#bouquet print ribbon

[royalsealy]

A back to back weekend! My comm and i went to a Yuletide faire, we were able to walk through a mansion originally built in the 1800s. This was the sugar plum faerie room!

JSK: Bouquet Print Ribbon by Metamorphose temps de Fille

Coat: Fluffy Tori // Milk chan: BTSSB

Socks: AATP / Shoes: Axes Femme Kawaii

KC is AP layered with an offbrand feather brooch and a brown hat!

Royalsealy stands in front of two artificial trees decorated with ornaments, the color palette is a lot of pinks, creams, and a mossy green. He is wearing a brown hat with the brim pointed upward to allow room for the brown KC and white/black feather accessory. He has long dark brown hair. He is wearing a black peplum coat with white trim and a faux fur collar, the skirt of his jsk poking out. The skirt is black with white vertical stripes and purple/navy flower bundles. He is wearing brown and cream diamond pattern socks with black wood block style shoes.

[merakiui]

thing.

yandere!skully j. graves x (gender neutral) reader cw: yandere, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, stalking, fear/paranoia, brief mention and description of dead animals note - "he is there—and there again, but you cannot see him plain, for the shadow lies so darkly on the hill."

There is a bundle of black roses propped against your door. Thirteen of them, devoid of thorns, but the threat is still there—nestled within the petals, a foreboding symbolism.

A stupid Halloween prank, you think, gathering the roses and tossing them out.

Come tomorrow, there is a new bouquet waiting for you. These are white, but they have their thorns. A small card accompanies the gift. There’s a message printed in an old typewriter font: No good?

Like before, you discard these flowers. You have no time for secret admirers or daft nonsense.

So the roses stop blooming at your door, tied up with pretty twine and ribbons. Instead, you receive bones and carcasses. A mouse skull. Deer teeth. A mangled bird, its wings snapped and bent at the joints. A rabbit’s foot, warm and still bleeding, the bone jutting out from severed flesh. The roses, you think, were a preview of what was to come—of what you’d soon be mourning.

These macabre presents are wrapped sincerely, shrouded daintily with frilly cloth. They come with their own set of cards, each one typed just like before. 

I can see you.

Good luck on your exam today. Carry this rabbit’s foot with you and you shall know fortune.

This naughty bird is always cawing outside of your window. It wakes you up, so I silenced it for you. It is most beautiful in death, is it not?

Are you going to bring that friend of yours around again? I don’t quite like the scent they leave on your sheets. :(

So you share these morbid anecdotes with your friends over dinner. They don’t believe you.

“You’ve one persistent dog after you,” one of them remarks, eyeing the pictures with a curious, doubtful eye. “A real rotten mutt.”

“But I don’t have a dog,” you reply.

“Well, something’s coming home to you every night.”

“It’s just me. I live alone.”

“Do you? You sure nothing’s following you? You don’t hear the jingle of a collar? The soft padding of paws on tile, loyally trailing after its owner?”

At the time, you thought these were foolish questions.

“The flowers? Definitely a person,” your logical friend suggests. “The dead stuff? Probably a wild animal. A hawk once dropped a mouse in my yard. It’s normal. Someone’s just making a nasty time out of it, leaving those notes to scare you.”

That sounds reasonable. You choose to believe it even when there are inconsistencies and clues that prove otherwise.

You check the locks on your doors and windows. You consider buying cameras, but maybe that’s misplaced paranoia. No one’s inside your house. No person or thing could possibly get in. You’re not sure what would be worse: a tangible human being with human hair, human eyes, and human teeth, or a thing. A thing with claws and a razored maw. A thing with inhuman strength and the eerie quietness of a phantom, plucked right from your nightmares and dropped in reality.

A human being is tangible. A thing could be anything. It could also be nothing.

“I’m not interesting enough to have a stalker,” you tell your logical friend. “Not special enough or rich enough. Not attractive enough.”

“You don’t have to be,” they tell you. “Sometimes all you need to be is alone and vulnerable. Sometimes all you need to do is exist so that they have something to latch onto—something they can covet no matter what.”

“Do you think they’ll kill me?” you ask next, hesitating around that word. Kill. It’s so final and exact. “If they can do such gruesome things to those animals…”

“Or it could be a dog. Dogs don’t kill their owners. They’re loyal.”

“But it’s not a dog. I don’t even think this thing is domesticated.”

“Then what is it?”

“Something.”

It is something malevolent. It is something malicious. It is something you can’t quite fathom—something you can’t picture in your mind because it is always swapping shapes. One minute it’s a nest of mice dwelling within your walls. The next it’s a shadow creature—a demon or a monster. The next it’s a human with strange proportions, too-long legs and too-long arms and a too-long torso. The next it’s a dog with a long, long snout and very human eyes, with human hands for paws, with a curling smile that reveals gaps in its pointed, bloody maw. It feasts on flesh and hunts little, defenseless songbirds, and it’s after you because it wants something you can’t give it.

What does it want? Is this thing even real? Perhaps the anxiety is making a monster out of nothing.

You twist and turn in the dark, wrapped up in sheets that feel more itchy than they do comforting. You’re cold all over, sweating an ocean in your bed. You think your heart might burst out of your chest at any minute. Every creak and groan of the house unsettles nerves that are already pulled impossibly taut. You gaze into the dark doorway, squinting through shadows that look like they’re waltzing in and out of focus.

Or…

Is the door breathing? Is someone there?

You rub your eyes and relief filters in. There’s nothing.

Or…

Your phone cuts a slice of light through your bedroom. You shine it towards the door from where you cower on your bed. There’s nothing.

Your friend—the unfunny one—texts you then, and the vibration scares you more than your imagination. A text is tangible, easily categorized, and yet it’s the scariest thing you’ve just received at this moment, however ghoulishly playful it may be.

u need a leash for ur dog?

You drop your phone. It illuminates the space beneath your bed for a second before the screen shuts off.

You think you hear someone breathing or a heart beating. It’s yours.

Or…

Swallowing thickly, you reach for your phone. You feel soft, fluffy hair. At first, you think it really is a dog when a warm, wet tongue laves over your palm. But you don’t have a dog, and it’s then when you feel the rest of this…thing. Human ears. Human nose. Human mouth. Human teeth. 

Another text brightens your phone. The screen flickers on.

You peek over the edge of your mattress to find a distinctly human face smiling back at you.

might as well get a collar too yeah?

[makeitmingi]

When Flowers Bloom In The Dark [Chapter 5]

Genre: Romance, Mafia!AU, Violence, Angst, Slow burn

Pairing: Hongjoong x Reader (y/n)

Characters: Florist!Reader, Mafioso!Hongjoong, Mafioso!Seonghwa, Mafioso!Yunho, Mafioso!Yeosang, Mafioso!San, Mafioso!Mingi, Mafioso!Wooyoung, Mafioso!Jongho

Summary: When you appeared and wept at his mother's funeral, Hongjoong found himself wanting to find out more about you. A regular girl, who owns a flower shop in his territory and has a relationship with the mother that he hasn't spoken to in years, why hasn't he ever noticed you before?

[Warning(s): 18+ for violence, use of weapons, smoking, alcohol consumption, slight gore, gang affiliation, tattoos and character deaths. Minors DNI. This is a work of fiction and does not represent the Ateez members in real life.]

Word count: 3.3K

You were not traumatised, per say. But you were worried. When you woke up, you sat at your coffee table with a double espresso nestled in your hands as the events from the night before came flooding back. Your brain finally realised the severity of it.

Hongjoong was injured, beaten up by someone. His first words to you was to 'hide him'. No police, no doctor. And he was armed, and on alert.

"What have I gotten myself into?" You threw your head back. It was obvious that he was involved in something illegal. A gang maybe?

"Two pick ups today." You checked your phone as you shuffled into your room.

You were not in the right headspace to work today but there were orders that needed to be fulfilled. Plus, these customers had put in their orders and the deposit a few months ago.

"It's fine, you're fine." You took a deep breath. Hongjoong had assured you that you were safe last night. You can trust him, right?

After you got changed, you left your home. Thankfully, the pick ups were all registered for the morning so you could send them off and close the shop.

"Good morning, one iced americano." You stopped by the cafe two doors down before going to the shop.

"Morning, (y/n). An iced coffee? One of the rare times you don't order an iced tea of sorts. Are you okay?" The owner, who you were very familiar with, teased you. Almost all of the shops on your row were run by young people like yourself so you were all relatively close and knew each other.

"I'm fine, Jihoon. Just didn't get much sleep tonight." You rolled your eyes with a laugh. A lot of girls thought Jihoon was cute and always came to the cafe to fawn over him.

"Alright, don't worry about it. On the house for the sleep-deprived girl." He smiled.

"Stop it~ You always don't let me pay." You groaned.

"Too bad. I'm not accepting your money and I've already keyed in your order so you can't decline. Don't make my barista's efforts go to waste." He chuckled.

"Ah, you're terrible." You clicked your tongue and stepped aside so you wouldn't keep the next customer waiting.

"Here you go. Have a nice day, (y/n)." The barista placed your order on the counter.

"Thank you. See you all." You waved to the staff before leaving to go to your shop. You unlocked the door and entered, closing the door behind you.

'Order pick ups only!'

You placed the sign at the door and went to get the orders ready. You wrapped the bundled flowers that you had prepared last night and added layers of tissue paper around it in different colours. Finally, you tied a thick band of ribbon over it, followed by a thinner ribbon.

"Excuse me. I'm here for a pick up?" You heard an older man's voice at the front of the store.

"Good morning. I was just getting your order ready, right this way." You smiled, leading him further into your store. You went to get the bouquet and laid it on the counter.

"Beautiful." He smiled.

"It's your anniversary with your wife? Congratulations." You giggled, remembering the note that you had printed for him.

"Yes. Even though she had gone to heaven a few years ago, I never miss an anniversary or a birthday." He chuckled, fishing around for his wallet in his pockets.

"Oh my, I'm sorry. My condolences." You smiled sadly. He nodded and accepted your condolences, putting the money on the counter.

"You know what. It's on me for this one. I'll return you your deposit too." You took the cash out.

"No, no, miss. I cannot do that. You're running a business here. Please, I insist that I pay you for your effort and time." He denied, shaking his head.

"Take it as an anniversary present from me to you and your wife. I'm paying it forward since I got a free coffee this morning. The pleasure would be all mine." You smiled, shaking the cup of iced coffee that Jihoon had gifted you. He looked at you with uncertainty but nodded his head with a defeated sigh.

"Alright, thank you so much, miss. I'll be sure to tell my wife when I visit her grave." He received the bouquet.

"You're very welcome. Have a nice day. And happy anniversary again." You walked him to the door, waving as he walked away with the bouquet preciously nestled in his arms.

"Okay, just one more." You walked back into your shop and prepared the bouquet like you did earlier.

As you worked on the bouquet, you thought about the man visiting his late wife's grave.

Would Hongjoong tell you when Mrs Kim's grave was ready so you could visit? You wanted to bring her another bouquet of her favourite flowers and speak to her.

"Hello? Is anyone here?" There was a woman's voice by the door.

"Over here! Are you here for the pick up?" You dried your hands and went over to her. She nodded and showed you the order invoice.

"I'm finishing it up now. You can head to the counter and I will be right with you." You gestured to the payment counter. She hummed with a small smile and walked to the counter to wait for you while you finished tying the ribbons on the bouquet.

"Here you go, miss. Just check that everything is okay, as you requested." You said, placing the bouquet on the counter for her to look at.

"It's nice. Thank you." She handed you her card for the payment. Once you were done, you returned her the card.

"Have a nice day." She wished with a bow of her head.

"You too." You waved. You went to the front to remove the sign and lock the front door since you didn't want any customers to walk in and order flowers.

You entered the back room and tidied up the place since you didn't get a chance to after Hongjoong was here last night.

"Replace first aid kit." You made a note to yourself. You had used a lot of stuff when you treated him last night so you had to replenish items and possibly get even more equipment in case this happens again.

"No, it won't happen again." You shook your head. After everything was tidy and clean again, you grabbed your bag and coffee, locking up for the day. The two order pick ups only took about 2 hours since the customers were very punctual so you still had the whole day ahead of you.

"Playing hooky?" Jihoon asked, catching you as you were leaving and he was throwing the trash.

"No, I fulfilled my pick ups for today and decided to take a breather so I'm closed the rest of the day." You forced a smile. Jihoon chuckled and nodded his head.

"Good on you. I wish I could close for the rest of the day." He clicked his tongue.

"Well, you are the owner. You can close any time you want." You scoffed and he laughed, nodding his head.

"You're right. And actually, I was thinking of asking the others to hang out this Friday, get some drinks and chill. Will you be interested in coming?" He tilted his head.

"Sure. Just text me the details." You said.

"Great! See you then! No backing out last minute this time." He grinned and waved to you as you left.

"That happened once! Let it go! And I was really sick, even if you all don't believe it." You hissed. The last time all the shop owners went out, you had a stomach bug and couldn't go. Until now, Jihoon thinks you lied just so you could stay home.

Before heading home, you decided to drop by the pharmacy to get the first aid kit. Besides the basic first aid kit, you gave in to the nagging voice in your head and bought more supplies.

"Just these, please." You placed everything on the counter.

"Do you run a clinic, miss?" The cashier lady asked with a judgemental stare as she scanned your items.

"I know clumsy people...?" That was the best you could come up with, shooting her a small smile. She nodded slowly, still giving you a skeptical look but rang up your items.

"Have a nice day! Thanks!" You paid and left as quickly as you could, lugging your items with you.

"Alright, groceries." Grabbing a cart, you went into the grocery store since your house was running out of food.

"Here let me help." Someone reached over your head as you were tip toeing for the last bottle of sauce on the shelf. You blinked and looked up to see a tall, handsome guy.

"Thank you so much. You look familiar... Have we met before?" You asked as you received the sauce gratefully. You have seen him before somewhere, you just couldn't put your finger on it. He looked at you before shaking his head in denial and adjusting the jacket of his suit as he walked away.

"Huh, weird." You scratched your head and continued on your way. With all your groceries, you took a cab home.

As you were putting aside the first aid supplies to bring to the shop the next day, you wondered back to Hongjoong. Yunho would have brought him to a doctor if his condition worsened right?

"It's out of your hands." You told yourself and put your groceries away. Now, you want to shower and just stay in bed the whole day.

As you sat on the couch, many thoughts ran through your head. If Hongjoong were to ask, were you mentally and emotionally ready to talk about Mrs Kim with him?

There was strained relationship between them. But that was separate from the relationship you had with her.

If Hongjoong was resentful, you didn't know if you could withstand the hurt he might show you.

At the end of the day, Mrs Kim is Hongjoong's biological mother. You constantly reminded yourself of that. His relationship with her will always, forever, run deeper than your relationship with her. But why was there jealousy and envy burning within you?

"Hongjoong, her shop was closed but I bumped into her at the nearby supermarket while picking up snacks. She's fine, not traumatised whatsoever." Seonghwa said as he walked to the car.

"Alright, there was no sign that those guys went back to the shop to scare her?"

"Not that I could see. Everything looked in place. Maybe she just decided to close to shop to take a break." Seonghwa sighed.

"Or maybe she was scared whoever attacked me would come back. Damn it, why did it have to happen so near to where she was? This is so unnecessary."

"What's unnecessary is you worrying now." Seonghwa chuckled, sitting in the backseat while one of his men drove.

"There's something else, isn't there? What did you do?" Seonghwa noted the silence on the other end.

"I don't know... I feel like a part of me wants to know her relationship with my mother but a part of me is so angry about it. She definitely doesn't know my mother like I know my mother. It irks me to hear how she thought my mother was wonderful."

"Well, we never knew what your mother's life was when we moved her to her own place. Maybe it was facade, maybe it was real. The only way to know is from (y/n)." Seonghwa said.

"That, I know. Ugh, you wouldn't even know about her helping me last night if it weren't for you torturing me."

"I did not torture you." He scoffed at the leader's childishness.

"Pressing down on my fresh bruise until I told you the truth is the purest form of torture, Park Seonghwa. Forget that, I think Yeosang has some info for us."

"Call a meeting tonight then. We'll discuss it." Seonghwa suggested. Hongjoong let out a hum of agreement before hanging up.

Seonghwa let out a long sigh. Despite knowing Hongjoong for so long, he was having a hard time deciphering Hongjoong's take on you.

"Where to, Mr Park?" The driver asked.

"Take me to my steak restaurant. I'll eat before heading home." He pinched his nose bridge. The driver nodded and began to drive towards Seonghwa's steak restuarant. Him, Yunho and Wooyoung were the only ones that owned restaurants, with Seonghwa owning the most since he was the most passionate about food.

"Good afternoon, Mr Park. Your guests are in the private room." The manager greeted Seonghwa as the entrance. Seonghwa had a slight frown of confusion.

"What guests...? I thought I sent you a message that it's only me dining here." Seonghwa asked.

"I..." The manager stuttered nervously. Seonghwa glared at the manager, taking his gun and heading to the private room.

"Hyung! Finally, you're here! We're starving!" Wooyoung waved. Seonghwa let out a sigh, tucking his gun back into its holster and turning to the manager.

"You could have told me it was my brothers that were here." He hissed in annoyance.

"My apologies, Mr Park!" The manager bowed fearfully.

"I would ask how you all found out but I think I know the answer." Seonghwa ignored the poor male and sighed at his brothers. Jongho put the menu down with a knowing grin.

"Well, we were thinking about lunch and at the right time, I saw your manager key your reservation into your restaurant's system." He shrugged innocently. Seonghwa shook his head with a chuckle and sat down in the spare seat.

"Don't you all have work?" He asked.

"Like Jongho said, it's lunch time." San said, pouring Seonghwa a glass of sparkling water.

"What would you like to have?" The manager came in to take the orders. Seonghwa always eats the same thing so the manager didn't need to ask him.

"Your usual, Mr Park?" He confirmed. Seonghwa gave a nod and the manager bowed deeply, exiting the private room.

"I'm going to start sending everything through snail mail just so you can't hack into my restaurant's system anymore." Seonghwa scoffed.

"Even that won't stop us, hyung. You know it." Mingi laughed. Seonghwa knew that was true. The boys were too skilled and too resourceful to hide anything from them.

"I'm surprised not all of you are here then." He raised an eyebrow.

"Well, you know Hongjoong hyung's injured so he's still at home, doing whatever. Yeosang's at his fight club getting info for Hongjoong hyung and Yunho's... off doing Yunho things. I honestly don't know what Yunho does, he's everywhere." Wooyoung laughed. Probably only Mingi knows where Yunho is.

"He's at some posh meeting, I think. I saw him getting all dressed up this morning." Mingi tapped his chin, trying to remember what his best friend told him.

"By the way, did you all see that Hongjoong's holding a team meeting tonight?" Seonghwa asked.

"Yeah, sent it out about 30 minutes ago. Is it about his attack?" San clarified. Seonghwa nodded in confirmation.

"Yeosang apparently found some important info so we'll discuss it tonight." Seonghwa explained. Everyone nodded, they all wanted to know who dared attack their captain.

"Anyway, so what's the news with the flower shop girl?" Wooyoung asked Seonghwa.

"No idea. I've known him the longest but I can't read him. Only Yunho seems to be able to read him this time." Seonghwa shrugged.

"Yunho?" Mingi blinked. The waiters came in to serve the food to all of them, making the 5 of them pause their conversation momentarily until they were alone again.

"You know, I bet Hongjoong hyung can't even read his own feelings. Probably has a lot going through his head, especially since that girl's relation to Mrs Kim is so mysterious." Jongho said. The others nodded in agreement.

"Mmm, always love the steak here. Today's one is even better." Mingi said as he chewed his steak.

"Yes, we recently found a better supplier so it's all direct from the farms to us now." Seonghwa nodded, he wouldn't let the food at his restaurant be anything short of perfection.

"We forgot to order wine." Jongho said.

"Yes! How can we have steak without wine?" Wooyoung exclaimed in disbelief.

"Aren't you two driving?" San raised an eyebrow. He was not someone that drank often since he was a lightweight, just two glasses of wine and he'll lose control.

"You can drive Jongho's car. And I can get one of my guys to drive my car back to the house." Wooyoung shrugged.

"That settles it then. I'll go order." Jongho stood up and went out to order the wine for the table.

After the delicious lunch, Seonghwa charged it to his card and they all headed home. Following the arrangement, San drove Jongho's car since he didn't drive his own car with Jongho in the passenger seat, Mingi drove his own car, Wooyoung sat in Mingi's car after getting one of his men to pick his car up.

"Mr Park." Seonghwa's driver opened the door for him to enter as they all stood outside the restaurant.

"See you back at the house?" San tilted his head.

"Nah, we're going out to the mall. My sales associate brought in some new stuff." Mingi stretched his arms over his head with a tired yawn. Wooyoung hummed.

"I can do some shopping too." Wooyoung grinned excitedly. The boys all loved buying new clothes.

"Sounds tempting but I need to get back to work. Speaking of, all of you should be going back to work too." Seonghwa glared.

"We will." Mingi and Wooyoung waved the oldest off. Jongho and San looked at each other, shrugging before entering their car to drive back home.

"See you two tonight then." Seonghwa sighed.

"We'll pick something up for you, hyung." Mingi winked and Wooyoung waved as Seonghwa sat in the car. The driver closed the door behind him and entered the driver's seat to start the drive back to the mansion.

"Oh, look at our timing." San said as he parked and Yunho also pulled up behind them. The taller male looked drained and exhausted, his tall stature slumped over.

"Bad meeting?" Jongho chuckled.

"More like gross. The guy's wife kept touching my arm. I'm going to disinfect it." Yunho cringed.

"If you wanna chop it off, I'd happily help." San grinned and Yunho rolled his eyes. The three of them headed upstairs and Yunho immediately threw his jacket on the couch.

"Looks like I can squeeze a nap before the meeting tonight." He checked his watch.

"Yeah, I would advise that you go shower first though. You smell like old lady." Jongho snickered, hi fiving San.

"I hate you both." Yunho groaned and trudged upstairs.

"Oh! Hongjoong hyung." The three stopped in their tracks when they saw Hongjoong emerge from his office. There was a small frown on his face, which was common with how much work stressed him out. But they were surprised to see him up and working considering what happened last night.

"What?" Hongjoong tilted his head in confusion.

"You're up and working already? Don't you want to rest somemore?" San questioned.

"I was jumped, not amputated. I'm fine. It's all scratches and bruises which we're all used to." Hongjoong replied, sipping his whiskey from the crystal glass in his hand.

"Still you should rest. Even if you're not affected by your injuries, you hardly slept." Yunho reasoned. The other two nodded.

"Yeah, I'll go nap. See you all at the meeting tonight." Hongjoong yawned and headed into his room.

~

Series masterlist

[crimsonbubble]

More on florist reader

Yeah she’s a florist, but she subconsciously dresses in the cutest florals ever. She’s all about the sun dresses, the shoes, the pretty blouses that Miguel secretly adores.

But get this, she surprises him by wearing floral print lingerie on occasion. Like omg imagine…👀

cw. suggestive/borderline nsfw, afab florist!reader, flower shop au, lingerie, poorly translated spanish *not proofread, just pure brainrot

[my second attempt at writing this and it turned out so much better than the first 💀💀] I also made a tag for this au bc I wanna make this a small series on my acc 🫶🫶

Miguel was never one to invest time in flowers but he would acknowledge them

that was until you came into his life

he loves walking into your shop to see you fiddling with flowers

his heart thumped in his chest as you made stunning bouquets

you looked so at ease, blending in beautifully among the flowers

your 'work' clothes consistently of flowy blouses and skirts, pins, ribbons, headbands, and clips of all sorts

you looked like the prettiest flower in a field of them, at least that's how Miguel sees it

nonetheless, you always manage to bring home some sort of gift for him and Gabriella

you've made Miguel bookmarks which he won't admit that he absolutely adores and uses every day

gifting Gabi with a flower crown and some pressed flower stickers

anyways I think that's enough rambling 💀

now just imagine this

Miguel works a bit later than usual, he comes home tired

just wanting to have some quiet time with you

you'll say "hey, I got you some flowers."

and he'll turn around expecting yet another bouquet of flowers

only to be met with the sight of his gorgeous florist girlfriend in a stunning powder blue lace floral lingerie set

he feels the air get sucked out of his lungs, his work pants suddenly feeling too tight around his crotch

"bueno, hola a ti también, pequeña dama." [well hello to you too, little lady.]

"¿Todo esto por mí, nena?" [all this for me, baby?]

he'll loosen his tie and unbutton his collar as he tracks your movements

walking up to him with a light sway of your hips, peeking up at him with lidded eyes

the smell of flowers, soil and your perfume still linger on your skin, wafting around him in an aura that makes him feel hot

"you work so hard. déjame ayudarte a relajarte, guapo." [let me help you relax, handsome.]

letting your hand slowly palm over the tent in his pants

"me mimas demasiado, bonito pétalo." [you spoil me too much, pretty petal.]

[formulaforza]

miss americana and the heartbreak prince

—07. Homegrown —word count: 15.8k —warnings: none :) love, mackie... I don't really have much to say lol... just that I love this chapter and it got a little out of hand. I hope you love it like I do!

Chris takes a personal day at work on the Thursday Charles gets into Georgia. She wants to make sure she’s the one picking him up from the airport, doesn’t want to spend a single second longer than she needs to without seeing him, hugging him, kissing him. 

His flight lands at 10:15, but by the time he gets through customs, baggage, and calls Chris three times after getting lost in the Atlanta airport, it’s 11:30. She finally finds him outside the Maynard Terminal, backpack slung over his shoulders, suitcase next to him. He looks so perfectly like a boyfriend, she thinks. “I can see you,” she says. “Do you see my car?”

“No,” he laughs, and it pours from the car speakers like sweet honey. “I don’t.”

“Okay, well, stay put, then. I’m coming to you.” She manages to make her way across two lanes to be right on the curb, and then he spots her, his whole expression taking shape when their eyes lock. She rolls her window down as he approaches, and slots the car into park. “Oh my god,” she giggles. “Is that Charles Leclerc?”

He rolls his eyes. “Open the trunk?”

“Charles Leclerc wants me to open the trunk?” She says, pushing the button on her door-panel to pop the hatch open. 

“Charles Leclerc wants you,” he says, hoisting his suitcase up into the back of the car, tossing his backpack there, too. “Could have stopped there,” he chuckles, meeting her eyes in the rearview mirror. She blushes, a cheek-aching smile still on her face. He slams the trunk shut and makes his way around the car, opening the passenger door. “Hi, pretty girl,” he properly greets her. “What’s this?” He asks.

Sitting there, on the passenger seat, is a bouquet of flowers. Red roses, white roses, and white carnations for passion, new romance, and luck. Filler greens and red estelles for encouragement. Manilla and sheer white tissue paper wrap the flowers, a dark red ribbon tied into a bow around the stems. Next to it, is a matching envelope with his name scribbled in purple pen. Inside the envelope is a white greeting card with “just because” printed in simple, black lettering, a handwritten note from Chris on the inside. 

Chris smiles. “They’re for you.”

“For me?” He asks, the hint of a giggle in his tone. “You didn’t have to do all this.”

Chris shrugs, watches him carefully pick up the flowers and the card and climb into the car where he further examines them. “It’s not a big deal,” she says, tucking her bangs behind her ears. “I had to go with Hannah to the florist this morning.”

“No, it’s so cool. Nobody has ever gotten me flowers before.”

Chris frowns. “Never?”

“I mean,” he shrugs, “my mum once, but that doesn’t count,” and then he starts to open the envelope, but Chris stops him.

“No, please,” she says, her hand covering his. “I can’t watch you read it, I’ll die.”

He laughs, “you’re so cute.”

Her face stays straight and solemn. “I’m serious.”

“I know,” he sets the flowers and the card down securely between his feet. “I’ll wait.”

“Thank you.”

“Thank you.”

Chris can feel the heat rushing to her cheeks. God, she feels like such a child. “You’re welcome.”

“I’m going to kiss you, now.”

“Okay,” she giggles. “You’re going to kiss me, now.”

His lips meet hers in a tender, lingering kiss. It’s like they hadn’t been apart at all, the way their mouths perfectly fit together. His hand finds her cheek, thumb moving carefully over her skin, letting her deepen the kiss. They let themselves just be for a few moments, to let everything else fade away and cling onto their perfect moment. “Seriously,” he says when they pull apart, and then he gives her another quick peck. “Thank you,” and then another on her forehead. “I missed you. How are you?”

“I’m good,” she nods. “Hungry. Very hungry. How are you?”

“Hungry, also.”

“How hungry?”

“Very.”

Chris nods, kisses him again, just because she can. Because she couldn’t for so many days. “I know a place, but it’s a surprise.”

It’s a twenty-three minute drive to Pig’n’Chik Barbeque in Northern Atlanta. Charles is visibly apprehensive of the little red building and the parking lot filled with the aroma of southern barbeque, but he keeps his commentary to himself. Chris knows it’s probably a little overkill, the hole-in-the wall joint being even a little too gimmicky for her taste, but that’s the whole point. The place is supposed to be gimmicky, while also being good. Chris used to love this place as a little kid—Bill would always take the kids there whenever they’d gone to the city. It was his favorite place then, and so it will always hold a place in her heart. 

Charles holds open the door, a bell attached to it announcing their entrance, eliciting a greeting from the staff, a “Hey, guys! How’re you doing?”

“Good, thank you,” Chris smiles, moving through the restaurant towards the diner-style bar at the back. She holds her hand out behind her for Charles, turns to tell him: “You might not have been able to get a seat at your sushi bar, but I can get us up at the Pig’n’Chik bar,” she laughs. 

Charles matches her laugh, a playful eye roll and the shake of his head before they’re sitting down on the red leather barstools. 

She’s telling him before they even have the menus in front of them what they need to order; fried pickles to split, lemonade to drink because it’s not pig’n’chik without their lemonade. She’s going to order the shrimp and grits and he absolutely needs to have the catfish.

When he cocks his head at the idea of… eating… catfish… she tells him he’s not allowed to look it up, and that he also has to trust her. “It’s the best thing on the menu,” she says. 

Charles quirks a brow. “Then why aren’t you eating it?”

“Because the hushpuppies will kill me,” she answers matter-of-factly. “Honestly, you probably shouldn’t eat them, either.” The grease that comes along with eating a deep-fried batter ball isn’t good for anyone’s system, especially not someone who isn’t used to this kind of food. The last thing she needs this weekend is a boyfriend who can’t be more than three feet from a bathroom. 

It’s an hour and a half, at least, until they’re pulling into what Chris affectionately calls her “driveway.” Charles thinks that anyone else would more likely call it a dirt road. A trail, even, that turns into a driveway after the trees clear and you can actually see the house. 

“This is all yours?” he asks, swears her yard is the size of his apartment lobby. 

She nods. “I mean, it’s mostly trees, but, yeah.”

He’s taken on a tour of the old-style farmhouse, which, by the way, is so incredibly her you’d think the place was built for her—lots of beadboard, all this delicate woodworking that a FaceTime call has never been able to do justice. Thick glass windows with the frame painted over, no central heating or cooling, a couple window air conditioners and old radiators to boot. The most like her, though, is the back porch. It’s screened in, has a creek to the floor that the dusty, antique rugs can only attempt to muffle. There’s two couches that couldn’t match less, but still somehow go with each other, both cozy with throw pillows and cushions and warmth. The whole place smells like her, sounds like her, feels like her. He’s immediately comfortable. 

Chris and Charles spend most of their afternoon trying to plan out their evening. Starting tomorrow morning, their weekend is on a strict schedule, so they want to make the most of their free time tonight before their dinner with her family. They want to make the most of it so badly that they can’t decide on anything at all, and end up falling asleep on her living room couch. 

When Chris’ alarm goes off—the one she’d set the first time she caught herself dozing off, realizing Charles was already passed out next to her—they grumpily get ready to head over to her parents’ house. It’s then, while Charles navigates around Chris and the countertop of her makeup, that she tells him all about Thanksgiving, about her mom pointing out the hickey, and she offers up a warning. “They’re going to pretend they hate you for like, half an hour,” she tells him. “Pretend you’re intimidated.”

“And…” Charles begins, running gelled fingers through his hair. “What if they actually don’t like me?”

“My mom likes everyone,” she says, gestures away at his words. “And my Dad, well, you’ve already met him. He liked you good enough then.”

“He liked me enough to talk to me for ten minutes,” Charles counters. “That doesn’t mean he liked me enough to date his daughter.”

Chris smiles in the mirror, carefully applying her lipstick. “Lucky for you,” she says, “he doesn’t get a say.”

– – –

His leg bounces for the entirety of the ten-minute drive, so much so that at a stop light he can feel how much he shakes the car. Despite that, he doesn’t realize just how nervous he is until they’re in the driveway—which is just as long and trail-like as Chris’ is. Their house is bigger, though. Much bigger. 

His palms are clammy, and he wipes them off on his jeans—should he have worn something nicer than jeans? Jeans are really all he brought besides clothes for the wedding, for sleeping, for working out in. Jeans are fine. Jeans are good. Their driveway is a dirt road, jeans are good. 

“Relax,” Chris says, trying (and failing) to hold back a little chuckle. “It’s not that serious.” He rolls his eyes because it quite literally is that serious. You only get one chance to make a first impression on your girlfriend’s parents, and when your girlfriend is as close to their family as Chris is, it’s an impression you’d really rather not screw the fuck up. “And the longer we sit here, the longer they’re going to watch from the kitchen window.”

With a deep breath, he climbs out of the car, walks up the rest of the drive and onto the porch a pace behind Chris. She raises her hand to knock twice, turning the doorknob and letting herself in before anyone could even attempt to answer the knock. He steps in behind her, into a wallpapered entryway with a tall table full of keys and pictures and discarded mail on one side, and a wooden bench with tan throw pillows on the other side. “Mom! Dad! We’re here!” She shouts into the house. 

A woman’s voice calls back, “in the kitchen! Dad’s upstairs in the office.”

Chris slips off her shoes and Charles follows suit, slotting them under the wooden bench next to hers. He hadn’t worn a coat, but she ducks into a hall closet to hang hers up. He’d worn a sweatshirt over a t-shirt, and he’s pretty sure he’d already sweat through the t-shirt. 

He thinks he could smell his way to the kitchen, the way the scent of the home cooked dinner fills the entire house. He follows behind Chris like a lost puppy into the kitchen, and as soon as she turns the corner and walks through the archway, she’s being greeted by her mom, wrapped into an oven-mitt clad hug. He gets a perfect view of her mom, gaze slotted over Chris’ shoulder. She’s not so scary, he thinks. He can recognize more than one of Chris’ features on her face—in the way she smiles and the shape of her eyes, too. That’s where her smile comes from, and her eyes, too. 

Over her shoulder, Chris’ mom opens her eyes, waves a bangle-bracelet clad, oven-mitt covered hand in his direction. Charles steps fully into the kitchen, determined to make a good first impression. “And  I take it this,” her mom says, pulling away from the hug, “is the charming gentleman you’ve been telling me nothing about?”

Chris laughs, catching his eyes when she says: “Yes, Mom, this is Charles. Charles, this is my mom, Cindy.”

“Hi,” Charles offers a handshake. His friends had reminded him—briefed him, basically—that Americans are fond of their personal space, and he figures if Chris is right, and they are going to be playing the intimidation game with him, there’s no chance he’s getting anything more than a— 

“Oh, please,” Cindy laughs, swatting his hand out of the way. “We hug in this family,” and he’s already being pulled in. His surprised eyes catch Chris’, who looks back at him with an oh, my God. I’m so sorry, glance, which makes him chuckle. If this is what pretending not to like him looks like, he’d hate to see what actually liking him is all about. “It’s wonderful to meet you.”

“The pleasure is mine,” he hums, finally pulling away from the hug. “I have heard so much about you.”

“I can’t say the same,” Cindy laughs pointedly at Chris. “But what I have heard has all been good.”

“Well, anything you want to know, I came tonight with my life story ready.”

“Oh, that’s good,” Cindy nods. “Her dad’ll like that a lot.”

“Mama, where’s Beans?” Chris asks, and before he knows it he’s following her out into the backyard for the introduction that he knows is actually the most important. As they stepped onto the lush, green grass, a gentle breeze rustled through the trees. In the corner of the yard, the aforementioned Beans, a friendly Golden Retriever, lays beneath the growing shade of an old oak tree. The fur around his snout is a distinguished shade of white, and he looks up with wise, kind eyes as Chris approaches, his tail shaking slowly at her presence. 

“Here he is, my Beanie Baby,” Chris says with affectionate enthusiasm, crouching down to stroke the dog’s ears. He follows suit, squatting down beside her. “Beanie, this is Charles.”

Charles approaches cautiously, fully aware of just how important this introduction was. He extends his hand, letting Beans sniff it gently. The elderly Golden accepts the gesture, the pace of his tail wagging picking up speed. “Hey Beans,” Charles said softly, voice warm. “You’re a good boy, aren’t you?”

Beans responds with a content sigh, his old eyes conveying the years of love and happiness he’s had in this very yard. He leans into Charles’ touch, relishing in the attention.

Chris laughs, “I think he likes you. He’s a bit slower these days, but he’s still the sweetest dog you’ll ever meet.”

After much convincing, and the promise (and fulfillment) of several treat bribes, they’re able to convince Beans to come back into the house, where he curls up on his bed with his milkbones. 

Chris’ dad, who joins everyone else downstairs ten minutes later, pops into the dining room while Chris and Charles are setting the table. Chris looks up in the direction of his footsteps with that radiant smile, warm eyes, like always. “Hi, Dad,” she says, her voice drenched in affection. 

“Mums,” the man smiles softly, greeting her with open arms and a gentle hug. 

“You remember Charles,” she says, and he steps forward, leaving the silverware settings on the tablecloth. Charles extends his hand first, is met with Bill’s firm, heavy handshake. 

“Mr. Elliott, it’s a pleasure to see you again.” His voice is stiff, polite, but there’s still a touch of earnestness that betrays his nerves. “Thank you for having me, I’ve heard a lot about you and your family.”

“Now, son, if I’m bein’ completely honest with you. I never thought I was gonna see you again after Texas. I wasn’t feelin’ you out the way I should’a been, if you know what I mean?”

Charles nods, even though he thinks he picked up about seventy-five percent of what was said. “Yes, sir.” He thinks he’d probably answer any question thrown his way, if it meant when he left tonight it was in her parents’ good graces. 

Her parents, Bill especially, do maintain their intimidating presence for just as long as Chris says they will. Sat at the dinner table with all of them, next to Chris and across from Cindy and Bill, he can’t help but feel the weight of the situation as they all eat. 

“So, Charles,” Bill says, wiping his mouth with a napkin and taking a sip of wine. They’re all nursing glasses of wine, even Charles, who despite never having been particularly fond of the drink, was too scared to say no when Cindy offered. He’d glared daggers at Chris to keep her from speaking up. “Monaco, right?”

Charles nods. “That’s right.”

“A racecar driver from the rich and famous’ playground,” Bill continued. His voice is low and inquisitive. “I’m sure you can see why I might be a lil’...” he chuckles, “worried about you.”

Next to him, Chris cocks her head defensively, leans forward in her seat. “What are you trying to imply, Dad?” Charles unconsciously moves his hand to her lower back in an attempt to reassure her silently. He knows why Bill’s asking questions like this, he knows the reputation certain aspects of his life carry with them. It does put a butterfly or two in his stomach that she’s so eager to jump to his defense, though. 

“Nothing, nothing. It’s just quite the party lifestyle you live, isn’t it, Charles?”

“I don’t know if I would say that,” Charles laughs awkwardly. Chris takes a big sip of her wine, leans back in her chair again. He moves his hand from her back to her leg, where she interlocks it with her own under the table. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’ll go out with my friends when I’m in town, or we have something to celebrate, but… I’ve honestly become more of a home person these last years.”

Bill raises his brows, takes another bite of his food. “Really?” Charles nods. “That must be difficult, son, all the traveling you do. Alotta’ people in alotta’ cities. How d’ya handle that?”

Charles smiles, fully aware that Bill is just attempting to gauge his character. “It can be lonely at times, but I'm committed to a steady relationship. I like to think I’ve learned to balance my racing career and my personal life.”

“A steady relationship with our daughter.”

Chris squeezes his hand, he squeezes back, smiles softly. “A steady, committed relationship with your daughter, yes.”

Cindy takes a sip of her wine, smiles into the red liquid. She seems satisfied. Bill, not so much. “And what is it that you like most about her?” He asks. 

“Dad,” Chris laughs pointedly at her father, a hint of disbelief in the action. “That’s enough.”

“Sorry, Charles,” Cindy interrupts with an awkward chuckle, an attempt to keep the peace before Chris lunges over the table at her dad. Charles isn’t offended by the question, so he wonders if maybe Cindy is apologizing to Chris more than she is to Charles. “He doesn’t mean to come off so investigative. Chris is just our baby, everyone has always looked out for her.”

“It’s okay, I understand,” he nods, takes a bite of food. “As for the question nobody wants you to ask me,” he looks to Bill, remnants of his food still in his mouth. He speaks with the napkin over his lips. “It’s hard to even find a place to start with that, right? I mean, she…” he glances to Chris, finds that she’s already listening to him intently. He smiles, “you are an incredible person,” and he has to look away, because if he keeps going while staring into her brown eyes, he’s going to be as red as a tomato, completely and utterly smitten. “If you really want me to pick something, I guess I would say her kindness, and I’m sure you’re both familiar enough with her heart that I don’t need to ramble on about how lucky I am to have her in my life.”

Chris sinks in her seat, finishes off what’s left of her wine. “Well, now that I’m properly embarrassed for the rest of my life.”

Cindy laughs. “Oh, Chrissy, I haven’t even gotten the baby pictures out yet.” Chris turns to bury herself in Charles’ arm. He can feel how warm her face is through the fabric of his sweatshirt, and it makes him laugh. 

“Oh, my God,” she mumbles.

Charles’ ears perk up. “There’s baby pictures?”

Chris nods against his arm. “She’s a scrapbooker.”

He’s so boggled by the way that they can just switch up after that, the way that they stop trying to intimidate him and welcome him with open arms. He thinks that his Mum could never, that she knows within the first thirty seconds of meeting someone if she likes them or not. When it comes to Pascale Leclerc, you’re forever categorized by her first impression. He didn’t tell Chris that, because he didn’t want to worry her more than she already was in her sweats and messy-hair in Abu Dhabi. 

After the meal had been cleaned up, the four of them sat comfortably in the living room of Chris’ childhood home. Their home is so nice, so warm and welcoming.  He wonders if it’s always been such a comfortable place. 

Chris is sprawled out on the corner-seat of the sectional couch, Beans taking up the seat next to her, his head in her lap while she pets him mindlessly. Charles sits on the floor, back to the corner cushion, legs outstretched in front of him under the coffee table. Bill is in the recliner in the corner, working his way through a newspaper crossword puzzle, half-dozing off every ten minutes. 

Cindy carries a cardboard box down the stairs, sets it down on the coffee table in the middle of the family room. It’s full to the brim with worn, leather-bound scrapbooks, with Christyn Claire neatly written on the side of the box. She sits down on the floor next to him. Carefully, she pulls one out and gently sets it on the table, brushing the dust off the black leather cover. 

Charles watches as she flips open the pages, each one filled with their own vibrant photos, handwritten notes, and little trinkets that tell a story of young Chris. Charles can’t help the smile on his face when he sees the images of her in every stage of life, from a curious toddler with messy, curly pigtails to a teenager with the same smile he can’t get enough of. 

Cindy’s eyes sparkle with pride, and she has an anecdote for each and every photo. He’s captivated by it, not just the snapshots, but also the obvious love Cindy carries for her daughter. 

“This is Chrissy on the first day of school,” She explained, pointing to a picture of a young girl with a backpack almost as big as herself. “She was so excited to learn, has always been eager to take on new challenges.” Charles nods, hangs onto every word she says. “She’s always been a quick learner, even then.”

Cindy continues to flip through the pages, her and Charles silently sharing in knowing smiles at photos they both know Chris would find particularly embarrassing, making sure she doesn’t catch onto their shared moment from her seat on the couch. Cindy reveals photos from family vacations, birthdays, and school events. Her tales of Chris’ adventures—combined with Chris’ personal renditions added in—make for quite a delightful, and humorous, evening. 

“Ah, this one,” Cindy chuckles as she turns the page, revealing a picture of a grinning Chris covered head to toe in colorful paint. “We had an art day in the backyard, and Chrissy decided she'd rather paint herself than the paper.”

He laughed along, felt like he was growing more and more connected to Chris and her family with every shared memory. Part of him wonders if this is still a part of the protective parent act. If it is, it’s definitely doing its job. You can’t be mean to someone when you look at them and imagine the tiny version of them playing dress-up in a princess themed bedroom, or helping wash Dad’s car, or taking a nap at the beach on a mermaid towel. He should get a few baby pictures from his mom, he thinks. To show them to Chris, just so that she isn’t allowed to hurt him. 

“She’s always had a big heart,” Cindy said, her smile warm. “Her friends were like extended family,” she continues, pointing out a picture of Chris and several other little children. She points to a blonde, “You’ve met Hannah, right?”

“We’re going there, next, Ma,” Chris interjects. 

“Oh, well. This is her when she was five. I think Chris invited her to spend the night for weeks at a time.”

Charles nods, everything he knows about her, the way that she makes friends with anyone she interacts with, it all tracks, can all be seen in these pictures. He thinks that he could sit on the floor all night and go through every single picture in every single scrapbook, and still wouldn’t have enough, wouldn’t know enough about her. 

– – –

They leave the Elliott’s house a little after nine, and the air outside is cooler, now, the day fully transitioned into night. Charles sits in the passenger seat, eyeing Chris’ ability to perfectly maintain a speed two under the limit, and the way that she flipped her brights on everytime another car wasn’t cruising down the road. It seemed like this entire town was half-covered in wooded areas, so he supposes it’s better to keep an eye out for any wild animals. The warmth of the evening experience with her parents still radiates through him, but their conversation is now focused on their next destination; Chase and Hannah’s house. 

Chris, in the driver’s seat, is more animated than ever. She was preparing him carefully for the meeting, the anticipation of how her best friend and brother would perceive him hung in the air. She explained on the drive from the airport earlier that day that she’d “promised Hannah she would meet you before the wedding.”

As they rolled to a stop at a red light, Charles cast a quick glance over to her, feeling the weight of her guidance. “What should I know about them? Any advice on how to impress them?”

“Gosh,” she’d said, “I don’t know. Hannah’s easy. Chase is weird, but, just talk about cars or something. He really likes, um,” she pauses. “He races with you… from Australia, I think.”

Charles mulled over the comment, committing it to memory. There’s only one Australian he can think of racing against. “Daniel?”

“Yeah,” Chris nods. “Daniel Ricciardo. He really likes him.”

Charles absorbs the information, realizing that Daniel would serve as an excellent conversation starter about racing. The light turns green, and she checks the intersection for a comically long amount of time before proceeding. He does everything he can not to laugh, and is hit with a sudden wave of gratitude towards the way he’s been wholly and completely welcomed into her life like this. The night of endless nerves aside, the excitement of learning all the chapters of her life that predate him is something he isn’t going to take for granted. 

– – –

They arrive at Chase and Hannah’s house for a relatively relaxed night in, greeted by the warm glow of a bonfire crackling in the backyard. The air was filled with the smokey scent of burning wood, and the soft lull of a country song pouring from a speaker. 

“Hi!” Hannah calls before the couple is even halfway through the back gate. “Hi, Hi, Hi, oh my gosh!” she squeals, hurrying over to the gate to greet them. “It’s about fucking time,” she adds, pulling Chris into a tight hug. You’d think it was the first time they’d seen each other in weeks, but Charles knew they were together just that morning. “And you,” the blonde continues, “must be Charles. Unlike everyone else around here, I’ve actually heard a lot about you,” she laughs. 

He laughs too, accepts her open-arms for a hug. “I’ve heard a lot about you, too.”

“William Chase,” Hannah calls to the man standing over the fire, a stoker stick in one hand, a glass beer bottle in the other. His head shoots up from the embers when he’s called.  He holds his beer up as a welcoming gesture, but Hannah isn’t satisfied. “Get over here!”

He meets them halfway through the yard, in a part that’s unlit by either the house lights or the glow of the fire. “Hey,” Chase says with a relaxed smile, pulling Chris into a side hug, and then approaching Charles with an outstretched hand. “You must be Charles,” he says, the two exchanging a laid-back handshake before pulling each other into a bro-hug. “It’s good to meet you, man. You want a beer or something?”

“I can get it myself,” Charles assures, “just tell me where they are.”

“Don’t be silly,” Hannah scoffs, “You’re a guest,” she insists, and it is already halfway up the steps of the back porch. “You want one, too, Chris?”

“Yeah, thanks,” Chris smiles, her hand finding his in the space between their bodies, interlocking their fingers and pulling him over to the fire Chase has already returned to. 

Chris and Charles find a cozy spot on the porch swing that sits in front of the firepit, a shared bench that seemed to be the ideal medium between two chairs and sitting on top of each other, perfect for family introductions. They sit side by side, thighs brushing against each other, his arm around her nursing his beer. Charles keeps the swing moving with his feet, but Chris has one leg crossed over the other, the base of her beer bottle leaving a darkened ring of condensation on her jeans everytime she picks it up. 

“You want another one, Chris?” Chase asks, shaking his empty beer bottle by its neck when he heads back inside for another round, and per Hannah’s request, to check on Reid. 

“I’m okay,” Chris smiles. She’s turned fully sideways, now, her back resting against his shoulder, both legs off the ground and onto the other end of the bench. “I’m driving home,” and then she cranes her neck to look at him. “Do you want another?”

“No,” he says, because he’s pretty sure he can already feel her dozing off while they swing, is almost certain it’s going to end up being him driving back to her place tonight. “Thank you, though,” and then he kisses the top of her head, pulls his arm out from under her body weight to wrap around her front lazily. She adjusts to his adjustment, leans into him and finds a comfortable curve in his chest. 

Even among the scent of wood and fresh cut grass and smoke, he’s found himself in the perfect position to smell her hair without even trying. He thinks he’s finally nailed her shampoo, coconut and rose, he’s almost sure of it. 

“Mate, Chris was telling me you’re a Daniel Ricciardo fan?” Charles asks, looking for a way to break the ice into a more active conversation, utilizing the very few tools he has at his disposal. Chase and Hannah seem both way lower-stress than Bill and Cindy did, but he'd still like to leave tonight knowing he made a good impression. Or, at least leave knowing he tried his hardest to make one. 

“Yeah, man. We actually started racing at COTA in 2020, and Renault and Daniel did this thing with our team, gave me a little good-luck message and stuff. It was real cool. I’ve been a fan of him since.”

Surprised, and trying to find common ground, Charles asks: “Do you follow Formula One?”

“You know, I tried after the whole Daniel thing, but,” he shrugs nonchalantly, takes another swig of his beer and leans back in his seat. “Honestly, all respect, but there’s just nothing quite like the roar of a stock car at Daytona for me. It’s like thunder, man.”

Charles nodded, an eager grin on his face. He doesn’t know much about NASCAR, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t study up on it during the flight over. “The sound of those engines at full throttle must be crazy. It’s V8’s, right?”

“Yeah, V8. What are y’all running? Isn’t it hybrids?”

“Yes,” Charles laughs. “They’re crazy with the engineering. Basically, you have a turbo V6 combined with energy recovery systems… it all helps keep us lightweight.”

“That’s another thing that blows my mind, how light your cars are! I know you pull crazy downforce, but I swear it’s a totally different game on an oval, dude. Our cars are like, thirty-three hundo.”

Charles’ eyes go wide. He knew they were heavier, but that’s like… it’s more than double, he thinks, or has to be close to it “Oh, my God!” He laughs, taking another sip of his beer. Chris chuckles, too—he feels it in his chest. He also feels the nonsensical shapes and patterns that she traces over his sweatshirt sleeve while he talks, the way she seems completely lost in toying with the fabric. 

“I know, you guys got fuckin’ feathers compared to us!” Chase gins, joining in on the laughter. 

Charles leans forwards a bit, and when he does it, Chris adjusts her positioning. She’s somehow managed to slide gracefully down until she was curled up on the wooden bench, resting on her side with her head on his tights. She’d found a makeshift pillow in his lap, and he couldn’t mind it less. “Yeah, I don’t know,” he says, checking his watch so that when Chris asks him later tonight ‘when did I fall asleep?’ he can give her a proper answer. “We are all about precision, crazy aero packages. It’s not just about speed and downforce, it has to be managed so perfectly.”

“There ain’t no time for precision when you’re wheel-to-wheel at Talladega. It’s all about survival. We’re out there swapping paint and shit. Bumping and drafting are all a part of the game.”

“How crazy is that?” He questions, even though he doesn’t have more than an educated guess as to what drafting is. “The way the air affects your car when you’re always that close?”

“I mean, I guess I don’t notice it all that much because I’m so used to it, but yeah. We’re always pushing the limits, especially in the high-banked ovals. Drafting is both your best friend and your worst enemy.”

“Drafting, mate,” he peruses, taking a shot in the dark when he says: “that’s like getting the slipstream, no?”

“Exactly, yeah,” Chase nods. “All drag reduction shit.”

“It’s crazy, when we’re wheel-to-wheel, we’ll do about anything not to make contact”

“It’s ‘cause your shit weighs ten pounds,” Chase laughs. “It’ll fly away if there’s any contact.”

They go on like that for some time, comparing technicalities. There are few things Charles appreciates more in life than actually getting to sit down and talk racing with someone—true, technical, perfectionist racing. There’s no investigating what the problem with this year’s car is, or what he hopes happens next season. It’s just… how they work. How different formula racing is from stock cars. He feels like this is something he can actually talk about, a conversation he knows he can contribute knowledge to. 

“Riveting stuff, boys, really,” Hannah finally interjects, sitting down into her camping chair. Charles hadn’t even noticed she’d left, but here she was popping the bottle cap off another beer, taking a big swig. “You put Chris to sleep and I’m on my fucking way.”

Charles stills, his movements suddenly gentler as he tries to crane his neck to see her face. “She’s asleep?” He asks, half-whispered. 

Hannah nods, and Chase chuckles, “Dude, she’s been out cold for like half an hour.”

He smiles down at her, shaking his head, and then checks his watch again. 10:36pm, she didn’t even make it an hour and a half, poor girl. Charles brushes her hair out of her face and carries on with the conversation. His mind is completely absent to the fact that his fingers continue their exploration of her hair, a natural masterpiece of unruly waves. Each strand has its own rhythm, defying any form of order. The curls become even more pronounced as they cascade toward the nape of her neck, dancing freely with the erratic breeze. 

At the root of her bangs, there’s a stubborn cowlick, and one side of her face-framing cut has a mind of its own, constantly threatening to tumble into her eyes. Amidst all that delightful chaos, small, intricate braids intermingle with the curls, held together with tiny brown elastics. His touch is reverent as he selects one, playfully twisting it around his finger while he speaks. 

With painstaking care, he slides the elastic from the braid, and doesn't miss a beat in conversation with Hannah and Chase as he carefully unravels it. Their words dance in the air around him, and by the time he becomes cognizant of his actions, he’s on the last little braid. 

When it’s time to turn in for the evening, when the conversations are more yawns than actual questions, Charles wakes Chris up softly. He runs his hand up and down her upper arm slowly, squeezes her elbow to coax the sleep from her heavy eyes. “Baby,” he hums softly. 

Chris stirs with a groan, sits up and stares back at him with empty eyes, like she has no clue what year it is. He bites back a smile at the state of her, raises his brows and waits for her to say something, to scold him grumpily for waking her up. Chris Elliott is a force to be reckoned with when she’s woken up, and it’s something you only have to witness once to be scared of ever seeing again. She doesn’t scold, though. 

Instead, a soft smile pulls on the corner of her lips. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he smiles back. She’s already leaning against the far armrest of the swing, curling up into the corner like she’s going to go back to sleep. She probably will, it’s been far too easy to wake her up. His hand finds her knee, thumb rubbing circles along the denim fabric. “Are you ready to go home?”

She nods, but her eyes are already closed again. Chase is already dousing the fire with water. Hannah’s already inside cleaning up. Charles opts to leave her there, sweet and peaceful, while he collects her things from inside. 

It’s the first time he’s been in the house, and it's just as ambient as the backyard is. The warm glow of the dimmed lights accentuate the charm of their modern-farmhouse decor; wooden shelves bathed in the soft radiance, full of potted succulents, framed photographs, and small artworks that offer a glimpse into their lives. Large, strategically placed windows allowed for a gentle cascade of moonlight to slow, making the entire place feel calm and serene.

Chris has been wearing a pair of Hannah’s slippers since she went inside for the first time, so the first thing he looks for is her shoes. He finds them in the entryway, just outside the door, and finds her keys on a small table there, too. Her phone is on the kitchen counter, the purple silicone case practically glowing against the black granite countertops and pristine white cabinetry. In the living room, he notices a little figure lying on the couch—Reid, he assumes, lies nestled under a Cars blanket, a scene of pure childhood innocence set against the backdrop of grown-up sophistication. The entire room excludes warmth, thanks to an oversized gray sofa and a plush rug, all enhanced by the dull LCD of the quiet television and subtle nighttime lighting. Behind a throw pillow on the same couch, he finally uncovers her purse, carefully slipping it out so as to not disturb the sleeping child. 

“It’s not worth the fight sometimes,” Hannah explains, but Charles didn’t need one. He remembers the age of begging to have a sleepover on the living room couch, to stay out past his bedtime and watch shows on the big television. It was the highlight of his weekends, sometimes. 

“He’s adorable,” Charles says. “I love the blanket.”

Hannah chuckles softly, crossing her arms over each other to hug her small frame. “It’s his favorite movie,” she shrugs. “Wants to be just like his dad.”

He puts all of her things in the car before he even attempts at getting her into the car. Everything is neatly put into a place, her address typed into his GPS by Hannah and plugged into the aux on the radio, and she still sleeps on the swing. 

His humor buoyed by the absurdity of the situation, Charles decided to start with the slippers. He gently slid them off her feet, one by one, and handed them over to Chase, who watched on with the bemusement of an audience at a comedy show. With a soft, nearly conspiratorial tone, Charles whispers: “Chris, baby,” planting a tender kiss on her forehead. 

In response, she produces a mumbling symphony of incoherent sounds. “That’s not French, mon amour,” he chides playfully, prompting a breathy laugh from her lips. His aim is to keep her here, to prolong that delicate state of semi-sleep where she tattered between slumber and annoyance. “Let’s go home, yes?” he inquired. 

Chris, in her hazy state, offered a subtle nod. Charles grinned, heart painfully warm, and said, “Could you help me out?”

In response, she obligingly wraps her arms around his neck, and he effortlessly hoists her into his arms, carrying her in a bridal-style embrace. He guides her to the waiting car with gentle steps, Chase strolling alongside them to open the car door.  She stirs when he sets her in the seat, fastening her seatbelt. 

Chase shuts the door and the two of them exchange a classic, old-as-time bro-handshake-goodbye, a silent acknowledgement of both their meeting today and their future introductions all weekend long. 

It’s not until they’re at her house, the soft purr of the engine falling silent as he properly parked in the driveway, that she’s really awake. Her sleepy eyes flutter open with the automatic cab lights. 

He moves swiftly, circling the car quickly to open the door for her. As she grumpily emerges from the car, he gives her an encouraging smile. “Go get ‘em, killer.” he playfully whispers, his hands working against her shoulders. She meets him with a death-glare he could never possibly be afraid of. 

Chuckling, he plucks her phone from the passenger seat, locks the car before following her up the driveway.

The journey inside concludes shortly in her room. Chris has an early morning ahead, and a late night, too. Charles marvels at the resilience; doesn’t know how she’ll manage tomorrow, and the next day, and the next day. As she settles in under the comforter, he can’t help but watch her for a moment, all sweet and sleepy and beautiful, like always. 

Soon enough, the exhaustion creeps up on him, too, and he finally succumbs to sleep’s gentle embrace, entwined with the woman he finds himself cherishing more with what feels like each passing breath. 

– – –

He wakes up when the soft chimes of her alarm break through the morning darkness. The dim glow of the clock on the nightstand reads 6:30 am, and it was clear that daylight has yet to pierce the veil of a southern winter outside. 

He can’t help but appreciate her attempts to tiptoe through her morning routine. The effort is commendable, really, but the old, creaky wooden floors and the protesting door dram betray her intentions. He doesn’t mind, though—How could he? Any moment with her, even early morning ones where she bustles around the space, is better than a moment without. 

Lying in the cozy bed—which, by the way, her bed is so fucking comfortable, he allows himself to fully wake up, knows that her morning rituals would be far more entertaining than any dream he could have cocooned in sleep. 

His sleepy gaze watches her as she moves through the bedroom gracefully, her face illuminated by the soft glow of dawn creeping in from the curtains. He smiles at the little sounds and routines that make up her life, the ones he never gets to see, to savor. Watching her move about is a special kind of beauty, one that makes him feel lucky, insanely so, to experience a life with her in it. 

Leaving the comfort of the bed, he ventures out into the kitchen. He knew she had an early start, a long day away from him, and he was determined to steal every extra moment they could share. 

She’s finishing her lunch, packing it into her backpack when he sneaks up behind her, snaking his arms around her middle and hugging her from behind. “Hi,” she laughs, turning around in his arms to face him properly. 

He gives her a kiss and her lips taste like her morning coffee. He marvels at the ease with which she can make someone’s day—make his day. 

She grins, and there is a special kind of mischief in her eyes when she playfully warns him: “Promise you won’t get lost in the woods and eaten by a bear today,” she says, and then, because she can’t help but add it, “At least wait until I’m there to witness it.”

With a chuckle, he teases, “I can always outrun you, they say you only have to be faster than the other guy.”

Her laughter bubbles out, filling the room, and his chest, with warmth. “You wouldn’t let me get eaten by a bear,” she replies. 

He pauses for a minute, then playfully concedes, “Well, I might.”

“Wouldn’t.”

“Would.”

– – –

After she left work, he found himself helpless in the war against sleep. What was the point if she wasn’t around to keep him up? If nothing was around to keep him up? It was almost eight o’clock before he finally got up for the day, feeling refreshed and ready for yet another evening of introductions. 

His breakfast consists of a simple serving of toast, nothing anywhere near extravagant, but enough to stave off his hunger. Not to mention, he’d rather not make a mess in her house with the very first thing he does all day. 

After breakfast, he heads out for a run, decides he’s going to try and navigate his way around without getting lost. He fails, miserably, because it seems like everywhere he looks has the same landmarks—trees, trees, and more trees. The cool air is invigorating, though, and the rhythmic pounding of his feet on the pavement keeps his mind clear, gives him a certain appreciation for the fact that he doesn’t have to keep his eyes and ears open for anyone who might be watching him. No, here it’s just him, just Charles. There’s nothing special about it, which is what makes it so fucking special. 

Returning home—to her home—he enjoys a shower that washes away the cold sweat of the run. Dressed and ready, he ponders his plans for the rest of his day. It’s hours still until Chris is home and the festivities really kick off. 

As if on cue, his phone buzzes, Chase’s name popping up on the Caller ID. Hannah had insisted on him exchanging numbers with both of them the night earlier. Just in case Chris decides to fuck off to another country again without telling us, she’d said. 

He answers, listens to Chase’s offer to join in on a round of 9 holes with him and Bill, considers it for only a moment, and accepts enthusiastically. He’s in the passenger seat of Chase’s truck within the half-hour. 

“Survived the dragon, I see?” Chase greets Charles with a smile, clearly still amused over the previous night’s encounter. 

Charles chuckles. “Just barely.”

– – –

The day was pristine for golf, with a brilliant blue sky overhead and a gentle breeze. Charles has played at some pretty impressive courses around the world, but something about this one felt special. The green really wasn’t all the lush, and the views weren’t outstandingly picturesque, but. But, there was something that felt so special about it. 

Bill, the most experienced of them, begins the round with an expertly executed swing that has Charles chuckling under his breath. His ball soars through the air, landing with pinpoint accuracy in the fairway. Chase follows with a powerful drive that seems to only gain momentum as it sails. It gracefully lands not far from Bill’s.

Charles takes his stance, feels a bit like a circus clown amidst his partners, but steadies himself nonetheless. He draws the club back, manages a swing with a surprising degree of finesse. The ball leaps from the tee and manages an astonishingly straight shot that lands in a… respectable position. He’s not too far off Bill and Chase. 

Charles would never call himself a golfer, but he’s grateful for Chase and Bill’s attitude—the way they are constantly pretending he’s better than he is, blaming any mistakes (he has a beach full of sand in his shoes from all the traps) on the fact he’s rented his clubs from the course. 

As they stroll down the lush, sunlit fairway on one of the holes, Charles decides he’s brave enough to start a conversation, rather than just participate in one. He turns to Chase as he addresses the only topic he can think of. “So, tomorrow’s the big day, huh? You’re feeling good?”

Chase grinned, golf club slung casually over his shoulder. “Dude, more than anything. I’ve been trying to marry Hannah for a long time. I’m lucky, you know.”

Bill nodded, “Y’all are all but by now.”

“Anything specific you’re excited for?” Charles questions, can’t help but be curious about the details. “Or just a big ball of excited?”

Chase chuckles. “I’m really looking forward to the ceremony. The moment I see her walking down the aisle, it’s gonna be somethin’ else.”

Charles smiles. He wasn’t expecting such a romantic answer, not given what he’s experienced from Chase up to this point. His answer feels more like something you tell your closest friends, not your little sister’s boyfriend you’d just met for the first time the night before. “How about the holiday? Any special plans?”

Chase’s eyes lit up into a laugh. “Ah, the honeymoon. Yeah, we’re going somewhere… sometime. I don’t know, it’s not at the top of our list of things to get done.”

“All I know, Son,” Bill, whose been quiet for what feels like some time now, offers up some wisdom, “Tomorrow’s gonna be real overwhelmin’, but remember it’s your day. Savor all of it.”

Chase nods in agreement, “Don’t worry, Pops,” he chuckles, pats Bill on the shoulder, “I’ll savor it all.”

“And if you get nervous,” Charles laughs, “feel free to let it mess you up out here,” he says, gesturing to the fairway. The whole trio shares a laugh, but Charles seriously wouldn’t mind if the other two suddenly forgot how to golf. 

With Chase excusing himself to meet up with Hannah at the rehearsal dinner venue, Charles is left with just Bill, the pair heading up to the country club’s restaurant for a late lunch. The ambiance inside is refined, and they sit next to big floor-to-ceiling windows that offer views of the manicured greens and vast wooded area they’re situated inside. 

As they settle into their table, Charles takes a sip of his water, wiping the condensation from his hand on the side of his pants. He can feel the weight of the conversation that’s likely to follow—there’s no Cindy or Chris around to keep him in check like there was last night. 

Bill, cutting right to the chase, speaks in a casual tone. “So, Charles, how’re you finding our little corner of Georgia? I reckon it’s awful different from Monaco.”

Charles smiled, appreciating the comfortability of his voice. Maybe Chris was right, he was getting himself worked up yesterday over nothing. “It’s different, for sure,” he laughs. “Home is home, but there is something about the calmness here, the open space. It’s refreshing. And meeting everyone, it’s been great.”

Bill, who’s been nothing but stern in his expression for the entire time Charles has known him, seems to soften, even if just slightly. “I gotta admit, I was a lil’bit… cautious when I first learned about you and Chris. Fathers, y’know, we worry.”

“I can imagine,” Charles nods. He understands. Of course he understands. “You have my word, I have pure intents. Chris means a lot to me.”

Bill seems fully contemplative now, his usual sternness fully replaced when he looks back at Charles. “She’s real happy with you from what I can see, and her brother tells me you treat her real well. That’s the kinda stuff that matters to me.”

His chest feels stupidly warm at the remark. If Chris is half as happy as he is, they’ve really got something here. Something real. Scary real. “I care about her deeply, Sir, and I want her to be happy, too.”

Bill chuckles under his breath, shakes his head softly. “You’re not seventeen, son. You can call me Bill.”

“I care a lot about your daughter, Bill.” It’s an easy thing to do, he thinks. There can’t be a person in this world that knows her and doesn’t care for her. Not when everything about her makes him believe in luck, in something otherworldly—Gods or guardian angels or invisible strings. 

“See?” Bill questions, picking around what’s left on his plate with his fork. “We’re already buddies.”

– – –

Bill drops Charles off just before Chris gets home from work. He’s not in the house for ten minutes, is still moving around the kitchen searching for a glass to fill with water when the door swings open. Chris enters the kitchen with Reid, half a dozen things in her arms and a familiar four-year-old in tow. “Hey,” she greets, lifting her bags onto the counter next to him, setting down all of her belongings. 

“Hi,” he greets, hand finding a familiar space on her lower back, pulling her closer to him, to lean down and give her a quick kiss. “How was your day?” 

“Long… and chaotic,” she sighs, forcing a weary smile onto her lips. Charles frowns. Searching her eyes for elaboration, she just shrugs. “Reid, say hi to Charles,” she introduces. “Charles, this is my little tornado, my nephew, Reid.”

Reid looks up at him with bright eyes and a mischievous grin. “Can I call you Chuck?”

Charles laughs. “No, you can call him Charles,” Chris answers on his behalf, before he gets the chance to tell the kid to call him whatever he wants. 

Reid rolls his eyes. “Hi, Charles,” he huffs. “Auntie Chris says you’re gonna help me get ready.”

Charles smiles warmly. “That’s what I hear. It’s quite a mission to accomplish, do you think you are up for it?”

Reid nodded enthusiastically. “Totally. I’m almost five.”

Chris chuckles, and Charles’ eyes shoot over to her when she does. Hearing her laugh isn’t enough, he needs to see it, to share in it. “Good luck with the tie,” she tells him. Charles winks at Chris, grins down at the kid in front of him. “Reid, you like Cars, right?”

Reid’s eyes go wide, his head snapping over to look at Chris, who matches his expression with a smile on her face. He turns back to face Charles, “How did you know that?”

“So, it’s true?”

Reid nods apprehensively. “I love Cars. My Dad is in Cars 3, y’know? He’s got, like, a awesome race car.”

Charles feigned surprise, “No way! That’s like being a superhero.” He leans down conspiratorially, speaks quietly, just to Reid. “Do you know Lightning McQueen?”

Reid’s eyes gleamed with excitement as he launched into a passionate monologue about the Cars movies, the story, and the characters—paying a special interest to Chase’s automotive-self in the animated world. Charles listens with genuine interest while Chris quietly prepares a snack for the boy. 

He gets ready while Reid eats, moves around Chris in the bathroom. “Sorry, sorry,” she says, using her entire arm to move her stuff off one side of the sink vanity. “I’m taking up your side,” she continues, pulling her curling iron out of her hair, carefully cradling the steaming strands. Charles smiles. His side. He kisses her softly, then— mindful of her unfinished makeup and hair. She smiles out of it, gives him another quick peck, “what was that for?”

He shrugs, reaching for his hair gel, “Just because.” 

– – –

They get to Dahlonega right at five o’clock, thanks in massive part to Charles’ ability to comfortably drive above the speed limit, and in small part to Chris’ ability to finish her makeup while Charles does a poor job at avoiding potholes. 

Every event this weekend takes place at the same place—a vineyard about thirty (if you speed) minutes from Chris’ house, but it’s nothing like what he would usually think of as a quote-en-quote vineyard. It’s more of a… barn put in the middle of a field, but. It’s beautiful nonetheless. 

“How do I look?” Chris asks as they walk up the long drive from the parking lot to the barn. She runs her hands over the thighs of her jeans, straightening them out. 

“Do a spin,” Charles says, and she does. “Hot,” he nods, smiles. Chris rolls her eyes. “Always hot.”

Hannah is running around with a woman wearing a nametag—the wedding planner, he assumes—like a chicken with its head cut off when they get there. Reid bolts away from them as soon as Chase is in his eyeline, chatting with his groomsmen around the bar. Charles trails behind Chris, hand interlocked with hers, as she makes her way over to a frazzled Hannah.

She greets them with a smile, swiping her hair off her shoulders and opening her arms for hugs. “You look beautiful,” Charles comments, kisses either of her cheeks. 

“Oh,” She laughs. “This is new.”

Charles laughs, pulling away from the hug, “Sorry.”

“Oh, no. It’s fun,” she says, looking to Chris. “You should’ve dated someone French a long time ago.”

“He’s not French.”

“But y—”

Chris cuts her off. “Monégasque,” she continues. Charles smiles meekly. “And very proud.”

The setting sun cast a warm glow over the venue as the wedding rehearsal began. Charles found himself sitting in the second row, behind both Chase’s family and with the rest of the partners of the bridal party. 

They’re orchestrated by the meticulous woman with a name tag from earlier, carefully moved through the motions of the ceremony tomorrow. Charles watches with quiet amusement as they navigate each and every step with precision. The officiant guided them through the script, the words blending into a hum that surrounded the ceremony space. 

He partakes in the bland small talk with the other partners—how beautiful, how exciting, how sweet—all the stuff that random strangers with no present connections have to talk about. Charles can't help but glance at Chris intermittently, catching her eye and exchanging silent conversations that only they understand. She’s just so pretty up there, her brown curls cascading off her shoulders while she holds two mock-up bouquets of flowers. She bounces in place, practically, obviously half as tired and bored with it all as he is. 

As the run-throughs progress, he can feel her restlessness like it’s his own. Her wide eyes betray her thoughts when, without words she tells him, this is so boring.

He chuckles under his breath, meeting her gaze with the minute raise of his brows, an unspoken agreement passing between them. So boring.

The repetition of the steps continues, though, each run-through blending together into the next. Charles and Chris share more glances, continue to communicate the same sentiment of impatience to a point of amusement. In the stolen moments, he finds solace in the connection, a reminder that even the most orchestrated events can’t stifle their shared sense of humor. 

As the rehearsal finally drew to a close, the sun dipped below the horizon casting a warm, golden hue over the gathering. The group dispersed, heading towards the dinner that awaited them. 

When Charles catches up to Chris, she’s talking with the best man—Ryan, who the wedding planner kept asking to take this a bit more seriously. He seems nice enough, brother-y enough. Charles thinks he probably has a few good stories about Chris, even more about Chase. 

“Everyone always thought we had a thing going,” Chris tells him after the introduction has finished, while the two of them wait at the bar for their drinks. 

His brows raise, leaning back off the bar to scan the room for the guy. “Do you want me to be jealous?” He asks, lets his hand rest on the small of her back, thumb moving smoothly against the fabric of her top. 

“No,” she says, but the smile on her lips tells him she’d be entertained by the sight of a jealous version of him. “I just didn’t want you to hear it from someone else this weekend.”

He nods, picking up the drink that’s set down in front of him/ “Well, did you?” He asks, taking a swig of the dark liquor. 

“Did I what?” Chris asks, moving her drink closer to her, stirring it with a little black straw. 

“Did you guys date?”

“Oh,” she shakes her head. “Never.”

Charles nods. “Shame, I was going to put on a show.”

The welcome party kicks into full swing after the satisfying sit-down meal. Laughter and chatter fill the rustic barn, the air buzzing with the lively energy of the gathering, of the weekend. Charles, having eaten the entirety of his dinner earlier, finds himself following Chris as she seamlessly navigates the crowd. 

The burger truck, stationed at the edge of the venue, offered a tempting array of late-night treats. The scene of grilled meat wafted through the air, enticing those who weren’t around for the earlier, intimate dinner. 

The barn was alive with the murmur of voices, the clinking of glasses, the bursts of laughter. It seems like a million people fill the space, a million strangers—a mix of extended family and friends and coworkers and distant relatives and even distant-er friends. For him, all of these faces are unfamiliar, and he relies on Chris like a lifeline to guide him through most of the interactions. 

She effortlessly leads the way, introducing him with a warmth that mirrors her nature of being. She moves through the place like she owned it, with a grace that seems to come naturally to her, connecting with friends and family alike. Everyone seems thrilled to see her, absolutely beside themselves. He understands them, even if he doesn’t know them, and observes with quiet admiration her ability to make everyone feel at ease. 

She seems to flourish in social settings, her personality shining brightly. She greets old friends with hugs, shares jokes with cousins, compliments grandparents’ outfits, and introduces him to each and every one of them, punctuates every interaction with her infectious laughter. 

He’s always felt like he’s more of a one-on-one guy, that his connections are better made independently rather than in groups. Chris, though, could lead a crowd anywhere with this unwavering confidence. She doesn’t make a single misstep all night, navigating the whole evening perfectly, makes an evening he’d spent the majority of outside his comfort zone anything but unsettling. With her, his words feel valued, important, intelligent. He’s content to be her partner in social settings longer than anyone should be. 

It’s long past midnight when they finally get back to her house, the fatigue of the day well-settled on their skin, casting a convincing sleeping spell that made the prospect of a comfortable bed a welcomed one. 

The house is silent, the hush of the night hugging them as they reach the bedroom, the weariness of their bones palpable. Anything but falling into the comforter seems like quite the ambitious endeavor. 

The comfort of the sheets cradles them as they sink into the mattress, a shared haven offering respite from the busy weekend. “Next time I come here,” Charles yawns, the effort of the evening present in his voice, “we are doing nothing.”

She must be more drained, he thinks, she’d worked almost a whole day before this, but contently, she responds with a gentle hum, snuggled up close to him. “Mmm,” she murmured. “Perfect.” The simplicity of doing nothing seems like the perfect plan, a promise of unhurried moments and the luxury of just being together. He wants more of that. He wants more of her. 

– – –

He wakes up for the first time that morning, if you can really call it waking up, to the shift of the bed as she climbs out of it. He doesn’t check the clock, doesn’t even hear more than the creak of the floor before he’s back asleep. He wakes up for the second time, and you still probably can’t call it that, to her standing over him, fingers running through his hair. She gives him a kiss and comments on something he can’t hear through sleep. 

The third time he wakes up that morning, it’s to the ringing of his phone on the bedside table. Her name is on the screen, a photo of her grinning in front of a statue in Monaco and holding a thumbs-up. 8:34, his phone reads. The sun is shining in through the opening in the curtains. 

She’d forgotten the steamer on the living room coffee table when one of the other bridesmaids picked her up two hours earlier. He says he’ll bring it, asks if the girls want coffee, swears he remembers her order. She texts him the other three girls’ orders. Within the hour, he’s riding with the wedding planner on a golf cart from the parking lot to the bridal suite with four long-winded coffees in one hand and a steamer in the other. 

He doesn’t know what he was expecting when he walked into the bridal suite, but it wasn’t what he found. The chaos hangs in the air like a sweet perfume. He weaves between makeup artists, hair stylists, and bridesmaids to find Chris, talking with Hannah and a makeup artist about what’s about to be painted onto the bride-to-be’s face, fulfilling her maid-of-honor duties. 

Chris looks up quickly to scan the room, eyes landing on him and immediately returning to the conversation at hand before doing a double-take, a heavy sigh leaving her lips when she recognizes him and the objects he carries. 

“Hey,” she greets, takes the steamer from his hand and kisses him. “You’re a lifesaver, thank you,” and she kisses him again. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he laughs, pulls a coffee out of the cardboard cup holder and hands it to her. “Your hot dirty chai with one shot of espresso, oat milk, and salted caramel.”

“A man after my heart,” she says, taking a sip of the drink. He winks—anything more and he’d blush bright red—and continues reading the orders off. 

“Brown sugar oat milk latte with blonde espresso for Hannah,” he says, pulling it out and handing it to the blonde and pulling out the next one. “This is the… Iced matcha latte with soy milk and strawberry cold foam, and the…” he holds up the cupholder, one drink left in it, “Caramel brûlée latte.”

The groom’s house—which is where he’s affectionately sent to after the coffee delivery—is a direct contrast to the bridal suite. College football plays on the television, the cheers and groans of the game providing a lively soundtrack to the prelude of the wedding. The girls were all half-ready, but the guys are still shoveling breakfast foods into their mouths on the leather sofa. 

Noon arrives, and with it the collective decision that it was time to actually start getting ready for the wedding. Chase and his groomsmen needed to be ready for pictures at three, which meant that Charles and the rest of the bridesmaid’s boyfriends needed to be ready to be anywhere but the groom’s house at three. 

Between the laughter and the beers and the arguing over the best way to iron a shirt, there’s a knock on the door. He doesn’t even bother to look who it is, assumes it’s a relative of some sort. When Ryan, the never-had-a-thing, you-don’t-need-to-be-jealous Best Man has a hand on his shoulder, telling him “Chris is outside, she wants to talk to you,” he meets the guy with furrowed brows. 

He finds her just where Ryan said she was, pacing outside on the concrete patio, ready head-to-toe for the wedding procession. He can’t help but be struck by her beauty, the way the delicate fabric of her dress accentuates her figure, the way the color complimented the glow of her skin perfectly. Her hair is pulled back off her face, revealing the curve of her neck, her subtle makeup highlighting her features. 

He feels like he’s seen her a million times by now, in a million different ways, but there was something almost ethereal… angelic about her in this moment. The nerves in her eyes and the tension in her shoulders only add to the charm, make her feel more real, more human. 

He’s never looked at her and thought she wasn’t beautiful, but there are moments where he’s particularly struck by her allure. This is one of them. 

As soon as she lays eyes on him, her words rush out in a torrent. No hello, no pleasantries, just— “I’m freaking out, Charles. This speech… I’m just. I’m terrified I’m going to mess it up.”

“You’re not going to mess it up,” he promises. He’s heard Chris’ maid-of-honor speech probably a dozen times by now, and she’s a different level of nervous every time. This might be the most nervous he’s seen her about it, though. “Can you… can you listen to it, please?”

He nods, his gaze steadying her shaky one. “Of course, let’s hear it.”

She unfolds the tiny, half-crumpled piece of paper out and delves into her speech. He focuses on her words, the genuine affection and admiration for Hannah present in each and every syllable. When she finishes, she meets his eyes, a mix of hope and anxiety in hers. 

“Well?” She asked, her lip caught between her teeth. 

Charles smiles. “It’s amazing. You are going to do great.”

“Are you sure? Because the part where I talk about Colorado—”

Charles shakes his head, puts his hands on her shoulders. “It’s perfect,” he says, gives her a quick kiss. “You’re perfect.”

She sighs, relief visibly washing away the tension. “Thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

He grins, “You would still do great. But I’m here anytime you need it.” She gives him a quick hug,  and he can feel the gratitude seeping through the squeeze, so he makes it last just that moment longer. He just, he gets such a surge of pride that he gets to call her his, that he’s lucky enough to call her his girlfriend. “Go knock ‘em dead,” he laughs. 

When three o’clock finally does roll around, the wedding party separates to head off for pictures, and Charles, along with the other significant others, joins the convoy heading down to the ceremony space. The excitement among the group was palpable, everyone connected in some way to Hannah and Chase’s love story, ready to witness and be a part of their union.

The ceremony starts at four, and hell if he can’t stop catching Chris’ eyes the entire time. He doesn’t think he’s ever enjoyed a wedding quite like he’s enjoying this one. Chase and Hannah are lovely, and the officiant’s words resonate with sincerity, but he’s less attuned to the details of the ceremony itself and more absorbed in the captivating spectacle that is Chris. 

Her laughter, musical and infectious, is all he hears when the entire place laughs, and her discrete attempts to wipe away tears, to pretend they aren’t falling, melt his heart entirely. Even the way she plays with the ribbon on the bouquets she holds—something so small and trivial, it all captivates him.

He finds himself swept away by a tide of emotions, some messy kaleidoscope of feelings that defy articulation. There’s something magnetic about her, an irresistible urge to kiss her that seems to linger in the back of his mind, always. It’s all lined up for him, a million synchronized harmonies that underscore every interaction. 

The changing colors of leaves and the smell of rain on a pine patio, the heartbeat of a conversation, a light in every room. His perception of his own emotions, the way he feels about this fucking woman, it’s so clear it becomes cloudy. Every stolen glance and shared smile is this integral part of their connection, this thing that he can’t let go of. 

There’s something so fucking special about her, and he can’t make sense of any of it.

Cocktail hour is at five, and the whole family—everyone at this entire wedding he knows—are off doing ‘golden hour’ pictures. Charles lingers by the bar, stuck to the outskirts like a wallflower. 

He’s suddenly hit with a wave of insecurity. It’s not often he’s put somewhere completely on his own like this, almost always has someone he can use as a lifeline if he needs to. Everyone here seems to have known eachother forever, and he feels like an intrusion on their camaraderie, worries that if he does manage up the courage to start a conversation with someone, they won’t understand him, or worse—he won’t understand them. 

His social battery is just… it’s drained. It’s been a long couple days of mingling with strangers, of trying to impress everyone. He’s ready to just curl up somewhere with Chris and enjoy the limited time they do get to spend together—alone—this weekend. 

Maybe then, with some more fucking time, he could sort out all his nonsensical thoughts. Make some sense of his own feelings. 

At the reception, he’s seated at the family table with Bill, Cindy, and Reid. Chandler is there, too, but she and her girlfriend Lex seem about as interested in him as they are the dinner menu. They give him a passing greeting, an introduction, if you can call it that, but content to leave it at that. 

They’re only a few feet away from the head table, where Chase, Hannah, and the bridal party are sat. So close, but when you’re as drained as he is, when you’ve been prim and perfectly proper for more hours than you can count, just want to be with the one person around who you don’t need to impress… Chris’ nameplate might as well be a quarter of the way around the world. 

There isn’t some big announcement or introduction for the bridal party, they just filter in after the conclusion of pictures with the rest of the family. Chris is one of the last to filter in, and finds that the rest of the bridesmaids and the groomsmen are all settled in their seats. Chris doesn’t head for her seat. Instead, she makes a bee-line for her family table, for Charles, who is scrolling through his phone and nursing what she thinks is Chase’s signature drink. 

She sneaks up on him, but he isn’t startled by her arms when they wrap over his shoulders. “Hi,” she greets, leaning over to kiss him. It doesn’t take her but a second to feel how tense he is—it’s in his shoulders, in his kiss, in the way he just keeps spinning the liquid around his glass instead of drinking it. Most of all, it’s in the way she doesn’t get even a hello back, just a focus smile and a kiss. Her brows furrow in concern. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” he nods. “I’m just tired. It has been a busy couple of days.”

“I know,” she nods in agreement. “I was thinking, we should get super drunk tonight, skip brunch tomorrow, and then do nothing all day. What do you think?”

He laughs, and she feels the vibrations in her hands. “Deal,” he says, holding out his hand to shake on it right as the DJ comes over the microphone. Ladies and Gentleman, Chris’ eyes go wide, practically death-dropping into a squat so quickly she nearly loses her balance in her heels. Charles laughs, but she doesn’t miss his hand reaching out to steady her. If I can direct your attention to the barn door, let’s all give a warm welcome to the reason we’re all here tonight. I’m pleased to introduce for the very first time as husband and wife, Mr. and Mrs. Elliott! Even from her squatted position, she still claps and cheers for Chase and Hannah. 

As the clapping dies down, the instrumental of their first dance song transitions in. She shifts on her feet, from one heel to the other, and thinks about how graceful she would have to be to attempt to slip her shoes off in her current position. When she looks to Charles, she’s met with the clearest what-the-heck-are-you-doing look she’s ever been on the receiving end of, and a nod that all but picks her up and puts her in his lap itself. His arms slip around her waist lazily, like it’s where they’re supposed to belong, like a magnet pulling itself to the fridge.

As their first dance song starts, as Chase and Hannah sway around the dance floor as husband and wife, Charles places a soft kiss into her exposed shoulder. The warmth of his lips sends a chill up her spine. “Are you cold?” He whispers, and she shakes her head even though she’s been chilly since she put the dress on that morning—who the heck chooses one-shoulder bridesmaid dresses for their outdoor wedding in December? He runs his hands up and down her arms to warm her up with the friction. “You can have my jacket if you want.”

“I’m okay,” she says. 

“Okay.” Another kiss, and then he rests his chin on her shoulder. “Let me know.”

After the first dance, Hannah and Chase give a short welcome speech, thanking everyone for coming to celebrate with them, for making their day so perfect. And then, it’s time to eat. 

She offers to pull over a chair and eat with him, and then offers again silently after Bill makes a joke about how we won’t bite him. She doesn’t like to see him like this, so tired, so drained. “I’m good,” he says, “I promise.”

“Okay,” she says, but her return to the head table is hesitant, and she keeps an eye on him the entire meal. 

– – –

“For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Chris, and for those of you who do, you probably knew this was coming,” Chris laughs nervously, microphone in sweaty hands. She can’t believe she has to follow Ryan’s speech. He had the whole crowd laughing until they couldn’t breathe. “I’m not one for public speaking, which I know you all find very funny considering my career choice, but when your best friend since the oh-so tender age of seven is getting married, you throw caution to the wind.”

She looks at Charles, but has to look away quickly. Just imagine me in my underwear, he’d told her before she got up here. She can’t do that. She can’t look at Hannah or Chase, either, though, or else she’ll burst into tears. So, she just looks at the piece of paper in her hand. 

“So, let’s talk about Hannah. We’ve been through it all together, from the back of a Sunday school class at Grace Haven where two little girls made their first friend, to hiding from customers in the kitchen of the Pool Room listening to Mr. Gordon tell us about his ‘shine days. We weathered the storms of adolescence, rocked the awkward phase, and somehow managed to make it out on the other side with our sanity intact—well, mostly,” the room chuckles. Hannah laughs, and Chris thinks that maybe she can look at her—she can’t, can already feel the tears welling, the frog in the back of her throat. 

“But,” she cracks, “It’s not about the trials we faced in high school, it’s about the triumph that is happening right now. Chase and Hannah, standing—sitting—here, about to embark on a new chapter of their lives.” Chris turns to the next page of her notes, hand shaky when she does it. “It wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows getting here. Life threw us some curveballs, as it tends to do. But Hannah, she’s a force of nature. She faces challenges head-on, and with the strength of a thousand warriors.”

Chris’ eyes catch Reid, sitting on Bill’s lap next to Charles. He’s not paying any attention, but what four-year-old would? Instead, he’s swinging his legs back and forth, tapping Charles’ knee with the toe of his shoes everytime. Charles takes turns grabbing one of the attacking feet, his eyes unbreaking from her, before letting Reid wiggle it away, laughing softly at the interaction each time. “My best friend became a mom at nineteen, and there wasn’t much about it that was easy. But, like I always do, I watched her rise to the occasion, and I’ve never been prouder. I work with five-year-olds every day, and as similar as Reid is to Chase, he’s his mother’s son, and I would pay a million dollars to have twenty of him in my classroom. And Chase, you were there through all of it. When things got tough, you didn’t run; you stood by her. You became not just the guy she loved, but the rock she could lean on, the partner she deserved.”

Chris nods, continuing. “Some might say they don’t have the most conventional love story. But what is love if not a journey? One that involves bumps and twists and unexpected turns? Chase and Hannah, you’ve proven that love isn’t just for fairytales; it’s for the real, messy, complicated, and beautiful moments of life.”

Chris looks past Hannah, to Chase. It's just as hard to maintain eye contact with him. Harder, maybe, because he looks like he’s about to cry, too. Chris can count on one hand the amount of times she’s seen her brother cry. “Chase, my big brother,” she laughs through a tear. 

“Fuck you, dude,” he says back, through an equally tearful laugh. Hannah’s hand runs in circles on his back. 

“You are so lucky to have Hannah. Everyone in this room knows that she has this magical quality about her—this remarkable ability to make even the most unlovable people feel like the center of the universe. I’ve seen her do it time and time again, watched her sprinkle her own special kind of magic everywhere she goes.”

“Hannah,” she says, turning fully to face her best friend, abandoning the piece of paper she has memorized and replacing it with Hannah’s hand. “You are my confidante, my partner in crime, my source of strength, and my beacon of light. You are the kind of friend who not only stands by people in the good times, but also holds you up when life gets a little bit wobbly,” Chris feels a single tear fall down her cheek, and then another. She sniffles softly. “Thank you for helping me through the wobbles,” she squeaks. “You’ve been my sister as long as I’ve known you, Han, I’m just glad it’s finally official.”

Chris turns back to address the crowd, raising a glass of champagne to two of her favorite people. “To Hannah and Chase. May your love be modern enough to survive the times, but old-fashioned enough to last forever. Cheers to the messy, the beautiful, and the happily ever after you both so richly deserve.”

Hannah wastes no time enveloping Chris into a bear hug, rocking back and forth on their feet. The lace and tulle from Hannah’s dress scratch against Chris’ arms, but she doesn’t mind. She’s too busy trying not to cry onto the fabric while the rest of the tables clink their glasses to her speech. Chase is next with the hugs, a stupid one that’s stronger than Hannah’s. 

“Dude,” he laughs, “you didn’t have to make me cry.”

Chris sniffles. “I love you.”

Chase pauses, squeezes her a little bit tighter. “I love you, too.”

Speeches are followed by the father-daughter and mother-son dances. Chris sneaks back over to the family table during the latter, makes her dad move over into Cindy’s seat so she can sit next to Charles. He has a fresh glass of the same drink from earlier, and is nursing it the same way he did the first one. 

“You know,” she says, checking the state of her makeup with her phone’s camera. “You’re going to have to pick up the pace if we’re getting wasted tonight.”

He laughs, the side of his foot bumping against hers under the table. She leans her foot back on the heel of her shoe, toys with the hem of his slacks. “Is that right?” He spins the drink, talks into the bottom of the glass, but she’s not fooled. His ears are red at the simple action. 

“Yeah,” she nods. “Let me show you,” and then takes the glass from his hand, downing what’s left without a scowl. It’s dark liquor. She loves the burn. 

Chris is like… she reminds him of that battery rabbit. A constant source of energy. She’s practically bouncing off the walls, giddily introducing him to anyone they come across that he doesn’t already know. She’s just so personable, and the buzz she’s gotten from the champagne and the stolen sips of his drinks only make her more lively. She knows everyone here, he’s sure of it, but she could befriend a brick wall if it gave her five minutes.

It’s impossible for even the most sullen people not to feed off her energy—everyone is swallowed up by her laugh, every conversation brightened by her presence. She’s so fun to watch that he wonders if he’s dreamt her up, created a figment of his imagination in the shape of someone just so good. God, she’s good. 

They survive the newlywed games and the anniversary dances, even make it all the way to the cake cutting before it becomes an Elliott family party—which, if you didn’t know, is synonymous with a drunken rager. As soon as Hannah swipes a finger full of frosting across Chase’s cheek, it’s game over. 

Drinks flow as freely as laughter echoes, and the dance floor is nothing more than a playground for a bunch of drunken idiots. Chris and Hannah, seasoned dance partners, showcase their moves with infectious enthusiasm, dancing the blurry line between elegance and idiocy. 

When the music slows, though, she’s always finding her way to him, heavy arms around his neck, his around her waist. If they know the song, they take turns butchering the vocals and giggling until the other person kisses them. 

“So, how was my speech?” She asks soberly, swaying along to the tune of some slow song he’s never heard of. 

“You made that speech your bitch, baby,” he slurs, even though he has a million and one questions about her speech. 

He’d heard it. So many fucking times, he’d heard it, and not once had he heard the ending. He thought he heard the ending—he did hear the ending. It was just different. Shorter. Sweeter. Didn’t put a confused knot in his stomach. Thank you for helping me through my wobbles. A remarkable ability to make even the most unlovable people feel like the center of the universe. He doesn’t want to entertain them as connected, to live in a world where they’re connected. 

“You think so?” She beams. He can’t ask when she smiles like that. 

“Yeah,” his tongue feels dry in his mouth—cottony. He’s bothered, and he doesn’t understand why. “It was great, very personal.” He shouldn’t let it bother him. It’s a fucking speech at a wedding for people he barely knows. It shouldn’t bother him, it shouldn’t rot his insides, the concept that two sentences could be in any way related to one another. It shouldn’t bother him, really. It does, though. And he can’t stop himself when he’s half-drunk the way he could if he was sober. “Everything you talked about… it’s all you two, huh?”

“Yeah,” Chris nods. “Hannah’s done a lot for me, y’know. I’m sure we’re like you and Joris, just. I cry more than you.”

“Even the, uh…” he clears his throat. “Even the whole thing about, um…”

“Charles,” she laughs, brows furrowed in a way he thinks only he could perceive. 

He sighs. “You know that you’re the kind of person who is easy to love, yes?”

She doesn’t look at him when she nods, or when she smiles, or when she kisses him. “I know,” she mumbles, and it’s the most unbelievable thing she’s ever said. The easiest lie he’s ever spotted, but it’s even clearer that she doesn’t want him to push on it, so he doesn’t. He’s smart enough to know when it’s time to just dance with his girlfriend. 

– – –

They wake up the next morning disgustingly hungover. Like, stare at the white ceiling for twenty minutes talking about how hungover they are and praying they don’t throw up, hungover. Her ceiling is textured, and the pattern repeats every foot-or-so like it’s been stamped on. That’s how hungover he is.

He showers while she makes them prairie oysters, and despite how absolutely horrifying it looks, sounds, and sells, he manages to find enough trust in her to force it down with a grim scowl. Fuck, it’s disgusting. Horrifically so. 

They take an uber out to the wedding venue to retrieve Chris’ car, and she gives directions back to the Dawsonville Pool Room with her eyes half closed, sunglasses over her eyes. Everytime he looks at her he thinks she’s turning green. 

The owner recognizes her as soon as they’re walking through the door. Charles doesn’t understand a single fucking word the guy says. Chris orders “two Bully Burgers, but I swear to holy Heaven if you put slaw anywhere near my plate you’re gonna see the Devil, Mr. Gordon.”

He responds in something Charles could technically call English, and Chris shakes her head, a smile pulling on her lips. “I’m serious, he’ll back me up,” she says, thumb pointing to him. “He’s not from around here, you’re just another stranger.”

The greasiest, sloppiest, most mediocre burger he’s ever eaten is put in front of him five minutes later, and he feels like a new man after. Still absolutely strung out and exhausted, yes, but like his stomach is content to stay inside his body. 

Later that afternoon, when they’re both half asleep on the couch, some stupid sitcom playing as background nose, he’s still thinking about her fucking speech from the night earlier. It’s still bugging him. “Baby?” he mumbles against the skin of her shoulder. He doesn’t even know if she’s awake to answer. 

“Hmm?” She hums. 

“We do not have to talk about it if you don’t want to, but. You are a very lovable person, I think.” He couldn’t give any specific examples of what makes him so sure of this fact, he honestly couldn’t. But isn’t that proof enough? That just her being is enough to answer the question. 

“Babe,” she stretches against him, speaks through a yawn. 

“Sorry,” he says. “Sorry, I just. I don’t know.”

“No, it’s okay. We can talk about it.” She adjusts, if just slightly, so that it’s easier for her to look at him while they speak. “When everyone has the same complaint, all your old friends and old boyfriends tell you that you’re too much or too little, you realize maybe you’re the crazy one.”

He doesn't like that reasoning. He thinks it’s a load of bullshit, actually. “Why do you think of yourself in this way?”

Chris laughs. “It’s fine, really.”

“It’s not,” he says, because he knows it’s a lie. 

“It is, because I’ve come to terms with it. I accept it.”

He frowns, hates the way she seems so content with this. Like it’s something that is even kind of rational. It’s not, he knows. He pauses, can’t even come up with something to say to her level of absurdity. “I don’t think you should accept that.”

She turns away, tucking a strand of hair behind her ears, and laughs softly. “I’m sure you don’t.”

“You are not unlovable.” She’s not. She’s not. He knows she’s not. He knows, he knows, because of rain on a pine patio and leaves that change colors. He knows, because if she was unlovable, he wouldn’t love her. And he does, he does love her. 

Wait.

“Well, we’ll see. Everyone always sees.”

No, hold on. Wait. His stomach is tangled, flip-flopping and fluttering like every butterfly this side of the Atlantic has suddenly taken up residence in his insides. You don’t love her, you idiot, he thinks. But he does. Fucking… His heart races. He hopes to God, pays to something he’s not sure he believes in that she can’t feel it against his chest. That he can get away with it. “See what?”

She shrugs. “If I knew, nobody would see it,” she laughs. He laughs along, too, but it’s so forced that it sounds like some pre-recorded bit. She’s so casual about all of this that he feels like he needs to pinch himself. It doesn’t make sense, he can’t wrap his mind around it. But Chris, she’s comfortable enough with her bull-fucking-shit ‘facts’ that she can pull her phone out and scroll through it while they wrap up the conversation. “And before you ask, ‘What if I don’t see anything?’ like everyone else but Hannah always asks, nothing happens.”

“Nothing happens?”

She opens her fucking email. He’s in love with her, and she’s opening her fucking email while telling him it’s not possible. “You win, I guess.”

“I win you?”

“I mean, I don’t like to consider myself something that can be won,” she says, and he rolls his eyes. His heart is beating so loud he thinks the neighbors can probably hear it. “But for lack of a better word… sure. You win me.”

He nods. There’s nothing more he can add to the conversation, not now. Not when he’s just ran face-first into a brick wall of I love you.  Fuck. Fuck. He’s totally in love with her. What the fuck is he supposed to do now?

last chapter masterlist next chapter

[maskedbutsilly]

I have an entire multiverse hell hound bs au going on and in one of the current timelines it’s with slime as president after murdering quackity blah blah blah BUT slime kied Wilbur aswell and one of my favorite parts ABOUTZ THE AU ITSELF ( even though nobody asked or more or less prolly wants to read or hear ) is that ghost(bur) and alexia ( <- ghost Quackity but nonbinary femme basically to set the difference between his alive self and dead self ) leave little bouquets of what their main biomes they reside of have for eachother. so for example because ghost can’t stay in the tundra for long and that’s what alexia is banished to they’ll leave coded bouquets, a bundle of lilac, lavender, periwinkle, daisy, and some allium wrapped in brown paper and tied with a white satin ribbon stained with blue dye ( as is the paper but in hand prints ) and place it right where his flower field biome meets the tundra, always attaching messy little " enjoy these my sweet blackberry!! remember to dress warm!! " type messages, only for alexia to leave small bouquets filled with winter berry branches, winter blueberry branches, pine branches and cool spruce sticks they found wrapped in a cleaned and dried arctic fox Hyde, tied with a burlap ribbon they cut into shape herself and sending a " I love the flowers, blueberry, please enjoy the berries I found!! tell the animals there hello for me!! " against that same tree. they having nothing but a platonic relationship but more close friendship since alexia lost most of her memory from the relation to her death, whereas that remembers everything. and ghost not having the heart to tell alexia that he remembers meanwhile alexia can’t bring herself to tell him she remembers less than she lets on, the few times they’ve met alexia melts in any warm temperatures, meanwhile ghost freezes after only a short time in the tundra. her ‘ living ‘ through some of the worst blizzards known to man meanwhile ghost deals with the burning of constant summer thunderstorms, always so close yet so far away. alexias icy hands melting against ghost and burning them, meanwhile ghosts warmth caused her to melt, essentially a candle and a flame in opposite temperatures. sighing. the blogs based off of them don’t do them justice… also im so sorry for writing so much…

this went from so cute to tragic at the end…. i love when people make universes so diverged from the canon itself, i love seeing it and i wish i was that creative ;—; anyway ghost and alexia trading bouquets is so damn adorable i had to draw them <3

ALSO ALSO i LOVE WHEN PPL SEND ME LITERAL PARAGRAPHS IN MY INBOX,,,,FLOOD IT I MEAN JT I WILL READ THEM ALLKKKLLL

THANK U FOR SHARING UR LOVELY AU !!!!!!

[strawberrytoki]

Wedding season

(Spencer Reid x reader)

Summary: You and Spencer get invited to a friend's wedding who happens to have a secret agenda: getting Spencer to confess his love for you.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Warnings: none!

Word count: 1,990

a/n: I love this song so much y'all, highly recommend listening while reading.

Perfectly assembled bouquets of carnations, baby's breath, and most notably, white tulips, elegantly wrapped with dainty threads of sage green ribbons adorned the carefully set tables, on which sat calligraphed name cards placed on lace table runners.

It went without saying that your friend Lily, the bride, gave the best wedding planner money could buy a run for their money. She was nothing short of a visionary, and the picturesque venue she orchestrated proved just that. It was nestled in the heart of a serene garden and every avid pinterest enthusiast mom within a 5 mile radius would drool at the sight.

The two of you always talked down on white-themed weddings because of how overdone they were, but as the years went by, you both started to incrementally understand the appeal, they were flexible, and easily customizable. She was able to add her own personal flair by adding in a little splash of sage green. That splash, excluding the ribbons, was your attire. All the bridesmaids were dressed in sage dresses, and the groomsmen with ties to match.

Everybody and their mother was rushing to get married, considering wedding season was about the wrap up. It made sense, the weather wasn't as hot and there was a wider variety of vendors to choose from, so you should be surprised Lily was able to pull this off with the traffic but she was a very plan-oriented person and she expected you to mirror that. Hence, you knew exactly what to expect out of this day, down to the seating chart. What you weren't expecting, though, was seeing Spencer Reid there. The two of you had been coworkers for a while now, and found yourselves becoming close friends over time. You enjoyed his company, and loved how the eccentric ramblings he'd go on seemed to have no end.

The gears in your head started turning, trying to find an explanation as to why he was here, you didn't mind of course, you just found it odd how you weren't aware he was coming, especially considering how the guest list was practically printed on the back of your eyelids. Spencer was also more your friend than he was Lily's, they were acquainted, but not to the extent where he would show up to her wedding unannounced. Besides, it wasn't something he would do anyway. The most logical explanation was that he was a last minute addition so he wasn't accounted for, it still didn't make sense considering Lily's nature, but that's what you decided to chalk it up to for the time being.

He was clad in a well-fitted suit and had his hair styled in groomed chocolate waves that complimented his features. You noticed that he didn't forgo his staple converse shoes and mismatched socks, which amplified his endearing, awkward appeal. You weren't blind, Spencer was undeniably charming, and there was just something about him in a suit that had you weak in the knees. You developed a small, benign crush on him over the period of time you'd known each other, but you didn't want to jeopardize the friendship the two of you had.

"Hey, Spence." You walked up to him from behind, nudging him on the shoulder. He swiftly turned around, greeting you with a wide smile, a smile you didn't see yourself getting tired of in the foreseeable future. "Y/N!" Spencer embraced you in a warm hug, you never got over how healing his hugs were. "You look beautiful, by the way." You smoothed out your dress and smiled at him, "Thanks Spence, you clean up well yourself." A downward smile took over his face, indicating that he appreciated the compliment. "Lily really knows what she's doing, this place looks like it was cut out of a Pierre-Auguste Renoir painting." Spencer mused.

"Uh huh" you slowly nodded, pretending you had the slightest clue what he was talking about. You appreciated the obscure references he always made, and found yourself learning a thing or two every time he opened his mouth. You also loved how he was never condescending whenever he shared what he knew with others.

The two of you started taking a stroll around the garden, watching the guests slowly pour in, and stare in awe at the venue. Although it wasn't your wedding, you felt a sense of warmth inside, knowing the blood, sweat, and tears your friend poured into making it all happen and witnessing her efforts finally come to fruition.

The ceremony was about to commence, and you took your place near Lily, and gazed at your friend, who made the most radiant bride. Tear-provoking vows along with promises of unconditional love and commitment were made. Despite the immersive exchange of love and feelings, your mind couldn't help but selfishly drift to your own. You caught yourself staring longingly at Spencer. You were always realistic when it came to your feelings and never allowed your mind to wander, but this wedding seemed to put things into perspective, and for a fleeting moment, you cut yourself some slack and allowed yourself the luxury. It felt like a juvenile playground crush and you liked the giddy, fuzzy feeling it gave you, so you let it diffuse.

Telling yourself you didn't want to confess your feelings for Spencer because your friendship was at stake seemed to be the pseudo-truth you liked to tell yourself to sleep better at night, but you had more self-awareness than that. Deep down, in a cold chamber was the unvarnished reality, uninviting and chill, that you resisted accepting. You were worried Spencer didn't feel the same way you did about him. The idea of laying out all your cards on the table and coming clean was horrifying, and getting rejected by someone you deeply cared for was sure to leave a gash you knew would never heal.

Ironically, the often anxiety-inducing uncertainty offered you a warm embrace you didn't want to leave. Every now and then, though, you had the slightest temptation to leave that embrace, and wondered what it would be like to take the chance. High risk, high reward right?

The crowd of guests started making their way to the reception venue to get seated, and you followed suit. While making your way to your table, you noticed Spencer sitting next right next to your seat, which, again, caused you to raise an eyebrow. If you remembered correctly, you were supposed to be seated next to Elle, who was all the way in the back.

Not thinking much of it, you decided to take your seat next to him anyway, and the two of you began chatting away. Shortly after, your conversation was cut short by the newlyweds' toast announcement, and Lily was going first.

"Ladies and gentlemen, friends and family, I'd like to thank all of you for celebrating this incredibly intimate, special day with Tony and I." She looked down at her now-husband with a vibrant glint of adoration in her eyes, and he looked up, mirroring the same glint.

"To all our loved ones who have made an, I'm sure, arduous commute to get here, I cannot put into words how grateful I am to you. I'd also like to express my love and appreciation to my ever so dependable A team, my lovely bridesmaids." Lily then shifted her eyes to your direction, and she didn't need to verbally announce her gratitude, as her glistening and smiling eyes did the work for her. Spencer looked at you and smiled as well.

"-so I can only pray that everyone here gets to experience the overwhelming love and devotion I'm feeling right now." She looked over at you again, this time with a mischievous grin on her face, and spared Spencer a glance as well. "-and in that spirit, I'd like to make a toast." She raised her glass, and continued. " Here's to hoping the celebration of our union can lead to the conception of new ones- maybe even between some of our own guests here tonight." She made sure to look directly at you and Spencer for what felt like an hour to really cement her message, and several of the guests turned their attention to the two of you. Spencer was no idiot, he probably caught on to what she was implying. He didn't seem as flustered as you were, though.

Subtle.

You felt like your skin was too hot to contain your insides, like there were a million fire ants crawling all over your body. To add fuel to fire, you also felt Spencer's gaze on you, you weren't directly looking at him, but through your peripheral view, you noticed that he looked worried, like you were going to detonate at any second.

Abruptly, you got off of your seat and sprinted without a destination. After any sense of motor control you had was yielded, your legs were in autopilot mode and you allowed them to take you anywhere that wasn't here. Lily was going to cut her announcement short and chase after you, realizing that maybe her method was too overstimulating for you. She then noticed Spencer scrambling off his seat to go after you, so she let the two of you be.

Your feet finally halted at the secluded but well-kept greenhouse overlooking the venue from faraway. You still felt like a fool but your skin did start cooling down a little bit after isolating yourself. You just needed to sort your thoughts out because they were going at about a thousand miles a minute. You realized you weren't going to be doing much of that though, since a part of the reason for this debacle followed you here, and was out of breath.

"Y/N." He choked out, in multiple syllables between pants of short breath.

You slowly brought yourself to face him, but still couldn't look him in the eye. "I don't know what that was that Lily just pulled but-"

"No, Y/N wait." Spencer cut you off, he then inched closer and tilted your chin to face him. "I'm sorry you were put on the spot like that- I wasn't aware that was how this was going to go down."

"This?" You questioned, and he looked hesitant to come clean. He then looked down in what resembled defeat. "Lily invited me here but didn't tell you, I guess she wanted this to be a surprise. The plan was for this to be...seamless, but I suppose we took a little detour?"

You still looked very confused, as the spiel he just went on didn't answer any of your questions.

"Y/N, I'm deeply and agonizingly in love with you, and I suppose Lily discerned that, and offered me an opportunity to tell you how I feel. Of course, I jumped at the chance without realizing that I wasn't aware of the mechanics or how we were going to go about it and for that I am so sorr-"

You were in immense shock, to the point where you almost felt like he was going to change his mind so in an attempt to preserve this moment, you quickly wrapped your hands around his neck and pressed a kiss to his lips. It took him a moment, but he gently held your waist and kissed you back with just as much fervor.

The two of you finally separated, each of you holding on to the other as if they were going to slip away.

"I'm in love with you too, Spencer." The adorable flustered flush that painted his face made this entire shitshow worth it. You figured you eventually had to make your way back to the reception, since you felt like you owed Lily an apology (and an expression of your gratitude). A part of you felt bad for fleeing the scene back at her toast, yet a part of you was grateful for her often blunt approach to things.

[peach--pixie]

Thank goodness it's finally getting chilly, you have so many more options for coording when it's not a million degrees outside 😂 I got SO many compliments in this coord, and had my first experience with a little kid coming up to me in public thinking I was a princess, so I think it's safe to say it's my new favorite!

JSK: Antoinette Bouquet Print Ribbon Gobelin JSK by BTSSB

Other: Offbrand

[chic-a-gigot]

Les Modes : revue mensuelle illustrée des arts décoratifs appliqués à la femme, no. 5, vol. 1, mai 1901, Paris. Robe de ville. Modèle Walles. Cliché Reutlinger. Bibliothèque nationale de France

II. — ROBE DE VILLE (Modèle Walles). — Robe Floréal en batiste blanche imprimée de gros pavots rouges sur fond jaune, incrustée de Valenciennes blanche et de cluny beurre. Ceinture en taffetas paille avec motifs pavots; empiècement au corsage de cluny beurre et petits rubans de velours noir. — Ombrelle assortie formant un bouquet de pavots.

II. — CITY DRESS (Wales model). — Floréal dress in white cambric printed with large red poppies on a yellow background, inlaid with white Valenciennes and butter cluny. Straw taffeta belt with poppy patterns; bodice yoke of butter cluny and small black velvet ribbons. — Matching umbrella forming a bouquet of poppies.

[strawberryteabunny]

Frederick’s 30 Days Day 2: What are your biggest dream dresses?

Bunny prints!! I love bunny prints and strawberry prints and ideally when the two coincide. So I’m currently trying to hunt down a lot of oldschool bunny and/or strawberry items such as Innocent World Frederick items and rabbit gobelin, AP’s Bunny-chan items and various brand oldschool strawberry prints, and Metamorphose’s Rabbitch-chang and plush bunny items. I’d also love to get VM’s Rococo Bouquet in a specific cut, but they rerelease it fairly often so I’m not worried about it. There’s a couple more rare oldschool pieces that I doubt I’ll ever find, unfortunately…

Honestly my wishlist is probably pretty similar to any other oldschool lolita, just heavier emphasis on rabbits.

Ribbon Berry Bunny was a dream print for a long time but I recently got the OP in yellow, and I’ve gotten a couple Bunny-Chan dresses, and almost completed my Strawberry Field Animals collection- I’d love to get my hands on the bloomers for this print! They’re pretty rare though :(

A dream print I got my hands on more recently is this cherry print- the apron version is an iconic old school street snap I’d love to recreate sometime (I have the JSK with this print, and I’d love to own the apron skirt some day!)

I’d love to collect some more gobelin and velveteen pieces as well but I don’t have a single specific piece. A ton of old rose/rococo/etc prints are on my wishlist!

(If anyone is looking to sell any of these or similar items please let me know! I’m also currently looking to sell a number of my sweet AP dresses if anyone is interested)

[phantmheart]

THE CLIFFS were Athena’s favourite place to be, other than at home with her family and with her plants. Up here, with the wind in her hair, the smell of the salty sea getting up her nose, and with the incredible view of the water stretching for miles, it was hard not to love it. She felt untethered to society here, free as the gulls that soared above her, but it made her aware that the was world incredibly large.

Athena traversed the path along the Cliffs, knowing she could do this with her eyes closed and not be feared of taking a misstep, and observed the scatterings of clover, yellow wild indigo, and other wild flowers. She loved the variety of flora up here and remembered it being the spot she would come to when she wanted to make little bouquets for Lillian.

She knew these cliffs like the back of her hand, so when she saw a large box beside a moss-covered boulder she froze. This was weird, even for someone like Athena. Especially when she saw the initials A.V.L. monogrammed on the lid.

The box was like a treasure chest, made of dark wood with scuffed gold hinges and trim along the edges, and standing on wide gold feet that were slightly wedged into the earth. Ivy had creeped around the box like a chain protecting its contents and almost covered the chunky padlock that hung on the front.

Athena recognised it immediately. It was the box she kept in the shadows of her wardrobe, a container for the memories of a period of time she longed to return to. She approached and kneeled down, reaching for the padlock. It took some effort to shimmy it from the latch, but when the lid was opened a wave of nostalgia and nausea came over Athena when she saw what was inside.

All of the letters she had received from David had been neatly stacked and wrapped in a royal blue ribbon. On the top letter she could see her name written in his immaculate hand and traced it with the tip of her finger, imagining him smiling as he drew the pen across the envelope. But he couldn’t have been the happy if he stopped writing with no warning. Nothing would ever convince Athena to open the letters and reread what was there. It was all too romantic, too pure, and felt too much like one big lie.

There were also half-ripped tickets from several cinema and theatre showings, pressed buttercups and daisies weaved into a flower crown, a small collection of white and pale pink shells, pebbles of various shapes, and stuffed right at the bottom were several photographs printed on quality glossy card. Each of them with dates on the back accompanied by doodles of hearts, all in Athena’s meticulous handwriting.

The first photograph was of Athena by herself, donning her most beautiful summer dress- white, knee length, with tiny cherry blossoms dashed across the skirt- with the glittering ocean in the background. A wide smile was spread across her face, her golden hair windswept, and in her hand was a single red rose. She felt sick to her stomach when she saw it, painfully reminded that this photo was taken on what she considered to be the happiest day of her life.

The second photograph was taken on the same day when a kind elderly lady offered to snap a picture of Athena and David together. His arm was around her shoulder, hers around his waist, both smiling softly as they stood against the backdrop of the beach. Staring at the photo, she could imagine the warmth of his touch and how safe, how joyous, she was in that moment.

She felt her hands and lip tremble, a lump rise in her throat, and tears beginning to blur her vision. Athena had never been happier than when she was with David, but he had broke the heart that she had kept protected for so long out of fear that something would go wrong. Of course it would go wrong. Athena should have expected it. She was weird, quiet, stubborn, sensitive, and talked to her plants like it was no big deal. Why, or how, could anybody really love her?

The tidal wave of emotion eventually began to calm and after a moment Athena stared, puzzled, at the box. Everything in it, except the letters, had been burned. She had put the items on a fire in the Landry home’s back garden and watched them turn to ashes. She was sure of this. So how could those items be in tact? How?

Well, if fire couldn’t destroy them, then they could could be locked away again, tossed into the ocean below, and find a new home in the dark depths of the water with nothing but seaweed and jagged rocks for company. She wanted to forget everything that had been crammed inside the box; she never wanted to return to that life. It was too painful and she was a completely different person- a fragment of what she was now.

Athena Landry was not allowed to be happy. She was not allowed love. She was destined to be alone, alone as this godforsaken box would be when it found itself lost to the ocean and lost to time.

But she never remembered throwing it over the cliff. She never remembered retreating home and locking herself in her room. But those dredges of faded memories sure as hell felt real. That was a feeling Athena never would forget, whether in reality or in dreams. It was a scar too big and too stark on her soul.

[gerbiloftriumph]

Lost and Found (ao3):

Grandpa’s story of the goblin caves started out familiarly enough, but as he spoke, the story started to twist and change. New friends, new conversations, and new ways to use old items transformed the tale, and the young king discovered new ways to be brave in the dark tunnels beneath Daventry.

(5/?)

~*~

It took a long time for the goblins to come back to his cell to let him out the next day. For a couple hours, Graham paced nervously, worrying that the contraband shovel or the sword-frying-pan in Amaya’s cell had been the last straw. Worrying that someone had found Whisper. Worrying that someone had noticed him wandering around and thought it wasn’t right for a captive crown to get free reign of a prison. Worrying that every choice he’d ever made had been a mistake. But goblins eventually came, and this time they shoved a mop in his face and pointed to a slimy section of muddy floor.

(“Wonderful. Mopping up goop was now added to my set of prison chores.” Grandpa said.

“I’m not sure what a ‘mop’ is, but you can probably find something else for it to do.”

“You might be right about that. Let’s see.”)

Whisper was waiting for him at the top of the spiral staircase. “Goooood morning, King Graham!” he said cheerfully. He also had a huge bouquet of roses, tied with an orange ribbon he must have torn from his cloak. “Is today the day we find the beautiful Amaya?”

“Whisper, it’s dangerous for you to be wandering around out here.”

“Eh,” Whisper flapped his hand. “They adore me, you know. It’ll be fine. Come on, let’s get that big bull!” He hurried to the beanstalk, now fully grown thanks to the Hobblepots’ remarkable plant fertilizer potion.

Acorn peered over the ledge. “Hey, string bean! Man, I missed you last night. I don’t like the quiet; it’s awful up here alone. Would you help me down?”

“But the beanstalk is grown. Can’t you climb down?”  

“Maybe unlike you I’ve read Jack and the Beanstalk. I know the giant falls off cos it breaks underneath him. I need someone to test it first. I ain’t doing it myself ‘til I know it’s safe.”

Graham scaled the beanstalk, little flowers crushing under his hands. They smelled like green and earth and life and made him think of the surface. He nearly slipped a few times, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as the time he’d climbed up to the clouds seeking one of Daventry’s missing treasures. At the top, Acorn sat trembling and holding onto a rock for dear life.

“King Graham! Buddy! I am so glad to see you!” Acorn let go of the rock and grabbed onto Graham, squeezing tight.

“Hey, it’s great to see you, Acorn. You okay? Ready to get out of here?”

“It will be an honor to have another adventure with you, Sire.”

Graham bit his lip, hiding a smile, and managed to nod at Acorn in a probably noble sort of way. “I concur,” he said, as seriously as he could, then the grin slipped free. It had been so long since they’d gone questing together.

Graham studied the narrow platform behind the knight. There was the duck, still glittering gold, and a bent wooden harp, also painted gold. And, delightfully, actual gold! A whole two coins, mixed with the giant’s treasures. Graham grabbed the coins, noting with vague relief they were both an older design with Edward printed on them, so he didn’t have to feel quite so guilty.

There was also a little box with a very flimsy looking padlock on it, and inside was: “Hey, my shovel! How did that get up here?”

“Turns out goblins can do this weird thing where they climb little narrow cracks,” Acorn said. “I watched them do it, they put their backs against the wall and crawl their way up. Really weird.”

And kind of familiar sounding…no. Graham shoved the thought away. Amaya had been right. Focus on the now, worry about the bigger stuff when there was time. “I guess they could have come up at any time to get their duck, but it wouldn’t have been story accurate without the beanstalk.” Stories, stories. It always came to stories, with the goblins. Hmm.

He bent to examine the padlock. Very cheap looking, the first one of its type he’d seen down here. “Locked shut. I bet it could be picked open, but too bad I don’t have a lock pick.” Although, those chopsticks the merchant was selling…it would put him one coin back from his black market goal, but. One step at a time.  

Acorn inched a little closer to the beanstalk, then flinched back. “Actually, Graham, I think I changed my mind. I think you should leave me here. For, like, ever. I think that’d be best. We can stay pen pals.”

“Huh? Oh, the heights thing.”

“Yes, the heights thing,” Acorn growled.

“What’s taking you two so long?” Whisper yelled from the ground level. “Whisper wants to find Amaya! Hurry up!”

“Whisper, shush! You’ll get the goblins’ attention!”

“Whisper is using his whisper voice!”

“Fine. Oh! Wait!” Graham swirled his cloak. “Here, get in my cloak!”

“Can’t we go on a date before you start propositioning me?”

“No, gross. We figured this out yesterday. Come here.” He popped Acorn into his pocket, and the knight immediately started yelling in surprised protest. “Seriously? It’s very roomy in there. You’re fine.” Acorn felt no heavier than Whisper had, which was confusing, but nice.

Graham also gathered up the harp. He twanged the strings. It was not in tune, but he coaxed a very pathetic sounding “Greensleeves” out of it nevertheless, just to see if he could. He thought he could try to tune it, but the gold paint had probably ruined it completely, and it was still missing a string. Still. If it wasn’t nailed down…you never knew when you’d need a harp. He slipped it into another pocket.

He contemplated the duck. The duck contemplated him. He reached out to touch its glossy feathers. It pecked his hand. “Ow! Fine, never mind, sorry,” he muttered, shaking his hand.

At the bottom, Whisper was impatiently tapping his toe. “Let Whisper into your pockets too, we must find Amaya before Whisper’s flowers wilt!”

But immediately, the cloak pockets started to strain with two knights. He could sense the weight of it. He could walk, and nothing looked different per say, but there was a pull on the threads and on his shoulders that he wasn’t used to, and he sensed that the new weight would wear him down even faster than the normal cave experience was doing. This suddenly didn’t seem like a long term solution.

“I think it tops out at two,” he said, spinning in a circle. The cloak still fluttered normally, visually speaking, but the tug was odd, and he teetered on his heels, staggering a step.

Which was actually a bit of a relief. He’d been nervous about accidentally getting the entire Daventry River sucked into the fabric or something, but two humans maximum was okay. Still weird. But better. He wondered if his mom knew what she’d made. He'd have to ask her when he wrote his weekly dozen-page-long letter (ostensibly to practice his calligraphy for Royal Guard Number One’s approval, but mostly because he just liked to tell his family everything).

“Tops out at two, or does Acorn take up all the space?” Whisper said. His voice was very muffled and quiet, like he was speaking through layers of fabric.

“Are you callin’ me fat, speedy? You get over here, I’mma slim you down with my hands, give me even more room!”

Graham’s cloak fluttered as the two knights somehow tackled each other through the pockets. “Hey! Hey, stop!” Graham yelped. “That tickles! Stop! Quiet down, you two. Stop bickering! Don’t tear it!”

The fighting stopped, but he could still just barely make out irritated grumbling. “This stitchwork’s pretty impressive,” Acorn said, trying to soothe the bull with a distraction.

“Whisper thinks it could be comfier.”

“Hey, I used fabric softener,” Graham said. “And you fell asleep in there yesterday.” 

~*~

“You’re lucky I’m old and stubborn. ‘Cause I’m gonna be gripping onto this life until you bring me some food. I ain’t dying on an empty stomach, King Boy.”

“I’m looking, I promise, Muriel.”

“Starving brings out the flavor in everything,” Chester added.

(Grandpa, you told me this part already. A couple nights ago.”

“I can skip it if you like.”)

The story proceeded as it had before, for a time. Graham worked to clear goblins from villager rooms. Slowly, he created distractions, or removed goblins entirely through force, with help from the villagers when possible. He rescued more coins, climbing a rickety chair to examine a trash heap, and finding another in a bucket near a pile of straw. He reluctantly exchanged one coin for the Merchant’s chopsticks, to fetch his shovel from the contraband box, and anything else he mistakenly lost in the nightly shakedowns, which still proceeded even if the goblins didn’t return to their posts once Graham or the villagers had scared their respective guards away.

“After Wente’s outburst, I think the goblins are afraid to guard this room,” Bramble said. “But at least those goblins won’t be keeping us up at night any more with their constant giggling.”

As the guards started to clear, he was able to let Whisper and Acorn out of his pockets during the day, which was a relief. The strain on his cloak had been making him nervous; he thought the pockets were beginning to tear with the weight of it all, and he didn’t have a way to repair it here. Carrying people long distances in it was likely out of the question, even knowing it topped out at two. Imagine if the pockets split and dumped out their occupants in front of a goblin horde.

Also, he wasn’t entirely sure how to get people into the pockets through prison bars, if it would even work that way. He thought he’d try it only as a last resort. Squeezing them, even in his cloak, to get them through those narrow cell bars sounded…unpleasant, somehow. If he accidentally hurt someone in the process, he’d never forgive himself. Surely there had to be another way…but trying to pick the prisoner padlocks with the chopsticks did absolutely nothing.

Whisper presented his bouquet of wilted roses to Amaya with glee. He slicked back his mane and posed dramatically. “What is a lovely lady like you, doing in a place like this?”

Amaya took the roses begrudgingly through the bars. “Funny, I was just about to ask you the same thing.”

“Ohh, but of course! I could escape on my own, you know, but now that you’re here I wouldn’t want to take that away from you.”

“What a gentleman, my hero,” Amaya said flatly.

“Ahh, yes, your hero. Yes, your hero is here! And what were your other two wishes?”

“That he’d be charming and handsome. I guess not all wishes come true. Also, you’ll notice I’m still in my cell, so as far as hero worship goes….”

“Right. Right.” He leaned back and said, in his loud whisper voice, “Graham? Fix this? Your pocket thingy?”

“I’m sorry, it’s too risky. I don’t have a way to get us out out, and I’m not sure about the cloak thing, either. If someone’s gone from a locked cell, the goblins’ll definitely notice. But. I’ll figure this out. I promise.”

“Figure it out faster.” Whisper glared.

“I’m trying!”

“Not trying hard enough!”

“I’m doing my best!”

“Make your best better!”

“I have my limits!”

“Boys, knock it off. You’re making my headache worse.”

~*~

The problem was the door. The individual cell doors holding each villager were problems, sure, but…. The big door, the door leading out into the goblins’ city, and Daventry beyond. That door. It needed at least two people pushing levers at the same time to loosen the latch, possibly more based on how much resistance it gave his and Whisper’s testing fingers. But, more importantly, it needed a key.

The lock on the door out was worse than the padlock that held his own cell door at night. Sturdier. And all the wishing in the world hadn’t loosened his own padlock. Nothing short of a miracle would budge this one.

A miracle, or a key.

“Where am I going to get a key?” Graham kicked a mushroom, which exploded around his metal-capped boot. It left a glowing trace behind him as he walked, his footsteps marked. He wandered down the spiral ramp as he gestured angrily. “I’m not. Simple as that. There’s nothing we can do.” He could possibly get people out of their cells with his pocket trick, maybe, assuming it didn’t hurt them to squeeze through bars in it, but they’d never get further than that even if it worked. Never get past that door, never actually manage to leave this goblin prison.

And getting caught with people in his pockets would just lead to Graham losing his cloak—and probably losing a lot more than that, too. He wasn’t likely to ever forget the tight ropes that had bound him on his way down here, and his prison break idea would lead to a lot worse for him if he didn’t have a step two. And he definitely did not have a step two. `

He wanted to scream.

He kicked another mushroom. The cap rolled off and bounced away into the shadows, like a deflated ball. It glowed weakly.

He slumped against the wall, glaring. He wouldn’t lose his temper, wouldn’t lose his composure, couldn’t. Couldn’t. Was a king. The king. Had to hold it together. Bramble would probably hear him from here if he snapped, and that would be the worst.

His head thumped back against the stones as he leaned back. Like if he could look through all this heavy stone to the Daventry sky it would be okay. His crown clanged dully, the spikes preventing him from looking up. Flustered, he grabbed the stupid thing off his head, out of his way, and he nearly threw it across the floor with impatience and frustration, but he caught a glimpse of himself in its reflection. He was grimy and sticky with cave dirt, but the crown remained glittery, even after this, gems winking in the dim light. He froze, staring at it. At himself. He’d been avoiding the little cracked mirror in his cell, hadn’t wanted to see himself, what this place was doing to him, but even in the crown he could see too much.

He sighed. “Long live the king,” he muttered, rubbing a thumb across it. Dirt smeared. “...who was kidnapped.” Gently, gently, he replaced the crown, the weight of it pressing his hair down.

He was exhausted, he was hurting, he was hungry. He was the king. He was supposed to have all the answers. Supposed to be able to take care of everyone. All his citizens. Himself.

It’s a puzzle, Graham, it’s always a puzzle. But this puzzle was missing pieces, and he knew it. Find a way out.

But how?

He realized his gaze had drifted to the mushroom he’d kicked, the little glow in the darkness. It cast strange shadows there, the glittery glow limning the rocks. Illuminating the space beyond.

Graham stiffened, crawled to the space. A loose rock. He jimmied it, rocked it gently, used the shovel to scrape a little dirt around it away, and felt it giving under his hands in a way the big escape door never did. He pushed it aside, and it scraped so loudly he felt sure every goblin in the entire underground was going to appear behind him, spears bristling. But he was alone. With his newfound dark tunnel.

His newfound very dark tunnel.

He stared at it, then: “Newton!” He scrambled up and ran for his cell, skidding across the damp floor and scooping up the little jar with the chirping salamander in it. “You’re a terrible book club partner,” he told the lizard sternly, then his face lit up with a grin. “But you’re about to make a really good lantern. Come on!”

He checked once more that the coast was clear, and then hurried back to his discovery. But then…then he paused, the big smile starting to fade. He held Newton out, the cool blue glow doing more than the mushroom ever could. Behind that loose rock was a deep crevice. Newton’s light only illuminated how deep it went. Graham had sort of assumed it would be shallow, a little divot in the wall hiding some prize. But this was bigger than he’d expected. Darker. A path, hardly more than a crack, really, that vanished into the gloom beyond the salamander’s glimmering light.

(“I’m not sure you should go down there,” Gwendolyn said.

“I wasn’t sure either, but if I stayed here, none of us would make it.”

“I guess that’s true.”

Grandpa and Gwendolyn watched the little mirror king. The light from the lantern shivered in the mirror king’s hands, gently shifting against his surroundings as he looked into the shadows, and the shadows watched back silently.)

“I wanted this,” Graham muttered. “I needed to find another road to explore. This is it. This is what I wanted.” But why did it have to feel so bleak? “I have to do this.”

And the king passed through the little crack in the wall, a salamander in his hands and his heart in his throat.

It wasn’t like the goblin prison was inviting. But this was instantly far worse, and Graham nearly spun around. The pressure of the rocks weighing him down never felt more obvious, the dead silence immediate and crushing. In the prison, it was never quiet. The soundscape was just different. You could always hear water dripping, or salamanders chirping, or goblins clattering around talking and laughing, or villagers speaking to each other in hushed, desperate voices.

But here, there was nothing but Graham’s hitched breathing and the sound his cloak made as it dragged across boulders. The wedge narrowed around his shoulders, pressing, and Graham struggled forward, free hand blindly scraping while he cradled Newton’s jar close with the other.

(“Grandpa? Maybe we should tell this part in the morning?”

“I’m afraid it wouldn’t get any lighter then, dearest.”)

Graham popped out of the crack with intense relief, glad the space didn’t remain so tight for very long, but the darkness around him here was somehow even worse for its unknown, unseen openness. He just had one little light, one little pool of cold blue, and though Newton was doing his best, the light barely penetrated the gloom. Maybe he wasn’t the best lantern on top of being not the best book club member.

“Hello?” Graham called, softly. Not sure he wanted a response, but he had to know if he was alone. The darkness seemed to breathe, but nothing replied.

He glanced over his shoulder—the crack hadn’t been that long. It had just felt worse when he was in it. But he could see the almost cheerful mushroom glow of the main prisons just a little way behind him. Easy. He could bear to go a little bit further, to see if there was something, anything, he could use. He had to try. He wouldn’t go far.

He stepped forward.

(“I don’t know about this,” Gwendolyn said, shrinking deeper into her blankets. Her hands were shaking, looking for something to grip onto. “Are you sure you want to go that way? It seems dark, and scary, and…and you don’t know what’s down there.”

“That may be so,” Grandpa said, and he reached out, gently taking Gwendolyn’s hand in his. “But in the end, everything will be okay.”

“But how can you know that? How can you just know everything will be okay?” Grandpa realized she wasn’t just talking about the caves, not now. The whole world was in that question, every shadow, every cry in the night.

“I don’t. None of us do. But I trusted that once I knew what I was up against, I could handle it. Are you ready to continue? I’m afraid it’s going to get a bit scarier before it gets better, so I’ll let you decide.”

She frowned at the mirror, at the little mirror king blindly feeling his way along the wall, glancing back periodically. “I should try to be brave like you. We have to keep going.”

“And so we shall.”)

Graham’s mouth was dry. He tried humming quietly to himself, tried to make the sucking darkness less awful, but it didn’t help. He inched forward, squinting, but nothing revealed itself beyond his tiny light. His hand pressed hard against the wall.

His next step was in empty air, and he fell.

[joshy-tomato]

Knew I was sending my ideas into the void of a kindred spirit.

Furina is slowly returning to the stage, mostly helping troupes that are down a person and try to hold back their enthusiasm when meeting with the Ex-Archon.

One play goes spectacularly, a musical where Furina was not the lead, but a very important secondary character involved in a few songs.

She tries to play down her embarrassment while hearing the crowd's applause before retiring to a dressing room.

Among the gifts left for her, Furina notices three distinct flower bundles.

The first is from the Traveler and Paimon, a bouquet of Marcolletes that they probably picked themselves.

The second is three lone flowers tied in a ribbon, three Romaritime flowers from the House of the Hearth trio.

The last bunch of flowers that stand out are a full bouquet of Rainbow Roses. Their sender is obvious, with the "A" printed in fine cursive.

I love this so much, Furina slowly retaining her confidence and doing what she loves and getting applause and gifts from people that care about her.

I imagine this happening in the period of time she is still wary of why Arlecchino wants to get closer to her so bad, but being the first time the happiness of seeing the gift overcomes the confusion. Like, she is happy with the gifts from the traveler and the siblings, dont get her wrong, but seeing Arle's gift made her feel warm inside and smile like a dork. She's is probably thinking on inviting Arlecchino to a tea party as thanks, no politics involved this time.

[lunarhobbits]

using the tiermakers made by @americangirlstar and coming up with some interesting metrics for how the girls' collections are distributed. Samantha has the biggest one, despite currently being cubed (T_T), with Molly as a close second, partially due to all the reprints and re-releases she's had. Poor Claudie has the smallest collection by far.

even MORE info/observations under the cut:

i accidentally put caroline's cow under outfits instead of accessories, o o p s

Rebecca's last category is supposed to say "Somehow both clothes and furniture/accessories" - Rebecca's Costume Chest and Rebecca's School Play Set were both available at one point or another with the furniture/accessories as separate components and at a different point bundled together like in the pictures, and her Seashore Set always came with the chair.

NOT adjusted for reprints, re-releases, revamps that change the accessories (i.e. Addy's Kite-Flying Outfit/Flower-Picking Outfit aka Dress and Bouquet/Blue Dress, which are all the same dress but with different accessories) or adjustments under the same name (i.e. the four variations of Molly's dog Bennett)

best friends and their collections are grouped with the main historicals

some of these were kind of hard to determine what was "furniture" vs "accessories", so my general rule of thumb was:

Dolls: if what you purchased would include the doll itself, as well as mini dolls

Outfits: clothes for the doll - had to be composed of at least either a full body outfit OR shirt/pants - shoes/socks/hats/ribbons/etc that came with them are included

Accessories: shoes/socks/hats/ribbons/etc that needed to be purchased SEPARATELY from the doll or an outfit (i.e. Samantha's Elegant Hat and Muff was sold separately from her Plaid Cape and Gaiters despite always being pictured together) OR small handheld items, such as dolls for the dolls and other toys OR pets, as they're clearly meant to compliment the collection.

Furniture: obviously things like tables and chairs, but also big items like trunks or playsets, and small items, like table settings. basically if it could qualify as a household furnishing, it would go here.

Girls + Misc: Clothes or other accessories, life-sized edition.

Books + Misc: books, puzzles, games, you name it, as long as it's printed and for humans to use

??????: stuff that didn't fit anywhere OR i couldn't tell what it was

I couldn't decide where some items belonged - the horses are big and expensive enough that they should qualify as furniture, but theyre yknow. animals. which were all going in accessories otherwise, since they're clearly part of a collection complementing the doll and not just a standalone item.

The funniest case of this is probably Felicty's sister Polly, who could reasonably be categorized as either of those (comes with cradle, which is household furnishings; is clearly meant to compliment Felicity's collection, like the pets) OR a doll (cause she. is one.)

[moreloke]

csm x skinner, flower shop au, accidental time loop??

you can find other fics under #csm x skinner

Walter is not a big fan of flora. He's also not a big fan of places that smell like grass.

He's awkward and out of place amongst the delicate plants in the apron and work gloves. He's too old to be a flower boy. He's helping a family friend.

...He's very much applied when hauling pots and vases around and counting the cash meticulously.

🛸🌷🛸🌷🛸🌷🛸🌷🛸🌷🛸🌷🛸🌷🛸🌷🛸🌷🛸

Walter looks up - a man steps in, water dripping from his coat, muddy shoe prints everywhere, and puts a cigarette in his mouth. He's just cleaned up after the last customer, the weather was dreadful alright, a bit too wet, but then his shop is not a bus stop.

"No." The man freezes comically, a lighter half way to his face, brows going up.

"No?" He repeats, unused to being denied.

Walter silently points at the no-smoking sign. (He dug it out of a stationery box in the back for no particular reason. He's glad he did.)

"This is a flower shop." Walter points out helpfully at the prolonged silence.

"So it is."

"People buy flowers here."

The man ponders this, as if unfamiliar with the concept. The man is someone Walter could have seen in the endless halls of Hoover building. He hopes not.

"So. Sell me flowers then."

🛸🌷🛸🌷🛸🌷🛸🌷🛸🌷🛸🌷🛸🌷🛸🌷🛸🌷🛸

Man in a suit comes in with a frown and a lit cigarette in his mouth. The man puts it out at his stern look.

"Something simple. For a funeral."

Walter got no idea what's appropriate for a funeral.

"Lilies ok?"

The man nods.

He doesn't ask about colours or arrangement, sensing it's not that type of customer, and ties a simple black ribbon carefully around the bouquet.

"These are not US dollars." Some foreign currency, german maybe?

"You could still take them." The suit man's voice is gruff, from years of lung damage, surely. He frowns at his own hand, then at him and Walter guesses he's not used to being refused. Well, tough luck.

"I couldn't." He says it firmly enough and stands straighter, so they're the same height.

At that the other changes his stance lightly, less of a stand off, more of a size up.

"I'll write a cheque."

Walter shrugs and accepts the paper. He studies it attentively, then, finding no apparent fault, slips it into the drawer.

"Your flowers."

The man grabs them carelessly, too carelessly, but that's not Walters problem anymore.

"Sorry." At the raised eyebrows he adds "for the occasion." He doesn't know why he said that.

The suit throws him a look and leaves without another word.

Walter sighs and turns back to work. He hopes the cheque isn't a fraud.

🛸🌷🛸🌷🛸🌷🛸🌷🛸🌷🛸🌷🛸🌷🛸🌷🛸🌷🛸

"Something for a hospital."

There's nothing well wishing about the man, harsh frown, deep lines, insincire eyes. But then it's not Walter's place to comment on that.

He plucks carnations out of their vases, some fern and lemon leaf, and rolls them into a simple paper bag. They wouldn't smell too strongly and would last arguably well on a bedside table. He doesn't explain any of it, presuming that the other wouldn't care.

This time it's proper american cash but he still makes a point of examining the hundred dollar bill.

"It's genuine, I assure you." He insists, as if offended at the forgery insinuation.

"Hmph," agrees Walter and hurries to count the change.

🛸🌷🛸🌷🛸🌷🛸🌷🛸🌷🛸🌷🛸🌷🛸🌷🛸🌷🛸

A man in a suit rushes in and demands two dozen roses.

"We're closed."

The man winces, yet comes closer to the counter. There's a cigarette in his hand, unlit.

"You're still here, aren't you?" Walter is busy trying to discern the note of threat in his tone when the vague smell of Morley breaks though the grassy wet fragrance of the shop.

His supervisor's office reeked of smoke that day.

"You're doing good work in the field, Agent Skinner. We would hate for your career to... stall due to unsubstantiated claims and lack of concrete evidence."

It was back there. Whatever horror he supposedly never saw. It was still back there.

"Yes, sir. Of course, sir, I understand."

Someone else got the promotion. The thing, whatever it was, still roamed at large. Unchecked. Free. Hungry.

The cigarette man is looking at him expectedly.

"So? My roses."

Well, fuck it.

"Sorry." He breathes out unapologetically and looks straight into the murky blue eyes. "But we're closed for the day."

The man sizes him up. Huffs in an obvious displeasure. Stares at the "no smoking" plaque and lights his damn cig on the way out.

What an asshole.

[gyusimp]

°•Birthday Headcanons (Modern Au)•°

🎂 Ok, today is my birthday! So, i write this for myself lmao. I leave some BD headcanons so read it when it's your BD too why not? 🎂 Warnings: Some small smut.

Gyutaro would never forget a date as important as this one. He has insomnia so he wrote a very cute and very long text message for you in the middle of the night and hit send when literally your birthday started.

You were asleep but when you woke up, his message was the first one you read and that you replied to.

Gyutaro isn't very good at expressing his feelings with words, but it's less difficult for him if he writes it down so when you read his message some tears fell down your face.

He was very cute but he hated to admit it. Today was your birthday but that didn't mean it was a vacation day.

Unfortunately you had to go to work so you got ready and left.

But Gyutaro had thought of everything. The receptionist called you saying that something had arrived for you. You came out and saw a huge arrangement of your favorite flowers tied with ribbons.

At the bottom was a small card, the phrase "Happy Birthday" was printed in a fancy way. You opened the little card and recognized the not-so-pretty handwriting of the written note.

"I wanted to make you smile while you were locked up there. I adore u, u know that right?" -Gyutaro

You almost cried again, this man was the most detailed in the world. And he was your man!!

Later, he called you to tell you that he would pick you up from work today because he had something very special for you.

You looked at the clock excited and anxious wishing that your work schedule would end now. When it was time for you to leave, you ran towards the entrance and there was Gyutaro, waiting for you on his motorcycle.

You were dressed so pretty so he also decided to get ready for this special occasion. Today was one of those few days where he allowed Ume to help him with his outfit.

He drove through the streets a little carefully this time because you were with him. It wasn't long before you two arrived at a mall. You thought that Gyutaro would take you shopping or something, but then he took you by the hand and you crossed the street until you were at the door of a very nice and even elegant restaurant.

You two entered the place, you were so concentrated looking everywhere, admiring the details that you only started to walk when you felt that Gyutaro took your hand to walk together.

The two of you walked through the entire restaurant until you reached a more private part.

"This is your table, Mr. Shabana." The waiter said to him

A pretty bouquet of flowers was on the table. You two sat down and the date began. You were very grateful to Gyutaro, everything he had done today was so romantic.

The date at the restaurant had been perfect so now it was time for you two to go home.

He said that the most important part of your birthday was still missing so you two got back on his bike and headed to the Shabana's apartment.

Of course Ume wasn't there, she was at a casually convenient sleepover so the place was just yours and Gyutaro's.

He held you bridal style and asked you to close your eyes until he allowed you to open them and you obeyed. Gyutaro opened the door with one hand and then closed it after standing you on the floor.

He told you that you could open your eyes and this was the best surprise of the day. You were in Gyutaro's room but it didn't look like it, his room was immaculate and he took the time to fix every detail inside, even Ume helped him pluck all those rose petals that were scattered on the floor and sheets. (Of course he invented another use of the real one).

You knew what this meant so you turned around and looked at Gyutaro with a seductive look while you let your hair down and wrapped both arms around his neck to kiss him on the lips.

Gyutaro took you by the waist and walked until he made you lie down on the mattress, falling softly between the pink petals and straddling you. He passionately kissed and licked your neck, leaving some marks that would take a while to disappear completely. Your cherry lips parted to make those little noises that he likes so much, driving him crazy.

Gyutaro couldn't resist anymore so he began to strip off your clothes and his at the same time until you were only in your underwear underneath him. Gyutaro's skillful hands ran all over your body, touching every nook that only he knew about.

He kissed all over your belly until his lips reached the lace of your panties, he spread your legs and positioned himself between you, brushing your core with his nose as he kissed your thighs.

Gyutaro looked at you defiantly "Happy birthday, sweetheart" he said and after that he pushed your panties aside and buried his face between your legs.

He didn't give a shit if you had to go to job tomorrow or if someone saw the marks he left on your skin, you are his and you are the love of his life so today you deserved to be fucked properly.

Today's the bithday of one of my kittens too lol 🤭