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dwtdog · 3 months ago

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My work for Project: End Poem :D

i like this player / it played well / it did not give up

I like this player.

Dream’s shitty apartment is too small for pacing, but he does it anyway. Back and forth and back and forth over and over, the sounds of his footsteps drowned out by the buzz of his thoughts.

He’s felt out of balance for a while now- ever since he uploaded that first video. Before (before before before) everything was planning and studying and notes and calls with anyone he could get to agree to it. And then it had become filming and editing and that eternal moment before he pushed the button that would make the video public. A beginning. And an ending, of the before.

Planning had felt real. He could scroll through the words upon words stored in documents, or even rifle through the notebook he kept on his desk, the pages soft and well-used in his hands, his writing jumbled and messy. But the numbers now- they feel like a dream, almost fittingly. Climbing impossibly higher every time he checks, far surpassing any expectation he’d had.

But they can’t be real, because he can’t pay his rent this month.

His savings have run dry, exactly in the amount of time he’d predicted they would. It had been more than enough time. But he can’t pay rent.

His parent's words echo in his head- if you do this, you won’t be moving back in with us. That had certainly lit a fire under his ass- prove them wrong, prove everyone wrong. But the time is ticking down, and he can’t pay rent.

Oh, sure, the money’s on the way. His first check from YouTube, delayed by paperwork, is more than enough to cover this month’s and the next. But it’s not here. And the numbers keep going up, but Dream’s life is the same. Same shitty apartment, same 24 hours in a day.

His laptop sits open on his bed, and he’s doing his best to avoid looking at it. The looping screensaver plays on repeat, catching in the corner of his eye when he passes it, and he has half a mind to close the damn thing, end its taunting. Oh, you thought you could make something of yourself online? Think again.

He freezes in the middle of the room so abruptly that he nearly falls forward with the momentum of it.

And before he can talk himself out of it, he scoops the laptop up and enters his password, starting a Teamspeak call before all but running to his desk to grab headphones and returning to sit on his bed with the laptop balanced on his thighs, the call initiating.

This is a familiar action- late night (early morning?) calls with friends. Dream has never been shy about asking his friends for input on ideas, or thoughts of their own, especially his friends who are well-established in the field he wants to play. It's them he has to thank for a large part of his motivation. And it's them he calls on now, when his mind spells doom and his circumstances feel suffocating.

“Dream?” a voice asks, marred by digital interference but comforting all the same.

Dream smiles at the screen. “Bad,” he says. “I might need your help.”

“New video idea?” Bad asks, and the quality of the call seems to settle, Bad’s voice far clearer. He yawns, and Dream makes a point of not looking at the time.

“Not quite,” Dream mumbles.

“What was that?”

“It’s not a video idea. Or anything similar,” he swallows. As confident as Dream is in his friends, money is a different matter. Can ruin lives, friendships, and especially new YouTube channels if one isn’t careful.

Bad hums reassuringly. “Whatever it is, you can ask. I can’t guarantee that I can help but it never hurts to ask.”

“You’re so wise Bad,” Dream jokes. “And old.” He feels himself relaxing, and in tandem, his mind clears.

“Aren’t you asking for my help? I could leave right now.”

“No, no! I’m sorry, You’re not old,” Dream says quickly, adding not that old to himself.

“That’s what I thought,” Bad says smugly, and Dream can hear his chair squeaking and imagines him leaning back in it with his arms crossed, although, strangely, his minds eye seems to envision Bad as a the shape of a person with his Minecraft character overlaid, rather than the very real person Dream knows Bad to be, and has seen on video. He’s been spending too much time inside- it’d be good to get out once the rent issue is solved.

“Well,” Dream starts. “I told you about my problems getting money from YouTube, right?”

“You did.”

Dream sighs, thinking of all the trouble it’d been so far just to get the first check. “Well, it’s still not here. And my rent is due in a few days, and if it doesn’t get here in time I’m- I’m out of luck. And money.”

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner? Dream, you muffinhead, how much do you need?”

And Dream giggles, the small smile on his face growing impossibly bigger as he tells Bad the amount, and as they go back and forth on whether Bad should just send the money right away (Dream argues that there’s still a chance the money could come in time, while Bad says he might as well just send it now- just in case).

In the end, they hang up the call a half hour later, Dream’s worries assuaged and with a promise to Bad that he’d tell him immediately if he’ll need the money.

And when Dream wakes up the next day to a check from YouTube deposited in his account, it’s not just Bad who joins a call to celebrate with him- George and Sapnap are there too, and finally, finally, everything feels real.

It played well

“That was perfect!” his instructor says, and Dream smiles before slouching against the wall, entirely out of breath.

No one ever told him dancing would be so hard.

Well, some had. His instructor, the nice lady who now hands him a water bottle and tells him to take a small break, had warned him plenty. But he’d foolishly thought she was only saying it as a courtesy, so he’d have an excuse if he struggled- and boy, did he.

Maybe it was a consequence of being locked inside for years, or maybe it was just his natural affinity for clumsiness.

Either way, he’d been preparing for his concert for a few weeks now, and it feels like he’s hardly improved. Between vocal coaching and dance lessons- ‘choreography’ he insists when George and Sapnap tease- it had been nonstop learning and working in LA. Away from his cat, and his house, and his friends. And content.

But the smile doesn’t fade from his face even as he finishes off the water and steps away from the wall to stretch, arms over his head and legs extended until he’s balancing on his toes. And the burn of his muscles is so good.

A physical reminder of his work, his improvement. Sure, he’s still not the best, but he’s gotten better. And his future spells more lessons, more growth, until finally, finally-

He steps on the stage in a mask.

Orlando. Home. Lights and screaming and music, counting down and counting in. And he’s more nervous than he’s ever been, because finally, finally, finally, the numbers are real.

It did not give up.

Code is swimming in front of Dream’s eyes like a school of fish, and his head is aching something dreadful, but he refuses to look away from his monitor.

He doesn’t know what the time is- sure that if he did check, he’d have some sort of crisis. Every other member of his (albeit small) team went to sleep hours ago, the project left in lines of unfinished code and an increasingly bizarre contraption sprouting from the gym floor.

But Dream, better than anyone, knows how close they are.

Testing earlier had gone well- messing with particle mechanics and getting the shape so, so close. But something in the actual imaging kept going wrong, so they’d called it for the day.

And Dream had tried to sleep, really. But every moment lying in bed felt like time he could be using to work, and sleep was elusive. So he’d ended up back at his computer. Alone in the dead of night.

The world fades away around him as he works, until he falls asleep at his desk- keyboard an unfortunate pillow. He wakes with the letters imprinted on his cheeks, and code he doesn’t remember writing. But it looks good. It looks complete and promising and so full of potential that Dream is out of his chair and heading across the house to the gym before the indents of his keycaps have faded from his skin.

George is in the kitchen.

“Dream?” he asks, setting a yogurt cup down. “You’re up early.”

A glance at the clock on the oven tells Dream it’s nearly three in the afternoon. “I want to try something,” he says. “You wanna come with?”

George nods, following him out of the house and to the gym, yawning several times as they go.

“You’ve got something on your face by the way,” George giggles, but it quickly turns to a frown. “Did you sleep at your desk?”

“I didn’t mean to,” Dream grumbles, pushing the door to the gym open and flicking the lights on. George snorts.

They’re quiet as Dream fiddles with the mess of a contraption in the middle of the room. He’s careful with it, always so careful, and George watches from the sides. When everything is in place, Dream’s hands are shaking with excitement. There’s something in the air that tastes like success.

“Do you want to go in?” he asks, gesturing between the machine and George. George shrugs, then nods, careful as he ducks into the contraption. “Okay just- I think it’s going to work.”

“Really?” George asks, and for as much as he teases Dream about deadlines, for as often as Dream is wrong, it sounds like he believes it too.

Dream can’t speak in the moment, so he just nods.

They’ve got a PC set up in the gym, and he turns to it, loading into the server they use for all testing of FUSION. He’s alone in the world, for the moment, the rig George stands in waiting to be called on by a command.

Dream types it in, having to go back and re-enter the letters several times with his hands still unsteady. And when everything is ready, he pauses before hitting enter, looking up to meet George’s eyes.

“Ready?” he asks.

“Ready.” George responds, bouncing on his feet. “What do I say? Hello world?”

“You’re so dumb,” Dream snorts. He doesn’t look away from George as he presses the final key, watching the flickering lights of the machinery, scared to look at the screen and see if he’s done it.

“Stop being an idiot.” George says after a beat, waving his arms and looking pointedly at the monitor.

Dream takes a breath, releases it. Turns his head.

And there it is.

George, in stunning resolution for being projected into fucking Minecraft, waving at him.

He looks between the two. Looks again.

“Holy shit,” he breathes. “We did it.”

#projectendpoem #dreamwastaken #dreamblr

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thegoogoomuckkk · 2 months ago

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NOW PLAYING

MELODIC

Starring: Choso Kamo, Kento Nanami, Kiyotaka Ijichi, Satoru Gojo, Shiu Kong, Suguru Geto, Sukuna Ryomen, Takuma Ino, Toji Fushiguro

What music do they play when you two get to it?

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Choso Kamo: Clueless <3

“Music? You’d like me to play music while we have sex?” His bluntness never ceases to embarrass you.

“Well not if you don’t want to, it was just a suggestion. It might make things less awkward for you, you know?”

Flash forward to that night, he’s got you sitting on his lap, he leans over to push play on his phone, & you burst out laughing.

“Is something wrong? Do you not like this song?”

“…Cho, it’s Shake It Off by Taylor Swift.” He nods, so eager.

“I know, isn’t it such a good song?” & you just can’t say anything, not when he looks so excited, hopeful that you’re pleased with him for his song choice. So you spend the night orgasming to Choso’s Spotify Pump You Up playlist.

Needless to say, you picked the music from then on.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Kento Nanami: Unbothered <3

If music is something you wanted, or that made you more comfortable, of course he’d play it, but Nanami isn’t a big music listener. & ultimately, anything that takes away even an ounce of his attention from fucking you senseless isn’t ideal for him.

But if you requested, or he thought to try it, he’d probably find some lofi playlist on YouTube, turn it on, & completely forget about it. Something relaxing, so that after he’s content with how ruined you are, he can tickle your back & play with your hair until you fall asleep.

But sometimes an ad comes on because no way is Nanami paying for YouTube premium, even if he is loaded as hell, which frustrates him so thoroughly that he just shuts the laptop altogether & tosses it on the floor.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Kiyotaka Ijichi: Too Concerned <3

He’s so genuinely concerned about it the entire time. He’s done far too much research about this; he looked on multiple different music streaming services for the best playlists to listen to when having sex. After mulling through the hundreds of lists that include songs by Megan Thee Stallion & XXX by Kim Petras, he finds something he thinks is…suitable. At least, it’s not too on the nose.

But he’s barely gotten your shirt off before a Ke$ha song comes on, & Kiyotaka turns beet red.

“I-I’m sorry, if you don’t like this song, I can ch-change it,” & he’s so flustered, so embarrassed.

“Kiyo, we don’t have to play music, sweetie,” you coo, & he knows you’re teasing him, just a little bit, but he’s so grateful anyway.

“Oh, thank God.”

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Satoru Gojo: Shithead <3

Gojo thinks he’s just soooo funny.

He’s three fingers deep, his spit dripping down your chin as he kisses you, humping your leg, when you push back against his shoulder & roll your eyes. “Satoru, really? Sexyback? Justin Timberlake?”

His grin is shit-eating. “What, Princess? This song doesn’t get you going? Your pretty girl’s telling me otherwise with how she’s clenching around my fingers.”

“Fuck off.”

“No, no, if this isn’t doin’ for you, I’ll change it.” You bite back a moan & smack a pillow across his face when All Through the Night by Boyz II Men turns on.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Shiu Kong: Normal, For Once <3

Actually probably has pretty good music taste. He hates the term “indie,” but he’s also not into super mainstream stuff. & sure, maybe he wants to show off his music to you. . .just don’t say that.

He likes things with a heavy bass & not many lyrics, he doesn’t want anything distracting him from how good you feel. He controls the playlist, though, he never lets you pick the music.

“Because last time you chose the music, I fucked you to the beat of the Tarzan soundtrack by Phil Collins.” He’s scrolling through Apple Music, queuing up some of his favorites.

“But—“

“Don’t even start with me, doll. I don’t care how much you like those songs, it was fucking gross, listening to a Disney movie soundtrack with my dick in you.”

“Well, you didn’t have to make it weird, Shiu.” You folded your arms, pouting.

“It was weird to begin with!”

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Suguru Geto: Back in Black <3

“You’re really aging yourself here, Sugu,” you tease. You didn’t even recognize half the songs he played with how old they were. Because, quote, “music was just better back then.” Yeah, back before he was even alive. But try tellin’ that to Van Halen over here.

“This is a great song, babe. Sorry that you don’t have good taste.”

“Coming from the man with the taste of a 50 year old divorced man.” It was cute, how he could have you moaning around his dick & then arguing about music within the same couple of minutes. Had he even finished? You couldn’t remember, & you were busy now.

“Hey! Divorced dad rock is a great genre of music.”

“Not when I’m sucking you off, loser.”

“Well, when I’m giving you head, you can pick the song, how about that? But when you’re sucking my dick, I control the speaker.” At this point, it's simply an immaturity contest.

“No, Sugu, I cannot deepthroat your cock to AC/DC ever again. Or any song with an electric guitar solo.”

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Sukuna Ryomen: Disturbing <3

“‘Kuna, what the fuck is this?” you mutter, leaning to squint at the screen of your laptop. “Sounds of war & explosion, 10 hour asmr version?”

“You asked me to play something, woman, & now you’re complaining?” He drags you by your chin back to his lips.

“I meant something like music. . .but sure, make me seem like the weird one in this situation.” You shrug, & he hates this sarcasm you’re so fond of.

“Weird? What is weird about this?” & you almost feel bad because he looks a little upset that you don’t like his creepy asmr.

“I genuinely cannot tell if you’re being serious. I’m not a kink shamer, ‘Kuna, but this is fuckin’ weird.”

“Shut up, woman, you will cease to care once I put my cock in you.”

You shrug. “Fair enough.”

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Takuma Ino: Tearjerker <3

He’s eating you out from behind, a personal favorite of his, when you’re turning your head at an uncomfortable angle as the first notes of a new song play.

“If you, if you could return. . .”

“T-Takuma,” you attempt to speak. “Why are playing Linger?”

It takes him a moment to come out of it, too entranced by your cunt. “Wh-what? I thought you loved this song,” & he looks so sincerely confused why you’d be bothered. Frankly, he’d tuned the music out completely. How could he think about anything else but this?

“Yeah, when we’re in the car or something, not when you’re eating me out. This song is so sad! It’s a breakup song.” He simply does not get it.

“Well, I like it.”

“You’re not even listening to it!”

“Are you? Fuck, that means I’m doing a bad job then.” Soon, you’re tuning out the music too.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Toji Fushiguro: Fuckboy <3

Puts on some shit by Chase Atlantic because he thinks that's what girls like & promptly forgets it’s even playing. He does not care, just wants to bone, no other thoughts, head empty. A couple minutes in, you turn off his godawful tik tok playlist & he doesn’t even notice. Once he’s pulling out & shucking the condom somewhere, he looks blankly around for a second, then back at you.

“Hey, did you turn the music off?”

“Yeah, Toji, Nasty Dog by Sir-Mix-A-Lot wasn’t exactly getting me off,” you scoff, sneering at the name.

“Hey, I got that from you, brat. It’s from that stupid Hugh Jackman edit you keep watching. . .I’m hotter than him by the way.”

“You’re both old enough to be my dad, but sure, Toj’, you’re hotter.”

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

LOOKING FOR SOME MORE? MASTERLIST <3

LOOKING FOR SOMETHING SPECIFIC? ASK <3

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stuffnonsenseandotherthings · 9 months ago

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CityBoy_Log: Blurring the Lines Between Fiction and Reality.

I was doing my daily scroll through YouTube one day when a thumbnail (this thumbnail) caught my eye:

Now, at first glance I'll admit there's nothing exceptional about it. In fact, it's so perfectly run of the mill that I actually thought it was a vlog from a new K-pop band that I hadn't heard of before at first. The name, the picture they chose, the title.... all of it checked out and I had no reason to be suspicious that it was anything other than it seemed.

Anyway, I was bored, it had been a while since YouTube had recommended me anything K-pop that wasn't a group I was already subscribed to and I was feeling nostalgic for a good K-pop vlog.

It was only 5 minutes

What harm could it possibly do?

So I clicked on it.

And then I feel down a rabbit hole.

CityBoy_Log: The Drama

So it turns out that "CityBoy_Log" is not, in fact, a K-pop group's travel vlog series, nor is it a vlog series at all...

Well, it is...

But not really.

It's actually an 11 episode BL drama.

Summary:

Idol Lee Jae Jun, model/actor Lee Ji Han, actor Seo Byuk Joon, and rookie model Ahn Hyo Sang start a vlog channel about their trip to Okinawa, Japan for a photoshoot. The four meet for the first time (aside from JaeJun and Byuk Joon, who are longtime friends) when they learn they will be sharing a home during the trip. Though Ji Han's introduction caused some tension within the circle, the group's feelings towards each other start to change and grow as they keep vlogging. The vlogs show how their individual friendships develop by the end of their stay and after coming back to Seoul, some even beyond just platonic. (Mydramalist)

On the face of things, "CityBoy_Log" is a pretty straight forward drama (some might even call it mundane). Four friends navigating their relationships with each other on a trip. There's a main couple and a side couple and plenty of pining and love squares to keep the audience and the characters on their toes. Really nothing standout in a world where Semantic Error, Love for Love's Sake, and Eighth Sense exist, right?

Except the format.... the format is something else.

Because when the summary says "the vlogs", it really means the vlogs.

"CityBoy_Log" is a BL drama told entirely in character.

Like your typical k-vlog, the majority of the content comes from hand-held cameras carried about by the characters, only occasionally interspersed with aesthetic shots from their "camera crew". The characters talk openly to the audience, updating them on what's going on and what they're thinking and feeling; transitions between scenes are choppy and periods of time are missed due to "unfilmable" moments that we either only catch glimpses of or are told about later (or in some cases, have to fill in the blanks ourselves); dialogue is choppy and sometimes even awkward (especially as they're still getting to know each other) and voice cracks, nonsensical lines, and awkward pauses are all over the place.

It is feels messy, lightly edited, unscripted, and, for the most part, very very real.

Blurring the Boundaries Between Fiction and Reality.

Seeing how far the creators of the show have gone to make this drama feel realistic is fascinating. All the episodes are posted as vlog episodes on the show's YouTube Channel, they post additional shorts that follow the latest trends, and even have celebratory lives where they talk to fans. And all of this is done in character.

They also have an Instagram page and on MDL there is very little information about the actors (who use their real names for their characters) and no information about the team behind the scenes (although I suspect they're linked to whoever made Semantic Error because that show gets name dropped a lot and they even "audition" for the upcoming drama made by it's creators) .

Given how much effort has gone into making "CityBoy_Log" pass as real it shouldn't be surprising that there are quite a few people who believed it was real for a time.

Now personally I am a huge fan of innovative storytelling techniques and "CityBoy_Log" has really hit it out of the part creatively (it reminds me a little of SKAM in that respect). I applaud the actors for just how realistic their characters feel (I actually can think of anything harder than having to pull off "act like you're not acting" and they do it flawlessly at least 90% of the time) and whoever came up with and executed the show really did something special too. It's an incredibly compelling watch (I binged it) and I immediately felt connected to all the characters in a way it normally takes a drama a few episodes to set up.

Do I have my doubts about how wise it is to blur the lines between fiction and reality so much? I won't lie, yes, especially as this show is rooted so heavily in 2 fandoms where those boundaries are already heavily blurred but for now I'll trust that they know what they're doing (perhaps more so than many other shows that draw heavily on fan service). It does seem like, at least for now, while everything feels real and in character, that it does exist in its own little bubble and that the actors involved are able to leave it behind when they get off work.

Anyway, it'll be interesting to see how it progresses, given that a second season has been confirmed and there was.... a very interesting reveal at the end of the last episode. I'm looking forward to how they continue to play with the format and getting to spend more time with Jae Jun, Ji Han, Byeok Jun, and Hyo Sang

🔗Here's a link to the channel if anyone wants to check it out:

https://youtube.com/@CITYBOY_LOG?si=CKqz8QdfzySCqRyL

CityBoy_Log: The Vlog

Team Hyo Sang all the way. All this puppy wants is for his hyung to notice him and he is adorable about it.

Tagging @lurkingshan @twig-tea @respectthepetty and @rocketturtle4 because I don't know if you guys have seen the show yet!

#cityboy_log #kbl #i binged this show #and I have thoughts on the format #also the ending #because where are we going with this???#where ever it is it looks fun 👀

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formulaforza · 1 year ago

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miss americana & the heartbreak prince

—05. Monte Carlo Ave. —word count: 9.3k —warnings: obvious implications of sex, no smut. club activities, so much fluff you'd wish you were dead. angst in the middle. love, mackie... so, just like chapter 4, there is a nsfw cut of this chapter whose link is embedded in the post. all nsfw warnings will be on that post. thank you for bearing with me while I took my sweet ass time writing this next part--there is no exaggerating how busy my life has become in the past couple months.

He wakes up at five-thirty-seven in the morning, exactly twenty-three minutes before his alarm is set to go off. Charles can’t remember the last time he was awake before his alarm, or the last time his alarm at home was set to go off before the sun rose.

It was fear that woke him up—fear of waking her up.

Her. Chris. His girlfriend, who is sound asleep next to him, in his bed, in his apartment, in his city.

She’s a cute sleeper, he knew—he knew, because she’d fallen asleep on FaceTime calls half a dozen times, because he’d watched her for a nearly creepily amount of time in Abu Dhabi, when he couldn’t believe she was actually there. She’s a cute sleeper, and yet, the shine hasn’t worn off yet, because he still watches.

She’d gone to bed in a hoodie from work and no pants, because, of course she had. Of course she had. She’s got one hand awkwardly craned under her pillow and another wrapped up in the comforter like it’s a finger trap, and her hair is messy, so messy and half-stuck to her cheek. It’s fucking adorable, and he feels so lucky.

He gets nervous then, nervous that she’s going to wake up and he’s going to be staring and it’s going to be weird, so. Instead of continuing to ogle, he reaches for his phone from the nightstand, turns the volume all the way down and scrolls through social media pretending not to steal a glance every time she takes a deep breath or moves a muscle.

It’s half an hour before she yawns awake, and he’s relieved that he doesn’t have to wake her up, after all.

“Morning,” he says, clicks the power button on his phone and lets it fall face down on his chest.

Chris smiles. “Morning,” she breathes, and leans over to kiss him.

“Mmm,” he hums, pushes his index finger against her lips. “What happened to morning breath?” He asks.

“Nope,” she speaks against his finger, threatens to bite it. He knows he wouldn’t stop her, but moves his finger anyway to kiss her properly, to let her smile out of it. “You’re stuck with me now, boyfriend and all that.”

“Gross,” he smiles. “I love it.”

She flops back against the mattress with a laugh, “What time is it?” she asks, leaning over to reach for her own phone.

“Six,” he hums. She scowls at her lock screen. “We have plans at seven.”

“Oh?” She peruses, sits up to stretch properly, to yawn again and ruffle her hair and God, she is so beautiful. He might never get over it.

“Padel…” he smiles, wonders if he’s about to get in trouble, to start their first fight as a couple at six in the morning on a Tuesday. He probably should have run this past her, he thinks, run all of it past her. He’d just gotten so caught up in the planning of it all. “...with my brothers.”

Her hands flop from her hair onto the comforter, landing with a soft thud on the padded fabric. When she looks at him, she’s still smiling, but her eyes are tired, confused. “Baby, what is padel?”

– – –

They cook breakfast together—well, Charles cooks breakfast. Chris spends the entire time leaning against the kitchen counter cradling her phone, watching a YouTube video on the basis of padel playing. Charles keeps leaning over her shoulder, plastic spatula in hand, and correcting the man in the video. That’s not what you do, he hums. They don’t know what they’re talking about.

After the fifth comment in as many minutes, she turns to him with a chill-inducing glare. “I’m going to padel you upside the head,” she says, with a smile on her face—which only makes it that much more terrifying. He nods, steps back from her shoulder and returns to the crepes he’s butchering on the stovetop.

– – –

“I have to know,” she asks, sat on the floor in the bedroom, in the limited space at the end of the bed, tying her shoes. “What was the plan if I didn’t pack workout clothes?”

“Eh,” he mutters, rifling through the hangers of sweatshirts hanging in his closet. “I would have put on you some of my clothes,” he continues, pulls his two best options down from the hangers and holds them up for her. One, a blue Ferrari crewneck. The other, gray, from his friend’s line.

“You would have put me in your clothes,” she corrects his English, and if it was anyone else he’d find it insufferable. But he doesn’t, not with her, so he chuckles and his smile grows and he can feel his dimples. For the dramatics, though, he rolls his eyes.

“Which one?” He asks, taking turns raising the two sweatshirts.

“As tempting as the team kit is,” she laughs, and he tosses the gray one to her. He could have guessed the gray one, he thinks, but she’s surprised him more than once before. “Thank you,” she hums, pulling it over her head and carefully fixing the wisps of hair that fall from her ponytail when she does it.

“Always,” he nods, holds a hand out to pull her to her feet.

– – –

Arthur and Lorenzo are already at the court when Chris and Charles arrive, attempting—and failing—to play a round of singles padel on the doubles court Charles had reserved for the morning.

Just as they approach, a shot ricochets off of Arthur’s racquet and flies past Lorenzo, colliding with the glass wall behind him with a thud. Lorenzo jogs after the ball, laughing, pointing at his brother in a sore act of celebration.

Arthur is just as sore a loser. “Ah!” He calls out, gesturing with his own racquet to the tape that runs along the top of the net. “Filet!” Net!

Lorenzo blows air from his cheeks and scoffs, firmly bouncing the ball against the ground a few times before picking it up properly. “S'il te plaît!” Please!

“Mon pote, allez,” Mate, come on, Arthur groans. “Ça tremble encore!” It’s still shaking!

“Arthur, j'étais à trois mètres,” I was three meters away.

Charles grins, pulls open the door to the court, holding it open for Chris to step in front of him. “Retiens ton feu,” hold your fire, he calls out to his brothers, “trouve ton anglais,” find your English.

Both boys' heads shoot over, scowls still apparent. “Do you see this? Do you see him run into this net?” Arthur shouts, still gesturing wildly with his racquet.

“Do not let him convince you, you know what you saw,” Lorenzo interjects, carries on even though the game has been abandoned and they instead jog over to greet Chris and Charles. Lorenzo is first over, kissing either of Charles’ cheeks. “You saw this?” He asks, and Charles laughs, nods.

“I did.”

“Bullshit,” he laughs, shoves Charles’ shoulder and turns to greet Chris. “You?”

Charles expects to find some apprehension on Chris’ face, something that shows she’s not sure of her place yet, but he doesn’t find any. Confidently, she speaks, “He’s crazy, you weren’t even close,” and then kisses each cheek.

Lorenzo tosses his arm around Chris with a laugh. “Charles,” he speaks, points to her with the same hand that’s thrown over her shoulder. “My team.”

Charles chuckles. “I try not to make a habit of telling my girlfriend what to do.” Chris blushes at the very mention of it—girlfriend. If he knew it would be that easy to make her blush he would’ve asked weeks ago. He might’ve asked in Austin, if he’s being completely honest with himself.

“Oh-ho?” Arthur’s already teasing, clapping his hands on Charles’ shoulders and laughing like a madman. “Girlfriend, huh?”

Neither of them—Chris or Charles, say anything. Between the flush of her cheeks and the depth of his dimples, they might as well have it spray painted on their foreheads. “Right,” Lorenzo offers, “well, Chris, as the only person around here with some sense, you’re on my team.”

“You can have her,” Charles teases, Lorenzo quirks a brow. “She has no idea how to play, but also she is a rule master.”

“Abandoning your own girlfriend,” Chris interjects, the same teasing tone laced in her voice. She pretends to shiver, grand and dramatic, even though it’s eighteen degrees and sunny and she’s got long pants and a sweatshirt—his sweatshirt on. “It’s cold, man.”

He rolls his eyes, sticks a racquet in her hand and moves to kiss her, which is more than close enough to Lorenzo for him to abandon his position next to Chris, retreating to the safety of the court, bouncing the padel ball as he walks. “Ready to take us?” Charles asks quietly, just to her. Arthur is somewhere in the space behind him gulping a water bottle in an almost comical manner.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” she replies, half-chuckled, demeanor light and bouncy. There’s something about her that always seems full of energy, ready to take on whatever is put in front of her head-on.

“Don’t worry,” he practically whispers, winks and gives her shoulder a soft squeeze. “I’ll go easy on you.”

Chris clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth, feigns offense and scoffs loudly, bringing the head of the racquet up to the center of his chest, pushing him back a few steps. “Don’t you dare.”

He doesn’t know what’s gotten into him, offering—practically promising—to let someone else win. There’s still a basket somewhere in a storage closet full of broken video game controllers from his childhood. And once, for three entire weeks when they were six and nine, he and Arthur weren’t allowed at the dinner table together because they would race to finish their food and promptly get sick. Then again, it is Chris, all bouncy ponytail and quick wit in his home in his clothes, so. Maybe it isn’t as far-fetched as it seems.

As expected, it becomes apparent quickly that Chris is a beginner at a game the boys have spent years playing. She misses shots and struggles to find her footing and the best positioning, but it doesn’t crush her mood, dampen her energy. Lorenzo—her teammate, takes on quite a coaching role, offers an equal amount of encouragement and advice.

She’s a quick learner, though. Charles knew she would be. So, despite the sound loss she and Lorenzo take in the first game, she manages a decent amount of solid shots and a spattering of genuinely impressive ones. She’s quick, that’s her advantage. She might not know what to do when she gets to the ball, but she always gets there. And, when she scores her first point, actually jumps into the air when she gives Lorenzo a high-five, he can’t help but find himself soft, a smile tugging on his lips, holding back on the points that follow in hopes of seeing her goofy grin again.

“You did quite well out there,” he tells her when they’re between games. Her eyes light up and she hums around a mouthful of water, hurries to swallow it before she laughs.

“Really?” She coughs, clears her throat. “You think?”

He nods. “You’re quick,” he mutters before taking a drink of his own water.

“I ran track in high school.” He quirks a brow, which makes her smile, which makes him choke on a laugh mid-swallow. You’d think neither of them had ever had a drink from a plastic water bottle before.

“Really?” She nods, hums her response, toying with her ponytail. Her bangs are loose, untucked from her ears and her hair-tie, and he feels the overwhelming urge to brush it from her face. “Why did I not know this?”

“I don’t know,” she shrugs. “Why didn’t you know that?”

“Google said nothing about this.”

“You Googled me?!” Briefly. Briefly, he had googled her at the very beginning of it all. Really, it was more Googling her family than it was her, they are the ones with all the information out there. He needed to make sure he wasn’t starting something with a raging white supremacist or a murderer.

“You didn’t Google me?” She scratches the back of her head, not-so discreetly looks anywhere but her. “Yeah,” he laughs. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

With a playful eye roll, she promptly changes the subject: “you want to be on my team?”

“I…” he laughs, “...don’t know if we are there yet.”

“Oh,” She laughs, brows raised with a goofy smile and it’s official—her laugh is never going to not give him butterflies, never not going to be so much better in person. “The truth comes out.”

Chris is soundly defeated in three straight games, despite finding herself with a new teammate each round—first Lorenzo, then Arhur, and finally, after five minutes of her best puppy-dog eyes, the most competitive man alive ( her boyfriend) agreed to be her teammate.

It’s hours later by the time they leave the country club—no, no, Charles said it was specifically a padel club. They part ways with his brothers and then they’re driving back through the winding streets to his apartment. She ogles, like she’s been doing since she got here, all the careful, intricate architecture and the perfectly manicured manner of the whole place. It’s like people don’t live here, like she’s in a made-up land. She latches onto every imperfection—a crack in the sidewalk, a shrub with a single projection, a half-ragged French flag on the stern of a super yacht. It makes it all feel human, lived in, like the place someone can grow up, the place he grew up.

After two hurried showers and a change of clothes they set off for lunch at Charles’ self-proclaimed “favorite restaurant.” It’s a sushi place, which she finds interesting, because not once has she heard him talk about sushi when talking about his favorite foods.

Charles parks in a garage that’s a fifteen minute walk from the restaurant because, as he puts it, she’s walking the streets with the nation’s best tour guide. He starts the tour with the middle three corners of the Grand Prix, in reverse order—the hairpin, mirabeau bas, and portier, and then they take the quarter-or-so mile walk to the first of many monuments that Chris wouldn’t even attempt to pronounce in her own head. It’s there, somewhere between the forced tourist photos he snaps of her at Le Pêcheur and the one at the Promenade Princesse Louise-Hyppolyte, the truth comes to light.

“What do you mean you did not tell anyone you were here?!” He exclaims all dramatic-like, dropping the phone from in front of his face, abandoning the search for what he considers the perfect angle. “You left the country, Chris.” She shrugs, doesn’t really see the big deal in all of it. It’s not like she… no, it is like she purposely didn’t tell people. That’s exactly what it is, actually.

“I thought we were keeping this on the down-low.”

“Not that low!” He scolds, but she can tell he wants to laugh. He should, she thinks. It’s funny. “What if you die?”

She rolls her eyes. “Are you planning on killing me?” He glares daggers, burns a you’re not funny look into her head. “Letting me be killed?” She’s sure it annoys him to no end, positive almost, but it’s not like she can go back in time and tell everyone, and even if she could, she’s not sure she would. She likes this being just theirs, at least for now, while they can still manage it. She likes not having to report back to her parents—to her dad, especially—about her hotshot, young punk racing driver of a boyfriend and the silver spoon he feeds her french delicacies with.

He sighs, shoulders wildly heavy, and holds her phone back out to her. His eyes are soft, frustrated in a way she didn’t expect them to be. She really didn’t think it was that crazy of a decision. “You should have told someone,” he says, and she feels immensely guilty.

“Hannah knows,” she blurts, an honest offer of anything she has to not get such a serious look from him. He’s not meant to be serious.

“Hannah knows?”

“She knows I went somewhere. I didn’t tell her where,” she says. I didn’t tell her where because my brother and father don’t want me to date a race driver, she doesn’t say, because that would only make him more nervous.

“You should have told someone you were here,” he says, drags out the vowel sounds and tosses an arm over her shoulder. He kisses her temple, pulls her into him and chuckles. Okay, okay. He’s not actually upset.

“Probably,” she nods, a smile pulling on the corners of her lips. “I can tell them when I get home, if you want. Start some drama over Thanksgiving dinner.”

“Oh, yeah, I’m sure making a good impression will not be hard after that.”

MayaBay, that’s the name of his favorite restaurant, Thai and Japanese and a sushi bar that Charles talks about for the entire walk there. Apparently securing a reservation at the restaurant was hard enough, but a seat at the coveted sushi bar was something else entirely, and, according to Charles, was his first failed call after Chris’ visit was planned. She tries to tell him that it doesn’t matter where in the restaurant they eat, but he’s insistent that he’s going to try again and again, and again every time she comes to visit until he can manage to get them in.

Her cheeks flush red at the revelation and she continues to hold out hope he’s oblivious to the heat that radiates from her face every time he meets her with some sort of compliment or insistence of inclusion. She doesn’t even think he’s conscious of the latter, which makes it all that more special. He doesn’t have to take special care to include her in his life, he just does it—does it like he’s always been doing it, always been sharing these small parts of his life with her.

Lunch is enough to leave her full for the entire day. Po Pia Kung and Ceviche and Roti and Nigiri—two plates, no wasabi, per Charles’s request—and she’s worried that she’ll be full before getting the chance to lay eyes on their entrees.

“This place is so special,” she tells him from across the tiny table, around the too-big centerpiece. “Thank you.”

He hums around a mouthful of Roti, brings a napkin to his mouth when he swallows so he can start talking that little bit sooner. “For what?”

Chris shrugs. Thank you… for. For. For everything, she supposes. “For wanting me here.”

He smiles, dimples digging deep, cheeks turning a rosy shade of pink when he adjusts in his seat, leans forward enough that it’s just barely perceivable. “Thank you for wanting to be here,” and you blush right back.

It’s got to be quite the sight for any onlookers, the two of them acting all middle-school. They aren’t aware enough of the other people in the restaurant for it to be of note, and even if they were, they wouldn’t care.

It’s Pad Thai for the main course with a side of three bites of Charles’ Kadou Yang stolen in the midst of quiet conversation, and then, as if they haven’t shared everything else already, they split the restaurant’s signature, meant to share dessert.

“So,” he hums, somewhere on the walk back to the car—or, to the surprise Charles refuses to reveal that’s on the way back to the car. He swings their interlocked hands between their body, drags the action out in the same way he does the vowel. “When do I get to come to Georgia?”

It takes her by surprise, puts a kiddish smile on her face. It should be obvious that he would want to come, because, well, it’s where she lives. But, every conversation has always been about her coming to him. And it makes sense to her, because he’s always moving and she’s always in the same place. It makes sense that he wouldn’t come to her, but now that she thinks about it, it makes more sense that he would. “You want to come to Georgia?”

“That,” he laughs, “that is a silly question. Of course I want to.”

“Well, I mean. You’re always welcome, but I don’t know what your schedule looks like.” She knows it’s a mess, undoubtedly, even if she’s never laid eyes on it. She can only imagine the amount of people wanting him in places year round, and having all of that squished into a couple month period of time? She wouldn’t be surprised if he spends more time traveling in the offseason than he does when he’s actually racing.

“I don’t know what it looks like, either,” he takes out his phone and clicks through half a dozen apps with his free hand—the one not intertwined with hers. “Uh…,” he chuckles at the screen like even he can’t believe just how in demand he is. “Next month I’m in Italy for some days, then France for Christmas and London for New Year.” Chris leans over to look at his calendar.

“What about there?” She asks, pointing to the block of dates that are empty between his color-coded trips to Italy and France. “My brother’s wedding is that weekend,” she says, and then realizes how crazy the proposition sounds and instantly attempts to retract it, “but you probably don’t want to go to that.”

She’d love more than anything to have him at Chase and Hannah’s wedding, but she can understand why he would want to do anything else. It’s one thing to make him travel all that way, but then to make him travel all that way for a wedding, where he’ll have to meet the parents and the siblings and dog—that’s just a cruel thing to imply is expected of him. It’s certainly no way to keep him wanting to come back for another visit.

He bumps his shoulder against hers. “I love weddings.”

“Yeah?” She bumps back, dumb little smile on her face. “When you don’t know anyone there and your girlfriend is in the bridal party?”

He nods. “Yes.”

Unconsciously, she puts distance between their arms, to keep from getting too hot or to keep them from tripping or maybe for no reason at all because she really doesn’t notice that she does it. “My whole family’ll be there,” she continues meekly, and their arms are almost taught.

“Good,” Charles scoffs, and pulls her right back to his side, like even an arm’s length is too far. “I can fix the first impression you’re going to break.”

Chris rolls her eyes, both at his words and his actions—painfully endeared by both. “Why are you so convinced I’m going to have something bad to say about you?”

“I’m not worried really about what you say, but your father is not going to like me if you say to him, ‘this is my boyfriend who I saw in two different countries without telling to you.’”

“Yeah,” she nods, bites back a laugh against the skin on the inside of her cheek. It shouldn’t be as funny as it is to her; the state of her life. “Yeah, you definitely have a point there,” she cuts the vowel short, chokes on a laugh, sucks in her own lips in an attempt to keep them from spilling, the laugh escaping silently through her nose. He meets her with a matching—no, a somehow dramatized mirroring—of her expression that only makes it that much harder not to laugh. When she finally does break, there are practically tears in her eyes, and it was never even that funny.

He smiles at her laugh, like always, and shakes his head. “I will have to come to this wedding to do damage control.”

“Probably,” she nods, still laughing. It’s like it’s all just sunk in for her—the boyfriend. The long distance boyfriend, as in, long distance. Whatever everyone else considers long distance, times the distance of the Atlantic Ocean and the average net worth of his hometown. The fact that he was a stranger just a few months ago, and now she’s in her second foreign country in three days with him and it all feels so normal. The fact that she didn’t even want to go on that Hot Lap—hot laps, plural— or that she didn’t have any interest in going to the race. If she’d tried just a little bit harder to get out of it, or stayed in the beer tent for just ten minutes longer or, or, or. It’s not funny at all, and yet it’s hilarious.

“You’re ridiculous, you know this?”

“I know this.” She sighs, deep and slow and grounding, one stray chuckle slipping through her lips before she can continue. “Don’t book any flights, then—Until I make sure it’s all good with Hannah.”

“Yes ma’am,” he says, salutes her with his phone still in his hand and everything.

“Okay, so,” Charles sighs, drops his head against the pillow with a soft plop. Lunch was hours ago, now, succeeded by a walk around the Japanese Gardens, a trip to the supermarket because his fridge is, as Chris so affectionately referred to it as—bachelor pad chic—and a personal tour around the Prince’s Car Collection where he got to show off his favorite memories. It’s after dinner, even. After half-stale pasta made by him and meal-saving chicken expertly prepared by her, after two episodes of a French reality show with English closed captioning, after a day he won’t soon forget. It’s then, in bed, while she reads the final pages of the book she’s been cutting away at for weeks now, that he tests his knowledge on the information he’s been quizzing her for afternoon. “Chandler is the oldest, and she’s dating Alexis.”

“Correct,” Chris says, turns the page on her book.

“But the drama is that Alexis doesn’t like any of your family, so she and your sister moved away and don’t come to anything.” She hums her response this time, and he wonders if she’s even listening all that much or if he could get her to agree to anything right now. “And then Chase is in the middle, he’s marrying Hannah. But the drama is Hannah was—” before he can even get the next word out, she’s glancing over at him to interject. “Hannah is your best friend, and was before Chase dated her. And she has a little boy named Reid with a dickhead.”

“Yup.”

“And then you, my perfect little angel.”

She smiles at the pages of her book. He likes making her smile. “Don’t forget it.”

“Your parents are Bill and Cindy, short for… William and,” he pauses. She pauses. He has no idea what Cindy is short for. “Lucinda?” Chris blinks, hard, dog ears the corner of her page and shuts her book. If he didn’t already know it was a pretty shit guess, he sure knows it now. Sometimes a blink is worth a thousand and one words.

“No,” she says, furrows her brows so subtly that it shouldn’t be recognizable, but it is. And then she blinks again.

“I knew that,” he boasts, his best cocky tone and a matching smug expression on his face. “I was just testing you.”

She chuckles, leans to her right to set the book down on the bed-side table there. “On my own mother’s name?” She questions, tucking herself under the covers and scooching over, leaning against his chest comfortably. He would let her lie like this as long as she wanted. It’s so sweet to have her in his arms.

“Well, you call her ‘Mom,’” he explains, even down to the forced American accent when he says ‘Mom.’ “So maybe you did not know.”

“Cindy isn’t short for anything.”

“Like I said,” he twists her hair around his finger slowly, mindlessly, without any sort of purpose or intention. When she uses him like a pillow this way, he can always smell her shampoo. He’s been trying to place it for days now. Coconut, he knows—but there is something else there, too, something he can’t put his finger on. “I know this.”

“Okay, continue then.”

“I will,” he says, lets the twirled hair fall from his finger and kisses her head with a smile on his face. “They have a dog called Beans that you call Beanie-Baby,” he pauses. “And the drama is, your parents do not like me.”

He can see the apples of her cheeks flare in his peripheral, a laugh stirring in her chest. “The drama is: there is no drama with them,” she says. “They’re all bark no bite.”

He adjusts underneath her, sighs all heavy and deflated because the thought of it—her family, her parents. It’s so fucking intimidating, it is. Because he knows how important they are to her, how highly she regards their opinion, even if she pretends that she doesn’t. He knows that it’s everything to her, and if he makes even a single mis-step he could ruin it all—their opinion, her opinion, all of it. And something in his gut, a pit in his stomach tells him that she’s already made a mis-step for him when she came over here without telling anyone she was coming. Why wouldn’t she tell anyone she was coming? “What do I even talk to them about?”

“I don’t know,” she says, adjusts to accommodate his adjustment, and eventually they’ll get properly comfortable. “Racing.”

“We race in different cars.”

“But it’s all cars.”

He opens his mouth to speak, pauses, clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth and then finally, “it’s different.”

“I think you’re overreacting a bit, here,” she says, and he rolls his eyes. He’s not overreacting, she’s underreacting. “I get along with your Mom and your brothers and I don't know what anyone is saying half of the time.” Okay, okay, maybe she has a point there. He did kind of throw her to the wolves this week—not that his family are wolves, just. Meeting the parents before the relationship is even a relationship is. It’s just messed up for him to do, and she’d handled it gracefully, perfectly and flawlessly charmed everyone.

But then again. “Yeah, but you’re you.” Anyone would be charmed by her. She’s very charming.

“And you’re you.”

He shakes his head. “You don’t understand.” She can’t possibly understand it because he doesn’t even properly understand it, the way he feels about her. The fear he feels about losing all the indecipherable feelings. It’s just good, everything about her, about being near her. It’s all so sweet and nice and good and he really, really doesn’t want to screw it up.

“You’ve already met my Dad,” she starts, clearly trying to calm him down, to ease his nerves. “My brother is just like him but more annoying,” she laughs, and even though he’s half deflated, her laugh still puts a weak smile on his face. “My sister probably won’t speak to you, and my Mom loves anyone that calls her ma’am and tells her she looks young. Just don’t talk about racing with her.”

“You just told me—”

“With the boys,” Chris clarifies.

“Your Mum doesn’t like Chase racing?”

“Does yours?” Good point. Is there a mother on the face of the planet, over all of history, that loved the idea of their kid racing other kids around high speed corners without any regard for their own lives?

“Then why did she let him?”

“I’m sure the same reason yours let you. Dad’s can be very convincing.”

His stomach drops. “Yeah. Yeah, they can be. My dad was.” His fingers trace mindless circles on the skin of her arm, soft and warm and clean. His eyes focus on the little red light on the bottom of his television, the one that’s only on when the TV is off. “He would spend so much time at the karting track with my brothers and I, you would not believe it. Sometimes my Mum would say that we lived there and should take blankets to sleep in the karts,” He says, and Chris laughs, makes him aware of his tracing fingers, but doesn’t stop them. “She would always say to us, ‘be careful, drive slow,’ and my Dad would always say ‘be careful, have fun.’ Now Mum will say to us just to be careful.”

“Did your Dad drop the ‘have fun,’ too?”

Red Light. Soft skin. He knew it was coming, it’s always coming, only a matter of time before he had to tell her. Honestly, he’s surprised it had gone this long, that she hadn’t asked about his father the moment she met the rest of the family and he was absent. He can’t stomach the look of pity she’ll give him. She can take it from everyone else, always had—but the image of that look on her face, the dead dad look. He never wants her to look at him like that.

Red light. Stupid shapes. “No, uh,” he drags out his own words, putting off the inevitable by even a few more moments. “My father died when I was a teenager.”

At least he knows her google search of him months earlier wasn’t too in-depth. “Oh my God, Charles,” She says, voice quiet and soft, like she thinks her words will break him. They won’t. He wishes she knew they won’t.

“No,” he chuckles, kisses the top of her head. “No. Don’t look at me like that,”

“I’m not,” she protests, but he doesn’t have to look at her to confirm. Nobody is above the look of pity.

“You are.”

“You’re not even looking at me,” she says, sits up off his chest. He keeps his eyes on the red light. “Look at me,” she insists, a soft hand on his jaw, pulling him back to her.

He rolls his eyes before he looks, before there’s an eternity of silent eye contact because she doesn’t have the look on her face. Anyone can tell she feels bad, especially him, but it’s different. It’s different, and he doesn’t feel like some pathetic puppy in a cold corner. He doesn’t feel like a nineteen year old who’s world is in shambles. He just feels like him. Like it’s all okay.

“I’m sorry I didn’t know,” she finally speaks, and he hears it now. She doesn’t think he’s going to break, that’s now why she’s meek. She feels guilty, guilty that she brought it up, that she didn’t know, that he thinks she would ever think he would break.

“How would you?”

Sincere in her apology, in her guilt, she doubles down. “I’m still sorry.”

Her eyes are filled with something pure, some innocent kind of affection and he feels awful that she feels awful. “I’m sorry for going on about him.”

“I’ll listen as long as you want to talk.”

He smiles, a genuine laugh falling from his lips. “I can talk forever.”

“Then,” she smiles, leans over to kiss him before getting comfortable again, snuggling into his chest like before. “Tell me all about him.”

They sleep late the next morning. Maybe they’re adjusting to the timezone—unlikely, especially in Chris’ case—or they were just up to late talking, but Chris is stretching against the sheets, against Charles, just after nine.

It’s no surprise that she wakes up tangled in a mess of limbs, not even something she minds. Even with her hand asleep and painfully tingley. She knows that she won’t get to wake up like this tomorrow morning, or the morning after, or every morning for at least a month, so. She doesn’t mind the heat and the sleeping limbs and the threat of a knot in her shoulder.

She wiggles out from his grip without waking him, grabs her phone from the bedside table and checks the time. She scans the room, eyes floating over all of her things scattered about. She should start packing up, she thinks. Start packing and getting ready to leave.

She tiptoes across the room, around the corner into the bathroom to start there, far away from his sleeping body. Quietly, carefully, she brushes her teeth, washes her face and tugs a brush through her hair, tying it back into a ponytail. Slowly, she gathers her stuff—makeup and hair tools and skincare—and packs it away carefully into her toiletries bag.

When she comes back into the bedroom, still cringing with every creak of the floor under her feet, she finds Charles awake in bed, soft, sleepy smile when she turns the corner. “Come back to bed,” he’s pleading before she can even mutter a good morning.

“I have to pack,” she argues half-heartedly, because she wants nothing more than to climb back into bed, and his voice is no help—all hoarse and raspy with sleep.

“Why?” He asks, drags the letter sounds out into a yawn that makes her smile.

“Because,” she says, draws out the e-sound to tease his cadence. “It’s almost nine-thirty, and I'm leaving in two hours.”

“You don’t have two hours of stuff,” he protests.

“I don’t like to be late,” she continues over her shoulder, opening her suitcase and laying it flat on the floor at the end of the bed, readjusting the still-folded clothes she hadn’t ended up wearing.

“Well,” he says, stretches against his sheets and then he’s getting out of bed with another yawn. “Let me help you, then.”

He steps around her open suitcase carefully. There isn’t exactly a surplus of floorspace for him to find his footing in. He disappears into the bathroom, locks the door behind him while she continues to gather her things, reappearing ten minutes later. “Give me a kiss,” he says, trudging over to her with open arms.

“You’re so needy this morning,” she quips, slinking her arms around his neck and pulling him down into a kiss. He hums against her lips in agreement and the vibration makes her giggle into his mouth.

Chris makes an attempt to return to the task at hand, but he has different plans, and follows around right behind her. His arms wrap around her torso everytime she stills for even a moment and he hugs her from behind, kisses her shoulders and her neck and her hair.

“You make it hard to pack,” she tells him, and he laughs into the crook of her neck. What she really means is: you make it hard to leave.

“Come back to bed.”

“I want to,” she sighs, leans back against his body.

He turns with her so they’re facing the bed. “It is right there,” he says, and she groans. “Look at it, all warm and comfy.” He’s right, the sheets look so soft, the pillows so fluffed. It’s a bed begging to be slept in, to be lounged on, to be snuggled by.

She wiggles from his grasp, backs away from him towards the door and makes a challenge that she knows she has no intention of winning; “We can go back to bed,” she starts, still inching further away from him, further away from the bed, “if you can catch me,” and then she bolts.

Chris’ high school claim to fame might have been that she was an all-state track and field athlete, but she’s got nothing on her boyfriend, who’s made a career out of his reflexes. It’s all pants and squeals and laughs that go on for entirely too long.

She realizes that she’s trapped when they’re stood on opposite sides of his dining room table, and she couldn’t be the least bit bothered. She tries to fake him out, to move left and then right, but he predicts the move before she even makes it, catches her with a strong grip around her waist and lifts her off her feet, carries her into the bedroom and tackles her onto the bed.

click here for the nsfw cut

Chris’ flight leaves Nice at 12:30 pm, and then it’s a two and a half hour layover in Amsterdam, until finally, she lands in Atlanta long after sunset. She Ubers home and by the time she’s flopping down onto her couch, it’s almost eleven. Charles is the only call she makes before crashing. Then again, who else would she call? He’s one of two people who knew she was anywhere but home, and the only one who’d made her promise to call—despite the time difference and the Uber delay—with the threat of calling the first Georgia police number he could find on google to report her missing.

He answers on the third ring, voice with the same rasp of that morning. “Hello?”

“Hi,” she speaks through a yawn, lays the phone beside her ear on the couch cushion and leaving it on speaker.

“Hey,” he laughs, and she can perfectly hear the smile on his lips. She can almost feel it, the way the room reacts to it.

“You gave me a hickey,” she says, fingering the bruise that lies an inch above her collarbone. His giggle on the other end is loud and boyish—particularly teenager-ish.

“So, you made it home safe?”

“Well, if you ignore the vampire bruise on my neck.”

“Sorry,” he says, but he’s still laughing like a little kid.

“It’s not funny,” she warns, thinly veiled because even she can hear the tired laugh at the back of her throat.

“It’s a little funny.”

Chris rolls her eyes. “I have to see my entire family tomorrow!”

“Eh,” he hums, and just like the smile, she can see the shrug. She can see him so well it’s like he’s here or she’s there or that they’re somewhere together. Somewhere that doesn’t really matter, because they’re both there, smiling and laughing and shrugging. God. God, she already misses him so much. “They already don’t like me.”

“Charles!” She scolds, but she’s laughing now, too.

“I’m sorry,” he smooths. “I am. I didn’t do it on purpose.”

“I know,” Chris sighs, pokes her own neck. “I’m not upset, I’ll just have to whisk it all morning.”

He chuckles. “You have to do what?”

“You know, like. For eggs…or baking. A whisk,” with every word that leaves her mouth, another letter is types into her phone’s search bar. Google Translate: whisk. “Le fouet?”

“Le fouet??” He questions with a tone that would make her think she’d called him a slur. “I do not think that is right.”

“Le fouet à…” she trails off, debating internally over the pronunciation of the words in front of her. “How do you say the ‘o’ and the ‘e’ when they’re together?” She asks, butchers it before he has the chance to give her any answer. “Œufs?”

“I have no idea what you are telling to me.”

“Telling you,” Chris corrects. “What I’m telling you.”

“Oh, mon dieu,” he groans. “This is sad. We can talk in the morning.”

“Okay,” she nods, yawns again. It’s long past her bedtime, and she has no idea how many hours now she’s been awake for. It’s gotta be going on twenty or more, surely. Surely.

“Thank you for calling me,” he says, softly, genuinely grateful for the call. She’s grateful he’s grateful. It’s sweet, all the little things he does to show he cares. The way he does most of them without realizing it.

“Thank you for wanting me to call.”

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twopoppies · 1 month ago

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Hello,

You're anon early with the tiktok mentioning Larry sort of reminded me about my origin story into this fandom. I had a moment when I was trying to figure who "Larry" was. Anyway, here's my story:

My origin story.

I blame it on Taylor Swift.

It was the Fall of 2022.

At the time, I knew little about One Direction besides the fact that they were a British boyband from X-Factor that Simon Cowell created. I knew that a band member named Zayn had left and that the band had broken up not long after. I could tell you who Harry and Niall were, but the other boys blended into interchangeable band members.

Looking back, I’m not sure why I wasn’t more into them because I had been a massive fan of American boybands of the '90s (NKOTB, BSB, N*SYNC, 98 Degrees, etc.). Being in my mid-forties now, I can assume I thought I wasn’t in One Direction’s focus group, especially since I had friends who took their 1D-obsessed kids to One Direction concerts, and I just wanted to stay away.

Back to Taylor Swift. I’ve been a fan of her music since her debut album, which is still my favorite of hers.

It was the Fall of 2022, and Taylor had a lot of buzz because she was about to release Midnights. I went on a binge of listening to my favorite Taylor songs. I got to the song “Style,” which I have always liked and assumed was about Harry.

I got curious and decided to google if Harry had ever written a song about Taylor. When they were “dating,” they existed outside of my bubble of things to care about. “Two Ghosts” was the song that came up as possibly being written about Taylor. I knew of and liked the song. I had watched Harry on James Corden (another rabbit hole I went down about celebrities singing Broadway songs which led to Carpool Karaoke and Crosswalk Musicals and eventually to Harry Styles) around the time his debut album came out, liked Sign of the Times, and bought the album.

I searched on YouTube to see if there was a music video of Two Ghosts or a live performance. I was disappointed that there wasn’t a music video, but I did watch a live performance and then scrolled down to the comments.

Holy wow! That’s where I first encountered the fandom. Fans were arguing about who the song was written about and whether Harry (as well as Louis and Taylor, for that matter) was gay, bi, or straight. The thoughts that went through my head!

Yes, other people think this is a beautiful song.

Are we sure this song is about Taylor?

Wait! This song is about a guy?

Who is Louis Tomlinson? I think he might be a 1D band member? Gotta go look that up. Yep, a 1D band member.

There was a gay couple in 1D? That’s cute. How am I just finding this out? Why isn’t this bigger news? They probably had to hide like Jonathan Knight of NKOTB and Lance Bass of N*Sync.

Who is Larry Stylinson? Is he a sixth member? I thought there were only five members?

Oh. It’s their names together.

That’s so cute!

Yep, they’re closeted. That’s so sad! Stupid boyband stereotypes.

And I went off to Google to find out more information. I found Tumblr, master posts, videos, fanfics, and down the rabbit hole I fell.

Two years later, I’m still down the rabbit hole with no plans of digging myself out.

Hahahaha! That’s a long, but pretty direct route down the rabbit hole. Glad to have you here!

#origin stories

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honey-flustered · 2 years ago

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Too Quiet (Fluff)

YoungDad!Steve Harrington x YoungMom!Reader

Summary: You and Steve finally get a moment of peace until you’re reminded that you’re parents of two rambunctious toddlers and a puppy. Sometimes, quiet’s never a good sign.

A/N: This fluffy thought came to me because I have a toddler niece and whenever she gets quiet we know she’s never up to any good. This also goes out to the parents who just need a little break from time to time. (Note: this has also been in my drafts for so long)

Word: 1.6k+

You appreciated the mundane. Boring can be good sometimes. Like for instance, neither you or Steve had any work that needed to be done. No errands, no chores, no 8-12-16 hour shifts. It was just a simple day where the two of you got to relax.

You found yourselves so comfortable, in fact, you hadn’t recognized that you were laid on the couch with your back against his chest, scrolling on your phone until he randomly cleared his throat.

You jolt up, looking back at him. “Whoa! When’d you get here?”

He looks up from his book, reading glasses slipping to the bridge of his nose. “I sacrifice my need to get up and pee for like 2 hours just to be your body pillow. My legs are asleep.”

You roll yourself around, facing him and wrapping your arms around his neck, “I’m sorry I’ve ignored you. It’s just so nice having these moments of downtime.”

He kisses your nose. “I understand, love. I’m really glad we don’t always have to talk to enjoy each other’s company. I like the comfortable silence.”

“Me too,” You grin. “Sometimes, I don’t always want to talk. Sometimes, I just want to scroll through my phone or eat a whole pot of mac ‘n’ cheese all by myself without the necessary judgment.”

“Weird way of bringing that up…but I get it.” Steve chuckles. “And you know what—since we’re throwing things out there—I’m so over people believing that being ‘boring’ is synonymous to being ‘old’. I mean, if I prefer staying home over going to parties it doesn’t mean I’m not still King Steve.”

“Exactly! Boring is the new fun! Like vanilla sex…it isn’t so bad.”

“It’s fantastic! We don’t always need the theatrics. It’s just so extra to have freaky sex all the time. Um, waiter, I’d like vanilla sex with a side of missionary please.”

You snort at his dorkiness. “I have to admit that I don’t always care to drink when we go out. I don’t always want to be a tipsy ditz all the time. Sometimes when I’m out with my friends, they make me feel bad about ordering just wine so I just lie and say that I’m drinking vodka when it’s only water in my glass. I’m just really good at pretending I’m drunk.”

“You’re goddamn Meryl Streep and Viola Davis combined when you act drunk, baby. I could use some pointers. I don’t always want to drink either but the boys…” Steve groans. “It’s always ‘Steve, chug down this beer’ and never ‘Steve, would you like some chamomile tea.’ I don’t drink tea but I just might start if someone offers me.”

“I’d offer you since you’re taking interest. Would you like me to make you some now?”

“Maybe later,” Steve curls his arms around you tight. “I like talking about being boring with you.”

“Yeah, I could be boring with you all the time. Like if I decided to crochet some shit for the hell of it, you wouldn’t judge.”

“Course I wouldn’t. I think you’d be the best crocheter ever and that’s saying a lot because there are a lot of great ones out there. I know this because I watched a youtube tutorial of crochet making…in full. I don’t plan to make a not one piece but I watched it anyway because I had time,” Steve shrugs. “And sometimes, even when I have plenty of time, I don’t always feel like styling my hair.”

You gasp, putting a hand to your chest. “Not the hair!”

“I can be too cool for cool.” He smiles smugly.

“I wanna wear a oversized clothes.” You rush out.

“You deserve it! I’ve seen the kind of clothes you’ve had to wear. Super tight. Not that it’s a bad thing, of course. I don’t always wanna dress in the latest fashion either.”

“I hate going to the beach nowadays. I get sand in all of my crevices and I end up finding sand around the house even weeks after.”

“I hate driving too fast.”

“I like gardening.”

“I like socks with sandals.”

“I’ve been leaning into buying those portraits with the words on them that say things like “home is where the heart is” or some corny thing like that”

“Eww, you mean the ‘live, laugh, love’ crap,” He laughs. “I’m sorry but we’re not that old.”

“Oh, please, I’m sure you’ve got worse.”

Steve thinks for a moment. “I guess I’ve always wanted to ask an employee if they’re working hard or hardly working.”

“Oh, nooo!” You cringe. “That’s horrible. Do you want them to hate you?”

“Alright, so I’m that kind of old, too.” He admits defeat.

“I think mom jeans aren’t as bad as everyone makes them to be.”

“I think dad jokes are the epitome of comedy and I’ve brushed up on some.”

“Ooo, tell me one!” You beam excitedly.

“Okay. What do you call a nose with no body?”

“What?”

“Nobody knows."

You both join in laughter which soon dies down when the gears in each of your heads began to turn. The two of you stare in space, speechless and reflective of the conversation.

“Although, it is a bit quiet,” You say, breaking the silence. “Don’t you think?”

“Yeah, too quiet.”

“Not boring, though.”

“No, not boring. It’s a good boring if it is. But it’s like…something’s missing. Like we’re forgetting something important.”

“Or someone important?”

“Some…ones…” Steve says in a reflective tone, then his eyes bug out and so do yours as you come to the same realization.

The two of you exchanged looks and simultaneously yell. “Our babies?!”

The two of you jump up from the couch and heading in any direction the two believed the boys were in. You checked the pantry, he checked in the bottom cabinets. He checked the in the boys closet, you checked underneath the bed.

“How could have forgotten about them for two hours?!” Steve exclaims. “We’re terrible people! They’re literally all the reasons why we’re so old and boring now so how can we have forgotten?!”

“They’ve handled themselves just fine alone, babe.” You say trying to comfort him.

“You and I both know that when it gets quiet it’s never a good sign. They’re like Max from Max and Ruby and you know how sociopathic that bunny could be. Little Baby Blue hasn’t barked in 2 hours either. What could they have possibly done to him?” Steve says while running his hands through his hair.

The sounds of giggling from the master bedroom is enough to shake you and Steve to your core. The boys were for sure in there and possibly doing something that will cost you a lot of money to repair.

“For all we know they’ve just created armagedon in there,” You say, darting your eyes between the bedroom door and Steve. “Whatever happens, whatever we see…we must prepare ourselves. Some things may be damaged beyond repair and most likely there will be a lot of cleaning up to do…but we mustn’t take out our anger on the children. They’re children who are simply practicing their exploration and discovery skills.”

“Easy for you to say. You weren’t the one who found your game console submerged in a toilet bowl,” He clutches his chest. “You don’t know my pain.”

You groan, hearing more laughter from the boys. “What do think it is this time? Paint on the walls? The forbidden mudpie cake? Fisher Price Guillotine?”

“I don’t know. That’s the terrifying part. They always come up with the darnedest things,” Steve holds out his hand. “Hold it please, I’m not ready for this horror show.”

You swallow hard, taking his hand. Opening the masters bedroom, you see the twins with their thumbs in their mouths watching Saturday cartoons on the large bed. Little Baby Blue is wedged between the boys, relaxing as they both pet him with their free hands. Their eyes immediately dart to the two of you standing in the doorway like you’d just interrupted a nice moment.

“Mommy.” Oslo smiles and runs up to you.

“Daddy!” Bear runs into Steve’s arms.

“My boys,” You say in relief. “Mommy and Daddy are so sorry for not checking on you. We were very, very tired.”

“Das kay, mommy,” Oslo says, snuggling into your tummy. “Blue’s here with us.”

“Blue even gave us some things to eat.” Bear points to one side of the bed which was full of snacks from the pantry.

“I was wonderful where the Oreos went.” Steve says.

You pet Blue. “That’s a good boy! Maybe next time go for the healthier options in the fridge.” The dog huff and you raise your hands in surrender. “Alright, alright. I’ll cut you some slack. I know how hard it is watching two toddlers.”

“I’m going to whip us up some lunch and then we’ll go to the park for family fun day. How’s that sound, boys?” Steve says.

The boys jump up and down excitedly with Steve hyping up their mood. “Ok, but you have to go and get ready real quick. Think you two can do that like the big boys you are?”

“Yes!” They shout at once.

“Go on then after come down for the famous Harrington men’s sandwich.”

The boys run out of the room, Blur chasing after them.

You lean in to whisper to your husband, still in shock. “Everything’s neat. The boys were actually angels the entire day. Thanks to babysitter Blue.”

“I guess those two were having a relaxed day, too.” Steve quips.

Oslo enters the room, tugging your sweater. “Mommy, can you help me find my favorite sho”

“You mean the light up ones?”

Oslo nods and you take his hand, “Come on, we’ll look together.”

“Then, I’ll help Bear get dressed. We’re going to beat you guys!” Steve teases.

You all laugh enjoying the friendly competition. Although, you enjoyed the times where things get quiet. You couldn’t trade the moments of chaos and fun with your family for the world.

#steve harrington x reader imagine #steve harrington x reader #Steve harrington x you fluff #stranger things fluff #steve harrington fanfic #stranger things fanfiction #dad!steve harrington #mom!reader #Steve harrington x fem!reader #joe keery fanfiction

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doetic · 10 months ago

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There's Doodles of Rams in the Margins - Enemies to lovers!Jschlatt x F!Reader (pt.1)

Masterlist

Plot: During a lunch with her best friend and roommate Shae, the love hating cynic Y/n is introduced to her new boyfriend Ted Nivision and his friend Schlatt. Little does she know, her and Schlatt would butt heads at a party later that night, leaving her storming out soaking wet and enraged, but with the phone number of a charismatic and attractive curly haired man named Hasan. Warnings: drinking, asshole schlatt, mentions of hookups, swearing Word Count: 2983

A/n: This is just setting up the plot. It'll have better pacing in later chapters. As per usual, not proofread, adhd has me in tight grip and if I get started on proofreading I'll never end and edit it forever. Might look for beta readers soon.

Perhaps in the past it was a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife, but nowadays you couldn’t help but scoff at the notion.

In the 21st century, the very idea of a man wanting to settle down with pure intentions seemed far-fetched, especially if the man happened to be wealthy. Many called you cynical for this point of view, but as a sex and romance advice columnist you’d heard of enough horror stories to swear off the concept of love entirely. So, when your best friend and roommate Shae told you over your regular saturday lunch that things were getting serious with a guy she had met, you couldn’t help but be suspicious of the man’s intentions, although you tried to politely bite back the majority of your thoughts on the matter.

“His name’s Ted, Ted Nivision.” Shae smiled as the name left her lips. The instant the name hit the air you pulled out your phone, ready to do a thorough background check on the man.

Shae’s hand flew across the table and landed on top of yours, gently lowering your phone. “That’s not necessary Y/n. Besides, you wouldn’t find anything personal anyways.”

“It’s not that rare of a name,” You reasoned. “It couldn’t be that hard,” You paused, eyes widening. “...Unless he gave you a fake one!” Shae let out a small laugh. “It’s not like that! He’s just a youtuber, he’s got all the personal stuff locked down as much as he can.”

You sent Shae an incredulous stare, putting your phone back onto the table. She smiled in return, used to your protectiveness, knowing what was coming next. “LA men are bad enough Shae, but an influencer?” You began to chastise her. “He’s–”

“I know the drill Y/n, we don’t need to go through this every time.” She rolled her eyes lightheartedly.

Others found your skepticism annoying, but Shae got it. She understood in ways no one else would or could. As your lifelong best friend, Shae knew your biggest secret: you were completely hopeless when it came to love, you’ve never had a romantic relationship. The shitty experiences people wrote to you about, your parents, and her own failed relationships were your only windows into what a relationship was like. Throughout your life she had a front row seat to witnessing you become so closed off to the idea of letting a man into your life. So, she appreciated and understood the pure intentioned concern, but still patiently tried to change your mind on the matter, even when everyone else considered it a lost cause.

“I’m just saying, you know how men like that are. Big fucking egos Shae, it gets in the way of everything,” You stabbed your fork into your salad a bit harder than you intended. “Is he actually successful or just some wannabe? You don’t want a guy with some trash soundcloud rapper mindset.”

“He’s got over a million subscribers I think?” She hummed, unlocking her phone and scrolling for a few moments before turning the screen to you, a dark haired man with glasses staring at you.

“I mean he’s cute I guess, if you’re into the geeky look,” You examined his face. “You could find someone hotter, but I’d probably hate him more if he was.”

Shae put away her phone and swatted the side of your arm playfully. “You haven’t even met him yet!” You paused as you lifted another forkful to your mouth.

“We both know how this is gonna go, Shae. He could be Jesus-fuckin’-Christ himself and he still wouldn’t be good enough for you.”

She let out a small laugh. “Well, please don’t be too obvious about your feelings. He should be here about–” She quickly checked the time on her lockscreen, but before she could finish her sentence the tall dark haired man you recognized as Ted speed-walked over right on cue, a brunette above 6ft with odd facial hair trailing after him. You couldn’t help but think he pulled off the mutton chop loop. In fact, with his sharp, prominent nose, large stature, and flowing, wavy hair that was partially covered by a NY Yankees cap, you found yourself admiring the man’s appearance.

“Sorry, sorry! Am I late?” Ted leaned down to kiss Shae’s cheek, your friend grinning at the small action.

“Right on time, Ted.” Shae’s grin was plastered on her face, but a quick glance toward you showed that her eyes asked you to play nice. “This is Y/n by the way.” She gestured to you expectantly. It took you a few moments to catch on, busy chewing on your salad and sneaking glances at the man who seemed to be a friend of Ted, but once you realized you were meant to do something, you quickly waved.

Ted sat in the seat beside Shae, leaving the uniquely attractive man who accompanied him standing beside the table. “Sorry, Schlatt wanted to tag along, but I figured he wouldn’t be too much of a nuisance.” He apologized, mostly to Shae.

“I wanted to spend time with my friend if I’m stuck here in smoggy L.A,” ‘Schlatt’ huffed.

“Oh Schlatt, you can sit beside Y/n!” She pointed to the chair beside you. You moved your purse onto the floor, watching the tall man as he crossed over to sit beside you, giving him a polite small smile. “It’s nice to meet you again.”

“You too.” He nodded in response, giving you a silent, examining look.

The man didn’t seem socially awkward, instead Schlatt just came off as reserved. From Ted’s comment about him being a nuisance, this behavior seemed odd to you. Perhaps he was just being good for Ted’s sake, or just getting a feel of the situation before getting more comfortable.

“I’m Y/n,” You introduced. Not knowing what to do or say, you went to take another bite of your salad, only to be greeted by an empty bowl. You tried not to frown at the betrayal, opting to take a sip of your drink instead. Schlatt let out a hum, turning on his phone. Perhaps he was just tired?

“So, are you two looking forward to the party tonight?” Ted spoke up, breaking the silence that fell over the table. Although his body language made him appear comfortable, with his arm stretched around Shae’s shoulders, you noticed the awkwardness he felt through the apparent stiffness of his shoulders.

“Party?” You looked over to Shae who smiled sheepishly.

“Ted! I was gonna ease her into it!” Shae laughed. “Ted invited us to a party with him and Schlatt, it’s gonna be a good one apparently. Some group rented out a mansion on AirBnB. You totally have to come!”

“I’m busy that day,” You said quickly. Schlatt, who was busy on his phone, let out a small chuckle that he tried to bite back.

“It’s tonight,” Ted restated.

“Yeah and I have plans tonight,” You said quickly, searching your brain for an excuse. Your search was cut short by Shae.

“You were complaining about having nothing to do all day when we got here. C’mon Y/n, It’ll be fun!”

You went to sip your drink to stall while you thought of an escape plan, only to end up slurping air. The world seemed to be against you today. “Okay, okay, only for a bit. And I’m stealing back the Jimmy Choos I let you borrow.”

Sometimes you wished you were better at saying no to Shae. Especially right now.

The party was lively. The bass throbbed throughout the rented mansion as if the building had a heartbeat and the large crowd of people gathered throughout the house swayed in time with it as if the party had cast a spell upon them and commanded it. Although you were committed to being huffy in the corner, you couldn’t help tapping a foot as well. Outside, in the absurdly large yard took place a makeshift game of baseball while others mingled on the deck.

Hate was a word you used quite liberally, despite being warned against it your whole childhood. Despite its secure place in your vocabulary, it was rare for you to truly mean the word as defined. However, in your current situation you felt yourself feeling the word so deeply it was as if you created it yourself. Your irritation was worsened by the knowledge that if the party was populated by any other group of people, you’d be having an amazing time. It wasn’t as if you were upset just because you were a buzzkill, usually you were the first one to suggest a night out and the last one to get into the uber home (after being pulled in by your friends). No, it wasn’t for a lack of loving parties. You just hated the people at this one specifically. You couldn’t stand Influencers.

Your eyes scanned the crowd for Shae, noting the amount of cameras out with scrutiny. You couldn’t help but wonder how many of these people actually liked each other. How many of them were actually friends once the cameras shut off? You couldn’t stand the insincerity that seemed to permeate through every interaction they had, not to mention the egos that they broke their back carrying.

Unfortunately, the familiar brunette you were searching for was not to be found, the two of you had been separated an hour ago when a group of people pulled her and Ted away to talk. Your phone battery was dangerously low, so you didn’t send more than one text her way. It was only a mansion, she couldn’t have gotten far, surely you’d find each other if you stayed in one spot. The situation made you feel a bit like a child lost in a supermarket. What was next? Practicing a stop, drop, and roll?

The sigh that escaped your lips was rendered inaudible by both the music and the laughter floating through the open patio door to your right, where out in the backyard a makeshift baseball game seemed to be occurring– with cameras out, of course. Unlike usual, your carefully crafted, much too expensive outfit wasn’t enough to lift your spirits. Opting for plan b, you raised your lips to take a sip of your drink.

It seemed as if brunette men over 6ft were scurrying into your life like rats, with the man who just came to stand beside you being no exception. You tried to subtly look at the attractive man under the guise of scanning the crowd for Shae once more as you sipped your drink, only to notice him staring at you. Like a cobra, the moment the rim of the cup left your lips, he struck quickly.

“I haven’t seen you around this type of thing before, what’s your name?” He questioned. You took the opportunity to get a better look at the man before looking away with faux disinterest. You were opposed to love, yes, but a good hookup was something you were glad to indulge in.

“Isn’t introducing yourself first the chivalrous thing to do?” You commented, opting to act hard to get to give him the thrill of the chase.

“Excuse my manners, I’m a bit buzzed. I’m Hasan Piker. Can I know your name now, mystery girl?”

You let out a small laugh, turning to face him finally. “Y/n.”

“Y/n? I don’t think I’ve heard of you. I’d certainly remember if I did. What type of content do you make?”

You tried not to grimace at his assumption. “I’m sort of a sexual anthropologist.” You stretched your job description to the limit.

He raised an eyebrow. “Onlyfans?”

“A magazine advice columnist. It focuses on sex and relationships,” You elaborated with a laugh. “Though I’m trying to break into real journalism.”

He laughed. “‘Sexual anthropologist’?” He ruminated on the words. “Well that’s a creative way of saying it, although it doesn’t seem to be entirely inaccurate.”

“Circumlocution is a guilty pleasure. I’m assuming you’re a streamer or something?”

“Quite a bit of political content.”

You hummed. “More respectable than most.”

Hasan let out a small chuckle. “But let's not talk business. I can’t talk long, content obligations. But I saw you across the room and wanted to give you my number, maybe we could get more acquainted later.”

You pulled out your phone, opening it up to the contacts app and handing it over. “I don’t hate the idea of that,” You smirked, internally beginning to enjoy being dragged along to this party now that you had the chance at spending a night of meaningless sex with his muscular form.

He took the phone from your hand and typed in his number. “I have to go, but text me. I’ll be looking forward to it.” His warm hand brushed against your exposed back, rubbing a small circle into your flesh with his thumb before slinking into the crowd from where he came.

You tried to hide the smirk that threatened to creep onto your lips, trying to play it cool in case anyone was watching. In an attempt to hide your smirk of satisfaction you raised your drink to your lips, only to find yourself wet and on the floor just a millisecond later, pain and the flashes and clicks of cameras flooding your senses.

The large form crashing into your body was far too sudden for you to even make a sound or register what had happened for a few moments. Slowly your brain began to piece things together. The open patio door in front of you, the baseball game going on outside that had halted with its players staring your way in shock, the impossibly heavy weight that kept you pinned to the hardwood floor. Some fucker had tackled you in an attempt to catch a ball. You were too stunned to speak, and the delayed full-body pain that flowed into your body only added to your silence.

“Watch where you’re standing, toots.” The voice, although with the telltale slur of a drunk man, sounded slightly familiar. Your disoriented brain took a bit to focus, but once it did you saw the face of Ted’s friend Schlatt hovering above you, illuminated by harsh camera flashes.

Your eyes stung as they teared up, embarrassment, pain, and anger flooding your senses all at once.

“Watch where I’m standing? You’re the one who fucking ran into me!” You shouted back in anger, not caring about the cameras and bystanders surrounding you. “Get off of me!”

The man huffed as he moved his large form to his feet, a motion your sore body copied once he released you from your prison beneath him. “If you paid more attention to your surroundings you’d’ve seen me coming!”

“It’s a dark room!”

“Try drinking less, you’ll be more aware of your surroundings.” He retorted with a pissed off chuckle.

“I’m not the one who reeks of whiskey!” You angrily jabbed a finger into his chest. “I’m not taking this from some ‘influencer’ with an over-inflated ego,” You hopefully accurately guessed his occupation from his attitude before turning on your heel and storming away, focusing most of your energy on not stumbling in pain with such a variety of pitying and angry eyes on your form. Behind you you could hear Schlatt yell out in triumph about having caught the ball, his announcement resulting in loud cheers.

“Y/n! What’s wrong?” You heard Shae’s worried voice as you neared the parties exit. Ted trailed behind her, looking confused at the state you were in. You must have looked like a wreck. Even without a mirror you could tell your hair was messed up and your backless white dress was stained from your drink when Schlatt barreled into you.

“That fucking guy, Schlatt,” You replied, sending a glare to Ted. “Crashed into me trying to catch a ball and blamed it on me.”

Shae’s face turned angry at your words, looking expectantly at Ted and presumably opening her mouth to tell him to do something about his friend.

“I’ll talk to him, he hasn’t been himself recently,” Ted spoke quickly, giving you an apologetic look.

“Don’t. I don’t want some coerced apology. He’s a dick, it’s whatever. I doubt I’ll even see him much after tonight.” You weren’t sure why Shae and Ted had such weird looks on their faces as you said that, but you felt too scrambled to question it. “I’m just worried about pictures and videos of it ending up everywhere.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Ted comforted.

“Let's get you home first, I doubt you want to be here any longer,” Shae spoke, placing a hand on your shoulder and guiding you out the front door.

The outside air was cool upon your skin as your drink dried into sticky patches on your skin. The slight breeze felt piercing on the wet spots of your dress that clung tightly to you. You let out a small sigh, the sound of the party fading into the background as the three of you walked to Ted’s car. He had agreed to be the designated driver for the night, something you appreciated. You would have felt awful making some poor Uber driver’s car reek of booze.

You were so exhausted you didn’t pay much attention to Shae helping you into the car, your body feeling heavy as you rested your head against the back seat window. Thankfully, the two in the front seat respected your reluctance to talk much. You found yourself ruminating on your latest interaction with Schlatt. It felt so fast, there wasn’t much for you to think of at all about it, but of one thing you were certain: you deplored the man, and you looked forward to never seeing him again.

Taglist: @ghostyoongs

#jschlatt #jschlatt x reader #schlatt #schlatt x reader #jschlatt fanfic

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renfieldrenrat · 3 months ago

Text

Talking about my Alterhumanity 🌙

Howdy! I go online by the name Renfield! I'm a therian who's been awakened* since October 2018, alongside multiple other kintypes and identities which I discovered over time.

*I knew I was different in a way since a very early age and always thought of myself as not human, as early as I can remember. I would describe my "awakening" as finding out what therianthropy is and having a name for whats going on with me.

Wanted to take the time to talk about my alterhumanity, as I don't see those type of posts so often around and it might even help people who are struggleing on finding their own identity or just to get a general better understanding of what an alterhuman is.

(Looong post ahead)

🌙 First off I should clerify what my identities are!

(Poly) Therian

My Theriotypes are: Coyote, black (gray) wolf and red fox.

(Coyote als being my core animal identity).

Otherkin

My Kintypes are: Vampire (Vampyre), Werewolf and Timelord.

(Timelord is also tied to one of my Fictionkin identities)

Fictionkin

My Fictotypes are: Renfield, Doctor Who, Clint Barton, Edward Munson, Eric (AQPDO), Stede Bonnet (OFMD), Mobius, Jack Russel (Werewolve by Night)

Renfield also being my core identity in general. Renfield is my strongest kintype, I am constantly and always Renfield involuntary.

Songkin (Conceptkin)

Songkins: Steam Powered Giraffe - Honeybee, Wired Wrong, Fire Fire

Albums: Djo - TWENTY TWENTY and DECIDE/D-SIDE Album

(Will make an extra post)

Fursonakin

Cody and Joshua

(Gonna make an extra post for this too)

(I'm also Otherhearted with a vew Kithtypes!)

🌙 How I found out I was a Therian

My therian identity was the first alterhuman identity I discovered and ties to my animalistic urges and the behaviour I had since I was a kid, which weren't usual compared to other children (seen from my own perspective). As side note, I am neurodivergent and would describe my mind as simply wired different. That's also the best explaination I have for my therianthropy.

Since an early age I would see myself as an animal and genuinely believed in elementary school that I was a werewolf and could transform, if I only tried enough or was old enough. (I know I am physically human, I was just a kid being a kid). I would sometimes experience ear- and tail shifts as a child (didn't know what this was about as a kid. Thought everyone had that). I've always been highly sensitive of sound and weather. I also experience emotions much stronger and intense than majority/typical (HSP)

Which I would later come to see as: I think as my Theriotype/Kintype.

Anyway, so in October of 2018 I discovered PD (Pink Dolphin)'s YouTube channel, hearing of the term "Therian" for the first time. I watched a vew of PD's videos and looked up some reddit posts about therianthropy. (Reddit not being the best source ever but didn't know where to look back then). I quickly realised "Hey, I think this term fits me and how I've been perceiving me and the world this whole time." And so the questioning for my possible theriotype began. While scrolling through multiple pages related to therianthropy I actually discovered that I experience a certain type of shift alot. Dreamshifts. I can distinguish intense/realistic dreams from experiencing actual dream shifts. It's this one certain feeling dream shifts have to them when I experience one, which I cannot really put into words. (Quick side note, you don't have to experience shifts in order to be a therian. Some do, some don't. I just personally happen to get dreamshifts specifically alot and sometimes but not as frequent mental or sensory shifts.) To get back: Clear images of what my internal self looks like come mainly from my dreamshifts, colour and exact shape wise.

I would first believe that I was a winged wolf. Realizing later, after proper and long research, that I am a Coyotekin and Corvid Otherhearted. (Till this day I get often cameoshifts of birds and back then had them mistaken for a winged canine creature). Also found to be a red fox a little later and in 2022 also that I am a black wolf aswell, after having it as werewolfkin first. I was wrong with being a werewolf and just a "regular" wolf instead, making it a theriotype.

And that's the best I can put it. I'm a psychological Polytherian with three theriotypes.

🌙 My identity as Vampirekin (Vampyre)

At first, let me explain to you what being a Vampyre / Vampirekin means to me. Everyone has different experiences. This is how I experience mine and how it affects my life.

There is a bit of a difference between vampire kinshifts I experience and my general Vampyre identity.

I consider myself a Psychic Vampire (metaphysical energy.)

(* as side note, I am not that deep into spirituality)

I am a highly sensitive empath (HSP) and feel most of the time something missing on a emotional basis. I found to be a psychic vampire as I use the energy of others to recharge what is missing on my behalf. I feel drained most of the time and rarely have moments of longer lasting energy. More intimate moments between me and another human being are not a thing really accouring so I basically have to stick to such simple things as positive conversations with others or hugs from friends, in order to take energy. As it's very "light" it's not a draining process for anyone involved. I don't want to feel like "stealing" the energy from them so I always try to give those something back and thanking them (not in words.)

However, going over to my kinshifts and the things I seperate from being a Psychic Vampire and rather count it to Vampirekin as a seperate thing:

I OFTEN get fang shifts, the vampire "teeth shifts" are different from the shifts I get from my theriotypes. For my canine shifts I feel a snout and full set of sharp, canine teeth. For my vampire shifts it's the single sharp canines inside my (human) mouth. I also have claw shifts that are fingerlike with sharp nails and differ from my paw shifts.

I also experience sort of blood lust and have a biting urge.

I have a general fascination for blood. (Don't take this in a creepy way.)

My Vampirekin is also linked to my Renfield Fictionkin.

Other things I consider part of my identity:

I've always been a night person and feel the most alive at night/I am most productive during that time.

Very sensitive to weather (hot and cold), highly sensitivity in general (HSP).

I am drawn to graveyards, consider it a hearthome.

(Random side note, my biggest and longest lasting 'till now hyperfixations are Vampires and Dracula in specific.)

Fictionkin identities 🌙

It takes too long to cover every single of my Fictionkin identities, so I'll try to chop it down and use my corekin Renfield to write about.

Renfield:

This is a fictionkin, heavily linked to my vampire identity in general. On one hand Renfield from the 1931 cinematic version of Dracula, played by Dwight Frye and Renfield from the 2023 film, played by Nicolas Hoult. (Also Renfields depiction/describtion in Bram Stokers gothic novel)

At a faithfull night I started reading Bram Stokers Dracula, as I've been hyperfixating on Vampires since I was a kid and thought it would be a nice addition, since I also love reading. On page 99, R.M. Renfield is first mentioned. Reading further and further, I immediately knew that this is not just a "I relate to him" it was a "this is me." I never had felt something like this up until this point. After I had watched the 1931 version of Dracula I was sure. I see myself internally as Dwight Frye's portrayal of Renfield, alongside memories of the particular Carpathian Mountains and Castle Dracula that is shown in that version of the movie.

(Kinfirmed Renfield in february 2021)

Y'all can only imagin the hype I felt when I saw that there would be a Renfield focused movie to come in 2023!

For Hoult's perfomance as Renfield, I saw him the first second and it was like looking into a mirror, that isn't reflecting my outlook but my internal self. As they are both Renfield (the 1931 film even having a flashback appearence in the Renfield movie) with just different takes on the character and story, I coined them as one identity. I am Renfield. My own, internal version of Renfield entails every version of Renfield in a way.

The next part is more on how I see Renfield as a person so opinions on his character might differ on this but that's okay! Everyone can see a character how they want and interpret them. This is how I see Renfield.

Thinking back I kind of always been Renfield. Missunderstood and always seem to be second choice, just like Renfield. Spending all of my energy on others, ignoring my own needs, just like Renfield. Lonely and just left behind in the end, just like Renfield. Used and manipulated, just like Renfield. I don't have a master to serve but I never put myself first and cry if not able to finish a task as expected. (Example buying something specific at the groceries but that food item isn't available, so it's not my fault for the store running out of stock but I am still frustraded and angry for not being able to bring that item). I am not a leader, rather a follower.

This was very personal and I hope I won't regret this ✨

Anyway! I hope this was helpfull in any way and that this wasn't a too long of a read.

Feel free to ask me questions in my QnA thing! I love answering questions!

#therian #alterhuman #fictionkin #alterhuman community #theriotype #coyote therian #renfield #otherkin #otherkinity #fursonakin #musickin #alterhuman shift #vampirekin #canine therian

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goodlucktai · 1 year ago

Note

So lil request if ya feel up for it :-}

★ A story about Mikey's brothers finding out about his and Woody's secret relationship(?). Like, maybe it can be that one of them are going through Mikey's phone and they see his camera roll full of photos of him and Woody !! Or like they walk in on the two cuddling asleep or something idk :-0

Do whatever U want 💖

i went with rise on this one. i missed those guys :')

read on ao3

Don slams into the infirmary with a shout of, “LEO! Leoleoleoleoleoleo!”

“Congratulations, my name just sounds like noise to me now,” Leo replies drolly, as if he’s not ecstatic to have company. Sure, Raph had been camped beside his bed up until like ten minutes ago, but a lot can happen in ten minutes.

As if to prove it, Don shoves a phone into Leo’s face. “Michael—our Michael—has a boyfriend.”

Leo sits up so fast he feels it in his entire body, an ache radiating down his spine like it’s a gong that just got rung.

“You’re lying!”

“I would never lie to you,” Donnie says, his tone a weird mix of agitated and absolutely giddy.

Such a gossip, Leo thinks fondly.

Don piles onto the bed, still careful of Leo’s broken bones but a far cry from the cautious, mincing way he climbs in lately for their Youtube video essay marathons or vent sessions. Leo might have to orchestrate more tantalizing secrets for his nosy twin to uncover if it stops him treating Leo like something glass that’s about to break.

Shoulder to shoulder, Donnie holds the phone where they both can see it. Now that Leo’s looking at it properly, he clocks the glittery sticker-covered military-grade phone case and says, “Oh, no. Tello, you didn’t. Look me in the eyes and tell me you didn’t steal his phone.”

“It’s called the Freedom of Information Act.”

“That does not apply here!” Leo is torn between horror—because Mikey is objectively terrifying—and glee—because Donnie is an absolute menace and he loves to see it.

“Agree to disagree. I could have just cloned his phone onto a new device but where’s the pizzazz? Anyway—”

He brings up Mikey’s camera roll, scrolling through dozens of post-invasion celebratory selfies and candids, past a few scattered pics of Mikey’s own cooking and digital art (and Leo makes a mental note to revisit that, because there aren’t as many of those as there ought to be) and finally making an “ah-HAH” sound under his breath, tapping on a particular picture to blow it up.

It’s a selfie taken at arm’s length of two faces squished together to fit the frame. One face belongs to Leo’s little brother, caught mid-laugh. The other one is distinctly human, almost lost in a haphazard cloud of yellow curls and turned sideways to plant a kiss on Mikey’s spotted cheek.

Leo finds himself smiling involuntarily. Mikey looks happy. It’s cute.

Of course, if Mikey thinks he can have a whole-ass secret boyfriend and get away with it, he’s got another thing coming. Not when he has three older brothers and an older sister who have been waiting their entire lives for this moment.

“This doesn’t prove they’re dating,” he points out, mostly just to play devil's advocate. “Maybe they’re super affectionate friends. The five of us do cheek- and forehead-kisses on occasion, too.”

“Mm-hmm, yes, I thought you might say that, and I am, of course, prepared to offer more evidence.”

Donnie taps out of the photo gallery and brings up Mikey’s messaging app. He scrolls for a bit, past the sibling group chat, April, their own names, Raph, their dads—even Rupert, what the hell?—and then, right beneath Piebald and before Casey Sr., is a text thread with a contact simply, and tellingly, labeled babe💛.

On pure reflex, Leo smacks the phone out of Don’s hand before he can open the thread.

“So what we’re not about to do is read his texts to and from his boyfriend,” he says, very deliberately, so a single world won’t be misconstrued.

“I wasn’t gonna,” Donnie mumbles, in a tone that suggests that he was, in fact, gonna.

Leo picks up the phone and goes back to the picture. He checks the timestamp, humming thoughtfully to see that it was from a little over two months ago. They've certainly been busy since the whole Krang situation, but Mikey has always had time for the things he loves. He makes time. He’s just a kid, albeit one who had to grow up too fast, but he was born with a good sense of what’s really important.

And this guy, Leo thinks, seems like he could be important. So why is this the first they’re hearing about him?

“How exactly did you make this discovery?” Leo asks, handing the stolen phone back.

“S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. regularly scans all of our devices for anything icky—you’re welcome—and he asked me who the blond guy was,” Donnie explains offhandedly. “He thought we had a new friend he hadn’t met. You know how he gets when he thinks we’re leaving him out of literally anything.”

“Like father, like son,” Leo says sagely.

Donnie lowers the phone and makes direct eye contact. “No.”

Leo laughs so hard he thinks he might actually be in danger of puncturing a lung with one of his broken ribs. Donnie goes back to snooping, but there’s a pleased quirk at the corner of his mouth.

“DONALD!” a voice thunders suddenly from down the hall. “IF WHAT I THINK IS HAPPENING IS HAPPENING, IT BETTER NOT BE!”

“Eughh boy,” Leo says.

Looking as though he just saw his life flash before his eyes, Donnie shoves the phone at him and blurts, “You take it! You’re a convalescent, he can’t kill you! It would be against the Geneva Conventions!”

“Oh, I see, you want me to use my horribly mangled body as a meat shield between you and the consequences of your own actions.” Leo holds his hands up and open to avoid having any incriminating evidence forced into them. “Also, I think you skipped like six years of Social Studies.”

The infirmary doors slam open hard enough that one of Leo’s shelves of meticulously organized medical supplies rattles ominously. Mikey looms in the threshold, silhouetted against the light from the den. It’s appropriately intimidating.

There’s a beat of silence. Then Mikey’s eyes lower to the bright yellow phone in Donnie’s hands. It’s indie-film levels of drama. Leo is eating this up.

Donnie whispers, “Oh, Hawking, I did not think this through.”

“When you die, who gets your laptop?” Leo whispers back.

“I knew it!” Mikey shrieks. “You think S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. can keep a secret?? S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N.?? You programmed him with all your own tells! I’m going to destroy everything you love!”

The resulting cat-and-mouse chase around the infirmary is rowdy enough that it summons Raph, warm and fresh from the shower, dressed in his favorite huge pink hoodie. He catches Donnie on his way by and lifts him bodily out of the melee. Mikey is bloodthirsty enough that he scales Raph like a tree and their biggest brother is forced to hold Donnie out at arm’s length to keep the two of them apart.

“Woah, woah, hey—Jesus, what is happening?” Raphie says. His eyes dart to Leo, one dark and the other a pale milky pink, but it’s still the same look he’s given Leo a billion times before. The one that says loop me in.

Leo searches under his pillow for the palm-sized knife he keeps there and focuses hard. Two little cyan portals open, maybe the size of dessert plates, one next to him and the other by Donnie, a neat little wrinkle in the dimension. He reaches through it and retrieves the phone.

Pretending he doesn’t feel woozy after the brief use of ninpo well before he was technically allowed to use it again—because then he would have to admit that Draxum was right about something, and frankly he’d rather die—Leo waves the recovered goods at his brothers.

Mikey stops trying to kill Donnie and stares across the room with a very vulnerable, unhappy expression. Leo hates that, so he takes charge.

“Just the Cain Instinct at work, Raphala,” Leo says, smiling. “How about you deliver Donnie to April for a lecture on respecting other people’s privacy, and I’ll talk to Mikey about the pros and cons of fratricide.”

“Pros and cons? What pros? You know what, nevermind,” Raph adds before Leo can answer, holding Donnie more comfortably in the crook of his arm as Mikey hops down from his shell.

Donnie is dead-weight at this point, gone totally limp and accepting his fate. Since a lecture from April has a fifty-fifty chance of turning into a gossip session, Leo doesn’t feel bad for his twin at all.

“And don’t think you're not in deep shit for that portal just now,” Raph says severely, pointing at him. “Yeah, Raph clocked that. No ninpo while you’re healing, Leon, or I’m telling pops.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Leo says dismissively.

But Raph still comes over to rub his head, and Leo still leans into him when he does, because a little part of Leo is always going to be six years old with stars in his eyes, gazing up at his biggest brother like Raph could hold the whole sun in his hands if he wanted to.

When Raph has carted Donnie away, the infirmary is much quieter. Mikey slinks over to the bed ungraciously and invites himself right up, pressing into Leo’s side and hiding his face in a yellow-striped shoulder.

Leo passes him back his phone. Mikey tucks it against his plastron and doesn’t say anything.

“So the pros of fratricide would be that your stuff would get stolen way less,” Leo begins airily.

With a huff, Mikey nudges him.

“He showed me a picture, but we didn’t read any texts,” Leo adds, less playful. “As far as we know, you have a really good friend we just haven’t met yet.”

“Yeah,” his little brother says quietly. He presses his face harder into Leo’s shoulder. Leo works his arm out from in between them and wraps it around Mikey’s carapace instead.

Tracing a familiar pattern between the scutes, he says, “You know you can tell me anything, right?”

When Leo came out, a few years ago now, he was terrified.

It was just another thing that made him difficult, that made him harder to love, that might cost him what little of his father’s good opinion he thought he had. He kept it a secret, tucked behind the armor of his plastron where no one but himself would ever see it.

But then one day, when he was fourteen, Leo found Raph in the living room, watching Youtube videos of the NYC Pride Parade with something young and hopeful on his face, only to slam the laptop shut when Splinter came in. Raph’s expression had twisted into something ashamed. Afraid.

And Leo thought, Absolutely not.

So he came out to his family over dinner that same night. He said it like his hands weren’t sweaty and shaking beneath the table, like he hadn’t practiced the words and tone in the mirror for an hour beforehand.

He couldn’t force himself to look at Splinter, twisting some spaghetti onto his fork and following his big announcement with something stupid, like, So I guess you could say the only straight I am’s a straight-up bitch. That way everyone would know it wasn’t serious, wasn’t a big deal, they could stop looking at him now please.

Raph didn’t even get after Leo for saying the bitch word. He flew to his feet and rounded the table and scooped Leo up into a big bear hug. Well, Leo and Mikey, because Mikey was already attached to him at that point. Donnie said, “Gasp! This is my surprised face. Whoever could have anticipated this astonishing turn of events?” because he was an asshole. But he also reached over the table to put his garlic bread on Leo’s plate, because he was the absolute best.

Leo’s heart didn’t stop racing for what felt like hours, even after his brothers squeezed him to death and made a bunch of noises about loving him no matter what, even after Splinter informed the table at large that his Baby Blue could start thinking about dating boys in another thirty years and not a minute sooner!

But he did that for a reason. So his brothers had a lead to follow if they ever needed one. So they wouldn’t be scared like Leo constantly was.

And now the tension slowly leaks out of Mikey’s frame.

“I know. I know,” he says, stronger the second time. “I guess I got all in my head about it. At first I wanted it to just be my thing, for me. I liked him but I wasn’t sure if he—you know. And then when he did, everything was perfect, and I didn’t want to mess it up.” He sits up enough that he can look at Leo, red-brown eyes earnest and wide. “Then the longer I didn’t say anything, the more impossible it felt to ever say anything. It’s not ‘cause I didn’t—”

“You don’t owe me or anybody else an explanation, Angie,” Leo says, tugging on the tails of his mask. “If you want to talk about him, I’m all-ears. If you want me to blackmail Donnie into forgetting he exists, I can do that, too. I’ve got the goods.”

Mikey smiles. It’s a relief to see. “I have no idea how you did it,” he says. “How you just told us like it was nothing. Told dad. I guess being his favorite probably helped.”

His WHAT?

Leo chokes on an incredulous laugh. He thumps his own chest, wheezing. Mikey rolls his eyes and slumps down again, gets comfy, a familiar weight under Leo’s arm.

“Puh-lease, Lee. You two are like the same person, all the way down to the inherent self-worth issues and validation-seeking. Of course he’s going to feel complicated about loving a carbon-copy of himself when he hates himself so much.” After a moment, Mikey adds, “I think you help him feel better about who he is.”

Huh. Welp. Time to pack all of that up to think about later because otherwise Leo’s brain is going to explode.

“Nice attempt at distracting me, but I’m the master of misdirection.” Leo jostles Mikey, enough to make him whine stoooop. “If you think for one second you’re not everyone in the entire family’s favorite person, then there’s something deeply wrong with you,” he adds severely. “Junior has only been here for like five minutes and even he likes you best.”

Mikey’s grinning by the time he’s done. Leo can feel the shape of it against his arm.

“It’s a gift,” the youngest Hamato says humbly.

Identical chimes from the phone in Mikey’s hand and the one on the bedside table alert them to a new text in the Mad Dogz group chat.

Bootyyyshaker9000 After an illuminating conversation, during which absolutely no robot sons were taken hostage to force my compliance, I have seen the error of my ways and will endeavor to change my behavior. I wanted to offer my sincerest apologies to Angelo for my invasion of his privacy. I am not making this statement under duress. YellowSubmarine Good enough for you, baby?

Mikey’s grin graduates with honors into a laugh, that charming, full-bodied thing that fills whatever room he happens to be in. He types a quick reply and the group chat goes crazy. Leo sort of just lays there and takes the moment in.

In about an hour, it’ll be time for another round of medication, but Leo thinks—even though it’s sappy and saccharine and he would never, ever say it out loud—that this is medicine enough.

“Sooo,” Leo says, “you gonna tell me about him?”

“Leo,” Mikey groans, but he’s still smiling.

“Oh, come on, you have to give me something.”

“How ‘bout a trade?”

Aww, his baby brother knows how to barter. Leo is so proud.

“I’m listening,” he says.

“I’ll tell you about Woody,” Mikey offers, waving his phone around, “if you tell me about that bunny waiter from Run of the Mill who asked for your number.”

Leo would shoot upright if he had, like, a completely unbroken back. As it is he has to move a little slower.

“What?? Why—how did you—I mean, who?” Nailed it.

“Raph overheard the entire thing,” Mikey says sweetly. “He thought it was cute so he told me since I was right there. You know he can’t handle cute without gushing about it to somebody.”

It’s Raph’s knee-jerk reaction, like cute-aggression; only instead of squeezing or biting, he has to overshare to the nearest available party, usually while choking back tears.

Kneading his temples, Leo forces out, “Mm-hmm.”

He can’t even be mad, though. It’s Raph. If Donnie had been the one to overhear, it’d be plastered on a billboard above Times Square by now.

“Lemme have this one on Donnie,” Mikey says, and brings out the big guns, brown eyes all wide and liquid. “He always gets your secrets first.”

“Disaster twins privilege,” Leo replies, so he doesn’t have to think about the novel concept that his family could believe his secrets are worth anything. “Alright, Miguel. Since it’s to spite Dontron specifically, you have yourself a deal.”

Mikey whoop-whoops, with the arm and everything. It’s so stupid. And it makes Leo think, This Woody guy doesn’t know how lucky he is.

#rottmnt #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #unpause rise of the tmnt #hamato leonardo #hamato michelangelo #hamato donatello #hamato raphael #woody dirkins #woodyangelo #portal duo #my writing #tmnt fic #sequel to this where leo gives woody the shovel talk #leo: hey wanna see the bottom of the mariana trench? *opens portal and points thru it*#that's where i'll hide your body if u do anything to hurt him :)#woody: oh. um. cool

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