#claudia bellowes

[expectiations]

how it started // how it's going

[pucksandpower]

In Another Life

Charles Leclerc x Reader

Summary: in which two soulmates are destined to always find each other only to be torn apart lifetime after lifetime after lifetime … until finally, they’re not (aka the reincarnation AU)

Rome, 79 AD

The bustling streets of Rome pulse with life as you make your way through the crowded forum. The scent of fresh bread and roasted meat wafts through the air, mingling with the chatter of merchants and citizens going about their daily business. You adjust your stola, the flowing garment feeling unusually constricting today as you hurry towards the Temple of Venus.

“Watch where you’re going!” A gruff voice shouts as you accidentally bump into a burly man carrying an amphora.

“My apologies,” you mutter, quickening your pace. Your heart races, not from the near-collision, but from anticipation. You’re running late for your clandestine meeting with Charles, the young patrician who has captured your heart.

As you approach the temple, you spot him pacing nervously at the base of the steps. His toga gleams white in the afternoon sun and his usually perfectly coiffed hair is slightly disheveled, as if he’s been running his hands through it anxiously.

“There you are!” Charles exclaims as you draw near. His face breaks into a relieved smile, and he reaches for your hands. “I was beginning to worry you wouldn’t come.”

You can’t help but return his smile, your earlier stress melting away. “As if I could stay away,” you tease, giving his hands a gentle squeeze. “Though I must say, your choice of meeting place is rather bold. The Temple of Venus? Are you trying to tell me something?”

He laughs, a warm, rich sound that never fails to make your heart skip a beat. “Perhaps I’m simply hoping the goddess will smile upon us,” he replies, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “After all, we could use all the divine favor we can get.”

Your smile falters slightly at his words, reality creeping back in. “Have you spoken with your father?” You ask, unable to keep the worry from your voice.

Charles’ expression grows serious. “I have,” he says, leading you to a secluded corner of the temple grounds. “He’s ... not pleased, to say the least. He still insists on the marriage to Claudia.”

You feel a pang in your chest at the mention of Charles’ intended bride. “And what did you tell him?”

“The truth,” Charles replies firmly. “That my heart belongs to you and I won’t marry another.”

Your breath catches in your throat. “Charles,” you whisper, “you know the consequences-”

He cuts you off, cupping your face in his hands. “I don’t care about the consequences. I love you, Y/N. I won’t let my father’s ambitions or society’s expectations keep us apart.”

You lean into his touch, torn between elation and fear. “But your family, your position ... you’d lose everything.”

“Not everything,” Charles insists. “I’d have you. That’s all that matters.”

You’re about to respond when a commotion near the temple entrance catches your attention. Your blood runs cold as you spot Charles’ father, Senator Leclerc, striding towards you, flanked by several burly slaves.

“Charles!” The senator bellows, his face contorted with rage. “Step away from that girl at once!”

Charles instinctively moves to shield you. “Father, please,” he begins, but the senator cuts him off.

“Silence! You shame our family with this ... this dalliance. I won’t stand for it any longer.”

You feel Charles tense beside you. “It’s not a dalliance, Father. I love her.”

The senator’s face grows even redder. “Love? You know nothing of love, boy. You have a duty to your family, to Rome. I won’t let you throw it all away for some common girl.”

“She’s not common,” Charles argues, his voice rising. “She’s extraordinary, and I won’t let you or anyone speak ill of her.”

The tension in the air is palpable as father and son face off. You want to intervene, to de-escalate the situation, but you’re frozen in place, your heart pounding.

Suddenly, one of the senator’s slaves moves forward, reaching for Charles. Without thinking, you step between them. “Don’t touch him!” You cry out.

Everything happens in a blur. The slave’s hand connects with your shoulder, shoving you back. You stumble, your foot catching on the hem of your stola. Time seems to slow as you feel yourself falling, tumbling down the temple steps.

“Y/N!” Charles’ anguished cry is the last thing you hear before pain explodes through your body and the world goes dark.

You drift in and out of consciousness, aware of frantic voices and the sensation of being carried. Charles’ face swims into view, streaked with tears.

“Stay with me, love,” he pleads, his voice cracking. “Please, don’t leave me.”

You try to speak, to reassure him, but no words come. The pain is fading now, replaced by a strange numbness. You manage to lift a hand to Charles’ cheek, wanting to wipe away his tears.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, your voice barely audible. “I love you, Charles. In this life and the next.”

As darkness closes in, your last thought is a desperate hope that someday, somehow, you’ll find each other again.

Genoa, 1348

The acrid smell of smoke and death hangs heavy in the air as Charles makes his way through the narrow, winding streets. His eyes water, both from the stench and the unshed tears he’s been holding back for days. The plague has ravaged the city, leaving behind a trail of devastation and despair.

Charles pulls his cloth mask tighter over his nose and mouth, though he knows it’s likely futile. He’s a physician, one of the few brave — or foolish — enough to still tend to the sick. But today, he’s not seeking out patients. He’s searching for you.

“Y/N!” He calls out, his voice muffled by the mask. “Y/N, where are you?”

A nearby door creaks open, and a haggard face peers out. “Keep your voice down, fool,” the old woman hisses. “You’ll bring the afflicted running.”

Charles ignores her, pressing on. His heart races with each step, fear and hope warring within him. He hasn’t seen you in days, not since you left to care for your ailing aunt. The memory of your parting plays in his mind, as vivid as if it were happening now.

“I have to go,” you had said, your eyes filled with determination and fear. “She has no one else.”

He had tried to dissuade you. “It’s too dangerous. The plague-”

“I know the risks,” you’d cut him off. “But I can’t abandon her. You’d do the same if it were your family.”

He couldn’t argue with that. It was one of the things he loved most about you — your unwavering compassion, even in the face of danger.

“Promise me you’ll be careful,” he’d pleaded, pulling you close. “Promise me you’ll come back to me.”

You’d kissed him then, soft and sweet. “I promise. Nothing could keep me from you, my love. Not even death itself.”

Now, as he rounds another corner, Charles clings to that promise like a lifeline. “Y/N!” He calls again, desperation creeping into his voice.

Suddenly, he spots a familiar figure stumbling down the street. His heart leaps. “Y/N!”

You turn at the sound of his voice, and Charles feels his world tilt on its axis. Your face is pale, your eyes glassy with fever. As he watches in horror, you collapse to the ground.

“No, no, no,” Charles mutters, rushing to your side. He gathers you in his arms, his physician’s training warring with his lover’s panic. “Y/N, can you hear me? Open your eyes, love.”

Your eyelids flutter, and you manage a weak smile. “Charles,” you whisper. “You found me.”

“Of course I found you,” he says, trying to keep his voice steady. “I’ll always find you. Now, let’s get you home and take care of you.”

You shake your head slightly. “No, it’s too late. The plague-”

“Don’t say that,” Charles interrupts fiercely. “It’s not too late. I’m a physician, remember? I’ll cure you. I have to.”

Despite your condition, you manage a soft laugh. “My stubborn love. Always fighting the impossible.”

Charles lifts you gently, cradling you against his chest. “Nothing’s impossible when it comes to you,” he insists, starting the journey back to his home. “We’ve overcome so much already. Remember when we first met? You were convinced a lowly apprentice physician could never court a merchant’s daughter.”

You smile at the memory. “And you were determined to prove me wrong.”

“Which I did,” Charles says, a hint of his old cockiness creeping into his voice. “Rather spectacularly, if I recall correctly.”

“Mmm, yes,” you murmur. “That night under the stars, when you recited all those ridiculous poems ...”

Charles chuckles. “They weren’t ridiculous. They were romantic.”

“They were terrible,” you counter weakly. “But your heart was in the right place.”

As they near Charles’ home, your breathing becomes more labored. Fear claws at Charles’ chest, but he forces it down. “Stay with me, love,” he pleads. “We’re almost there.”

Once inside, Charles lays you gently on the bed. He works tirelessly, applying every treatment and remedy he knows. Hours blur together as he fights against the inevitable, refusing to give up hope.

But as night falls, he can no longer deny the truth. The plague is winning and he’s powerless to stop it.

“Charles,” you whisper, your voice barely audible. “It’s time to let go.”

He shakes his head vehemently, tears streaming down his face. “No, I can’t. I won’t lose you again.”

Your brow furrows in confusion. “Again?”

Charles pauses, unsure where that thought came from. “I ... I don’t know. It just feels like I’ve lost you before, somehow.”

You manage a small smile. “Perhaps in another life,” you muse. “But in this one, we found each other. We loved. That’s what matters.”

“It’s not enough,” Charles insists, his voice breaking. “We were supposed to have more time. We were going to get married, have children, grow old together.”

“We’ll have that chance,” you say with surprising conviction. “If not in this life, then in the next. Our souls are bound, Charles. I feel it. This isn’t the end for us.”

Charles wants to believe you, but the grief is overwhelming. “How can you be so sure?”

“Because I know our love,” you reply, reaching up to touch his face. “It’s stronger than death, stronger than time itself. We’ll find each other again, my love. I promise.”

As your hand falls away, your eyes close for the last time. Charles pulls you close, his body wracked with sobs. “I’ll find you,” he vows through his tears. “In this life or the next, I’ll always find you.”

Days pass in a haze of grief and determination. Charles throws himself into treating the sick with renewed vigor, heedless of the risk to himself. And when the telltale symptoms begin to appear — the fever, the chills, the aching limbs — he faces them without fear.

As he lies in his sickbed, Charles’ thoughts are only of you. “I’m coming, my love,” he whispers to the empty room. “Wait for me.”

His last conscious thought is a fervent hope that somehow, somewhere, you’ll be reunited once more.

Paris, 1789

The streets of Paris echo with the sound of angry voices and marching feet as Charles makes his way through the city’s winding alleys. His heart races, not from the exertion of his hurried pace, but from the fear of what’s to come. The revolution has begun in earnest, and his world is crumbling around him.

“Charles!” Your voice cuts through the chaos, and he turns to see you running towards him, your skirts hiked up to allow for faster movement. “Thank God I found you. We have to go, now!”

He grabs your hand, pulling you into a shadowy doorway. “Y/N, what are you doing here? It’s not safe!”

You cup his face in your hands, your eyes blazing with determination. “I couldn’t leave without you. The mob is heading for your family’s estate. We need to get you out of the city.”

Charles feels a rush of love for you, even as fear grips his heart. You, a baker’s daughter, risking everything to save him. “And what of you? Your family?”

“They’re safe,” you assure him. “Papa closed the bakery and they’ve gone to stay with relatives in the countryside. But you ... Charles, they’ll kill you if they find you.”

He knows you’re right. His family name, once a source of pride, is now a death sentence. “Where can we go?” He asks, his mind racing.

“I have a plan,” you say, tugging him back into the street. “There’s a farmer who owes my father a favor. He’s agreed to hide us until we can secure passage to England.”

As you hurry through the streets, the sounds of the mob grow louder. Charles can’t help but look back, his heart heavy with the knowledge of what he’s leaving behind.

“Charles, focus,” you urge, squeezing his hand. “We’re almost there.”

Suddenly, a group of revolutionaries rounds the corner ahead of you. Their eyes lock onto Charles, recognition dawning on their faces.

“Aristocrat!” One of them shouts, pointing an accusing finger. “Seize him!”

“Run!” Charles yells, pulling you in the opposite direction. You flee hand-in-hand, weaving through the narrow streets as shouts and footsteps echo behind you.

“This way,” you pant, yanking him down an alley. “I know a shortcut.”

You lead him through a maze of backstreets, the angry voices growing fainter. Just as Charles begins to hope you’ve lost them, you emerge onto a main road … and straight into the path of another group of revolutionaries.

“Halt!” A burly man with a tricolor sash shouts, leveling a musket at Charles.

Charles pushes you behind him, shielding you with his body. “Please,” he says, raising his hands. “We mean no harm. We’re just trying to leave the city.”

The man’s eyes narrow. “You’re Leclerc’s boy, aren’t you? The one who’s been helping nobles escape?”

Charles feels you stiffen behind him. He’d kept his activities secret, even from you, to keep you safe. But now ...

“Yes,” he admits, straightening his spine. “I’ve been helping innocent people escape persecution. If that’s a crime, then I’m guilty.”

The man’s face twists with rage. “Traitor to the revolution!” He spits. “You’ll pay for your crimes against the people!”

As the man raises his musket, time seems to slow. Charles is acutely aware of your rapid breathing behind him, of the sweat beading on his brow, of the hammering of his heart.

“No!” You cry out, trying to push past Charles. “Please, he’s a good man! He’s helped people, saved lives!”

“Y/N, don’t,” Charles pleads, holding you back. He turns to face you, drinking in the sight of your face, committing every detail to memory. “I love you,” he says softly. “In this life and the next.”

The words trigger a flash of memory — or is it déjà vu? Charles has a sudden feeling that he’s said those words before, in another time, another place.

The moment is shattered by the deafening crack of the musket firing. Charles feels a searing pain in his chest, and then he’s falling, the world tilting sideways.

“Charles!” You anguished scream seems to come from far away. He feels your arms around him, cradling his head in your lap. “No, no, no. Stay with me, my love. Please!”

Charles tries to speak, but only a wet cough comes out. He can taste blood in his mouth. The pain is fading now, replaced by a spreading numbness.

“I’m sorry,” he manages to whisper. “I’m so sorry, Y/N.”

Tears stream down your face as you bend over him. “Don’t apologize. You have nothing to be sorry for. You’re a hero, Charles. My hero.”

He wants to tell you how much he loves you, how meeting you was the best thing that ever happened to him. But the darkness is closing in, and he can feel himself slipping away.

As his eyes flutter closed, Charles has a strange sensation of déjà vu. He sees flashes of other lives — ancient Rome, plague-ridden Genoa — where he loved you and lost you. Or did you lose him?

With his last breath, Charles makes a silent vow. Somehow, someway, he’ll find you again. In the next life, you’ll get it right. You have to.

The world fades to black, but Charles isn’t afraid. He knows this isn’t the end. It’s just another beginning.

You hold Charles’ lifeless body, your sobs echoing in the suddenly quiet street. The revolutionaries stand awkwardly, some looking ashamed, others defiant.

“What have you done?” You cry out, your voice raw with grief and anger. “He was a good man! He helped people!”

The man with the musket shifts uncomfortably. “He was an aristocrat,” he mutters, but there’s less conviction in his voice now.

You look up at him, your eyes blazing through your tears. “He was a human being,” you say fiercely. “And you murdered him.”

As the reality of what they’ve done sinks in, the crowd begins to disperse. You’re left alone with Charles, cradling his body in the middle of the street.

“I’ll find you,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “In the next life, my love. I promise we’ll be together again.”

As night falls over Paris, you sit vigil over Charles’ body, your heart broken but your spirit undefeated. Somewhere deep inside, you know this isn’t the end of your story. It’s just another chapter in a love that spans lifetimes.

London, 1942

The steady tick of the clock on the mantle seems to echo through the small London flat as you pace anxiously, your eyes darting to the window every few seconds. The air raid sirens have been silent for days, but the tension in the city remains palpable. It’s been weeks since you’ve heard from Charles, and the knot of worry in your stomach grows tighter with each passing day.

A sharp knock at the door makes you jump. Your heart races as you rush to answer it, hope and fear warring within you. But instead of Charles’ warm smile, you’re met with the solemn face of his fellow RAF pilot, James.

“James,” you breathe, your voice barely above a whisper. “What is it? What’s happened?”

James removes his cap, twisting it in his hands. “May I come in? I’m afraid I have some news about Charles.”

The world seems to tilt on its axis as you step back, allowing James to enter. You lead him to the small sitting room, your movements mechanical, as if you’re watching yourself from a distance.

“Please,” you say, gesturing to a chair. “Sit down and tell me everything.”

James perches on the edge of the armchair, his discomfort palpable. “There’s no easy way to say this. Charles’ plane was shot down over the Channel three days ago. We ... we haven’t found any survivors.”

The words hit you like a physical blow, driving the air from your lungs. “No,” you whisper, shaking your head. “No, that can’t be right. Charles is too good a pilot. He promised he’d come back to me.”

James leans forward, his eyes filled with sympathy. “I’m so sorry, Y/N. Charles was one of the best pilots I’ve ever known, but the Jerries caught us by surprise. There was nothing he could do.”

You sink onto the sofa, your legs suddenly unable to support you. “Tell me what happened,” you demand, your voice stronger than you feel. “I need to know everything.”

James nods, taking a deep breath. “We were on a routine patrol over the Channel. Everything seemed quiet, and then suddenly the sky was full of Messerschmitts. They came out of nowhere, diving out of the sun.”

He pauses, running a hand through his hair. “Charles ... he was incredible. He managed to take down two of them before they could even react. But there were just too many of them.”

You close your eyes, picturing Charles in the cockpit of his Spitfire, his face set with determination as he faced impossible odds. It’s an image that both comforts and devastates you.

“I saw his plane take a hit,” James continues, his voice rough with emotion. “He was trying to draw their fire away from the rest of us. The last thing I heard over the radio was him saying, ‘Tell Y/N I love her. In this life and the next.’”

A sob escapes you at those words, so achingly familiar. “He’s said that before,” you murmur, more to yourself than to James.

“I’m sorry?” James asks, leaning closer.

You shake your head, unsure how to explain the strange sense of déjà vu. “It’s nothing. Please, go on.”

James nods, though he looks at you curiously. “His plane went down fast after that. We searched for hours, but with the weather and the waves ...” He trails off, leaving the grim implication hanging in the air.

“So there’s still a chance?” You ask, clinging to a shred of hope. “If you didn’t find ... if there’s no body, he could still be out there, right?”

The pity in James’ eyes is almost unbearable. “Y/N, I know it’s hard to accept, but the chances of survival in those conditions ... it would take a miracle.”

You stand abruptly, pacing the small room. “Then I’ll believe in miracles,” you declare fiercely. “Charles is strong, and he’s a survivor. He wouldn’t leave me, not like this.”

James rises, reaching out to place a comforting hand on your shoulder. “I understand. Charles spoke of you often, you know. He loved you more than anything in this world.”

“Loves,” you correct him sharply. “He loves me. Present tense.”

James nods, not arguing. “Of course. I’m sorry, I should go. Is there anything you need? Anyone I can call for you?”

You shake your head, suddenly desperate to be alone. “No, thank you. I just ... I need some time.”

As you show James out, he pauses at the door. “Charles was more than just my commanding officer. He was my friend. If you need anything, anything at all, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

You manage a weak smile. “Thank you, James. That means a lot.”

As the door closes behind him, the flat seems to grow impossibly quiet. You lean against the wall, feeling as though you might shatter into a million pieces at any moment.

Your eyes fall on a framed photograph of Charles, taken just before he left for his last mission. His smile is radiant, his eyes full of life and love. You pick up the frame, tracing his features with a trembling finger.

“You promised,” you whisper to the image. “You promised you’d come back to me.”

A memory surfaces, unbidden. Charles, laughing as he spun you around in the park on your first date. “You know,” he had said, his eyes twinkling, “I have the strangest feeling I’ve known you forever.”

You had felt it too, that inexplicable sense of familiarity, of coming home. “Maybe we knew each other in a past life,” you had joked.

Charles had grown serious then, cupping your face in his hands. “If that’s true,” he had said softly, “then I’m certain I loved you just as much then as I do now.”

The memory is too much. Your knees buckle, and you sink to the floor, still clutching the photograph to your chest. Sobs wrack your body as the full weight of your loss crashes over you.

“Come back to me,” you plead between gasping breaths. “Please, Charles. Find me again. In this life or the next, just find me.”

As you kneel there, lost in your grief, a strange calm settles over you. Deep in your soul, you feel a certainty that this isn’t the end. Somehow, someway, you and Charles will find each other again.

You have to believe it. It’s the only thing that will get you through the long, dark nights ahead.

Berlin, 1961

The cold November air bites at Charles’ face as he paces along the western side of the Berlin Wall, his breath forming small clouds in the dim light of dawn. His eyes scan the imposing concrete barrier, searching for any sign of movement on the other side. He checks his watch for the hundredth time, willing the minutes to pass faster.

“Come on, Y/N,” he mutters under his breath. “Where are you?”

As if in answer to his plea, a small pebble arcs over the wall, landing at his feet. Charles’ heart leaps as he bends to retrieve it, unfolding the small piece of paper wrapped around it.

I’m here, the note reads in your familiar handwriting. Same spot. Be careful.

Charles moves quickly to a section of the wall where a drain pipe creates a small blind spot from the watchtowers. He pulls out a compact mirror, angling it to catch a glimpse of the other side.

“Y/N,” he whispers urgently. “Can you hear me?”

“Charles!” Your voice comes back, barely audible. “Thank God. I was worried you wouldn’t come.”

“I’ll always come for you,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “Are you alright? Did anyone follow you?”

“I’m fine,” you assure him. “I was careful. But Charles, we don’t have much time. They’re planning to move me to Moscow next week. This might be our last chance.”

Charles feels his stomach drop. “Moscow? No, we can’t let that happen. We have to get you out of there tonight.”

“How?” You ask, a note of desperation in your voice. “The security has been tightened since the last escape attempt. There are patrols everywhere.”

Charles runs a hand through his hair, his mind racing. “I have a contact in the American sector. He might be able to help. But Y/N, it’s risky. If we’re caught ...”

“I know,” you interrupt. “But I can’t stay here anymore. I can’t keep pretending to be loyal to a system I despise. And I can’t bear to be separated from you any longer.”

His heart swells at your words. “I feel the same way. Okay, listen carefully. Meet me back here at midnight. Wear dark clothes and bring only what you can carry in a small bag. I’ll have everything else ready on this side.”

“Midnight,” you repeat. “I’ll be here. Charles ... I love you.”

“I love you too,” he says softly. “More than you could ever know. Be safe, Y/N. I’ll see you soon.”

As Charles turns to leave, he’s struck by a sudden, overwhelming sense of déjà vu. He’s had this feeling before when talking to you, as if your souls have known each other across lifetimes. Shaking off the strange thought, he hurries away to set the plan in motion.

The hours crawl by as Charles makes preparations. He meets with his American contact, secures false documents, and plots the safest route to the western sector. As night falls, he returns to the wall, his nerves on edge.

Midnight comes and goes. Charles waits, every muscle tense, straining to hear any sound from the other side. Five minutes pass. Then ten.

“Y/N?” He whispers urgently. “Are you there?”

Silence answers him. Charles feels panic rising in his chest. Something’s wrong.

Suddenly, the night is shattered by the sound of shouting and dogs barking. Floodlights blaze to life on the eastern side of the wall.

“No,” Charles breathes, horror washing over him. “Y/N!”

He presses himself against the wall, desperate to hear something, anything. The chaos on the other side grows louder. Then, cutting through it all, he hears your voice.

“Charles!” You cry out. “Charles, help me!”

Without thinking, Charles begins to climb the wall, heedless of the danger. He has to get to you, has to save you.

“Stop right there!” A gruff voice shouts in German. Charles freezes, realizing he’s been spotted by a guard on the western side.

“Please,” Charles begs in German, “You don’t understand. There’s someone over there who needs help. I have to-”

His words are cut off by the sharp crack of gunfire from the eastern side. Charles’ blood runs cold.

“Y/N!” He screams, no longer caring who hears him. “Y/N, answer me!”

But there’s no response. The night falls eerily quiet, broken only by the sound of hurried orders being given in Russian.

Charles slumps against the wall, his mind refusing to accept what his heart already knows. You’re gone. He was too late.

Hours pass in a blur. Charles remains by the wall, numb with grief and shock. As dawn breaks, he hears someone approaching from the western side.

“Mr. Leclerc?” A voice says softly. It’s his American contact. “I’m so sorry. We ... we heard what happened.”

Charles looks up, his eyes red-rimmed and hollow. “Tell me,” he says hoarsely.

The man sighs heavily. “She was caught trying to reach the wall. There was a struggle. The guards ... they didn’t hesitate to use lethal force.”

Each word is like a knife to Charles’ heart. “Did she suffer?” He asks, dreading the answer.

“It was quick,” the man assures him. “If it’s any consolation, our sources say her last words were about you. She said, ‘Tell Charles I’ll find him again. In this life or the next.’”

Charles closes his eyes, a single tear rolling down his cheek. Those words ... why do they sound so familiar?

“Mr. Leclerc,” the American says gently, “it’s not safe for you to stay here. We need to get you out of Berlin. There will be questions, investigations.”

But Charles barely hears him. His mind is reeling, flashes of memories — or are they dreams — flooding his consciousness. Ancient Rome, plague-ridden Genoa, revolutionary France, war-torn skies over the English Channel. In each scene, he sees your face, hears your voice promising to find each other again.

“This isn’t the end,” Charles murmurs, more to himself than to the confused American.

“I’m sorry?” The man asks.

Charles stands, a strange calm settling over him. “Nothing,” he says. “You’re right. We should go.”

As they walk away from the wall, Charles makes a silent vow. He will live, he will remember, and he will find you again. Somehow, somewhere, in another life, you will have your chance at happiness.

The Berlin Wall may have separated you in this life, but Charles is certain now that your souls are bound across lifetimes. And no wall, no war, no force on earth can keep you apart forever.

Abu Dhabi, 2025

The roar of engines fills the air as Charles crosses the finish line, clinching his first Formula 1 World Championship. The crowd erupts in cheers, but Charles barely hears them. His eyes scan the barriers, searching for one face among thousands.

As he brings his Ferrari to a stop, he sees you pushing through the throng of celebrating team members. Your eyes meet, and suddenly everything else fades away. Charles leaps from the car, not even bothering to remove his helmet as he runs towards you.

“We did it!” He shouts, sweeping you into his arms and spinning you around. “We actually did it!”

You laugh, tears of joy streaming down your face. “You did it, Charles! I’m so proud of you!”

He sets you down gently, finally removing his helmet. His hair is matted with sweat, his face flushed with exertion and excitement. To you, he’s never looked more handsome.

“No,” Charles says, cupping your face in his hands. “We did this together. I couldn’t have done any of it without you.”

Before you can respond, he pulls you into a passionate kiss. The world around you explodes with camera flashes and cheers, but neither of you notice. In this moment, you’re the only two people in the world.

As you finally break apart, Charles rests his forehead against yours. “I love you,” he murmurs. “In this life and-”

“And all the others,” you finish, a strange sense of déjà vu washing over you.

Charles pulls back slightly, his brow furrowed. “You feel it too, don’t you?” He asks. “Like we’ve said these words before?”

You nod, a bit dazed. “It’s strange. Sometimes when I look at you, I get flashes of ... I don’t know, other times, other places. But it’s always us, always together.”

A grin spreads across Charles’ face. “Maybe we’re soulmates,” he teases, but there’s a hint of seriousness in his eyes.

“Charles! Y/N!” A voice calls out. You turn to see Fred Vasseur approaching. “Sorry to interrupt, but Charles has to get weighed.”

Charles nods, then turns back to you. “Wait for me?” He asks.

You smile, giving him a quick kiss. “Always,” you promise.

As Charles is whisked away for obligations, you find yourself lost in thought. The strange feeling of familiarity, of a love that transcends time, has been with you since the day you met Charles. You’ve never mentioned it to him before, afraid he’d think you were crazy.

The podium ceremony is a blur of champagne and cheers. Charles’ radiant smile never wavers as he hoists the trophy, but his eyes keep finding you in the crowd. When it’s finally over, he makes a beeline for you, ignoring the clamoring reporters.

“Let’s get out of here,” he says, taking your hand.

You raise an eyebrow. “What about the press conference? The team celebrations?”

Charles shakes his head. “They can wait. Right now, I just want to be with you.”

Hand-in-hand, you sneak away from the track, laughing like teenagers as you dodge team members and journalists. Charles leads you to his car and soon you’re speeding down the winding roads of the Emirati capital.

“Where are we going?” You ask, the wind whipping through your hair.

Charles grins, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “You’ll see.”

As the sun begins to set, Charles pulls off onto a small dirt road. It leads to a secluded hilltop overlooking the valley below. The view is breathtaking, the entire landscape bathed in the warm glow of twilight.

“Charles,” you breathe, taking in the scene. “It’s beautiful.”

He comes to stand behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist. “Not as beautiful as you,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your neck.

You turn in his arms, struck once again by the intensity of his gaze. “What are we doing here, Charles?”

He takes a deep breath, suddenly looking nervous. “Y/N, do you remember the day we met?”

You smile at the memory. “Of course. I was lost in the paddock and you offered to help me find my way.”

“The moment I saw you,” Charles says softly, “it was like ... like coming home. Like I’d been searching for you my whole life without even knowing it.”

Your heart races as he continues. “And ever since then, I’ve had these ... dreams, I guess. Flashes of other lives, other times. But always with you.”

“Charles,” you whisper, hardly daring to believe what you’re hearing. “I’ve had them too. I thought I was going crazy.”

He shakes his head, a look of wonder on his face. “Not crazy. Just ... connected. In a way I can’t fully explain.”

Charles takes your hands in his, his thumbs tracing gentle circles on your skin. “I don’t know if it’s past lives or parallel universes or just some cosmic coincidence. But I do know this: in every life, in every version of reality, I love you. And I want to spend the rest of this life, and all the ones that come after, loving you.”

Your breath catches as Charles drops to one knee, pulling a small velvet box from his pocket. “Y/N,” he says, his voice thick with emotion, “will you marry me?”

Tears blur your vision as you nod emphatically. “Yes,” you manage to choke out. “Yes, of course I’ll marry you!”

Charles’ face breaks into a radiant smile as he slips the ring onto your finger. He stands, pulling you into a kiss that feels like coming home and embarking on a new adventure all at once.

As you break apart, both of you laughing and crying, a sense of rightness settles over you. Whatever strange connection you share, whatever cosmic forces have brought you together time and time again, you know that this — right here, right now — is where you’re meant to be.

“I love you,” you say, looking into Charles’ eyes. “In this life and all the others.”

“And I love you,” he replies, holding you close. “Always and forever.”

The future stretches out before you, full of promise and possibility. And though you don’t know what challenges it might bring, you’re certain of one thing: whatever comes, you’ll face it together.

Just as you always have, and always will.

[slaygentford]

at the end of the day Louis grew up in Florence's house which is instantly 10000 hp of underhanded southern belle bitchiness after which he gained two lifetimes' experience having to be heard over lestats 500 decibel bellowing during which he had to do claudia's hair every morning from ages 14 to 18 which was his own private waterloo on a 24 hour timer. now add into all of that the fact that he ran liberty st through his hyper masc late twenties and early thirties. and ON TOP OF THAT he is gay and naturally of the extremely bitchy and frigid disposition anyway. thats over 100 years of cultivating the art of spotting bullshit and calling it out in the most succinct way possible and top of the food chain invincible daywalker or not you are not leaving a fight with him alive MUCH less with any semblance of dignity intact. and I for one think that is so fucking sexy. mrs lioncourt pleapelasep please poelase polease pelase sil vous plait svpppppppp pls please pleaseeee just once just once

[suzdin]

The Apartment

(Lucien Flores x F!reader)

Summary: Porn with very little plot. Lucien is your sleazy pot dealing neighbor.

Warnings/Content: Drug use (weed and blow), nicotine use, alcohol use, groping/sexual harassment (not from Lucien), some mild jealousy, age gap between Lucien and another chick (20s), fingering, oral (f receiving), unprotected p in v, pull out method, spitting of bodily fluids (idk the proper term for it).

Word Count: 4,900+

Dedicated to: @ohheypedrito who held a gun to my head until I wrote this (lol jk, or am I? 😰)

Other Tags: @kateispunk @survivingandenduring @kellybelly1978 @awilderi @oberynslady @daddy-dins-girl @heavennumber2 @natdeandar @chronically-ghosted @morallyinept idk who else to tag.

You hear the party long before you even make it to your apartment block, droning 90s alt rock cascading down the sides of the building.

The residence itself is aging and quaint, not exactly located in the nicest area of downtown, but also not the worst. At least, you’d like to think so.

You had inherited the apartment from your grandmother when she passed several years ago. Roughly four dozen or so residents, including yourself, shared the building with you.

Amongst said residents was Lucien Flores, who had also inherited his apartment, from his mamá Claudia, who now lived in the suburbs, last you cared to hear. You didn’t speak to Lucien often, or the other inhabitants for that matter, other than in passing in common areas.

It’s roughly 11PM when you arrive home from work that night, your legs weary and straining as you make your way up the creaky old stairs to the third floor.

Lucien lives at the opposite end of the hall on the same floor as you, but that doesn’t seem to make the music any quieter, or the cloying stink of weed any less prominent. As you navigate your way through thick plumes of smoke and fog, you’re sure you’re getting a contact high just walking to your apartment.

You sigh. It’s going to be another long night.

The hallway is crowded and you push your way through a myriad of faces you’ll likely never see again after all is said and done.

As you make your way through the gauntlet of tight and twisting bodies, you feel unknown hands belonging to a faceless entity groping and pawing at you as you pass; you snarl and slap them away. Your palms sting from the contact, incorpereal laughter bellowing in your wake.

You spot Lucien just as you’re reaching your apartment, propped up on his shoulder against the wall, ankles crossed casually, watching you. Silk watercolor shirt practically dripping down a broad torso, hair mussed and gnarled, a gold chain nestled in the hollow just beneath his throat where his shirt is undone to the third button, exposing smooth, olive skin.

He wasn’t the man who groped you, no, you’re sure of that. He was too far away for that to be possible.

A filterless cigarette is perched between two of his fingers, cherry glowing brighter as he takes a long drag, tendrils of smoke curling into the air and consolidating with the rest as his dark eyes study you.

You stare back, unblinking. And then he moves without warning, graceful and fluid as a lithe cat, pushing his way through the crowd and seeking out the man who had touched you only moments before. Unlike yourself, he could pinpoint the man’s face without hesitation.

Without so much as discarding his cigarette, Lucien’s free hand twists around the man’s collar, pulling his face close to his own. Teeth gnashing, face contorted in a sneer, Lucien spews what you can only imagine is pure venom from two plush, pink lips. You wish you were close enough to decipher the words, but the last thing you want to do is fight and claw your way through the crowd again. So you perch against your door and watch, doing your best to garner context clues as the man’s face goes pale and his eyes widen.

Their gazes suddenly dart to you in tandem, making you flinch. And then, seemingly cowing to Lucien, the man lifts his hands in defeat, drifting down the stairs and out of sight without so much as another word.

Lucien’s dark visage finds yours again, his head cocked forward, as he brings the cigarette to his lips a second time, cherry visible through the fog.

You dip your head in acknowledgment and gratitude before disappearing to the welcoming confines of your home.

——

Just after 2AM and the music is still raging, hard as ever.

You aren’t surprised. Lucien, your building’s resident pot dealer, seemed to know everyone. And everyone, him.

His parties were commonplace enough to be a regular hindrance to your sleep cycle. Not to mention the other residents. But the cops were rarely called… people in your neighborhood didn’t particularly care for law enforcement. Cops weren’t too fond of the neighborhood, either.

You lie in bed, wide awake as the bass thrums on without an end in sight, clad in only a pair of panties and a t-shirt. Your head hurts, and you have work tomorrow. You crossed the border of pissed long ago. Now you are fucking livid.

Lucien couldn’t keep getting away with this. You had to say something.

You slide out of bed, throwing on your house robe and slippers as you make your way back out to the corridor.

Most of the party had drifted inwards, into his apartment, but a few stragglers lingered here and there. Some were drinking, some smoking. Some were doing a little of both.

You could see into his home just slightly, getting a glimpse of the pink walls his mother had painted years ago, the ugly palm frond wallpaper lining the kitchen.

Your eyes zero in on Lucien right away. His shoulders, rounded and bunched around a thick and corded neck, colorful silk shirt swimming along his waistline.

His back is to you, a young woman — who you think can’t be older than 24 or 25 — is pinned between himself and the wall, one of his hands positioned next to her head, the other folded as he lifts a pile of white powder to her nose. She brings one of her hands up to pinch the other nostril closed as she snorts the substance into her body; Lucien’s lips curve into a wry smirk.

Your gaze shifts lower when you register movement, finding her opposite arm extended between the two of them, palm cupping and stroking his cock over his pants. Lucien doesn’t appear to be reciprocating her touch, which seems to have her more than a bit… frustrated, judging by the look on her face.

Cinching your robe tight, you approach the couple, clearing your throat loud enough to catch them both off guard.

The woman, whomever she is, draws her hand back instantly, eyeing you with disdain at the unwelcome interruption.

Lucien’s eyes flit to yours. Then, slowly, blatantly, the same dark irises travel down your form, methodical in how he checks you out. He isn’t even attempting to hide it in front of her.

You glance away, your skin heating.

With a scoff, the woman dips under Lucien’s arm, whispering something to him before she joins the rest of the party inside. He nods to her, disinterested, before turning back to you.

She’s beautiful and young. Lucien is twice her age and roguishly handsome, a truth you didn’t care to indulge often. You aren’t the least bit surprised by what you walked in on, as he always seemed to have a revolving door of women hanging around.

“Hey, baby. Want a bump?” he asks you.

“Fuck, no. I actually want to sleep tonight,” you tut, crossing your arms in indignation. “I have work tomorrow and I’m already exhausted. Do you think you could lower the music? Shut your door, maybe?”

His face falls and his lips pinch into a frown at your utter and outright rejection, although he understands your reasons and chooses not to argue, checking you out a second time. You feel your skin growing warm beneath the robe at the attention.

“For you. Anything,” he murmurs.

You roll your eyes but dip your chin in gratitude anyway. “Thanks.”

He turns to shut his door behind him, drowning out a better chunk of the noise than you expected. As you turn to walk back to your apartment, you feel a warm, broad hand circling your elbow.

You stall, contorting your body to look back at him. “Lucien, what—“

“Hey. Are you okay?” he questions.

“No, I said I’m fucking tired and I have work tomorrow…” you reiterate, looking down at where his hand currently connects to your body.

His grip loosens and he lets his hand fall away from your elbow.

“No, I mean, from earlier. The man… who was pawing at you like some horny dog,” he explains, recounting the events that you would care to forget. “Are you okay?” he repeats, gaze softening, fluffy curls framing his face.

Your heart races at the sight of him, and you swallow down the rising lump in your throat.

No. No, you are not going to get involved with your drug dealing neighbor. Stop it.

“Oh,” you say quietly. “I’m, uh, fine. Thanks… thank you.” You offer a faint smile, suddenly flustered.

He nods, plush lips parted in thought, brow furrowed as he studies you. Those eyes of his are goddamn entrancing.

“Here,” he says, placing his palm against the small of your back as he gingerly directs you back to your apartment, halting in front of your door.

He fishes a freshly rolled joint and lighter from the breast pocket of his shirt, holding both items up so you can see. The light overhead catches the chain around his neck, reflecting it, making it shimmer.

“Girl Scout Cookies,” he explains, his voice low and hypnotic as he gives the joint a heady whiff, “So you can sleep.”

“Or… you could just turn off the music and ask everyone to leave instead,” you suggest, plucking the joint and lighter from his fingers anyway.

“They’ll drift out little by little the rest of the evening,” he counters, watching you ignite the joint and take a hit, holding the smoke in your lungs. “Most of them have left already.”

You roll your eyes and shake your head, snorting. Take a second hit. Pass it back to Lucien, whose callused fingers brush yours as he takes it.

“Your girlfriend didn’t seem too keen on leaving,” you point out.

“She isn’t my girlfriend.”

“Okay, girl you want to fuck,” you correct.

He takes a long, slow draw of the joint, exhaling the plume through rounded lips as he watches you. “Isn’t that, either.”

“Oh, so she was grabbing your dick for no reason, then?” you retort, arching a brow.

Lucien takes another hit, forming his lips into an ‘O’ as he blows the smoke gently in your direction. He scrunches his lips up in thought.

“Precisely. Wasn’t even that hard,” he explains.

You choke out a small laugh, leaning against the wall. “Jesus, Lucien.” You open your door to go back into your apartment, alone. “Thanks for the weed.”

“You brought her up, not me.” He grins.

“Goodnight…” you say firmly, trying not to let your vision linger on his lips. Or his puppy dog eyes. Or that goddamn gold chain. Fuck.

“Wait,” he murmurs, reaching for your arm again. Warm, thick fingers brushing your skin.

“What?”

He takes another pull from the joint, trapping the smoke in his lungs as he moves languidly into your space. Free hand cupping your cheek, a smirk tugging at the edges of his lips, he hovers over you, mouth nearly touching yours.

Your lips part instinctively, causing his smirk to widen even more as he exhales the cloud directly into your mouth, your lips briefly making contact. You take in a deep, heady breath, tasting the smoke, tasting the essence of him.

The small point of contact is enough ignition for both of you to act. It was the catalyst needed to convince yourself yes, yes you ARE going to let yourself get involved with him, reputation be damned.

His hand travels from your cheek to your hip, squeezing, smirk transforming into a grin as he guides you backwards through the mouth of your apartment.

And you let him. You’ve been nursing this unhealthy crush on your neighbor for long enough, you realize.

Your own hands find the collar of his shirt, and then his chain, wrapping the metal heated by his skin around your knuckles, dragging him into you. He smells like weed and clove cigarettes, like cheap red wine and musky cologne.

You aren’t sure who closes the door, but somehow, it closes with a bang behind you, and he spins your body, wedging you between himself and the hard surface, his hand unmoving from your hip as he bends to thrust his pelvis flush against yours, grinding his hard length against your center. Even through the robe, it’s unmistakable.

“Thought you said you weren’t very hard,” you tease.

“Wasn’t…” he replies with a wry smile, grinding into you, hand moving back up to your neck as his lips crash into yours.

He deposits the still smoldering joint in the small metal bowl by your door where you keep change for laundry, hands bracketing either side of your face, pressing himself firmly against you as his tongue slips into the hot cavern of your mouth, eliciting a small mewl of longing and desire from your lungs.

He tugs at the binds of your robe, the material falling open like the wings of a butterfly for him, revealing your bare legs, your soft cotton panties with the little cherries.

“Well, well…” he groans, palms locking onto your hips, thumbs moving in semicircles along your silken flesh as his fingers flirt with the elastic band of your underwear, snapping it against your hip bones.

He dips to grind his erection against you again, and this time, without the barrier of your robe dampening his motions, you feel his hard cock dragging over the sensitive nub of your clit, your hips bucking back with equal fervor.

He kisses along your jawbone, down to the sensitive apex of your jaw and column of your neck, mustache and beard gently scrubbing at your skin, his lips grazing over the shell of your ear.

“Only reason I was hard at all is because I was thinking about you,” he whispers, before taking your earlobe between his teeth and giving it a slight tug.

“Bullshit,” you scoff, breathless, and although you can’t see it, he grins, giving the elastic another harsh snap before his thumbs hook around the material, sliding them down your legs, cool air licking at your exposed folds.

“I don’t bullshit,” he grates, lowering to his knees in front of you, kneading your upper thighs in his hands as he takes in the vision that is you.

Slick dribbles down your inner thigh as he spreads you open and admires you, everything about you.

“Look at you, opening up like a pretty little flower for me,” he groans, leaning forward to swipe his angular nose through your soaked folds, inhaling the intoxicating scent of your arousal.

A small chirp escapes the back of your throat, fingers sinking into his dark curls for balance as his tongue flicks out to taste and tease you, lifting one of your legs to toss over his shoulder.

His tongue breaches your entrance, penetrating you deeply, your body juddering with every broad stroke of his tongue inside your walls.

“Fuck, Lucien…” you purr. He hums in approval, hands sliding up your backside to cup and massage your ass as he drinks of you.

You find yourself gyrating against him, your body chasing the sensation of his mouth, and not only does he let you, he furthers it along, fingers digging into the meat of your ass as he pulls you into him repeatedly, groaning.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, protesting the loss of his mouth on you as he pulls away for a beat, the feeling only short lived when his lips circle and tenderly suction around your engorged clit, two of his fingers sinking into your fluttering hole.

The resulting squelch as he fucks into you with his fingers is lascivious and loud, your spine forming a perfect arc against the door.

His fingers curl inside of your tunnel, making contact with the soft, spongy flesh at the mouth of your womb, each thrust getting you closer and closer to seeing stars.

“God, oh my fucking god…” you moan.

Your walls begin to tighten, your hips shaking, fingers twisting against his scalp as you feel your pleasure mounting. And you swear you see his lips hook into a grin as he gets you there, the sight of it with his nose and curls, the way the silk and gold chain catch the light, only spurring your pleasure on. It’s all so much. So much and not enough.

“I, fuck, I’m gonna cum…” you sob as the sensations reach a head and the feeling consumes every fiber of your being, your vision going white as your head lolls against the door with a faint thud, hips rutting forward to chase his mouth.

He rides you through it, growling into your core almost as though he’s enjoying it as much as you are, the reverberations making you crave more.

He pulls away from you when your body calms down, mouth coated in a sheen of your slick, hair stamped down with sweat from where your palms had gripped onto him.

Catching his breath as he stands, his lips and tongue tangle with yours once more, letting you taste the evidence of your release before dragging you toward the bedroom.

You can feel the cannabis coursing through your system now, relaxing you, making you feel lighter than air. You smile to yourself, knowing your orgasm is going to be sweet and lingering.

“You would look beautiful by my side at every party,” he says, brown eyes twinkling back at you, head tilted.

“You have plenty of other women for that…” you reply, letting him guide you to the bed as he slips your shirt over your head, revealing your naked breasts to his hungry gaze.

“And none of them are you,” he tuts, “None of them are as beautiful as you… as this.”

He doesn’t give you time to respond as he pushes you down into the mattress and crawls over you, teeth dragging along your shoulder, your collarbone, upper body propped on an elbow while the opposite hand kneads one of your breasts. He plucks the nipple to a sharp peak between his fingers, making you arch and moan.

He sheds his shirt and pants nearly in tandem, your vision settling on him as he slithers out of his underwear, a girthy, uncut cock between his legs, twitching at the sight of you.

“Fuck…” you gasp, his eyes shining in amusement as he manipulates you onto your back, pushing your legs apart and taking up residence between your thighs.

“I bet you feel as good as you taste,” he groans and kisses you again, sucking your bottom lip between his teeth.

Fisting himself at the base of his cock, he teases it along your folds, gathering your slick, nudging your still swollen clit. Your breath is ragged and unsteady in your chest, every motion of his body leaving you wanton and desirous.

“Lucien, please,” you plead and he chuckles, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiles.

“Need it that bad?” he asks, bemused, dragging the head of his cock over your clit again, making you cant your hips, chasing the sensation.

“That must be a yes,” he purrs, his voice low and velvet.

He lines himself up at your entrance, giving a few short, preliminary thrusts with just the head, teasing and testing how ready you are to take him, before pushing himself further in, inch by inch.

After a few more precursory thrusts, he bottoms out with a long exhale and faint moan, lower lip taut and jutting outward, holding himself within your walls for several seconds, before pulling almost all the way out to slide back in again, slowly. Oh so slowly.

You grunt and arch your spine, your hips lifting to meet his, needing him to move faster…harder.

“Come onnnn,” you groan.

A smirk forms on his lips as he cages your head in with his upper arms, lips finding your throat, whispering against your pebbled skin.

“Always knew you’d be cock hungry, baby.”

He doesn’t allow you a chance to recant, pulling himself partially out and then slamming himself in again as hard as he can, teeth grazing your tender skin, gold chain smacking you in the face with the momentum of it.

He doesn’t seem to notice or care. Not that you mind much, either.

You whimper and paw at his shoulders, clinging to him, still needing, desiring more.

“Yeah? You liked that, didn’t you?” he whispers again, slamming into you hard a few more times for emphasis, making you keen, your bed smacking the wall harder each time.

“Need you to go faster, please,” you whine.

“Alright, baby. Since you’re asking so nicely…”

He leans back now, settling his weight against his calves as he lifts your legs to rest against his vast shoulders, tan skin shiny with perspiration. His dark curls are skewed and clinging to his face, dark brown eyes glistening with lust.

He looks so goddamn hot like that.

He doesn’t waste anymore time, fingertips digging into the meat of your calf muscles as he begins railing you with everything he has to give, the sounds of skin smacking skin filling the room, shaking the bed with impact.

He’s more than focused now, teeth exposed, brow furrowed, droplets of sweat pooling in the little divot of his collarbone. You wish he was closer so you could lave at the sweat collected there.

It isn’t long before you start to feel the familiar, telltale tightening in your lower abdomen again, your breath hitching in your chest, droplets of perspiration forming at your hairline.

“Yes! Yes! Don’t slow down! Don’tslowdooooown!” you cry, your hands reaching for his, where they grip your legs, fingers curling like talons around his digits.

Everything about you, from the top of your head to the tips of your toes, feels as if you’re floating.

A few more rough slams of his hips against yours and you’re seeing stars, head falling back against the pillow with a cry as your walls flutter around him, strangling his cock, sucking him deeper. He growls, his breath hissing through clenched teeth, and you know he’s almost there as well.

“Fuck, I’m gonna… fffuuuu—“ Lucien grunts, sucking in lungfuls of air as he pulls out of you at the last possible second, perched on his knees, pumping himself in his fist with your slick.

The squelchy wet noises of Lucien beating himself off fills your ears, and he emits a loud, guttural groan as he reaches completion, tendrils of seed spurting thick and hot across your stomach, some of it collecting in your navel.

“Open up,” he instructs, and you hardly have time to gather your thoughts and bearings before you feel his tongue gliding across your stomach, scooping himself onto his tongue.

His mouth hovers over yours as your lips part, Lucien spitting the cocktail of saliva and cum onto your waiting tongue, his own tongue meeting yours as he kisses you deeply, moans getting lost in your throats.

“Fuuuck,” you sigh when your lips eventually pull apart.

You both settle on your backs, shoulder to shoulder, still catching your breaths. You stare up at the ceiling, your head still light as air and swimmy.

The party continues on down the hall sans Lucien, but it’s quieter now, more subdued.

“I’m definitely going to sleep really well after that, but I may call in to work tomorrow anyway,” you giggle.

“Good, because I’m not done with you yet,” he says, eyes shining with mischief as his hand trails down your body, fingers swirling through the remnants left on your stomach.

“But all those strangers in your apartment. Are you not worried?” you ask.

“I have someone watching it for me. It’s okay.”

His lips tease along your neck. “You’re like a goddamn drug, baby.”

You don’t even question it further, smirking as his fingers lift to your lips, painting them like gloss, laughing inwardly to yourself when you realize that the girl in the hallway doesn’t get to have him like this, like you do, as he dips his head to kiss you again.

—

fin. xx.

[canyousonicme]

Q&A with Alex Kingston, who plays Sheila Bellowes on Steven Moffat's upcoming ITV black comedy, "Douglas Is Cancelled"

(Air date: 27 June, 2024)

What appealed to you about Douglas Is Cancelled?

I'd say what appealed first of all was that the piece was written by Steven Moffat. I would do anything that Steven wrote because he's just such a brilliant writer.

The characters he creates are such a delight to play. I've had that experience of working with him on Doctor Who. It was just a joy to read the script. I laughed out loud. I even cried with laughter in some places. It's so superbly written.

Were you also taken by the idea of playing opposite Hugh?

Absolutely. Oh my gosh, Hugh and I have worked together many times over the years. We go way back to literally when we were teenagers. And so, I was definitely attracted by the opportunity of working with Hugh again. We already have that shorthand between us. That relationship doesn't need even to be acted because we know each other so well and are so comfortable in each other's presence. It's not a new person who I've got to get to know, so that married relationship was already a given. I was thrilled to have the chance to do that.

How would you describe Sheila?

She is amoral, she is ruthless. But I'm assuming that's what the paper wants. I'm also guessing that in the world these sorts of people inhabit, in order to get a good story, they have to be prepared to throw even their best friends under the bus. To be in that position as the editor of a national newspaper, you've got to be not only incredibly ambitious, but also, I would imagine, highly-strung because you are carrying a lot of responsibility on your shoulders. It's just a joy to play somebody who's so on the front foot. Sheila is also really inappropriate. That's what's so great about the script because all the characters behave inappropriately in a world where we're supposed not to anymore. I don't feel like I'm that sort of person at all, which is why it was great fun to play!

How would you summarise the relationship between Sheila and Douglas?

I would definitely say that she wears the trousers in the household. What's so interesting is that they are this high-powered celebrity couple at the start of the story. He is the nation's favourite news broadcaster, and she's this very, very successful editor of a hugely popular newspaper. But I rather like the scene that Steven wrote for them where they are on holiday because that shows a little bit more of who they are as a family before all the stuff hits the fan. They are a unit, and they love each other. But it is an unusual marriage. She is very strong, and he just allows her to be like that. If Douglas was a similar personality to Sheila, the marriage wouldn't ever have lasted. But he just lets her sail on forward, and he's in her slipstream being dragged along.

How does Sheila get on with her daughter?

The relationship she has with her daughter Claudia is much more volatile because her daughter is actually a bit more like Sheila. She's got a bit more fight in her. In a way, Sheila is terrorised by her daughter as she can't hold her daughter down. Also, Sheila doesn't understand young people and all these words like "boomer" that drop out of their mouths. For Sheila, it's just so frustrating. She thinks, "Who is this person we brought into the world who seems like a creature from another planet?"

The drama has lots of very topical things to say about cancel culture.

Yes. It's really interesting because Steven originally conceived this as a stage play several years ago. That's what I found so brilliant and so prescient about it. Steven was working on this way before all the recent scandals involving popular broadcasters. Obviously, cancel culture was already swirling around then, but I feel like Steven has the courage to put the conversation on the table in a way that is super important. But he does it in a darkly comic way, which allows people watching to laugh, but hopefully also to be able to have conversations and ask questions such as, "Where are we going with this? And how dangerous is this becoming?"

What do you hope audiences might take away from Douglas Is Cancelled?

I hope people will be a little bit more thoughtful and a little bit more careful about how they treat people or what they say about people. We need to be more conscious and kinder and aware of other people's feelings and how they wish to be perceived in life. But I think some men of my generation struggle with having to make those changes. I certainly remember sitting in the pub as a young person and hearing jokes about women that were awful. Men would safely say horrendous stuff. But that's just how it was, and you just had to suck it up. But men cannot behave like that anymore. I think there are still elements of our generation that struggle to remember to be a little bit more thoughtful before they say something. That's not out of malice. It's because they're still trying to learn the new rules of the world.

After many years working together on Doctor Who, how did you find it being reunited with Karen?

It was a real joy. It was great just spending time with her. It was very funny because she played my mother in Doctor Who. So it was really lovely to do something different with Karen, and for us both to explore this new relationship together. In Douglas Is Cancelled, there is one big scene that we have together in the toilet. They're these two alpha females who are prowling around each other, and they both absolutely know each other's game.

Did all the cast get to hang out together on set as well?

Yes. When everybody came together for the grand finale, we ended up sitting in the studio control room between scenes, all just chatting, reminiscing, sharing, messing around. Working on Douglas Is Cancelled was just a lovely, lovely, lovely experience.

[frankenstein-ate-my-left-shoe]

@steddiemas Day 6 - Baking & Cookie Decorating

pairing: pre-steddie | word count: 1,911 | rated: G

A couple days later finds Eddie on his way to Steve’s house at the early as fuck hour of 8:30am

“AARrugh–fuuck!” he curses again, trying to stifle down another cracking yawn, “It should be illegal to be up this early.”

“You mean the normal time people get up?”

“No, normal is lunchtime. Realistic is two.”

“God, you’re such a loser.”

“And yet you still hang out with me.”

“Uh, no. I hang out with Steve and El and Lucas and sometimes Dustin. You’re just there by association.”

“Ouch Red, that hurts my soul.” He winces dramatically 

“What soul?”

Eddie grins at her, “Touché, Maxine”

Her tiny, pointy knuckles meet his bicep as he pulls Bessie into the Harringtons’ driveway.

They’re having a pre-thanksgiving dinner with the party before they all have actual Thanksgiving with each of their families, and Max insisted on coming over early to help Steve with preparations.

“If we don’t go help, he’s going to do it all by himself you know.”

“Robin will be there, I’m sure.”

“Yeah, he’s gonna do everything by himself. You know Robin is moral support at best.”

“And what are we gonna be, huh? You think I’m any better?”

She had huffed at that. “We’re going, Munson.”

So, here they are. Like Eddie suspected, as soon as they breach the front door, Robin is visible on one of the stools at the island, sleep rumpled and a mug in hand, and Steve is standing at the stove already.

“Good ‘morrow to you, Lord and Lady Buckley,” Eddie bellows, startling them both, “Myself and the young Miss Mayfield have traveled far to be with you on this momentous day, and to offer to you our services.” he gives them a dramatic bow, glancing up through his lashes.

Steve is grinning, Robin has collapsed forward onto the counter in front of her, Max is groaning. 

He stands straight again, “We may only be a couple of lowly peasants in your Kingdom, but the call to help was unavoidable.”

“Eddie did not want to come help, lemme make that clear.”

“Shut up, Max”

“You shut up, liar–”

“Okay, okay!” Steve laughs, interrupting them, “Many thanks to you both for making the trip; your help will be greatly appreciated.”

Eddie’s stomach goes soupy, he loves when Steve plays along.

“So, what can we do?” he asks, clapping his hands once and rubbing his palms together like he’s itching to get started.

“Well, it is still pretty early (“I told  you.”, “Shut up, Eddie.”), so right now you can help by telling me how you like your eggs.”

The turkey goes into the oven halfway through breakfast, Steve having prepped it last night, so Steve starts to cipher out what else he needs to make.

“Dustin said that Claudia was making a pumpkin pie for us, so we’re set there, I’m making the sweet potato casserole, Lucas said that his mom is sending over a pan of greens with him and Erica, Robin has the stuffing covered–”

“I make a mean can of Stovetop.” Robin cuts in from the sink where she’s washing the few dishes from breakfast.

“Pretty much everyone else is bringing something…” Steve looks lost for a moment, then his expression turns tense, that crease between his brows cuts deep into his skin.

Max must see this too because she says, “What about cookies?”

“Cookies?”

“Yeah, like the sugar cookies you made everyone a tin of last year?” “You made everyone sugar cookies?? Why wasn’t I given any?” Steve rolls his eyes, “‘Cause last year you were just Eddie “The Freak” Munson,”

“Hey–I resent that,” Eddie pokes Steve in the chest, “I’m still Eddie “The Freak” Munson, thank you very much.” “Many apologies, Your Freak-ness, how ever shall I make it up to you.” His tone is sarcastic, but the words make a whole matter of unsavory retorts gather on Eddie’s tongue.

“C’mon Steve, I want those damn cookies!” Max demands, smacking a palm onto the counter to really sell it.

“Hey! Language.” 

“I also want some of those damn cookies.” Robin agrees.

“Yeah c’mon Stevie, I didn’t get to have any last year and now I’m curious.” “Dude, they’re the best cookies ever. I hate that he only makes them once a year.”

“Okay, okay, fine! Lemme make sure I have everything I need.”

He does, so he gets to work as requested demanded, though he does send Max and Robin (with her newly acquired license) to the store for powdered sugar. “For the frosting..I’m sure you want frosting on these, right?”

Eddie sticks close after they leave, watching Steve work and passing him ingredients.

At one point, Eddie scoops up a cup of flour for him, only to have Steve wrap his hand over his on the handle of the cup and start to stir the flour in it with a fork.

“Uh, do you always need to stir your flour before putting it in?” Is that a thing? Eddie has never done that, even within the few times he’s ever actually baked something before.

“You do if the person scooping packs it into the cup like this.” Steve teases, spinning the fork around in his hand to scrape the now-overflowing heap of flour off the top of the measuring cup and back into the bag with the handle. “Flour doesn’t get packed down to measure, fluffy and loose measurements only.” Steve pulls Eddie’s hand forward and upends the cup over the mixing bowl. 

Eddie’s mouth feels like it’s coated in flour.

“There! Perfect. I’ll need another cup just like that one.” Steve smiles and passes the fork to him.

He lets Eddie's hand go and turns back to the bowl, mixing the flour in with one of those rubber scraping spatulas instead of using the electric beater he’d used for the eggs and sugar.

“So,” Eddie re-wets the inside of his mouth so he can talk correctly, “Why do you only make these once a year?” He carefully scoops up another helping of flour.

“They’re usually Christmas cookies and I– aw shit.”

“What?”

“I don’t have any non-Christmas themed cookie cutters.”

Eddie immediately thinks back to one of the last Christmases he had with his mom. Ouch…damn it. 

He gulps down the lump in his throat. “Do you have any empties?”

Eddie can feel Steve watching him as he works, carefully cutting the tops and bottoms off a good sized bag of empty soda and beer cans over the sink. He cuts the new aluminum rectangles in half lengthwise and sets the strips aside.

“You’ve made these before?”

“Yep! Easier to make your own than buy them, y’know?”

Steve chuckles, “Yeah, that makes sense.”

“My mom liked to make new ones every year, so I have a lot of practice doing this,” Eddie pushes on, picking up a strip of metal and folds it in half lengthwise. “We’ll need some tape for the open side, but basically you fold it like this, shape it however you want, and fold the ends over each other to keep them closed.”

He demonstrates, making a messy heart shape pretty quickly. “You can link more than one together if you want, too. Make bigger ones…Ta da!” He shows off the ‘finished’ shape.

“Sweet!”

By the time Robin and Max return, Eddie’s got a pile of aluminum strips ready to go, and Steve’s done with the dough.

“Perfect timing, ladies, come help us make cookie cutters.”

Max pulls up a stool immediately, grabbing a couple of the metal strips, but Robin huffs. “Aw, what? We have to make the cookie cutters first? I thought I’d come home to a house full of cookies, Steve.”

“The dough has to chill in the fridge for an hour, and we don’t have any Thanksgiving themed ones.” Steve says, rolling his eyes at her. “Also, you weren’t even gone that long!”

Robin pulls up a stool, “Excuses, Steven.”

Turns out, there’s not that many shapes associated with turkey day, so after the obligatory pumpkin shape, and a surprisingly well-shaped turkey-looking blob, they make whatever else they feel like.

Robin uses a ruler she found in a drawer to fold some ridges into a circle shape, “It’s a pie, obviously.”, Steve uses a few strips to make what he says is an elephant, “Yeah, an elephant. These are the two ears and this is the trunk.”, Max uses two of the strips to make some sort of flower shape with five pointy petals, “A…poinsettia?” Eddie asks; “A demogorgon.” Steve and Max say at the same time. Ah., and Eddie spends his time linking a good few together to make the Hellfire demon. 

“I hope this doesn’t get all blob-y.”

Steve looks over at his creation, “It shouldn’t, the dough holds up pretty well when it’s baked; that’s why you let it chill for a bit.”

He stands then, retrieving the saran-wrapped hunk of dough from the fridge and gets to work rolling it out.

Eddie watches the muscles in his arms bunch and pull, and, like a sap, thinks about how they’d feel wrapped around him. He likes hugs, okay? Sue him.

The four of them cut batch after batch after batch of cookies (each of them sneaking bites of the dough as they do), and by time they are baked and fully cooled, the sweet potatoes are in the oven, the stuffing is sitting done on the stove, there’s a sheet of rolls waiting to go in after the casserole, the others start to show up.

“Oh sweet, cookies!” Dustin’s finger immediately dunks into the bowl of frosting Steve just finished whipping up.

“Hey! Hands off, asshole, I still need to color some of that.

Steve passes Eddie a bowl of the stuff, a couple of drops of food coloring sitting on top. “Mix that up, will you?” I’m making the orange, that’s yellow.”

Eddie gives him a mock salute, “You got it boss.”

“Henderson, grab the sprinkles, you’re helping with these.”

The island is a disaster by the time they are done frosting the cookies. There’s colored sugar everywhere, loose M&Ms, broken pretzels, and there’s even a glob of red frosting hanging precariously from the underside of one of the far cabinet doors (somehow).

Each of the new arrivals grab up a couple of the cookies to decorate once they get in, adding their own goofy-looking additions to the heap.

Mike and Nancy are the last to arrive, toting a huge bowl of fluffy mashed potatoes, and they dig into the turkey soon after. 

They eat and eat and eat, laughing and eating some more, that by the time anyone gets around to the cookies, the very outside of their frosting has hardened to a crust and the inside is still soft and sugary.

“Oh my god, Steve.” Eddie moans, “This is the best cookie I’ve ever tasted.”

Steve’s face flushes pink, but he smiles wide. “I’m glad you like them, Eds.”

“I need to take some home to Wayne.”

Steve passes him a tupperware container of their creations as he’s leaving, along with an index card with Steve’s distinct handwriting is scrawled across it; the recipe for the cookies.

Eddie gets home that night just before Wayne heads in for his shift. “Y’have a good day, son?” he asks, plucking out one of the cookies from the container Eddie holds open for him as they pass each other in the doorway.

He smiles wide, “Very..”

other parts! Pt. 1 (Day 1) | Pt. 2 (Day 2) | Pt. 3 (Day 5) | Pt. 4 (Day 6) [YOU ARE HERE] | Pt. 5 (Day 7) | Pt. 6 (Day 11) | Pt. 7 (Day 13) | Pt. 8 (Day 18) | Pt. 9 (Day 21) | Pt. 10 (Day 25) also on AO3! this year

[shares-a-vest]

@flufftober Spring Edition Day 1: New Beginnings

wc: 590 | Rated: T for Canon-Typical Swearing | cw: One mention of cigarettes

Tags: First Apartment, Moving In, Steddie Cat Dads, Robin Buckley, Erica Sinclair, Dustin Henderson, Wayne Munson

Note: For the next two weeks, I'll be writing little ficlets within my Joanie Munson AU for this Spring Edition of Flufftober. Hopefully, I can fulfil each day – that's the goal anyway seeing as I couldn't participate too much last Flufftober. Nothing too elaborate, all stand-alone ficlets (as always) in this AU.

‘Steddie’s Tiny First Apartment’

Steve sets down the last moving box, placing it amongst the others. He stands upright and hums contentedly as he looks around the cramped, already messy, box-filled apartment.

His new beginning with Eddie.

Eddie who is coming up right behind him, so hot on his heels with excitement (and not a thing in hand) as he steps inside, he knocks square into him.

Steve yelps and stumbles forward.

But Eddie catches him, one hand on his polo sleeve, the other looping around his middle at break-neck speed.

“Easy there, sweetheart,” Eddie playfully warns, pulling them flush and bringing his other arm up to lock Steve firmly in an embrace.

“You ran into me,” he quips, giggling.

“We’re here,” Eddie sing-song whispers in his ear, a grin evident in his beaming, gleeful voice.

Steve nods, smiling as he leans into his partner’s touch.

He wants to stay like this – the two of them together.

In this place.

Their home.

“Cats incoming!” Robin announces, pushing through the doorway.

She bumps into them hard and Steve’s knee connects with a rather solid box, the contents of which gives a thud.

That one must be Box Number Twenty of Eddie’s books...

“Fuck – Rob!” he splutters, rubbing at the pain as Eddie continues holding onto him for dear life.

He watches on as he best friend tip-toes about, dodging boxes and knickknacks, misplaced furniture and random clothes, records and already-wilting houseplants as she cradles a very displeased – and freed from the confines of his cat carrier – Ozzy.

She only just makes it to the haphazardly placed thrifted couch when the demonic scamp leaps from her embrace with a bellowing meow! and scurries away.

“Why did you take him out of his carrier?” Eddie whines, practically shouting into Steve’s already-sensitive ears.

“That boy needs to roam free!” Robin argues, stretching her arms out wide and spinning around to make her point, “Besides, he started hissing at me in the car.”

She continues moving and almost runs off-kilter into Claudia Henderson’s old coffee table.

“Well, now he’s going to – ” Eddie begins, cut off with an elbow to the ribs as Dustin barges his way into the apartment.

“Precious cargo!” he yells, his voice reverberating around them as he carries Eddie’s DND folder and screen across his arms, keeping them steady and balanced with what looks like Herculean effort.

Erica follows not a second later, holding nothing but a purple string bag she swings about with abandon.

Steve can feel his eyes bulging out of his skull at the lack of assistance being carried out by two individuals who all but forced their way into the Beemer for the no-longer-final trip to Chicago.

But Steve doesn’t manage to get past open his mouth to complain because Eddie lets go of his steel-grip hold on him and launches himself clean over the aforementioned last box to snatch up the string bag.

He opens it up to expect the contents, mouths a count of his dice and brings the bag tight to his chest.

Eddie looks up and his face promptly drops as he looks over Steve’s shoulder – likely to the source of the sudden, strong scent of cigarettes.

“You were supposed to come back down to the truck, boy,” Wayne Munson grumbles, huffing away as he brings in a box labelled, ‘KITCHEN’.

Eddie begins muttering some excuse but Steve can’t find himself caring too much about the impending Munson Squabble.

Their new home could really use a collectable coffee mug or ten.

[idiopath-fic-smile]

WIP meme: if it is allowed for multiple people to prompt for the same WIP, i would love to see even more from the much ado co-op

Not only is it allowed, it makes my heart sing!

Previously:

Ursula's meeting notes contain no sex scenes!

Benedick and Beatrice have the classic "German vs philosophy' fight

The co-conspirators co-conspire

Lee ponders the roads not taken, and also genital rashes

The enigma that is Eustace Dogberry, or, how to not make lutefisk

New:

Bendedick strolled into the room. “Curtain’s up!” Clauda mouthed. 

“What?” said Benedick.

“HOLY SHIT,” bellowed Pedro, whose own acting background must have been heavily based in the importance of projecting every word, “THIS SURE IS EMBARRASSING.”

"Yes, my friend," said Claudia. "Secret feelings? It's too much."

Benedick blinked. He might have pretended to be above it, but everyone in Messina House knew that man loved a brand-new nugget of gossip. The bait was placed. The trap was set. Lee briefly forgot to tally the many other lives she could have lived.

"I'll leave you to it, then," Benedick said. "Sounds like a personal matter."

"ARE YOU CERTAIN?" Pedro half-yelled.

"You know what?" said Benedick. "Yeah, I think I'm growing as a person."

He sailed back out of the room.

For a moment, Pedro, Claudia, and Lee stared at each other, listening as the front door opened and then shut, announcing Benedick's exit from the house.

"Well," said Pedro, in something approaching his normal volume, "that sure was a bust—" He froze. "—ing makes me feel good!" Pedro quickly sang. "Kind of a moment, you know?" he added. "Like in Ghostbusters?"

Lee followed Pedro's line of sight to the open first-story window, where an extremely familiar head of hair was just visible over the flower box.

"Proud of Benedick," Lee managed. "That takes real maturity, you know?"

[masked-vee]

Illusionary Take Down

Julius stomped around, plotting. He still blames Team Maelstrom for his predicament. He knew getting back at them would be easy, executing his plan, however will be a challenge. If he could get the group's demise to look like an accident, everyone would be none the wiser. But he had to be careful, since there was a bounty on his head.

Suddenly, he heard voices coming from the right of him.

It was them...

Team Maelstrom.

Now's his chance to eliminate them once and for all!

Rune stops, causing a concern amongst the group.

"What is it?" Dielle asked.

"Someone is following us." Rune answered.

Inigo looked around. "I don't see anything." He shrugged.

"Well, what do we have here?" Julius grinned. He turned his attention to Malachi. "Having fun playing leader, pet?"

Malachi said nothing as he arched his back, and started growling.

"You do know that word is degrading to former wild ones, right?" Inigo asked.

"I don't care if it's degrading or not." Julius snorted. "All I care about is making sure that ferals, like you, are at the bottom of the food chain." The Skuntank stomped towards Malachi, earning a hiss from the frightened Shinx.

"Hey! Back off!" Maelstrom snapped, making larger mon recoil.

"You have no place to tell me what to do, pebble!" Julius barked back. He stood up, and brought his huge paw down on Malachi! (Julius used Night Slash!) Rune jumped to protect her friend, only to take the powerful blow.

However... (It's not very effective!)

Rune's image faded as a masked Zorua tumbled on the ground. (Grey's illusion faded!)

"For not being very effective, that really hurt!" Grey snarled.

"The gig is up, guys. Grey's illusion is broken!" Dielle said as her appearance shifted to a masked Sprigatito. Inigo growled as his form shifted to a Cyclizar. Malachi stood up as he grabbed Maelstrom from his neck, and Julius watched as the rock became a green hilt, and a blade materialized, from her. And Malachi, no, Mouse, an Eevee, lunged at the Skuntank and swung their blade at him. (Mouse used Sacred Sword.)

"It's gonna take more than just a little swipe from a letter opener to knock me down!" Julius bellowed.

Claudia, the Cyclizar swung her tail at Julius, knocking off his feet. (Claudia used Breaking Swipe!)

"Okay, at first, I was amused, now, I'm angry..." The Skuntank growled. "Time for a little Noxious Gas!" He released a disgusting stench (Julius used Toxic and Venoshock, It's super effective on Tunip, the Sprigatito), expecting everyone to be severely poisoned, but to his dismay, his adversaries were one step ahead of him.

"Gross!" Elizabeth gagged.

"You guys should be writhing in agony! What gives!?" Julius yelled.

Grey dry heaved as she answered. "Pecha Scarf, stupid!" she shows the piece of cloth tied to her mask strap. Julius looked around and realized the whole team were all wearing a poison preventing Pecha Scarf.

"It doesn't stop it from doing severe damage to me." Tunip groaned. She ran up to the Skuntank and smacked mud in his face. (Tunip used Mud Slap. It's super effective!) "But we can worry about that once we subdue this outlaw!"

"You heard Tunip, Mouse! Time we finished him off!" Grey called as he grabbed Julius' paw as he tried to attack, and threw him to the ground. (Grey used Foul Play.)

"Oh, crap..." Julius whispered, as Mouse charged up their attack and swung a massive hammer at him. (Mouse used Gigaton Hammer.)

Julius tried to keep his balance, but his legs gave in from under him, and he collapsed.

"Now, let's tie up the stinker before he wakes up." Elizabeth said.

(The autism hit me again! Julius, Rune, Malachi, Inigo, and Dielle belong to @woo-led and their On Borrowed Time series @pmdobt. Hope you like this non-canon writing. also, it's my way of getting therapy after what that smelly jerk did to me as a kid.)

[iwtvfanevents]

Rewind the Tape —Episode 4

Art of the episode

Just like we did for the pilot and for episodes two and three, we took note of the art shown and mentioned in the fourth episode while we rewatched it. Did we miss any? Can you help us put a name to the unidentified ones? Do you have any thoughts about how these references could be interpreted?

Bust of a Woman with Her Left Hand on Her Chin

Edgar Degas, 1898 [Identified by @terrifique.]

Degas, whose work already appeared in the second episode, was a French painter of the 19th to early 20th century. His impressionist paintings often depicted ballet dancers, racehorses, and human portraits of isolation.

Krumau on the Molde, Kneeling Girl with Spanish Skirt and Self portrait in a jerkin with right elbow raised

Egon Schiele, 1912, 1911 and 1914

Schiele, whose work we have also been seeing around Rue Royale since the pilot, was an Austrian Expressionist painter, very prolific despite passing before turning 30. His work is recognizable for its transgressive portrayal of the nude body, including his nude self-portraits; but his later oeuvre features many landscapes.

The Kitten's Art Lesson

Henriette Ronner Knip, 1821-1909 [Identified by @terrifique.]

Knip was a Dutch-Belgian romantic style artist best known for paintings of animals, particularly cats and dogs of a playful nature. See more of her work here.

Nosferatu

F.W. Murnau, 1922

Nosferatu is a silent expressionist horror film from the legendary German director F.W. Murnau. It is an unauthorized adaptation of Bram Stoker's Dracula. While not a commercial success upon release in 1922, film historians now consider it an influential and revolutionary film in the horror genre. Since it has been in the public domain since 2019 in the U.S., it is now free to stream on YouTube.

Untitled piece

Sadie Sheldon, undated [Identified by @lanepryce.]

The incredible metalwork piece on the wall of the reading room was made by a New Orleans-based artist, for New Orleans... pizzeria! It was made for Pizza Delicious, using dozens of tin cans. Sheldon describes her work as "site and time-specific projects from found materials (...) related to adaptability, renewal, and appreciating the objects of our everyday life".

New York

George Bellows, 1911 [Identified by @nicodelenfent, here.]

Several of Bellows' pieces have been featured in previous episodes. He was an American realist painter, known for his bold depictions of urban life in NYC. His work "revolutionized the conventions of the traditional American urban vista and surpassed the efforts of other contemporary urban realists" [x].

Backstage at the Opera

Jean Beraurd, 1889

Beraurd was a Russian born French painter known for his depictions of Parisian life and society during the Belle Epoque. [Identified by @nicodelenfent.]

Unidentified works

In Claudia's room: above the Knip we can see a painting of what looks like four people, maybe women sitting at a balcony. To the left of the door we can see, on top, a floral bouquet over a dark background, and below that, an illustration or painting of a woman with flowers over a bright pink background.

You can see all unidentified works from the first season in this post. If you spot or put a name to any other references, let us know if you'd like us to add them with credit to the post!

Starting tomorrow, we will be rewatching and discussing Episode 5, A Vile Hunger for your Hammering Heart. We can't wait to hear your thoughts!

And, if you're just getting caught up, learn all about our group rewatch here ►

[becuzmdsaidineededpersonality]

Potential Hidden Symbolism in Claudia's Performance Song

There's nothing more adorable than a happy baby bird And a happy baby loves to sing with a voice that can be heard

(this refers to her joining in the coven and it being a place where she felt she could be a happy bird but was still a baby in terms of what she knew about the vampires and their laws...and also, obviously her physical form never aging)

There's just one thing that makes her sad In fact I think it makes her mad

When she's locked away like an old duvet

(she is locked away bellow the stage, in her unaging body, her feelings of being cast aside by Louis when he chooses Armand and Lestat over her)

Like a love that's lost its enchantée

(both refers to her lovers she tried to turn and the soured love between Louis and Lestat)

And the sunshine calls her out to play

(She can no longer go into the sun after she was turned)

Well, you know what I'm about to say

I don't like windows when they're closed

(the future was closed to her, she was also trapped behind a closed window when Louis came to save her)

I want to fly where the wild wind blows

(both her wanting the power Lestat had to not feel so powerless and also wanting to be free of the trappings of her physical form and the vampire coven)

Trees and bees and big rainbows

(trees in the plays refer to the Woodcutter play and how "death comes for us all" bees and big rainbows come out when the sun is out, something Claudia was no longer able to see when she was turned)

No, I don't like windows when they're closed (She don't like windows when they're closed)

A tweedeelee-tweedeelee-dee A tweedeelee-tweedeelee-dere A feedeelee-tweedeelee-wee A feedeelee-tweedeelee-dere

Trees and bees and big rainbows No, I don't like windows when they're closed (She don't like windows when they're closed)

No, I don't like windows when they're closed...

[imminent-danger-came]

hi. mentally ill about soren and claudia. the siblings in tdp all make me insane but soren and claudia are so. viren's daughter claudia and her brother soren (he doesn't like soren). the fact that at first claudia seems like the nice one but soren questions when he's doing the wrong thing and claudia digs herself deeper every chance she gets. that one scene where to protect ezran (?) (it's been a while since i watched this bit) he threatens claudia and she just looks so heartbroken and determined. they both do. because they still do care so so much about each other, it's just that they've taken such different paths and neither of them is willing to bend, not even for the other. <- not normal

OMG A TDP ASK FOR ME??????????????

Who doesn't love Soren and Claudia.

Like, Soren was willing to kill his father in the name of what was right, and Claudia was willing to bring her father back from the dead ignoring what was right ("I did things...I never imagined I would be able to do"). Claudia in s2 wants to "use [her] words not [her] muscles" but when it comes down to it, she's always going to use the strength dark magic gives her to get what she wants, and Soren has since learned that forgiveness and friendship are powerful things. Claudia has only distanced herself from the personhood of the creatures/people around her further and further (which is part of the danger of dark magic), while Soren has only become more and more aware of it.

Soren would jump headfirst into the sea in heavy armor to save an innocent baitling, whereas Claudia would try and squeeze her former friends to death for the sake of her goal. They both have a completely different understanding of the value of life, at all different levels, with Viren learning that value later:

And I think Soren learning to value life more and more over the course of his arc 1 er, arc, only adds to the fact that he's willing to kill his father at the end of s3.

Had Soren been down in the ocean with the rest of the gang in 5x09, I think he wouldn't have hesitated in killing Claudia either, despite how much he cares about her.

While Claudia's followed the dark path of her father ("Daddy look! I'm following in your footsteps!") Soren's been trying to walk a different path. To follow Ezran and his efforts for a brighter future.

I just think they're neat!

(For context, these scenes take place right after one another. Soren staying on the surface to look after their creature friends VS Claudia who sinks bellow to the ocean floor using the corpse of a pentapus)

Bonus "My eyes for truth" and seeing personhood comp:

[ranchracoon]

Ch. 2 Angie

You carried one bag over your shoulder and the other two in your hands as you tagged along behind Mother Miranda. The two of you walked down the same path past the church and through the village center; you glanced around for any sign of your aunt's carriage but saw none. A castle in the distance caught your attention, its gothic architecture was beautifully sinister as it stood over the village like its watchful protector. People who passed by would bow their heads and tip their hats to Mother Miranda, their attention never lingered on you.

Mother Miranda led you to a large, circular site with three distinct paths: one goes to the bay, one goes to the hillside, and the other is blocked by two wooden doors. The door had a golden circle with six crow's wings attached to it. A gurgling cough caught your attention, and your eyes widened at a giant man. He sat in a horse drawn carriage with the back open, a table oit front with various objects and trinkets, and dried meats hung from the doors. His blond hair was slicked to the side and thinning, his entire belly hung over his legs and he had the widest grin you had ever seen.

"Ah ha! Good morning Mother Miranda!" The man bellowed.

"Good morning Duke, how are you doing today?" She asked.

"Well as always! Could I interest you in something? I have a whole new assortment of scented candles."

"Perhaps when I return, I am escorting Y/N here to the Benviento residence." She replied.

The man looked at you and smiled again, "good to meet you Y/N, I am the Duke. Exporter of goods from all across the world so if you ever need anything please stop by."

You gave him a nod and a half smile then continued to walk behind Mother Miranda. What an oddly welcoming man. You passed through the large wooden doors, they creaked and groaned from lack of use. The path was overgrown, the tall weeds brushed against your pants and even Mother Miranda hoisted her robe to keep from catching. The morning fog covered your shoes, from a distance it looked like you and Mother Miranda were floating. She seemed completely unbothered by the various headstones you passed until the two of you approached a tall stone structure with the name 'Claudia' etched on it. There were dolls surrounding the headstone with burnt candle nubs at the foot. Mother Miranda paused and bowed her head, she said some incoherent words then knelt down and lit a still standing candle by the grave.

The wind blew the dead leaves past your feet, it whipped a few strands of hair loose that fell in front of your face. You shook it from your head and realized that Mother Miranda had started to walk away without you; you sprinted to catch up and fixed the bag on your shoulder that had started to slip. The path curved and you paused to take in the view before you, it was otherworldly. The waterfall reflected the threads of sunlight that leaked over the mountain range with the rising sun, the spray of water created a shimmering rainbow over the mansion. The mansion itself was beautiful with rustic red wood on the outside, white stone for walls, and a regal, black iron fence surrounding it. A greenhouse was hidden off to the side but looked completely abandoned and overgrown like the rest of the path.

Mother Miranda knocked on the mahogany door and waited patiently, behind it you could hear muttered words and what sounded like a lady rambling. The door swung open violently and revealed a short, older woman whose scowl was worse than your aunt's, if that was even possible. You audibly gulped as the woman looked you up and down, she had bulging brown eyes, a hunched back, her hair was as gray as dust, and she wore a white apron that seemed to consume her whole tiny body. She was thin enough that if she turned sideways she would be invisible. The woman grumbled and waddled out of the way, still mumbling under her breath.

"Hello to you too Angie." Mother Miranda said with a bite.

Mother Miranda walked in and turned to look at you, her smile continued to radiate kindness and warmth, and you wanted to melt into a puddle underneath it. It surprised you such a woman could say something remotely unkind, but it appeared this Angie woman was the exception. Angie came out from around the corner with a broom in her hand and stopped in front of you. You forced a smile toward her and set down the briefcase to hold out a hand to her.

"Hello Angie, I'm Y/N." You said kindly.

"Don't care. Come with me." She retorted.

Angie walked away and you glanced at Mother Miranda who only gave you another smile and mouthed 'good luck.' She left through the front door, now you were completely alone with a woman who you were certain was going to cut out your eyeballs. Something hit you in the back of your head and you yelped from the pain as you shot your hand to where it struck; when you looked down, there was a small wooden figurine. Angie grumbled and tapped her foot just after you looked up at her. You picked up the briefcase and hurried up the stairs, she led you to a door and hit it with the handle of the broom.

"You're room. If you need anything, get it yourself. Put your stuff away, apparently I'm supposed to show you the ropes."

"Thank you." You mumbled.

Angie huffed and waddled away toward the stairs, you sighed and pushed open the door. The room was slightly bigger than the room you stayed in last night. There was a desk next to the door, a bed in the far right corner with a nightstand, lamp, and floatong shelf next to it, and a dresser against the wall across from the bed. You placed the briefcase on top of the small desk then the other two bags on the bed, it sprung to life and a thin cloud of dust billowed up. You coughed and backed up to the window to crack it open, the refreshing air was nice but was quickly interrupted by Angie yelling at someone or something.

You briefly poked your head out to see there was a strip of land then the waterfall. Before you go through with jumping you bring your head in and sign heavily. Spinning around on your heels you make your way back downstairs. Once down there you wander aimlessly through the main area, a sitting nook, a living/office space, and back around. No sign of her.

"What are you doing?" Said Angie from behind you.

"Ah!" You screamed.

You turned around quickly, she blinked at you as you collected your heart after it burst from your chest. Angie walked away to start the guide, she showed you the entertaining room, the sitting room, literal piles of rope, and lastly a hall with an elevator. The two of you rode the elevator down, it groaned and gently swung as it descended. Your knuckles turned white from the death grip you had on the railing, this elevator and Angie were going to be the death of you. It screeched loudly and clanged to a stop, sweat beaded around your collar and the small of your back from nerves and stress. Angie smacked her hand loudly on the side, a beat later the door opened.

"To your left is the lord's office. You are not allowed to go in there under any circumstances." Angie warned.

For someone so tiny and old she sure moved fast, you had to fast walk to keep up with her. She pointed to another door to your right.

"Storage, and at the end of this hall to the left is the lord's workshop. You're not allowed there either."

"Why?" You asked.

"Because I'm Mother Miranda and said so." Angie sneered.

"As you wish Mother Miranda. I would never dream of disobeying you." You said sarcastically.

"Mother Miranda? Do I look like a six foot tall doll? And they say I'm crazy." She muttered.

You groaned under your breath and rolled your eyes, that was a mistake. Angie hit you in the chest with the end of her broom, you grunted and held the spot she hit.

"Roll your eyes again and I'll pluck them out." She threatened.

Knew it. You thought.

She walked through the kitchen to show you where the cooking utensils, food, spices, and anything you might need were. The door at the end of the hall was also forbidden. You peaked out from the kitchen toward the door, the lord's bedroom. When are you found to meet this lord? You glance back over your shoulder at Angie who was talking to a little porcelain doll that sat on a table in the hallway. Not your issue.

"Angie?"

"What?" She answered quickly.

"When do I meet Lord Beneviento?" You asked.

"You don't."

"What do you mean?"

"You deaf? The lord doesn't like to be disturbed. I've never seen em."

Your eyes widened, "you've never seen them? How do you know there is one then?"

"Because last I checked ghosts don't eat or wear clothes. The food is always gone and there's always dirty clothes."

You furrowed your brow at her but decided to keep your mouth shut to avoid being hit again. How could she have worked here for so long and never seen them? Certainly they would have had to come out at some point. Angie went back upstairs with you and pointed you in the direction of the supply closet, when you opened it brooms and mops fell at your feet. You groaned again at the state of the closet, the mops and brooms were disorganized, everything was shoved and thrown in there.

"Starting now, you cook, you clean, you do the laundry, get the groceries, and you don't talk back." Angie ordered.

"What will you be doing?" You asked curtly.

"Bossing you around." She laughed.

She wasn't joking when she said she would boss you around because that's exactly what she did. Day one she had you scrub the floors on your hands and knees until both were red, swollen, and raw. She would hit you with that damned broom anytime you got snarky or rolled your eyes. You kept telling yourself this was better than being on the street, at least you have a roof over your head. You wondered what would happen if Angie and your aunt ever met. They would eat each other alive, or become best friends who would team up on you.

You stood from your knelt position and leaned back to pop your back. A bell dinged in the main room, you glanced toward the sound then Angie as she pointed to the elevator.

"Dinner time. Workshop." She ordered.

"How do you know?"

"You ask a lot of questions. Ugh. Each bell has a distinct ring, when you've been here long enough you know which ding and ring is which." She answered.

The elevator clanged to a stop and you both stood there, Angie groaned and cleared her throat as she waved her hands in front of her. You banged the wall and the door slid open, she hummed while she walked into the kitchen and pulled out pots and pans. You attempted to follow along with what she was making but she merely smacked your hands away so you decided to stand off to the side. Angie ended up making..something. It had food in it but it certainly didn't look like food, and now you felt bad for the lord. Maybe they are a ghost? Perhaps they died after consuming whatever it is that Angie made.

It took a minute but you found your way to the workshop, you knelt down and set the tray down by the door. Curiously you looked up at the door then over both shoulders before you leaned into the door with your ear pressed on it. There wasn't a sound, you thought you heard footsteps but they were so light it was hard to tell. You sighed softly and knocked on the door before standing to return to the kitchen.

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[vintagetvstars]

Submissions and Bracket Update!

Hello everyone! It has officially been one week since launching this blog and opening submissions for our first hot vintage tv stars tournament, the hot vintage tv women's bracket! We are currently sitting at 118 total submissions! With at least 79 hot vintage TV ladies submitted. So far I've managed to sort through about half of them. Because we have a decent number of submissions I am currently planning on closing submissions on Friday, April 5th. This will give everyone a few more days to get in submissions before we start our tournament. Submission have slowly been winding down each day so it seemed like giving everyone a few more days to submit their favs and then getting to work setting up the bracket would be ideal. Though, if enough people feel like we should gather more submissions first and give everyone a little more time then I'm happy to push this proposed date back. But right now with almost 80+ submissions I think that's enough to give us a satisfying and fun bracket. After Submissions close I'll take some time to finish organizing everything before polls go up for round 1. There will probably be some housekeeping things after submissions close so stay tuned. As of right now I am shooting to start round 1 sometime between April 8th - 12th depending on how long I need to get things set up behind the scenes. So stay tuned for an announcement on the exact date! One housekeeping thing before the list of current hot vintage tv lady contestants. It seems there might have been a bit of confusion on how to fill out the submission form.

The place for the contestants name is where you put the name of the hot vintage tv lady you are submitting for the bracket.

And the suggested poll pic is for you to place a link to a picture of your hot vintage tv lady that I can use to represent them in the polls.

If you filled out the form incorrectly previously, no problem, please feel free to resubmit your fav with the form properly filled out this time. I can't use submissions that are submitted incorrectly, I simply don't have enough time to try and figure out what was intended from limited information. I've updated the form to clarify these things. Finally bellow is the current list of submitted hot vintage tv ladies for the bracket! Please keep in mind that this list is subject to change as I have only gone through about half of the submissions so far. It's possible there might be people on this list that will be disqualified later for not meeting our criteria.

If your fav isn't on the list, then they aren't in the bracket, so please feel free to submit them while submissions remain open!

Nichelle Nichols

Mary Tyler Moore

Bea Arthur

Diana Rigg

Gillian Anderson

Carol Burnett

Loretta Swit

Marlo Thomas

Lynda Carter

Betty White

Rue McClanahan

Barbara Feldon

Fran Drescher

Carolyn Jones

Claudia Black

Lisa Bonet / Lilakoi Moon

Sarah Michelle Gellar

Sarah Jessica Parker

Elizabeth Montgomery

Kathryn Leigh Scott

Julia Louis-Dreyfus

Miranda Richardson

Melissa Joan Hart

Mariska Hargitay

Lisa Robin Kelly

Elisabeth Sladen

Leighton Meester

Barbara Stanwyck

Kellye Nakahara

Shannen Doherty

Carol Cleveland

Aimi MacDonald

Catherine Bach

Valerie Harper

Jane Krakowski

Amanda Tapping

Penelope Keith

Kylie Minogue

Jonelle Allen

Rachel Bilson

Terry Farrell

Joanna Lumley

Siân Phillips

Karyn Parsons

Courteney Cox

Sherilyn Fenn

Eliza Dushku

Debbie Allen

Lucy Lawless

Jane Seymour

Jan Smithers

Carole André

Nana Visitor

Jackée Harry

Janet Hubert

Yvonne Craig

Peggy Lipton

Lisa Hartman

Julie Newmar

Anne Francis

Barbara Eden

Vivica A Fox

Grayson Hall

Joan Bennet

Julia Duffy

Mag Ruffman

Gina Torres

Mira Furlan

Tina Louise

Lara Parker

Eartha Kitt

Deidre Hall

Dawn French

Dawn Wells

Lalla Ward

Kat Graham

Joan Chen

Eva Gabor

Eve Arden

[thanklessindubai]

"If he had merely left, I would've had nothing. He wouldn't have needed to kill me, I would've perished. I would've remained in madness, hated and alone until I had the decency to end it all. He was the wicked wind that scattered the ashes in the ruins of my life. It was a life worth ruining; I admit that freely. But it was still my life.

"I carried on in misery, stalwart, standing fast at the post to which I was appointed. And it kept me alive, Mina. The coven kept me alive. If it weren't for Lestat's mercy, you would not have my hand to hold.

"For one hundred years, I cared for my coven and they clung to me. I gave them my strength and my wisdom." He shook his head, laughing at himself under his breath. It hardly seemed like wisdom now.

"And their need to be led carried me when I had no will to go on. But I became a pale shadow, pushing papers and enforcing curfew. I was a ghost for a century, still heartbroken. Because in my defeat, I'd fallen in love with Lestat."

You don't say.

"Without him, there was no light in my life. No meaning or desire. No understanding, nor concept of time. I trudged through our history like a key-turned toy. A music box that was winding down.

"But then I found him. My handsome criminal. Louis arrived in Paris and it seemed all the Great Laws broke to his touch. He was Lestat's fledgling -- of course, he was. And to our utter disbelief, he had been taught nothing of our world by his maker. He was made weak, ignorant, and defenseless in a world that would devour him.

"He traveled with a child vampire, Claudia, whom he'd helped to make. Together they'd killed their maker -- or so they thought -- and Claudia recorded her history, her mad crimes, in diaries unguarded. They left corpses in open ground for humans to find. And Claudia would find a mortal pet and tell her everything.

"But before we'd learned any of this, it was my chore to bring them into the fold. Claudia was thrilled to join, so much so that she swore herself to oaths she had no intention of keeping. Like Lestat, nothing was real or sacred to Claudia. She would lie to us in a heartbeat.

"But Louis refused us at every turn, traumatized by the tyranny of Lestat's love, and if I could not persuade him, I was obligated to destroy him.

"So I followed him. I gently fellowshipped. I turned our every conversation down the path of conversion. He wouldn't have it. Instead, he cast his spell on me. Stripped me bare with every wicked, knowing smile. Pinned me down with every penetrating stare.

"And the more he forced me to look into his eyes, the more the thought of destroying him became impossible. I hadn't the power to move against him. He had my heart in his hands and worked it like a bellow. And I felt myself split in two: one alive and in love and enslaved, the other a criminal, living in shame and hypocrisy.

"My coven began to demand Louis' head. It was my duty to them, and to the laws that were supposed to protect us. He was a danger to us, I knew that he was, and yet I gave him special treatment. For two years, he did as he pleased.

"He despised and mocked and lied to the coven. He kept me for pleasure, too frightened to give me more. Frightened that I would become his new Lestat. He used me, humiliated me, and made my weakness and betrayal plain to the coven. The light had returned to my life, so brightly did he shine that my world was burning again..."

Mina knew that when he told her he would tell her everything, there was a possibility that she would hear everything. Still, to hear him take it as far back as when he met Lestat was a bit of a surprise.

Mina knew the great laws, that was a story that she'd already told Armand when they first met and he was surprised she knew them, but she still let him continue.

She knew Children of Satan was a cult, but the way Armand still framed it was like in a way he almost missed it. "thier love' 'they kept me from suicide', that wasn't something you listed as something you completely hated.

But Armand had been treated so badly by everyone in his life.

"It doesn't sound very merciful to me," she still offered, still clutching his hand tightly. Sounded like fucking mindgames to her. Sounded on par with reviews of the books for what he was like

[wolfofwinchester]

@casketdweller asked, He seemed to melt against Claudia’s person, a soft, pitiful sort-of whine from the mortician as he became her newest cloak. It’s disgustingly hot, dearest.

What a relief she must be to greet, even though she is coated in her own light sheet of sweat from the vividly blazing sun blaring its way through the open windows of the manor. Even now as the degrees rose and kicked into action, the woman's skin remains to possess that unnatural chill its known for best, now glowing against the Mortician as he sought shelter against her.

"C'mere, ya big pup." The clatter of disposed tools join the short laughter bellowing from her throat, arms better finding themselves reeling Azrael around into her lap to tuck him into her neck. She hugged him tight around the waist, peppering kisses against his crown. "Comin' of Spring gettin' to ya, lover? Thought you might appreciate a bitta heat."