#him doing the black swan dance (idk what it is called) but i imagine him in his scarf black assassin outfit doing it

[averagelonelypotato]

Oboro is like the black swan to me

[caddy-whump-us]

Some questions/food for thought: Why can Lucian never be a Black Swan? Has he done something to discount him from that entirely? Does he ever beg to be treated like one (and get suitably punished for his insolence)?

Oh anon~ This is about to be a Deep Dive into the Lore and Backstory. Spoilers ahead for some of the unwritten bits of the vampire series. And this is seriously long, okay? And, more importantly:

CAUTION/TW for referenced non-con, sex work, and forced/non-con sex work, and physical violence. Nothing is described outright; all mentions are only oblique references. Still, please proceed with caution!

Okay. Lucien. This snide little asshole. Let’s talk about him!!!

Lucien could be a black swan–in theory. But he’s been passed over because he’s actually not entirely human. O wat? O yes.

So the “red light district” of this city (which needs a name; I generally picture something like Yharnam from Bloodborne but with fewer monsters and more of a functional city) is called Smoketown. And it’s off to the southeast corner of the city, on the other side of the river. And this is the part of town where the drugs, gambling, dance halls, and sex workers are found. To use the local slang, there’s grindhouses and ponyboy stables, and dollboys around Smoketown. 

There’s a bit of a hierarchy, I guess, in all this, with the “dolls” and “dollboys” being the top tier (charging the most), down to the ponyboy/ponygirl stables (middle tier), down to the grindhouse boys/girls (lower tier), on down to the “crib hoors” and “street hoors” (generally regarded as awful and only suitable for the most broke and desperate). This is a real simplification, but I guess that explains the basics? 

Lucien was, some time ago, a dollboy (so was Maggie Magpie, actually). They’re regarded as the prettiest and most expensive–if you want to be fancy you could almost call them courtesans. And, ideally, they’ll get themselves a particular patron and be a sort of love affair for pay.

An aside: so this imagined world has different views on sexuality (and to some extent gender? but not quite so much). Basically, when one is young, go ahead and fool around. You’re young, what you do now is less important than what you do later. But because this culture still very much holds to primogeniture, you had better be married to someone with whom you can have a biological child. That’s the ideal. But while you’re young, a teenager, a 20-something, go ahead and fool around–ideally not in Smoketown, but if you’re a boy and you find yourself drawn to a boy classmate, well, that’s just how it is when you’re young. And if you’re a girl, and you find yourself drawn to a girl classmate, well, go on ahead, because young love is passionate but rarely lasts. You can like whoever during this period of particular romantic and sexual freedom.

Once one gets a little older, it’s considered mature and responsible to “grow out” of this phase of experimentation and rampaging passion. You settle down, you marry someone with whom you can have biological children, and your firstborn will inherit your estate, &c &c. But, of course, some people just…won’t. Because this is how they are. In some cases, like Nikolai and Jonathan, they go on with their relationship and don’t grow out of it but rather into each other (this is why N&J staged a secret wedding between themselves, with rings and all; they can’t marry in the eyes of the law, but they consider themselves married). And, yes, this is not considered mature or wholly acceptable, so they keep these (quite committed) relationships as secret as possible.

In other cases, especially among the titled, the gentry, the upper-class, who all marry each other as one does, if you must indulge in this misplaced youthful exuberance, there’s Smoketown. And if must go to Smoketown, at least pay for the services of one of the sex workers of equally high status. (Does that always happen? No. But you get the idea.)

So you have this set of “houses” of highly-paid, highly-regarded “dollboys.” And these houses are both in competition with one another but not a strenuous competition. Any competition mostly plays out in trying to find or recruit new workers (Maggie, as an example, was born to a sex worker and, presumably, a client and was kept as a kind of a household servant in that same “house” until the proprietor of the Aviary encountered him and essentially bought him and kept on using him as a household servant until he was of age to actual start work; he’s in debt at this point). 

And, of course, the different houses have different aesthetics. The Aviary tends to have boyish workers that play to that nostalgic “school romance” or “university romance” aesthetic, Lucien’s house (no name yet) tends to play more with gender especially re: clothing and makeup. Lucien likes feathers and leathers and silk and lace and painting his eyes. He knows he can kind of saunter along and blur that line. And it works well for him.

So that’s Smoketown. Now. Off north of the river and outside the city (northwest of it, I think?) is a district called “The Five Churches.” And there are, indeed, five churches, that all share a large plaza or square onto which their doors open (p.s.: weddings are conducted on the porch of the church; just a fun fact there). The sixth side of the plaza is open to the city. Beyond and behind the churches is a massive, massive cemetery–it is absolutely the cemetery for the entire city (please picture Highgate Cemetery or the Glasgow Necropolis).

And somewhere out in or beyond or (actually) under the cemetery is a secret, hidden, exclusive…club, I guess. It’s not a cult, but it’s extremely secretive. A secret society, is I guess the best way to put it. And it is called The Red Circle.

The truth is, the Red Circle is really just a giant whump party. The rich and powerful (men, almost exclusively) have at their disposal a selection of whumpees to use as they see fit, to release the tensions of the lives or to satisfy urges that otherwise cannot be soothed or just because. 

Now it’s time to introduce a new character. His name is Cyprian and he is a vampire. And he is also under the control of the Red Circle (for reasons I haven’t figured out yet). They’ve got something to use against him if he betrays them, IDK. 

Etienne has actually found evidence of Cyprian but doesn’t know it. There are tally marks in a book hidden in Viktor’s library that add up to about 3 years and change and at the end are the initials C. G. That’s Cyprian from back when he was Viktor’s black swan. And, yes, Viktor turned him into a vampire. And, no, Cyprian wasn’t happy. He should have been Viktor’s heir, but that didn’t work out. And now he’s under the command of the Red Circle. But why?

Well if you have a bunch of whumpees and you love whumping them, how do you keep whumping them without constantly killing them and then needing new ones? The answer came from some of Cyprian’s research (he started digging into the whole “black swan” custom among other things): it is possible to create a kind of ghoul, a kind of half-vampire by carrying out the procedure used to turn a human into a vampire but carrying that procedure out only partially.

Rather than draining the human of all (or almost all) of their blood and then feeding them blood from the vampire that drank their blood, a vampire can inject a human with a small amount of their blood (not taken from the human victim in question here) and you’ll end up with what’s been termed a ghoul.

Ghouls are worthless to vampires: their blood is disgusting, they smell like rust and iron to vampires. And they don’t get many of the benefits that full vampires have–they can’t move so fast, they don’t have the sharp teeth, &c. they do have better vision at night but their eyes are inclined to reflect light like a cat’s eyes will. 

Instead, ghouls are more like humans but still have the vampiric sensitivity to sunlight (neither ghouls nor vampires burn in the sun, btw) and are bound by what’s called the Obligation of Flesh. Where vampires can sustain themselves with blood only, ghouls have to eat raw meat with some regularity. This both keeps them essentially sane and (more importantly to the Red Circle) helps them to heal inordinately quickly. Deny them meat and they heal like typical humans. Feed them some raw liver or brains or raw chicken and raw eggs and they’ll start mending right before your eyes (no, it isn’t comfortable, thanks). Yes, they can die and much more easily than true vampires and some of the Red Circle’s ghouls have, in fact, died.

Now you’re probably way ahead of me by now: Lucien is, in fact, a ghoul. 

The Red Circle’s method goes like this: one or more of them identify someone they want to add to their collection. This decision is discussed and debated until consensus is reached–and they’re very careful about how often and who they add to their collection. At that point, lower-ranking members are sent to the target’s working house and pay for their services–whereupon they whump them up but badly. 

This happens sometimes, even in the best houses, even in the Aviary. The target is allowed to heal but this means less money for the house. As soon as the target is back at work, someone else comes in and repeats the process: payment, whumping. The proprietor is not likely to put a bruised boy out on the floor in a good house, so back he goes to heal and, again, money is lost. And this repeats as long as is needed until word gets out that the proprietor is getting a little fed up with this pattern but it’s not one obvious person or one obvious group doing it. At that point, a messenger from the Red Circle will arrive with an offer to buy the target outright at an extravagant cost, enough to make losing this one boy worth it, especially if it means an end to having an unworkable boy so often. It may take time, but the proprietor is eventually coerced into accepting the offer and the target is spirited away by members of the Red Circle (or aspiring members maybe? pledges, if you will?) and to their secret meetingplace. 

Everything about this sucks, including the part where Cyprian makes them into a ghoul, because that alone hurts like hell. And then they’re stuck there, getting whumped regularly, then patched up and/or fed raw meat. One of the higher-ranking members serves as a kind of proprietor there; Cyprian is as much a servant (or slave?) as any of the ghouls.

So that’s how Lucien ended up being completely undesirable to vampires. But how did he get out of the Red Circle? Mostly because he was a very bad element to add to the collection and there was an uprising against the members of the Red Circle and there may or may not have been some revenge whumping and even cannibalism (gotta meet that Obligation of Flesh somehow). 

At that point, after the Red Circle was broken, everyone in the collection kind of went their own ways. Even Cyprian was free. Lucien, though, kind of fascinated by Cyprian and the things he talked about, sought out Viktor and offered himself as a postulate. And, as we all know, Viktor accepted him. And Lucien set out to be the best and most devoted because that’s how you get rewarded in the world he comes from.

But the first time he offered his blood to Viktor, Viktor laughed and called him a monster and refused his blood. And here Lucien, having learned of the whole black swan tradition mostly from being in Viktor’s house, had been hoping for such a place of honor and now it seems like it’s been absolutely denied to him forever–because he’s a monster with blood Viktor can’t consume. And, yes, Lucien is unbelievably angry and bitter about the whole situation, especially when Etienne enters the picture (unexpectedly).

I hadn’t thought about him begging for the chance to be treated as a black swan and then being punished for daring to ask for such a thing but, damn, now I want to think about that. He probably would–albeit in private. There’s a lot of jockeying for position among the postulates and Lucien has worked his way up to the top, almost a class by himself, and he will not let that go easily. So to be seen begging for something could weaken his position and that won’t do. And yet…and yet…he does want it…

He might get what he wants someday. But it’s going to take some interesting circumstances.

So that’s a bit of a deep dive into the lore, worldbuilding, and backstory that’s running along and behind the vampire stories. If you made it this far, thanks for reading all this! Bits of this will come out as I get more of the stories sorted out and written. But there you have it~

[footbaliimagines]

green light (an antoine griezmann imagine)

these are intended to be like snippets of a relationship between two people who <3 each other from the start but cant quite get their timing right. Idk it’s all a bit random and jumbled but i like the idea and the individual bits and the song and i hope you like it!! (p.s. the timeline is not 100% nailed tbh there isnt really much of a coherent timeline at all oops but let’s just go with it and not overthink it too much LOL SORRY)  also it is ridiculously long so its allllll under the cut down there and also i have basically just lifted and edited one of my other drabbles in here so yeah

 I know about what you did and I wanna scream the truth

You’re 18 and you hate him so much that you’re sure you never want to see him again.

(Never want to speak to him again, never want to look at his stupid smile, never want to set sights on another football match again in your entire life.)

He left you, alone, sad, single and still pining, after pledging his commitment to you and your relationship only to have his head turned by a stupid football team.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

It was all so god damn stupid.

“You’re not stupid,” Your best friend rolls her eyes and nudges you with her elbow.

You hum unresponsively, and silence envelops your bedroom once again. Rolling onto your back, you scrunch your eyes shut and groan, “I am. I’m stupid for believing him, and stupid for falling in love with such a stupid guy and I’m stupid because I’m here whining and crying and feeling sorry for myself while he’s out having the time of his life.”

“You’re not stupid.” This time, she laughs at your stubbornness, and flops next to you on your bed. “You’re in love. That’s not stupid. That’s life.”

She looks at you knowingly, and you hum again. It feels like your world is crumbling around you, but her words are probably the wisest you’ve ever heard. “I still feel stupid.” You mumble.

Before you’re about to burst into tears again, she wraps her arms around you and murmurs into your shoulder, “You can, and that’s valid. But you’ll be okay, you’ll move on and in a few years’ you won’t even remember his name. I promise.”

thought you said that you would always be in love

“Wine? Beer? I have some whiskey somewhere if you’d prefer that?”

You shrug, “I don’t mind. Whatever you’ve got open already.”

He pours you a gin and tonic and waits expectantly for you to speak up.

But you don’t.

You stare, fixated, at your glass, and swirl your straw around in the ice with one hand, fiddling with the zipper on your jacket with the other, waiting for him to make the first move.

It feels stranger than you can imagine to be sat here in silence next to Antoine. You want to speak, you feel like you should speak, but the words can’t quite come and there’s an insurmountable lump lodged in your throat. You haven’t seen each other in months, and it feels like there’s been a hole in your heart ever since he left.

(A huge, horrible Antoine-shaped hole.)

It’s not like you don’t see him at all, but his visits have slowly become less frequent and university has begun to occupy more and more of your time, and you’ve inevitably drifted. Awkwardness was never something you feared with Antoine, but now the atmosphere couldn’t be any more uncomfortable.

You cave after a few more minutes of strained silence. “How have you been?”

He’s grateful that he didn’t have to be the one to make the first move, and nods quickly. “Good, good. How’s home?”

“Home’s good too.”

“And yourself?”

“All good.”

(You want the ground to swallow you up.)

“Hey- you know that you can tell me anything, right? You don’t have to hold anything back.”

“Bit difficult when you’ve not been around, but sure.” You say, and there’s a bitterness in your voice that you don’t bother to hide. “And maybe if you bothered to call every once in awhile I’d feel a bit more comfortable spilling my guts to you.”

“Don’t be a dick about this. Calm down.”

He leans back on his seat, sipping coolly at his water. He’s cool and casual and acting like he doesn’t give a single fuck, and the arrogance of it all, the way he swans back home and acts as if he’s the bees knees just because he can kick a ball about for a bit makes you seethe.

“Fuck you.”

Then he laughs - he has the audacity to laugh - and salty tears threaten to spill from your eyes. “What’s so funny?”

You place your glass down on the table with extra force and stare him down, dead in the eye. “I’m sorry- hey, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t treat me like I’m a joke.” You scold him. “You’re the one that left and created all of this. You’re the one who has to pick up the pieces. Not me.”

And with that, you sweep out of the room, only for Antoine to lurch forward, clasping your hands in his and looking at you intently, his blue eyes flaming wildly, begging you, persuading you to stay. “I’m sorry.”

You slow to a stop and bite your lip.

“I think I’m just nervous. Not seeing you in so long - you’ve- you’ve changed. You look so, so beautiful. And it threw me off. I’m sorry. I swear, I’m sorry.”

You glance around his apartment. It’s empty, save for a pile of video games and dog toys. There’s nothing there, nothing of substance, and it feels empty, soulless, not like a home. A pang of sympathy burns through your heart as you realise you can’t leave him like this.

Whispered apologies and breathless ‘i-miss-you’s’ lead from one thing to another.

You pull him in and try not to overthink too much as he leads you to his room.

did it frighten you how we kissed when we danced on the light up floor?

You’re 22 now, and Antoine’s taking on San Sebastian by storm.

(Or at least, that was what you told everyone.)

It’s the end to his first proper season, and the club are hosting a summer party at a swanky hotel in the city centre. You’ve been flown out specially and introduced proudly to his teammates and coaching team, and the way he looks at you makes your stomach tumble.

(It’s like you’re seventeen again.)

He spins you around on the dancefloor with glee, and his parents and siblings are laughing at his goofy behaviour as you twirl with him to whatever was top of the charts in 2012.

(You’re too giddy to be seeing him again to remember properly.)

“I’m so happy for you.” You’re practically shouting to be heard above the music. “There’s no one who deserves success more.”

He smiles bashfully and blushes, before dipping his head and pressing his lips to yours. It’s a quick, short kiss, and probably looked much less romantic to outsiders than it felt to you, but it winds you and makes the blood rush to your head. “I love you.”

You tell him, in a hushed, breathy voice that you love him too.

I whisper things, the city sings them back to you

Now, it’s 2014 and Antoine’s just completed his transfer to Atletico Madrid.

“How’s life treating you in the capital, Senor?”

He laughs, and it’s only then that the amount you miss him hits home. His laugh is homely, it’s comforting and melodic and rumbles through his chest, and you can’t help but grin. “Life is great.” He chuckles, and a pang sears through your heart.

You want him to be happy, of course you do, but you’d be lying if you told yourself that it didn’t hurt to know he wasn’t just coping, but flourishing without you. “I’m glad to hear that.” You say gently. “You deserve it.”

“The city looks so beautiful at night.” Antoine observes, tipping his glass and nodding in the direction of the Madrid skyline in front of you two. “Doesn’t feel like home yet, but the view doesn’t hurt.”

You smile, and nod in agreement. It’s chilly, and before you know it he’s draping his jacket around your shoulders, speaking softly, “I miss you. And I think about you every day.”

His words knock the air out of you, and your face breaks into a smile. You want to reach over and link your fingers with his, but you swiftly compose and refrain yourself.

(You’re over him, completely 100% over him, and it wasn’t worth going back to square one again for one night, only to fly back to France the next morning and then not speak for weeks again.)

Antoine laughs again, and places his wine glass down on the side before gesturing at you to do the same. You down your champagne in one swift gulp and the bubbles rush to your head, making you burp- and subsequently, making Antoine laugh even harder. He entwines your fingers together, tugging you to the middle of the rooftop space. His steps mirror yours and wobble slightly, wavering as the alcohol works its familiar magic, and he pulls you in. You can’t help but let yourself get pulled along, and your hands link between his neck.

His black suit is stiff and ironed, and fitting tightly around his neck, and you press down on the material as he draws you closer. The music from the Atleti Christmas party is faint in the background- some playful, piano sonata serving as little more than ambient white noise- and you can barely make out the notes, never mind the beat, but Antoine starts to dance with you.

(Well, slowly wandering in circles because you’ve both consumed far too much alcohol to dance properly, but the sentiment remained the same.)

“You’re the most beautiful girl in the world to me, you know that, right?” He mumbles into your shoulder, as you slow back to stillness.

You roll your eyes and shake your head, trying to pry yourself out of his grasp to no avail. His arms around you tighten, as if he can’t, won’t, let go, as if you’re the most precious thing in the world and letting go could have disastrous consequences. His voice wobbles, and all of a sudden he’s that small, scared, nervous 18 year old boy you said goodbye to at the airport so many years ago.

“You’re a massive liar.”

He shakes his head determinedly; your quirk your eyebrow at him, challenging him. “The most beautiful, the silliest, the most annoying-.” He continues, and he smiles playfully at you.

“Sorry, do you want me to throw you off the roof, or-?”

He laughs, and his grip eventually loosens.

Antoine follows you as you walk back inside the party, and doesn’t let go of your hand for the rest of the night.

sometimes I wake up in a different bedroom

You’re 25 now, older, wiser, more mature.

Shaped by life as a working woman with a house and a mortgage and a new swanky job in Paris.

(The fact that seeing photos of him continues to make you swoon to this day and that you still fall victim to his blue eyes whenever he visits makes you kind of hate yourself.)

(God, it’s all so cliche and messy that you can’t even recognise yourself anymore.)

“I don’t know what it is, but I always go back to him.” You mumble.

Your best friend smiles sympathetically. She’s been there for you every step of the way of this horrible, drawn out convoluted Antoine-saga that she’s basically become the third person of your relationship.

(If you could even call it that.)

“He was your first love, your first boyfriend, your childhood sweetheart, if you will.” She reasons.

“Of course you’re going to think about him. He’s not just an average, normal ex.”

“I think he was it for me.” You admit, in a tiny and quiet voice. “Which makes the fact that I don’t know if we’ll ever work so much scarier.”

Years have passed and life has changed, but there’s one thing (well, one person) that remains constant.

You’re not sure if you’ll ever get over him.

I hear sounds in my mind

brand new sounds in my mind

You pick up the bottle of champagne from the bar, letting the heavy glass bottle rock in your hands. The liquid inside warms from your touch, and you sit gingerly at the end of the hotel bed while he lingers by the window. You feel like an intruder invading somewhere where you don’t really belong, but he calms your nerves by smiling reassuringly and reaching out to sling an arm around your waist. “Congratulations.”

It’s the night after the semi-finals of the EUROs, and Antoine’s face is fixated with a rapturous grin, blue eyes fixated on you and scanning your body hungrily.

You haven’t seen him in months’; it feels new and nervous and kind of exciting. “Stop looking at me like that.” You narrow your eyes at him.

He laughs, leaning his head back and tipping up his chin before gently lifting the champagne bottle out of your hands. “Looking at you like what?”

“Like you,” You struggle for the words. “I don’t know, like you like me.”

He replies emphatically, “I do like you. What do you want me to do? Give you evils? Chuck you out of my hotel room, which you rudely barged into with no invitation, as a matter of fact?”

“Very funny.” You roll your eyes.

“You’re my best friend. Of course I like you.”

“I like you too, then.” You take the bottle of champagne back off of him and pad to the side cabinet to deftly pick up two flutes, as he spins you around to hug you from behind.

You can feel his lashes tickle the back of your neck and the smell of his aftershave drifts to your nostrils. The lights are dim and there’s music playing from his phone in the background; he takes your hands and spins you around, laughing maniacally.

There’s nowhere else you’d rather be.

honey I’ll be seeing you down every road

The next time you see him, it’s his summer break and you both return to your hometown. Despite your insistence to everyone that this time, things would be different and you wouldn’t go down that same stupid route again, it’s Friday night and you’re in his old bedroom, lying on the floor with a bottle of red wine sat between you.

“Love is stupid, and confusing, and I hate it.” You moan.

You’re spilling the details of your latest breakup to him, and the wine is making your blood run hot and your view foggy.

“I’ll cheers to that.”

He clinks your wine glasses together and mirrors your body language as you down the rest of it in a rapid gulp. “And breakups are shit. And men are shit, and I hate-”

“Hey, hey, hey.” He interrupts. “I’m not shit. Don’t tarnish me with the same brush.”

You feel a chuckle bubble up in your throat and choke out indignantly, “Oh Antoine, believe me, you’re the shittest. The absolute worst.”

He feigns indignation, but you leap to your feet and point your finger at his face before he can argue back. “You made me think that we were in love, when I was naive and gullible and 18, for Christ’s sake, and you lied to me and told me we’d always be together and all that bullshit.” What had started as mere joking had escalated to something bigger, and your voice seethes with poison and spite.

(You would later come to blame liquid confidence for your outburst.)

“And then we see each other and every now and then, and you tell me again that you love and miss me but you do absolutely fucking nothing about it.” You rub your eyes with your hands and feel them sting with tears. “I’m sick and I’m tired, and I’m so, so fed up. And I can’t do this anymore, being your bit on the side, you know, your convenient fuck buddy because you know I’d do anything for you and that once you go back home you don’t have to deal with the consequences.”

He nods numbly, shellshocked, and can’t bring himself to look at you. For once, for you feel like you have the upper hand.

(It’s a refreshing, empowering, satisfying feeling.)

(So why do you still feel so shit?)

“I understand.”

“I really fucking hate you sometimes, Antoine.” You say, in a small voice. “For what you’ve done to me- for what you do to me. How I’m strong and capable and I have my head screwed on until I see you, and then I’m a mess with no control. And how it happens every single fucking time.”

“Stay.”

One word, like it’s that simple, like it’s that easy, like you’re that stupid.

Like you’d believe a single word that came out of his stupid, piece of shit mouth.

He’s begging and he jumps to his feet, and the look in his eyes and the way his hands tremble is nearly enough to make you crumble again but you stand strong. Because you’re selfish - as you should be, for once - and you refuse to accept it this time.

You’re resentful, selfish and you’re bitter as hell.

He mutters, “You’re all I have these days. Please don’t leave.”

“I can’t be what you need me to be anymore.” You shake your head and back away. “I really can’t.”

It hurts more than you can imagine to reject him at his most vulnerable but there’s a feeling of accomplishment and adrenaline running through your veins as you leave.

honey I’ll be seeing you wherever I go

After that night, you go without seeing Antoine for a good five months, and you’re doing fine.

(Fine. A-okay. Great, even, depending on the day.)

Life, football, the Champions League, your new job - you name it - they all get in the way, and as if following a routine, your friendship returns to sporadic text messages, occasional email exchanges and promises to meet up that never really pan out.

You’ve realised you don’t care as much about the football, and sometimes find it difficult to even hear the word Madrid in conversation, but it’s okay, and all is good and happy and constant in your life.

Change is good, and Paris is incredible. And you’ve discovered a bunch of new shows and singers and artists and you remind yourself constantly that broadening your horizons is beneficial and necessary and nothing bad could possibly have come from it.

Sometimes, you think you spot him in the corner of your eye. A flurry of dark hair in front of you in the street, a broad set of shoulders ordering coffee, a man speaking Spanish lilted with a French accent, a booming laugh and a twinkling smile. You see him and it’s like a switch has been flicked within you, it’s him, you know it’s him immediately, and suddenly it’s like you’ve stepped into a time machine and you want to approach him and say hi, hey, how are you, you look great, we should grab coffee.

(Or something. You can’t guarantee that it would be a friendly exchange, and knowing your temper and the sour way you last left things, the likelihood of an amiable reunion was very slim.)

Then it dawns on you, that it’s not Antoine at all.  It’s another man, a complete stranger, and you’ve been staring at him like an idiot for no reason at all.

You think sometimes that you could have simply got it all wrong. Antoine’s invaded your brain, marked his stamp and presence in your head and ruined every other man on the planet with brown hair and a handsome grin and a deep laugh. In fact, if you were never able to form a healthy relationship with another man in your life, he’d be to blame, you often muse moodily. He’s trapped you, preventing you from moving forward, because it’s like you’re stuck in this vicious cycle where everything comes back to him and you see him everywhere you go.

The man you’ve been staring at for the better part of the last 10 minutes’ flashes eye contact with you briefly when he gets up to leave. You’ve been imagining this man as him, projecting a story and a life and a plot onto a random stranger you would never see again, all of that potential.

The possibilities, the what-ifs and all the what-could-have-beens, how your life could have been so different if you’d accepted Antoine’s offer to move out with him so many years ago.

You try to push these thoughts as far as possible out of your mind.

honey I’ll come get my things, but I can’t let go

You’re sitting in the waiting room of the dentist when you spot the glossy cover of Closer in the corner of your eye, photographs of Antoine splashed across the front. He’s holding hands with a mystery brunette, shielding her from the paparazzi’s glares.

You pick it up and it feels like watching as an outsider to a parallel universe, like sitting on the wrong side of a glass enclosure or like a spectator at the zoo watching on. He’s thriving, prospering, blossoming in Madrid, partying with the world’s elite and living the life that you always knew he would get to one day. You should feel happy for him, but there’s an uneasy, gnawing feeling in your gut.

You toss the magazine back onto the table.

I wish I could get my things and just let go

The streets of Paris are beautiful and picturesque, you muse, as you walk home. It’s been a long day at work, and there’s a tempting bottle of chilled pinot grigio waiting for you in your fridge, and a bath calling your name. You stretch your neck, digging out your keys and glancing back up to your front door.

He’s sat there, waiting patiently, fiddling around doing something or other on his phone with his hood up. It’s dark by this point, and if you hadn’t recognised his shadow you’d have been ready to whip out your pepper spray and pounce. He’s in casual wear, presumably after his spontaneous flight out to Paris, and takes his hood off. It’s probably to deter any potential fans or paparazzi, but gives off an awful impression nonetheless.  “Hey.” You call out.

Antoine jumps before looking up at you. “Hi.”

“Is there a reason you’re sat on my front step?”

He laughs nervously. Your first glance at him makes your throat dry up and your heart stutter, and suddenly you regret your decision to put a spectacular lack of effort into your appearance today. “I wanted to talk. I was in town and just thought I’d drop by.”

“What, you were just casually in Paris?” You raise an eyebrow at him questioningly and he shrugs in response. “You shouldn’t wait around at people’s doorsteps in all black with your hood up. Could give off the wrong impression. You’re lucky I didn’t attack you or call 911.”

He smiles cheekily, “Duly noted.”

He aligns his steps next to yours as easy as anything, and follows you into your hallway when you unlock the door. The lights slowly flicker on, and it feels like you’re sat on a knife’s edge.

Why was he here? What did he want? Why didn’t he call beforehand? Who told him that blonde and blue highlights would seriously be a good idea?

Your mind fizzes to the brim with unanswered, desperate questions, but you are determined to keep your cool. “I don’t know what to say.” Is what you mumble out instead.

Antoine smiles softly, that ridiculously, perfectly photogenic smile, and your heart starts beating incessantly already.

“Let me speak, then.” He clears his throat. “I just want to apologise.”

“What for?”

He cuts you off, “And I want to explain some things to you.”

“Go on.”

“I’ve been a dick.”

You smile and shrug. “Can’t say I massively disagree.”

“But I’m ready to stop that now.”

“So honourable. Jeez.” You mock, and he gives you a look.

(As if to say, shut up, i’m trying here, let me finish my god damn sentence.)

“Because I’m ready now. I know it’s taken me so long but I know now, it’s dawned on me. It’s you, it’s all you and it always has been you. You deserve the best, not just with this, whatever this is, but with everything in your life, and I haven’t been able to give you me at my best, not until now. That’s why I’ve been so hesitant, that’s why we’ve always been so unsure, because I could never give you what you deserved. But It’s so clear to me now. God, I love you more than I ever thought was possible, I love you so much that when you’re not here it’s like I can’t breathe, and food has no taste and it’s all so pointless. I love you. I think deep down I always have. And I want to make the plunge now, because I’m all in. All, 100%, completely, truly, unfailingly all in.”

He offers you a hand which you take, pulled in like a magnet. “I never want to be without you, ever, ever again. Not a single day.”

You gulp, your eyes welling with tears. “Flying out to Paris was probably unnecessary, I know. But- hey, just give me a call when you get the chance, okay? When you’ve made a decision, thought about it-”

“I don’t need to think about it.” You interrupt him eagerly, and you cup his face with both hands.

His chest is heaving with deep, nervous, shaky breaths, mirroring yours, and when you smile it takes over your face.

(You’re probably terrifying him because you’re pretty sure the smile on your face makes you look like a lunatic, but you don’t care.)

His hands find your waist like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and he kisses you roughly, like no time has passed. His lips are soft and familiar and they feel like coming home.

You breathe, “I’m yours.”

“Hm?”

Antoine swings you up and your legs wrap around his waist, as his arm hooks around you with ease and he continues to press kisses to your neck.

“All yours.”

I’m waiting for it, that green light, I want it

“Til death do us part.”

“Til death do us part.”

You opt for an intimate, cosy reception, but the music resonating soundly around the hall, your guests’ chatter and laughter, and the never ending clinking of cutlery and glassware makes it sound like you’ve invited the whole population of France. Antoine grips your hand so tightly that his nails leave marks on the back of your hand and before you can even blink (or, as the cliche goes, have a slice of your own cake), you’re whizzing round, saying goodbyes.

(It’s the happiest day of your life by a mile.)

Antoine presses a line of kisses down your neck, marking a pattern from below your ear to the base of your neck. He murmurs, “God, I feel like I’ve been waiting to marry you for the whole of my life.”

“Maybe we should have just eloped when we were like, eighteen.” You laugh. It’s a tongue in cheek comment but you can’t help but feel like there’s some truth in your statement. “ It would have saved lots of back of forth-”

“And lots of pain, crying- the latter, mostly on my part.” He chuckles, and you laugh again, like it’s something infectious and like your entire body has just been taken over by bubbles and champagne and all things light and fizzy.

(It feels like you’re floating on air.)

(And for the first time, you start to think that maybe, all the heartache and the fighting and the angry pledges you made that you would never speak to him again, were worth it.)

(Love did weird things to you.)

“Now, would you like to join me in our wedding suite, Mrs Griezmann?”

It rolls off his tongue like honey and you bite your lip in euphoric anticipation, nodding emphatically. The sound of your shared laughter (there it is again, that hyperactive, constant bubble of laughter) echoes around the empty hotel corridor as you follow him to your suite.

There’s a twinkle in his eyes when he looks back at you.

[yur-ahh]

Tagged by: @noonedefeatsme

rules: answer these 85 statements & tag 20 people

the last: 1. drink: pepsi (lol self medicating) 2. phone call: the only person i call is my grandpa 3. text message: "myth puppy" from @alma---vivo 4. song you listened to: believe me natalie by the killers 5. time you cried: yesterday morning

have you ever: 6. dated someone twice: nope 7. kissed someone and regretted it: once lol, that's why i was crying 8. been cheated on: nope 9. lost someone special: does potentially special count? i was too young to remember anything about her, but i know she was special to me already 10. been depressed: i'm getting better 11. gotten drunk & thrown up: nope

favorite colors: 12. purple 13. red 14. pink

in the last year have you: 15. made new friends: i have!!! and i've been so happy for the first time in a long long time 16. fallen out of love: obviously 17. laughed until you cried: on more than one occasion! 18. found out someone was talking about you: i'll take this to mean "talking shit behind my back" and yes, of course, have you seen the internet? people have been talking shit about my achievements since i debuted in juniors three years ago 19. met someone who changed you: interestingly enough, one changed me in bad ways and the others changed me in better ways than i could ever imagine 20. found out who your friends are: found out i had way more friends than i thought. i've got a problem with understanding my relationships with people 21. kissed someone on your Facebook list: i'm gonna be real right now. i don't run my official facebook account so i have no idea who i have added on there

general: 22. how many of your Facebook friends do you know in real life: okay i checked just for you and yes they're all the accounts of senior skaters, so i know most of them (also i finally remember who minami kenjirou is) 23. do you have any pets: my two kitties potya and mariska 💕 24. do you want to change your name: i was gonna be cheeky and say "uwu my last name uwuwuwuwu" but do you know how long that name would be??? Too Long. so i guess i don't have to call about changing all my merch 25. what did you do for your last birthday: had a movie marathon (note to self, start marathons earlier than 5pm) 26. what time did you wake up: 4am? it might've been 5. i have a hard time sleeping at night 27. what were you doing at midnight last night: watching youtube to help me pass out 28. name something you can’t wait for: getting married 31. what are you listening to right now: vitya snoring quietly 32. have you ever talked to a person named tom: i think there was an interviewer once named tom?? idk 33. something that is getting on your nerves: there's a fly in here and i have no idea where it is 34. most visited website: tumblr.hell, youtube, or netflix 35. hair colour: i can see there being discourse about this in the future (cause yall pick the dumbest things sometimes) but i'm a natural blond 36. long or short hair: my hair is past shoulder-length by now 39. piercings: here's a cool piece of trivia. i got my ears pierced a long time ago, i just rarely ever wear earrings 40. blood type: B. i'm not gonna lie, i had to check my own wiki page for that one 41. nicknames: you guys know most of my nicknames by now: yura, yurotchka, yusha, yushka, kotik, koneko, kitten, etc 42. relationship status: taken x4 combo! 43. zodiac: pisces 44. pronouns: he/him 45. favourite tv show: princess tutu or vampire diaries (both got me through hard times don't @ me) 46. tattoos: i love how they look but i'm not sure if i'll get any 47. right or left handed: right-handed 48. surgery: none.... yet, knock on wood 49. piercing: awesome this is on twice 50. sport: figure skating ofc. i would put ballet on here but i don't dance competitively so does it even count as a sport? 51. vacation: i had the wonderful opportunity of going to universal studios, epcot, disney's hollywood studios, and disney world all in the span of a week 52. pair of trainers: only for exercising

more general 53. eating: snuck outta the nest awhile ago to get some fruit 54. fav drink: fUCK i LOVE SMOOTHIES. STRAWBerry smoothies, mANGO smoothies, pour it down my throat you COWARDS 55. what you’re up to: being the middle of a vitya and seung-gil cuddle sandwich 56. waiting for: someone to wake up 57. want: seung to Move his Hand lmao 58. get married: yeah 🐱 59. career: jj wrote "Gold medalist ;)" so im gonna write "goldier medalist ;*"

which is better: 60. hugs or kisses: i love to be kissed. also, lemme point out it didn't say where the kisses are going 61. lips or eyes: lips, their shape, their color, lipstick, lipgloss (though, eyes are also fascinatingly beautiful) 62. shorter or taller: taller. tall people are easier to spot in a crowd 63. older or younger: young 64. nice arms or nice stomach: all tummies are perfect canvasses for me to write my name or rest my head 65. hook up or relationship: definitely relationship, i wouldn't have been able to do hookups i think 66. troublemaker or hesitant: the thing is, you need to have both. an impulsive, "spontaneous" person will make the cautious, "calculating" person open up to doing things they never would have done, but they also keep the impulsive person from doing anything dangerous

have you ever: 67. kissed a stranger: nope 68. drank hard liquor: noo 69. lost glasses/contact lenses: i-i don't have glasses! 70. turned someone down: pffff the amount of angels who were clearly in heat and on twitter (a bad combination already) and asking me to father their pups has been hilarious considering i physically cannot do so 71. sex on the first date: no 72. broken someone’s heart: not that i know of 73. had your heart broken: yes 74. been arrested: absolutely not, i'm a good boy 75. cried when someone died: obviously??? i'm a human being?? i cried when binx died in hocus pocus and he didn't even actually die 76. fallen for a friend: fuck off

do you believe in 77. yourself: only if i'm motivated by something else, usually proving to people that they shouldn't underestimate me 78. miracles: everyday is a miracle, like when i wake up and i see my pack wasn't just a dream, or every time i make them smile 79. love at first sight: no, and if you think it does you're going to have a bad time 80. santa claus: i havent believed in ded moroz since i was seven, grandpa used to say that if he was ded moroz, i could be snegurochka because if i grew my hair out i'd look just like her pfff he's right though 81. kiss on the first date: if it went well, go for it! 82. angels: ive never been very religious or spiritual but i do find comfort in the idea of guardian angels 83. current best friend’s name: aside from my pack, there's phichit/pchela (@justpeachyphichit), seung-gil (@alma---vivo), and of course mila (@milababaecheva) 84. eye colour: blue/green 85. favourite movie: besides the lion king, i really love the movie black swan

20 is way too many people to tag so if i mentioned you in this post you can count that as me tagging you? if you want? idk i'm so tired i spent almost four hours typing this