#i bought this in greece last year

[youlooklikeasixtiesqueen]

i guess i will be bringing the smallest bag known to mankind to the concert

[cimmanonrowl]

Hi, I saw that you’re taking dbf requests for Hotch! Could I request a fic with dbf!Hotch where he finally makes a move on reader during a party being hosted by her dad? Also, I love your fics sm!!

Dress

It was your father’s appointment party as Chief Justice when lawyers and businessmen overtly offer their sons as your marriage prospects. All while Aaron Hotchner listened quietly beside you, you can tell that he’s not too happy about it.

Pairing: dbf!aaron hotchner x bfd!reader

Theme: spicy hotshot

Contents: age gap, making out, angry confession.

The decorous garden of your home residence was filled with a crowd of guests long before the party officially started. Prominent people of different names and titles— some of your father’s business partners and colleagues in the Supreme Court, and some family friends you barely recognize— draped in their finest garments and overtly high status in society.

Pleasantries and polite conversations were exchanged; and as your father greeted each one of his dear friends, you had no other choice but to stay beside him all the time and be on your best behavior.

“You have a very nice house here, Chief Justice,” Emilia Kane— one of your father’s business partners as you recalled— said with a dainty smile.

You mirrored her small nod when she glanced at you, smiling politely at the woman and the other two beside her. “Good evening, Ma’am.”

“Good evening, dear. You look absolutely gorgeous…” She took a sip of her champagne and raked your outfit subtly, a kind smile on her face. “What year are you in University now?”

“She just graduated a month ago, Emilia. She’s entering Harvard Law this fall, haven’t I told you yet?” Your father intercepted proudly, making you purse your lips as you initially intended to answer the question.

The woman beamed in amazement as she glanced at you. “Oh my, congratulations! I’m so sorry I didn’t know.”

“She graduated top of her class.”

You sighed lightly, glancing at your father. “Dad…”

“I’m sure you’ve seen the photos, Emilia. I posted everything on my social accounts...” Father dear went on, still smiling widely.

“Dad, please.”

“Oh, did you?” The woman said in awe, alternating her amused gaze between you and your father. “And did he get you a new car, dear? An apartment? What did he get you for your graduation?”

“I wanted to give her all thos—”

“No, dad…” You shook your head, chuckling.

“Well, I rented an entire villa in Mykonos for her and her friends. She just got back from Greece yesterday.”

“Dad!” Heat crept in your cheeks as he continued. This conversation is making you sound like a hopeless case of a spoiled brat when it wasn’t entirely true. You might appear spoiled for other people at times but not on a hopeless— certainly not on a spoiled brat level.

“Oh, dear, you’re fine…” The other woman chuckled sympathetically. “I bought my son a new Porsche just because he didn’t get himself kicked out of University. I’m sure your father’s just proud.”

You shyly darted your gaze at your dad as you felt his palm on your linked arms. “Why won’t I be? She’s my only daughter...”

The light conversation continued and was only interrupted when a couple of new guests approached your father. Several familiar faces of lawyers and judges; some from your father’s law firm and some from the Supreme Court. Over the past years, you got to know most of them, making you fix your posture and remind yourself to smile more pleasantly.

So you stood there prettily in silence, smiling, as you accepted their handshakes.

“You look beautiful, hija…”

You beamed at the compliment. “Thank you, attorney. Good evening.”

“Have you seen Marcus around? He told me he’d look for you.”

“Marcus?” You perked your eyebrows in curiosity. “Is he home already?”

The innocent question made your father chuckle a bit. “Yes, sweetie. I told you I played golf with them last week, remember?”

A bashful smile tugged at your lips as you looked at Attorney Jensen. They’re one of your closest family friends. His son, Marcus, is one of the kids you grew up hanging around with at law firm parties and at weekend golf clubs. He’s a nice kid... but everything turned weird when everyone started pairing you both as teenagers.

Your father must’ve told you about Marcus’ arrival but you’re sure you didn’t care enough the first time that you missed the entire story when he called.

“Well, I’m sure he’s just around...” You said with a sweet smile.

Minutes dragged by and their conversations continued. You stood beside your father in silence, occasionally engaging in the small talk. Some of the men asked about your education, your plan after law school, and your love life— all of which you answered as briefly and politely as possible.

“Sir, it’s time to prepare for your opening speech—” You turned in the organizer’s direction when you heard her voice.

You stared at your father expectantly. Well, it’s not like he would need your help in preparing for his speech. He’s a Chief Justice for heaven’s sake, surely he can do that alone. You just hope he’s not thinking of leaving you alone with these men.

“Thank you, Laura…” Your father turned to glance down at you. “Honey, would you mind staying here for a whi— never mind— Aaron!”

Your heart almost burst into ashes with the sudden cry of your father. You quickly followed his line of sight— immediately being greeted by the sight of your father’s dear best friend since University days.

Aaron Hotchner.

He’s in a well-polished suit. His dark hair was clean cut and even from afar, you can see the light stubble on his jaw. And Jesus Christ, how can someone look that good?

“Chief Justice,” He greeted your father with an equally wide yet endearing smile, deftly shaking hands while your father chuckled heartily.

Aaron turned to you with a timid smile, opening his arms as a little invitation. You noticed the hint of hesitation on his face with that. Yet still, you accepted the hug before placing a quick and delicate kiss on his cheek, your hands shaking as you perched both your palms on his arm.

“I’ll excuse myself for a while. Will you look after her, Aaron?” You heard your father say as you scrambled to step away from Aaron’s embrace.

He wetted his lower lip before nodding, not even daring to look at you. “Yeah, sure.”

Embarrassment licked your skin as you watched your unsuspecting father walk away. The moment he was completely out of sight, you felt Aaron’s gentle hand snaking at the low of your back, securing you from the waist— as if preventing you from running away from him.

Effortlessly, he engaged in conversations as he settled beside you. And just like earlier, you fell silent as everyone else was busy in their own conversations.

“How about you, are you planning to get married soon after graduating from Harvard Law?”

You smiled lightly as a couple of guests whirled their attention back to you. “I’m afraid I’ll have to look for a boyfriend first, attorney.”

Aaron’s thumb started rubbing soft strokes at your waist. He seemed to be doing that unconsciously because when you glanced at him, he was talking to another group of guests standing at his side.

“So you’re currently looking for a boyfriend?”

“Not really, no...” You chuckled awkwardly. “But if I meet a good one, why not?”

The older man took a huge swig of his brandy. “I have a son. He’s in DC. Surgeon.”

You nodded with an unsure smile. What do you even do with that kind of information?

“That’s impressive...” You said instead.

“He’s also looking for a girlfriend. I can hook you up if you like. I mean, he also graduated from Harvard—”

“That’s kind of you, attorney, but as I said I’m not really looking…”

“My son’s an architect. I believe your father mentioned you’re into art, is that correct?” Another man interrupted, taking an interest in the conversation.

“Yes, attorney…” You gave him a small smile.

Although this night wasn’t meant for you in any way, you’re aware that you are your father’s reflection to these people. You know how crucial it is that you remain polite as much as possible.

“Just a few dates, what do you say?” He offered with a humorous smile. “Come on, maybe we can merge our firms one day. You know, I don’t have any successor of my own. My son’s an architect.”

“It’s not her fault your son chose architecture,” Attorney Jensen cut off before you can reply for yourself. “Besides, my son has been courting her since they were young. He went home this year just to ask her out officially.”

Your breath hitched as you felt Aaron’s grip on your waist tighten. You glanced up at him in confusion, only to see that his usually kind eyes turned piercing, his eyebrows pulled into a tight frown. He seemed mad— furious. He looked furious at the incredulity he was hearing.

You glanced away, not sure what to make of that.

“I believe we need to go to our tables now...” Aaron said formally, his voice deep and serious. His eyes were pointed at his old colleagues and other businessmen.

You smiled at the waiting guests. “I believe I still want to hear what they’re saying...”

Aaron turned to you in disbelief, his scowl deepened.

“About?”

“About their sons.”

You watched Aaron with an innocent look, tilting your head a little, calming the rapid beating of your heart as you saw him let out a sigh of frustration.

Attorney Jensen chuckled at the sight. “Oh, come on now, Aaron. She’s a grown woman, plus it’s just a few dates. It won’t hurt surely.”

“Surely...” You nodded along, glancing at the other men. “It won’t hurt to try.”

You bit your lower lip as Aaron leaned into your ear. His hot breath fanned over your skin, his deep voice sending chills to trickle down your spine.

“Continue this conversation, young lady, and let’s see what will happen.”

The horrified look on your face drew laughter from the guests. They must’ve thought Aaron was threatening to tell this to your father. So you turned away, your smile dropping as you looked around apologetically.

Your father’s voice from the make-shift stage snatched everyone’s attention from you and the conversation. Some marshalls started ushering people to their seats to prepare for the opening speech of the Chief Justice. With small nods and smiles, they all marched toward their respective tables and left you on the spot with Aaron.

“Come with me.”

You staggered sidewards, looking around in slight panic. “The party’s starting.”

“We have to talk.”

“Aaron,” You sighed, eyeing the stage. “My father’s giving his speech…”

That only made him frown deeper. “You proofread that speech for him, you won’t miss anything.”

“So what if I did? I still want to listen.”

He wandered his gaze around the venue before guiding you away from the crowd. It was seldom that Aaron visited your home residence. When he and your father hang out, they usually visit bars, golf clubs, or shooting ranges. But he does know the basic layout of your house. And you know that he’s leading you inside your home this time.

Deep down, you feel like you know exactly where he wants to talk.

“What exactly do you think you’re doing?” He blurted out angrily the moment you stepped inside your room.

You whirled around to face him, crossing your arms across your chest as you heaved a tired sigh.

“What, Aaron?”

He took a step forward. “Is that your way of getting back at me?”

You shrugged, still confused about the point he was making. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You perfectly know what I’m talking about.”

A beat of silence.

Then realization dawned, making you smile in pure resignation.

Two months ago, you made up your mind and finally confessed to Aaron Hotchner. You’re already graduating from University. You will enter a Law School soon. What’s there to lose? Aaron had been showing the subtlest of signs that he likes you back: the way he looks at you, the way he makes you feel cared for and safe, the way— you mistook everything for a reciprocated love.

He cared for you, yes.

Simply because you are your father’s extension.

So what’s this? Why bother now?

“It was clear you didn’t like me,” You whispered quietly. “Which is fine, Aaron, really. I understand— I mean, I was hurt obviously. But… but I understand. I’ll just have to move on, right?”

“You’ve no idea what you’re saying…” He mumbled hoarsely, still piercing you with his darkened gaze. With quick steps, he bridged the gap between you and cupped your cheeks on both his hands.

You swallowed thickly, forcing yourself to meet his eyes. “Aaron…”

“How can I let you move on when that thought alone is killing me?”

Your breath hitched at his words. “W-what?”

“Fuck this,” He spat angrily before placing a chaste kiss on your lips. “You’re driving me mad, sweetheart.”

The sound of muffled laughter, distant conversations, and clinking glasses filtered in through the partially open window. You can barely hear a word of what your father was saying in his speech. All you are aware of is how Aaron desperately chased your lips with hungry and deep kisses, and how the weight of his body was forcing you to blindly take several steps back.

You melted into his sinful lips, your arms snaking around his neck and pulling him closer. You felt his hands move down to your waist, gripping tightly the thin fabric of your satin dress. The sound of ragged breathing mingled in the air as he walked you backward, backward until your back finally hit the wall.

His lips trailed down your neck, nipping and leaving a wet trail of heat in your wake.

You gasped, your fingers tangling in his hair as you arched into him. “Aaron…”

“God, I’ve wanted this for so long,” he murmured against your skin, his voice rough with desire. His big, calloused hands roamed over your body, exploring, familiarizing you.

“Aaron, what are you—” You rasped weakly as he broke another kiss, pressing his forehead against yours.

“Don’t do that again…” He whispered back, breathing heavily as he closed his eyes. “I’ll figure it out. I’ll think of something, I’ll do something just don’t—”

“Don’t what, Aaron?”

“You’ve no idea what you were saying. Your confession— how can you think that I don’t like you?”

“Well…” You blushed, still catching your breath. “You didn’t say anything after, then you sent me home. You didn’t attend my graduation. You didn’t reply to my texts or even congratulate me.”

“You told me I don’t have to say anything…”

“Well, technically, if you didn’t say anything then you don’t like me.”

“You really have no idea what you’re saying, darling.”

You shivered at his whispered words, feeling a surge of boldness. Your hands found the button of his shirt, eager to feel the warmth of his skin. You clumsily tugged on his tie and ripped his clothes off of him, tossing them aside.

Aaron Hotchner could only watch in anticipation as you let the strap of your dress fall on the soft curve of your shoulders... until all your clothes quickly became a forgotten pile on the floor, your moans intertwining like ropes in the party-stained air.

As always, any thoughts and reactions are highly appreciated. Plus, to anon who requested this, YOU ARE AN ANGEL. I loved crafting this with this plot, and hopefully, you liked it as much as I do! See you all on the next ones, we have a few other good requests!

[leclsrc]

stay, at least for breakfast ✴︎ cl16

genre: angst, just. angst, fluff

word count: 9.2k

You love once and miss always.

notes... internet translated ita/fre, non linear format so might b a tad confusing but thats it

auds here... this fic is a tad long sry. many thanks to mack who recommended the most painful songs to me that got me through writing the last couple of scenes. ik i said i wasn’t sure when i’d release this but here it is :)

You’re the only person Pierre knows in New York, so you’re the first one he calls. You suggest you meet just at your place, so you can smoke more freely, because so many people complain about the smell these days. You stall. You say the L train is broken. You say you’re tied up with work at the firm. But Pierre sees through you and eventually you meet anyway.

He looks the same, and just seeing him reminds you of so much. Shadows and outlines of memories long gone. You try to keep up the pretense of being okay, to remember that truly, your mind has been elsewhere lately—off everything, off the memories, on work, on cases. You try not to bring him up, even if it’s inevitable that he arises; you keep conversation to a polite minimum. 

Pierre offers a cigarette, a Camel light. You’re a fourth’s way through the stick.

“He asks about you, sometimes.” And then just like that, your world has ceased to turn.

“Oh?” A beat. “What do you say?”

“Just the usual. You’re working on this and that case for the law firm… you went to Greece in the summer.”

You and Pierre are still close, but it’s difficult to forget why. You two are connected by Charles, by a friendship so sacred it warranted a dinner for a Pierre-exclusive introduction. You’d grown close then, and when the breakup happened, it became hard for Pierre to maintain close contact with both of you. 

Selfishly, you wanted him to see how broken you were, so he could report it all back to Charles, etch every last detail of your pain. But Pierre is more mature than he’s given credit for.

“Okay.” You say blankly, unsure of how to bridge a less tense topic.

Perhaps sensing the apprehension, Pierre does it instead. “Do you remember when we bought shaving cream and made Charles look like Santa?”

It was in here in Manhattan, you recall, when Charles had dragged Pierre along with him to visit you over winter, when he’d been dating you for nearly two years at the time. Your flat was just above a bodega that had a comical amount of cheap cans of shaving cream that you and Pierre had found so absolutely silly, birthing a series of Charles-related pranks. After your grocery run, you’d returned to your place, where your boyfriend was fast asleep, mouth half open.

Shh. Quiet, you’d said, spurting shaving cream along his chin, his jaw, laughing silently.

Pierre had followed suit until finally, a beard of Nivea Men bounded down to Charles’ torso. You’d snapped a picture; the shutter sound had woken him up to a red-faced you and Pierre.

He was a good sport about it, kissed you with laughter, so you, too, had a beard of froth. Pierre took a Polaroid with a gifted camera of you on Charles’ lap, arms entwined around his neck, both of you bubbly with the cream, cheeks achy with smiles and laughter. You pretend to forget where it is, to forget that it’s tucked in a box you open once in a while. 

“I miss him sometimes, you know.” The confession rips through you, exacerbated by the cigarette.

“I know.” Says Pierre, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. You realize maybe it is.

I still have so much love for him, you wish to say. But where will I put it? Will I keep this inside of me forever? A great, monstrous, shameful thing it is, to love somebody who’s left. But here I am doing it, trying to fill a void that feels like a crater. Where do I put this love? Maybe I can give it to somebody else, somebody new—but I’d say it’s not the same.

You think you’ll always hold a torch to Charles, even when the fire burns through the wood, ash trickling onto your arm until it hurts. And even then, when the light’s gone, when the flame’s wounded you and licked deep into your heart and bones, like it has now, you’ll linger, still holding this torch, still yearning, still unwanting to let go. Still loving. How desperate, you think. How human.

You clear your tobacco-flavoured throat. “It’s em—it’s embarrassing,” you say instead, throat closing up midway, in a futile attempt to water down your intense emotions. They threaten to crawl up your throat, force secrets out of you with the ease of ripping a piece of paper in half.

“Is it?” He asks, open-ended. “N’est-il pas honorable d'être si aimant?”

“Pas si ce n’est pas réciproque.” You scoff.

But he’s relentless, persistent in his pursuit to prove a point. “No. Love isn’t embarrassing, or pathetic, when it’s one-sided. It means more that way, when it’s not reciprocated. It means you’re selfless. It means the love is real.” He turns toward you, and in a billow of smoke, asks, “Does it not?”

You stare, left speechless. All you muster is: “Va te faire foutre.” 

—

You exit the room at eight-thirty with your toothbrush still foaming in your mouth. You stretch your arms over your head, combing a hand through your bedhead. Your eyes are half-shut, and already you smell it before you see it.

Pausing in your tracks, you rub the sleep out of your eyes. “Charles?” You call out, still out of the kitchen’s view. You try to remember if he was in bed when you crawled out, but your mind was still cloudy then, and the desire to pee took precedence.

You turn toward the bedroom door. “Charles, come out here. I think something’s on fire in the kitchen. Babe!”

You speedwalk, concern taking over—you didn’t pay enough attention to fire drills in primary school, clearly. Once you peek into the kitchen, however, your concern is only exacerbated, but not nearly as much as the extreme confusion that begins to well up inside you. There, at your stove, is your boyfriend himself, clearly fully awake and conscious, and holding a frying pan in mid-air that’s billowing smoke.

Having heard your voice already, he feels your presence and turns slowly. His gaze blinks from the pan in his grip to your totally incredulous stare.

“I can…” He pauses. “I’ll try to explain.”

“Very smart save, babe,” you say, but it’s muffled by your toothbrush.

“You sound stupid,” he retorts.

You remove the toothbrush and try to speak as coherently as you can through the spearmint foam. “I don’t think you’re in a position to be giving me criticism right now.”

“Fair,” he says, flitting his gaze over to where he holds the frying pan in mid-air. “I will explain as soon as you rinse your mouth. I promise.” You narrow your eyes, wondering if maybe this is another tactic to get himself out of trouble, but you figure it makes sense. If you’re going to scold him, might as well not spray toothpaste everywhere.

You grab your phone on your way back, where the disarray has not subsided in the least. He’s wearing your kiss the chef apron, stained with grease and pancake batter, both vital ingredients to bacon and flapjacks, neither of which are to be seen anywhere.

“What’s going on, Charles?”

“I wanted to cook you a surprise breakfast. But I can’t get the stove right.”

“Tu es fou.” You laugh, inspecting the smoke-scented pan. “Pourquoi n'avez-vous pas simplement pris à emporter?”

“Je voulais être pensif!” He defends, pouting. “Sorry. I’ll clean up the mess.” He deposits a batch of dishes at the sink as you watch in amusement. Your boyfriend is usually a good cook, you’ll say—he makes a mean stack of pancakes, and anybody can cook bacon, really. You suppose this is all just one honest mistake, born from a desire to surprise you on this morning.

He’s scrubbing at the pan when you wrap your arms around him in a backhug. “Thank you anyway. You’re the sweetest, Charles.”

He turns, a bubble of dish soap on the tip of his nose and hums. “Does this get me boyfriend points?”

“Alright, Jesus, a hundred of them.” You smile fondly, meeting his lips in a soft kiss. He makes you toast as compensation, takes the time to cut the crusts off the bread and the pulp out of the orange juice and the big bits out of the jam. He does his best, perfecting the art of toast and breakfast and, by extension, making you happy.

—

“Un amaretto sour, une bouteille de rose et un dirty martini,” you order smilingly in smooth, sure French.

The waiter nods and after thanks are exchanged, he leaves your table alone. In your limited knowledge of Paris, you’ve chalked it up to a few things: many people will be rude, the serving sizes will be petite, and the men will be anything but trustworthy. You’ve tried them before and they all go the same way, slipping out of hotel rooms with disarming desolés, buttoning their polos as they go.

So here you are, characteristically silent, because your friend is flirting with a guy and you refuse to do the same. 

“You speak French?” The guy across you asks curiously. He talks like he’s always smiling, eyes turning into half-crescents. He’s accented, but you’re unsure of the origin—it sounds French, in the same way it kind of doesn’t. You nod politely.

“Ah? Où est-ce que vous l'avez appris?”

“Université,” you respond. “J’ai etudie le langue français, mais… est trés difficil.” He laughs, nodding like you’ve said the funniest thing in the world. Half-crescents.

“I’m Charles. I grew up—I’m from Monaco, so I speak it. And Italian. Joris and I.” He elbows his friend, who your friend is flirting with. Oh, Monaco. So… not French.

“I’ve never been,” you say, letting yourself loosen up a bit more. 

“It’s very small. You should go sometime.” An implication of something hangs in the air, like clouds over France. You smile, bashful, nodding along. 

“I’ll make sure to.” The drinks arrive and flow through the night, laughter passed along the table like wine. At some point you and Charles get up to dance, but are quickly put to your chairs by the waiter—you mutter some slurred remark about how why play music if you can’t dance?! 

But he is funny, and charming, and pretty. You find yourself staring at him in a very desperate, schoolgirl crush way, lip bitten and cheeks warm when he catches you.

Later that night, tipsy off the alcohol, Charles the Monegasque presses a kiss to your cheek and asks, shyly, if you’d like to come to his hotel. You tease him, just to see the half-crescents again, and then you’re in his car and in his room, top pulled off and bra unclasped, laughing drunkenly into his neck when the pleasure reaches its crux. And you hope he doesn’t ask you to leave the next day, drifting into sleep with his arm slung over your waist.

—

You like Charles’ voice in real life.

This is because it means you feel it more than hear it, a low thrum through his chest and into your ear. It lets you know he’s close by, which is the best kind of reassurance, because he never usually is. It doesn’t matter what he talks about—the day past or about to begin, racing, family—all you can really digest is the amount of love and care he puts into his words.

Most of the time you hear his voice through the layered, stuffy audio of your phone or your laptop, when they can’t quite catch up to his lips, when the Internet lag is just that awful. If you’re lucky, he sounds more like himself, but nothing compares to hearing it for real, the whispers and murmurs and roughness of it all. He’s here, and you’re home, content just to listen.

You’re in Monaco; it’s your fourth day here. You’re off school for two weeks before you dive into midterms, so you spend it in Europe, because you haven’t seen Charles in ages. Lately he’s been pixels, voice memos, bubbles of words. But now he’s Charles, real, tangible, yours.

Life has become easier when he’s around, a fact wholly owed to his presence. When he’s here, you feel at ease, like laughter is effortless and loving is natural. But there is a ticking timebomb you sleep on, and it’s your impending departure, your flight back to the city, your resuming of normal life. Of life without him.

“I’ll be in Geneva next week,” he tells you, voice throaty from having just woken up. They’re the first words out of his mouth after he hangs up the early morning phone with Andrea. It’s an invite, even if it’s phrased as a statement; he awaits your affirmation, should it come. He invites you to these things often, as a way to introduce you more into his world. The words rumble through him, slowly onto your fingertips that waltz silently across his bare chest. They skate while you formulate a response.

“Okay,” you say quietly, half-asleep still. “I have… a huge recitation coming up, so I don’t think I can make it. Criminal law.”

He tenses, and you feel it. But his words say something else. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I wish I could,” you say, as compensation. It’s what you’ve both grown used to lately, wishing. Wishes that, for all your trying, never seem to come true. I wish I could make it. I wish I could visit. I wish we could celebrate together. I wish I was there for the podium, or the grades release, or the job offer phone call. I wish, I wish, I wish, and not much of anything else. Just wishing. Wishing, wanting, never getting.

“Yeah,” he says, sighing. “I wish you could, too.”

The dissonance between the voice that rumbles through him and into you—comforting—and the words that leave—a touch too sharp—strikes through you like electricity. “I’m sorry,” you say achingly, and the morning is silent as you both fall back into ignorant, blissful sleep.

—

“Aaaaand that pretty much evens us out to a solid 12-3.”

You finish tracking the score on your Notes app, closing your phone and facing your boyfriend’s pouting face of defeat. 

As always, the loser packs up the chessboard first—the wooden pieces click noisily against each other as he folds up the game, to be won (by you, no doubt) another time. Between work and the general upkeep of a relationship that’s constantly long distance, you and Charles find it difficult to begin and maintain romantic traditions.

But there’s always the assurance of chess. To air out grievances, to pass the time, to play footsie under the table. You and Charles always play, keeping a seasonal tally of near-daily games—during flights, pre and post race, after sex, at brunches with family.

“You’ve been cheating,” he accuses jokingly, storing the chessboard and inviting you onto his lap.

You’re in Nice today, housesitting for a friend while Charles spends time off racing. He claims it’s sufficient practice for when you one day buy a place together; two, at that: one in New York and one in Monaco. The days have passed in chess games, pots of coffee, and slow dances in the kitchen while you wait for pasta to boil or rice to cook. 

“You’re just jealous,” you tease, clambering atop him. Your arms loop around his neck, his around your waist. “Don’t worry. The tally will restart in September.”

“I’ll best you then.” Here, in this still moment of silence, where the sunlight from outside filters in just right and illuminates every detail of Charles’ face, you can almost feel your heart swell to an unimaginable size. You connect the moles and freckles with the tip of your pinky, traveling lower until it rests softly against his lips. He smiles, flexing against your touch. 

“Sore loser,” you say, flirtatious, playing with his hair.

“I think I keep losing,” he starts, hands tightening around your frame, “because every time I see you, I forget how to do the most ordinary things.”

You bite back a smile. “Hey, don’t try to charm yourself into a win.”

“Can’t help it, the winner’s too pretty,” he teases back; your lack of retort leads you to press your face into his chest. He smells like he always smells, clean and woody and a bit like your own perfume, your pretty boy. You inhale, breathe him in and ground yourself. Here, miles away from Monaco, even farther from Manhattan, you are home.

—

“How do you tell people you broke up?”

“I say we wanted different things,” you reply, two puffs into your second Camel.

A white lie, a half-truth, a rehearsed answer after being asked the same repetitive question so many times. You and Charles broke up because at that point, nothing about you made sense. You were growing older, and with age came the stupefying realization that nonsense wasn’t always romantic. If it didn’t make sense, it never would. But you did want the same things, you suppose, at least to some extent.

You know you wanted marriage. After law school, it had to be, and in Europe, somewhere sunny and windy and flowery with a sea nearby. A small affair, family and friends. You know you wanted kids, two or three, a bunch of Charles lookalikes, tufts of light hair and bouts of crazy energy. You know you wanted a house—not a flat, a house, a brownstone in Manhattan, a big property in Monaco. You wanted so much of the same things.

Perhaps that is why Pierre will never understand the magnitude of the way you miss Charles. You dream of him when you’re awake, of the times you spent together that finished abruptly. You look for him in everyday objects. You keep the tissue paper conversations, you want to say, even if it’s so, so mortifying, so raw to admit it.

“But you didn’t,” says Pierre, because he knows it.

“We didn’t. But what other explanation is there?” Where a concrete summary of your breakup is supposed to be, there lies grey matter, webs of explanation spanning years and months and questions unanswered. 

“I get it,” he replies. But he’s not you, or Charles, so he doesn’t.

—

Charles looks at you and imagines your smiling face in every moment of his future. Holding a child, under a veil, half-asleep in the morning, flushed and warm after a few beers.

You’re—you’re you, and he just loves you, in a way he will never be able to articulate. He drives for a living—he looks at all kinds of statistics, worded and encoded onto machines and computer screens. But this love isn’t quantifiable. Not in numbers, not in speed, not in words, stanzas of Italian. His love for you is indescribable; it exists in a wordless plane, massive and all-encompassing, carved and chiseled finely.

When you’re absent, the world seems duller, a bit more empty. But it’s okay, he thinks—you’re here now, across the room, in nothing but lingerie, your dress pooled at your feet. You’ve both just arrived from another social gathering, with so many people, and an afterparty arranged by Max.

You’d utilized your well-used secret signal for parties that directly translated to “let’s go home”—bringing up peanut butter meant you were well past exhausted and needed to leave. One “the dessert would’ve been so good with peanut butter” later and you’re here. Years of being together means you’ve both created a vocabulary all your own, lexicon and phonetics making up a language of love and familiarity. Nobody else will ever get this, he thinks. It’s just yours.

You’re removing your makeup in the mirror, and oh, well, you’re beautiful. He wonders what he has to do now to be able to find you in the next life, to be able to meet your eyes again for the first time and fall in love with you the way he did.

You’re what he looks for after a race, after a win, after a DNF. So he can, if just for a moment, let his guard down and allow himself to be yours, yours and only yours, collapse into your arms from ache and overwhelm and find reprieve there. With you, he lets himself go, lets the façade fall, lets himself stay in your touch before he deems himself ready to be with the rest of the world.

“Hey, you,” you call, and he blinks. “Eyes up here, buddy.”

“I just love you,” he says sleepily. 

You tug on a nightshirt—his, from ages ago—and crawl into bed beside him, raising a teasing brow. “Sex is off the table.”

He laughs. “I wasn’t trying to get into your pants.”

“Good,” you half-yawn, yanking the lamplight closed and nestling yourself beside him. “I look horribly un-sexy.”

“The shirt’s kinda doing it for me.”

“Go to sleep.”

—

It’s raining today, for the first time in a dull stretch of weeks. The fall comes in angry, noisy sheets, made more furious by the wind. Wrapped in one of his hoodies, you clasp a mug in your hands, staring sullenly out the window, wondering when Charles will be home. Something has shifted in the weeks since you last saw each other, since you flew back out to New York and Charles didn’t finish in the last race.

Sometimes everything feels impossible to touch, like you don’t know what the next step is, let alone how to take it. There’s a certain uncertainty to where you stand, a possibility that, if the seconds tick just right, everything will crash down. This isn’t a feeling you’ve ever had before, but you suppose this is the only way to learn how to deal with it.

It’s comforting, then, when you hear the keys jingle at the door.

Your flat, as expensive as it is, has a quirk to it; the door only opens when you jerk it with your knee twice. You hear it, the double thump, and in almost childish excitement, you set your mug down and pad gently over to the foyer, so you’re ready for him when the door opens. Everytime you’re apart for this long, the routine is standard, and first thing you do is hug—so hard, so tight, your legs wrapped around his waist, his face in your neck.

“Hey,” Charles says, seeing you wait idly by the front door. You inch forward, but freeze. He heaves his luggage in, smiling softly, tiredly almost, pressing a brief kiss to your cheek and then disappears into the bedroom. The lump in your throat doesn’t go away when you slowly realize the hug you’d awaited, prepared for even, does not come.

You follow him instead, to the bedroom, where he’s still quiet, shirtless and picking out something from the drawers. He turns when he hears you. “Have you seen my grey hoodie?”

“Yeah, it’s in the wash.” You pause. “I used it last week, sorry.”

“I tol—it’s,” he says, inhaling, “it’s fine.”

“I’m sorry,” you repeat, taken aback by how affected he is. “I can get it dried.”

“It’s okay.” He insists, a bit sharply, tugging on a different shirt instead.

The air is thick, threatening to break, and you’re hopeless, lost, left wondering—what the hell is going on. You try your best anyway, humming as you take a seat on the bed and fold the bits of laundry you’d abandoned in the morning.

“Pascale’s inviting us over tomorrow,” you open, finishing a pair of shorts and depositing them into the drawers. Your arms wrap around him, and he holds them there. This is good, you think. This is okay. “For brunch, because Arthur’s going to be home. I told her okay—since I’m back in New York by Tuesday and you’ll be in Italy then, too. We haven’t had brunch with your family in forever. God, they’re going to be asking questions about marriage, and engagement, and ki—”

“Stop.” The room goes still. “Why did you tell her okay?” He asks, disengaging the hug and turning toward you fully. 

You’re like a deer in the headlights, confused, lost all over again.

“Charles?” You prod, gently. “Is… are you okay? I mean, we always greenlight brunch.”

You watch him pinch his nose bridge, exhale, close his eyes. 

“What’s wrong?” You echo, stepping forward. He steps back, avoidant.

“Don’t,” he says. “Please, just… don’t.”

You’ve heard this often lately. In fact, no—you’ve maybe felt this more than heard it. This—this distance, this space, this push. Every call unanswered, every flight missed, every text answered with a brief, apathetic OK. You can’t quell the fear, the panic swelling in your chest, because you can feel him floating away, just out of grasp.

“Talk to me,” you say, because it’s the only thing that can bring itself to leave your mouth. It’s weak, it’s desperate, lacking composure and firmness. “Nous pouvons travailler à travers cela.”

“Non,” he says, as if he knows it already. “This, I—I just. I think I just need some space.”

Space.

“Okay,” you say. “I’ll be in the living room.”

“No, I’ll go,” he insists, like he’s doing you a favor. I’ll save us the nasty fight, he seems to convey. I’ll go. So he does—grabs a coat and wrestles himself out of the door, with barely anything left to reassure you, just a short kiss and a hand on your hair. It’s performative, you know this, but you’ll take it. You don’t have much to accept these days.

The night passes, still and quiet, without the jingle of keys or the double thump at the door.

Even in memory and introspection you will come to find this moment and remain capable of recounting every thread of detail, ones as small as the eyes of needles, every prick of pain that pokes at you. Because even if you see him the day next, and even if he greets you with a kiss, and pulls you aside to apologize profusely, and even if you feel so loved in this very moment, with hugs from Pascale and jokes from Arthur and check-ins with Lorenzo, the fact has secured, burrowed itself into the dark crevice of your heart.

You will look back on this one day, and think, with the kind of certainty so crushingly absolute: yes, this is when it all went wrong.

—

“Is he seeing anybody?” Halfway through the third stick.

“No,” Pierre says, blowing smoke out into the air.

“Be honest.”

He snorts. “D’accord. An Italian girl, few months ago, but it’s over. It was quick. Very. And you?”

The information makes you weak in ways you refuse to share. “Just… testing things out with this guy.”

“Does he know about Charles?”

The silence is telling. “About Charles” is an awfully broad topic. 

Charles was such a big part of who you are, and who you’ve been, and what you’ve been through. How would you even begin telling somebody about you both? The bits and pieces, the great figure eight, the tiny infinity. The moments within the moments, memories within memories. The love. The way you loved, the way you sought him, the way you have yet to replicate the feeling of loving him, the way you wait for the next life, so you can seek him all over again. 

There is “does he know Charles,” and there is “does he know about Charles,” and the two are so cruelly separate and different. Anyone can know Charles; he is, after all, world-famous. You don’t know how he’s doing in motorsport these days, because a lot of the time the Google search for his name suggests ex girlfriend right beside it, and that’s enough to stun you into not searching again. But still he’s famous and renowned, so of course he’d be known. But for someone to know about him, what he meant to you—it feels like you’d be reciting a novel in an effort to explain how the both of you began, became, and ended. Reciting sonnets and stanzas of prose, of moments painfully intimate, of habits that have yet to die, of things you wished to be taught by him. 

“So, no.” You nod softly.

—

The possibility of spending Christmas with either of your families grows thin as December begins. Between final exams and racing meetings, neither of you give, discussing over hours-long calls and coordinating calendars. You find that your only common free day is the seventh of January, which is effectively well past the holidays. You’ve sunk into a pile of misery at the very real chance of spending the holidays by yourself. It’s not a pretty idea, despite the fact that you’ve befriended loneliness lately.

Outside your window, Manhattan is caked in snow; it reminds you of Santa Claus Charles, with his foamy frizzy beard and kisses of froth and the Polaroid on the fridge. You wonder if Charles, wherever he is in Europe now—traveling multiple times a day—remembers you, too, in these little mundane things.

He’d called on the third of December, when it was three in the morning in New York. You picked up after two rings, busy studying, and mumbled a sleepy hello into the receiver.

“Merry Christmas,” he said, clearly excited over something. 

“Bit early, honey.” You’d said back amusedly, highlighting phrases on the textbook.

“Just saying it now, because the next time you hear me say these words, it’ll be in New York.”

You didn’t register his words until you realized you’d tinted two entire paragraphs fluorescent yellow.

You blinked. “Wait, what’d you say?” 

“I’m there by the twenty-fifth, evening. Found a sweet spot in my calendar thanks to Joris.”

“If you’re joking, Charles, I swear—”

“I’ll see you then,” he had said; even then you could hear his smile through the scratchy audio of international calls.

That’s what you’re doing here, over your stove cooking chicken to commemorate your first Christmas together. You stick a thermometer inside it, busying your mind with thoughts of dinner instead of the fact that you haven’t spoken to your supposed guest in over a week.

Like many fights lately, this began over something irrational and grew into a serious, temperamental discussion about your future.

About moving in together and how impossible it seemed. About raising kids or getting engaged. Everything was written on different pages for the two of you. Your plans were always years too early, years too late, never aligning. Bilingual paragraphs eventually devolved into exhausted intermittent texts, check-ins if it mattered, and barely any concrete discussion at all.

It’s mortifying to have to say the phrases “like many fights lately.” You wonder what it proves about the two of you, about the relationship you share. Has it gone sour? No, you tell yourself. But this yogurt dip will, if I don’t put it in the fridge. You wipe your hands off after you do, rechecking your phone; still no texts or calls or updates. He’d texted this morning, a brief and simple see you soon, but hadn’t responded to your text.

Chicken, mashed potatoes, candles ready to be lit. You fiddle with the pink Bic, lighting and unlighting, sighing. 

You dial the airline eventually. They man both public and private flights, so they should know something about his jet. Something, anything—any tidbit of information is useful to you right now. You’re embarrassed, alone on Christmas in a dress you thought was beautiful hours ago but now only seems over the top and mocking. A woman picks up your call after it’s transferred thrice.

I just need to know the ETA of this flight, you say. Under Charles Leclerc. He gave me the flight code. 

Silence. You hear the bustle of the airport on the other end and wonder if Charles is there in that bustle, in his puffer jacket he uses in the winter, holding a suitcase and waiting for the delayed plane. Or maybe he’s already here in your timezone, in a cab bumbling with excitement, or in the elevator, or right outside, fist posed in front of the door—

A snowstorm, she says, her voice tinny through the phone. The pity in her voice makes you want to smash the landline to pieces. So sorry. If you’d gotten your husband to book just two days earlier, you two would’ve been together. Why don’t you call him, sweetie?

She is right about the unsolicited booking advice, wrong about the title. Charles is not your husband. You hang up after mumbling something you can no longer remember, too exhausted to be rude or polite at this point, and turn to face your dining room. Your texts go unanswered, and in your earlier effort to save energy, the lack of heating has caused your phone screen to grow cold to the touch. The roast chicken is getting cold now, too, the mashed potatoes cool, the sourdough stale, the butter melted into ugly coagulated puddles, the wine sweating all over the table.

You eat two bites before depositing a clean plate at the sink. The flat smells of pine and citrus; it’s stronger because you’re by yourself, with no Charles to cloud the room with his own scent. Your phone remains silent, your heart drowning slowly in a cloud of imprecise sorrow. And you realize, remembering the airline officer’s words as you unplug the lights from the Christmas tree and let the moonlight swallow the room, that Charles is not your boyfriend, either.

He texts the morning next, says he’ll make it on the next flight, twenty-six. He doesn’t apologize and you unwrap presents alone, from friends, shipped from family. You wallow in your loneliness, humiliated by your need for him, a need that is met only on the seventh of January.

—

“Are you and Charles okay?”

Lorenzo is always the first to ask. He’s intuitive, and you think maybe it comes with age, but damn if it isn’t infuriating when he knows something is up before anyone else. You purse your lips, hope your laugh is a good enough substitute for an answer.

“Are you?” Obviously, it’s not.

“We’re… we’re just working through things.” You’ve had two glasses of bourbon, and your eyesight is blurring the way your words do. You’re in a big Manhattan ballroom, just several floors underneath your hotel room. Charles is somewhere socializing, because of course he is, and you can’t take your mind off school, because of course you can’t.

“But you’re good, right?” He sounds hopeful, like your answer is the only thing that can convince him. Does he think you aren’t? What has Charles been telling him? Your breathing quickens, grows frantic.

“Yeah.” It convinces nobody, not even yourself. He nods, smart enough to drop the subject, and you’re alone again. This is the umpteenth gala you’ve been to this week alone, all for something or other along racing. You grow used to the faces, the introductions, the gentle nos when asked if you two are engaged, because why would you be? It’s a farfetched idea, engagement. 

The bathroom is half-full when you usher yourself inside in your gown, almost tripping with how fast you try to make it to the mirrors. There are two middle-aged women beside you lazily drawing lipstick onto their faces, their French accents thick as they converse.

“…So I decided to divorce him.”

You stare deep into the mirror. You look like a caricature of yourself, a puppet. Where is Charles? He overestimates your capability to be alone.

The other woman goes, “I can’t believe he didn’t see it coming.”

“I know! You’d think he would notice, no? Bah, men.”

“You’d felt it for a while then, too.”

“Tch, I really did. Just goes to show.”

Before you digest it, you’re turning and intrusively asking: “How did you know you wanted to divorce him?”

They exchange a look that’s as condescending as it is patronizing. Here you are, a naive twenty-something asking for relationship advice like you’re some know-it-all. You feel like a child suddenly, meek and curling in on yourself. Answer me, you want to say, tell me how it feels, tell me how you knew. You look petulant.

“Well,” she says, eyes meeting yours as she closes the tube of lipstick, “sometimes, dear, you just know.” It clicks closed.

“Yes,” says the other. “You just know. When you wake up one day and you feel it, that’s just it.”

Bullshit. Easy answer. You won’t know, you want to say.

No matter how stupid, how cliché, it sounds, you’ll never know this feeling. This feeling of nonchalance over a relationship lost, of laughter over unsuccessful love, of casually coloring the same lips that talk so abrasively of a lover. Because you have Charles, and Charles has you, and what else is there to know?

The rest are candles on a cake, kisses under a blanket, orange juice served over toast, arguments that end with compromise and a hug. The rest is love. These two know nothing about it. They know hurt and heartbreak and denial. They know nothing but this sad, sad feeling.

It must be sad to know, you think, even if the exact suffocating feeling crawls up your spine and wraps around your throat on the elevator ride back to the room.

—

This is boring

You scan over the scribbled phrase on the embossed, no doubt above asking price, tissue paper given at this (granted, boring) charity ball. Stifling a laugh, you fish a pen out of your purse, rereading the words and judging your outgoing response. In neater penmanship, you quickly write a message below it.

OK let’s end things.

He laughs when he reads it, eyes crinkling into half-crescents, mouth in a wide, silent smile. He mulls over a response and when you get it—

No goodbye sex? Quelle poisse. You giggle, rolling your eyes and squeezing his hand underneath the table, putting your little game on pause lest you get in trouble for not listening to the speaker onstage. This kind of lovely, comedic push and pull is what keeps you always entertained with Charles; he always, without fail, manages to make you laugh. Your easy, instant, but equally profound connection to one another constantly has you revisiting the idea of soulmates, of destiny.

Prior to meeting, your and Charles’ lives were barely entwined. You were a law student in America, Charles a racing driver based in Europe. A year ago, to the date, you’d been in Paris on vacation, when a friend invited you out to get drinks somewhere along the Seine. You had three case studies waiting on your laptop, but something tugged at you to accept the invite. 

Had you not been up for drinks in Paris that night, for instance—you’d never have met. And the drinks wouldn’t have been suggested in the first place if Charles got home from a meeting early, expressing boredom over the phone to Joris, who relayed it to the girl he was currently flirting with, who relayed it to you. You would never have talked if you didn’t order cocktails in French, prompting him to ask where you learned the language. 

And if you hadn’t, in a haze of rosé and amaretto sours, accepted the handsome guy’s invite back to his hotel—where would you be now? The series of little things make up where you are now. 

“Je t’aime,” he whispers into your hair.

But, then again, Charles has never felt like a stranger. You’re so sure that if you’d declined, or if Charles’ meeting ended on time, or if Joris was single, or if you ordered in meek English instead, you’d still be here, laughing over irrelevant tissue paper conversations, holding Charles’ hand under the table.

“Moi aussi,” you murmur. So sure.

—

God is the best scapegoat.

You first realize this when you’re ten and your favorite necklace snaps in half. You’d been running around, you moved too fast, it stuck on a branch, and became forever unfixable. You’d skipped on the usual nightly prayers as some sort of petulant, rebellious counterattack. You’re fifteen when you’re friendzoned, a first for you. You convince yourself it’s God playing tricks on you. You’re sixteen when you get an F for skipping class too often; you tweet God wtf is happening to me and you giddily watch it get thirteen likes. You’re not alone in this revolt, you think. You’re seventeen and a half when you lose your virginity; it sucks. You’re on top and you learn the art of faking. So you lay on your bed and bemoan Him for the misleading introduction to sex.

It becomes easy to blame God, moreso than usual, when the matter is one of life and death and danger. Being with Charles puts you in this position often. You curse God when something happens during a race that causes your heart to snag in itself and skip a beat or go five times faster. Inversely, it’s dreadfully difficult for you, innately unreligious, to pay thanks to God. Charles knows this, and is always the first to say “thank God” when a race goes well.

You throw around the phrase a few times, but it’s rare. Most, many, all times—it’s “oh, thank fuck” or “I’m so happy you’re safe.” It’s almost like you actively avoid the phrase, so whenever you say it, Charles is momentarily stunned; sometimes it’s after a particularly nasty circuit, or a rainy race day when you physically cannot withstand the stress of watching the love of your life drive fast under such bad conditions.

You have nothing to thank God for.

The hotel room is thin-walled and cold. Just last night you’d been tangled into each other for warmth, but now you’re throwing your suitcase onto the same bed and shoving laundry inside. No folding. No organizing. You make quick, messy work of it to avoid the conversation Charles so desperately tries to coerce out of both of you. The chessboard from last night’s game—5-7—lies abandoned, folded up at the foot of the bed. You ignore it. 

“I’m sorry I left you alone,” he says, lazy almost. He seems to say oh, fine. If you need me to say sorry I’ll say it, here.

“You don’t understand.” You say, cutting phrases short to avoid saying anything you’d rather harbor inside yourself.

“Then enlighten me,” he shoots back. “Please, really. Dis moi tout.” He sounds sarcastic.

“I don’t fit here,” you respond cuttingly. If he chooses to be sarcastic, you think—then be it. You’ll be blunt. You’ll exaggerate. You’ll be impulsive, if for once in your life, you have to be.

“Here, in your life.” You clutch a shirt to your chest. “We don’t make sense. We never did, and you know what? We never will. I honestly don’t know why we keep trying. It’s pointless to believe this could ever work. In between our careers, friends, and schedules, it takes more work for us to see each other for just a day than to push a fucking rock uphill. Ç’est inutile et tu le sais—tout ce travail pour rien.”

Your words sting, join the draft leaving through the crack in the window, turn into dew that stains the vines of the hotel exterior. The ones about to leave his mouth, though, stay put, cement themselves in the grooves of your brain. You’ll think of this exchange years from now, and the words will never blur, sore on your tender heart.

A pregnant silence follows your soliloquy, prompting you to look up and meet his eyes. He says it then. “Pourquoi se disputer pour rien? Let’s just end things.”

“Fine, let’s just end things.” You repeat. Struck, hurt, and angry, you say one last thing, in a valiant attempt to get the last word in. “Thank God.”

The seconds tick by like days, where you look at one another, thinking the same thing. So that’s it? When did it all turn to this? You push past him, bearing your suitcase and messily wiping your face of tears, pretending not to notice the hitch in his voice when he mumbles a quiet goodbye.

Your steps to the elevator tick by like hours, and you take the time to think of how you’d lived much of your relationship thinking that, with how strong your and Charles’ personalities are, a breakup would be messy. Loud. A yelled out fight, tears, thrown curses and hurtful names. You’d always thought, with much conviction, that you would end with a bang.

Many previous fights had gone something like that. There was Thanksgiving, where you ushered him out of your family home to avoid anything escalating into a yelling match. Bang.

There was post-race, where, in the throes of frustration, you two had a heated exchange and you left the paddock in tears. Bang.

There was nothing, however, that couldn’t be solved without a shag and a kiss and an apology. So, reasonably, you expected the final fight to be the loudest. The angriest. This relationship, you were so sure—this would end in a bang. Because you and Charles love the same way: strongly, with so much conviction and noise, and the line between love and spite is more frail than you think. A great big bang, where finally you collided in ways you’d never done before, every frustration, every complaint, thrown back and forth like comets, like war.

But you are wrong. It doesn’t. 

It ends with you softly sighing, arms crossed over your torso to shield yourself from the ache in your chest, tears slipping then falling unstoppingly in the elevator. It ends with a night’s sleep taking up one side of the bed. It ends with Charles deceiving himself into thinking you didn’t just thank the Lord that your relationship has just crumbled to nothing in the bounds of this thin-walled, cold hotel room.

—

“Say something to me,” you say quietly, like you’re afraid to disturb the still morning silence of Paris. “In Italian.”

It’s a corny, cheesy request, no doubt inflamed by the butterflies in your stomach when you think about the night before and one romantic comedy too many. But you ask for it, anyway, your leg bumping his under the too-thin cotton blanket of his hotel. You found yourself here this morning after a night of sweet French alcohol and slurred, flirty conversation.

“Assomigli al resto della mia vita.” He says, smiling.

“Okay. What’s it mean?”

“I won’t translate it for you, because it’s a bit cliché.” He narrows his eyes.

“All of European language is cliché.” You laugh. “Come on, tell me.”

“I will one day,” he says, “I promise. I swear!”

The promise of “one day” is upsettingly romantic. Barely a day after you first met, first bonded, first kissed, first had sex. Okay, fine, you two hadn’t really gone the traditional route of dating, but here he is waxing poetic in Italian, finger tracing your bare arm. “One day,” you say, just so you’re sure.

“Yeah. One day.”

His hand finds yours, and fingers are laced together. Words wrestle themselves out of your throat nervously, a question that might seal the morning. “Should I go?”

The question rests in the air. How do you want your eggs, he wants to ask. Or would you want pancakes or waffles or bacon? Or bread, a croissant with coffee and compote? He wants to know all these things, hear all your answers, watch your eyes twinkle with amusement at the silly questions. So he’ll ask them, he figures. He’ll ask them if you don’t go.

“Stay,” he says. “At least for breakfast.”

—

Pierre leaves after a few more hours. He says Yuki texted him about some Mexican place they need to try. The night next, he is brought up in conversation: “Who were you with last night?”

“A friend,” you explain. “He’s an old friend, Henry.”

Henry Maxwell, the Wall Street guy you’re seeing, who’s inviting you to a charity ball a month into dating. To you, that’s basically a sign to end things, but you allow him to explain his invitation. Babe, don’t you think networking in New York is a gold mine for everything great these days? Don’t you think we need to network if we ever move in together?

“Henry, n—I mean. It’s just going to be another one of those stuffy city galas where everyone tries to out-wealthy one another,” you half-joke. In truth, the reason why you’re so adamant on not going is because this is just about the worst first date idea ever conceived—from experience, you’re sure you’ll have barely any time alone to get to know each other, whisked away to socialize with groups of other people.

“Oh, lighten up,” says Henry, with a sheepish smile. “You’re my plus one on the RSVP, so you can’t complain.”

“Am I?” You ask, chuckling. It’s a bit weird. But he’s excited, and asking, and convincing, so you tug a green silk dress out of your closet and take an Uber to the hotel address. Nevermind the fact that you’ve been here before.

You squeeze Henry’s hand when you walk into the massive ballroom, and not five minutes later you’re facing a crowd of people, drowning in taffeta skirts and wool suits and champagne and snooty small talk. Henry is charming, Henry is kind, Henry is a smooth talker.

He’s the ideal prototype of a guy you should be dating right now. His hand never leaves the small of your back, playing with the satin of your dress, laughing into your neck. You’ve faced several groups of business magnates and supermodels; right now, he’s introducing you to a big journalist for the Post.

She’s in the middle of talking about some hippie retreat to Thailand or somewhere or other when your eyes glide across the room, bored, searching for something to occupy you. To be frank, you really don’t care about ayahuasca.

The hands on the clock seem to halt just for you, just for now, suspending this moment in time like a mosquito in amber. Your eyes meet—and if you’d been less careful or maybe more tipsy, you might have mistaken his gaze for a stranger’s. But your heart demands hurt, demands the memories, demands the sick, sweet nostalgia threading through you like needle to cloth. Your heart demands you to remember, but the demand is so painfully easy to obey because you’ve never forgotten. All at once hate and love arise in you, like great big waves conflicting against one another, until you feel swollen with longing and spite, finding reprieve in the green of his eyes.

Timing, destiny, God. Whatever it is, it’s decided to play some silly joke, because here you are. In the precarious balance of a memory and a figment of your imagination, here you are. In the gap between never and always, here you are. You might appear to be strangers, stranded across opposite ends of this marble ballroom, but to both of you, the idea is almost unfathomable. No, not strangers; you two are anything but.

You are you, and he is Charles, here again in the place where it all ended.

He is never a stranger, and he could never be. He is Charles, your Charles, the beautiful boy who took up years of your life and explored every inch of your heart and mind. He is Charles, who broke your heart, he is Charles, whose heart you broke. But now, he is just Charles Leclerc, racing driver and charity gala attendee, conversing with the same crowds, mingling as he always does. Did. The usage of past tense is a painful pill to swallow.

Charles feels like it’s torture, suffering, a slow punishment, to be rooted to the ground and to do nothing but look. How can he look away now? He is rooted to the tiles, thick vines keeping him here, even if his heart tells him to go, run, now. He is stuck, tacked by the stillness of the memories that play back through his head, the love and the sorrow. You’re still you, hair a little shorter, brows a little darker, but you’re still you. The you he had once, held once, loved and lost once. The you he wishes to have, hold, and love once again.

For a moment, a fleeting, short, moment, he wishes to blink, to nod and to signal for you to meet him outside, on the balcony, so he can straighten his tie and press a polite hand to this person’s shoulder and say excuse me and leave, slip quietly into the night. So maybe you can tug on Henry’s suit jacket and say I’m sorry and join the crowd of gowns and satin and leave, run, go. Because you’re you. And what a sweet lie it would be if he said he wouldn’t do anything for you.

In the end you stay, and you stare, rooted still, time moving the way grass grows. When he smiles, you smile back, and the answers to what if are quietly fabricated in the limits of your imagination.

—

“I miss you. I know it’s—I know this is weird to say, after so long. After not talking for such a long time.”

“No, I understand. I miss you, too.”

“Right… well, how have you been?”

“Same old. You?”

“Yeah, same. How’s everything?”

“It’s… it’s okay. How’s life?”

“Tough, but great.”

“I noticed you were with someone.”

“Yeah, no. That’s—it’s sort of—I don’t see it going anywhere, really. It’s kind of over.”

“Oh? Is it?”

“Listen, I’m… sorry. For—just for everything. I’ve lived the past few years thinking about everything and still hoping I could someday apologize properly. I’m just glad I’ve been given the chance. And I think things ended without… without… I just don’t think we were mature enough. And sometimes now I think—it’s you, it’s still you.”

“Don’t apologize. Can you believe it happened right here?”

“I know. It’s almost crazy—”

“You left a bottle of scent at my place. It’s… it’s still half full. Sometimes I—nevermind. I mean, I think of you a lot. Probably too much for my own good. I think of us, our past, our relationship.”

“So do I.”

“—I love you. I try to stop it, I keep trying but I always end up here. Always here, back here, loving you.”

“If you didn’t see me tonight—would you have felt this way?”

“Oh, I feel… I feel it everyday. I think I’m always going to love you.”

“I’m always going to love you, too.”

[joshiji-darling]

ㅤ 🪸͟ ָ֢ ’’ 𐙚˙⋆.˚ 𝓶𝓮𝓮𝓽 𝓴𝔀𝓸𝓷 𝓼𝓾𝓲𝓷 ๋࣭ ⭑⚝

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kwon suin masterlist

ᯓᡣ𐭩 ࣪. basics ୭ ˚. ᵎ

birth name: kwon suin 권수인

birth date: 1995..14..02

birthplace: goyang, gyeonggi province, south korea

residence: nonhyeon-dong, gangnam-gu, seoul

occupation: celebrity, artist, singer, dancer, producer, founder&director of Darling Entertainment

nationality: korean - greek (dual- nationality)

ethnicity: korean

languages: english, korean, french, greek, italian, japanese, chinese

height: 170cm

weight: 45kg

blood type: O+

partner: doh kyungsoo (exo's D.O)

status: married

mbti: infj

debut: 2007

ᯓᡣ𐭩 ࣪. career ୭ ˚. ᵎ

history:

2007 - duo group 'darling (달링)' with shin ryeonha (신련하)

2012 - debuts as a soloist

2015 - debuts with seventeen

2016 - debuts as an actress in descendants of the sun

position in seventeen: co-leader, main vocalist, producer, lead dancer, visual,

suin's/ 'darling's fandom: dearest (디어에스트)

her emojis: 🐋🪼🪸🪷🍡🌊🪐🎀🧸🫧🖇🩰

social media: @sususuinkw.n

weverse: @sususuinnova

brand ambassador: graff,, patek philippe,, dior,, alexandar mcqueen,, hermès,, van cleef& arpels,, brunello cucinelli,, bottega veneta

ᯓᡣ𐭩 ࣪. trivia ୭ ˚. ᵎ

she is seventeen's co-leader, meaning she shares the leader position with s.coups. this was because she was elected as leader by all the members and the company, but suin felt that s.coups would make a great leader, so they comprimised by having themn both leaders

she is the oldest member in seventeen and is their senior as she debuted in 'darling' in 2007

some of her nicknames include; original visual,, blueprint,, the trend,,original ace,, nation's center,, nation's daughter,, miss korea, korea's voice,,

she is a-list celebrity in hollywood, not just in korea

she was under a company called 'whipser' when she was active in 'darling' and for her solo career, then pledis was bought into her company. but in 2019, suin left whisper and started her own company named 'darling entertainment' after her group.

meaning she is the founder and director of the company

she is the creator of aespa

seventeen, ateez, aespa, btob, day6, and taemin are now under Darling Entertainment

she produces 80% of seventeen's songs alongside woozi, but she produces 100% of her own songs

she is the most credited artist, and the youngest artist to be awarded that title. she has credit for 600+ of her own songs, not included songs she produced for others.

she is the most known and recognized name in the korean industry

"if you don't know kwon suin in korea, you are a spy"

she is the hidden ace of going seventeen, she rivals jeonghan

she bought a multi-million penthouse in korea and she has another penthouse and vacation house in greece

she created the trends in kpop (not including her fashion influence); photocards, lightsticks, fansite, fansigns, fansign calls, fancams, idol content, tiktok challenges, singing osts, random dance, having lore, ending fairy, dance breaks, highlight medley, brand ambassador, dance practice, behind the scene videos, encore, personalised in-ears and mic, western collabs,

she popularized idols appearing in variety shows by appearing on "running man" and boosting their ratings

she was the first idol to have 'pre-releases' and an intro and outro track

she has an emotional support spoon

she was an ivf baby

she was the first idol to be a "new years couple" (when dispatch reveals couples on new years ykyk)

her ears go red when shes shy

she made the name 'carats' for the fandom

she concerts usually lasts for 4-6hrs, but once she had a 9hr concert and still didnt finish her entire discography

locals: "i don't know kpop, but i know suin and bts"

she is unfortunately the female idol that has been in the most danger

her newest nickname is "idol with the most aura"

and yes, suin and kyungsoo are married, they married in 2019, kyungsoo proposed in 2018, and they announced their relationship and engagement in the mv for "only" which even included their proposal video

ㅤㅤ kwon suin masterlist

comment for requests!

[pleasantlyinsincere]

BRAVO September 1967 Shortly before his death Brian Epstein admitted to BRAVO-employee Thomas Beyl: The boys are everything to me

His face was white. His grey suit seemed to be too big. His shirt collar was opened widely, the black tie hanging crookedly of his neck. Brian Epstein had met death. He came from his father's funeral. That hot July day I met Brian Epstein for the last time. Six weeks later he was dead. As I was taking the list up to Brian's private office, I was desperately thinking about what to say to him. I knew Brian had been very attached to his father. I knew this loss must have rattled him deeply. There rarely had been a conversation with him, where he didn't mention his 'Daddy'. I didn't feel comfortable in my skin. Even though Brian had promised me once: "Whenever you come to London, come and see me. I'll always have time for you." It had always been like that. But now?

[...] Brian met me at the door. "Hello, Thomas! Do you want something to drink?" That afternoon I met a completely different Brian Epstein. I was startled when I saw him. He seemed broken and like he had aged years. He stood up from his office chair laboriously. He reached his hand out towards me. It was limp, his handshake without strength. "nice to see you, Thomas", he said. "Have you seen the boys? Have they come back relaxed from Greece?" He tried to act as natural and friendly as usual but he was a bad actor. Brian was quiet for a while, then he said: "I know why you came. Nice of you. But let's not talk about it. Please." On Brian's desk stood bottle of whiskey, next to it a glass. It was empty. Absent-mindedly he puffed on his cigarette and regularly his gaze would drift towards a big painting of his father on the wall. I felt out of place and was about to say goodbye when Brian said: "Stay for another moment. I want to tell you about a dream that finally seems to be about to come true. I'm planning a movie with the bullfighter El Cordobes, the dancer Nurejew and the boys. Cardobes and Nurejew have already accepted. I just have to convince the boys of my plan." The big dream was buried with Brian Epstein on 30 August 1967 on the jewish graveyard of Fazackerley, a suburb of Liverpool. Like so many great dreams of Brian Epstein, who had wanted to become an actor - and never became one; who wanted to write plays - and never wrote one; who bought a theater - and never staged one; who loved Mozart and Beethoven - and became manager of a beat group; who looked like a successful stock broker - and was at home on the stage of the pop world.

It was 26 June 1966. BRAVO-Beatles-Blitztournee. 7000 fans are screaming their throats hoarse inside Hamburg's Ernst-Merck-Halle. They are waiting for 'their' Beatles, who had come back to the place their careers had started after four years. It's just minutes before the 'returnees'' concert. A security guard addresses me: "Are you Thomas Beryl? You have to please come outside. There is a young guy in front of the main door, who has been trying to come in for half an hour even though he has no ticket. He claims he is the Beatles famous manager Brian Epstein. He thinks we're stupid." I rip the dressing room door open, calling to the Beatles: "Wait a moment. They aren't letting Brian in." The Beatles double over with laughter. "Once again", chuckles Ringo. John shouts after me: "Tell him he should get a belly befitting of his status, so that people recognize him as a manager!" The 'young guy' was indeed Brian Epstein. During the concert he said to me: "Look at the boys. I have never seen them this happy on stage. It has to be an amazing feeling to return to where you once have started small. That's when you really realize that you've made it. Frankly - I am a bit jealous because I wasn't with the Beatles during their first Hamburg stays." He watched his boys beaming faces - and beamed along with them.

No, Brian Epstein wasn't a typical manager. He preferred to wear suits in muted colors and subtle ties. His luxurious London apartment proved his exquisite taste. Brian loved antiques and chose with great care and knowledge. His appearance was quiet. For a manager he was modest and shy. Brian kept in the background so much, that sometimes the Beatles didn't even realize when he was missing. But still Eppy - as the boys called him - belonged to them as five fingers do on a hand. And Eppy was the thumb. Brian didn't like to hear such words. "No, no", he denied. "I am not the fifth Beatles but the Beatles' number one fan." Similarly he fended off the claim that the Beatles had him to thank for fairy tale career. "The boys would have made it without me", he told me. "At least I have just as much to thank them for as they do me. I'm known as a successful manager and have a big enterprise. But I was only able to do that because four electric boys became my friends."

The boys have a different opinion. John: "Without Brian we would have gotten out of our greasy leather jackets too late and the Queen would have never invited us to her palace. No one but Eppy was ready to help guys like us financially. Without him we would have been stuck in basement pubs. When he proposed to become our manager, we thought he had a screw loose. That's how little we believed in ourselves." George: "It was our luck that the Epstein family shop was so close to the Cavern, else Brian might not have found us. Then it would have been good night, Beatles!" Ringo: "I owe everything to him. Without Eppy I would never have become a Beatle. He was the one who acquired me." Paul: "Without Eppy the Beatles wouldn't exist anymore. There was a lot of truth to the rumors that we were breaking up. We had a few crises within the group. So heavily that we were about to go our separate ways. It was Eppy who repaired the cracks. He was our friend and we trusted him endlessly." The Beatles trustee is dead. His short, hot life ended 27 August 1967. John, Paul, George and Ringo didn't attend his funeral. They respected his biggest wish even after Brian Epstein was dead: He never wanted to be the center of their performance.

[tgmsunmontue]

Season to Taste - 11/? WIP

Explicit Hangster - Celebrity Chef Bradley and Naval Aviator Jake Seresin who have a relationship spanning the globe before they realize how tightly bound they are to one another. Heading into this little world.

PROLOGUE/ONE TWO THREE FOUR FIVE SIX SEVEN EIGHT NINE

TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

                “A fishing boat?” Bradley asks, pulling a face. “Really?”

                “You said you wanted to be in the Navy. Are you scared of a little seasickness?”

                “No. I just…”

                “Understanding and appreciating our food, from where we harvest it, or take it, is all important. Learning what fresh really looks like is also very important when it come to fish and seafood hmm?”

                “Oh yeah, I guess that’s true,” Bradley says, thinking of Johan’s ability to look at fish and simply pick the best pieces.

                “Also a week in Greece is not the end of the world hmm?”

                “Okay, you deliberately made it sound like I was going on a fishing boat in the North Sea, not a… charter boat for a week in Greece.”

                “Hmm. You will earn your stay. But I think you will enjoy the change of scenery.”

                Bradley had no idea how Leandro knows him so well, but he finds himself the sole chef on a charter yacht for a group of six tourists. They’re American, and once they realize he’s also American they stop speaking slowly and loudly, chat happily to him while he cooks. He fishes and dives with them during the day, makes breakfasts and lunches and then cooks what they’ve caught that day. He doesn’t recognize any of them, but when the week ends a couple of them tip him heavily, even though he tries to insist there isn’t any need. Then one of them passes him a business card.

                “If you ever consider setting up shop back home, look me up. I’d be interested in supporting you. And eating more of your food.”

…            …            …

                “Holy shit. Bradley Bradshaw.”

                “Yeah. Hello again…”

                “You’ve met already?” Jake asks, looking between Bradley and who must be his sister. She’s maybe a few years older, hair the same color but longer, tied back in a plait. Bradley finds himself automatically nodding, although he’s also hoping that her surprise is that he’s at her front door, and not because she’s starstruck. She hadn’t seemed at all perturbed when he’d met her on Saturday with the film crew trailing him. Turning up with her brother shouldn’t be any more alarming, surely?

                “Yeah, at the Farmers Market in the weekend,” Bradley starts. “I tried the chili jam, it was really good. Bought a few jars.”

                “Oh cool. Well, then I don’t need to introduce you. Well, her name is Maria if you need a reminder. I call him Leo because Bradley Bradshaw sounds made up.”

                He’s glad Jake has provided a name, and he notes Maria’s eyebrows shoot up and god, he’s been enjoying Jake’s complete disregard for Bradley’s fame, whether it’s real or contrived he doesn’t care. He doesn’t think Jake would care, if he did know, but it’s also really nice not having any expectations put on him from the person he’s with. The last few days have been great, reminding him of his younger years in Europe.

                “Leo is the name my Italian family call me. Short for Leonardo.”

                “I definitely prefer Leo,” Jake says, grinning at him and he follows his lead in taking his shoes off, putting the bags of ingredients and previous iterations of sauce down. “Keep forgetting your name is actually Bradley Bradshaw…”

                Maria makes a high-pitched sound Bradley can only guess is a choked off laugh and he grimaces and shrugs his shoulders, tries to convey that he’s doing the best he can and Maria is just looking at him and shaking her head, her eyes wide as she looks between him and her brother.

                “Um, yeah, okay, hi again. Jake said you were after some help with… tasting things. Right. You’ve been… trying to feed him,” Maria says, now looking at Jake. “Wow…”

                “Yeah. He’s pretty decent. Not as good as grandma, or even you or Olivia, but he hasn’t killed me yet.”

                Bradley clenches his jaw to stop himself from laughing outright, his eyes not leaving Maria’s face, and she looks equal parts mortified but also like she’s also trying not to laugh again. She makes a little high-pitched sound and Bradley has to pretend to cough as a burst of laughter makes its way out. She definitely knows who he is, had known on Saturday when he’d been walking around with the film crew but she’d been very chilled and laid back, hadn’t even asked for a selfie.

                “What chores need doing? I can go and do whatever it was you were planning on doing and instead you can help Leo with his new recipe… I like your cooking, but I am kind of over tasting the same thing over and over and you expecting me to be able to taste the difference,” he says to Bradley. Bradley looks back at Maria who has covered her mouth with both her hands and closed her eyes, had her head tilted back like she’s hoping the ceiling has answers.

                “Thank you, I’ll try my best not to poison your sister…”

                “Oh god…” Maria says from behind her hands.

                “Thanks. Appreciate it. Maria, you okay?”

                Maria wipes at her eyes, waves away Jake’s concerns saying it’s the pollen making them itch and hands Jake a piece of paper with writing on it and he tucks it into his pocket.

                “I’ll be back.”

                Then he’s kissing him, his thigh slotting between Bradley’s and he finds himself almost being dipped and he knows he’s flushing bright red, wonders if that was Jake’s whole aim, trying to embarrass him. It’s over quickly, although he’s not sure if that is a good thing or not.

                “Don’t be mean,” Jake says to Maria, and then he’s tugging boots on, grabbing the same cowboy hat Bradley remembers him wearing on Saturday.

                “When am I ever mean?”

                “Only every day of my life,” Jake says with a grin, but then he’s tipping the hat and Bradley bites his lip as he watches him stride back outside. Hmm.

                “So, you’re Leo. I had no idea he was bringing you around.”

                A little reluctantly he stops watching Jake stride off, and he turns to find Maris watching him, eyes amused and he smiles.

                “Yeah. I gathered he hadn’t told you when you said holy shit first thing when you opened the door. He and I met years ago, in Italy. He said he told his sister?”

                At that Maria’s lips twitch and Bradley starts feeling a little uneasy.

                “Did he say which one?”

                “Uh. No?”

                “Has he mentioned exactly how many sisters he has?” Maria asks, and she’s folding her arms and leaning back, watching him and Bradley feels like he’s being tested. That’s fine. If he can survive the Gallo family he can survive Jake’s sisters. Why he feels like he needs to survive or befriend Jake’s sister isn’t something he’s going to examine too closely but… he likes to think he’s a nice guy when he isn’t stressed out.

                “Not exactly? But… three? I mean, I know he’s the youngest. And there’s a sister with kids because he babysat them on Monday night.”

                “Sandra.”

                “And then his sister who he told about meeting me in Italy? And that isn’t you?”

                “Hmm. He only told me about meeting you in Italy on Sunday, so… it was probably Nicola when it happened originally.”

                “Okay. So. Jake just mentioned an Olivia, so… four? That’s my best guess. Four.”

                He can’t even imagine having four older sisters, having Violet is bad enough, although he calls her cousin he sometimes wonders how much closer they’d be if they were actually siblings. She’s his best friend.

                “Nope. Five. You’re missing Amanda. She’s Nicola’s twin.”

                “Five sisters. Holy shit.”

                “What about you? Big family?”

                “No. All the stuff about me losing both my parents is true. I’ve got a big Italian family that informally adopted me though…”

                “So he met you, and you bumped into each other on Saturday and now you’re…”

                She doesn’t finish the sentence and he’s grateful, although the look she gives him clearly spells out exactly what she’s thinking. She grabs some of the bags at his feet and jerks her head for him to follow her.

                “So you’ve told him your name, he’s just…Oh my god… he has no idea who you are.”

                “You think so? I kind of like it,” Bradley admits and Maria’s shaking her head.

                “Oh, he’ll have no idea. He’s smart, but he’s also fucking oblivious. Also I’m judging you. He adds sauce to nearly everything…”

                “Yeah. I’ve noticed.”

                “Well, he had really bad reflux as a baby. Like… he needed an operation to fix it type bad. He was such a picky eater as a kid, drove us mad. We got around it by pretty much putting sauce on everything.”

                “Oh…” Bradley murmurs, and he’d wondered. He sets out the ingredients and the little containers of sauce saved from his previous attempts.

                “Yeah. Obviously he’s an adult now, he doesn’t have to add sauce, but if he has the choice?”

                “On it goes. Right. Okay…”

                “Yeah. You okay with that?”

                “Of course. He’s not making me eat it. I’m not…” he shrugs helplessly, wants to try and say he’s not the uptight and angry chef that that TV producers like to portray him as. Sure he has a temper, but it’s definitely not as bad or as frequent as they make it seem. He also knows he's got something of a resting bitch-face. At least that's what Vi calls it.

                “Hmm. Thought so. Anyway, Jake doesn’t cook. He’d never watch a cooking show. Doesn’t like reality TV at all… If you wanted to keep it on the downlow you could. I don’t think he’d accidentally stumble across you. And I can keep my mouth shut.”

                “I don’t want to keep it a secret from him or anything. He knows it’s my job. And he knows my name…”

                “Okay. So… not to be super crude but you’re just, uh, hooking up right?”

                “I mean… yeah.”

                “Well. If you decide you want something more than hooking up with him, you’re going to have to spell it out, be really obvious. More obvious than you think you need to be. And I have an idea for showing just how oblivious he can potentially be…”

TWELVE

[xxblairexxss]

Hunt Game (Charles Leclerc x reader) (p.4)

Series contain stalking, harrasment, sexual violence.

Word count : 5.9k

Masterlist

What happened when Charles stopped believing in you and you were left all alone.

Chapter 4

"Leave it there, baby. I’ll take care of it.” Charles went to pick up a call that had been ringing for the past few minutes while he was helping you organise your luggage for the holiday. Upon discussions among the group over the past months, they had agreed to go with Greece for this year’s break.

It was their tradition even before you started dating Charles. Though most of them work in different professions now, they were willing to apply for a break weeks prior, adjusting their schedule to match Charles’ just to keep the tradition going, and it was really sweet how strong the friendships were.

The flight was scheduled to be a few hours away, and you still couldn’t make up your mind about which dresses you should opt for. Asking your fiancé wasn’t helping at all because he would always say, "You’ll look great in anything," but that surely wasn’t the answer you were looking for, so you had been staring at your dresses that were draped on the bed. Your white duvet wasn’t even white anymore. It was full of different colours from your colourful summer dresses.

The phone on the bedside table rang as it vibrated. The number alone was enough to send chills. It was the same number that had been bothering you for weeks now. There wasn’t any need to think twice as you rejected the call and diverted your attention back on the clothes. All you had to do is ignore him and think of something else. It will stop one day. You just needed to be patience. The peace didn’t last for long because it rang again the next second, over and over until you set the phone to power off.

"Y/N? Anything wrong?" Charles came in and pulled your attention away from the black screen of your phone that was thrown on the bed.

"N—no, not at all. Who was it?” You looked up as he strode in front of you to stroke his thumb on your cheek.

"Oh, it was the team. I asked them to update my schedule, and they needed to ask for my confirmation. Did Lizzy call you? I thought I heard your phone ring."

"Lizzy? Oh, yeah, she did. Um, she just asked me if I had finished packing my stuff." The dark green and rose floral-printed dresses in front of you didn’t look as exciting as they were when your mind was clouded with the number. What else did he want from you.

"Oh, I bought this on my way home earlier.” A small box of prescription medicine that was left on the dressing table was handed to you, making you stared at it in question.

"This is for...?”

He cackled and leaned in to kiss your hair. "You haven’t been feeling very well, haven’t you? I have been waking up to the sound of you throwing up every morning since a few days ago.” Heaving a sigh, Charles took a seat in front of you as he caressed your thigh. You knew what he was going to suggest, so you shook your head, beaming. "What?" His wrinkles around his eyes became more prominent.

You ended up laughing along with him. "We can’t not go on this trip, honey. They have been very excited about it."

"They’ll understand if I say you haven’t been feeling well.” He squirmed as you pinched on his waist.

"Are you throwing me under the bus?” You gasped dramatically while he tried to get away.

"But it’s the truth, baby! Or could it be food poisoning, no?” He eventually held your hand and brushed his lips along your fingers, stopping you from pinching his body. "Did you eat something wrong?"

"I don’t know! I ate the same thing you did. We should have suffered together.” You pursed your lips and pulled his face closer to peck at his cheek. "Let’s go! We shouldn’t be late."

"Says someone who still had tonnes of clothes here.” He picked up a dress and casually put it in the luggage, thinking he’s lending you a hand.

"I don’t want to wear that one!” You frowned, the white dress was being thrown back on the bed as Charles blinked, confused with how your mind works.

"Then why did you even bring it out?" He asked.

“Because I thought I wanted to wear them!”

﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎﹎

charlesleclerc has added to their story

ynusername has added to their story

The light from the bathroom and the sound of water constantly flowing pulled him from his dream. The empty bedside had given him the answer he needed as he dragged himself off the bed to check on you.

You felt his presence on the door frame before he could take a breath. The first night of the holiday couldn’t be even worse than this. You thought you were feeling better. You could joke around, playing games, laughing around for hours, thinking you could ditch on the medicine but your beauty sleep was cut short when you felt the need to eject all of the contents in your stomach the next morning.

"Sorry for waking you up.” Groaning, you lifted up your head to turn off the faucet as your fiancé stepped in.

"It’s alright." He breathed out and tugged his chin against your head as you leaned against his chest. Your body was definitely hot, even when there were layers of clothes between his skin and yours. "Have you taken the medicine?"

"No, I thought it had stopped.” You were so sleepy, but even when you closed your eyes, the constant feeling of something pushing everything in your stomach up to your throat would just kick the drowsiness away. Laying down made it even worse, and you were so worn out from having to run back to the toilet. Perhaps you could continue the last 2 hours before sunrise by sleeping in the bathtub, that way you wouldn’t have to rush when the nauseous hit again.

"Stay on the bed. I’ll take you a glass of water, alright?"

The hotel room couldn’t be any bigger; it would be a paradise if you were in perfect health, but right now, it was maddening. A walk back to the bed itself felt so far, you just wanted to crawl your way back.

The faint sound of the door knocking halted his movement. A few drops of the plain water dropped to the white, lavish-looking counter as he jumped from the sound with the glass in his hand. The hotel wasn’t an apartment that came with a long hallway. It was designated to give more privacy to the guests, so every unit would be roughly a few metres away from the next one. Though  it wasn’t unusual to hear footsteps or voices passing through as the guests went back to their rooms or went out to enjoy the night, but there surely shouldn’t be a knocking sound.

When he peeked through the peephole, he was a second late, as the person on the other side had turned his back to walk further away. He was wearing a nude-coloured uniform, the same one the bellboy was wearing. Charles walked back to the room, brushing off the knock as a mistake for the room number.

"Baby, here.” He handed you the glass of water.

Your head felt like it weighed the same as a bowling bowl. The nausea was gone now, but you still felt like you got beaten up head to toe. Everything hurt. You took the medicine that Charles had packed with the water he brought for you and scooted further on the bed to make yourself comfortable under the duvet. "I can’t.." You pulled your hand away and shook your head, rejecting his offer to lay down as you remained sitting up with your back against the headboard. "I can’t lay down, Charles. It will make me feel nauseous again, and it’s so uncomfortable. My back hurts."

"Okay, okay, baby. Then we’ll just sleep like this.” The end of the duvet slipped off his body as he sat up and copied your way of sitting while he drew you into his embrace. "Is this okay?"

"But you won’t be comfortable." You dipped your face closer against his neck as you closed your eyes, feeling the drowsiness slowly take over your body again.

"I’m more than comfortable. Go to sleep, honey."

Charles didn’t have to say it twice because the heat from his body with him fondling you acted like a lullaby. It felt like you were being hypnotised because you were gone with just a snap.

You just couldn’t live your life without him.

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"Alone?" Riccardo arched a brow as he saw his friend join the table for breakfast with no sight of his lovely fiancée, whom he was obsessed with.

"Y/N is not feeling well.” Charles replied as he leaned his head to the side while his hand applied some pressure to the spot. He woke up this morning feeling like he had nails hammered around his neck. "My body is sore, dude.” He bent his upper body down on the table and groaned from the pressure. Sleeping upright definitely used every muscle.

His friends started laughing, and he didn’t have to look at their faces to know what it was about. "No, it’s not what you think.” He laughed along, shutting down the thoughts.

"Yeah, right. Thank God our rooms are a few metres away."

"Ah, speaking about that. Did you,” The friends’ gaze went on him. "heard any knocks from the staff last night?"

"I was dead asleep, Charles.” Gabriel, Lizzy’s boyfriend, replied while Lizzy took a seat beside him.

"I heard." Lizzy interrupted. "I even looked at the peephole, but it was just the staff checking something, I guess. Why? It disturbed your little activity with Y/N?”

"Shut up."

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You chuckled as Charles made himself comfortable in your arms right when he came back from breakfast. He wrapped his arms around your waist and buried his face in your middle as you played with his hair. Though you woke up this morning feeling all better, you had developed some kind of trauma from eating because you always ended up in the bathroom the next morning so based on your logical way of thinking, if you didn’t eat, there was no way you would get sick again. So your fiancé had to go and have his breakfast alone, not literally because he had his friends but alone in the sense he didn’t have you to keep him accompany. Now that he was back, he had to cling on you to make up for the 2 hours of you leaving him alone.

"They are going to the pool, baby. Do you want to join?"

"Charles, stop. That tickles!" He laughed when you wiggled around as he poked at your waist. "Stop!" You sat up, hands cupping his cheeks while giggling as he stopped poking you.

"Do you want to eat something, baby?"

"I want pancakes.” Your so-called-logical way of thinking were left in the lurch when your stomach growled as if it was put on to speaker so you ended up caving in and requested for your favourite food.

He called for room service as you left the bed to get ready for the day. Just like how hard it was to decide what you should bring, it was equally hard, or maybe even harder, to choose what to wear right now.

"The green is cute, isn’t it? But the red is equally adorable as well!"

"Babe, just wear anything!" Charles was lying down on the bed, scrolling through his Instagram feed with your bikinis draped all around him like some kind of floor art. “Your pancake is here, honey and you still haven’t make a decision.” He stood up and went to get the door as the bell rang while you rushed to pick one out of all outfits because there was no way you had been contemplating this long.

"Room service!"

"Just put it on the table, please.” Charles snaked a few bills from the back of his jeans and handed them to the staff as a tip after he arranged the food. "Thank you so much."

"Honey, look! Oh, sorry."

He pressed his lips to hold his laugh when you scurried to cover up your body with the long white polo shirt that acted as the cardigan so you wouldn’t feel too naked, especially now in front of the hotel staff with the door opened.

"Is there anything else you need help with?"

"No, that’ll be it. Thank you." His body jerked back as you ran to bury your flushed face on his chest while the door closed behind him.

"That was so embarrassing! You should have told me he was still here!"

"You didn’t hear me talking to him?” He cackled even more.

"No?" You then dragged him to the table, where your pancake was beautifully placed with the syrups and honey on the side. "Are you not going to eat it with me?"

"No, honey. I’m full. I’ll go get change while you eat, alright?" He left you alone, enjoying the pancakes all to yourself, while he went to change, which only took less than 5 minutes without having to think about what it would look like in pictures. How easy it was to be a man!

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lizzyusername has added to their story

"Can she swim? Charles clicked his tongue and clapped on his hands as he approached Didi.

"She clearly can’t swim, Charles. She’s 12 months old! But she likes water.” Martha said in response as she handed her little girl to the driver as he carried Didi to the centre of the pool, where you were.

"Oh, she’s so cute!" You squealed when Didi giggled in his arms; the little hands slapped on the surface of the water, which made your fiancé’s face fully decorated from the droplets of water.

"We should definitely get a baby.”

You stopped playing peek-a-boo with the little one as your gaze went to your fiancé. There wasn’t any hint of tease or trick on his face. "Are you having baby fever from carrying her?"

"Yeah." He swayed little Didi in his arms as the little one shook her loaf-like arms in the water. "I can’t wait to build a family with you, love.”

This man in front of you never fail making you fall in love all over again.

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He found you. It was always easy to know where you were because he gave it all away. Just like how Charles’ 11 million followers knew where he was and how open and direct he was about his summer vacation, it only took him a split second to book the same hotel as you were.

It was a bit of a quandary for him to find where your room was. As witless as your companions were, they wouldn’t divulge the room numbers, so he had to take a screenshot of the pictures on their Instagram stories where it could reveal the view from the window and make a rough guess.

"Honey, look!"

Your voice. It was the voice he had been yearning to hear. He liked the way the white cardigan curved around your body. He saw the way Charles took you in his arms and how you hid your cheeks so he would stop kissing you.

Bastard.

It was unfair that he always had to be the one watching. Just like how Charles stole his career away, the chances away, the winning away, and the fame away. He had to have a perfect girl too.

But he had enough watching from the side now. It was too late to take the winning and the chances on the career back now but he could definitely take the girl he wanted.

He could definitely take you from him.

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"If Charles is looking for me, tell him I’m going to the bathroom!"

"What?!" Lizzy yelled straight to your ear; it would have drilled a hole in your eardrum if she went a pitch higher.

"I’m going to the bathroom!” You were so close to scream your lungs out.

"Oh! Okay go!"

Every night, the hotel would hold an event where they would blast a song until nearly sunrise, and people would just get drunk until dawn. Lizzy, her boyfriend, Gabriel, Charles, and you decided to hit it off for a few hours while Riccardo and Martha had to skip for their 12-month-old baby.

Something rough snatched on your wrist while you were on your way back and dragged you to the corner of the area. His gaze pierced straight into your eyes. The same gaze you had been seeing for weeks. The gaze that would always sent cold creeps. The gaze that was full of hatred and anger there was no comfort in it at all.

"Why did you ignore me?”

"What? Let me go!” You tugged on your wrist harshly, nearly punching him in the chin from the force. "I said, let me go! What the fuck do you want from me?”

"I hate it when you ignore me. Why are you ignoring me? Did I do something wrong? I—"

"Stop!" You obstructed him from continuing his words, which made him knit his brows together. "I’m not ignoring you! I don’t even know who you are!"

"Liar! You know me. We talked a lot of times. You said we have a lot in common!” He pulled on your wrist towards his chest, which ended you a gap away from him. "I have never met anyone who had so much in common with me. You just need to give me a chance, ba—"

"Baby?" Charles had a scowl on his face as he approached both of you. You were left to keep Lizzy accompany and he didn’t want to bug your girls time with her so he went to stay with Gabriel where he got carried away with the conversations with a few other acquaintance. When he came back to Lizzy, you were gone. He wasn’t expecting to see you in very close proximity to a guy out of anyone’s sight. "What are you doing? Who are you?"

"I’ll take my leave.” Charles saw his face very clearly as he was dressed very casual, like how any other people in this venue would dress. He finally let go of your hand and walked past the driver as you stood there, tongue-tied.

"Wait." Charles called out, and his gaze went on the guy. "We met before, didn’t we?"

"No? You got the wrong guy.”

You saw him quickly leave the area; his pace was fast but not enough to raise suspicion from the rest of the crowd. His hand was fishing out something from his back pocket, and the phone in your hand rang a second later.

"Who’s that guy?"

"He was—he was looking for his friend.” You could finally breathe when you felt Charles’s touch on your waist, full of reassurance and comfort—everything you needed at the moment.

He left a few lingering kisses on the side of your head, murmuring against your hair. "I thought he did something to you, honey. Next time, please let me know if you ever need to go somewhere.”

"I told Lizzy." You tilted your head to find him chuckling.

"She’s wasted. You chose the wrong person to deliver the message. Let’s call it a night."

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marthausername added to their story

tagged ynusername, charlesleclerc

"She opened the door and freaked out because—"

"You guys are so boring.” Martha cut off your storytelling, which made Charles grumble against your middle. He had been laying his head on your stomach while both of you were sprawled on the beach mat with your novel in hand.

Charles was just using an excuse so he could hear you talk while he fell asleep. He loved lying on you and watching how your eyes brightened whenever you told him everything that happened in the chapter. Though it was nearly impossible to understand because he didn’t even know any of the character’s name, the plot, the storyline wasn’t that important. He just wanted to listen.

"Can you leave us alone?” Charles replied, turning his face back to you, but his sight was interfered by little Didi when Martha put her daughter to join the both of you as she walked back to her boyfriend, Riccardo. "I—" He ended up laughing along with you. "I was going to get mad, but she smiled at me."

"We can always be her emergency babysitter." You commented before going back to your book while playing with his hair as he played peek-a-boo with Didi.

"You threw up again this morning, didn’t you?"

"Yeah.."

"We should really get you checked, honey. It’s been nearly a week? Surely the medicine isn’t working.” You glanced down and caught his worried face. It made you feel so bad because regardless how hard you tried to hide it from him, you knew Charles would always be anxious whenever you were sick, especially now when the sickness lasted longer.

"I’m sorry."

"There’s nothing you should be sorry about, love. I’m just worried about you. I’ll set an appointment with my GP, alright?” He assured and took your hand to leave a peck on the back of it before he focused back on Didi.

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ynusername has added to their story

"Are you sure it is okay for you?”

"Of course! I wouldn’t mind it. Just go and enjoy the night, Martha!” You firmly replied as Didi leaned her body towards you when you picked her up. "I’ll spend the rest of the night with this little girl."

"Thank you so much, Y/N. I wouldn’t know what I would do without you. Is Charles coming with us or—“ Martha looked at the driver as she spoke.

"I—"

"He’ll be coming with you! You chirped in before he could say anything. "He just needed to change first, right, honey?"

"Oh, okay! Then we’ll wait for you in the lobby.” The rest of the group left your room as they headed towards the lobby, all of them looking like they were so ready to get wasted.

"Honey, I can’t just leave you alone.” Charles exhaled, clearly looked like he wasn’t pleased with your decision.

"I can take care of myself! You spent this whole vacation worrying about me, honey. Go and enjoy the night. Didi and I will do just fine.” Didi let out a squeal as you cooed her. Despite all the persuasion and coaxing, he wasn’t even budge that you ended up having to turn it into some form of coercion just so he would leave the room by guilt-tripping him about how bad he was to make the friends waiting for this long.

"I’ll be back in an hour or so. Call me if you need anything.” He left after brushing his lips on your forehead, face wasn’t filled with any kind of anticipation. He was just looking like a kid who was forced to go to school.

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You tugged the little girl to sleep right when it hit her sleep time, and it was easier than you expected. Though you didn’t have any experience with kids other than being a part time babysitter back when you were still a teenager, Didi was a very manageable baby. You only had to feed her with the bottle that Martha had prepared beforehand as she played with her feet until her eyes got all droopy and she gave in.

Nothing beat the perfect idea to wind down your day by having little snacks you bought the day before while getting yourself entertained with the movie playing on the screen. 

Then you heard a knock. Talk about man of his words. He really came back an hour after just like how he told you. Giggling, you put the snacks away as you hopped your way to the door, all set to hug him as he walked in.

"Welcome back! Did you have fu—what are you doing here?"

"I missed you. I missed you so much.” He walked in as if it were the most casual thing and started pulling you for a hug, to which you shoved him away.

"What do you want from me?” You tried to scurry your way back to the room, but he tugged on your shirt and held something against your face. It was warm and a little wet. It was cupped harshly on your face that it left you with no chances other than breathing in the chemical, ether-like odor. You tried to pull his hand away, yanking on his shirt—anything that you could grab to free yourself but within every strive, your body started feeling heavier and heavier. Lifting up the arm felt like it needed every vitality, you just wanted to lay down. That was all you remember as your legs gave in as you succumbed to the darkness.

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Charles quickly tapped the access card and walked in when he heard Didi’s crying from outside the room. It was so loud and strained. She sounded as if she had been crying for so long and no one had noticed. He picked her up and swayed her as the wailing started to cease. Her cheeks were red, and her voice sounded sore from the heavy, excessive crying. It didn’t take her long to fall asleep from using her energy to cry, for God knew how long it had been.

"Y/N..?"

Once he put Didi back to sleep, he tread to the bedroom where you were tugged in and sound asleep on the bed, fully naked. Your hair was a mess and sticking all over your face. It was weird for you to be sleeping, ignoring the cries from Didi because you were a light sleeper and everything about it sounded so irresponsible. If Martha had to choose between you and Lizzy to babysit her daughter, it would always be you because she, Charles, and everyone else knew how much you loved kids. It was never like you to ignore a child just so you could sleep. The notification sound coming nonstop from his phone halted his movement as he brought out it out from his pocket to check on it.

It was pictures, and pictures. More than 10 pictures of you naked with a guy who he couldn’t seem to make out the face. The pictures were taken from different angles, and it was clearly something that would give anyone a nightmare to see pictures of their beloved partner under someone else, with no layer of clothes. The phone nearly slipped off his hand as he walked out of the room, feeling himself suffocated. Tonnes of thoughts started popping up in his head, wondering where it all went wrong, what he did to deserve all this, and why this happened when the relationship had been nothing but perfect throughout the years. There was never a big argument; you and he had been giving constant reassurance despite the career difference, with no insecurities or unspoken problems that couldn’t be solved. Why would you do this to him?

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You woke up the next morning and became conscious of your current state when the duvet was lifted off from holding on to your body. The room was silent, and Charles was nowhere to be seen. "Didi." You muttered, as if to remind yourself and got dressed with any clothes you could lay your hands on before hurried out to find the little one, but the baby cot was empty.

"Charles, where’s Didi?” You saw him on the couch playing with his phone. He was still wearing the same outfit from last night. Judging from how languid his actions were, it seemed like he didn’t catch a wink.

"I sent her back to Martha. Get your stuff packed. The flight is in two hours." He stood up and walked past you to get to the room. He was different. There wasn’t a smile or a touch. He wasn’t even looking at you.

"Charles." You grabbed his arm.

"Don’t fucking touch me, Y/N." He yanked his arm away and headed back to the room.

That was all you heard him say before he went mute for the rest of the days. He didn’t touch any of your stuffs. You were left to pick up everything on your own. You weren’t spoil but for more than 5 years, he was the one to help you pack, unpack, keep everything in check. Now that you were suddenly forced to be on your own despite being in the same room with the love of your life, you weren’t prepared for it. You followed him like a lost puppy with your luggage to say goodbye to the rest of the group. The vacation was supposed to end in two days, so you were taken back when he requested that you pack your stuff but obeyed without further questions.

When you met the rest of the friends, they were looking sad because you had to cut the vacation short due to Charles’ sudden call for work, as mentioned by Gabriel. You had to play it off so they wouldn’t feel like some things were off because you had ruined Charles’ vacation; you surely didn’t want to ruin everyone else’s.

"Your hickeys are fresh! No wonder Charles was eager to go back early last night." Lizzy cracked a joke as she hugged you. Your hands went on your neck as you rested it there, feeling your heart beat faster. You had no recollections of last night other than opening the door to the creepy guy, and you woke up this morning completely nude. You wanted to tell Charles about what happened up until what you could remember, but he had been ignoring you. His gaze was cold, and it terrified you to say anything.

Your flight back felt like a going home from a solo trip. He didn’t say anything and you weren’t talking as well so it felt like living in a world where everything was quite and there was no sort communication. When you reached your apartment, Charles helped you bring the luggage all the way up.

But it was just yours.

His luggage was left in the car.

“Where—where are you going?” You called out, grabbing his hand as he tried to walk out after dropping the last baggage inside the house.

"I can’t stay here with you.”He tried to pull his hand away, but your grasp went tighter, as you felt the tightness in your throat.

"No, please don’t do this to me. Please don’t leave me alone. About last night, I—"

"I give no fuck about what happened last night, Y/N." Your body was jerked forward as he pulled his hand away. "I was never enough for you, was it?"

"No, you don’t get it! He tried to—"

"Explain the pictures! He bellowed, full of rage.

“What pictures are you talking about?” You brought your gaze up and wiped your eyes with the back of your hand. "Charles, what pictures?"

He let out a chuckle and rolled his eyes. "No one’s going to believe this fucking act you got right here, Y/N. I am done with you.” He started walking to the elevator, leaving you to chase after him.

"Charles! No, please! Please don’t do this to me. What about us.."

"There is no us anymore, Y/N. You should have thought twice before bringing that guy to our bed. It was no wonder you were so eager to ask me to join them instead of accompanying you." He stepped inside the elevator and held down the close-door button, loathing to spend another second seeing your crying act.

"Please hear what I have to say! Charles!" You went down on your knees as the elevator closed. You stayed there, praying the door would open and he would come back, but he didn’t. "I can't—I can’t live without you.” You murmured, sitting on the cold ground for another minutes before picking yourself up as you trudged back to the apartment. The little stones and pebbles felt harsh against the soles of your feet when you didn’t even bother to put on any shoes when you chased after him earlier.

And that was the last time you ever saw him.

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Life was hard without Charles. He had always been the one who helped you with everything. It was as if you had to learn how to live all over again. A week after he left, you got a call this morning reminding you of your appointment. It was an appointment that Charles had made when you were in Greece last week, and he should have accompanied you.

You hadn’t stepped out of the apartment because something about going home to an empty house put you in a misery. You couldn’t even drive so you had to go on Internet to find out how to book a cab. You saw him in his black hoodie, black cap like the one he was wearing when he chased after you in the elevator weeks before. He was leaning against one of the lamp pole, eyes on the entrance of the apartment as if he was waiting for you. Before he could approach and get closer, you dashed to the cab that had been waiting for you from the booking you had set earlier.

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"How long have you been feeling sick?" Your GP, the lovely doctor that had been attending you and Charles for years asked and her gaze went on you. 

"A few weeks ago." You answered, fingers playing with your engagement ring. It was hard to make an eye contact with anyone because you felt horrible. You hadn’t stop crying to you eyes had been puffy for weeks. You had no energy left to put on any makeups so you just went with a tinted lip balm and a sunscreen. You hadn’t been talking to anyone that it felt like you could break down in tears if someone looked at you any longer than a minute.

"What about your period cycle?"

"I—" You pressed your lips into a thin line. You hadn’t been getting your period this month since last month but never bothered to think of anything because you had always had an irregular cycle. A skip for a month and two wasn’t really something that you were unfamiliar with.

Seeing how you were unable to answer the question, she gave a smile and asked the nurse to set up the machine. "How about we get you an ultrasound?”

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You had to lock yourself in one of the cubicles because you couldn’t hold your tears any longer. Back when you and Charles had a conversation about a family, you were actually 7 weeks pregnant.

It was always your dream to have a family with Charles, your dream man, but you never thought you would be walking out from the doctor’s room with a sonogram in hand without him.

You fished out your phone with your shaky hands and tried to call your fiancé, or ex-fiancé, hoping he would pick up this one call. If none of your phone calls were picked up since last week, please let him pick up just this one.

But you were only greeted with long beeps, like every other calls you had tried since he left.

"Charles, it’s me. Please, please call me back. I’m begging you. I have something to tell.” You pleaded, hoping he would listen to this voicemail as you hung up.

✧.* general tag list! @i83andrew @cltrlne @karmabyfernando @ohthemisssery @ru-kru @tastebaldwin @f1obessed @love4lando @shinrjj @ietss @leclerc13 @darleneslane @buckybarnessweetheart @xcinnamongirl @boiohboii @formula1mount @judespoision @alwaysclassyeagle @scenesofobx @mrsmaybank13 @vildetry06 @harriesgolden 

✧.* tag list for Hunt Game @livster @sainzluvrr @weaslyswizarding-wheezes @barcagirly @eugene-emt-roe 

If your usernames were crossed, meaning I can’t tag you! Let me know if you would like to be removed or to be added to the tag list! Or if I missed anyone!

[lisbeth-kk]

May Prompts (28) Empty

The Luckiest Girl in the World (chapter 28)

Summary: Will Rosie be able to keep her secret from her parents until the big day?

Twenty-Eight Years Old

Seen in hindsight, the trip to Greece was a catalyst of what came later. On our last evening, Timothy and I had dinner at an almost empty restaurant on the cliffs of Fira. The sun was about to set, and the sea was bathed in colours of gold. When Timothy took my hands in his and asked me to marry him, it really was the perfect ending. Cliché, perhaps, but who cares? Luckily, he hadn’t bought the rings at one of the ridiculous jewellers on the island but brought them with him from London. (I said yes, by the way.)

***

As if faith wanted me to keep my secret from my parents, they were away on a three-week trip to New Zealand when we arrived back in London. I called Dee before I went to Baker Street to collect mail and check the fridge for outdated milk and decayed body parts. She had closed for the day, but when I called with my inquiry, she was instantly intrigued and asked me to pop into 221A before I left.

It was strange to see someone else living at Nana’s. Her old furniture had been donated to second-hand shops, new wallpaper, art, and futuristically designed chairs, tables and shelves made 221A look like something taken out of Star Trek or whatever. The kitchen and bathroom were recognisable with bits and bobs I remembered. Nana’s oven mittens, the kitchen utensils and the wallpaper. Over the kitchen table was a big photo of Nana.

“I’ve made some sketches for you,” Dee said after she’d inquired about the trip. “One on each shoulder, yes?”

She showed me her drawings and after some discussion, she made the adjustments I wanted. 

“See you tomorrow at six,” Dee said when I left. 

“Can’t wait!” I retorted excitedly.

***

Dee’s Den was everything you don’t expect a tattoo-studio to be. (At least if you’ve never set foot in one.) Airy, spacious and clean in the extreme. The first time I entered, I felt I needed to take my shoes off.

“No customer of mine will suffer from an infection. I’ve seen enough of that shit,” Dee said gravely.

Her improved sketches had been coloured when I arrived the next day, and they looked even better than I’d dreamt of. The tattoos would adorn each shoulder. One red poppy on the left, and a bee on the right. A t-shirt would cover them, and by the time Dad and Papa were back, they would’ve healed properly so I didn’t need to wrap them in plastic, and the soreness would be gone. I hoped to keep them a secret until the wedding day. My dress would be sleeveless and make sure to show off the tribute to my beloved parents.

***

We decided on a May wedding, and it was Dee’s idea to check if the venue from Nana’s funeral was available.

“She would’ve been so pleased that you all had some good memories from that place. Dancing and laughing, celebrating love.”

Both me and Timothy loved the idea, and we were in luck. Normally, the place needed to be booked at least a year and a half in advance, when it came to weddings, but they’d had a cancellation due to a broken engagement. Nine months to prepare.

***

I chose Liwia as my maid of honour. We had stayed in touch over the years, and she adored my parents, after they’d given her shelter when she needed it in the middle of her teens. Bella had been switched for Iris. They’d been together almost eight years, and Iris was six months pregnant with their first child. An unknown donor was the father.

“I’ve been meaning to ask if you were traumatised when you stayed with us,” I said on the final fitting of our dresses.

“What do you mean?” Liwia asked, clearly puzzled.

“Board games,” I explained dryly.

She laughed wholeheartedly and admitted that she’d never played Scrabble, Cluedo, orMonopoly, but stuck to chess and card games.

“Wise choice,” I retorted with a grin. “Though I have experienced knights, queens and bishops being thrown across 221B.”

***

My uncles picked me up at the salon where I’d been styled and dressed. Uncle Myc cocked an eyebrow when he saw my tattoos, but he was unable to hide how moved he was by this permanent gesture. Uncle Greg…well, he wasn’t that subtle, and needed a stern talking to from his husband to avoid ruining my dress and hair when he teared up and embraced me.

“You’re going to destroy them with this, love,” uncle Greg murmured.

I hadn’t been nervous before, but when the familiar place came into sight, my palms started to sweat, and my heart pounded in my chest. Inside, Timothy and my parents waited. The most important people in the world, apart from the men helping me out of the car. I kissed them and let them go in first to find their seats. One of the staff stood waiting for me to open the door once I’d decided to enter.

For a while I just stood there, my head blessfully empty. And then out of nowhere a wave of emotions washed over me. The memories of all the preparations and anxiety of the last week, regarding the flowers, the last seat arrangements we had to change the day prior, one of my shoes that disappeared without a trace… 

“Come on, Watson. You can do this,” I interrupted myself, using Papa’s former name on me to get me out of the unending loop of trifles and keep me focused.

I nodded to the man by the door who opened it for me, and I slowly made my way down the corridor to where Dad and Papa waited. They stood hand in hand outside the door to the ceremony room and turned abruptly when they heard my heels on the wooden floor.

“You look…”

“Oh, Bee…”

They were both teary-eyed, which didn’t bode well. I hoped they’d piled up with tissues, because this well would not be emptied any time soon.

With my heels on, I was the height of Dad. I seldom wore high-heeled shoes, so it was an alien feeling to stand face to face with him, literally speaking.

“You look gorgeous, sweetheart,” he whispered in my ear when he hugged me.

“Thank you,” I said and turned to Papa.

He’d frozen and he blinked profusely. Dad looked worried at him. He still hadn’t seen the tattoos. Papa’s eyes darted between them, clearly shocked to the core. I took his hand and squeezed it.

“Do you like them?” I asked quietly.

“Like what?” Dad inquired; his eyes hadn’t left Papa’s face during all of this.

“Look at me, Dad,” I said and finally he saw what Papa had seen minutes ago.

“Oh, my god,” he said and covered his mouth with his hand. “Rosie.”

“They are…” Papa clearly knew but was too shaken to believe what he’d deduced.

“Yes, Papa. They are. My tribute, homage, or whatever you want to call it. To you and Dad. To show you and everyone how much you mean to me. Dee made them while you were away. You have no idea how proud I am that I’ve managed to keep it a secret until now.”

Finally, out of his daze, Papa cupped my face and kissed my forehead and cheeks, careful not to disturb my hair or makeup.

“My precious girl,” he murmured. “I love you.”

“Stop! You’re making me cry,” I protested and tried my best to stay composed.

Dad sniffled and batted his eyes with a handkerchief.

“I’m never going to survive this day,” he muttered.

“John!” Papa exclaimed. “Don’t you dare.”

I knew I had to take the lead, or we would be stranded outside that door forever.

“Come on. The game is afoot,” I teased.

Also available on AO3

YES, there will be a continuation tomorrow.

This is also my entry for this month's Sherlock Challenge and the prompt ink.

@calaisreno @sherlockchallenge @totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes @raina-at

More tags in the replies

[sgiandubh]

But first, time to say good-bye

It was to be a late departure (bureaucracy will someday kill us all...) from Athens, an endlessly diverted way North through a very early summer and some fitful sleep near the border, where poppies were already in bloom and elusive to the camera:

I promised to share with you my story with Mycenae the day I would leave Greece for good. Yesterday was the day, so here goes.

I first went to Mycenae on a horrendously rainy day, in November 2018. The place struck me as a haphazard settlement of sorts in the wake of some ancient apocalypse, which was absolutely correct. We stayed in my colleague from Culture and Press' car, munched on some horribly stale koulouria as all hell broke loose outside, when she finally told me: ' you know what, I am happy we made it here: in Mycenae, you can only hear and tell the truth, you know'.

I have to say I ogled in suspicion. I was wet, hungry and completely unused to the Greek way of dressing everything up in mythology. She spoke Greek as I speak French and knew perfectly well what she was doing. She was casting a spell - an unbreakable one, for which I will forever be grateful. Oh, and as all myths would have it, the Lion Gate was closed, by the time we arrived.

It took me almost two years to go back there, during the pandemic, scared summer of 2020, when everything was empty and glorious to fully take in, like a big gulp of colors and sounds and life. My digs were to be always the same: unassuming Petite Planète, the last B&B in town, a stone throw away from Agamemnon's treasury, owned by the Dassis clan of archaeologists.

Their story begins in Constantinople, around 1875, when Konstantinos, a young orphan, begged Heinrich Schliemann to take him along to wherever he was traveling. He quickly became indispensable and helped with the first digs in Mycenae. He was the one who found Agamemnon's mask:

When the digging was over, Schliemann bought him a tiny house for two pence and a half and told him to stay there. 'Many people will come to visit and they will need food and a roof. Make sure you do your best and it will make you a rich man.'

And they came. In droves. If you ask nicely, V. will show you their reception rosters, safely tucked away in a bank vault, in Argos. I had the privilege to see Virginia Woolf's signature and I was stunned. Schliemann's two pence house is now doubled by a garish modern addition you can see from the main road as La Belle Hélène B&B ('my cousin Agamemnon is a greedy idiot', says V), but Schliemann's room is piously kept as it was when the strange German gentleman left them to their fate. As is, they did not become rich, but that does not matter. You will always find a place at their wonderful table, where Mamma Dassis cooks the same food they ate back in Constantinople and they would not have it otherwise. The new, bigger and better B&B is called Petite Planète because of V's father undying passion for Saint Exupéry's Little Prince. It permeates everything without being obtrusive, because sometimes 'the essential is invisible to the eye'.

Back in 2020, they were worried. Very worried. The Lion Gate was open again, but the 'cretins at Google' wouldn't have it and kept on listing it as closed, on their maps. People were canceling their bookings. The village stood unusually quiet and forlorn.

I made no promises. But I did phone some people at the Greek Ministry of Culture. The least person I expected to be of any help, H, a transparent, mousey freeloader, who was always the last to leave all of our events in the hope we'd take her to dinner in town, happened to be some sort of underling at the Archaeological Sites Department. She immediately understood what I wanted her to do.

Three days after I left Mycenae, on my road trip to the Mani peninsula, I received this message in my Booking inbox:

This started it all. And from that moment, all my Greek roads will lead there. It's also been a long time since I have trouble forcefully paying them for my monthly stays (booking and paying in advance helps, though), something they adamantly refused last time I went there:

'G., the girl wants to pay.'

'This is ridiculous, of course. This girl is family.'

Someday, I just know I will be back. For good.

After five years and a half, many more fabulous stories (Mycenean potter and poet, anyone? mad postman? Kyria Stamatoula and her goats? Kyrios Pandelis and his jams?) the only thing I know about Greece is that, for all its (many) misgivings, this land is about two things:

Friends and Heroes.

[sanjoongie]

ȶɦɛ ʄɨռǟʟ ɖǟʏ օʄ ʄǟȶɛ

🍷my submission for the Permevent for @cultofdionysusnet

🍷Pairing: Jung Wooyoung x Reader (f), side character Choi Jongho

🍷Genre: smut

🍷Au: cult au, party au

🍷Trope: god/worshipper, (slight e2l with Jongho)

🍷Rating: 18+, MDNI

🍷Word Count: 3,067

🍷Warnings: Drinking! (it is the cult of dionysus after all). The reader and wooyoung do not get drunk. there is NO drunk sex without consent. mentions of toys (m), usage of toys (f), masturbation (jongho is the object of desire for this), exhibitionism, public sex, voyeurism, shower sex, 69, slight manhandling

🍷Summary: During your initiation into the cult of dionysus, you find your rival Jongho there. You also find Wooyoung, the host aka Dionysus. Who knows what kind of debauchery you could get into?

🍷Author's note: This is my final submission for a cultofdionysusnet event. Today is my last day as a founding admin and member of the net. Once upon a time, a net rejected me because of my age. Rie and Ki came together with myself so that we could make a net that had no age cap. Although I will no longer be a part of the net, I will always appreciate what was done for me. I wish my members a muse filled writing life. This is my final sign off as admin Atropos Topaz 💞🍷

🍷divider provided by @cafekitsune

It had taken you years, a few books, and a signing tour but you had finally made it: you were an initiate to the Cult of Dionysus. The prestigious club, extremely elusive and exclusive, had only the most established creatives of our current decade as members. And now that included you.

You had received a burgundy and gold invitation at your abode one night and you squealed loudly. It had simply a location on the card, which was a vineyard in Greece. You even bought a white toga-like dress to wear to the function. You could only imagine the debauched devilry that this gathering was going to include. Besides, being able to rub elbows with some of the most elite minds, of course.

You had heard rumors, who hadn't? In your line of profession, there were always whispers of the best of the best being tapped for a club and then their star shooting even further in their respective profession. Last year, you had been jealous when another author had a huge publishing house offer them a contract, only to find out it was because of their connections with the Cult of Dionysus.

Now it was your turn to shine bright and get everything your greedy heart desired.

What you had not expected, when you arrived at the function and were given a bag of liquid by a gold-painted, naked server, was to be walking down an aisle of the vineyard with a… dildo. You slung the wineskin around your shoulder as if it was a purse with a strap and entered the backyard of the villa that hosted the vineyard.

“Bacchanalia has been banned since 186 BC but that has never stopped our people from indulging despite society trying to restrict us.”

The current ‘Dionysus’, as the host of the current Bacchanalia was so fondly called, was Jung Wooyoung. The famous playwright, dressed in all black like he was rebelling against the white attire of the remainder of the members, swung his arms out open as he spoke.

“That is exactly why we still retain some of our predecessors' rituals,” Wooyoung paused for dramatic effect. “Like the phallic procession.”

Excited murmurs rippled through the crowd. Wooyoung grinned in excitement, “How could we be the Cult of Dionysus without the orgies, right my friends?”

Some more hoots came from the crowd in response.

More gold-painted servers came around with a tray of dildos. You were about to pick up a tentacled one when another hand grabbed it. You went to glare at the owner of said hand and sighed.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” Jongho drawled.

Choi Jongho, another author, and your direct competition, was the last person you wanted to see here. “How about we pretend to not know each other.”

Jongho snorted. “Fine by me.”

You instead grabbed a bright neon blue dildo from the tray. Goddamn Choi Jongho.

“We will begin the phallic procession and it will be followed by a drinking contest amongst our initiates. The wineskin that you have been given upon entering will be what you will be chugging down.” Wooyoung chuckled deeply at the next part. “Whoever loses the drinking contest will be giving us a private showing of their talents with their chosen dildo. We all remember San’s performance last year, right?”

Choi San, a well-known new age poet, looked down at the ground and dug his toe in the ground. Imagery of the sharp eyes and even sharper cheek boned man bouncing on a dildo in front of a crowd raced through your mind. You had to chase it away, so you could focus back on Wooyoung and what he was saying.

“If all our initiates would please make their way to the vineyard, we can begin the procession, initiates last.”

You thought you might feel weird holding a dildo by its base with your hand bracing it and your other hand wrapped around it, but there was something about the solidarity and silence of the almost ritual-like moment that changed your mind. The stars in the sky shone brightly. Grapes hung heavy from the vines. You truly felt like you were becoming an initiate of the cult of old; as if you truly stepped from the vineyard and would find yourself in Ancient Greece.

You were a member of this illustrious group now and you planned on drinking up every moment, no pun intended.

At the end of the vineyard, the current members were all gathered in a rough semicircle that closed when all the initiates finished their procession. The initiates and yourself stood in a line.

Wooyoung clapped to get everyone’s attention, standing at the apex of the circle of people. “You can put your phallic instruments down and let the drinking game begin.”

Servers placed trays in front of you, so as to not dirty up the dildos, and then everyone took the wineskins in their hands. You unpopped the cork and looked down the line on either side of you. Jongho was a few people down from you and he was already smirking. The man could drink his weight in alcohol and still hold his own, so he knew he wasn’t going to lose.

What you didn’t think he understood was that to lose this game was to win. Clearly all the members had been impressed by San’s performance last year. You knew this because the poet had had an amazing year after his initiation to the cult. You had originally thought it was just because of his entrance to the cult but you were sure now it was because of what he did during his initiation that gained him so much prestige.

So you had made a decision: you were deliberately going to lose the game.

“Ready?” Wooyoung announced with a gleam in his eye, holding his hand up like he was one of those girls signalling to go for a car race. “Drink!”

You held the wineskin up to your lips and swallowed dry. You let a little wine spill down your cheeks. But as other initiates finished theirs, the crowd hollering in triumph, at last you were the final initiate.

“Ah,” Wooyoung said with mock chagrin. “It seems another creative mind of the written word has lost the drinking game. You’re carrying on a tradition, it seems.”

You attempted to look deflated and Wooyoung clapped you on the back. “I’m sure you’ll put on a great show,” he said loudly before leaning in and whispering in your ear. “I’ll be watching.”

Once again, a gold-painted server came with a soft blanket. They laid out the blanket for you in the middle of the loose circle of members, the initiates blending into said circle. They offered you your dildo and then melted back into the shadows as they had been doing the entire evening.

Your stage was set, it was just up to you to live up to the performance now.

Luckily, it wasn’t hard for you to get wet and excited with a crowd. Your exhibitionism had gotten you into trouble plenty when you were in your wild and youthful phase, but the kink had never expired as you got older.

The second part that made this a little bit easier and little bit sexier, was imagining someone who you despised fucking you good. So when you moved to your knees, pulled up your toga-like dress, pulled aside your panties and pushed the head of the dildo along your already-wet folds, and moaned in pleasure, you slowly opened your eyes to make eye contact with none other than Choi Jongho.

And the man, for the first time since you’ve been aware of his existence, looked away first.

You imagined Jongho would drink in the way you reacted to him. Dragging his cockhead through your folds, circling your clit, making you beg for him to penetrate you. You played the dildo against your body, imagining the smirking, golden author above you. He may be your rival but he certainly was an atractive mother fucker.

You yanked one side of your dress to reveal one of your breasts and immediately pinched your nipple between your forefinger and thumb. You yanked it and twisted it, sure Jongho would want you to make as many pretty noises as you could for him. Jongho would be rough but accurate in his pleasure with you, presumably of course.

Finally, you sank down on the electric blue dildo. You were so wet that it barely went in with resistance but you did let out a pathetic whine as you were filled. You arched your back as you took the dildo to the hilt. You didn’t leave any time, eager for the pleasure that was being offered, both imaginary and real.

“That’s it, take me in your eager hole,” Imaginary Jongho hissed in your ear quietly.

You moaned and bounced eagerly on the dildo. You didn’t dare open your eyes again, in case you broke the pleasure bubble you were living in currently. But you did hope everyone’s eyes were on you.

Because of the situation, or perhaps due to the scenario playing on in your head, it wasn’t long as the dildo rubbed the spongy spot inside of you and you came undone for everyone in the loose circle around you. You cried out, throwing your head back, and riding that dildo for all it was worth.

With your head tilted back, panting, you were unsure if you had enough energy to even open your eyes.

Then you felt something touch your lips, and on instinct, you opened them up. Cold, pure water entered your lips, and you hummed in contentment.

When you at last opened your eyes wearily, you saw that it was Wooyoung that was gifting you with water. His own eyes were dark and trained solely on your face.

“You did well.”

A shiver shot down your spine at the praise. You could tell that was Wooyoung’s intent by the half-smirk that graced his lips.

He offered you a hand and you gratefully took it. Wooyoung draped his cloak over you, covering your body.

“Trying to outdo San’s performance, I see,” Wooyoung teased you.

You followed him as the rest of the members of the cult dispersed amongst the outdoor set up. Some were already in compromising positions, and even though you yourself had just performed, you avoided watching what was going on. The less inner circle secrets you knew, the less you had to lie about.

“Can I escort you to the villa? There are several bathrooms that you could clean yourself up in.”

Wooyoung was offering for you to become less dirty but somehow the cadence in his tone let you know he was only thinking of more dirty scenarios.

“I would be honored by the honorary Dionysus,” You smiled happily.

Wooyoung waved away your statement with mock humility. “Oh, please.”

Nonetheless, Wooyoung guided you with subtle pushes on the small of your back until you both made your way back through the vineyard. Your legs were a wee bit wobbly but you were sure the trek would be worth it.

It seemed a few others had the same idea. You spotted Yeosang, the famous cellist, in a dark corner, someone sucking on the sensitive skin of his neck. Mingi the oil painting specialist was filming himself fucking someone. Hongjoong, a newly risen sculptor, was admiring someone’s curves and skin with his hands. So much for not knowing what was going on with the inner circle.

Wooyoung finally brought you to a lavish bathroom, the stand up shower having multiple heads on different walls.

After completely ditching his clothing, Wooyoung stepped inside, putting the water on. He adjusted the temperature and offered you a hand in. You eagerly pushed your toga dress off, along with Wooyoung’s cloak, and stepped into the warm water with the bronze god.

You weren’t sure exactly when Wooyoung had assumed the mantle of the host of the party, but when there seemed to be a fuzzy, golden line that covered his skin, you knew something was different.

“You need not be afraid,” Wooyoung grinned, full of boyish amusement.

You gasped in delight when you saw that his eyes were the most wonderfully deep burgundy color of a dark, red wine. “Wooyoung?”

“You are the chosen initiate to first receive his Gift,” Wooyoung raised an attractive eyebrow. “Do you accept it?”

You immediately knelt beneath the rain shower head, water falling around you, head bowed. “With your pleasure, I would receive the blessing of the Muse.”

Wooyoung cupped your chin and pushed up, to signal for you to rise.

“So it shall be,” he whispered seductively against your lips and then pressed them together.

You felt a thrill, a buzz, a jolt of energy travel through you. You squealed in surprise and glee. Wooyoung tossed his head back and cackled, a full belly laugh full of excitement. “I knew we chose right.”

Wooyoung held your head between both his hands, kissing you in the shower. You wrapped a leg around his hip. Wooyoung’s full erect cock pressed between your legs and you whimpered at the interaction.

Without breaking the kiss, Wooyoung gently played his cockhead against your folds, just like you had guided the blue dildo to do earlier. You appreciated the kindness of Wooyoung, for you had played with yourself quite roughly and were now sensitive and puffy down below.

“I bet you taste sweeter than any of the wine we offer,” Wooyoung said in a throaty voice.

You put a firm hand on Wooyoung’s muscled shoulder. “You will not be tasting me without allowing me to return the favor.”

That’s how you found the two of you on the warm tiles of the shower, Wooyoung on his back and you hovering over his glorious body. Your mouth played along the side of Wooyoung’s cock, until you came to the peak, and then encompassed his cock in your mouth. The heaviness on your tongue was like heaven. Wooyoung’s hands tugged on your legs, maneuvering for you to sit even further down on his face, so that his tongue could swirl around your clit.

Wooyoung called for a halt suddenly, strong, veined hands wrapping around your wrists before you could make him spill his seed inside of your mouth.

“I will not do you a disservice,” Wooyoung growled.

You watched on with curiosity as he switched your positions, allowing him to manhandle you until you were below him on the sweaty tiles. The water continued to flow, making the entire bathroom fill with steam. Wooyoung’s elbows held his body above you. His hair clung to his face, making you want to reach up and push his hair out of his face.

Wooyoung once again held onto your wrist. He gripped the both of them in his hand and held your hands against your chest. Wooyoung’s head dipped between your head and shoulder, to lick and kiss up your neck. “If I don’t deliver my gift, I will simply go crazy.”

You bucked your hips upwards. “Please, Wooyoung. I’m ready.”

Wooyoung, as if he had done it a million times, pulled back his hips and easily slid into you. The slide of his cock inside of you made you moan wantonly. You weren’t sure if it was because he was possessed by Dionysus himself, the god of wine and pleasure, but everything felt SO good. Every drag of his cock, every thrust of his hips against yours, spoke of your nerves alighting.

Wooyoung’s whines and moans against your skin were like music to your ears. He sounded desperate and delicious at the same time. “So good,” he moaned as he picked up the pace.

Neither of you were drunk on wine, but the both of you seemed to be drunk off each other. Your hips continued to rise upwards in order to meet Wooyoung’s thrusts. Wooyoung sounded pussy drunk off you, whimpering about how warm and wet and good your pussy was for him.

“Soon, please let it be soon, I’m--” Your words were swallowed by Wooyoung’s kisses. His lips were wet, from both the moisture in the air and his spit.

All you were left with were your own cries crescendoing into a cacophony of pleasure as your climax escalated. When your climax hit you, it was like you saw stars. You floated in a feeling of pure bliss, your pussy lips clenching along Wooyoung’s length as you rode out your pleasure.

You opened your eyes to find Wooyoung watching you carefully. “And now, for the pièce de résistance.”

If you thought your climax was the cherry on top, you had been sorely mistaken. Wooyoung’s thrusts were choppy and sloppy but it wasn’t too long before he came inside of you. You could feel his cum fill you up, swirling around in your insides, but it was more than that. It felt warm, it felt powerful and then you gasped when your own skin lit up with the soft golden light that had been filling Wooyoung.

Even though Wooyoung’s nose was scrunched up from his climax, he still gasped his final words, performing as Dionysus’ proxy. “The muse will be with you for only a few days, so use it wisely. I look forward to reading what you come up with.”

And then he collapsed on top of you.

You laughed, giddy and full of excitement. You had just had probably the best sex of your life AND you were about to write your next great novel?

Wooyoung followed with his sweet laughter twinkling in the air, albeit sounding a little tired.

“Perhaps my novel might do so well that Seonghwa will want to direct a movie based on it!” You thought out loud, stars in your eyes already. You should use your Cult of Dionysus connections well, after all.

Wooyoung raised his head, the look on his face of pure betrayal. “No no no, he’d ruin it. Let me write a Broadway play for you. That would do it much better justice.” Wooyoung momentarily got a cocky look on his face. “Besides, that would give you an excuse to be in the theatre to watch its opening night with yours truly.”

The night was far from completed, but you already won over the cult, Wooyoung, and a god himself. Things could only go up from here.

[royalsofhistory]

Empress Elisabeth of Austria and her Corfiot palace through the eyes of the Greek royals.

Greece was destined to offer the Empress Elisabeth the hospitality of its soil. She chose Greece as the country where she would hide herself and her sorrow. At Corfu she bought a site of ground from an old Corfiote Statesman called Braïla, and on it she built the Palace which she called "Achilleion", after her hero Achilles, whose statue was in the middle of the top garden terrace, and represented him at the hour of his death, drawing the arrow out of his heel. When in Corfu, it was understood, she was to be strictly incognito, and her wishes were always respected. One day, suddenly, when we least expected it, she arrived at Athens, having travelled by the ordinary steamer, and called at the Palace accompanied by a lady -in-waiting. She asked the porter whether she could see the King and Queen. On the porter's inquiring who she was, she replied she was "the Empress of Austria." Whereupon we were brought down to verify that statement . It seemed impossible╴but it was the Empress of Austria! Needless to say she obtained her interview, and after half an hour's conversation she took her departure, insisting that her visit should not be returned by my parents. As she was anxious to study Greek culture, she decided to learn modern Greek, and applied herself to the task with great energy and perseverance. She engaged a tutor for Greek conversation. Her first was Dr. Christomanos, an author and poet, who wrote a charming life of the Empress, which was translated into several languages. Her last was Count A. Mercati, who afterwards became Master of King Constantine's household. Accompanied by her tutor, the Empress used to go off on a five or six hours' walk, all over the island; and even for the picturesque ceremony of combing and brushing her hair the tutor had to be present, talking Greek to her all the time. She learnt to speak Greek quite faultlessly. In the arrangement of her house the Empress took great pride, setting up the statues of all her new "Gods"; Sophocles, Euripides, Plato and Aristotle. She also had a statue of Heine, the poet, erected in a shrine. When the Kaiser bought the Achilleion, he at once banished Heine, and raised Achilles from his recumbent position into a standing War Lord, with gilded helmet and shield, so that the first sight of Achilleion should be his glittering helmet. It is a pity that the Empress tried to improve the natural beauty of the spot. Her lack of taste, I may even ungraciously say her eccentricities, were almost an eyesore. There was a grotto of artificial rock and mirrors, destined as a home for monkeys, who luckily never came to inhabit it. Though the island abounded in oranges, she sent to Italy for her fruit. The view from the terrace over all the plain of Corfu, with its olive groves groups cypresses on one side and the sea and the mountains of Albania on the other one of the most exquisite I have ever seen.

The memoirs of His Royal Highness, Prince Nicholas of Greece and Denmark, My fifty years, 1926.

I was a child when the Empress came to Athens and saw her only once or twice, but I remember her more vividly than many people I knew far better. I imagine it was the same with everyone who came in contact with her. Her brilliant, beautiful and restless personality left an indelible impression. She was so enchanted with Greece that she decided to build a villa in Corfu. The site she chose could not have been more beautiful, about twelve miles outside the town, set on a high hill overlooking the sea on one side and a chain of mountains on the other. But she was too impatient even to look at the plans and gave the architect carte blanche. So instead of the simple cottage she had intended he erected an orate and hideous palace lavishly adorned with frescoes, statues and bronzes of every description. This atrocity cost the Austrian Govemment twelve million crowns, I believe. The Empress's life was dominated by the fear of losing her beauty. As she grew older it became an obsession. Hours were spent every moring brushing the glotious brown hair that she wore gathered into two great plaits coiled around her head. This hair-brushing was a matter of solemn ritual. Any hairs that fell out during the process were carefully collected and presented to the Empress on a silver salver. If their number proved to be too many the entire day was blackened to her. Once a captain of a Russian gunboat reported that he had seen a yacht coming into the Piraus harbour with a woman seated on the deck whose mass of hair reached down to the ground while two attendants stood behind her brushing it. " That could only be the Empress of Austria." said my father, when he heard the story. Later in the day a carriage drove up to the Palace and a mysterious visitor was announced, a lady who refused to give her name. It was, as we expected, the Empress Elizabeth. She insisted on preserving a strict incognito while she was in Greece, although it seemed rather unnecessary, since everyone knew who she was. She detested nothing so much as being photographed, or even looked at for that matter, and always carried a large fan with her on her walks, so that she could unfurl it and hide her face from the passers-by. The Empress was a fine woman in many respects, far finer, I think, than most of her biogtaphers have represented her. Intelligent, intuitive, sensitive, she had all the qualities to make a great empress. But she was tragically lacking in a sense of proportion. Even in the small issues of everyday life she had no idea of modera-tion. She could not take anything up without making it a mania. While she was in Corfu she set herself to learn Greek, although she had gone there to rest. Now Greek is a complicated language and its study is hardly to be recommended as a restful pursuit. The Empress certainly did not regard it as such either for herself or any one else, for she wore out her two teachers, Count Mercati and Mr. Christomanos. Every day she walked ten or twelve miles with one or the other, talking Greek all the way and, even during the hair-brushing ceremony, one of them was always present reading to her. Her figure became another obsession with her. Although she was exaggeratedly slender when she came to Greece (she weighed, I believe, only seven stones) no Hollywood film star could have followed out a more Spartan regime. Her constant dieting made her irritable and depressed. Even when she lunched with my mother and father she would often eat nothing but a salad and some fruit, and she would start off immediately afterwards on one of her exhausting walks, skimming over the ground like a restless, beautiful wraith.

The memoirs of His Royal Highness, Prince Christopher of Greece and Denmark, 1938.

[saintmeghanmarkle]

A Year in Review: All the times Meghan Markle been publicly called out in 2023. Highlights and favorite #MarkleMoment from last year? 📌Part 1 of 2

These are her humiliating moments over past year that she’s been publicly called out for in some way. All with proof, all archived from media reports around the world. Get cozy, save this post, and as always, appreciate the upvotes so it doesn't get targeted for downvotes! Posting it now as many of us will be celebrating Christmas with our loved ones. Although we are a diverse bunch, this unites us all :)

Here’s some from 2022 to inspire you:

Harry and Megan of “overseas”

the Funeral candle

no Jubilee balcony

voetsek Megan

I love the part where…(YouTube comments on their Netflix trailer)

Marriott Meg

12% Rotten Tomatoes rating for Netflix flopumentary, with her cutesy (mocking) curtesy

What was your favourite from 2023?

Air New Zealand’s epic trolling tweet re Sussex Class (a truly underrated gem). Proves Meg never bought Thomas Markle his flights for the wedding, as Harry claimed in Spare. https://archive.ph/wip/chjhf

'Live to Lead' quietly dumped on Netflix New Year’s Day. Jacinda Arden's PMO puts out a statement that when she filmed it years earlier it wasn’t affiliated with Harry and Meghan. https://archive.ph/DiDzT

South Park, Worldwide Privacy Tour episode.https://archive.ph/Sqc99

Frogmore no more. KCIII evicts Harry and Meg from Frogmore. Toad Abode eviction, just leave your spare keys on the bench.https://archive.ph/PeCPQ

9 edits on a Telegraph article about Harry and Meg's 'appalling treatment' from the Royal family. https://archive.ph/wip/suU7g

Chris Rock blasts their victimhood (on Netflix special, extra irony). Points out all families speculate on what the baby will look like. https://archive.ph/3NdgW

The underrated British Vogue moment, where they posted a pic of the best wedding veils of all time of Meghan, intentionally on William and Catherine’s anniversary. The public response was epic. They were not having it. Trolled by posting pics of Catherine in her veil. https://twitter.com/BritishVogue/status/1652309496482394116

Coronation weekend: Montecito Meg will never appear in that historical record. Claims a 4 years olds birthday is more important (hot tip: kids are portable. Just like Lili was for her birthday during the Queens Jubilee). Weak PR attempt about lemon cake with lemons from her tree, and somehow Harry defying the laws of physics and time to make it back in time for Archie’s alleged party. Close second: her urban safari hike PR pap walk the next day. Honourable mention: Anne’s feather. https://archive.ph/m0fcH https://archive.ph/9BsWW https://archive.ph/7UNDp

Queen of Hertz; flees via high speed “near catastrophic car chase” papped taxi “chase” that the taxi driver, Backgrid, and NYPD deny. 4 paps, with 1 on a bike. For 2.5 hours. Yes, a bike. https://archive.ph/EBmZ9

Spotify, bye-bye to “f$&@ing grifters”. https://archive.ph/OWTI2

Publicly manifesting Duchess of Dior? Dior source is “nonplussed as to how the story came about.” Dior firmly stares - No Deal! Update: a few months later, Princess Maria Olympia of Greece has a Dior and Aquazura contract. Repeats the process with Cartier page six article Aug 6th. Nothing. Camilla wears Dior a few days later. https://archive.ph/wip/k0hiA

Netflix manifesting: rom coms, Bad Manners feminist Miss Havisham, Harry saves Africa (sarcasm on it not being a country), Meg to offer advice of safe birthing practices, buying the rights to a Princess who dies in a car crash https://archive.ph/wip/W9xQg https://archive.ph/wip/8COXT https://archive.ph/JDspD

“Turns out Meghan Markle was not a great audio talent, or necessarily any kind of talent” - United Talent Agency CEO Jeremy Zimmer. https://archive.ph/wip/4TnM6

Taylor Swift turned down Archetypes Spotify appearance. https://archive.ph/VjC07

No Emmy nomination for Harry and Meghan, "devastated". Scoreboard: Meg = 0 nominations. Thomas Markle = 2 Emmy wins. https://archive.ph/wip/m3PQS

UnSussexful trends on Twitter after Harry and Meg blame their lack of success on "bad luck."https://archive.ph/CauG3

Report surfaces that Sussexes tried to bum a ride on Air Force One following QEII’s funeral. Access denied. Also tried to tie Jill Biden’s lemon dress the day after the Oprah interview to Meg as a sign of support. Meg sends Jill a basket of lemons. https://archive.ph/ZofTQ

Celeb “friends” bail. Public reports the Beckhams aren’t friends after no invite to Brooklyn’s wedding, no celeb studded InterMiami game. Serena holds a baby shower, no Meg to be found.https://archive.ph/k02N8 https://archive.ph/6rfSO

No birthday wishes from the Royals. Confirms no Balmoral for the one year anniversary of the Queen’s death, despite the Sussexes confirming they will be in Germany the day after for Invictus.https://archive.ph/0IAaO

Sussexes claim to be friends with John Travolta! And he noped that one in record time.https://archive.ph/dPjLW

Meg attempt to convince everyone she was at the Taylor Swift concert in LA while Harry is in Japan/Singapore but no pics exist. Despite many actual celebs having pics there. Not a single one. Outside of the one helpfully provided to Page Six that’s a cropped version of her pink linen suit from the Laker’s game, Harry cropped out. Later, the pic is updated with Harry back in it after it's pointed out on this sub. https://archive.ph/DhvlY

Meg dresses in beige coat, scarf, in August. In California. Attempts to merch them, including the Nucalm (aka sticker) on her wrist, with only that cuff of the coat helpfully rolled up to show it off better. Note she has not managed to elude the pap on her “casual walk”, yet there is nary a pic from the Swift concert. Skills. Despite posting it on their own Insta with a promo code, one day later NuCalm denies that they are affiliated with Meg. Ouch. https://archive.ph/MVGfP

A) Meg and Harry attend Beyoncé to deflect for on the Heart of Invictus flop and rumours their marriage is in trouble. Harry manages to make Beyoncé with Meg look like he's a sulking toddler. B) Meg attempts to change the SEO results and attends Beyoncé a second night in a row, takes pics with Kerri Washington and Kelly Rowland. Kerri Washington crops Meg OUT of the pic on her Instagram.https://archive.ph/As4RZ https://archive.ph/wip/NOL8m

Meg’s Backgrid planned pap, inside the restaurant, at In N Out. Allegedly buying milkshakes for a 2 yr old and 4 yr old an hour away. Which is why she's 'late' to Invictus. (Still think this was likely her assistant who hopped out of the car, went inside to take the pic, and then met her after the drive through, and they sold the pic via Backgrid.) https://archive.ph/wip/bvgjX

post link: A Year in Review: All the times Meghan Markle been publicly called out in 2023. Highlights and favorite #MarkleMoment from last year? : SaintMeghanMarkle (reddit.com)

author: somespeculation

submitted: December 17, 2023 at 02:25PM via SaintMeghanMarkle on Reddit

[topguncortez]

Bad Medicine | Chapter 2

Previous Part | Masterlist | Next Part

word count: 5.4k

synopsis: A wealthy Italian mobster sets up his daughter to marry the head of one of the last remaining mafias in California. The union was supposed to create and heal the damage between two families, but all it does is cause more harm than good. MAJOR SLOW BURN (ENEMIES TO LOVERS)

WARNINGS: death/murder, guns, violence, physical abuse, cursing, mentions of prostitution, mentions of murder, grief, blood, nudity, mentions of drugs, mentions of a brothel

Y/N’s apartment looked over the upper East Side of New York. It was a cute little place that was within walking distance to the club. It gave her both things that she loved, the chaotic life that came with living in New York, and privacy to where she felt safe coming home at night. And that was partially because of Rueben, aka Payback, her bodyguard that Rafael had hired when she moved back to New York. That was part of Rafael’s deal in sending Y/N back to New York, she had to have a bodyguard. Y/N was smart though, and could figure out how to leave her bodyguards in the dust and jet off around the world, except Rueben could see right through that all. 

Y/N stood on the balcony, taking in her surroundings for the last time. She hadn’t stood out on the balcony in a long time. Good and bad memories filled her mind as she held her cup of tea close to her body for some warmth. Images of her relationship with Francisco filled her mind and sent a shiver down her spine. She also thought about all the good times she had while working at the club. Sure it wasn’t the best job she could ever have, but she loved the girls she worked with. She was probably going to miss them more than anything. 

“Y/N?” Gianni asked softly, “You ready?” 

Y/N and Rueben had spent the whole night packing. She looked over at the small carryon and purse sitting on her bed. She packed the essentials to make the trip over. Her brothers would be sending the rest of her clothing in the coming weeks. 

Y/N took a deep breath, she wanted to tell him no. She didn’t know a thing about Jake Seresin, to the internet it was like the man didn’t exist. She knew that he supposedly studied law at University of Texas, but never went past that. He took over for his father when he had a heart attack nearly two years ago. It was all fabricated bullshit about “Seresin Enterprises” and how they bought several blocks of casinos and clubs in both Vegas and San Diego. Apparently they had been on the FBI’s radar for sometime due to an underground boxing and prostitution ring. However, they claim no such truth about it. Which was something all mobsters said. 

“Y/N, we gotta get headed to the airport. The Don is mad we held it off this long,” Paulo said walking into her room. Y/N sighed and walked into the room, leaving the warmth of the morning sun, “You got what you need?” 

“Yeah, Payback took my bags to the car,” She answered and fixed herself in the mirror. She wore a simple skin tight black dress and paired it with matching black heels. Her tan skin looked sunkissed compared to the dark colors. She looked around at her barren apartment and frowned. She didn’t have a lot of stuff to begin with, but seeing it all boxed up made her feel kind of sad. Y/N nodded, and Gianni gently led her through the house and towards the waiting car. 

“Wait,” Y/N said, and turned to face her brother, “Have you heard from Sophie? I haven’t heard from her since she left for Greece and I know she’d want to be a part of this wedding bullshit.” 

Paulo looked at his two brothers, as if to tell them to keep their mouths shut. Narciso clenched his jaw and Gianni whistled, looking away from his little sister. 

“I have not heard from Sophie,” Paulo answered, “But I’ll make sure someone reaches out to her.” 

“She’d kill me if I got married and she wasn’t there for it,” Y/N smiled sadly and pulled her phone out, dialing the number again. Paulo ushered her into the car as Sophie’s phone went to voicemail again. Y/N sighed and left her yet another voicemail. 

When Y/N arrived at the small private airport she noticed the black SUVs and armed men that were standing around. She would try and make a break for it if it weren’t for the military style weapons ready to fire at any moment. One would think that the president or some diplomat was about to land, but in reality, it was just some man from Italy. Although the Santiagos had slowly defeated their enemies over the years, some still lurked in the shadows, waiting for the right moment to strike. 

The Don stepped out of his own vehicle when the Santiago siblings arrived. He looked pissed and Paulo fixed his suit as he walked over to talk to him. The patriarch stared his daughter down through the dark tinted glass of the SUV. She gulped and looked over at Payback who simply shrugged. He didn’t want to do this anymore than she wanted. 

“Do you want to make things easy?” Payback asked and Y/N nodded, “Don’t try and fight every little thing he says.” 

“You know me better than that Rueben,” Y/N smirked, and opened her car door. Her heels clicked across the ground as she walked up to her father. His stare sent a shiver down her spine, and it made her hold her head up higher, trying to show him that she was not afraid. 

“No funny business, Y/N. You get on the plane here and off in San Diego. I hear you made the pilot take you to England or Paris, I will cut off the expenses for the wedding,” Rafael threatened Y/N. The girl rolled her eyes, “We’ve set up for you to be married to Jacob in four weeks.” 

“Four fucking weeks?!” Y/N cursed and was met with another backhand across her face. 

“Watch your fucking mouth,” The Don yelled, “This is why you couldn’t find a husband on your own.” 

“Maybe if you would give me a damn chance!” Y/N yelled. 

“Why? So you could find someone else to murder someone in our family?!”

Y/N clenched her jaw and looked away from him. She had heard it almost every year since her mother’s death, Rafael never let her live it down. What happened to her mother was one of the worst things that Y/N and her family could’ve gone through, but no one knew that Francisco would turn his anger towards Marie. Her brothers forgave her for what happened, but Rafael still held it over her head. 

“Are none of you going to say anything!?” Y/N yelled at her brothers. They were all looking down at the ground, not bothering to jump in and say anything, “Spineless fucking idiots,” Y/N cursed and licked her lips, “I’ll see you in hell, Rafael.”

Rafael stood with his head up, his jaw clenched as he watched Y/N and Rueben walk up the plane steps. She sat down in a chair that was by the window. She watched as her brothers wouldn’t look at the plane, but the Don looked like he was ready to give an order to shoot it down. Y/N knew once the plane took off he would scold her brothers for telling her about Francisco, but the Don didn’t dare punish the boys in front of her or anyone else. People needed to know the boys were untouchable, but Y/N’s life was useless.

“Miss Santiago, can I get you anything to drink?” The flight attendant asked.

Y/N looked around the small jet and noted who the security was. There was, of course, Reuben and what looked to be like his new partner. Rafael hardly let Y/N go without two guards. The last one had been killed because the Don caught Y/N and him together. The new guy was all of 6 foot tall, with tan skin and a scar running down his face. His dark hair was gelled back and it looked like he had just bought a new black suit and dress shoes. Payback could see the glint in her eye and knew exactly what was going to happen next.

“Well, Rueben will have a Hangman IPA, I’ll take whatever red wine you have open, and a glass of whiskey for the Rookie,” Y/N smirked. Payback rolled his eyes, knowing Y/N’s plan like the back of his hand. This wasn’t the first flight he had taken with her and some new rookie, he had seen this episode before. 

“We can’t just have one plane ride where you leave the Rookies be?” Reuben asked, and Y/N just smiled, “You know what’ll happen.” 

“Then why not enjoy the fun while it lasts,” Y/N said as the flight attendant handed her the glass of wine, “Leave the bottle please, dear.”

“Laying it on thick,” Payback said, taking out his headphones. 

“My life has been signed away, Reuben. These are my last moments of freedom until I have to go wait on some mobster hand and foot,” Y/N said and Rueben frowned. He glanced outside the window to see that the black SUVs that carried her family were gone. 

“Fine,” He muttered, “Just know this one is on you.” 

“Of course,” Y/N nodded, her eyes going over to the Rookie who was seemingly confused. She just gave him a wink, and settled back in her chair as the pilot told them to prepare for take off. Y/N closed her eyes, she wasn’t ever a fan of planes taking off, she always felt like she was going to fall right out of the sky. 

Once the plane got up to cruising altitude, Y/N opened her eyes and looked at the Rookie, “Have you ever joined the Mile High club?” 

“N-no, ma’am,” He said. He had a thick country accent, making him out to probably be from the South. 

“Perfect,” Y/N smiled and stood up, taking his hand in hers and leading him to the private bedroom in the back of the plane. Payback groaned in annoyance, and pulled his earbuds out of his pocket. He settled them in his ears before going back to look through his magazine. 

“They never learn.”  

— — — ♱♱♱ — — — ♱♱♱ — — — 

When the plane finally touched down in San Diego, California, the skyline was already starting to light up. Y/N smiled, noticing the familiar sight of the skyscrapers in the distance. Rueben followed behind her, straightening out his suit, and looking at The Rookie behind him who had a smirk plastered on his face. He felt like the king of the world having bodied the princess of the Italian Mob. The Rookie fixed his suit jacket and ran a hand over his gelled back hair. 

“Good evening Miss Santiago, my name is Martin, and I’ll be handling your movement from the airport to the Seresin compound,” Martin was a middle aged man who had salt and pepper hair. Y/N held her hand out and Martin kissed the back of it. Y/N’s favorite pastime was making men bow to her like she was the Queen of England. In a way, Y/N was a queen, the mafia queen. If Y/N was into old men, Martin would be added as another name on her list.

“How was your flight? Everything went smoothly, I assume?” Martin asked, as he ushered Y/N towards the awaiting white Range Rover. Her father hated white cars. He said it made them stand out too much and put a bigger target on their backs. 

“Yes the flight went very well,” Y/N said, and glanced over her shoulder at the Rookie. He smirked to himself, and fixed his suit jacket. He felt like he was the king of the word having bagged the Italian Mob king’s daughter. But that feeling was short lived as Rueben tightened the silencer on his gun, and then fired a shot into the Rookie’s skull. 

“Clean this mess up,” Reuben said to the men standing by. Martin opened the door for Y/N, and she noticed a group of men picking up The Rookie’s body. She looked at Rueben who was tucking his gun back into the holster of his jacket. 

“What?” Reuben asked, and Y/N nodded her head towards the body, “I told you not to.” 

“Mood killer,” Y/N said and Rueben shook his head, shutting her door before getting into the front passenger seat. 

The Seresin mansion sat in the neighborhood of Mission Hills, which was about ten minutes outside of San Diego. Y/N had only visited a handful of cities in the US, and had only been to California once. She understood why mobsters picked quite poor towns to set up shop. The busy hustle and bustle of the nearby ports could mask the terrors that the mobs did. Y/N eyed the prostitutes as they hung around the street corners in downtown San Diego.  

“Those are someone's daughters,” Her mother used to say when they would pass a young female on the street in barely there clothing. Her mother would take them in, like stray cats, give them food and a place to bathe, before they would run off back to the streets they know.

“Everything is pretty close,” Martin explained as they drove through the busy streets, “It’s no European country side, but it suffices. Los Angeles is about two hours by car. San Fran is two hours by jet. Mr. Seresin has his own private jet. It’s one of the best ways to travel around. Sometimes, they’ll take a private train. Although, most of his work is done in Miramar or North Island.” 

She knew that from the google search that she did. Jake owned a flight club and a bar in North Island called the Hard Deck. It was a quaint little place that attracted a lot of sailors to the area. It also just so happened to be where his brothel was set up. If there was anything Navy men loved more than causing a fight, it was getting pussy after a long trip out to sea. 

“What is the legality of their business?” Y/N asked. 

Payback looked at her in the rearview mirror, “You know what they do.” 

“I can’t ask questions to get to know my future husband? I am going to be investing in this, so it is only fair that I know what he is doing.” She had a point and both Payback and Martin knew it. Y/N was smart and knew how to play her cards correctly, “Tell me what they do.” 

“Mr. Seresin’s grandfather set up a very vast trading company back in New York during the twenties. The Seresins own and control almost 50% of the US trading ports. Seresin Trades is working on going global with the help of Mr. Santiago. Mr. Bob Floyd has been fast at work creating Seresin Industries, one of the fastest startup technology companies,” Martin said. 

“A trading company,” Y/N tilted her head to the side, “How unique. And the brothels, fight rings, clubs, and casinos, those are just. . . extra amenities?” 

“Athena,” Reuben warned. 

Y/N held her hand up stopping Rueben, “Martin?”

Martin scoffed, “You act like your family is the greatest gift to God’s green earth.” As soon as the words left his lips, Martin regretted it.. Y/N glared at him through the rearview mirror and a cold sweat broke out down his back, “I apologize.” 

“A little too late,” Reuben said and Y/N smirked.  

If there was anyone who knew Y/N better than her own brothers, it was Rueben . He had become her personal bodyguard after Francisco attacked her and her mother’s death. Y/N had gotten too smart, she figured out how to run away from her guards. So Rafael hired Rueben , and the man watched her like a hawk. Y/N was never out of his sight. He had not only become her bodyguard, but also her closest confidant. She could tell him anything and everything. 

Martin’s knuckles turned white with his grip on the steering wheel, as he turned on to a magnificent compound. The black gates rolled back as the SUV drove onto the marble driveway that was lined with black lamp posts. Buried behind the trees was almost like a castle. The Kiszka house stood tall, at least 3 stories, and had a complete wall of windows. 

“Mr. Seresin likes windows. Makes him feel less caged in.” Martin said as he pulled up in front of the house. There was a large water fountain in the middle of the circle drive and Y/N could see water lilies floating around in the water. 

“Lovely,” Y/N said. When the car came to a stop, her door was opened. She reached her hand out and a guard gently grabbed her hand, helping her out of the car. She smoothed down her dress as Rueben  quickly rounded the car to her side, “Where is he?” 

“I believe they are at the club, or getting ready to go,” Martin responded. The glass front door opened and an older woman stepped out of the house. 

“Welcome Miss Santiago,” She introduced herself, and bowed her head softly,“I am Emile, I will be your personal attendant. Do you care for a glass of champagne, maybe even wine?” 

Y/N took a step into the house, and looked around the foyer. It had high ceilings that opened into a glass grand staircase. Everything was red and white, giving the entrance a cold yet warm feeling. The living room was open, and had white leather couches and a fluffy black rug on the floor. Hanging above a roaring fireplace was a picture of a young man in a black suit. She stood in front of the picture, the man’s green eyes were enticing and almost as if they were locking her in a trance. She looked away at the sound of the front door opening and Rueben walking in. 

“I’ll take a bottle of white,” Y/N said to Emile, “And please take the bottle to my room. Oh! And if you would, can you draw me a bath? I don’t like the feeling of blood on my hands.” 

Rueben scoffed, “You’re one to talk.” She could see a smudge of blood on his collar, more than likely from killing Martin before he walked into the house. 

“Yes, Miss,” Emile nodded and scurried off towards the kitchen. Y/N stepped farther into the house surveying everything. She walked over to a set of windows and glass sliding doors. She looked over the backyard, an infinity pool and giant garden that looked daunting at night, caught her eye. Y/N made a note of wanting to test the water in the pool at some point tonight.  

“He would like you to come to the office,” A guard said, standing in the doorway of the living room. 

Y/N turned around to see about ten or so men standing in the living room, all of them wearing black suits and ties. 

“No,” Y/N responded, a smirk on her lips. Her eyes not leaving the reflecting water of the pool, and kicked off her heels. She reached for the zipper of her dress and undid it. Payback also knew this tactic, and rolled his eyes. Y/N let the sleeves of her dress fall down her shoulders, and shrugged the dress off, wearing absolutely nothing underneath. All the men standing around her tried to avert their eyes the best they could, but failed miserably. 

“I want a bath first,” She said. 

“I can’t let you do that,” The guard responded. 

“Why not?” Y/N asked, stepping closer to him, “Do I turn you on?”

“I-I. . . Mr. Seresin  had strict instructions-” 

“I bet these pants are feeling pretty strict,” She let her hand shamelessly trail up and down his body, before landing over the clothed hard-on

“Please,” The guard practically begged. Y/N smirked as she gently palmed him, “You’re going to get me in trouble.” 

“What are you going to do about it?” Y/N challenged. Before the guard could respond another gunshot rang through the house. Y/N shrieked as the guard’s body buckled and she moved out of the way to let him fall. She looked over at a tall man with curly hair, holding a gun out.

“That’s what I’m gonna do about it,” The gun wielding man said. He tucked the gun back into the waistband of his black dress pants. He was tall with beautiful brown eyes with scars on his face and neck. Y/N smirked and walked over to him, but he held his hand out, “Don’t think about it. Let’s fucking go.” 

Y/N opened her mouth but squealed as he threw her naked body over his shoulder, “Hey! Put me down!” She yelled, hitting his back. The man tightened his grip on her body so he wouldn’t drop her as she kicked and squirmed in his arms, “Payback!” 

Reuben took a step forward to try and intervene but was cut off by guards standing in front of him, “Just keep your mouth shut!” 

Y/N felt a shiver run down her body, “I’ll fucking kill you,” She threatened the man. 

“I’d like to see you try,” The man said and tossed her down onto a cold leather chair, “Wait here, don’t fucking move.” 

Y/N looked around the office, seeing more pictures of the man from the living room. There was a bookshelf with tons of old leather books with gold writing. Y/N narrowed her eyes, reading the titles on the side, most of them were in Latin, but she could understand that they were law books. There was a large dark oak desk in front of her, which must belong to her future husband. On the wall behind the desk were various diplomas from colleges that he must’ve gone to. 

He’s distinguished, Y/N thought to herself, and smart. 

Y/N almost got out of her chair to go explore more things around his desk, when she heard the clicking of fancy dress shoes coming down the hall. She sucked in a breath as the door opened, and a beautiful blonde man with green eyes stood in the doorway. He was wearing all black, with his shirt rolled up to his elbows. He forewent the tie, and Y/N could see he was wearing a thin gold chain around his neck. 

“You couldn’t give her the dignity to walk in here by herself? With her clothes on?” The blonde man asked.

“She didn’t want to,” The man with the gun shrugged and looked over at a man who was wearing a big pair of glasses, with a smirk, “We lost Martin and Dominick.” 

“Fucking idiots,” The blonde cursed, “Welcome Y/N, I’m Jake, your new husband.” He held his arms out as if he were presenting some great prize. Y/N looked him up and down, he looked like the human version of Adonis, “My beauty stunned you into silence. It happens, sweetheart. But thank you for finally joining us.” 

Y/N scoffed, “You basically bought me from my father to help your little group here get up and running.” 

“Oh don’t flatter yourself sweetheart. You weren’t the pick of the crop I wanted,” Jake said, but then shrugged, “No offense.” 

“Offense taken,” Y/N said, “What? I’m not good enough for you? You prefer underaged prostitute pussy instead? I bet, he-” She said pointing at the man with large glasses, “Would you like a taste?” 

“Not my type either,” He said, “I like my pussy tight and silent.” 

Jake chuckled and Y/N clenched her jaw. He walked towards her, his green eyes looking her up and down as if he were examining her. She felt like she was under a microscope and wanted to hide away. She was suddenly very aware that she was sitting naked in front of three guys who could easily kill her, and had no idea where Rueben was. 

“Where are your clothes?” Jake asked. 

“I like being naked,” Y/N smirked, sitting back in the chair, exposing more of her body. Jake looked like he was about to murder everyone in the room. He looked from her face to her chest, his eyes seemingly assessing every millimeter of skin, down her stomach and to her legs, which were crossed hiding her modesty. Y/N caught the wandering eyes of the men behind Jake, and slowly uncrossed her legs, opening them slightly. That was the final straw for Jake, as he moved quickly, snatching her up by her chin.

“I was told I was getting a mafia queen,” Jake spat, holding her throat tightly, “We got rules, sweetheart, and you’re going to listen to them, got it? Or I swear to god, I’ll fucking sell you for whatever your worth to the highest bidder. I’m sure these-” He said, tracing his fingers between her breasts, his knuckles brushing against the soft mound of skin, “could get me a pretty penny. Of course, the face is a little fucked up.” 

Y/N clenched her jaw at the mention of the scar that ran down her face. Her eye socket had to be repaired and left a permanent scar, a constant reminder of what Francisco had done to her. It was easy for her to hide the other scars on her body, that one, was out in the open for everyone to see. Her mother told her to not hide what he did, to embrace it. 

“Understand me?” Jake asked and Y/N nodded. He released her chin. 

“Asshole,” Y/N said, before spitting in his face. Jake clenched his jaw, and grabbed her hair, yanking her head back to look up at him. 

“Don’t fucking test me, sweetheart,” Jake seethed, “I won’t hesitate to throw you down on the pew, I don’t give a fuck who your daddy is. Don’t fuck with me, doll.” Y/N trembled and nodded. Jake picked up her body and put her down on the wooden chair, harshly. Her ass still stung a bit from where the curly haired man had thrown her down earlier. 

“If you’re done being a brat, I’d like to introduce you to my right hand men. The one that brought you in here was Rooster, he’s in charge of security. You need to go somewhere, you take it up with him. If he tells you ‘no’ you don’t fucking argue. This is Bob,” Jake said, pointing to the man with the glasses, “He’s intelligence. Don’t try to fucking go somewhere or call someone or do something fucking stupid cause he’ll find out about it and I’ll kill you.”

“And what do you do?” Y/N asked. 

Jake smiled, “I’m the Hangman. I am the reason this whole place ruins and operates. The face of the family and the company.” 

“Bob would’ve made a cuter face,” Y/N said and looked at the man. Bob couldn’t help but chuckle, but Jake quickly shot him a glare. Y/N sent him a wink though, which made his ears turn red. 

Jake crossed his arms over his chest, “I’ve got a couple rules. One, don’t be in my way or anyone else's way. Two, don’t fucking speak to me unless you are spoken too. And three, don’t piss me off. If you follow those three rules. . . I don’t see why this relationship won’t work out great.” 

“Because you’re a fucking psychopathic murderer.” 

“Says the one who’s gotten three men killed in your first two hours of being here,” Jake said. 

Y/N smiled, “You say that?” 

Jake leaned his hands on either side of the chair she was sitting on. She could smell is cologne and see a thin scar by his eyebrow, “I see everything,” He spoke softly, “Go fucking clean yourself off. I don’t want to see your face until tomorrow.” Jake said and turned to walk out of the office, “Actually, I don’t want to see your face at all, unless I fucking ask to see you, which I probably won’t. I don’t want you here any less than you actually want to be here. If I knew you were a part of the expansion gun deal we made, I would’ve never fucking made it.”

Y/N tried to not let his words sting. She had heard worse from her father, but there was something about hearing it from someone else. Y/N turned her head to the side as Jake and the boys left the office with a slam of the door. As soon as the door shut, she let the tears roll down her face. She waited a minute before she got up from the wooden chair and walked out of the office. She was suddenly very aware that she was stark naked in a mobster’s house. 

She moved softly as she walked down the hallway, trying to avoid the eyes of the workers in the house. Y/N looked up and noticed Emile walking towards her with a robe. The older woman smiled softly at her and handed her the robe. Y/N nodded and wrapped it tightly around her body. Emile gently wrapped an arm around the girl’s shoulders, guiding her over to the grand staircase and up to the second floor. 

“Mr. Jacob and the boys went out for the night,” Emile said. She had a heavy french accent that reminded Y/N of some of the older maids back home at her father’s mansion, “I ran a bath and had some of the other guards bring your belongings into your room. Any specific way to put your clothing away?”

Y/N shook her head, “I can get that tomorrow when the rest of my things arrive. Thank you, Emile.” 

“You are very welcome, Miss,” Emile said, nodding her head as they stood outside one of the bedrooms, “The master bedroom,” Emile said, pushing open two wooden doors. Y/N’s jaw dropped at the sight of the bedroom. It was white with red accents that reminded her of the suit that Jake wore. Hanging above a california king bed was a picture of the fucker himself. Y/N scoffed, of course, he had a picture of himself hanging above the bed, “Mr. Jacob doesn’t stay here. He prefers a bed on the third floor with his brothers.” 

“They are all very close?” Y/N asked and Emile nodded. 

“Very close. They all served together in the Navy.” 

Now that was one thing the internet did not tell Y/N. That meant one of two things, they never served long enough to make an impact, or the Navy was trying hard to keep them all a secret. Whatever the reason was, Y/N was going to find out more about it. 

Y/N walked over and ran her hands on the satin bed sheets. They were soft and still smelled like the packaging. The room had an overall cold feeling to it, like no one had ever stayed in the room. Y/N could tell that the paint on the walls wasn’t the original colors. She could see the slight difference in paint colors as the walls met at the ceiling. She ran her hands over the footboard of the bed, humming to herself as she did. 

“Is that tune from ‘Annie’?” Emile asked, and Y/N lifted her head, smiling. 

“It is.” 

When Y/N was little, before she knew most about what her family did for a living, she used to play around like she was the little Orphan Annie first coming to Daddy Warbucks’ house. She used to play the song ‘I Think I’m Gonna Like it Here’ while running up and down the halls with her mother, making the butlers and the maids sing along with her. She did it at every house she moved into, it was one of the good memories she had with her mother. 

Y/N paused and looked at the picture above the bed, and then at Emile, “When will they be back?” 

“Oh, they stay out very late,” Emile answered, “I see them leave at night and stumble around the next morning with hangovers.” She smiled and sighed, “Your bath is waiting for you, dear. Any questions, don’t be scared to ask.” 

“Thank you.” “They aren’t all monsters,” Emile said, “Just a little rough around the edges. You know what they say, ‘only the good die young’.”

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[peaky-shelby]

DEFINE ME | Neymar Jr x Oc [3]

Summary: Famous Singer and Actress, Gabriella Hamill, travels to Qatar after being invited on live television by her favorite player, Lionel Messi. Despite the invitation, Ella tries to avoid the cameras and hide in plain side, wanting to enjoy the games without the chaos that comes with being in Public places and it all seems to be going well until she meets Neymar Jr. in this bad boy meets good girl story, the definition of good and bad is lost between the lines and redefined by the past and future.

《 previous chapter

Chapter 3: insomniac by definition

Chapter summary: Gabriella starts realizing that perhaps neymar has more power over her than she thought.

Writer's note: thanks for the love!! Dont forget to comment to unlock the next chapters!!!

Tagging a few that seemed interested @xngelsau @sirensanction @reneyahh @thegrinch101 @geekwritersworld @chaotic-taco-collector-blog (lmk if you want to be tagged)

Gabriella was taking small bites from her croissant while scrolling through twitter. The fans were already talking about Neymar following her. Maggie was sitting across from her, talking about him following her was a disaster. She said that doing nothing would be best, everyone would just assume he followed her because of Messi. A part of her felt bad for not following him back but she knew there would be no coming back from that and by the time she had hit the follow bottom everyone would suspect she was in Qatar.

“Remind me what we have to do for the day?” she asked Maggie, not taking her eyes off her phone.

“We are on vacation; we don’t really have anything to do.”

“No games?”

“Brazil game is tomorrow.” Said Maggie eating a spoonful of the fresh cake she had bought. She glanced at Gabriella with a warning look. Gabriella smiled.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that.”

Maggie swallowed her food and crossed her arms, laying back on her chair. “I have a feeling I will regret everything about this trip when we get home.”

“We are not going home, we are going to Greece, remember?”

“Oh I remember! Do you remember? Because I can already imagine you packing for brazil!”

Gabriella laughed “I don’t even like him! He’s an entitled prick! Last thing I need in my life is to get mixed up with his shit.”

“Yes, because bad boys are totally not your type.”

Gabriella let down her phone and looked at Maggie with complain in her eyes “low blow!”

Maggie smiled and got up, picking up her dirty plates and glass. “4 years is a long time out of the game Gabriella” She walked to Gabriella’s side, looking down at her “I said it before and I’ll say it again. Be careful.”

Maggie left for the kitchen and Gabriella looked back at her screen, Neymar’s picture glowed in it. Then a text appeared on the top of the screen, it was from Leo and it wrote “los chicos quieren volver a verte. ¿Te importa si los llevo antes del entrenamiento?.” She had to google the translation just to be sure that he was asking if the kids and Antonella could stay with her while he was training. In other circumstances she would have thought twice before saying yes but she couldn’t even leave the house and she had nothing better to do so she agreed.

BRAZIL’S BASE – QATAR

Neymar was already finished with his morning training, he was sitting, wet after the shower, on the edge of his bed. His eyes were glued on his phone waiting for Gabriella to follow him back. He was nervous. He quickly opened his contacts and called his friend.

“Ola Messi. Commo estas?”

“Estoy bien. Voy a entrenar. ¿Por qué?”

Neymar hesitated; did he really want to bother his friend with this before his training. He felt like a teenage boy, getting caught writing notes for the girl on the front desk. He asked if he was going to see Gabriella, and Messi told him about his plan to leave the kids with her while he was training.

“¿Por qué ?”

“los chicos la adoraban. Quieren jugar con ella y Antonella quiere compañía.”

Of course, the kids had loved her, Neymar didn’t need to struggle to understand why they did. But now he had no good reason to see her and he couldn’t just drop off at her house. He didn’t understand why he liked being ‘bullied’ by her so much but he did, it was a quite challenge to get to know her.

“Neymar?” asked Messi from the other line, distracting him from his thoughts.

“Lo siento.” He said quickly apologizing.

“Neymar… ¿te gusta la actriz?” teased Messi, asking him the exact same thing Neymar had asked when he first saw Messi with Gabriella. He laughed and shook his head.

“No, creo que es irritante.” It wasn’t a complete lie; she was a bit annoying and entitled most times but he knew Messi would never really believe his words.

GABRIELLA’S RENTED APARTMENT

Maggie left the house about an hour after the kids arrived, she wasn’t a huge fan of their screaming. Gabriella played a lot of board games with them until they were too tired to go on and she put a movie on for them to watch, while she conversed with Antonella.

“don't get me wrong they are wonderful women- most of them at least but I spend with them every single day… Because of the games and the trips, it's always the same group. Sometimes you need different company. So, I am very happy you came and we met.”

The two of them sat on the balcony, drinking a glass of wine while they spoke.

“Please the pleasure is all mine.”

“Did you know I was a huge fan? When Messi told me about Graham Norton’s surprise, I was the one that pushed him to do it.”

“He told me and I am very grateful because meeting your Husband was very important for me.” She took a sip from her wine “He reminds me a lot of my father. I know its weird-“

“It’s not weird!” he reassured her reaching for her hand. Gabriella appreciated it and she smiled back at her.

“We’d watch his games together; my father would yell his name like he was a god.” Gabriella laughed, remembering.

“How did they die?” Asked Antonella, frowning her eyebrows. Gabriella’s eyes darkened; she knew she must have scared Antonella because she started apologizing but Gabriella shook her head to calm her down.

“No! Don’t worry, it’s fine, it was a long time ago. A car crash.”

Antonella sighed; Gabriella could see the pity in them but she didn’t mind as much because at least it was earnest. It was true. “How old were you?”

She hesitated, looked down “eight. I think it’s the worst age. You understand everything and nothing.”

“I’m sorry! I shouldn’t have asked- lets change the subject.” Antonella tapped her hands on the table, while Gabriella drank her entire drink all at ones. She nodded at the idea of changing the subject but just seconds later she regretted it. “Neymar was asking about you.”

She almost chocked on her wine, struggling to swallow what her friend had said. She hated that whatever was going on between her and Neymar had gone this far. Antonella patted her on the back while she coughed trying to breathe. “I didn’t think you’d care this much.” Antonella laughed and Gabriella raised her head “I don’t. I Absolutely don’t.”

“Sure.” Antonella smiled “well he was trying to see if you were gonna come by the house tonight again. He wanted to see you.”

“Why? All I’ve done is being rude to him- “

“I think he knows it’s a defense mechanism.” She smiled.

“It’s not and don’t tell him that it is because it will only encourage him!”

“Oh honey if Ney sets his eye on someone, he does not need encouragement.” She said, drinking her wine. Gabriella scoffed, looking at the view from her balcony, the people walking on the street.

“It’s not the right time.”

“Why not. You’re both single.”

She laughed at that “I’m not sure I’m ready to deal with someone like Neymar. You’re right maybe it is a defense mechanism because I know that it won’t be just a one-night stand with him… I’ll want more.”

“Is that such a bad thing?”

“My last relationship left me a little broken, I’m still picking up pieces. And a bad boy is not the right medicine.”

“Can I tell you a secret? I’ve known Neymar for 10 years and more. He’s not what the media is making him up to be… he’s a softie really. And if he only wanted a one-night stand, he wouldn’t be asking about you or following you- yes, I know about that too.”

“You really think me and him could be a thing?”

Antonella simply shrugged her shoulders and smiled. It was the answer Gabriella feared the most.

After the kids and her left the rest of the afternoon went by very quickly. She and Maggie watched a couple of movies and discussed about random things, avoiding the elephant in the room. When it was time for bed, she couldn’t sleep. She had thing heavy pain in her chest, caused by her anxiety. It was the possibility of her being into a guy again. For now, it was simply sexual, she barely knew so it couldn’t be anything more but it was different with him. In the last three years she hadn’t gotten into anything unless she was sure that she had the upper hand and with him she didn’t. He made her feel things she didn’t want to feel, like he would be able to make her do anything if she let him. Most of all he would be able to break her and she wasn’t prepared for that.

She got up from her bed and put on her usual black hoodie. She dressed in all black again and wore her white shoes. She wasn’t going to be able to sleep so she did what she always did when she was being tortured by her insomnia and she took a walk. Maybe not the smartest idea considering she was in a country she didn’t know but the neighborhood seemed safe enough. She only walked a few miles until she found herself outside of the Brazilian base. There was security all around and she knew that if she stayed too long, they would force her to leave. She stood still for a few minutes, looking at the flags hanging from the windows and imagining that Neymar was in one of them, wide awake or fast asleep. Perhaps she could text him, see what he was up to. Or She could reveal who she was and tell security to let her in- she was contemplating all these things and more when his whispers reached her ear, the wind getting warmer.

“Look whose here” he said, his lips barely touching her skin. Despite the jump scare, she didn’t react too crazy, maybe it was because his aura was captivating. All her fears were being confirmed just by a simple whisper. She didn’t turn to look at him, she kept her eyes on the flags.

“How did you know it was me?”

She regretted her question because he answered the same way that he had spoken to her before. A whisper in her eyes, lips stroking her ear, her heartbeat rising. “You got white paint on your sweater.” As he said it, he placed his hand on the right side of her back. Amazing how even over all the fabrics, his touch still had an influence on her heartbeat. “Wanna come upstairs?”

“No.” she answered quickly.

“Wanna go grab a drink?”

“Absolutely not”

“Then what are you doing here?” she tilted her head; she could finally see him. He also had hid his face covered by his hoodie. She shook her head.

“I was just taking a walk. The house is very close.”

“I know. You were the one that didn’t believe me.” He smiled “how about we continue this walk together?”

She turned her entire body to look at him, his hand moved from her back to her hip. She pushed it off her and looked in his eyes. “You’re really confident, has anyone every told you that?”

“Is that supposed to be an insult?”

“I’m not gonna sleep with you Neymar.”

Neymar laughed and looked at her in shock. He raised up his hands in defeat “wow. Straight to the point I see.”

“I think you’re an asshole in and out of the field.” She crossed her arms and he nodded.

“noted.” He answered. Gabriella felt like she was being examined by the way he was staring in her eyes “Now how about that walk? Just so you can confirm whether that’s true or not.” He raised his hands again, smiling “promise I wont be naughty.” He made a step forward, pushing a loose strand of her behind her ear and under her hoodie. His fingers touching the red skin on her cheek “unless you want me to.”

“I’m fine” she answered quickly and slapped his hand off her. “I’m only agreeing to this because I know you’ll follow me anyway.” She said and turned to continue walking. Neymar followed right behind her, smiling.

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[lordmartiya]

Hi. Today is the Ides of March, and I come to you not to defend Caesar but to contestualize his killers. Because I've noticed most people here are directly or indirectly influenced by William Shakespeare's play on the events, play that alters a few facts and presents Marcus Junius Brutus as the most sympathetic character of the entire mess for sake of drama, and forgoes ENTIRELY the historical context. Being Italian I grew up with MOST of said context, so allow me to present you with the series of civil wars that ended the Roman Republic.

The dominoes started being placed at the very start of the Republic, when, according to legend, the last king of Rome, Lucius Tarquinius Superbus (properly translated as Lucius Tarquinius the Fucking Arrogant - the English language doesn't have the right word to translate "superbus"), got the Romans so furious that they joined forces and chased him and his family out of town under the leadership of Publius Valerius and Lucius Junius Brutus (this name is important, remember it). No matter if the legend has any basis in history, the Roman here started LOATHING the King, and while the office was maintained as the Rex Sacrorum (King of Sacrifices) for its religious significance it lost all its political power, and every year the holder would be ritually chased out of Rome as a reminder of what happened to Tarquinius, a tradition that apparently continued all the way until the office's abolition under EMPEROR TEODOSIUS THE FIRST (the Romans loved tradition and could hold a grudge for a long time). Also, the Romans reformed their government around the Senate, whose families, the Patricians, formed Rome's nobility, so that they could properly rule their city, the villages and towns directly subject to it, and the largish alliance centered around Rome, accounting for any foreseeable future growth of said alliance. Keyword: FORESEEABLE. Because the founders of the Republic apparently anticipated Rome's control to expand at most from the Alps to Apulia, maybe Sicily if the local Greek colonies decided to pick a fight and their friends in Carthage decided to share.

Then the unexpected happened: the antics of the Mamertines, a band of mercenaries turned bandits, dragged Rome and Carthage into war and hatred, and when the second of the three wars ended Rome's hegemony extended from just south the valley of the Po river to Apulia, while the Po valley and the rest of Northern Italy, Sicily, Sardinia, Corsica, and a large chunk of the Hiberian peninsula were now the provinces of Sicilia, Sardinia et Corsica, Gallia Cisalpina, and Hispania Citerior - and to top it off they had committments in Greece (as the Macedons had briefly entered the Second Punic War) and Africa (where Rome's new ally of Numidia was itching to go at what remained of Carthage's empire, with Carthage pinching every penny to pay the immense war reparations under the wrong impression that once they were done Rome would leave them alone and let them settle the score with the traitorous Numidians). Rome had grossly overextended its territory beyond the capacity of its institutions and was due a reformation - but much of the political power, and the war loot that came with it, was in the hand of the Patricians, and any workable reform would by necessity dilute said power, for starters by recognizing that many of Rome's Italian allies were now Romans in every way that mattered except the citizenship and its privileges (including a larger share of the war loot), and that the common people of Rome, the Plebeians (that's their literal name), were owed either a larger share of the loot themselves or some state-owned lands that various Patricians and Equites (the wealthy merchant class of former Plebeian extraction) had bought up. Thus the reformations stalled, for almost a century.

Then came Tiberius Sempronius Gracchus, who, recognizing the problem, used his term as Tribune of the Plebs to start addressing the problem and force a land reform in the Senate's throat, but in the process he broke a number of unwritten rules and was lynched on the orders of the Pontifex Maximus (this being one of the two circumstances where a Tribune of the Plebs could be killed in spite of being under religious protection, and the Pontifex had to explain himself after the fact or be executed himself). Thus the Senate was able to sabotage the reform by not allocating any fund to it. Then, to their dismay, Gaius Sempronius Gracchus, Tiberius' younger brother, was elected Tribute and continued his work, even trying to extend citizenship to the Latins and Latin rights to the other allies... And used violence first, eventually leading to the Senate passing an emergency bill to kill him, even bringing weapons inside Rome's Pomerium (the area of Rome where bringing weapons was usually forbidden on pain of being beaten to death on the spot, and where any official's military power was annulled the moment they stepped in) if necessary. Factional violence had started.

Eventually, and with a war against Rome's Italian allies that had grown tired of just waiting to be recognized as proper Romans (plus the irreducible Samnites making one last play at reconquering their independence) that ended when the Consul Lucius Julius Caesar made the Senate cough up that citizenship (and the Samnites being wiped out as a nation for continuing the war even after Rome coughed up the citizenship), the factions coalesced around two well-meaning strongmen: the Populares, serving the interests of the people (including the Plebeians, a number of impoverished Patrician families, and part of the wealthy Equites merchant class) and led by the Plebeian war hero Gaius Marius, and the Optimates, serving the interests of the elites (the Patricians and the majority of the Equites) and led by the Patrician war hero Lucius Cornelius Sulla. Both Marius and Sulla, who had fought together against the new king of Numidia Jugurtha, recognized Rome was speeding toward self-destruction (Jugurtha literally PAYING OFF a number of Roman generals before Marius took over that war and brought Sulla to help whip the demoralized troops back into shape had proved that) and something had to be done, but disagreed on how... And eventually a civil war was fought. Marius initially had the upper hand, seizing Rome while Sulla and his army were away fighting Mithridates, but he died by old age before Sulla's return, and without him the Populares couldn't stop Sulla from winning back Italy. The first round went to the Optimates, with Sulla forcing reforms that stabilized the situation for a time before retiring for fear of becoming a tyrant. Sulla also took the chance to have a number of Marius' allies killed, but was persuaded to spare Marius' nephew - a skilled and brave swordsman named Gaius Julius Caesar. He still left his allies with a warning, that in this young man he saw many Marii - for this guy was THAT Julius Caesar (and a nephew of the now late Lucius Julius Caesar).

After Sulla's retirement and eventual death, things started unraveling again due the one thing he had failed to account for: the Senate was corrupted. So corrupted that eventually control of the state was usurped by three men: Pompey the Great, one of Sulla's old lieutenants and the war hero who destroyed Sertorius' Populares army in Hispania, saved Rome from the existential threat posed by the Illyrian pirates (who had grown strong enough to endanger Rome's grain supply due the Senate's corruption), and finished off Mithridates; Marcus Licinius Crassus, the richest man in Rome, the war hero that defeated Spartacus (and had Pompey promptly steal the glory as he was returning from Hispania), and major asshole who got so rich by buying up the firefighters, come to any house on fire, and telling the owner that if he didn't sell him the house at a much reduced price he'd let it burn (he was also the most hated man in Rome); and Julius Caesar, not yet a war hero in spite of how his own run-in with pirates went (those pirates thought he was joking when he paid up twice the ransom and told them he'd come back and have them all hanged to crosses. They realized he was serious when they discovered who exactly had just led a Roman fleet to storm their base and capture them all) but the apparent leader of the Populares by virtue of who his uncle was. With this arrangement, Crassus went to the east to try and conquer Parthia, Caesar got himself made governor of Cisalpine and Transalpine Gauls and got to work to conquer the rest of the Gauls at the first excuse, and Pompey remained in Rome to hold the fort... But Crassus got himself killed like an idiot, and without him the Senate was able to bring Pompey back into their Optimate fold. And when Caesar came back from the Gauls as a conqueror he knew he had two choices: go back peacefully and get killed, or take Marius' mantle and march on Rome. He choose the latter, and when the dust settled Caesar was the master of Rome and Pompey was dead, assassinated by the courtiers of Ptolemy XIII of Egypt to try and appease Caesar but instead royally pissing him off (that's how Cleopatra became the Queen of Egypt, she knew killing Pompey was a stupid idea and was already an exile, so when Caesar got the news she allied herself with him), with only one remaining Optimate army still resisting in Sicily under Pompey's son, Sextus Pompey.

Caesar was a much different man from Sulla. For starters, his reforms followed the Populares' ideals. Also, he didn't like to have people executed for being political enemies - a honorable death on the battlefield was one thing, but having someone killed in peacetime for having different political opinions was another, and Pompey's surviviving soldiers fell for him when Caesar ordered his men to let them live. And then there's the part that usually gets omitted in Italian school books: he had no intention to relinquish his power once he was done, and even planned to make himself King of Rome, even with the ghost of Tarquinius still looming over Rome. Being a genius, however, he decided to test the water first, most notably by arranging for his trusted lieutenant Mark Antony to publicly offer him a crown while STARK NAKED, so that it could be dismissed as a tasteless joke if needed. The people booed at Antony's action, so Caesar rejected the crown and tried to pass it off as a tasteless joke... But part of the public opinion started wondering about Caesar's true intentions, and a number of Optimates decided it was time to deal with Caesar.

These men, the self-proclaimed Liberators, were a number of lesser Optimates that for various reasons felt personally insulted by Caesar (one even owed him money), and took Caesar's probes toward kingship as excuse. Their leaders were Gaius Cassius Longinus, who Caesar had refused a political appointment in favor of someone else, and Marcus Junius Brutus, direct descendant of the Brutus that led the Romans against Tarquinius and infamous weathervane who joined anyone who seemed to be the strongest, first choosing to side with Pompey, who had his father's killed during Sulla's purges, because his allies had sided with him against Caesar, then siding with Caesar when he got the upper hand, and now realizing that his entire political career was at Caesar's whim (it was in fact him who got the appointment Caesar denied to Cassius) and the master of Rome could change his mind any time, and seemed rather inclined to support his trusted lieutenant Mark Antony and his grand nephew Octavian. The Liberators waited for a Senate session outside the Pomerium (as a number of Senators were also holding military offices), thus in a place where carrying weapons was allowed, and with their knives jumped Caesar on the Ides of March. The tyrant was dead, and they could now take whatever political office they wanted while Cicero, Rome's most honest man who was nonetheless biased toward them as an Optimate, brokered a peace with Caesar's allies... But they had mistaken Antony as a brute. At Caesar's funeral Antony gave a legendary speech and read out Caesar's will, in which he gave lavish gifts to the masses of Rome, thus turning the entire population of Rome against the Liberators to such a point Sextus Pompey didn't want anything to do with them, and igniting the third of the four rounds of civil wars that would destroy the Roman Republic and turn it into the Empire.

In conclusion, was Caesar killed for a good reason? Most certainly yes. But was Brutus a hero? Nope. He was a weathervane ready to switch sides the moment the tide turned, and turned on Caesar out of fear he'd cut his political career off if he opposed him (though Mark Antony turning the entirety of Rome on him apparently restored his coherency, as during the following war he finally fought to his own death). Thus screw Caesar, screw Brutus, and screw Mark Antony for restarting the war. Only Cicero and Octavian can be spared. Wait, wasn't Octavian just Caesar's grandnephew? Well, yes... But he was also Caesar's legal heir, equally ambitious and brave but much smarter and cunning, enough to secure his power first by allowing Antony to screw himself over by thinking with his lower head (Antony cheating on his wife Octavia with Cleopatra in spite of Octavia being the very model of a Roman bride pissed off a LOT of Romans. Especially her brother, who happened to be Octavian himself) and then by actually solving the entire problem of Roman institutions having overextended themselves (you know, what had started the entire mess to begin with), thus creating the Roman Empire while assuming the name of Augustus.

As for the knife block? It's made in Italy. Because we may hold Caesar as a national hero to this day, but with such an obvious joke...

[schrijverr]

I Dig You 1

Chapter 1 out of 8

Robin is tentatively excited for her first internship: an archaeological dig in the Netherlands, where she has been studying. However, when she gets there, Steve is there too. The dick of their uni that she now has to work with. Great. But being stuck digging for six weeks makes people bond and maybe he isn’t too bad. Maybe he can be her friend.

AKA an archaeology interns, modern, enemies-to-friends stobin au

On AO3.

Ships: none

Warnings: referenced homophobia

~~~~

Chapter 1: Encounter

Of course.

Of fucking course.

Robin will never be rid of this fucking guy, she seethes as she glares daggers into the back of Steve Harrington’s head. He hasn’t done anything in particular, he just showed up. But that was enough for Robin.

Why must he also be here? She would have totally thought he’d be in the Caribbean sieving sand instead of being here with her in a random small town in the Netherlands for his internship. It doesn’t make any sense, but here he is anyway.

Robin herself couldn’t afford to go on a uni internship, you had to pay to excavate, no thanks. She couldn’t even really afford a plane ticket home for the summer break, so she stayed in the Netherlands for her internship. A paid one, albeit only if you can count 3 euro per hour paid. It isn’t much, but otherwise she’s not getting credit for it, so alas.

However, Steve very much has Caribbean internship money. Or even Greece internship money. He could be chilling somewhere in the sun, but instead he’s here as well. And Robin doesn’t fucking get it.

She knows Steve has money, because she has been forced into his proximity since the introduction in the first year. As the two Americans in their year, they have often been grouped together and Robin would rather the uni stop. She has made her own friends. Not many or very good ones, but friends.

Enough that she doesn’t want to be stuck with Steve, whose parents bought him a house – not an apartment, but a house – when he came to study here. A house he throws so many parties at with girls who all thrist over him. It’s fucking annoying. He’s fucking annoying. And none of the pretty girls realize it and Robin wants to scream.

And instead of being rid of him for the summer, they’re stuck together for six weeks, because apparently he is on the same excavation she is.

Robin herself is here out of desperation. She has more of an interest in archaeosteology and the illnesses you can find in human remains. However, no graveyard was being excavated, so she’s getting her six weeks experience at a random excavation instead. Fine enough.

She doesn’t know what Steve is interested in, but she expects it to be something stupid like the Romans or something. Or maybe he doesn’t care for any of it and is he just doing it, because his mommy and daddy told him he had to do something and he thought archaeology would be easy. Must be regretting that now with the big practical aspect of it.

Maybe he forgot about the internships and didn’t sign up, so this is a desperate last resort to get his credits? That seems pretty likely, so Robin accepts that as reality.

Not that knowing why will change anything. And Steve doesn’t even seem to realize how much he has just ruined her summer. He just greets her with a smile as he asks: “You also interning here?”

“Yup,” Robin says, not trying to be rude, but also not feeling like being friendly.

Luckily the project leader introduces himself to them as they introduce themselves back. His name is Jeroen and he shows them the trench they’ll be working in for the first week, week and a half. Together. Great.

The excavation has been going on for a while already, but it won’t be done soon, since they’re digging at a construction site where an entire new neighborhood is being built. Robin is unfamiliar with commercial archaeology, so she listens eagerly, glad everyone here seems to speak good English. She has picked up phrases here and there, but she is far from fluent.

They’re currently working in trench five or, in Dutch, put vijf, while next to it construction is already happening on what used to be trench four. Further along trench six is already being plotted and dug by the machine excavator.

In trench five – put, Robin reminds herself, wanting to be able to get the terms right for when they’re written down, since the excavation is in Dutch – they need to dig up and record all the features, sporen in Dutch.

The two have couped at their first fieldschool, so they’re given a shovel to go with their trowel and Jeroen explains how the admin system works, before setting them loose to coup the first half of all the features – no, sporen.

Robin is half tempted to wait and see where Steve starts, so she can dig at the other side of the put, but there are already a few people digging and she wants to be friendly with the people that are going to be her coworkers, so she follows after Steve.

With Jeroen, it’s a team of nine total, including her and Steve. Since they can only work one put at a time (not to mention it’s summer break) a bigger team isn’t necessary. Robin is grateful for it, because large groups of people have never been her thing, so this smaller crew seems a lot more manageable.

Maybe this internship wouldn’t be too bad.

One woman, Astrid, takes them under her wing a little, asking: “Have you dug many coups before already?”

Robin shares a look with Steve – it’s involuntary, she swears, but it happens. Their fieldschool wasn’t exciting with nothing being found.

So, while they did get the theoretical explanation that when people in the past dug holes to place things like poles or trash, those poles and organic trash decomposed and with the new layer of soil that formed a new color dirt filled the hole, which they could now see when they dug to the C horizon in the earth. Neither of them have dug out many of the features/sporen.

However, Robin doesn’t want to admit to her own inexperience so bluntly. Steve does not have that inhibition, easily shrugging: “Like one or two. This is my first internship.” And while Robin still doesn’t like Steve, she is glad that she can just nod along.

“Alright, but you know how to do it, right?” Astrid asks, before chuckling: “It’s luckily not that hard.”

Robin awkwardly chuckles too as the two of them nod.

“I’ll draw some-” Astrid stops her sentence and turns to one of the others, who is digging further down, yelling: “Bas, wat is een goede vertaling voor coupeerhaken?”

The man in question, Bas, looks up and thinks for a second. The he yells back: “Geen idee, iets van coup hooks?”

Robin’s Dutch isn’t amazing, but she’s pretty sure Astrid just asked Bas for a translation of the word and Bas had no clue either.

She turns back to them apologetically and says: “I’m going to call them coup hooks. The little thingies to indicate what part to dig out, you know what I mean right?”

“Yeah, I do,” Robin smiles, wanting to assure Astrid.

“I would have no clue what to call them otherwise,” Steve adds and Robin feels vaguely annoyed, because she is pretty sure Astrid’s smile back is directed at Steve, not her.

“Anyway,” Astrid moves on. “I’ll draw some for you until you get the hang of them. And just give a holler if you find anything, you’ll know because you’ll hear your shovel break it.”

Robin still finds the idea of breaking any finds horrifying, but it seems to be part of it. And she doesn’t want to pull attention to it, so she just thanks Astrid and follows after her with Steve to the first two sporen so they can start digging.

Astrid quickly explains: “The card with the… uh, spoornummer… Ah, featurenumber! When you’re done digging stick it in to the side, so we know it hasn’t been drawn in yet.”

“And photos?” Robin asks, proud at herself for managing to speak up and ask about something she’s confused about instead of being anxious about it in private. College is good her her. Growth and all that.

To answer her question, Astrid gets a company phone with a sturdy case that functions as a camera and explains the admin app for photos to them. She points to where the North arrow and folding ruler are, before leaving them to it.

Now couping can be a little boring, especially in put five where there is apparently nothing to be found in the sporen. So they’re just digging to find out what shape the discolored earth is in the hopes of figuring out what its function used to be.

She and Steve work in silence for most of it. He tries to start a few conversations, but she isn’t really in the mood to talk to him, more focused on creating a neat little square for a coup and not letting her vibe be ruined by Steve.

They have two breaks that day of half an hour, one is on the boss, but they have to pay for the other themselves. So after eight and a half hours, Robin says goodbye to the first day of her summer internship.

While it was kinda fun, she is glad to be done for the day. She still has two and a half hours in public transport ahead of her, before she’s home and can rinse off the dirt and sweat, something she is looking forward too. As she checks in, she sends a small thank you for free public transport for students to the sky, because she couldn’t afford the daily commute otherwise to this outer corner of the Netherlands.

The next day her alarm goes early in the morning and she’s glad she doesn’t have roommates in her student housing, because they would probably hate her with how she’s grumbling and stumbling around in her studio.

At the dig site, Steve looks way too chipper for the hour and she sends him a glare. He looks a little confused, maybe even hurt by it and she feels a bit bad. However, she stuffs the emotion away and grabs a shovel. Steve is an asshole, she probably just imagined it.

Again, they’re digging coups the whole day. The sun is burning and the ground is drying out, making it incredibly difficult to get through. So, they’re all sweaty and a bit burnt when the first break is finally here. Robin finds it quite funny how they’re all re-applying sunscreen together, sitting in a circle.

And so the days continue.

That first week Robin gets into a rhythm. She stumbles out of bed early in the morning, dozes in the train, dozes in the bus, before having to walk the last bit to the dig site. There they dig all day, putting on sunscreen during both breaks, before she takes the bus and train again, showering when she gets home and shoveling down an easy meal. Digging makes you hungry. Then she writes her daily reports, before falling into bed.

She also tries to make contact with the other people they work with. All of them are nice and their English is great – not an odd detail, considering most of them studied at the university in English, taking the same courses she is now.

However, they’ve worked in the field along other Dutch people since their graduation, so it’s habit to fall back in the language. Robin gets it, but she feels awkward reminding them that she can’t follow along. Her Dutch isn’t that great yet. So, she kind of fades to the background.

Steve is in the same boat as her, though he has less trouble reminding him he doesn’t speak Dutch, which Robin is reluctantly grateful for.

She knows she could be taking with Steve, since he won’t default to Dutch on accident, but she is holding on to her grudge. Not that Steve is making it easy. He seems perfectly nice and charming, which grates on her nerves.

And makes it very difficult to dislike him. Something that makes Robin dislike him even more and that only fuels her silence.

Not that it has deterred Steve from talking to her. He must have gotten tired of reminding people around Thursday that first week and has taken up talking to her during their breaks. It’s nothing interesting, just classes, professors, friends, parties, other shit he did. He doesn’t seem to mind her lack of replies.

Robin has to admit that Steve is funny too. Fucking annoying that is. But the jokes he makes are hilarious and she has to bite her lip not to laugh. She doesn’t like Steve, she reminds herself, she’s not giving him the satisfaction of laughing.

She breaks on Tuesday of week two. It’s about the stupidest joke too. Steve is telling her about how he got rejected for a date at a faculty party, groaning: “And she turned me down all because I told her that I dug her. You know, digging? Because we’re archaeologists. That’s a great joke, works on Argyle every-”

He cuts himself off in surprise, eyes growing wide as he looks at her. It’s only when he falls silent that she realizes she laughed.

An embarrassed blush covers her cheeks immediately and she looks away with a huff. “It’s a good pun,” she admits, as though under duress. It isn’t that good, but it’s funny.

For a second she regrets admitting that, until she chances a glance at Steve and sees him wearing a proud, self-satisfied grin. It almost looks as if trying to get her to laugh had been his goal all along and she doesn’t know how to feel about it.

The gesture is sweet, but for all she knows, he could be trying to get into her pants. She hates when guys try to do that.

“Thanks,” he smiles at her, oblivious to her inner musings. Then he blows her expectations out of the water when he laughs: “I should stop trying that line on girls, honestly. The only time it every worked was when I asked out Tommy, but that was never going to be more than a fling.”

“You’re… queer?” Robin asks, too surprised to hide it.

“Yeah, bi. Didn’t you know?” Steve asks in return, frowning a little. “I thought for sure we talked a little at that lgbtq hang out thing back in first year.”

They had, Robin remembers that and now she feels a little terrible for her bitter thoughts as she admits: “I thought you were only there to get into Tammy’s pants.”

Steve is quiet for a moment and just when Robin thinks he’s going to get mad or upset – neither of which are good since Robin gets anxious when people are mad and uncomfortable when they’re upset – Steve laughs again.

It surprises Robin almost more than the earlier revelation. He looks at her with a grin and says: “To be fair, I was trying to get into Tammy’s pants.”

He looks so kind as he says it, so nonjudgmental – unlike Robin had been – like he doesn’t care that she kinda erased his identity and called him performative. Maybe there is more to Steve than she had realized, she thinks, as she allows herself to smile back and say: “Sorry.”

Steve shrugs: “It’s okay. I try not to flaunt it too much anyway. Can’t have word coming back to my folks back home, you know.”

Robin flinches a little at that. Her own parents are cool and have always been, but she’s still forced into a dress whenever they go by her conservative grandmother, having to listen to all the advice about how to get a husband.

“That sucks,” she tells him genuinely, because they queers have to stick together.

“Tell me about it,” Steve chuckles, fortunately not sounding too bothered about the whole thing. “I guess it could be worse. My dad wanted me to be a legacy at Yale, then he would have heard all about what I’ve been doing from his old buddies. Now I got a whole ocean between us and no eyes on me at all. Just have to be careful about what I put online, but that’s it.”

It sounds like he’s underselling how much it sucks, but Robin isn’t going to push. If Steve is trying to undersell it, then he probably doesn’t want to talk about it. So, she just awkwardly goes: “That’s nice.”

Luckily, she is saved by the break ending and the two go out into the field again, digging even more coups.

They’re almost done with put five and put six has already being dug. There hasn’t been much inside the coups here, but they’re optimistic about more being found elsewhere, since they’re currently on the outer edge of what used to be a settlement instead of at the center.

This time, when they’re out digging, Robin actually talks back to Steve. She has decided that he can’t be all bad and digging in silence was kind of a bummer. So, she’s giving him a chance and hoping her faith isn’t misplaced. It would suck if Steve truly is a douche.

~~

A/N:

I wanted Robin to be interested in proto-languages and how you can trace migration and interaction through language, but idk enough about it, so I went with archaeosteology because it fits with Robin too and I know a little bit more of it, though not too much either lol (im planning on projecting my own interests onto Steve bc they fit him better)

Also rip Roman arch, u can be interesting, but ur also the normie archaeology that gets way too hyped for no reason xp

I’m 100% Astrid trying to translate subject specific lingo and struggling, though I manage to do it both ways lmaooo

Also I love couping, idc what people say, it’s not boring and while it might be hard work, it is quite fun when you get into it

(btw, I think international students sadly don’t get free public transport here, which is so sad, but I didn’t want to put Robin through actual public transport prices bc those are criminal (we love a private company having a monopoly on a public service))