybe to the hospital.

“Welcome back, I'm glad you're alive, Reid,”  he barely opened his eyes and nodded at me before sitting down in his desk chair. I waved JJ over to me.

“How bad?” she sighed and gave me the classic worried mom look we always tease her for.

“Very. I didn't think I would ever see him like this”

“Im so sorry JJ. do you think he’ll be okay?”

“Honestly, I don't know, but i'm going to drive him home, maybe if i'm lucky I can convince him to let me take him to the hospital. I'll call you, okay?”

It worried me even more to know that JJ too, was aware of how badly he was hurt. She turned her back to me and grabbed her coat from her office before going to Spencer's desk. From where I was standing I could just barely make out what she was saying.

“Spence, come on, let's get you out of here”

“JJ I have paperwork to do” he sounded dazed, like he wasn't really sure where he was.

“Its okay Spence, I’m sure Morgan wouldn't mind a few extra” 

She gingerly took the files from his hand and helped him sling his satchel over his shoulder. Then, it happened. As they walked out of the room he stumbled. Just a little. Barely enough for anyone else to notice, but I was watching the two of them so carefully as they left I couldn't help but take an involuntary step towards them. JJ took a firm hold of his arm, and put her other free hand on his back. I could see him flinch for just a second, and then, his body relaxed into her and he let her guide him from the room.

After that night I became a full member of the team. Spencer didn't take any time off. He never went to the hospital, although Penn, JJ, and I tried countless times to get him to. After that night when he let JJ help him, when he let her touch him, he never seemed to be overly bothered by a handshake every once and awhile. The first time I touched him was still a while after that, I think my 15th case in the field. -

“Spencer it wasn't your fault.” He looked at me through his black rimmed glasses with a sad and blank expression.

“Then why would he address it to me?”  this whole case I knew something was wrong. After Gideon had not shown the first time, JJ told me that he had resigned, but at that point Spence still hadn't told anyone about the letter.

“Because he knew that you needed to hear the news from him. Not from JJ, or me, or Hotch, or anyone else. There's nothing you could have done to convince him to stay Spence, he's even more stubborn than you are”

I paused to observe him in the dark silence of the jet. I brought my hand to his arm tentatively but when he relaxed and seemed comfortable with the touch, I gave it a little squeeze and smiled at him. -

Now, after Gideon had left I knew it. I had a crush on Spencer Reid. This came as no surprise at all to JJ or Penelope, but to me, it was quite the shock. He had now become comfortable with the little touches of assurance that I gave him often. More comfortable even than with JJ or Morgan. Sometimes I noticed he would even reciprocate the gesture. When he noticed I was tired or stressed or just having a bad day, he would put a hand on the crook of my elbow and give it a little squeeze. Just like I did that night on the jet. To other people this seems like nothing. But to me, and to him as well, this was everything. 

When Spencer stayed in Vegas to investigate his father, JJ left. JJ as Spence and I’s best friend, is always a source of comfort and a safe haven in the stormy darkness that is our lives. When she left she pulled me aside away from Spencer and put a hand on her swollen belly. -

“ Y/N , I need to take care of Spence for me, okay?” I chuckled.

“JJ, of course, what do you think I’m here to do?” she looked at me with a deadpan stare.

“That's not what I mean. You know what was happening with him after Tobias right?” I nodded, the memories of his mood flashes, and anger, and sadness all coming to the forefront of my mind.

“he‘s going to need you to make sure that he doesn’t do anything stupid. Not Morgan, not Rossi, not Hotch, you. You are the only person on this team- in this world-. That he trusts right now. And you are the only person that could talk him off of that ledge.”

“I promise, JJ. I’ll keep him safe” She nodded at me but the worried expression on her face remained. -

JJ was worried for good reason as it turned out. I kept a close eye on Spencer as we looked into his past. The boys were all there to focus on the case. To solve what was in front of them. I was there more to focus on Spencer. There was one night. The night after we found his father, something in my brain just told me it was not going to be a good night for him. There was something in the coloring of his face, the way his posture was collapsed and the circles around his eyes were so dark, it told me all that I needed to know. -

I walked out into the hallway of our hotel and stopped in front of Spencer's door. The others were all asleep, and it was nearing one in the morning. But something told me that he needed my help right now. JJ’s voice in the back of my head reminded me that I needed to help him, I was the only one who could help him. I knocked three times on his door softly. I waited a minute before knocking again, with a little more force, and I heard some shuffling in the room before the door opened.

“ Y/N? What are you doing?” I walked inside the room without an invitation and sat down on the foot of his bed. The sheets were undisturbed and he was still in his work clothes though the tie was draped over a chair in the corner and his shoes were by the door.

“Talk to me” I looked up from my hands and continued.

“I don't mean, about the case, or your dad. I mean about you. I need you to convince me that you are okay”

“Who says I'm not?”  I rolled my eyes at him and gestured to the chair across from me.

“I do. And as one of your best friends, your closest colleague, and someone who likes you, a lot. I think that should mean something to you” the last part slipped out a little fast and completely without me thinking of the repercussions.

“You like me?” he gave a faint smile that I could only partially see in the dimly lit hotel room.

“Yes, but that's not the point right now, we’re talking about you not me '' I brushed off his comment but I couldn't help the smile and blush that came across on my face.

“Im struggling” his voice broke a little when he said it and it broke my heart to see him in such pain. 

I walked over to the chair he was sitting in and pulled him up by the hand.

“I'm going to hug you now. Is that okay?”

His partial nod was good enough for me. -

I got him through that night. I talked him off the ledge that JJ had warned me of. And she was right. I was the only one who could have done that. When we came back from Las Vegas, although neither of us had said a word, something changed between us. We were more than just friends now, we both knew that, but beyond that, we weren't really sure what we were. He would call me when he needed someone to talk him down, I would call him when I needed someone to talk me down. I would show up at his apartment any hour of the day to help him, and I knew that he would do the same. One of those nights when it just so happened that the both of us needed a little talking down after a hard case, I drove myself over to his apartment to find him on the couch crying.

To see him crying was something that my tired, and broken heart couldn't take. I threw myself next to him on the couch and pulled him into a hug, no questions asked.

“I needed that.” I said as soon as I lifted my head from his shoulder. 

“Me too” we were both still crying, but there was something about the atmosphere that had changed. We weren’t alone anymore. We spent hours like that, sitting there, my head on his shoulder, his arm around my back, not saying a word, just collecting ourselves as best we could. At some point in the night I looked over at the clock: 2:45 am

He looked to the clock as well and then over to me, and with a single tear streaming down his face he looked at me and said,

“If I asked you to stay, would you?” I wiped the tear from his cheek.

“You don't even need to ask”  he brought both of his hands to my cheek and pulled me into what I think is the most passionate kiss I have ever received.

That night told us both what we had become. It was no longer little arm touches or calls in the middle of the night. It was waking up to him beside me, seeing his hair ruffled from sleep and his eyes clouded by exhaustion. It was the little worried kisses he gave me in the field and the little squeal of happiness that Penelope made when I told her we were moving in together. 

When I first met Spencer I wondered to myself if he would ever be comfortable with touch. But now as his sleeping body lays next to me and instinctually pulls me in closer, I know that there was never any reason to worry. Because even before, when the most contact I would get was arm touches in the midst of a panic, it was enough. It helped me learn that although not everyone wants or shows grand gestures. There are other ways, sometimes even better ways to say, I love you.

[movedbl0g]

Soulmates - alexa

genre: soulmates!au, angst/comfort, fluff?, genderneutral!reader, reader x female character

Warnings: negative thoughts/self talk

Words: 1,695k

Requested by @roaringtwentys

A/N: i’m sorry that it took me so long to write this but i hope you’ll enjoy this fanfic!!

Feel free to let me know what you think about the fanfic and have fun reading :DD

————————————

Only a few more minutes and you‘ll turn eighteen. Your heart was bumping really fast and you nervously checked your wrist every few seconds waiting for the tattoo to finally show up.

All of your friends already turned eighteen, tattoos with the name of their soulmates marking their wrists and even some of them already found their soulmate after recognizing the name on their body or finding them through their names.

Only a few seconds were left and your eyes didn’t leave your wrist. You held your breath out of excitement, hoping the name that‘ll appear will be the one you were hoping for. You were pretty sure that it was your your best friend, or let’s say you really hoped that it was your best friend. She already turned eighteen a month ago, but you both made a promise to look at it together when you both turn eighteen, so you talked over facetime, waiting impatiently for the clock striking midnight.

The friendship between you and your bestfriend Lin was pretty close and you‘d be lying if you‘d say that you didn’t have any feelings for her. All the years you already spent together, countless sleepovers and adventures, the two of you growing closer and closer, sharing some of your deepest secrets and enjoying some of the best moments in your life together.

The only thing that was different between the two of you was that Lin always jumped from relationship to relationship, never really finding the right one, while you never even had a relationship before.And you couldn’t help but believe that those relationships didn’t work out because she tried to escape her feelings for you and that those relationships just weren’t meant to be.

Together with Lin, you counted down the last seconds. Five...four...three...two..one...and your eyes immediately spotted the name on your wrist, the letters written cursively and small, making it hard to see from a distance. But as you read the letters that marked your skin, you completely froze, your heart suddenly stopped beating and your eyes were furrowed in confusion as you read the name again and again,but you just couldn’t believe it. It wasn’t Lins name, but neither it was from someone you knew.

You’re eyes started filling with tears. You couldn’t believe that your emotions tricked you. You were so incredibly sure, so incredibly convinced that she was the one,but all of your hopes and daydreams were broken in one second. How the hell was that possible. You couldn’t imagine feeling closer to another person than Lin and it felt like there never would be anyone as close as Lin.

A worried “Y/N??” interrupted your thoughts from circling in your head, your friend worriedly looking at you through the screen.

“Look who i got!”, she said while happily showing her tattoo to the camera, trying to lift you up, but in that moment, it just made things worse. You weren’t the one on her wrist and she doesn’t seem to be bothered at all. You felt incredibly stupid. Stupid for believing that she would be the one on your wrist, stupid for thinking that she had feelings for you too, stupid for thinking that you were on her wrist. All of this was just stupid.

“Which name did you get??” Lin asked with excitement, her eyes looking curiously at you.

You took a deep breath, trying to hide the pain in your voice. “Actually”, you started speaking,” i never heard of this name before...”

Your friend looked at you, her eyes glancing in excitement “so who is it??what does it say??”

“Alexandra Christine Schneidermann”

—————

Time skip

A day has passed and you still weren’t in the right space to talk with Lin, you ignored her texts and didn’t pick up when she called. You didn’t even have the energy to get out of bed, not knowing what to believe anymore because your emotions betrayed you and the strong feeling you had was completely wrong. You kept thinking about the name on your wrist, questioning if you did something wrong and thinking that that was the reason for having someone else’s name on your wrist.

It already was late in the afternoon when you finally decided to get out of your bed and went for a walk, trying to clear you head. When you walked along the streets, a cold breeze passed by, making you shiver a little bit. It was early spring, the sun was shining through the green trees and the fields you passed by were covered in flowers, but the wind was still cold and some clouds covered the sky.

Before you returned home, you wanted to get something to warm up a little bit, so you mindlessly walked through the streets until you spotted a small cafe. The typical coffee smell entered your nose as soon as you entered through the door, a bell ringing as you entered.

You overheard a little conversation from the few people that sat in the cafe while a cozy warmth spread in your body. You walked up to the counter and scanned the menu, until you finally decided on your drink. You walked up to the counter and ordered your drink, receiving it shortly after.

As you wanted to walk up to an empty seat you bumped into something all of the sudden, your drink spilling everywhere. As you looked up you saw a shocked woman in front of you, completely frozen and mouth wide open.

“Are you okay??”, you asked while reaching your hand out to help her up.

“Yeah, don’t worry, I’m fine, nothing happened and it’s my fault anyway, i’m really sorry I just wasn’t paying attention at all and I-“ she started stumbling nervously while shaking away some of the dust from her pants with her hands.

“Don’t worry it’s alright” you reassured her, laying one of your hands on her shoulder in order to calm her down a bit. Your eyes flew over her body and you only noticed now that she was really small. Besides that she was dressed very cutely, with her brown hair braided back,some strands already hanging around loosely, her minimalistic pink make up and a light pink tint on her lips making her look even more cute.

There was an awkward silence for a second,before the eyes of the woman fell onto your drink, seeing that it was spilled everywhere in the floor.

“Oh my god!! I’m really sorry about your drink it’s spilled everywhere and-“

“It’s fine” you reassured her once again, but she eagerly shook her head. “Come and let me buy you a new one” she said and started to drag you towards the counter before you could say anything and not that much later you had a new drink and you both sat together on a table, talking about the most random things and whatever came to your minds.

You only met her about an hour ago, but something made you feel extremely safe around her, there was nothing awkward, no bad feeling. You didn’t hesitate to tell her about all the things you like to do, sharing some of your childhood stories and even mentioning Lin.

After you told a story about when you and Lin build a treehouse together, her facial expressions dropped and she seemed to be a little bit tensed all of the sudden.

“That girl Lin” she asked “is she your soulmate?”

“No” you answered after a short pause,the word hardly leaving your tongue. “At first i thought so, but i guess i was completely wrong with that” you continued to speak while fidgeting with the straw of your drink.

An “Oh” formed on the woman’s lips and she nodded her head understandingly.

“To be honest” she spoke up after a while “I’m not all to sure about that soulmate stuff...i feel like everyone forgets about the people they value once their soulmate is revealed..they all go crazy searching for their soulmate and a lot of them just forget about the rest...but in my opinion it doesn’t matter if I’m somebody’s soulmate or not - what matters are the memories you create together, having good times together, soulmates or not”

You took a second to think about the words she just said and the more you thought it the more you realized that she was right. Even tho Lin isn’t your soulmate, you still have her as an amazing friend, you still have all the memories with her. And even if it’s not in a romantic way, you can still be together as friends and your emotions would probably sort themselves out with time.

You looked at the phone and saw all of the notifications and missed calls from Lin on your phone and all of the sudden you felt really bad for her. It probably would be the best if you told her about your emotions and explained your situation.

“I think i have to go and clear up some things” you said while standing up from your seat. “But i think i was really lucky to meet you, you really helped me out a lot, you know”, you said while giving her a big smile.

“No problem, i mean i somehow owed you something anyway for spilling your drink. And besides that, it felt really nice to talk to you and I’m more than happy to help you out”, she said while giving back an even bigger smile.

“Maybe we can meet again sometime,....uhmmm...i totally forgot to ask about your name” you realized.

“Oh yeah,i totally forgot! My name is Alexandra, but you can just call me Alex” she said while she held her hand out in order to shake your hand as a goodbye.

You took her hand and shook it tightly. “My name is y/n by the way!!” you shouted over to her ,before you walked out of the cafe.

You almost were back in your apartment, when it finally hit you. Could that be? Could that really be her? You rolled up the sleeve of your shirt, scanning your wrist for the name of your soulmate. And there it was. Alexandra. Alexandra Christine Schneidermann.

Was that the reason you felt so close? Was all of that meant to be? Was that really her? Only one day ago you felt like you never would meet someone and would be closer to them as Lin, but the warmth, the safeness you felt around her today was so intense, that you only realized now, that you only had met today.

This time you were 100% sure. She must be the one. The way she completed you just felt so right.

Alexandra Christine Schneidermann, your Soulmate.

~ the end

🖤masterlist

[cucumbers-and-olives]

Coffee shops and cliches

Or, this idiot writer is on hiatus but felt obligated to write something.

Summary: “slow burn” coffee shop au

Category: coffee shop au! ☕️

Fandom: JATP

Paring: Julie x Flynn

Word Count: 1.4k

Warnings/Includes: tad bit of cursing, luke’s an ass

A/N: this is for the @jatpsecretvalentine event! shoutout to @screwunsaidemily for organizing this! i and so much fun!

@flynnsmolinas this is for you! happy valentine’s day! 💛

Mandatory Thanking of the Betas: ha ha! i did this on my own! no betas but me

AO3 link here (it’ll be up after my hiatus)

Please don’t repost my work without my permission, in part or whole. My work can also be found on AO3 under the same username. Thank you!

“Hi, what can I get for you?” Julie said, looking at the person who had just walked up to her register. Her coffee shop, Good Times, brought in all kinds of customers. It was the perfect mix of all the good things a coffee shop should be.

“Uh, just a large coffee please.” The girl said as she dug through her small backpack.

“Of course! That’ll be 5 dollars,” As the girl looked up at her, Julie blushed. She didn’t think she had ever seen anyone prettier in her life.

“You okay?” She said, placing $5 in Julie’s outstretched hand. If you asked Julie, she would have sworn that at that moment, she had felt sparks.

Snap out of it, Molina! Julie told herself. “Uh, yeah, could I get a name?” She grabbed her sharpie and a cup as the girl spoke.

“Flynn.”

Flynn.

~

Flynn came into the shop at the same time after that. Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, and Saturdays. As Julie worked her shift, she would come in at exactly 3 in the afternoon. The small table in the corner of the shop was her favorite. Julie had watched her the first week she came in, as she tried different tables.

She tried the table in the far corner of the shop once, and Julie made up an excuse about how the shop needed to be swept so she could look at the stunning girl.

But now, it was 3. And then 4 came, and 5. Flynn still wasn’t here.

“Do you think she’s okay? She always comes in at exactly this time, she has to be okay. Right?” Julie said, looking at Reggie. Reggie was one of the many aspiring musicians in LA, and sometimes, his band would play at the cafe. They would bring in a huge crowd of girls, and Julie didn’t mind the band.

“I’m sure she’s okay,” Reggie promised his boss. “She could be caught in traffic, or she doesn’t want coffee today.”

“Yeah…” Julie said, turning to the register as Reggie’s bandmate walked up. “Luke, what can I get you?”

“Two things,” the flirtatious boy said. “Your number, and Mr.Reginald.”

“Magic word?” Julie said, her focus pulling away as the bell at the front of the shop.

Flynn was huffing and puffing, her hair was wild and all over the place, but her one constant. Her backpack.

“Please,” Luke said, drawing Julie’s attention back.

“Reg! Luke’s asking for you!” She turned to the boy, her smirk matching his. “And as for my number Luke, you’ll have to order something to get it.” Julie turned to Reggie, who was emerging from the back of the shop.

“Okay, you need to get your boy out of the shop, he knows he’s not supposed to be here. Especially after your last concert.” Reggie rolled his eyes as you spoke, but when he saw Flynn, his eyes lit up.

“I’m always here if Julie fails you,” He hollered as he dragged Luke out by his ear.

Julie sighed. “I- I am so sorry about, well, that,” She said, but nothing could hide that she was now a stuttering, flustered mess after seeing Flynn.

“Oh, don’t worry about it, boys suck,” She fiddled with her fingers a bit. “So if I order something, I can get your number?” Julie was surprised at her words.

“Uh,” She froze for a second as she processed. “Well, I- I guess you’ll have to wait and see.”

“Oh, well, can I get whatever your largest size is, and your most caffeinated drink with two extra shots of espresso?” Flynn asked.

“Are you okay?” Julie said, looking at the girl with the most caring look in the world.

“Yeah, I’ve got an essay due at 11:59, an essay I haven’t started, and- and it’s worth 60% of my final grade.”

“Alright then, our largest size is an X-L, and it’s like about this big,” Julie held her hands up to show something that was 2 times bigger than the large. “And as for most caffeine, if you add two shots to a macchiato, that gives me the boost I need to get through doing taxes,” Julie let out a small laugh.

“That would be great, actually,” She smiled. “Uh, how much?” Flynn said, pulling out her wallet.

“Oh, this is on the house! Don’t worry about it,” Julie said. “You got any music selections you’d like us to play? Music helps me get through anything, so if you want-”

“Everybody talks.” Flynn blurted out.

“I love that song! Okay, I will have your drink and the song playing, in about 5 minutes!”

Flynn gave an appreciative smile and walked over to her table. The one in the corner.

~

“Alrighty, one caramel macchiato with two extra shots, a blueberry muffin, and Everybody Talks. Can I get you anything else?”

Flynn took a sip of the coffee. “This is perfect, thank you.”

“Of course!” A smile rested on Julie’s face as she walked back to her station. She anxiously pulled out her phone and checked it for any texts.

“Julie!” Luke shouted, bursting through the door. Reggie was close behind him, trying to stop the boy.

“If you are going to be this loud, I’ll ban Sunset Curve from playing here, got it?” She stared the boy down.

“Okay but, Reggie told me about the coffee girl. Ya know, the one who orders a large black coffee every other day at 3?”

“Where are you going with this?” Julie sighed, annoyed, and desperately trying to stop him from saying anything more.

“Well,” He stumbled towards her. “You like her!” Julie started to protest to his statement, but her flustered face betrayed her. “Ha! I was right!” He shouted in victory.

“Luke,” Reggie said, in a warning tone.

“What? Is coffee girl here?” He gazed around the shop. “Reggie said she always sits at table 2B. I don’t know what that means, but he also said that she came in late today.” He spun around, his eyes landing on the table where Flynn was working on her essay.

Her eyes and face said it all. She had heard everything.

“Luke, get the hell out of my shop,” Julie said quietly.

He raised his hands and nodded to Flynn. “She never would have told you anyway.”

The shop was quiet for a moment after Luke left. Julie walked over to the music tablet and clicked on everybody talks.

At least music could fill the silence.

~

Flynn didn’t come to the shop for two weeks after that.

Julie didn’t receive any new texts.

~

She wanted someone by her side that day. Opening up the shop, it felt like an opportunity had passed by. I should have written my number on that cup, fuck. Julie didn’t curse, and she tried to stay away from people who did, but she felt so dumb.

Hanging up the last heart, she stepped back to her station, fiddling with everything as she prepared for the morning’s rush.

“Can you believe it’s already Valentine’s day?” Someone said, clearly in a call as they entered the shop. “It’s like the year has gone by so fast already.”

“What can I get for you?” Julie asked. They held up a finger as they wrapped up their conversion.

“Oh, I’m just the messenger. Are you Julie?” She nodded. “Okay great! This,” They pulled a letter out of their pocket and placed it on the counter. “Is for you. Good luck!”

“Uh, thanks?” Julie said as they left.

~

It was a busy Saturday, so it wasn’t until 4 hours later that Julie was able to open the letter.

“Dear Julie. Want to see where this leads? Follow the hearts,” Julie read. “Okay then. Reggie! You are in charge! I’ll be back! Okay?” She said, stepping outside after he confirmed. “Follow the hearts… What does that mean?” She looked around, trying to find some hearts.

And there, on the little bridge next to the shop, was a heart. It had a little note that said, “follow me!”

And so she did. Down the bridge, past the library, and finally, landing outside the garden.

There was a final heart, one with a rose and a note this time. It simply read, “Picnic?” That was all Julie needed as she looked out to the garden.

And there, amongst the field of grass, was the only person she’d ever need.

~

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JATP: @n0wornever @calamitykaty @screwunsaidemily @crybabyddl @badwolf00593 @dream-a-little-bigger-x

All: @funsizearsonist

[primasveraas-writing]

Finnpoe Modern AU- Single Dad!Poe- PART 1

Thank you @latintrxsh for the ideas on discord!! I fell in love with this AU immediately and it warmed my heart so much to write this.

Part One l Part Two l Part Three

XXX

Poe Dameron is well into his thirties, and Kes is tired of hearing his son complain about how he a) he’ll never find love, b) he is lonely and single and just wants a family, and c) will certainly die alone

It’s common knowledge that Poe has high standards, and as much as Kes (and Jessika and Snap and Karé and-) tease him for it, there comes a point where it’s just plain sad that Poe is so lonely

(Kes can’t help but think to himself sometimes that Poe has never had the family he’s needed. When Shara was alive, things were okay, but Poe hasn’t had a complete family since he was a small child)

So finally, Poe sighs, explaining why his last blind date just didn’t work out, but Snap and Karé are thinking of trying for a baby and Poe wants to be a dad already and-

Kes interrupts him, placing a hand on his son’s arm. “Why don’t you adopt?” he says, and several things click into place at once.

Poe looks at his dad as the words sink in, then he realizes Kes might be right. He doesn’t need a partner to have a child. After all, Poe was raised by a single dad for half of his adolescence

It’s Jessika who puts the final nail in the coffin. She has talked at length how she doesn’t want to settle down, a stark opposite of Poe, but she puts all teasing aside and tells Poe to do what will make him happy

He begins the adoption process the next day

It’s a long, complicated journey. He starts by looking for a child from Guatemala, where his mom was from, but restrictions prevent that from happening. He explores Honduras and El Salvador, and the paperwork and calls with the US Embassy and adoption center give him a headache

It takes over a year, but there’s a little boy who’s been in the foster care system since birth. He’s a toddler by the time Poe figures out the logistics and another year older before Poe can take him home

His name is Damián Gabriel. Poe’s heart grows with each passing second; he’s one moment closer to meeting his son. When he sees the first picture of the little boy, Poe sobs

He’s three weeks away from flying out to take Damián home when the adoption center calls him and tells him they have news

Damián isn’t responding to a lot of auditory signals, they tell Poe. He’s having some issues at the foster home he’s at right now, and some stimuli are overwhelming

They think he’s deaf. They don’t know how or why, they explain patiently, and Poe listens in silence

Anxiety overtakes him, but he doesn’t once doubt that he’ll be meeting his child in three weeks. When he hangs up, he makes panicked calls to a local pediatrician and a library and two bookstores for resources about American Sign Language and Honduran Sign Language and then the next few weeks fly by and Poe arrives in Honduras disheveled and tired and ready to officially become a father

Damián Gabriel Dameron is nearly four years old and he’s fussy. He cries on the entire flight back to New York, but Poe gets by with gentle gestures and nods. By the time they arrive at Poe’s apartment, Damián is fast asleep

Damián can’t hear him, Poe realizes quickly. While the child can speak to him in a few broken sentences, he doesn’t respond when Poe says something

So, Poe decides, they’ll learn ASL together

Poe takes a week off work to help Damián get adjusted. It takes about that long for Poe to start referring to his son as mi amor and bebé and mijo and at that point, Damián will offer Poe toothy smiles and even giggle whenever Poe does something particularly funny

(The first time this happens, Poe locks himself in the bathroom at the first available opportunity and cries)

Kes is the first one to meet Damián, who is wary and uncertain of the stranger. It’s a short visit and Poe tries his best to make sure Damián is content and underwhelmed for the rest of the day

Baby steps.

It gets easier after about three months. Not perfect, not steady, not normal, but easier.

They make progress. Hugs. Short sentences. Walks in the park. Meeting Jess and Snap, who both try and fail to mimic Poe’s adoring pronunciation of bebé. Between them stumbling into “Bee-Bee” and Damián’s difficulty in signing his name, the nickname “BB” sticks

(You couldn’t even say my nickname, BB will tease Jess when he’s older. Papa had to make it two letters so you could keep up)

His child finds the name funny, but it’s easier for him to manage and Poe’s begrudging acceptance only heightens his amusement, so Damián becomes BB

The first six months are the hardest. There’s so many learning curves and speech therapy and lessons and doctors appointments, but suddenly, BB is ready for his first day of school and he’s hugging Poe goodbye

Poe cries, again, although he doesn’t let BB see the tears in his eyes. There are rocky moments, but Poe meets with the special education preschool staff and they’re kind and BB likes his teachers. They work through it, sometimes slowly but definitely surely

Words like Papa and family and love have circulated for a while. Poe doesn’t wait to tell BB that he’s so so loved, and in time, BB is saying it back

Then it’s Papa and Grandpa Kes. Aunt Jess, Aunt Karé, and Uncle Snap. Home and safe and happy. 

Poe melts. He stops trying to defend himself against accusations of being “a total sap” but he does weakly protest claims what he’s a helicopter dad

He doesn’t mind, he decides later, when he tucks BB into bed. He wants to show BB his love in every way he can, and he’ll do just that