#i change my pictures pretty often though but these have stayed for some time now

[alphajocklover]

I really want a hot boyfriend. does instajock always make you straight or can I use it on a guy to make him more my type? (and maybe also make me more his type)

So, I think there's been a bit of a misunderstanding, one that I want to clear up. While I do my best to report on different transformation methods, I can’t include every detail about every one of them. My posts are relatively short and don’t always cover everything, because if I did it would take forever. The lack of details, plus some distracting pictures, leads to a lot of people getting details mixed up or getting confused. It’s happened before, and I think it’s what is happening here. I say this because as far as I can remember I have never mentioned anything about InstaJock turning someone straight.

InstaJock can change a person's sexuality, theoretically, through the settings and details section that I've mentioned in previous posts. The thing is, it normally doesn’t. Instajock changes its users personality, their body, and their mind, but for some reason their sexuality will usually stay the same. They’ll become more openly sexual, and also often very flirtatious to fit their new jock persona, but their sexual identity doesn’t change. Even when their sexuality does change it usually turns them gay, not straight.  For some reason the app's already confusing setting page is set up so it's a lot easier to set your sexuality to gay then to straight. My best guess for why the app is set up that way is that the creator, or creators, are gay themselves and have a thing for jocks. I mean, you don’t make a seemingly impossible app that changes people into dumb jocks if you don’t have some sort of kink for it.. So, If you use the app on someone who's already gay you’ve probably got nothing to worry about. Chances are they’ll stay gay, unless they happen to have a huge conversion kink and are really good with computers. Anyways, now that we’ve cleared up that issue let's get into the specifics of your issue. 

Changing someone's personality and identity so that they’ll be your ideal boyfriend is… pretty questionable, if I’m being honest. But so is much of what happens in the world of transformations, so I’ll focus on the ‘how to’ rather than the morals. Your first problem is one I’ve brought up before: You can only give someone the app if you already have the app. Only an already transformed Jock can invite another person to InstaJock. You’d only be able to transform him,but only if you are changed yourself. I know you said you’d be with being changed, but once you become a jock figuring out the app will be much harder, so you might not end up his type, or he might not end up yours. I think your best bet would be to convince a jock to change both of you. InstaJock users can send out multiple invites at once, so it would be easy even for him. Though I wouldn’t be surprised if he makes a dumb mistake. He is a jock afterall.

I do hope this works out for you. Not because I approve of what you’re doing, but because there are a lot of ways this could go wrong. One of you could have your sexuality changed when you get transformed, the jock who changes you both might make you brothers instead of boyfriends, or you and he could just not click. Just because someones your type doesn’t mean they’re the right person for you. Even if you and your target don’t end up together, I think you will have a much easier time getting a boyfriend after you use InstaJock. I hate to be shallow, but dating is usually easier when you have a 6 pack and huge pecs.

[leclsrc]

more than anyone ✴︎ cl16

genre: childhood friends to enemies to lovers (a mouthful), smut, humor, Fluffff!!!!, angst

word count: 13.7k  

You moved out of Monaco at fourteen with an unrepaired friendship hanging by a thread. Ten years and a whole lifetime later, you’re forced to work with him confront it all over again.

auds here… hi hi hi!!!! HAPPY 4k to us guys!!!!! i am so insanely thankful for all of u and i will make this a longer note when i wake up tomorrow because i have so much to say but have this for now. i hope u like it,i love love love u guys forever also i changed the banner because i wanted to

nsfw warnings under the cut!

18+ because... penetrative sex, semi public sex, praise central, size kink (pretty tame smut in auds world)

You know it’s bad when your assistant-and-friend-aka-friendsistant (her vernacular) Rachel walks in with a free coffee without a quip about how dependent you are on this exact order of coffee (she’s a millennial, so caffeine and lack thereof are in her arsenal of Funny Jokes). You fear you didn’t correctly anticipate just how bad it was going to be when she stays instead of leaving to work on your schedule, combing a few fingers through her fringe and sitting herself on your couch stiffly. Maybe you’re intuitive, maybe you spend too much time with Rachel and you can spot the way she scratches at her eye, maybe both—but it’s bad.

You don’t take a sip from the Starbucks that sits idly on the coaster, opting to watch the latte sweat instead. You do stare, though, at Rachel’s stagnant posture, scrutinizing her every movement. She takes a few deep breaths and drops the bomb.

“David sent me to tell you he has good news. But there is, um. Bad news.” Dread writhes through you at the mention of your manager with bad news, and you clear your throat to compose yourself.

“What’s going on?”

She purses her lips. “He’s on his way over here. Just…” She cocks her head sharply to the glass door of your home office, expression antsy. “Sorry. Wait for him. I can’t tell you anything yet.”

You take a swig from the pity coffee. “Am I getting blacklisted?”

“God, you dumbass, no—” She makes an incredulous noise, but before she can open her mouth to elaborate, your manager walks in with an excited expression on his face, pocketing his Juul to take a seat by your table. His smile is the radiant one of a man over forty with a comical amount of Botox.

“Rachel told me you had”—you stifle the adjective—“news.”

“That I do, yes.” He hums, tracing the edge of your table. “Did you enjoy Paris Fashion Week?”

Beside the brash Frenchmen, God-awful timezone differences and consequent calls at half past three, hungover show attendances, posing for pictures until your ankles blistered, and a temporary diet of black coffee, cigarettes, and stale croissants—sure, it was fun. It was your job to attend anyway, your obligation to shake hands with important people and be photographed in designer clothing and benefit from the PR, but how often could people call work fun? 

“Sure.” You take another gulp off your coffee. “It was… fun.”

“Well, since your movie’s doing well,” David pauses and hums, “how do you feel about another few weeks of fun?” 

“Like Paris Fashion Week—weeks… this month?” You frown, eyebrows knitting together. Is this a new Vogue thing? You’re not sure how many updates they give the schedule, but you wouldn’t mind too much if you could travel again for a little bit. “So soon after spring? Did Anna want this?”

“Iiiit’s, er, Vogue’s new project. Capsule shows in Europe, coastal and summery. She wanted an exclusive guest list. She asked for you by name,” David says smugly. “Well, she called my office, granted. But to ask for you—”

“Are you fucking serious?” You stand up, and if you hadn’t had some fix of coffee you would’ve gotten dizzy. “David, tell me you’re serious.” Time seems to have suspended itself as you await his answer—which, if affirmative, would be a pretty big deal to you. 

“Yeah, I am.” He plays off a grin. “She loved your movie with Greta, and would love to send you to Europe to do PR on a few shows and pair up with some guests on a couple features. Exclusive stuff.”

You sit back down, mouth slack. “Oh, my God. I can’t believe it.” Your eyes dart to Rachel, who’s caught between a smile and an awkward purse of her lips. “Fuck! This is huge, David.”

“Yeah—okay, yeah, it is.” David shifts in his seat and crosses, then uncrosses, his legs, then his arms. He stutters for a second. “Good and bad news, remember?”

You blink a few times. You’d nearly totally forgotten the fact that this good news—and it is overwhelmingly good—comes with a bout of bad news, so bad apparently that it’s noteworthy enough to state alongside this massive deal. But it’s. Fine. It’s whatever. Worst case scenario, you’re going to need to fucking swim to Europe sans oxygen canister.

“So… the shows? Events, and shit?” He watches, waiting for you to signal that you follow. When you nod, he continues, averting his gaze to the face of his Patek. “They’re all in Monaco.”

Wrong.

“Monaco.” You repeat, deadpanning your delivery. It’s not out of the ordinary, the glitz and coast of the city being a perfect venue for high fashion. But Monaco is different for you, vastly different, and you tend to avoid the place to the best of your abilities. “Monaco. Are—you’re sure?”

“Mmm,” he hums in affirmation. “I know, I know you’re not exactly privy to Monaco because, bleh, childhood shit, whatever. But this—like you said, this is huge! And I don’t think we should jeopardize that.” He pulls a piece of paper from the folders tucked in his arm and waves it around.

“Well—yeah, I suppose. I’ll deal with it.”

“Yeah.” He sucks his teeth, eyes gliding over the scenery of L.A. that your window offers. “Okay, that’s it, so. Byeandhaveagoodlunch.” He slams the paper onto your desk, jostling you a little, but as he makes his exeunt, Rachel raises her arm to stop him.

“Is that it, David?” She asks, an edge to her voice.

You pick up the paper as they make hushed, stifled conversation, and find that it’s a call sheet of sorts, listing all the collaborators traveling to Monaco and what or who they’re in charge of, or paired up with, there. Models, athletes, celebrities, influencers—all making TikToks, or appearances, or brand deals, or interviews, or YouTube videos, the whole shebang.

“Yeah,” says David dismissively—nervously? “That’s it.”

You search for your name. “Okay. Um, hey.” Rachel turns to you, trying to catch your eye, which is busy scanning the sheet. “Did, um—did David mention you’re paired up with Charles Leclerc for a feature? Because you are. Paired up with Charles Leclerc for a feature, I mean.”

David sucks his teeth. “Thank you very much for graciously reminding me of that, Rachel.” 

Still half-distracted and growing increasingly worried with the exchange happening in front of you, you make haste in your search—eventually, you find your name, printed in plain letters beside one you’ve wished to never read over ever again.

“Wait, my Charles?” You pause and look up, suppressing a yell as your eyes widen, and you blunder over a pathetic self-correction. “I mean—no, sorry—Charles, as in Charles Leclerc? I can’t work with him, you know this!” 

“Wh—well, Vogue apparently wanted a really good Monaco-born pair and they seriously lucked out on you two. Also,” Rachel says, adamantly defending herself, “you’re always saying you can work ‘with anyone’!” She raises two comically vigorous air quotes to further her (moot) point.

“I didn’t ev—I never say that,” you lie straight through your teeth, mouth dry. You definitely do. You can place all the exact moments. “I would’ve known if I did. Rach—David—I cannot, absolutely cannot work with Leclerc. He’s my… we…” You shut your eyes and sneak two fingers upward to massage your temple, slowly caving into defeat.

David makes an oh well face and shrugs passively. “Fine. Then it’s either Anna Wintour’s special job that will help the Academy campaign or not meeting the ex-bo—”

“—friend.” You look up to cut him off, eyes narrowed. “Ex-friend.”

“Alright, kid. Suuuure.” David leans against the back wall of your office as Rachel comes to comfort you, her eyes already sympathetic and droopy. It shouldn’t be so bad, right? She asks sweetly, nudging the latte closer to your catatonic figure. You have seen him since, anyway.

With a despondent gaze, you just remain silent, refusing to state the negative aloud, opting to stare at the latte. At your disagreeable silence, Rachel continues, tone anxious: You have seen him since. Right?

You moved out of Monaco at fourteen, right after the school year finished and your father had gotten the opportunity to transfer out. The whole thing would’ve—should’ve, even—been a sentimental affair, full of tears and dramatic caresses of your bedroom wall, whispering thank yous to the city air in French and Italian, but it wasn’t. Months prior, you’d been preparing yourself for this kind of goodbye; but when it came to it, you merely kissed your extended family goodbye and slept en route to the airport, silk sleeping mask pulled taut over your shut eyelids. The only thing you left in the city was a letter written only to Gi and Cha about how much you’d miss them, with your email address scribbled at the bottom for an added touch, in case they felt like sending you longer messages.

“Do you two at least get along?” David asks, noting how genuinely aghast you appear.

“It’s not that simple.” You tap a nail against your desk a few times. “But I think it’ll be fine. I hope, at least. We used to be… good friends? As teenagers.”

You feel like an alien hearing yourself talk about it, talk about him and the whole circumstance a decade later. Your friendship with Charles was the only thing that mattered to your adolescent self, all lemonade stands and long car rides and stealthy conversations about your futures (racing and acting, respectively). It was happiness, in what you consider to be its truest form, it was lovely and real. And it ended abruptly, no goodbyes, no nothing.

“So it’s a no.”

“I’m just saying it’s impossible for me to work with him, and in Monaco no less?!” Your eyes are wild with frustration and anxiety at the prospect of your past whipping you in the face, full-fledged. “I don’t even talk about the guy or the city, how can I spend time with him there?”

“Are you seriously going to junk this amazing fucking opportunity just because of some petty childhood fight?” David’s tone is comparable to that of a dad’s, scolding and horrified, almost. “Look. If you don’t take this, career-wise, it doesn’t mean much. You get paid a shit ton, you’ll survive—you’ll do well. But emotions-wise? Maturity-wise? Be the bigger person and do it—I mean it.”

You stare back at him because you know he’s right. “Maybe it won’t be a big, long feature?” Rachel offers as some advice, some comfort. “If you reject it, his team will know, and so will he.”

And yes, you were fourteen, and yes it was petty and unexplainable even for fourteen—but there was a catalyst to all of this, a reason why the move became easy and forgetting childhood memories became second nature. A reason why you’re selective with who you make contact with from home. A reason why Giada and Charlotte are selective with topics they choose to bring up with you.

So, fuck it, really. That’s how you end up in Monaco, booked for the next three weeks, sharing a studio and public appearances and a 24-hour shoot with the last person you’d ever want to be in a room with. Ten years later—the person still is, and no doubt will always be, Charles Leclerc.

—

“MAMAN!” Charles’ voice was loud, loud, and so incredibly loud. You followed not far behind, legs running at full speed to try and leap onto his lanky figure and wrap an arm around his head to quiet him. It’d been futile: he ended up at the dining table facing his family with a victorious smile on his pink face. He breathed heavy, waiting for everyone to turn their attention to him.

“Charles,” you chimed in warningly, breathing even harder with the effort you had exerted to chase him from the sidewalk to here. “Don’t.”

“Guess who got the lead spot in the recital.” He slowly turned to point at to your angry face, and then bent, rifling through his already messy, grubby knapsack for something that he raised with glee: a headress that read…

“But-ter-cup.” Hervé sounded amused when he looked at your fuming expression. “You?”

“Yes, Papa! Maybe, just maybe,” he sing-songed, using the term wrong yet again, “she got the titular role!” He walked over to you and placed the headress square on your head, beaming. 

“There is no titular role in a school recital,” you seethed, burning with embarrassment. Your stellar academic record had apparently granted you incentive to be centre stage during the routine year-end recital, where years were lumped into twos or threes (in your and Charles’ cases, Years 8 and 9) and the student body would dance or sing a variety of teacher-selected music.

In your case, it was Build Me Up, Buttercup, complete with choreography you’d be practicing over the next month and a half. Charles laughed at your pouting expression, didn’t stop laughing even when you’d both sat down and twirled through forkfuls of spaghetti, didn’t stop chuckling even when Lorenzo got the turn to speak and he started talking about how Bringing Up Baby was his movie of the month.

You allowed him to laugh—even laughed yourself at some point—because all day, you’d been absently wondering how you’d break the news about your moving away to him.

—

Charles is not okay. He’d gotten off a red-eye from a short vacation stint, and now he’s back in Monaco, sleepy and a bit jetlagged, being briefed on brand deals and press junkets he has to accomplish by three p.m. today. “On the dot, sharp,” said his assistant, like the two didn’t just mean the same fucking thing. He’s patient, though, smiling through the exhaustion, through the dressing room, the tape around his waist and legs to measure clothes for this fashion… thing.

“A meeting for Ferrari, two TikToks, a vlog for your personal YouTube channel, three stories by noon… oh, and in the next few weeks, you’re going to film a Vogue-sponsored 24 Hours With… with—”

“D’accord, thank you,” he cuts in, already exhausted from the spiel alone. He’s a professional; no matter what people believed or what gossip rags liked to say about him, he maintains a well-kept reputation of being polite and kind to people he works with. Maybe it’s the jetlag, maybe it’s the lack of sleep, maybe it’s the heat outside, but today he just wants to close his eyes and sleep for days.

But the assistant follows, clipboard and Excel sheet and all, still spouting all his media obligations lest he forget (and mark his words, he definitely will). “Sorry,” he says. He’s new, probably assigned as a part of the Vogue team, lanky and tall and nervous looking. “I’m new. I’m Greg.”

Briefly, Charles is left alone to stare at his tired reflection while the assistants reconvene and connect. There’s several of them, each assigned or already committed to a different celebrity. Charles should know more details, but there’s only so much reading of a call sheet he can do before he’s conked out on Ambien; he trusts he’ll be around people much more famous than he is, probably American or English, actors and athletes alike. He’ll figure it out.

Yeah, she’s almost ready. Is Charles here? One of the assistants says, a bright-eyed American. They need to be introduced before 11. Her voice is quiet, quick and hushed, and Charles has to focus to hear what she’s saying. Greg chips in with something he can’t decipher; in response, the American whispers, Yeah, I’ll get her to sign it for you. Bring Charles out in five.

In five, he is indeed being brought out to the lobby of this hotel; the outdoor area is decked out with models, cocktail tables, Vogue signage and a carpet for pictures. It’s even busier inside, wait staff and event coordinators conversing in angry, aggressive French—table settings, mineral water, extra forks are needed. Greg keeps a steady pace transporting Charles through the indoor throng, and at 10:59, Charles is outside, by the pool.

“Um, right, yeah. Okay, uh—wait here. Your partner—not really partner, but like, mate? Fuck, definitely not. Um, partner. She’s on her way heeere…” He checks his phone. “Okay. You caught her name, right?” Charles nods to fend him off. “Okay. So, wait here.”

There are cameras taking pictures of him when Greg departs, some microphones waved his way; in the distance he spots fans waving crazily, sporting Ferrari merch. Charles is doing what he’s told (waiting, maybe posing a bit) when an even bigger crowd appears, surrounding one person; with their arrival, ameras click even faster, and an uproar follows. Greg waves him over, pointing at the person frantically, so Charles smiles, extends a hand, and when the crowd parts—

There you are, in all your glory. Pink dress, hair clipped into a bun, a tanline on your exposed skin, lithe hand coming up to shake his. Your eyes are flat but the lack of expression doesn’t inoculate them from beauty; they remain sparkling and pretty all the same. Cameras snap the interaction, seemingly innocent, seemingly the first.

He fights, he really does, to keep his hands shaking yours. He forces himself not to hug you, press a kiss to your cheek even if that might look friendly, caress a hand across your cheekbone, brush the tendrils of hair out of your eyes. It’s a valiant effort.

A valiant effort that pays off because, as soon as you’re ushered into a room by yourselves, your smile turns into a scoff; your hands are kept to yourself, slipping a pair of sunglasses on, and; underneath them, your eyes begin to roll. “I need a drink,” you huff, not even looking at him. 

You’re on two couches opposite each other, in what he assumes to be a foyer to a hotel room that’s much bigger than the one he was in earlier. A-list fame and that. The girl he’d seen earlier scurries off, mumbling something about a martini. Greg, beside him, goes: “Do you need a drink, too?” But he shakes his head.

“Are you voluntarily working for this guy, Greg?” You refer to his assistant by name, offering a sarastic, honeyed smile. You adjust the strap of your dress and he blinks his gaze away.

“Oh, no. I mean—yeah. Kind of. I was assigned to him.”

“It’s okay, I don’t expect you to do it of your own will,” you joke, crossing your legs.

Charles laughs dryly. “Who asked?”

“So he speaks…” You ping off his retort without missing a beat, a sardonic smile playing at your lips. 

“In the two minutes we’ve been around each other, you’ve insulted me and my assistant. I’d prefer silence, your highness.”

“Aww, did my joke and asking Greg a question piss you off?” You suck your teeth. “You must be fun at parties.”

“Do you two, um. I don’t want to, like, overstep, but do you know each other?” Charles notices that Greg’s forearm is signed by you and realizes he has no allies here, with an inward grimace. “Or if you don’t, like, are you two just… not in good moods or something?”

The girl comes in then, saying here’s the martini and catering you a sweaty glass with a smile. You offer up the empty space beside you, patting the white leather for her to sit down on. Your eyes meet his again briefly, catty and a bit challenging, before you turn back to the girl. “Sit.”

Maybe Charles spends too much time with Max, because he’s starting to become more and more inclined to getting the last word in lately. “Bossing people around, eh? Fame really does change you.” He offers a smile of his own.

“She’s my assistant, Rachel,” you say sweetly, but your smile is gritty. “We need to check my schedule.”

He wants to slap himself. “Too busy to open your calendar?” Nevermind, he’s a god.

Your sarcastic smile drops. “And what’s on yours? P6 this week, P7 next, DNF after?”

Fuck. The tension is so thick at this point, it’s almost steaming hot. Both the assistants stare at you, waiting for Charles to wedge something in, but he bites himself back. Thankfully, right as the silence just begins to settle like oil on water, the door swings open and one of the coordinators steps in, noisily rattling off the week’s plans and proclaiming you’re both free for the remainder of the day before things pick back up—Schiaparelli show at noon, both of you, front row—tomorrow.

The four of you filter out of the room, and you make a quip about your autograph on Greg’s arm, which grants your assistant some face time with Charles. She turns to him, combing a hand through her hair and furrowing her thick eyebrows. “Hey, I’m Rachel, by the way.”

“Charles.”

“I know,” she says sheepishly. “Listen. I know you two have history, she—we—she’s, um, told me about it before. I don’t know the whole story, and I’m not… like, I’m not saying I do, so I respect it, whatever it is. But I hope you can find it in you to work with her properly. It’s a huge gig for you both. So—yeah, uh. Great job, and good luck.”

She smiles with a nod before exiting the room, leaving Charles alone and stirring with thoughts and memories woken from wild unrest.

—

“Alors,” Charles had said, not turning from his position in front of your vanity mirror. He’d been picking at his face, stopping only when you tsked at him not to. “What is the problem?” His eyes flicked over to you, your lying figure on the bed exhaling little puffs of frustrated air to the ceiling. “Are you missing the recital?”

“Quoi? Non.” You gnawed at your lip, accepting your defeat. You couldn’t lie for much longer, not when you’d been keeping this under wraps for two months. “Listen. Charles.” He nodded, clearly preoccupied with something. “Charles.”

“Hmm?”

“Can you ple—look at me.” Your voice hardened.

He’d noticed it then, the curt cutoff of your voice, the absent look in your eyes. He knows you even through a mirror, even in the low light of your room. “Desolé. This pimple won’t go away.”

“Charles,” you said, groaning but allowing yourself to laugh. “Listen.”

“Okay.” He turned to face you, a spot on his chin red from how long he’d been scratching at it.

You shrugged then, suddenly scared to deal with the realness of it all. You didn’t understand why you felt so torn. “It’s something to do with me,” you said.

“Yeah.”

“I’m moving.” You rubbed at your nose, the cold draft coming in through the window causing you to sniffle. “Out of Monaco.”

A beat. “What?”

You closed your fingers around your necklace, scratching absently at the divots of the pendant. One, two, three little dips in the gold locket, tiny but comforting. “Yeah. In a few months, like, after school. It’s Papa—his job. It’s a whole thing.”

“Europe?” You shook your head. America.

“What… well, what does that mean, then?” His expression didn’t waver but if anything did, it was his eyes—desperate, seeking more answers, wanting them with a guttural, belly-deep desire. You’re his best friend, so if he has to let you go in this life, he at least needs to know everything about the move. 

“We’ll keep in touch,” you reassured, kicking your leg to further your point. “You were bound to get busy with karting anyway, so it’s like. Ça revient au même.”

“It isn’t the same,” he said, his voice thin and cracking. 

“You’ll be fine.”

“You have a very misguided idea of who I am.”

“Shut up. Come off it,” you laughed, sitting up straighter. “We’ll call everyday, and I’ll meet all the famous people who’ll get me a real acting job, and I’ll come for the holidays or summer or something. Things won’t change. Not that much, at least.”

“Maybe, just maybe.” He pauses. “Will you be here for my birthday, at least?” He’d made a big deal all year of his turning sixteen on the sixteenth.

“Charles,” you sighed. 

“No, yeah. I get it.” He looked down, rubbing his thumbs together, like he’s just been hit across the face. He will tell you one day it felt infinitely more painful than that. But at the time he shook his head and looked up at you, reached his pinky to yours, a thin slip of paper around the finger that matched your interlocked one, and didn’t say anything else.

Just: “We’ll be okay.”

—

You could pin a lot of adjectives on Monaco: picturesque, without a doubt; warm, glamorous, but you’d sooner die than pin the word home over it. The city is sprawling even with the little surface area it possesses, and only few things seem familiar. Your lodging is a hotel in Monte-Carlo, a penthouse suite that requires you to travel very little. It feels like a vacation.

And you embody the role of a vacationer very well—the first five, six days of your stay in Monaco went great, mainly appearances that lasted a few hours at most and several junkets to promote Vogue and your latest film, before you were free to do whatever you wished. You’d gone the touristy route already: shopping more times than you could count, trying your immense luck at the casinos, and eating at Michelin-starred restaurants; eventually all the fun blurred into each other and you found solace in naps instead.

Your troubles are not far behind, however, and they finally come after you on Day 7. The event coordinators had informed Rachel, who in turn informed you, that the first of next week’s agenda would be a photographed tour of the Musée Océanographique de Monaco, a grand seaside building right at the edge of the water. Today is, apparently, a day for you to “fraternize with” Charles, which meant you would once again need to put a façade over your less-than-kind appearance toward him.

Those are the concluding words of David’s very firm text, encouraging (read: coercing) you to settle things with Charles into some approximation of civility. You resolve things by calling him to skip over the awkwardness that comes with texting. It takes you all of twenty minutes and twice your body weight in courage to press the green telephone button.

“B’jour,” he goes, his voice quick. French people (he will hate that you called him French, even if it was just in your head; you relish in this) always talk rapidly. After some silence, he clears his throat: “Hello?”

Butterflies—some form of them, whatever—flutter in your stomach. “It’s me.”

He drops formalities and adopts a disinterested voice. “Huh. What do you want?” The butterflies have rotted to death.

“I need to talk to you.”

“To insult me again?” He sounds a little amused even over the phone, a breath of laughter landing in your ear. “Bah, I get it. We are enemies. You have no interest in reconnecting, et cetera. C’est tout ce que tu as à dire? I gotta go.”

Your face warms at his accusatory tone. “Wow, leave it to a guy to be charming, huh?”

“Why should I be charming with you?”

“At least be polite,” you taunt, but your voice lacks its usual edge. On the other line, Charles lets his own defiant tone ebb downward.

At least be polite. It’s the least he can owe you after ten years of forgetting. It wasn’t as if you two had a mutual agreement then, in 2013 when you moved away, to stop becoming friends. For months before you moved out, he completely stopped talking to you, like he’d forgotten you two were even connected, were even friends. What little words you two shared became petty and abrasive, and suddenly Monaco lost its color. The closeness you had with him, which for so long you’d convinced yourself was once-in-a-lifetime, was ripped from you, robbed from you—by him, no less, which hurt all the more. You’d given up on finding out why at some point. You waited for him to reach out. Maybe, you told yourself, just maybe, it would take a few months, a year.

Ten years of radio silence. He owes you that: politeness.

“It doesn’t matter,” you say to nobody in particular, in an effort to segue into the topic of your choosing. “Look, we’re supposed to be friends. In… on camera, at least. It’s disastrous if we look like we, you know, hate each other. We need to be professional.”

“For the cameras,” he says back, solemn.

“Yeah.” You wind a finger through your hair. “Just… for the sake of civility.”

You hear his little hums of consideration. “D’accord,” he says after a few minutes. “Truce, then.”

“Sure.” You smile a little. “I have to go.”

—

You were halfway through your mess of clothes when your mum peeked through your door, her hair held back by a headband. “Call you yet, poppet?” 

“Non,” you said, decimating your voice to a monotonous murmur. You looked up from the dress you’d been folding and offer a half-hearted, sardonic smile. “Je t’ai dit qu’il ne le ferait pas.” You were right: he wouldn’t call. What difference did a month make, anyway? This time, though, the usual victory of being right settled into an ugly disappointment in the pit of your stomach.

You wanted so badly to be wrong. To clamber to the telephone, to your Skype, to your cellphone, any of the three, and see his name flashed across the helm or his voice in your ear. Maybe he was dialing your number now, to ask if you wanted to grab dinner after the year-end recital, or to update you on karting, or to tell you Pascale wanted lunch.

She could tell, as all mothers can, that you’d been upset. The knit in your brows that didn’t go away, the bottom lip being chewed, the tight clutch of your fingers over the already-folded dress. She sighed. “I’m sorry, baby.” 

“It’s fine.” Your voice came out sharper than you intended and you have to roll it back, recede it, to sound more relaxed, more at ease. “It’s… fine. I’m fine.” She knew better than to pry, closing the door softly to continue packing up the living room.

You heaved a dry sigh to express the nausea that came with his absence. It began a month ago, two days after you first told him about it and poked at the zit on his chin. He’d buried his head in your shoulder until tears seeped into the cotton sleeve of your shirt, and you let him. You felt guilty, after all, for keeping it a secret for so long. You would leave in September, you told him. We have time.

Two days later he walked you home as always, on the “dangerous” side of the street, lanky legs skipping to the tree in front of your house. You pointed at the beginnings of clementines on its dewy branches, smiling, inviting him in, but he remained leaning against the trunk, playing with his mop of hair that covered his forehead.

“Bah, trop dramatique,” you said, poking fun. Lorenzo had showed you both some art house films he studied in class, and with the bout of French cinema, you and Charles had grown obsessed with making fun of overdramatic stills that often included the classic leaning-against-a-surface. “Come on, Mum made bouillabasse, I smell it.”

“We need to talk,” he eked out awkwardly. “I have something important to tell you.”

You dropped your knapsack, leather scratching against the concrete of the steps to the front door as you walked over to him. “Ouais?”

“I…” His lips moved, wobbled, but nothing left, so he shut them and his eyes, like he was considering something. His breathing slowed into one rhythm you find yourself unconsciously matching, just two kids looking at each other in the dusky breeze of Monaco, the orange sun casting shadows over the clementine tree. You closed your hand over his, a tight clamp over his knobby wrist with certainty. “I…”

“Say it.”

“I want to.” His eyes were shut. Exhale. Inhale, open. “I… I’m going… going home.”

You breathed out apprehensively and relaxed. “Oh.” You blinked. “That’s it?”

“Ye—ouais. Yeah. I gotta.” Already he was climbing to the gate, waving a half-hearted goodbye. “Save some for me, oui? Bye.”

“Charles,” you warned after him, voice tinged with concern. “That’s it, promise?” Your hand flexed around air.

“Cross my heart!” The last thing he ever said with any bit of something genuine.

—

You reunite with Charles at a meeting; under the guise of your truce, he makes the barely-necessary small talk. The rest of the staff file out of the restaurant in due time, but you both stay. You ask about Lorenzo and Arthur, leaving out questions you’d rather not listen to him answer, and he tells you they’re both alright. That his mum asks about you sometimes. That makes you smile. He asks if you’re still dating the guy you’d most recently been partnered with in Us Weekly.

“God, no. We never even dated, the… um, tabloids always make shit up.” You purse your lips. “Anyway. Is Lorenzo still in film?” You ask, turning your head a little. You don’t think you’ll ever forget his affinity for cinema.

“Not professionally, but I still sit through hours-long… you know, reviews, and stuff.” He laughs when he sees you laugh, eyes half-closed and meeting the ceiling.

“He introduced me to some of my favorite movies, especially when I got into acting and I was kind of… like, I wanted some inspiration, acting-wise. But not my actual favorite movie.”

“Which is?” He segues into a more personal topic. “Is it still Bambi?”

“Oh, it was, for the longest time!” You almost squeal with excitement. “Not anymore, though. It’s been dethroned, ha ha. I think it’s… I’d say it’s maybe Casablanca now.”

“How American.”

“Shut up.” Your face warms. “It’s so romantic. When he says—when he goes, um. We’ll always have Paris. And then, God—when Ilsa goes, I said I would never leave you—and Rick goes, And you never will… isn’t it so classic? Romance movies nowadays are—I, I, I… I get scripts sent to me that are just so bad, and they’re either too idealistic or too pessimistic, or too indie or too commercial, and.” You sigh. “It’s like nobody gets love right anymore.”

“Us Weekly disagrees,” he says weakly, after a period of silence.

“Stop,” you laugh warningly. “And don’t act like you’re not being paired up with different girls, too.”

For a minute you sit with the realization that you’ve both been keeping tabs on each other all these years, even just a little bit. It’s a bit jarring, it’s a bit warm, it’s a lot confusing. You make a move to ask for the bill but Charles is quicker, opens his mouth to implore your presence.

“Come see me tonight.” He says it like he didn’t mean to, like it escaped him on a whim, a blurted out confession born out of your memories and conversation. His voice is dreamy, faraway. “Earth to…?”

“Wh—sorry. Fuck.” You clear your throat and deduce your next words. “Where?”

“I’ll text you. A club, near your hotel.”

“Yeah… yeah, sure.” You hum an affirming noise. 

—

Your name is on the list, though you’re sure it doesn’t matter whether or not it was. No ID is needed, and paps catch a bouncer being dispatched to guide you through the nightclub toward the elevated area with significantly less people. It’s low-lit, smoky, vaguely blue and purple, smelling of flows of alcohol and fresh ice. An Azealia Banks song is playing, pounding through your head.

Tabloids don’t care about nightclubs. They care if you come out drunk or with a smidge of snow under your nose, neither of which have happened to you; entering is fair game, a fun affair, especially in a district like Monte-Carlo. You don’t have any explaining to do, not even to questions like are you clubbing with your professional Vogue collaborator, Charles Leclerc?

The collaborator in question is the first to greet you, getting up and approaching you with a smile so obviously tense. The picture in front of him is like if he’d conjured up a forlorn fantasy of his to life—your hair fell loosely over black lace, a hand pinched around the hem of your dress. “Hey.”

“Hi.”

“So.” He realizes he’s in charge of the socializing, and turns to properly introduce you. “Um, guys, this is my—friend—you already know”—he fusses over your name, which everyone in the world knows, anyway—“and these are my friends. Pierre, Alex, George, Lando, Daniel… you know Joris.” He points to each guy's face as he goes, eliciting a beam every time he gestures.

You wave with a polite smile before you station yourself beside the only one you know: Joris, with whom Charles shares a longtime friendship. He greets you first, with a side hug. “Long time.”

“Yeah, it’s been.” You watch him turn toward the low table, and back around with two shots, offering them to you with haste.

You thank the Lord that he makes quick, dextrous work of it, and before long you’ve downed a glass or three of some strawberry four seasons thing, socializing with the different people around the table. One of them, Lando, talks about your latest film for five whole minutes (“I rated it five stars on Letterboxd. I left a review, if you wanna see”) before he leans close and asks: “Are you his girlfriend?” His is obviously referencing Charles, and you pull back from the proximity to shake your head.

“No,” you holler to emphasize it. “We used to know each other. I grew up here.”

“Oh shit! Native!” He whoops, offering you another glass. This must be your fifth, maybe, fifth G&T or Cosmo or something or other of the night. You take it, drinking as you walk, planning to collect your bag to take with you to the bathroom—another hand takes yours, though, dragging you down the steps. Halfway through, you realize it’s Charles.

“How’s the drink?” He asks, brows straight.

“That’s all you wanted to ask?” You raise your voice above the bass. “Someone needs to teach you fucking… proper small talk.” A laugh involuntarily bubbles past your lips, eyes crinkling. 

He laughs, too, despite himself. “Non, I was—I was just asking. We should—I brought you over here to—so we could…” He realizes he’s been talking too fast without getting to the point and pauses, resetting himself with a pinched sigh. “Dance.”

Your heart pulses. Dance? You hear yourself ask. For wh…Why?

“For the sake of the truce.” His voice is light. “We should try being closer.”

“We were close once,” you say, loose. “Did you forget?”

He’s looking right at you, and you’re warm all over. “How could I?”

It feels too real. Not the words—yes the words—but the alcohol, the alcohol is what you’re referring to, and all those shots and drinks suddenly seem not as harmless as they’d seemed earlier. You scan the periphery for the WC sign and try your best not to look deranged on your way there, offering the same pretty smile to recognizing passersby. Behind you, Charles calls out; but you wave him off, heaving dryly.

The restroom is clean because the nightclub is outrageously expensive; you push yourself into the available stall that’s in your direct path and crumple above it. You heave. Heave some more. Nothing comes. The nausea rises and recedes, so you decide to wait it out.

The bathroom door hauls open, bringing with it a few seconds of noise before it swings heavily onto the frame again, sealing the sterile silence. The momentary return of the bass from the dance floor sends your head spinning all over again and you freeze, willing yourself not to wind up hurling your guts into the toilet. It’s a futile effort, though, because you’re feeling nauseated beyond your limit again, and you need water and maybe a salve or something.

“This stall is open,” somebody says, a chipper American voice that grows in volume as it nears you. A gasp follows, and then: “Oh, my God. Are you okay?”

You turn, your face flushed and lips parted. “I’m so sorry. I just—I’ve been nauseous all night.”

“I have water,” she answers, reaching her arm outward, as if seeking it. “Carmen, the water!” A bottle of Evian is thrust into her hand by another girl (Carmen, you presume), and she doesn’t hesitate to bend next to you to feed it into your mouth. She stares for a second, then goes: “On the off chance I’m lucky, and you’re the famous actress, by the way, I just want to say I’m a huge fan of your work.”

Eyes wide, you lock eyes with her and pull away from the water. “Oh, God. Yeah, that’s me. I’m so sorry—this is so humiliating.”

“It’s not—it’s normal,” she assures, nodding. “We’ve all… y’know, puked into a club toilet before.” From the stall doorframe, Carmen nods. “What’d you drink?”

“Fruity stuff,” you recall, eyebrows knitting at the memory. “And shots.”

They both grimace at the same time, knowing the exact feeling, the exact taste, it seems. “Are you heartbroken or something?” Carmen asks; Lily shoots her a look that can only really mean don’t ask the world-famous actress if she’s heartbroken. But you laugh it off, shaking your head.

“No. There’s a guy, though, and he’s… we’re… it’s a lot. I think I thought alcohol would absorb all of it, but… clearly, it did not.” Your lips simmer into a straight line and you’re quiet for a few moments before remembering you’re on a dingy club floor being supported by two nice girls who are strangers. “Anyway! Sorry. I’m clearly, um, delirious.” You get up on semi-wobbly feet, swallowing the nausea as you go. 

You walk to the sink, and behind your back, the girl and Carmen share a telepathic exchange (should we ask her to elaborate? Yes! Should we really? Fuck, no.) You rinse your mouth out, washing your hands and focusing on your reflection—your tired eyes, your smudged lip gloss, your fussed-up hair. You turn after rinsing, offering a small smile. “Thank you.”

“It’s nothing,” says the first girl, offering her hand and a tube of lip gloss. “I’m Lily, by the way. And just so you know—I’m so sure that guy has nothing on you.” Carmen, beside her, nods in solidarity, and your heart blooms.

Your smile grows as your hand shakes hers, accepting the lip gloss. “You’re too kind. Thank y—” 

“Lil? Baby, are you puking?” Comes a disembodied male voice from the door, ajar ever so slightly. Lily visibly cringes and walks over to the door, pulling it open further. On the other side—the detective of sorts—happens to be Alex, who you’d been introduced to a few hours ago. At the sight of you, his eyes widen with recognition. 

“We’re fine. Leave us alone,” replies Lily in a conspiratorial whisper. “Carmen and I have a new friend.” She doesn’t even need to drop your name; your face alone is enough to make people recognize who you are.

Alex, however, refuses to admit defeat. “Try harder next time.” He pumps his eyebrows. “We were introduced earlier.” He looks up and waves to demonstrate his truth; when you smile back, Lily’s jaw drops as she turns to her boyfriend again, aghast.

“What the hell? How?” A pause. “No offense. It’s like. Two levels of fame, right there.”

He makes a pinched face. “She’s Charles’… friend? I don’t—coworker? Something, something. They were both vague about it. Actually, George and I were talking about it, and we both think something is up. With them.”

“Wait—you might be right.” Her eyes are hyperfocused, and her voice drops to a whisper for a second. “Let’s talk about it at the hotel.”

You and Carmen watch their hushed exchange, and eventually Alex leaves you three alone again with a loud goodbye, which allows Lily to rejoin your conversation. “Sorry,” she says with a smile. “That was my boyfriend, Alex. I didn’t know you two were introduced! He told me you knew Charles?”

“Oh.” Your shoulders relax. “Yeah, um. We knew each other as kids, but I moved away and we kind of—we drifted apart, so. I’m here on a business trip, and he’s just welcoming me.” You try to reduce the decade-long mess into a sentence.

“So you’re friends?”

“Yeah.” You feel like vomiting all over again. 

—

The sky’s a searing blue at noon, silver clouds lining the horizon. Charles has to press a finger to the high point of his cheek to test if he’s sunburned from the heat, and the cameras catch it; he doesn’t doubt the fans will spin that into something cute later. You’re somewhere else on the property, this big, massive thing of a museum that’s crashed into by the waves.

He remembers Andrea first telling him about this whole arrangement. He and the team had deliberately left out any mention of you, like they could predict the immediate veto. He wonders if you knew, or if you, too, had been surprised when seeing him, a ghost of your past looking into your eyes. He wonders if you, too, are now in this endless emotional turmoil. Inside there’s a photoshoot ongoing, with you but also with some models in varying aquatic-related poses to convey the intent of the building; he’s done his share of pictures already, just needs to sit down with you for an interview. 

“And a B-roll of you guys, um, like, walking, like—around?” Greg’s voice invades his head again, the nervous man beside him running through a to-do list like this is boot camp.

You’d left him hanging at the club—he couldn’t blame you though. A truce hardly called for the bringing forth of memories you two are now supposed to have buried beneath you. Memories he buried first. But alcohol had loosened him, and maybe you had, too, your eyes in the vaguely bluish light and your smile.

He wishes to apologize. He makes up some excuse and finds you nursing an Evian by a faraway corner, against a screen of stingrays. Your eyes widen when you see him, in recognition. He waves and then, with a thumb, gestures to the catering outside.

You end up by the water eating one of the caterer’s churros, a recommendation he deems “very special.” (“Have you worked with these caterers before?” “No.”) It’s also his excuse to cheat on his diet and eat a churro or three—chocolate dip included, always. You rave over the taste, smile, enjoy the view. Charles realizes this looks deceivingly like a date, and at the same time realizes he would not stop to correct someone if they assumed so.

“Our truce seems to be working.” You say in-between chews, voice flat but eyes bright.

“It seems so. I owe that to my personality.”

You really laugh at that. “I didn’t know you had one. It’s very fit for someone as unapproachable as I am.”

“Who said that?”

“No, noth—nobody.” You comb a lock of hair behind your ear. “Aw, putain. I’m ruining my lipstick. Pat’s going to kill me. I look awful.” There are no reflective surfaces around you to affirm your statement, but you sound so sure of yourself.

He smiles. He enjoys the illusion, the mask that you two seem to wear, albeit involuntarily. The chocolate syrup he squeezes on your little paper box of churros. The muttered back merci when he’s finished. Your flushed face, eyes darting from the delicacy to the ocean, eyelashes fluttering, lips smiling, curving into a laugh at some random realization. Briefly he imagines what he might tell somebody if they stopped to ask if you were dating.

Some old woman, French accent and short in stature. You two are so cute. Si mignon! And she would ask how you two met. Charles would tell her the story. But that is imagination. He blinks out of it and focuses on the beauty in front of him, so very real.

“No. You are very pretty, you know.” He says then, and it’s taken him all his nerves and then some just to wrangle it out of his mouth and past his lips. Anticipatory, he watches you, waits for your response.

You comb the hair out of your face messily, licking over the cinnamon sugar on your lips; then you smile up at him, turning your head in question. “Sorry,” you laugh, and his heart’s frozen because it’s the prettiest sound he’s ever heard. “What did you say?”

The wind roars in his ears, so Charles barely hears himself when he says, stuttering, “What? Nothing, I said nothing.”

You make a face—confused, suspicious—but all your allegations quell once you bite into another churro, stepping yourself a path along the area. Having blocked off the building, production staff and models are all that populate your surroundings, big headphones and even bigger cameras, rolling around racks of monochrome and Hermés, Birkins to match Loro Pianas. It’s easy to get lost in a crowd—in a city—where everyone looks the same, and knows the other’s name. Perhaps that’s also why, even at fourteen, you were excited to leave, he thinks.

“The coast was always my favorite part about the city.”

He notices. The way your eyes have softened, become more fond than when you’re in the centre of it all, in the bustle. Here it’s busy, but less busy; the distinction, perhaps, matters. Your gaze is not one of distaste, of disdain. It’s nostalgic, homesick, yearning. He supposes he describes this gaze so well because it’s the way he catches himself looking at you over the week. 

“I wanted to…” He trails off. “I wanted to talk to you because, ah. I’m sorry. It was foolish of me to put you on the spot last night. I should’ve been more… yeah. I’m sorry. I hope you’re okay.”

You stare at the sea and nod quietly. Instead of responding, you launch a story: “I always…” You’re clearly lost in a different sphere of thought, and you have to fall quiet while finding the right words to say. “I remember, um. In Year 3, we—I came here with my mum. And I was super mad, because I got, like, three mistakes on my Maths paper?” You laugh and he does, too, but more because your storytelling is so effortlessly enthralling and funny and he needs to shut himself up.

“Anyway.” You pace around again, and he follows. “So, I’m mad, and she’s trying to cheer me up, buys me glace and everything, but no. So I go sit myself on a random bench. It must’ve been around here, I think.” You look around and point at an empty area. “There. But it’s—they must’ve ripped it out. Whatever. So yeah, I’m sitting there, and moping, and all of a sudden All You Need is Love by The Beatles comes blaring into the entire area.”

Charles’ eyebrows knit confusedly. “What, the bench area?”

“No—the whole pier, I guess? Like, it was loud, I almost jumped. And then this guy comes in holding this huge—this, um, board? Sign? Poster? And he’s got half the pier in on his whole thing, and I’m totally… it was just… yeah.” You smile. It’s the biggest smile he’s seen on you since you got here and the fact that he’s even around to see it gets him all warm.

“So what happened?”

“It was a flash mob. You know those—yeah, they’re usually insufferable, but that one was a little calmer. Nobody was, you know, dancing and yelling. It was just a bunch of people cheering and all, and the guy was actually proposing to his girlfriend. It was so cute.” You sigh a little, a brief exhale of air, and it turns into a smile. “I’d love that.”

He raises his eyebrows and, despite himself, laughs. “Vraiment?” 

You turn to him, ready to defend yourself, mid-laugh. “Heeey. Everyone says they find big, romantic gestures cheesy, but I think deep down, if you trust the person enough, you’ll like it. Maybe not a proposal, though—can you imagine the pressure?” You pause. “But I don’t know. There’s something so nice about just knowing that person loves you so much they think it’s worth it to share it to everyone around you. So even if it’s cheesy, I wouldn’t mind much. You?”

“It’s cheesy for me,” he disagrees, shrugging. “But I see your point.” Truth be told, he didn’t see you as a romantic type—but all he’s ever seen you do lately is work, and even back in childhood, all you ever did was study. He likes learning these little facts, ones you wouldn’t share in interviews—likes knowing you feel comfortable enough to share with him. “Dancing is a bit overboard.”

“Oh, definitely.” You throw your head back to laugh, eyes half-shut and crinkled and reflecting the sun. Would you look the same if he was dancing to The Beatles, proclaiming all the words he hasn’t had the courage to say?

—

Next question is who your first love was—we’re rolling in three…

“First love?” You laughed a little, facing the camera to continue your Screen Test interview with W. The questions had been candid and lovely, but they were about your career, which you answered with familiar ease. First love is different—uncharted, private territory. But you’d realized all this too late, and the director called go, and you let words spill out of you like a bag popped open.

“I want to be funny and witty and say acting, but that would be a lie. Um, my first love was a childhood friend. We lived near each other, our parents were friends, and I… I really did, I liked him a lot. But these—there were so many factors at tension with each other, like me moving away in 2013—that’s, what, six years ago now? And us being young and not really knowing how to communicate. When you’re a teenager, you’re kind of just like, oh, no worries, um, that’ll sort itself out, and then you grow up and look back and realize, these things never do. But I miss him a, a, a… a lot, and I think of him always.” Your smile didn’t reach your eyes when you looked at the camera again. “We learn a lot from childhood loves.”

Cut. Lovely. Just lovely.

“Thank you, Lynn,” you said with a small smile. A pause as silence creeps up onto the room, and then, quieter: “Could we omit that? I—sorry. I could answer anything else. First kiss, or something? I’m sorry, I just. Sorry.” For the first time in five years, you realize, you’ve conjured his memory again.

—

“Okay. What else do you remember?”

“I… do you remember the recital song?”

“Of course I do! The dance is… that’s a different story.” You’d been at Charles’ hotel room earlier to go over some video shoot regulations for a 24 Hours With video you’re doing in a few days. You stayed because—that’s beyond you at this point, and you’d rather not delve into the rationality of it all. You’re content with thinking about how nice this conversation is, a trip down memory lane.

“The dance, mon dieu, the dance.” He smothers a hand over his face, smiles fondly. “You were at the center!”

“Stop. Stop,” you protest, letting laughter settle into quiet. “It’s crazy, you know? How we… like, we share a life. Not—but like, we had a whole childhood together.” 

“And nobody knows.” It’s not something you keep a secret on purpose—it’s just that neither of you feel like name-dropping the other. Some stories have surfaced, but none of you have fully commented. Somehow, that’s a good thing for you.

“Do people ask?”

“People ask, yes.” His accent is a reminder of your past—you’d once had the same thick wraparound, the loose reign over English you’ve now grown to master. Now your accent is a lot thinner, to the point where it’s barely perceptible, and if it is, your coworkers and fans call it cute, chic, use it as a jumping off point to ask where you grew up. But in this hotel room, legs folded underneath you and glass of wine in hand, you have no coworkers or fans, it feels like; no one to perceive you but Charles. Charles and his accent, nostalgic and so very his, which you wouldn’t describe as anything but home.

“What do you tell them, then?” Quickly, you add: “The truth, or…?”

“That we knew each other as kids,” he says, smiling absently. “That is the truth, no?”

You cover a smile with the rim of your wine glass, nodding. There’s no revisionist history in that statement, but it hides a lot of the truth, the nitty gritty of it. You know it, he knows it, you both know it. “What would you want me to say?” His voice is soft and thin and imploring, so different from the boisterous voice he uses in public, from the slurred voice you heard in the club. This sounds real. This sounds like a conversation you would’ve had years ago in your childhood bedroom before everything went—

“Nothing, that’s fine.” You cut your own reverie off, clearing your throat. You even laugh, to alleviate the tension, but he sees right through you so many years later. “Unless you’re privy to telling people how we didn’t talk for months before I left.”

He blinks, smothers a palm over his face again, and sighs, eyes meeting yours. “I’m sorry. I don’t—I… I’ve wanted to bring it up.”

“I’m not mad.” It’s a half-lie. “Okay, no—I am, a bit. It just—it would’ve been nice to hear it two weeks ago.”

“I know.” He doesn’t even need to say it, but him saying it sends a low thrum of reassurance in you. Charles has found, in the two weeks of being in your company, that he accomplishes a sense of self—a sense of quiet, a sense of privacy—when he’s alone with you. Perhaps it’s your natural ability to bring out the best in people, to talk and loosen tongues and make everyone around you feel safe. Or, and this is on a likely front, maybe he misses being one of those people. 

He pretends he’s back to last week after another club rendezvous left you tipsier than the first time, dropping you off at your hotel room with two hands taut at your shoulders, one pinching a keycard. You’d been muttering something under your breath, stumbling as you went—you weren’t tripping too much, really; he didn’t need to hold you, but he told himself he had to—and leaning against the doorframe of your room, staring at him blankly. When he met your eyes, you said: maybe, just maybe. Just those three words. If he tries to remember right, you’d been smiling, but he was sufficiently tipsy, too, so he could just as well be wrong.

He does remember a few things right. The eyeliner smudged across your lower eye, lipstick smacked to a point where it looked like you wore none, beads of salt by your lip, your hand wrapped around your necklace. 

The silence is anything but awkward; still, he resolves to break it. “When you were drunk last week.” He looks up. “You said—you kept saying, maybe, just maybe.”

A laugh escapes you, stilted and a bit nervous. “Oh. That was—yeah, okay.”

“What’s it mean?”

“You seriously don’t remember?” You’re laughing for real now, your hair bobbing with it, eyebrows furrowed to emphasize your confusion. “Oh, my God. Charles, it’s all you ever said in Year… what, 7? I don’t… anyway. But when we were maybe twelve, I…”

Momentarily, you’re stunned by the memories of him—you’d forgotten they were even there. You press a few fingers to your lips and clear your throat. “Sorry. Yeah, I, um—I think you heard it in a movie or read it somewhere, and for ages it was your favorite saying. Maybe, just maybe.”

“I don’t underst—”

“—You were always just saying it,” you cut in, laughing, your voices layering as you discuss the origin of his former favorite term. “No, you really—”

“I don’t—I do not ever remember say—”

“—Well,” you say,  “I remember.” He stays silent for a few seconds, the intensity of your stare and the little smile on your face and everything beating down on him. For a split second he thinks of opening his mouth and getting on his knees and telling you everything, all the apologies, all the things unsaid in the months and years you became strangers. He seriously does. The pressure is almost physical, beyond overwhelming.

“I have to go.” You swallow the lump in your throat, disentangle your legs and clamber off the couch, setting the empty glass on his coffee table. “Good?”

“Yeah,” he says, blinking. “Yeah. Take care. Should I drive you?”

“God, no.” You laugh breathily. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

He closes the door after you leave, stares at it, as if that will conjure you back to him. It occurs to him, jolts him almost, that he’d almost let slip a quiet utterance of love you as you slipped out. His stomach boils. With thankfulness over not having said it, he wonders—or with regret?

—

“Best friends now, are you?” Lily, Carmen, and Rachel look up to the sound of your voice, their serious faces breaking out into smiles. If you could chart the time you spent here, there are definitely people you’ve spent the most time with—these three are at the top of the list. You hang your coat and drop your Chanel bag on the entryway seat, already picking up on the British noises of Love Island UK from the telly.

“Wait, so she’s hooking up with him?” Lily asks, confused; her train of thought is cut off by your flopping onto the bed. “Hiiii. Where’ve you been?”

Muffled by the bedspread: Charles’ place.

Silence. The television switches off and you hear the precarious preparation of three girls readying themselves for a debrief-or-sobfest of a lifetime, a noise you’ve heard and partaken in countless times over your life. You suddenly feel too watched, too spectated; you break the quiet by looking up, displaying your tear-streaked face.

“Talk to us,” Rachel encourages, her voice raspy with unuse (Love Island will keep one occupied and quiet for hours on end). Three of them are touching you in some way or other, reassuring grips on your hair or shoulders. “Did you two fight?”

And, oh Christ, fight? It’s not like you’re dating. You aren’t even halfway to that (not that you want to be, but that’s a discussion for another time). The idea of a fight with him is so terribly juvenile, so horribly reminiscent of secondary school and Monaco and being together and being friends. You can’t fight with a guy who’s not your boyfriend. You can’t fight with a guy you’re not close to, for Chrissake. You squeeze your tears out of your eyes and breathe hiccups out.

“Do you want gelato?” No, no.

“Love Island?” In a minute.

The truth is, you want both, but you really just want to sort everything out with Charles. It was no use—hating each other was futile, but pretending everything was fine in some pathetic attempt at a “truce” seemed even worse. You just want to talk everything out, even if it excavates feelings you’d once been able to suppress.

“What kind of crush doesn’t disappear after ten years?” You ask through tears. It’s almost funny, but the question comes straight from the heart. “I’ve dated guys, lived across the world, started a whole new life pretending he never—pretending we were—fuck. Pretending he didn’t exist. It was—I’m not lying, it was easy, pretending. But one glimpse—I see him one time and suddenly it feels like all of it was in vain. It’s the same crush I had before, coming back, like it’s never going to leave me alone.”

“Maybe it’s not a crush,” says Lily, slowly.

“So what is it then?” You ask, hopelessly. What is this—this revival of memories? This little feeling, this sense that no matter where he is or what he’s doing, you’ll be just as in tune when you reunite even if it takes a decade? A decade spurred by months of being given the cold shoulder? What kind of magic is that?

She doesn’t answer, because you already know.

—

“Hey Vogue—I’m here with Charles Leclerc, and we’re here to take you along with us on all our little adventures here in Monaco.” Your smile is rehearsed, the perfectly-orchestrated blend of fun and serious, and when the cameraman calls cut, it falls into a more natural resting face. It’s the one Charles turns to and observes for any signs of a grudge.

The day is busy, which is precisely why it was chosen as the film day: three shows in the morning, press junkets for your movie and Charles’ season in the afternoon, and then a gala in the evening, hosted and attended by Anna Wintour herself.

The day’s business is only trumped by its tension, which reaches its crescendo in the janitor’s closet of the fourth floor of your hotel. It’d begun with a fight over the color palette, then a fight over last conversation you shared, then a fight over him fucking up the color palette, and then kissing against the door. Ironically enough, this floor houses a fair number of honeymoon suites.

It’s ironic beause hardly anything about this is or should be romantic—it’s a temporary fix, a pause from the turmoil, his hand squeezing your thigh. He’s gentle but you feel his possessiveness, lingering longer, higher and higher up until he’s playing with the high hem of your skirt. You knot your fingers in his hair, smell the shampoo and hairspray and cologne in the wispy curls there.

He kisses your jaw, then downward, until he’s licking, nipping at your throat. Charles.

“Yeah?” His voice is rough against your pulse point.

“Make it—we gotta—quicker.” Your hands tremble, heart hammering loud and bold in your chest. His voice is sure, gravelly, quiet, and you have to focus on something—so you centre on his hands, up your thighs and slipping under the lace of your skirt, bunching the fabric up around your hips. His hands, big and calloused, fingers resting on your hipbones, on your ass.

He’s hard against your thigh, straining against his jeans. You could cry. “I want more.”

“I know, baby. I know.” The pet name, so new but so natural, sends you into a dopamine rush.

You squirm when he doesn’t let up on his touches, over every inch of your body, groping you. He wants to take his time—he hates that he can’t—and counts on the possibility of a next time. You pull him in for a spit-slick kiss, needy and whimpering, sloppy and tongues knotted. It feels good—fuck, it feels like this was all you were ever made for, his touch. 

You buck your hips into the air desperately. “We really—fuck. We don’t have time.” Cameras, a shoot, a video; reminders ring in your head like alarm bells. He nods, goes I know, and you pick up the strain in his voice as he tugs his jeans down just enough to rub his clothed cock under your entrance, hard and drooling through the fabric.

You moan softly. “Please, I can take it,” you breathe. You’ve never been this wet, this worked up, this teased. You need to feel him, be full of him; he presses you flush against the door with a hand at the small of your back to keep it from aching too much, and drops forward as he pushes into you. Your noses brush and he goes deeper, air thick and muffled with little moans and whimpers.

His mouth is against your jaw, thrusting slowly to get you used to the size of him. The angle gets you dizzy, draws a burst of wetness out and gets you clenching around him. You’re flushed and sweaty, moaning. Feels s’good. So good, Charles, so, so good. He fucks harder, the door rattling, dirty talk cooed from his lips to your ear: Yeah? Feels real good? You’re so good for me, baby, come on.

Your needy voice, needier movements, are driving him crazy, getting him to fuck you harder, licking over his lips as he watches you fall apart on his dick. Relax, he slurs. You squeeze around him and moan, wretched and raw. Oh fuck, fuck, fuck. You’re so big. You’re getting his dick wetter and wetter with every thrust, shiny and drooling with cum.

Yeah? He says it so well, the best kind of reassurance. Come on, we don’t have time, baby. Let me feel you cum.

I know— you whine. I’m cumming—it feels too good—

You cum first, thighs shaky around him and lip curling into your teeth. You lean forward, mouth to his shoulder, and bite at the cotton. Fuck, he grunts, and releases then, a groan spilled into your hair. You watch, laughing breathlessly, and feel the world click into something different. 

You two will do anything, apparently, but talk this all through.

—

The gala is big and extravagant and you’re seated not with Charles this time, but with a roster of celebrities straight out of an LAX red-eye. Anna is at the table adjacent, andy you were able to talk to her about the experience, though not without leaving out bits with Charles in them.

You’re beside Florence and she’s talking about something, about a new movie she’s working on, and you chip in with jokes and laughs but your smile doesn’t really reach your eyes. You’re still caught in a web of fragile confusion. “I need to excuse myself for a moment,” you say after a while, after you’ve done nothing but smile and push broccoli puree around on your plate.

Consolation comes with isolation, at least tonight, at least right now. You find an empty balcony on the third floor, stare into the black sea. You try and try to remember what life was like three weeks ago, but it’s irrevocable now, the change that’s come since then. You tap the glass of your beer bottle against the marble banister, solid and probably expensive—a match for the rest of the hotel, you realize. It’s starkingly clean and smooth, and white, the kind of things you’d only say about a marble banister when you’re trying to avoid an adult introspection.

Behind you: “Are you okay?” 

In response, you say, “We shouldn’t have had sex.”

Charles settles himself into a spot near you, not totally beside but not too far—he, too, holds onto a bottle of beer. There are fancier drinks around, but somehow the dry taste of ale is all that brings you comfort right now. Your gears turn and, without prompt or question, you spill yourself forth.

“It was hard, when you didn’t… when we didn’t talk, and you didn’t ever tell me why, so I didn’t know anything. I keep remembering it, even now, what—ten years later, ha ha, even after… I don’t know, after the fact. We’re supposed to have moved on from shit that happened to us when we were fifteen but I’m finding it to be the hardest thing in the world. It was so… like, I had no trouble saying goodbye to anything else but you. And I’m famous now, my life is a whole thing, a—this whole party, and I’m supposed to… fuck.” You shut your eyes, and you can feel, through the thick fog of embarrassment and delirium, the tears that stain your cheeks. “It’s like. You know when you’re a teenager and you see all of it in movies and TV, this, like, moment where you’re staring at someone from across a room, and you’re smiling and talking to other people and you’re happy because you know in a few hours, you’ll be with that person anyway? At home, rearranging furniture, feeding the dog, eating leftovers? That… I always thought you’d be that person for me. Maybe because you were the only—you know—the only love I ever knew, and now, what. Four? Boyfriends and ten years later, you might expect me to feel differently—hell I expect myself to feel differently, but, unfortunately for you and me, I don’t. Sorry. I’m not—I’m not drunk, or anything.”

He stares at you, his expression soft and unreadable. It feels like it’s just the two of you in the world today, twenty-somethings, ten years later, unearthing all you left buried. “I…” he says, before pausing. “I’m sorry for leaving.”

You nod in response. 

“I always thought you would forgive me.” His face is sullen and handsome and your heart seizes. “I wanted to be your person.”

“How could I forgive you without an apology?” Your voice comes out fragile. “I leave in three days. You’ve fu—you’ve… you’ve kissed me, had sex with me, flirted with me. You’ve done everything but that.”

“I did apologize. I don’t think it was enough, but—”

“But you didn’t,” you reply, a jagged response. “You never said anything.”

“I wrote you.” His eyebrows knit. “I wrote you.” 

“You wrote me.” You repeat, deadpan. Your head spins with it. “What, a letter?”

“An e-mail. Before your first film came out—2014? A year after you… yeah.” He’s quiet and timid and nervous. “I forced Gi to tell me your address.”

“I didn’t… I wasn’t using that e-mail anymore. I haven’t in years.” You pinch your nose and let the silence settle like fine dust onto the room, an unspoken bomb that explodes over the both of you, raining regret and unsaid words. “I have to go.” You push yourself off the banister, turning already to the doors of the balcony. He stops you before you can step any further, a hand closed over your wrist, rough and warm.

“If you find the message,” he says, “will you read it?”

“I don’t plan to,” you lie. “Goodnight.”

—

From: Charles Perceval Leclerc <cmhpleclerc@gmail.com>

Date: 14 October 2014

To: You

Subject: Urgent!

hey buttercup, I asked Giada for this email address. my bday in 2 days. Will you be home for Xmas this year btw? ill show you some new places that open ed + we can bike around. mum misses u a lot too. parfois je souhaite que tu ne partes pas… not sometimes but always. i think i need to edit this a little let me try ag

From: Charles Perceval Leclerc <cmhpleclerc@gmail.com>

Date: 14 October 2014

To: You

Subject: Buttercup

j’appellerais mais je ne pense pas que tu veuilles répondre. it’s been more than a year since you moved out, in two days i’ll be celebrating my second birthday w/o you. i’ve been karting a lot, things are looking up, just like we always said they would :) just want to say i miss you a lot, and i hope you’re doing good. i would say i hate radio silence but i know it’s my fault all this happened in the first place. i’m sorry i stopped talking to you last year when you were moving away. i was being childish, but the truth is it was the only way i could handle it - by pretending we werent friends at all… i don’t want to make you pity me or anything (ne pense pas que je suis) but yeah you’re my best friend and you always will be. i’m sorry for being a knot head.

i was always scared to tell you but it’s been there since forever: i love you. i should’ve enjoyed your months here instead of leaving you in the air. i know i ignored you but it’s the 1 thing i regret. should’ve done a lot more, i know.. but i didn’t. we have a lot of promises i broke because i was being selfish. i kept the paper ring to remind me. remember that? we had a “playground wedding” when we were 5/6?

tu ne me dois rien - i just want you to give me a chance to make you happy, even if it’s just in the way we’ve always been (as friends). if you write me back i’ll try and fly there. mum is always asking me if we’ve talked yet. if not, that’s ok. i love you all the same and i will love you as you reach your dreams. this will never change. 

charles

p.s: est-ce que je te manque?

p.p.s: call me if you can and wish me a happy birthday?

—

“Rachel, I would sooner die than wait another two hours for the tarmac to clear again.” You try to up the firmness in your voice but it fails, only serving to make you sound less angry and more agitated. When all you get in response is a muffled I’m coming! you grumble and hang up the phone. Your plane was delayed all of three times, and the instant it arrives and is scheduled to take off on time, your friendsistant is nowhere to be found.

Lily and Carmen had thrown you a goodbye party the night prior, with sprinklers and music and cocktails, and promised to be on the next flight to L.A. Vogue and David had emailed you for a job done spectacularly, and to watch out for the videos and interviews’ release dates. Twitter is raving about your movie. Everything should be good, and yet, it’s not.

You check your inbox. IM COMJNG LILTIERALLY IM RUNNING THRU AJRPPRT!!!!!! You scoff again, hoping the plane doesn’t somehow take off for the fourth time, and take a seat on the VIP waiting area sofa again, shaking your now-empty chai latte. The room, sectioned off from economy and business, is fairly full.

A woman paces over to you, a bright grin on her face. “Hi. I’m a huge fan.”

“Thank you,” you smile, despite your tiredness.

“This is so embarrassing—but do you happen to have the time?”

“Sure”—you tap your phone open—“half past four.”

“Great,” she says. “Thanks, Buttercup.”

You’re opening your mouth to say you’re welcome, but it catches like cotton in your throat. You watch her depart like nothing happened, a strange feeling settling in your chest. You have barely any time to answer it, because a flight attendant is tapping you on the shoulder, addressing you by name, thankfully. She maintains a tone of professionalism all throughout her announcement that the aircraft under your name will have to evacuate the runway in ten minutes or less.

“I know, I know—I’m just, um. I’m waiting for somebody. She should be near now, though.”

“Tremendous. Merci, Buttercup.”

“Wh—” You stutter, blinking and watching her leave. “What?”

She doesn’t turn, walking to the kiosk to exchange information with her coworkers. You look around the airport, for a camera hidden somewhere maybe. Perhaps you’ve been unknowingly listed in some Impractical Jokers skit.

Rach hurry you text instead, leaning back and hoping you’re in some grandiose delusion. Your phone dings. Omw promise! It reads. Then: Look up buttercup

Your head snaps upward faster than you can register what you’ve just read, matching the opening notes of a song you’ve grown all too familiar with in your lifetime. The opening beat to Build Me Up, Buttercup flows like honey through the room’s intercom and floods it with life.

Mouth agape, you watch as the staff and guests perform the routine you’d learned at fourteen, complete with hops and turns you were too embarrassed to do even then. They’re smiling and whooping themselves and each other as they go, finishing the entire first verse before turning collectively to the entrance of the room. There, in all his glory: Charles, wearing an entirely too-small headdress that reads Buttercup, worn dusty from years of being stored away.

He’s dancing, too, closer to you. You refuse to budge for the express purpose that he dance some more, which he complies with, though not without an eyeroll and an exasperated sigh. Your heart beats with something irregular and warm. You’d told him about this before. He’d listened.

The music settles for a little and the dancers do, too, so he takes the time to raise his sign. Will you forgive me? It reads. No pressure. Except kind of. You laugh, throwing your head back at the gesture, at this entire affair that must have taken some amount of effort to prepare. As the lyric comes on, so does his sign: I need you… more than anyone, darling.

He drops the sign when you approach him, arms crossed over your torso. He removed the headdress and places it gingerly on yours. “I believe that belongs to you.”

And, hyperaware of all the eyes and yet the complete lack of cameras—you’re grateful for it—you finally, finally, finally pull him in for a kiss. You’ve kissed before, done your worst, but still means volumes to the both of you.

In-between kisses and cheers (from voices belonging to Lorenzo, Rachel, Lily—so many familiar ones), he says it again: “I’m sorry. I’ll make it all up to you.”

“You better,” you tease into his lips, smiling. “I know. I love you.” Ten years later—your person still is, and no doubt will always be, Charles Leclerc.

[cat3ch1sm]

hii i think this is my first time requesting from you so hopefully I do it right..

can you do sfw headcannons of Hisoka, illumi, and Kurapika with an s/o who has a terrifying nen aura? like stronger and more menacing then theirs? and can you do gender neutral reader? thanks :]

🕷️~ hello!! welcome to my inbox 💚 thanks for your request! if you’re ever wondering what info to put in a request just view the pinned post on my profile! tyy <33

(:̲̅:̲̅:̲̅[̲̅:♡:]̲̅:̲̅:̲̅:̲̅) gn!reader, sfw

𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐤𝐚, 𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐮𝐦𝐢, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐤𝐮𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐢𝐤𝐚 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚𝐧 𝐬/𝐨 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐟𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐧𝐞𝐧 𝐚𝐮𝐫𝐚

hisoka

hisoka isn’t usually fazed by anyone’s aura because his own is so overpowering. his aura is just so eerie and unsettling that he never needs to pay any mind to anyone else’s because he’s usually the one people stay away from. but when you enter the picture, that all changes. the second you even enter a building every person in there is instantly weighed down by the darkness and menace of your aura, including hisoka, and he can’t help but feel fearful because that is simply the only emotion your aura allows anyone around it to feel. but fear doesn’t affect hisoka like it does other people. rather, he’s intrigued.

hisoka obviously has a thing for people who can kill him, so he likes to be around you just for the twisted euphoria he experiences of being actually genuinely scared. he knows that if you wanted to or he made one wrong move, that you could kill him in a second, and that fills him with an uncanny amount of pleasure. as a matter of fact, he’ll regularly push your boundaries just to feel the rush when your aura spikes. it’s like his favorite thing to do

illumi

okay let me just say you’ve gotta be pretty goddamn scary to overshadow an aura like illumi’s. even when he’s not trying he’s still scary as shit 🙏🏾

illumi isn’t someone who normally feels things like fear, anxiety, anything along those lines. but when he first encounters you, he can’t deny the overpowering sense of dread he’s filled with when he’s even near you. it’s not like he’s legitimately scared of you or anything, but it’s more like trepidation is literally forced into him. like he has no choice but to fear your aura. this is a brand-new thing to him, too- not even the phantom troupe or anyone in his family has such an awful presence. and to be honest, illumi doesn’t like having the tables turned on him- he’s usually the one people run away from and go out of their way to avoid.

i imagine he’d watch you from a distance for a while- either by having needle people go keep tabs on you or by constructing some other nen tactic so he can observe you. the dread that comes with being too close to you and that horrible aura is too much for him to handle for now, especially since like i said it’s a new feeling. i think only after illumi has watched you long enough to discover a weakness that he’s able to exploit would he go and approach you, so if you try and pull something illumi can have a better chance at taking you out.

illumi’s next thought, though, is to make an ally out of you- and what better way to do that than have you literally join his family? that’s what causes him to seek you out in a “romantic” way- his goal is literally immediately just to marry you so you become a zoldyck and can’t turn against him.

i feel like during the relationship illumi might be a bit distant for the reasons i listed earlier. also illumi just isn’t a clingy or affectionate person. with how powerful your nen is and the hostile nature of your aura illumi isn’t inclined to be near you often. basically you both just do your own thing, but illumi does keep tabs on you and still doesn’t let you see other people. not that anybody wants to because you’re scary but still😭

kurapika

realistically, i doubt kurapika would be with anyone whose aura is this horrible. it reminds him way too much of the spiders. and in his mind, nobody with an aura as ghastly as yours can mean anything good for anyone. plus, kurapika has destructive tendencies of his own, so having someone even worse than him around would not benefit him at all. so i think he’d want to stay far away from you, and would be protective of those around him when you’re near.

but because these are headcanons and we are supposed to be delusional, let’s say that kurapika isn’t immediately deterred by your nightmarish aura. his mind goes a similar route to illumi’s, so Kurapika is going to want to get you on his side for sure. he isn’t someone who approaches people that much, so he devises a situation in which you both can be alone so he can try and develop some sort of bond which you can build on.

usually Kurapika would be more protective than not of people he’s in a relationship with, but not with you. he kind of keeps his distance, actually. if you want to do something dangerous or deadly he just steps back and lets you. he doesn’t feel the need to protect you at all, more so like protecting other people from you lmao 😭

these were mid asf but it’s 2 am 💔 i hope u enjoyed <33

[sc0tters]

Toxic | Jack Hughes

summary: jack isn’t good for you so why is it that you still want him?

request: yes/no

warnings: sexual themes, p in v, fingering, swearing.

word count: 4.88k

authors note: I’m gonna start with the warning that this was written in eight hours because I saw that Jack is back from his injury and I wanted to write for him! Low-key though Trevor has some competition for my favourites to write about in a toxic manner! There are a lot of flashbacks in this so those are regular italics!

If the phrase off limits had a picture next to it, for Jack it would have been of you.

You had been in his life since you were four when Luke threw a football right in your direction and ended up hitting your nose. Of course you fell to the road and somehow sitting in his family’s living room as you and Luke were both in tears ended up being the moment that set you two on the course to being best friends.

Jack spent the next thirteen years getting to know you as Luke’s friend. No matter how hard he tried he couldn’t hate you, the boys all got on with you. Hell Trevor definitely tried his luck at making a move on you and with each time that he failed it only became the laughter of his teammates and friends. Jack had grown so comfortable with you that even as your boobs came in and your skin became clear that he cursed himself for letting those thoughts come into his head of you in the end of the night. When there was nothing in his room besides for his hand and the memories of how good you looked in the little bikinis you brought to the lake house each year.

He thought he could get by just having to see you during the summers but of course you just had to end up doing a graphic design course in New Jersey and with the unruly dorm fees. You were also in need of a roommate and as luck seemed to have it, Jack had a spare room which your moms came together swearing it had to be yours.

The first few weeks were smooth sailing, you were out studying most nights which meant that you never had to be home for the various girls that he had over. That was until November came around and as Jersey grew colder you found yourself staying home more often than not. Girls didn’t enjoy seeing you of all people sat on the couch curled up in a blanket until Jack would just say “she’s just my roommate.”

The first few times you heard it you were fine. All you were ever meant to be to a guy like Jack was his brothers friend. Yet somehow you began to find yourself growing frustrated at the sound of moans echoing through the apartment as his headboard hit the wall of his room. At first you swore you were more so annoyed with yourself and the fact that you really thought that you could have had something with him.

Because yes, you accepted the offer in New Jersey over Michigan because you thought that it could make things change between you two. But by the time February came around you realised you were sexually frustrated too. That’s how you and Jack ended up in what seemed like a constant pissing match after he came home early from a road trip to hear you in your room.

Jack let his back drop to the floor quietly as he thought you would have been sleeping “right there please!” Your moans made him freeze as he saw the light in your room still on beneath the crack of your closed door “gonna make me come Jacky.” Jack smirked to himself as his cock began to harden “you like that pretty girl?” Jackson, otherwise known as Jacky and the captain of your colleges hockey team ended up giving you a ride home from the game that night.

The Hughes boy swore in that moment that he never knew of something having the power to break a man’s hard-on as quickly as that did “that roommate of yours ain’t home so you can be as loud as you want.” The blonde in front of you let out a grunt and if your moans weren’t encouraging him to increase his tempo he would have heard the noise of Jack slamming his door shut as he now needed a cold shower.

Of course the two Jack boys had to meet the next morning and Jackson turned into a fanboy which only seemed to frustrate you more. Jack wasn’t meant to enjoy this, but his smirk as he’d listen to whatever guy you brought home confess to how much of a fan they were told you otherwise. To make matters worse Jack was still bringing these girls home and you truthfully thought that after four months of having to listen to it you were finally getting a break.

That summer before you came into your sophomore year you came up with your plan as you were still living with Jack. Numerous different options seemed to come up in your mind as you spent your time at the lake house. Yet as the nights spent by the fire were fuelled by lingering glances over the burning embers, you knew what you were going to do.

The first time you got the chance to enact your plan was actually in November. It was shortly after your birthday and as Jack was still single, you were his date to all team events.

The boy had been waiting for what felt like years as he scrolled through his phone “we’re going to be late y/n!” He groaned looking up to still not see your door open “well I’m sorry that when you want to look this good it takes time Hughesy.” You teased clipping your hoops into place as you opened your door to see his unamused face.

Jack didn’t need to say anything because his facial expressions did it all for you “okay what’s wrong?” You crouched down to do up your heels around your ankles “you need to go change.” Jack grumbled as he shook his head, staring at how your body looked with the tight white strappy top that had been paired with your black floor length skirt that had a slit up over your knee.

It made you roll your eyes “relax I’m wearing a jacket.” You grumbled grabbing your leather jacket from off of the couch “so are you coming or do you want to be even later?” As the boy stayed stuck to the couch he let his eyes travel to your face.

The car ride had been long as it let your nerves increase. Jack wasn’t shy about letting his eyes undress you in the car “you dressing up for anyone?” His question came out as he let his lack of a filter get the best of him “just f’me.” You shook your head watching him park the car.

Just like always he came to your door and helped you out “you jealous?” You teased not missing how his grip tightened around your waist at your words “of one of those little hockey fans you love sleeping with?” Jack laughed as he shook his head.

Your cheeks reddened as you two walked into the venue “you need some better guys than that to get me worried.” He kissed your temple capturing the attention of Dawson who had you pushing Jacks arm off of your waist “where are you going?” The middle Hughes boy felt his eyes go wide seeing the smile form on your lips.

The fellow center began walking over to you both “thought you didn’t care about the guys I get with.” Jack swore you were trying to kill him as you went to hug Dawson “Jack letting your girl get the night off?” Jesper teased pulling the American into a hug as he was already drunk.

It made Jack scowl as he watched you get pulled away by Dawson who was already motioning over the bartender so he could order you a drink “she’s not my girl.” Jack clenched his hands into fists as he shook his head “so Merc really can make a move on her.” The Swede didn’t notice how the younger boy rolled his eyes.

Two painfully long hours had to go by and as Jack got up leaving his older teammates you couldn’t help but follow him “I’ll be right back okay.” You squeezed Dawsons hand as you sent him a smile.

You were like a needy puppy as you practically ran out of the room. Without Jack in sight you went in the direction of the bathroom where you thought he was. The bathrooms were organised by three different doors: family, female, male. So as you thought you’d be going to the last one you let out a yelp as you were pulled through the first door.

The wall that met your back was cold as the door behind you locked “finally grew tired of your new fucking boyfriend huh?” Jack grumbled keeping his hands on gone sides to keep you trapped in “thought you didn’t.” Your voice turned breathy when his lips hovered over yours.

His smirk made your thighs push together until his knee forced itself between your legs “nuh uh princess.” He clicked his tongue as he shook his head “thought I didn’t want?” Jack waited for you to continue talking before he moved.

If you were a cartoon smoke would have been coming out of your ears as your brain practically short circuited “thought you weren’t interested in who I went for.” You stammered over your words as you gasped “think you need to get your eyes tested then sweetheart.” The hockey player clicked his tongue letting his lips nip at your neck.

You whimpered as your hands pressed against the his shirt “because I’m fucking obsessed with you.” You couldn’t help but laugh as you heard him say that “so those girls were all just for your own amusement or some shit?” You scoffed as you shook your head.

If Jack was anyone else they might have fallen for this strong act “so you enjoy listening to how good I made them feel?” He kissed the shell of your ear as his ego was soaring seeing how responsive you were being “don’t be shy baby, I can feel how wet your pants are.” Your head snapped down to see how your were unintentionally grinding on his knee.

Your cheeks were painfully warm as he looked at you “I’ll tell a secret first.” Jack took your silent as he continued to talk “when you bring guys over I picture it’s me getting you off.” It wasn’t a total lie, in fact Jack would actually use the time to listen to your moans as he’d wrap his hands around his cock thinking it was you.

Jack continued to kiss your neck as he let his lips move to your jaw “like thinking it’s you holding my vibrator.” You confessed making Jack smirk “do I let you come?” the question came far too boldly for your comfort.

Your mind thought about the moments that you’d edge yourself all night “n-never.” You shook your head making him smile as he ran his finger down the center of your shirt traveling to the valley between your breasts “think I should change that then.” When his proposal was met with your moans he finally kissed your lips.

The kiss was hot practically sucking the air from the room as his hands tugged at your hair. He couldn’t help but grin into the kiss as your nails raked at his lower torso “when you think it’s me princess what am I doing?” He ran his thumb over your lower lip “you use your.” You looked down to the trailing digit in front of your skin.

Jack taunted you as it made your skin grow wet with sweat “my knee or?” Jack trailed off as you shook your head “think about your fingers.” His cock was close to ripping the seams of his boxers “what am I doing with them?” The hockey player ran his finger over your clit as he teased your clit over your panties.

It became clear that you were going to have to guide him through all of this “fucking me real good.” You nodded biting your lip as you felt him begin moving your panties to the side “like against this door?” Your eyes screwed shut as you felt his fingers thrust into your cunt “you really are a dirty little slut.” Jack taunted feeling your wall hug his fingers.

His lips locked with yours as his fingers settle in a consistent pace “this how it feels?” The middle brother asked propping his other hand up on the other side of your shoulder “better.” You nodded pursing your lips together as you wanted to kiss him again.

The squelching noises made your eyes flutter “you wanted another finger?” The offer made you moan “more?” You pleaded feeing your thighs begin to give out “gonna give you all that you want.” Jack nodded letting his lips suck at your jaw sure to leave a mark tomorrow.

His hand lay flat with the addition of the third finger hitting your clit “you’re gonna make me-” you groaned letting your head drop in front of you “you wanted to come princess then you’re gonna have to fucking beg.” His words threw you off guard as you weren’t in the space to argue with him.

Your breasts throbbed against your bra “please Jack.” You whimpered as tears formed in your eyes “‘m done with all those other guys for you.” Your offers were things far too great for Jack to ever care about “I’m yours.” That was the thing, he didn’t care that you were his, especially when he wasn’t yours.

Jack ran his tongue over your lips as he kissed you once more “let go baby.” He announced muffling his words as he swallowed your moans as your cunt clenched around his fingers almost trapping his movements in that moment.

The room seemed to slow down as your breathing regulated itself “wow.” You huffed feeling him pull his fingers from your pussy “taste yourself f’me doll.” The boy tapped his fingers on your lips before you took them swirling your tongue around his thick digits.

The relationship that you two had formed carried on until April, mere days before Luke was coming. You had constantly found yourself in his bed and he in yours at the end of each night. It sounded stupid but you two were everything that a couple was just only from the comfort of your apartment. Things were okay, they weren’t ideal but you just thought that it was the best to protect Luke.

That was until you got home early from a girls night out. No amount of alcohol was going to have prepared you for what you were about to see. But after you watched your friends all leave with guys you thought it was best to go home to yours.

Your head throbbed as your feet were sore from your heels “Jack you will not believe-” you cut yourself off as your world fell apart in that moment. Jack had a blonde woman on top of him as she rode him “oh my god.” You brought your hand to your mouth as you didn’t know what to do.

The girl was the first to snap “I thought your roommate was out tonight.” She grumbled as Jack stuck his head around his side to lock his eyes with yours “she was meant to be.” He glared at you.

All of a sudden you began wondering when Jack had been seeing over girls. Was it on roadtrips? Times he said he was out with the boys?

She cleared her throat bringing you back to reality “right sorry.” You apologised shutting the door as you were overwhelmed with emotions. It wasn’t that you were embarrassed that you had walked in, but instead it was the fact that you were foolish enough to think that you guys could go somewhere.

In that state you ran to your room shoving as much as you could into suitcases as you needed to get out of there. What you hadn’t told Jack was that you had signed the lease to an apartment last week. You wanted to stay for another few days but now you knew you needed to get out of there.

And that was exactly what you did. You left Jack quietly and only came back to the apartment when you knew he was on a roadie in order to get the rest of your things from his place. The only pro that came from this all was the timing, Luke was moving to town and he wanted to now take over your second bedroom.

The middle Hughes boy did little to let his brother see how surprised he was when your things were all gone. Truthfully he swore you didn’t have the strength to leave him. It had been three months of pure sex with what he thought had zero attachments. Yet when he saw the shocked look on your face he knew you felt otherwise. So when you didn’t show up to the lake house that year, Jack realised that you were avoiding him.

So he’d spend his nights in his bed watching the new updates that came through your Instagram. You were in Canada spending your time in Calgary after you had been in Australia with some raven haired boy. From what Jack could see he was too close to you to just be his friend.

Jack had squeezed as many answers out of Luke as he could before he grew suspicious of what was going on. It meant that the center had to wait for his return to New Jersey to finally get to meet this man.

Luke didn’t realise how hard it would be to convince you to join him at an event. But when your new boyfriend Parker was out of town you finally didn’t have any excuses. So that was how Luke convinced you to stay at the apartment when it was his turn to host a party after a big win.

Luckily for you Jack seemed to ignore the fact that you were deep in a conversation with Nico as you two caught up about life “I should take this.” You sighed seeing Parker’s contact appear on your screen.

The captain smiled watching you sneak through the crowd back to your bedroom “hey baby!” Parker’s gleaming tone shot through your phone as you sat on your bed.

You tucked your hair behind your ear as you smiled “thought you were in a meeting?” You saw him clearly in his hotel room in the middle of the day “we had a break.” He spoke awkwardly as he clearly looked to the wall behind his phone.

Parker was quick to change the subject as he ran his fingers through his hair “so is Jack being good?” Yes you had told him about the fact that you and Jack were once roommates who now no longer spoke to each other “he hasn’t spoken to me.” You shrugged seeing the picture of you with the Hughes boys on one of your earliest trips to the lake house that was on your bedside table.

You fiddled with your ring “but how is your conference?” You began to notice that Parker wasn’t even looking at you anymore “baby I need to go.” He didn’t even give you enough time to respond before the screen went back to only showing you your reflection.

As a sigh left your lips you learnt you weren’t alone “you know he’s cheating on you right?” Jack crossed his arms as he leaned against your doorframe “because such a good reference of warning?” You laughed as you shook your head not believing his words.

That seemed to be all it took for him to shut your door as he let it lock “tell me princess, does he make you feel as I do?” Jack slowly walked over to you before he finally sat on the edge of your bed “what kind of question is that!” Your cheeks were red as your mouth fell open.

It made him laugh “one that has a clear answer.” The hockey player quipped back as you shook your head “my sex life is no longer your business Hughes.” You spat as you got up letting your face turn into a snarl “we were never exclusive doll.” The pet names for you rolled off of his tongue.

Yet now it only seemed to make you feel sick “Jack I really fucking thought we were so I’m sorry if I’m a little hurt that I had to walk in on-” your voice broke as a notification came onto your phone reminding you of the fact that you were with someone else now “what made you so mad?” Jack was pushing you for an answer as he towered over you.

As you thought you had so much to say it in fact turned out that you could have forgotten how to speak English “she fucking controlled you okay!” In the few months that you guys had slept together not once did Jack let you be in charge, even as you sucked him off he was the one with his hands in your hair controlling your movements and all.

Jack stopped as he let a smirk form on his lips “this was stupid.” You sighed as you shook your head “control me tonight.” The words fell from his lips letting gravity pull them down to earth as you froze “I have a boyfriend.” You were quick to remind him as his hands cupped your cheeks.

It brought you back to that night in the bathroom as he let his eyes dance between your lips and eyes “who we should have established is cheating on you.” Jack quipped back as he saw you go quite genuinely contemplating this “I’m in charge?” You asked as you sucked at your teeth.

All Jack needed to do was nod before you wrapped your arms around his neck so you could kiss him. This was by far the messiest kiss you had ever had as teeth clashed together. Your fingers tugged through the ends of his hair as it was clearly beginning to grow “I need you.” You pleaded hearing Luke’s voice from the hall as he had gone to his bedroom.

The Hughes boy smiled “you have me.” With that all of your clothes quickly ended up on the floor in one quick flash. The piles merged together as your red panties ended up in Jacks pile and he was going to be sure to take them home as a memory from the night.

You furrowed your eyebrows as you saw him just stand there “you’ve got to tell me how you want me doll.” Jack smiled as he took in the sight of your naked body.

There wasn’t much that he had missed out on but somehow his eyes still scanned it as though he had forgotten any information “need you on my bed.” Your order was soft and it made the boys heart melt at how you clearly weren’t used to this “I have a condom in my wallet.” Jack knew how you were against raw sex and he had always respected that as he also wasn’t in the mood to become a dad just yet.

You found his wallet and with that the old Polaroid picture that he had taken with his hand around your throat. It was a relatively soft picture seeing as each other option showed your face, this one just had your lower lip “you been thinking about me pretty boy?” You asked with a soft smirk on your lips.

The Polaroid was twirled in your fingers as he nodded “all the damn time.” Jack watched the Polaroid get replaced with the condom wrapper in your hands. The foil glistened as the city light hit it as you ripped the package open.

It seemed that all of the air in the room dissipated as you rolled the condom over his cock “you sure about this Jack?” You were halfway through straddling him as your hips were in the air “god please do it before I start fucking you.” He groaned pressing his head against your headboard.

A smile formed on your face as you didn’t know if you were amused or turned on “need some help getting me ready.” You rasped taking your hand around his covered cock as you drove the head down your slit spreading your wetness as it helped make his boner harden “you feel so ready.” Jack groaned feeling your free hand pinch at his skin.

His chest helped you centre yourself as you slowly let your cunt swallow his cock “fuck me!” You whined letting your eyes screw shut as your thighs hit his hips.

Jack leaned forward to kiss your lips helping you open your eyes once more “want me to help guide you through this?” You nodded as he tucked a piece of your hair behind your ear “just follow my lead okay?” Jack let his chest fall back as he grew comfortable placing his hands on your hips.

The movements started off slowly, in this up down sort of manner “faster.” You cooed wanting to bring your hands down to play with your aching nipples as your breasts bounced with each movement.

If the boy wasn’t under you he would have laughed “put your hands on my chest and take the reins.” He whispered softly nodding as you listened.

Your hands found their placement on either side of his chest as you love to him for reassurance “ride me like that bull in Calgary.” You realised that it meant he had seemed you Instagram stories as you had ended up at the stampede and one hungover morning you guys all went to ride a mechanical bull.

Jack was the first to moan as you began grinding your hips back and forth occasionally letting them rotate “can’t believe I didn’t make you do this sooner.” He grumbled to himself still keeping his hands on your sides.

Skin slapping echoed through the room and neither one of you were sure that you wouldn’t get caught “because you had other girls doing it.” You quipped back letting your tongue slice the words with venom.

It seemed to be something that Jack enjoyed as his cock throbbed from inside your cunt “had me to be your fucking late night and morning pus-” you were cut off as his hand came down on your ass with a sharp smack.

His eyes turned into a glare “at least I’m not the one currently cheating.” You went quiet as his words came out, he was right. You were the bad person there, not him.

Jack continued to help your thrusts as he let his one hand move to your clit “you were always so fucking mouthy until I fuck you dumb and make you come.” The hockey player spat as he let out a scoff.

All you could do was moan “I’m sorry.” All you wanted was for the coil that was quickly forming in your stomach to burst as your legs began to shake “I need it.” You added quickly beginning to plead with him.

The hockey player laughed “with the way you act I shouldn’t even let you come.” With the way your cunt currently clenched around his cock he knew he wasn’t going to last overly long “but he probably doesn’t even fuck you right because you know it’s me that owns this pussy.” Jack had always been possessive in bed as he watched you bob your head.

Your nails began to rake at his chest “you have me Jack.” You could have been screaming at the point “all of me.” Jack felt his orgasm hit him like a truck in that moment and as his movements turned sporadic it triggered your own orgasm “shit shit shit!” Your body shook as you ended up collapsing into his chest.

You both laid there for a moment as you caught your breath and rolled off of him letting his softening cock hit his torso “just shut your door on the way out.” You mumbled not wanting to look at the boy as you knew what was coming.

But instead Jack rolled you over to face him “you kicking me out?” He had to say that he was surprised that you had it in you to do that “just saving you the trouble.” You explained as you knew what he was like.

Which was why you let out a squeal as you felt him pull you into his arms “I’m not leaving you.” Jack shook his head as he smiled “not again.” He placed a chaste kiss on your head as he carried you into the bathroom placing you into the bath.

The next morning he had gotten up before you and has he heard your phone confine you go off he couldn’t help but grow frustrated. Jack leaned over to see that Parker had been spamming you as he got all irritated that you hadn’t responded to his messages.

So like any normal guy, Jack just had to respond.

You: hey bro, it’s Jack here. thought you should know that she no longer requires you in her life so fuck off.

[barrenclan]

Chonny Jash's cover of The Moss seems very patfw-core to me. I think someone's brought it up before but I'd like to specifically point out some of the new/changed lyrics that I think fit

But everything you see isn't everything that is

Every thing you think to be, every thought you can't dismiss

The lives we try to lead and the time we try to give

Well it's all a fallacy, we continue to relive

^ Cats like Pinepaw and Rainhaze's curiosity about what's beyond Barrenclan territory, how cats like Cootstorm try to discourage that type of thinking and how their actions unintentionally lead them to their fates. Also very cyclecore

And every thing will live, just as every thing will die

Every foe that you forgive, and every friend that you deny

Every single first hello, and every single last goodbye

Every smile that you show, every tear that you hide

^ In my head I'm picturing an amv/pmv and for this part I'm very much imagining a sort of slideshow section about contrasts and various events: Barrenclan/Defiance, Rainhaze and Ranger/Rainhaze and Asphodelpaw, Pinepaw and Saturn/Pinepaw and Wild Rose, Slugpelt and Cashew/Slugpelt and Dustfeather. Idk if that makes sense

Well, legend has it that we're all just doomed

And we've ruined our society

Well, legend has it that we dug our tomb

Which we'll lie in for all eternity

^ Barrenclan's whole staying as punishment for their cowardice ideology

Well legend has it that, the world once knew a whole palette of lovely blues and greens

Well legend has it that, our corpses lie a foundation of insincerity

^ what Barrenclan's territory used to be - blue and green - and what it is now - on a foundation of corpses

*Attempts to Jashify Raz* *Attempts to Jashify Raz* *Attempts to Jashify Raz—

I've seen a lot of people in the server talking about Chonny Jash, he seems pretty fun. But if I'm honest, I'm more of a Johnny Cash fan. :P

Ooh, yes! You've targeted me with a TMBG suggestion, I actually went ahead and added "Don't Let's Start" to the playlist but I love this song too.

Even when you're out of work you still have a job to do Even when you don't know what it is Your job knows what it is What it is is it's coming to get you

And when you wake up you can feel your hair grow Crawl out of your cave and you can watch your shadow Creep across the ground until the day is done All the while the planet circles 'round the sun

Haha, that is funny irony. But I agree with you! Isn't it interesting how despite being named that way, "Defiance" doesn't allow any of its members to defy Deepdark?

Compliance We just need your compliance You will feel no pain anymore No more defiance

Fall into line, you will do as you're told No choice fatigue, your blood is running cold We lose control, the world will fall apart Love of your life will mend your broken heart

Will Wood is ever-popular, of course, though I never got really into him. I can see this is as a Pinepaw song!

All nightmares start as dreams and I hear my subconscious screaming They say that beauty's just skin deep So naturally, please show me your

Bones, bones, bones, let me see your bones Well, I don't wanna know if the feeling follows home Bones, bones, bones, hell, we're all alone If I come home, baby, will you show your bones?

They say that beauty's just skin deep So Ana stands and rends the rancid meat from her

Oh... Rainhaze and Slugpelt song.

Are you dead or are you sleepin'? Are you dead or are you sleepin'? God, I sure hope you are dead

Well, you disappeared so often like you dissolved into coffee Are you here right now, or are there probably fossils under your meat?

Defiance song! Spefically, I could see it as from Ranger/broader Defiance's perspective as he navigates the group.

We're at a revolution And we're baying for your blood We're laying down the law And your name's mud

Cause you say you fight for us Cross your heart and hope to die You're the bully in the playground and we'll hang you out to dry

Oh yeah, I remember this song from the IncuriousCat PMV. I like it! "Nowhere King" is also a Deepdark song, so that creepy children's song-esque music does fit with the series. If anyone wanted to edit together a trailer it'd be cool!

Perfect. No notes.

Actually, someone's already made a PMV to the comic with the song! You can check it out here.

I don't think it's been suggested yet! It's a Pinepaw song, of course.

I'll cut my hair (Ooh) to make you stare (Ooh) I'll hide my chest And I'll figure out a way to get us out of here

I can't really think right now and this place Has too many colors, enough to drive all of us insane Are you dead? Sometimes I think I'm dead 'Cause I can feel ghosts and ghouls wrapping my head But I don't wanna fall asleep just yet

[sociopathicartist]

Heya! I was wondering if u could do a headcanon of how Sans would act to being at disneyland with his S/O for the first time??

hey! thank you for requesting these, this was light-hearted and fun:) i’ve never been to disneyland before so forgive me if some of my stuff wasn’t correct, i’m going off of what i see online.

UT Sans Disneyland headcanons.

Being at Disneyland didn’t appeal much to Sans at first. Why? Standing in 2-hour lines for a ride and seeing characters from movies he didn’t get to watch growing up just wasn’t a very appealing idea to him, at the least, he could only see himself going if Papyrus wanted him to.

So when you suggested the idea on a random whim one night in bed, it took a bit of convincing to get him to go with you. It was a good portion of money that the both of you’d be spending, and he just wasn’t sure if the price would be worth it for the experience.

But eventually, your pleas got to him, and he finally gave in.

➭ road trip

Sans surprisingly did enjoy the drive down to disneyland.

He drove the whole way there for you. Since you took care of him in many other aspects of your domestic life, so when it came to things like cooking or driving, he always jumped the gun and made sure it wasn’t a task of yours.

He kept playing eye-spy the entire way down with you, stopping at the gas station for snacks (a lot more often than he should have), and jamming out to some tunes with you on the radio. He didn’t want you to be bored on the drive there, and his hand somehow kept sneaking its way over to your thigh and mindlessly rubbing up and down without any further motives while you two talked.

➭ hanging out at the hotel

You didn’t ask him, but you were pretty sure that Sans’ favorite part of the whole trip was getting to stay in one of the resort hotels. He always loved staying in the hotels when you went anywhere, which evened out since you also loved doing the same with him, but he was enthralled with the rooms. Why was there disneyland on the headboard of the bed? Why was the carpet fireworks? Why was this bed so damn comfortable? He probably could have sunk into the mattress and stayed there the whole time if you hadn’t pried him away from his all-famous napping sessions.

He also really liked just collapsing on the bed after being outside all day, and if you got within an arm-length radius of him you’d be pulled down onto the bed, trapped with him, and most likely not to be seen again until morning.

‘uh-oh, seems you’re stuck here with me now.’

‘Sansss, don’t do this again, I have to get showered off and changed.’

‘tough, my bones are locking up around you, can’t let you go, babe.’

➭ going around the park

Surprisingly despite his doubts, Sans actually had a lot of fun on the disney rides. He obviously wasn’t a big fan of the lines you both had to wait in and despite the looks you got from other people around you, he kept clinging to you like velcro the entire wait while you both talked to pass the time. You couldn’t blame him, even though he didn’t have skin and the heat didn’t really bother him, he didn’t like standing still for so long without doing anything.

He wasn’t too big of a fan of getting photos with some of the characters, (you could have sworn that he was a bit shy about it), but he did put on some silly mickey mouse ears and snag some fun pictures with you for whatever princesses or mascots you wanted to see. It was just a little bit harder for him to relate to wanting to see the characters that much since he didn’t watch these movies growing up in the underground, but he did love seeing you happy about it.

➭ snacks and food

This may be a huuuge shock, but Sans really liked the snacks and meals. Despite his ick for the expensive price tags, he was almost always dragging you to get snacks with him every time he saw something he could eat. These snacks were just so weird and a bit cool to him, food wasn't mickey mouse shaped or disney movie themed back at home.

‘baby, babe, try this.’

‘Sans, isn’t that your fourth one? Do you want to go get something else to munch on instead?’

‘ehehe, i know something else i’d like to munch on.’

He also really liked the themed dinners, it was pretty cool being able to see characters come out and walk around the tables while you both ate. Needless to say, this man was pretty satisfied with your meal options during your trip.

➭ souvenirs

Sans did find quite a few things he wanted to bring back for Papyrus and your other friends, mostly just cute little trinkets or figures. He did take fondly to some of the more sci-fi stuff they had there, and he couldn’t help but grab some stuff he liked that he swore he’d be able to find a place for back at home in your shared bedroom.

He wasn’t a big fan of the themed shirts, but with some convincing, you both got a matching pyjama set that you said you’d make him wear with you since he held up a doll of stitch and said that it looked identical to you.

‘babe, you can’t deny that the resemblance is uncanny.’

‘Sans, I love you, but it’s time to put the stitch doll down.’

‘i guess you’re right, humans aren’t blue anyway.’

[caustinen]

Hollywood!AU :)

Bucky is on location filming in another country and, for one reason and another, they can't see each other for almost six weeks (which is the longest they've been apart).

How do they handle the separation and what was the reunion like? ;)

OOOOH I LOVE THIS!!! i’m gonna do a proper drabble for this too but i’ll post the headcanons now, sorry it took so long!! nsfw in the end 🥰

This would take place between them going public and getting married, the last project Bucky has before they both take a longer vacation for honeymoon (also referenced in the leaked pda video)

He films in Australia for 4 weeks and in London for 2, both pretty horrible for staying in touch because rhe time differnece is so big and they also have intense schedules in their respective time zones… And the change in time zones when Bucky moves places also make it more intense than usually, for example if Bucky would be filming just in another state it would be easier

Gale is also busy at work because he’ll take a full month of vacation in the fall after the wedding, so he can’t come visit in either place – they reason that it’s okay if they have some time apart, they’ll have the rest of their lives together after that and they’ve never been a clingy couple despite both valuing quality time over anything (and esp to Bucky also physical touch is key); maybe it’s even a welcome idea to have a breather after all the media attention after going public, it’s not a big fight or anything but it’s something different for a while

They do not expect it to be as hard as it ends up being; week or two is easy, but a month feels like forever and the last two weeks both are feeling so off-beat that they decide they will meet up in some vacation spot instead of Bucky coming home to LA because they just need some peace and quiet together for a while – the publicly is still at the peak interest too and they know there will be media after Bucky a lot too after weeks away so this seems like the best idea

They try to call as often as possible and text daily. At first it’s fine but the longer they go without the other near the more frustrating it becomes to just have the phone, like it’s amazing to be able to facetime and such but some nights Bucky would almost rather not see his beautiful boyfriend’s face at all when he can’t crawl next to him to fall asleep

Bucky would be so annoying about the whole thing, like I’m thinking non-stop whining, and Gale lets him go on and on about it as if he wasn’t feeling the same things because he knows it’s just his way of processing it.

Bucky never gives up on initiating phone sex though, which Gale also enjoys but it also makes him more nervous than John, and also during John’s evenings it’s Gale’s mid-day so it usually goes something like ”Hey honey how was filming?” ”We were filming that interigation scene for hours, it was fine, I thought about having you bounce on my cock on that table the whole time.” ”...I’m at work.” ”Yes of course dear. Anyway, could you find a quiet place and send me a voice note of your moaning my name I’m literally about to lose my mind.” ”Jesus-”

But actually it’s Gale who struggles most in the end to his great surprise, Bucky at least can lose himself in his work but Gale’s just living the usual routine but without John there (makes him realize what he means to him tho, as if he needed a reminder) – Gale’s always been hyper independent and still is, but he realizes better than ever how much more open to the world Bucky has made him and how lonely he sometimes was before him without really realizing. Watching films or going to the gym isn’t as fun without Bucky’s constant commenting.

But then again Gale has all of Bucky’s clothes to wear and his stuff that smells like him lying around, Bucky just has pictures etc.

There are some tensions in the middle of it, when it feels like the 6 weeks will never end; maybe John had a bad day at the set or Gale’s been stressed about finishing a certain project while also planning the wedding while also dodging the paparazzi while also … And they snap at each other on the phone and it’s not as easy to deal with when the only way to talk it through is on the phone again, no chance for a cathartic make-up sex or silent communication to break the ice. Bucky’s insecure since he left Gale into such a shitty situation with the public while he’s away, and Gale can’t help but feel a bit jealous as he keeps hearing about John having a great time with his co-workers and going to pubs and living a full life without him in it.

Once the time of the reunion nears, the anxiety starts to ease. they make plans to meet in Milan; Gale gets there a day sooner because Bucky’s plane is cancelled or something and Gale ends up going meeting him at the airport instead of their original plan of meeting away from the cameras in the hotel. This is the first time this is a possibility since they are public, but Gale still covers himself well – he has a facemask and huge hoodie and loose sweats he never would show up to in public otherwise (all the clothes happen to be originally Bucky’s but it’s a genuine accident, they are just the ones that felt the most comfortable)

Once Bucky comes through he runs to him and they have a cheesy airport reunion moment where they just hug in the terminal for like ten minutes, just holding the other close. Lover-boy Bucky would have tears in his eyes as he sniffs into Gale’s neck as the younger runs a calming hand up and down his back. No one pays them any mind, they go smoothly to the crowd there. Bucky bought Gale a big bouquet of red roses before boarding and he’s been clinging to them the whole flight and now he gets to press them to Buck’s back before giving them to him.

Bucky notices Gale has lost weight as they hug :( He sometimes struggles to take care of himself when he’s stressed, it’s not much but he knows his body better than his own and he immediately makes plans to check out the best restaurants in town for the whole week.

They behave themselves in the cab but the moment they get to the hotel penthouse John had reserved for them they’re on each other, absolutely wild with it; they’re adult men in a long-term relationship but the one thing phones or even intimate videos or pictures can’t replace is the actual feeling of someone’s skin underneath your fingers.

Gale moans as John throws him to the wall and they kiss so hard it’s almost painful, and Gale involuntarily laughs in relief when he finally gets a hand to his pants— Who said that I’ll get back to this later

Hope you liked, promise I’ll write a drabble when I have time 🥰 (All of Hollywood Au at the end of this post)

[lfghughes]

love your work :)

i was wondering if you could write like friends to lovers w nico with like a ton of tension 🙏🙏

im so obsessed with this man its unhealthy

a/n: friends to lovers is def my thing. im a true sucker for these plots.

You had been friends with Nico for years now and even though you two hadn’t grown up together sometimes it felt like you had. He was one of those people that once you two had started talking it had felt like you had known each other for ages. He had been there for you through a lot of your big life changes and you had been there for him through the ups and downs of his life. Recently you had moved out to the city and between your schedule and his schedule you didn’t get to see him as often as you’d like.

Right now it had felt like forever since you had last seen Nico and that was probably because it had been forever. For the summer he had gone back home for a little bit and you had stayed distracted at work. But now with the summer coming to an end he was officially back in New Jersey and both of you had already made plans for you to come by in the weekend to see him. The best part about your friendship was the fact that no matter how many weeks you two went without seeing each other or talking, it was so easy to jump back in.

The weekend had finally gotten here and now with most of the boys back they had all decided to go out and you had driven in from the city to go see Nico specifically, although you were pretty decent friends with some of the other boys that had been around for a few seasons. The night had started off great but as the night kept on progressing you noticed a small thing that started bothering you a little.

One thing about going out with a hockey team was that you were bound to get a lot of attention, girls would come over to talk to the boys and guys would come over for the same. Every once in a while you’d get a guy express some interest in you but their interest usually disappeared once Nico would come over to you. That was something that was currently happening. “Do you want a drink?” A random guy had asked but before you could even get an answer out Nico had answered for you. “She’s good.” And jus like that he had moved his body between yours and the guy who had come up to you.

Slowly throughout the night you started picking up more and more on little things like that and you didn’t know why suddenly Nico was playing this protective role over you because last you had checked he wasn’t your boyfriend. Not that you particularly would mind that but Nico had always made it clear that he didn’t have an interest in you romantically so you weren’t going to express your small little crush to him.

A huff escaped your lips as Nico once again made his way into another conversation between you and another guy at the bar. “You’re being annoying.” You told him and his eyebrows furrowed at you. “What do you mean?” He asked and you waved your hand to the people around you. “Any guy that tries to talk to me you scare off.” All he did was shrug at those words which only annoyed you more. “I think it’s time for me to go home.”

So maybe you were being a little over dramatic but it was late and you were tired and cranky. You exited out the door of the bar and started towards your car. “Wait..” You heard Nico’s voice come up from behind you and even though you wanted to keep going you paused and turned around. “I’m not in the mood, Nico.” You told him but before you could even turn back around his hands had gone to the side of your face, cupping your cheeks and suddenly his lips were on yours. Even though you were caught by surprise, you returned the kiss easily.

You had pictured this moment before and well Nico ended up being a lot better of a kisser than you even imagined. When he pulled away you couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed that the kiss was over but you were also still shocked at what had just happened between the two of you. Shocked enough that the only word you could conjure up at the moment was “Oh…"

[traffic-light-eyes]

Ninja as influencers

My previous post got me thinking, and now I have to write this down.

Kai:

He for sure has Twitter/Chirp and uses it regularly. Very popular. He also has the ninjago equivalent to Instagram and is also very popular there, too. I could imagine him having a yt channel and doing silly vlogs and the occasional game, but that's about it. The other ninja were a bit weirded out by the vlogs at first because they didn't really want to feed into the whole idolizing the ninja thing, but realized that they could show the world that they're just. People. Normal people who save the world sometimes but are normally just passed out on the couch. They all love being in his vlogs now. When he records something embarrassing, he makes absolutely certain that the person it's of is okay with it being posted. Like, he gives them weeks to think about it. He has a video of Zane singing let it go (due to Jay's programming skills), and he was ecstatic to be able to post it. He's also a tiktok star. He does the silly dances and lip-syncing.

Nya:

She has Chirp but doesn't use it for social media purposes? If that makes sense. Like, she mainly only scrolls through her friends' chirps and responds to those. She gets into the groove and made a really sweet and chill community once the people that were only there for the "inside scoop" of the water ninja's life left. Now there's just her friends and a bunch of nice people. She comments on and rechirps? a lot of fanart, though. She has an Instagram but only to comment on Kai's posts with a thumbs down. She has a tiktok. It's secret. She posts little edits about her artwork or mechanics. It's fairly popular. She sometimes uses the filters and makes videos using them but never posts them.

Cole:

Similar to Nya, he has a Chirp account but doesn't really use it much. He'll respond to fanart and fans, but he only really posts occasionally. His posts normally consist of song recommendations or riffs of his friends. He threads callouts when he feels especially petty. It's pretty chill. He probably has a secret second account for art. He doesn't want people to like his art just because he's the earth ninja, so he made a second account. He has a tumblr too. I don't make the rules. He tries to stay in the loop with everyone's thoughts and shuts down the gross people. He's pretty well-known on the site. He likes reblogging the ship content and misdirecting people because it's funny. Pixal found him drawing techno and he scrambled for an excuse but she silently put a finger to her lip, winked, and left. He was very confused. She was absolutely dying on the inside from laughter because she knew of his account but wanted to freak him out. He couldn't look her in the eye for a week because he thought she thought he shipped them or something. She purposefully spoke to him often. He kept trying to explain, but Pixal always had an excuse to leave or change the subject before he could say it.

Lloyd:

He has Chirp. He has tumblr. He has ao3. He's not allowed on Instagram. He has a yt channel where he exclusively talks about comics and games. On his Chirp, he is completely unhinged some times, and other times, he posts cute animals he finds on missions or on patrol. He found a stray cat once and named her mittens because a follower commented it. He has #mittensmonday, where he posts a picture of her. It's always trending on Monday. His tumblr is once again about games and stuff, but he has a semi-secret side blog for Ninja Shenanigans where it's theorized that it's him, but no one has proof and he doesnt give a direct answer. He has unknowingly reblogged and messaged Cole on multiple occasions because he doesn't know about the Secret account. Cole doesn't know what to do. His ao3 account is mostly to check up on what people are thinking. If he sees something unsavory, he immediately logs off because that's him. Avid tiktok enjoyer. He could make a video of just him staring at the screen, and it would go viral. He finds it hilarious. It's his goal to find the most obscure thing to post and for it to finally not get viral.

Zane:

He has Chirp, but he hasn't used it. Either that or he uses it so terribly incorrectly. I could be convinced that he has a cooking yt channel. He'd call it something nerdy or informational, but people kept chirping about it calling him cookingmama, and he doesn't get it? But due to Jay's persistence, he changed his @ to cookingmama.

Jay:

He has Chirp. He uses it to keep up with the world + just talk to fans. He has a gaming channel and a Twitch account. He streams at least once a week. He loves it! He has a pretty chill community, and he often asks his friends to play with him. He makes sure that the games he play with them are suited to them first. He doesn't ask. He just knows. He picks action-based games for Kai - maybe LoL or, like, Left 4 dead. He plays silly smart games with Nya, like Portal or Keep talking and nobody explodes (they are ridiculously good at this). He and Cole would play scary games. They exclusively play them at night; phasmaphobia has caused many of the ninja to awaken to a shriek. Comfy and typically non-violent games are his and Lloyd's go-to. They'll play Minecraft or stardew for HOURS before they realize the sun is coming up. He and Zane play semi-stressful cooking games, or Zane is just there for commentating. They'll be seen playing overcooked or cooking simulator (they always play that one with a challenge somehow). He makes silly follower goals, and he has unfortunately had to do many, many things because his followers keep rising.

Honorary Ninja, Pixal:

She has an account for every platform that the ninja have just to crowd control + to support them in their comments. She rarely, if ever, posts anything aside from commenting on her friends' posts. Hc that Borg owns every platform, so she uses that to weed out the weirdos by asking him to make the platform very buggy on their device specifically. It's only a matter of time before they delete the app, and she loves watching the downfall via their posts and complaints about the website. She knows of everyone's account, even the Secret ones. She never lets them know that she knows of them, even if they do something strange because of it (check Cole's). She loves messing with them. If someone posts something recently, she conveniently talks about it the same day and gives them whiplash because what are the chances that she said that today. She's the go-to gal if there are any tech issues on stream or during editing.

Here ya go! Hope you enjoy my brainrot <3

[flame-resistant]

Research suggests that the inability to fall asleep without background noise could be related to a fear of being alone, which is often connected to abandonment issues. This fear can stem from past traumas or deeply ingrained insecurities.

Another night in at your shift, the hospital was usually quiet (one of the benefits of night shifts). Sitting your things down, you could already see the red light on room 1003 blinking erratically as usual. Knowing the nurse before you hadn’t checked on the patient, a deep sigh left you. Though the thought crossed your mind on who would, he was a villain, one that destroyed half of Japan. However, at this moment he was a patient who desperately needed attention.

Knocking on the door softly, you could see the white-haired man stop pressing the nurse button on his bed. The room was quiet, and TV hours were limited to help other patients sleep, though this was a struggle with the Todoroki. It was as if he needed something to drown out the silence. Most of the nurses ignored his constant need, muttering things behind his back, that he deserved to suffer in silence. 

“Everything okay, Mr. Todoro-”

“Touya.”

Well, it was better than when he first awoke in the ward. Sedatives were used on the regular to calm him down, glares sent the nurses way when they called him anything but Dabi. A nod was sent his way as you came over to check his vitals, well he seemed fine physically (the best you could in his state). Deciding it was something bothering him in his mental state, you looked down at the man as he picked at a bandage. 

“Can’t sleep?”

Blue eyes looked at the wall, a pout on his reconstructed lips as the male continued his silent tantrum. Sometimes it made you laugh to think he terrorized your country for a year. Still not getting an answer, you concluded that was the issue, knowing perfectly well he had a voice to correct you. 

“I can get some hot tea if you would like?”

Again silence was the response, though he was getting more fidgety by the second. Your brows furrowed at how he expected you to read his mind. As if you knew him well enough to know what he wanted, oh how wrong he was. Trying one more time, you pressed on. “The ward is quiet tonight, what if I stay just for a bit to help you sleep? We can talk?”

That seemed to perk his interest, at least enough to get him to face you. His pride did not let him admit he wanted attention, that the silence was a reminder of how alone he felt. Taking a seat on the window bed, you looked out the window to see the parking lot. Some people coming and going from the ER downstairs. 

“Are you going to talk or not?”

Breaking from your trance, you expected him to start the conversation, but once more he was reliant on your actions. As if he was doing you some favor by talking. Funny.

“Right...well, how do you feel?”

An irritated look was sent your way, silently telling you that was a stupid question. Okay, time for a new plan. Taking out your phone, you let the man see a picture on the screen. “This is my cat, he has some anxiety so he likes attention.”

Raising his brow, Touya eyed the picture, taking in what you presented. “What’s his name?”

You felt a bit proud of that, taking it as a nurse-patient bonding moment. Showing him another picture of your feline friend, you continued on. Going over the cat’s name and personality, more scrolling of pictures, his eyes never leaving your screen. 

“What does he do when you have to leave? Sounds like a shitty life.”

While he wasn’t wrong, always needing attention did seem pretty tiring. You kept your mouth shut on saying the cat reminded you of him. With your phone now away, you went over the usual plan for your cat. 

“Consistency helps, but I usually leave some sound on in the house so he doesn’t feel alone.”

“Must be nice, having such a pampered life.”

He almost sounded jealous of the cat, but that sounded silly. “Have you ever had a pet?”

Ignoring your question, Touya changed the subject. Probably not wanting to talk about himself or his past. “Can we just talk about stupid stuff?”

“Oh, sure.” The awkwardness didn’t leave, but you did as he asked. Going over your plans for the night and what you packed for lunch. He stopped talking, only listening to you go on. His eyes were closing by the second. Thinking he was finally asleep you stopped, though the man grunted for you to continue. Unsure what else to say, you looked back out the window and described the area. Hoping it would be enough to relax the man completely. “Some nurses are leaving, looks like they are talking. Maybe about their shifts? Looks like a woman is coming into the ER, she forgot to turn her car lights off...”

A good thirty minutes passed before you could hear his snores. A sigh of relief left you as you stood, happy he was getting the sleep he needed as well as the attention he was seeking. 

On your way out, you made a mental note to talk to the head nurse about adding an extension of TV time for certain clients. At least for now, he was asleep, the rest of the night ran smoothly, so when he woke up again you didn’t mind one more nightly talk. Maybe you’ll get to know the man behind the villain, the one called Touya.

[immeasurablesaladagere]

salad ur so awesome can i pls request a little!chase fic with cg!wilson and cg!house? thank u 🙏 appreciate u

I had a lot of fun with this one! Sorry it took so long haha, I have like 8 fic requests pending 0-0

-----

Word Count: 2517

Summery: Chase is having a regressed sleepover at House and Wilson's apartment! There's just one problem, he's having a hard time regressing at all.

-----

After graduating high school, Chase had expected his sleepover days to be over. But now there he stood, outside of his boss’s apartment of all places with a duffle bag of colourful pyjamas, a variety of clothes, his favourite blanket, and his stuffed puppy, Bosco; afraid to knock in case this had really been an elaborate joke at his expense all along.

The offer felt more out of the blue than it probably was. House and Wilson had looked after him multiple times while he was regressed, both at their apartment and, rather embarrassingly, at work, but this felt different. More intrusive, like he was forcing them to take care of him even though it was Wilson who invited him in the first place. The plan was pretty straightforward; Chase would regress and spend the night at their place, doing child things like watching movies and playing with toys and having pancakes for breakfast or something while House and Wilson watched him, and then he’d go home the next day when he was big. If he even stayed regressed that long.

But of course, to do all that he actually had to buck up and knock. He took a deep breath and politely tapped on the door. No one answered at first, and for a second he was worried that he’d misheard the time they’d told him somehow and they were out, but after a few seconds there were footsteps on the other side and the door opened.

“Chase! Right on time, come on in.” Wilson greeted, motioning for him to enter. “You can put your jacket on the hook there.” He did, then toed off his shoes and tucked them neatly by the rack.

“Oh come on, where’s your cute little kangaroo shirt?” House called from the couch.

He glanced down at his plain white T-shirt. He’d considered wearing his little clothes before he left, but decided not to because what if they thought that was weird? He didn’t want to rush it, but maybe that was the wrong choice? “Um… It’s in my bag, I just thought I’d wear my normal stuff for now.”

“Did you not want to get started right away?” Wilson asked, “That’s okay, we can—“

“No, no, it’s fine!” He assured quickly, “I-I just meant for the drive here, I can change if you want.”

They both gave him a considering look that made his cheeks burn. God, could this be more awkward? Wilson nodded. “Yeah, go ahead. You remember where the—?”

“Down the hall, first door. I’ll be right back.” He said quickly, and made his escape to the bathroom. He shut the door behind him and let out a breath. Just relax, mate! They invited you here, it’s fine. It’ll be fine. He changed into the kangaroo shirt and a pair of cargo shorts, and stared at himself in the mirror. House had gifted him the shirt awhile ago; it was white with a red collar and sleeves, and had a big picture of a boxing cartoon kangaroo on the front. Apparently he had ordered it off some website, and it showed; it was hideous, but somehow it was still the shirt he wore most often when he was small. But he wasn’t small yet, and he felt a bit silly standing there.

He crammed his old clothes back into the bag and left the bathroom, only to be met with the dramatic cooing of House.

“Aww, there he is! Don’t you just wanna pinch his cheeks, Wilson?”

Chase rolled his eyes, but smirked. “Where should I put my bag?”

Wilson motioned vaguely at the floor. “Anywhere is fine. We’ll get out the pull-out couch when it’s time for bed tonight.”

“Sure.” He dropped his bag out of the way next to the couch, and then… stood there. Now what? “So…” He started, “How’s this gonna work?”

“We’ve got the box of toys out if you want, we can put on a movie, anything you need to help you regress, and then we’ll look after you from there. We were thinking of ordering a pizza for dinner. Is that okay?” Wilson pointed out the “little box” in the corner, filled with an ever-growing supply of toys, stuffies, books, and art supplies.

“Yeah, that sounds great, um…” There was still one worry that had been nagging at him ever since he’d gotten the invitation. “What if I… can’t regress?”

There was always a chance that even with all of the toys and coddling words in the world, he just wouldn’t be able to be little or stay little. It was a fickle thing. If his regression was triggered then he could never seem to pull himself out it, but when it was his choice he usually couldn’t manage to stay small for more than a few hours without help. And if he couldn’t regress, then what was the point of being there in the first place?

Wilson considered it. “Well, if it comes down to that then you can still stay over if you want. We can just put on the game and have a drink. Whatever happens is okay either way.”

“No, we were going to exile you from the apartment if your brain didn’t decide to play ball,” House snarked. “Wilson’s right, Robbie. Now you can stop standing there like we’re going to jump you and go play. I promise, I won’t bite.”

Robbie. The nervousness soothed a bit, enough for him to walk over to the bin and start sifting through it for something to do. He landed on a farm animal colouring book and a ziplock bag of markers, something easy. A few of the pages had already been filled in, some by him, one by Foreman and a couple by Cameron, each with a distinct “style”. He chuckled to himself. Even Foreman’s colouring pages were stuffy and professional. He flipped to a blank page of a field of cows and started to colour.

He worked at the page for awhile, hoping that eventually the fuzzy feeling would creep in and the his colouring would start drifting outside the lines, but after nearly thirty minutes of colouring, he still wasn’t getting anywhere. Thankfully, House and Wilson didn’t seem fussed either way about what he was doing; Wilson was milling around in the kitchen and House was distracted by his Gameboy, but the silent expectation that he was supposed to be small right now hovered uncomfortably over his head.

He sat up and tossed down the marker he was holding. This should be easier.

House glanced up at him. “Age check?”

“Still twenty-eight.” He grumbled. “This isn’t working.”

“Would it help if I… played with you? Wilson tells me I do a great stuffed-bear voice.”

He still wasn’t used to House trying to be genuinely helpful. “Um… No, I don’t think I could do it, it’s too weird unless I’m small, y’know? But uh, thanks.” Though, the idea of House doing a squeaky pretend-voice was funny to think about. Maybe he’d get to see it later.

House shrugged. “Well, I tried. Wilson!” He called, and Wilson appeared from the kitchen, drying his hands with a towel.

“Having trouble regressing?” He asked, “I’ve been listening.”

Chase rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah I dunno, it’s hard to just do it on command. I’m barely even fuzzy.”

“Would you like me to help you?”

“I guess so. I haven’t got any ideas, help away.” He wasn’t exactly sure what Wilson could do that a box of everything I kid could want couldn’t, but anything was worth a try.

Wilson smiled. “And how do we ask?” He prompted gently, and instantly Chase’s face burned. Right to it then.

“Can you help, please?” The smallest hint of fuzz prodded at the edges of his brain.

“Of course. Come on,” He motioned for him to come to the kitchen and after a nod from House, he got up and followed. Wilson bent down to one of the cabinets and began pushing around a bunch of coil-bound books and loose papers. Eventually he found what he was looking for and held up a battered piece of paper victoriously.

“I was thinking we could bake some cookies for after dinner tonight. Do you want to help?”

“Sure. What kind are they?” He asked, rocking onto his toes to get a better look at the recipe.

“Chocolate chip. It’s my grandmother’s recipe, House and I have them all the time.” Wilson put the recipe on the counter and pointed to each ingredient, reading them out. “Could you get me the flour, the sugar, and the baking soda for me? They’re in that cupboard over there, and I’ll get the rest.”

“Yep.” He went on his mission for dry ingredients, scouring the disorganized pantry.

“Remember to use both hands on the flour and sugar, buddy. They’re heavy!” Wilson reminded, and the fuzziness flared again. He knew that.

“Mhm.”

Once they had gathered all of the ingredients, he stood patiently for his next task as Wilson pulled out bowls and measuring tools. House shuffled in and sat down at the dining table.

“Are you gonna help, House?” He asked.

Wilson snorted. “House is a terrible helper, we’re not letting him help.” 

-

“Here, you can do the vanilla.” 

Chase took the bottle Wilson handed to him and carefully poured it into the little measuring spoon, then poured it in.

“Good job buddy, that’s great.” Wilson praised, and he couldn’t help the bashful grin that crept onto his face. He was definietly fuzzy now; not small all the way, but close. Wilson hand-holding him through the steps and giving him small praises for mixing and measuring ingredients made him feel just like a little kid learning to bake for the first time. He supposed he kind of was. He hadn’t baked with either of his parents as an actual kid, and rarely bothered to as an adult, so it was nice to know he was doing a good job and being helpful.

Wilson handed him the spatula. “And now we stir.”

He stirred the batter until the stripes of vanilla disappeared, Wilson added the chocolate chips, and he stirred again. Once the chocolate chips were properly distributed, he presented the bowl to Wilson. “Look good?”

Wilson nodded in approval. “Perfect. Now we use spoons to put the batter on a baking sheet, and we bake them for 12 minutes.” He said, grabbing two spoons to demonstrate.

Chase took over, trying to make the scoops as perfect as possible, and then Wilson put them in the oven because it wasn’t safe for a kid to do it by themselves.

“Okay, now while we wait let’s clean up. Can you put away the ingredients, Robbie? I’ll get started on the dishes.” Wilson began filling the sink with soapy water and dropping in measuring spoons. 

House stopped him before he could submerge the mixing bowl. “Hey, hey! Save me the spatula, it’s got perfectly good cookie dough on it!” 

Wilson looked right at him as he dropped the spatula into the water, and Chase chuckled. “Cookie dough is for helpers.”

Chase held out the box of baking soda for House to take. “You can help clean up! There’s some cookie dough in the bowl still.” He offered, but House didn’t seem too interested in his proposal.

“I don’t want it that bad. Besides, you two are doing such a good job, I wouldn’t want to get in the way.” He held up his hands.

Chase shrugged and put the baking soda back by himself, and grabbed the carton of milk to put back in the fridge. “Okay. More cookie dough for me then—“ 

His grip on the milk faltered. He gasped as it fell from his hand and splashed to the ground, spilling all over the floor. He heard Wilson curse behind him and start rushing around for something to mop it up, but Chase stood frozen and watched the growing puddle soak into his socks. He was just trying to help and now Wilson and House were gonna be so mad at him. 

House clicked his tongue. “Maybe next time, we use both hands to carry things.”

That was the last push he needed for his headspace to come crashing down all at once. Suddenly he was five years old, tears were welling up in his eyes, and he was panicking. He was in so much trouble. It was an accident, he really didn’t mean to drop it, but now he’d made a mess and ruined everything! 

“Robbie.”

Were they still gonna want to watch him? Would he have to go home? 

“Robbie, come here, let Wilson mop it up.” House gently grabbed his wrist and pulled him away from the pool of milk. His socks squelched beneath his feet, cold and wet, and he let out a little sob.

“M’sorry, I-I didn’t mean to I—“

“Relax, we know. It’s fine.” House said. He sounded like he meant it, but Chase knew he was still angry because that’s how it always worked with adults. They said they weren’t mad when they really were, and then they yelled at you later. 

“I didn’t m-mean to drop it, m’really sorry!” He cried, “I was ju-just trying to he-elp…”

House let out a long breath, then to his surprise, pulled him into a hug and started awkwardly patting his back. “Okay, okay… You’re fine.”

Chase gripped onto House’s shirt, trying to take a deep breath. He shouldn’t be crying, he should be helping Wilson clean up his mess. 

“Well, he’s little now.”

“House.” Wilson chided.

House tried to pull away from him, and he clung tighter. He didn’t wanna be in trouble.

“Forget wombat, I think koala might’ve been a better nickname for you. Is this an Australian thing, or just you?” 

Hey! He was not a koala. Chase pouted as House gently peeled him off, and he clumsily wiped the tears off his face and glued his eyes to the floor. His stomach felt swirly with guilt.

Wilson bent down in front of him, expression soft and calm. “Robbie, look,” He pointed to where the puddle of milk used to be. The floor was clean, like nothing ever happened. “No more spill, see? All fixed.”

He sniffled. “But… the milk?”

“It was almost expired anyway, we can always get more.”

Maybe it wasn't so bad then. “…Okay. Can I… have a hug, please?” He hesitantly held out his arms.

“Sure, buddy.” Wilson wrapped him in his arms and squeezed tightly. Wilson gave good hugs. If there was a worlds-best-hugger competition, Wilson would win, he thought. “Are we ready to order pizza now?”

Pizza sounded good. The smell of the cookies in the oven were already making him hungry. “Yeah! Can we get cheese?”

“Just cheese? You don’t want anything else?” Wilson asked.

“Nope!” 

“I agree with the kid, cheese is objectively superior.” House agreed, setting a hand on his shoulder. “The council demands plain cheese pizza.”

Wilson sighed, exasperated, and pulled out his phone. “I can’t believe there’s two of you now…”

[thoseyoulove]

Just finished Part I of The Vampire Lestat and here are my first impressions (I skipped IWTV *for now* since the show has already covered it... I'll read it eventually):

I can't tell yet if I like it or not.

So far, I enjoy the concept and the characters seem to be compelling. In terms of eventfulness, there hasn't been much, but I do have some interest in these people. They all appear to be complicated and have a lot of baggage, which I guess makes them appealing and gives the story potential. Let's see where this goes.

I don't hate, but I also don't love Anne's writing style. I don't think she narrates and describes things very well, she lingers on stuff I don't care that much for and doesn't provide details on things I'm actually curious about? There are some abrupt changes that annoy me sometimes as well.

I do believe this might be an attempt to get ourselves in the mind of Lestat and how he process to the world around him, though? It would make sense considering how chaotic he is.

Another thing I like is how he got so obsessed with the 20th Century, music and theater. The descriptions really give me the idea of someone experiencing the world for the first time (in a while) and considering how isolated he was growing up or after everything that happened with Louis/Claudia, it makes sense that he is so fascinated by all these discoveries. And it's really immersive and sweet to see how he in awe he is with all of it.

He also speaks like he is somebody born in the 1700s. So I give her credits for that as well.

Pretty sure Lestat is neurodivergent at this point (ADHD is basically a yes from me, maybe he has dyslexia and/or autism too).

And his memory is trash. So often he doesn't know if he actually did something, or if it were someone else, or if it was just a thought... I'm like, ARE YOU OKAY (he isn't)? By the way, this is painfully relatable because I also have poor short (and long-term) memory. Heaven help him (and moi).

That boy is a water sign if I've ever seen one.

He cries A LOT. I don't remember ever seeing any (book/show/movie) character cry that much, specially in such a short time lol. And the fact this is coming from a man and not a woman... There you go with defying gender norms, king!

Lestat having Borderline Personality Disorder isn't even a headcanon at this point, but a FACT.

He probably hasn't been hugged enough times in his life and it SHOWS.

Even with the abuse in his family, his frustration with his mother and the "malady of mortality", he manages to stay optimistic in a way that feels so childlike and naive that makes my heart warm and ache for him. I'm like, you deserve better.

Again, I don't know if I'm enjoying or not, but I do like the fact I can imagine Sam's Lestat doing all of this on season 3. Picturing Sam bringing these moments to life is the BEST PART of the reading.

Would I still read these books if the show never existed? That's what I need to find out.

I can see why some people got so invested in this character, though. At least for now. Some stuff hit close to home and I find myself rooting for him. I imagine that for the ones who read it at as a teenager, it must've made them feel less alone and seen to some extent.

At this moment, it's Lestat > Gabrielle > Nicholas for me.

Lestat's father isn't a person I care about, but depending on how the show adapts him, I guess it could be a good opportunity for a blind actor. It would be killing two birds with one stone, because it would develop Lestat's backstory, but also give space for a category that barely gets any job in the industry. I would love to see a powerful guest star that is a an actual disabled person playing a disabled character. Sure, we would hate him, but if someone manages to show their potential, book more roles and maybe even earn an award or nomination, why not?

Whenever Lestat talks about kissing his mother I get confused if the incest is already happening or not lol. Because I normally would just imagine a platonic kiss on the cheek or forehead and I haven't seen anything explicitly inappropriate. I don't know if it's because I'm reading the Brazilian Portuguese version, or if Anne wasn't that clear, or maybe I'm slow and naive, but nothing big seems to have happened? But I'm familiar with those spoilers, so... Anyway, whatever. It's not like I was counting the days to read about incest, so I don't really care about it being evident or not. I just mean that for now they seem to be more of a "parent that didn't want kids, but cares for him in a distant, but still real way and child that seeks for any crumbs of love and affection" kind of relationship.

Speaking of that, Lestat is SO DESPERATE for love, omg. Nicki was basically the first person besides his mother that was nice to him and he told the guy ALL OF HIS LIFE STORY AND FELL IN LOVE almost immediately? Get up!

Peak BPD/ADHD/maybe autistic/water sign/Scorpio behavior. MY GOD.

Still don't know how to picture Gabrielle and who I fancast playing her. I do think I have some sense of who she is now, which is nice. I also have some actors that could pass for Sam's parent and have the appropriate age to play her in my mental library, but I can't form a face yet. Not the face of a real actress or even an imaginary face, it's just a blur so far. Which sucks because I loooooooooove imagining fancasts, specially for a show as great as this one, but I'm just waiting for the revelation to come to me lmao.

[marlowethelibrarian]

Writerly Questionaire tag!

@saturnine-saturneight, @the-golden-comet and @fortunatetragedy all tagged me for this questionaire! Also thanks to @davycoquette for the original meme!

About You

When did you start writing?

I remember writing a story for a first grade assignment when I was 4-5 and really enjoying it. They gave us little booklets that were just like construction paper cut into shapes with lined paper inside to write on. I didn't really start writing as a hobby until I was about 10, writing naruto fanfic.

Are the genres/themes you enjoy reading different from the ones you write?

I tend to write what I like to read! I like nonfiction on occasion which I definitely can write, I just don't do it very often.

Is there an author (or just a fellow writer!) you want to emulate, or one to whom you’re often compared?

No one has ever compared me to an author ever, lmfao, but there are some writers here on writeblr that I've got an eye on, with prose that fucking slaps. I haven't actually sat down and read their stuff yet for the most part, because my life has been crazy but from the excerpts I see on tumblr I'm like. Yes. That. That's great. How do they do that. shout out to @cowboybrunch, @fortunatetragedy and @davycoquette!

Can you tell me a little about your writing space(s)?

90% of the time I write in my messy ass bed my fitted sheet refuses to stay on. The other 10% I'm wandering to other places in the house.

What’s your most effective way to muster up some muse?

Write or die sometimes brute forces it out of me. Otherwise, brainstorming with a sounding board, answering some asks or tag games, or rereading my old stuff can all help me out here.

Did the place(s) you grew up in influence the people and places you write about?

I mean. Probably! I definitely do that thing where I'll picture the layout of a building as a building I'm familiar with. I've written a lot of apartments that look suspiciously like my grandparent's old house.

Are there any recurring themes in your writing, and if so, do they surprise you at all?

Yeah almost definitely lmfao. I keep noticing patterns after the fact. I have been circling the idea of dead worlds for one, and what it takes to survive there a couple times now. It's less obvious in project Cannibalism, but it's honestly still there.

Your Characters

Would you please tell me about your current favorite character? (Current WIP, past WIP, never used, etc.)

My current obsession is definitely Ravi, who is a dnd character, a larp character, and the main character of my Summer League OCT rounds. They started off as a gnome alchemist who is like just a back alley drug dealer when they got stuck in Barovia in a Curse of Strahd campaign. (Currently the only member of the original party still alive and aiming to keep it that way) I changed them to be a halfling when writing them for the OCT on a whim because it feels like a more grounded fantasy race to draw from without having to explain too much thanks to Lord of the Rings and its enduring cultural legacy. I've been greatly enjoying the process of writing, essentially, an incredibly traumatized character embark on a life or death venture among people who have no idea what the stakes are for them, exploring how badly adapted some of those defense mechanisms are for a regular ass place and how other people would view them, and how they would get there in the first place. I'd put them in my mouth and chew on them

Which of your characters would you be friends with in real life?

I can be a pretty sensitive person who prefers straightforward communication and positivity, so every single one of my horrible little prickly assholes is out. And that's a category I really enjoy writing so that's almost all of them lmfaoooo. I'd probably be friends with Wakma though. Wakma's cool.

Which characters would you dislike the most if you met them?

I wouldn't be able to stand Mala. She's consistently unpleasant and horrible to the people around her and I would not be able to let it roll off or just hit back like Rakani does.

Tell me about the process of coming up with your characters?

I like to develop characters in response to aspects I find interesting about the worldbuilding, or around a concept I want to explore. Sometimes they come about because there's a role in a story I need to fill. Wakma, for example, mostly came about because I knew Rakani absolutely needed a friend who didn't come from the Suyan hierarchy, and I already had this really cool idea about nomadic airship traders so I made him a diplomat from that culture, and then developed more of his character as I wrote him and decided what was important to the story.

Do you notice any reoccurring themes/traits in your characters?

Traumatized little goblins, people who aren't acceptable victims, who lash out and behave in unacceptable ways.

How do you picture your characters?

I do draw, so I do have pictures of what characters look like sometimes, but sometimes they're just blobs and I decide along the way what they look like. I do try to be deliberate about it though, because diversity in race and body types rarely just happens to me. It's something I work towards and am purposefully deliberate about.

Your Writing

What’s your reason for writing?

I wanna and no one's stopped me yet.

Is there a specific comment or type of comment you find particularly motivating coming from your readers?

i love it when someone points at something I did specifically about what about it they vibed with or excited them.

How do you want to be thought of by those who read your work?

Just don't look at me and expect my characters please.

What do you feel is your greatest strength as a writer?

Clarity.

What have you been frequently told your greatest writing strength is by others?

Well I think people have cried about my writing a lot, so it's quite emotional. I'm always very pleased when someone says I've hit on a level of some emotional realism.

How do you feel about your own writing?

I have great, creative ideas, but the execution could use a little work. I think my writing is pretty plain and worksmanlike, and that's like fine.

If you were the last person on earth and knew your writing would never be read by another human, would you still write?

This does absolutely open up a whole ass can of worms. jamie's right, how am i surviving here, if im subsidence farming I don't think I'd have the time and energy for writing. But like, I don't think I would if I knew I'd never have an audience. Even a small audience of one would be reason enough to write but if it's just me I might not.

When you write, are you influenced by what others might enjoy reading, or do you write purely what you enjoy?

I don't care what other people want when I'm writing. I only care when I'm editing lmfao.

i have not kept track of who has answered this or not so I'm just going to leave this open to anyone who wants this!!

[galaxyhanart]

HI IM HYPERFIXATING ON THE CABINET MAN AU I HABE QWESTIONS

1: How does Garm fit into everything? Does he see Jay? If so, what does he think about him?

2: Does Jay have top surgery scars? 👀

3: Since Kai is pretty untrustworthy sometimes when meeting new people, what does he think of Jay at first?

4: WHY IS JAY SO HECKIN CUTE AAAHHHH (more of a statement more then anything)

5: Do you mind if I take some inspiration from this AU for my Ninjago inspired story? (Like a whole "og gang finds a guy who has powers and they take him in" kinda thing)

6: What do Scott and Racer 7 (I think that's her name) think of Jay?

Drink some water and take care of yourself bestie, love your art! 🤲❤ (Btw here's my cat)

WAHHHHH THIS IS SO SWEET AAH THANK YOU!!!!!!

Sensei Garm is dead by the time Jay arrives in the picture, so when SoG comes along he's pretty confused. He doesn't have a personal connection to Garmadon like the rest of the group does, so he's actually the one with his head screwed on the most about taking him out and being wary of him. Overall though it's pretty much the same as how canon Jay acts about Garmadon. Meanwhile Garmadon's just kind of baffled that Jay exists at all since he was missing for so long

2. Yes he does! They stay after the game but they're not yellow anymore they're average scar colors

3. Kai and Jay have a lot of tension throughout the whole AU! Their dynamic is so interesting to me and I like to explore it in the au. Kai is SUPER distrustful of Jay and they take a while to warm up to each other. On the flip side, something that happens that absolutely SHATTERS Jay's trust in Kai for a while. Their relationship is super important to me so I'm excited to develop it more!!

4. WAHHHHH THAT'S SO SWEET THANK YOUUUU HEHHEHE i love drawing him all the time he rotates in my brain

5. OH MY GOD YES FEEL FREE???? I think the idea that one of the core ninja are missing are SO FASCINATING to play with and changes the character dynamics so much

6. Scott and Jay are super close!! Jay often goes to Scott for advice and help with things, even outside the game! They remain very close :D Racer 7 and Jay didn't interact much inside the game but they both respect each other and Racer 7 is super grateful to Jay for helping everyone leave the game

THIS ASK IS SO SO SWEET I've been staying super hydrated and your cat is SO ADORABLE AAAAAA

I haven't been able to work on the au for a bit now but it means the world to me that people still like it!! Now that I'm getting used to having a job and the college burnout is waning I'm stepping back into fanart and stuff so 👀 I have a sideblog @spinjitsuburst where I post just ninjago stuff and i've talked about Cabinet Man there too if you want any more content!!

[yellobb]

Tell me about ye olde "cold case outline"

Ooooo I was hoping someone asked about this one when I first posted the ask game!!!!

From this ask game

Cold Case Outline

This is another WIP that my sister and I did that we actually fully fleshed out, but I am still holding out a bit of hope that one day I’ll actually write the damn thing.

Simon is a mechanic and Baz is an Instagram model. They first meet when Baz brings his Jag in, and he’s immediately enamored with Simon in his oil-stained tank top, messy curls, and freckles. Simon immediately falls in love with Baz’s Jag and fawns over it, which does not help Baz’s predicament. He starts coming to the shop as often as possible with any excuse he can think of (oil change, tire rotation, “the building is just very aesthetic, Snow, so I need you to take my picture while I pose all sexy”). He even keys his own car at one point to have an excuse to visit him (it was a moment of desperation and he’s not proud of it, but he stands by his actions).

Simon lives with Penny and Shepard. Shepard is very into true crime and is hoping to start a podcast of his own about it. Shep visits Simon at work one day, but he gets very quiet and starts staring at Baz when he walks in to drop off the Jag, looking like he’s seen a ghost. Baz is visibly uncomfortable, so Simon kicks Shep out until Baz is good to go. He asks Shep what the hell that was all about afterwards, and Shep is like “that’s Baz Pitch”. “Yeah, and?” “Like, Natasha and Malcolm Grimm-Pitch’s son?! From the 2002 Olympics! Do you think he’d let me interview him for my podcast?”

It turns out, Baz isn’t just mildly famous for his Instagram presence. In 2002, when he was just five years old, his mother was an Olympic figure skater. The day of her event, she didn’t show up to warm-ups. She was found dead under suspicious circumstances over a week later. There are clips of some of her last moments where she acts erratically that went viral, and her case has fascinated the public ever since.

We didn’t get far on actually writing out this story, but what I did finish is a news report that explains the circumstances of Natasha’s death 👀 I’ve included it under the cut if anyone wants to read it! I’m actually pretty damn proud of how it turned out and have always wanted to share it, so I hope y’all enjoy :)

Natasha Grimm-Pitch Death Still Stumps People 20 Years Later

Natasha Grimm-Pitch, world-renowned ice dance figure skater from Great Britain and 3x Olympic medalist, went missing on February 9th, 2002. That morning, her husband and partner, Malcolm Grimm, woke up to find she had not returned in the night. Assuming she had stayed the night with her sister, Fiona Pitch, who had traveled with the pair in order to watch their 5-year-old son, Tyrannus Grimm-Pitch, while they competed, Grimm got ready for the day’s competition, but began to grow worried when Pitch met him at the Salt Lake Ice Center without her sister. She had met Grimm to take Tyrannus, known as “Baz” by those close to the family, but was shocked to find out that Grimm-Pitch had not returned to the couple’s room in the Olympic Village.

“Nat had come over the night before, yeah,” Pitch said, when interviewed about the disappearance the day after the event. “She came over to my hotel room to get some stress relief. I mean, this was her moment. She’d been out of the public eye for a while, after having Baz, and felt like she needed to medal in order to prove herself. I couldn’t tell you who she was proving herself to, though. She never cared what other people thought of her; not even me.”

Grimm was hesitant to alert the police, hoping that his wife had stayed with a teammate, but couldn’t hesitate any longer once warm-up was scheduled to start and she had yet to make an appearance.

“Nat would never have missed a warm-up, especially not now. She’s always on time. Something happened to her,” Grimm told the press the day of the disappearance. Grimm-Pitch’s disappearance caused a stir in the Olympic Village, especially amongst her teammates.

“I knew Natasha. That woman was a force to be reckoned with. When I heard that Malcolm had forfeited their position, I knew something was wrong. Everyone was uneasy as soon as we heard. I think we all knew, deep down, what must have happened. None of us even saw Natasha take a sick day. There was no way in hell she was going to let something stop her from competing again,” said teammate, Mitali Bunce, a year after her disappearance.

A mass investigation was launched into the disappearance, with state and local police leading the search. Grimm searched the streets with his sister-in-law in the hopes of finding her, often leaving their child in the care of the other British athletes. Though the ice dance competition continued, this would not be the case for long.

Natasha Grimm-Pitch’s body was found, washed-up in nearby Farmington Bay, on February 20th, just over a week after her disappearance. The Olympic Village, and the world, watched on in shock as her death was officially announced by the Salt Lake City Police Department at 11:08 AM. The Olympic Committee officially suspended what remained of the ice dance competition that evening, putting out a statement about the tragedy:

“In light of the recent tragedy involving ice dancer, Natasha Grimm-Pitch, the Olympic Committee has unanimously decided to suspend the ice dance competition for the remainder of the Olympic season. We ask the figure skating community to come together at this time to honor her legacy and mourn her loss. The Committee will reconvene in the next month to determine when the events will be completed.”

Her body was flown back to the family’s home in Hampshire, UK, but the FBI stayed in contact with British authorities for the resulting investigation. In the coming months, the mystery only grew. According to her autopsy, Grimm-Pitch had been dead for around 230 hours, placing her death sometime on the evening of February 10th, the day after she went missing. To make the case more shocking, she had only been submerged in the water for five days upon being found, meaning there was a six day gap between her death and her body being, supposedly, dumped in the bay. Despite this, she appeared to have died of natural causes, with nothing to indicate that she had resisted an attacker. There were already rumors in the news surrounding foul play, but things really exploded once security camera footage was made publicly available in April 2002.

In a now infamous clip, Grimm-Pitch is shown entering the Olympic Village at 3:00 AM, missing her shoes and the bag her sister claimed she left her hotel room with. Grimm-Pitch appears to be disoriented, running to hide behind walls and looking around wildly, despite no one being in the vicinity. The footage lasts six minutes, with Grimm-Pitch circling the building she was staying in, even briefly entering the entranceway before stumbling back out.

Her erratic behaviour combined with the confounding circumstances around her actual death threw the media into a frenzy. Every major news outlet reported for over a month with updates in the case, but no suspects were ever identified. It seemed that there were no leads whatsoever. The figure skating community and the true crime community alike waited with bated breaths to find if her death was ruled a suicide, homicide, or accident.

Unfortunately, the answer never came. In 2013, the case was unofficially closed after over a decade with no new information. The case has gone down as one of the most shocking and mysterious disappearances in British and American history alike. The Grimms and Pitches are still desperate for answers, though.

A year after the death of his wife, Malcolm Grimm officially announced his campaign for Prime Minister in the United Kingdom. Despite critics saying he was using Grimm-Pitch’s death to further his political aspirations, which had begun in 1997 with the birth of his son, he won the seat. With his victory, the most popular conspiracy theory surrounding Grimm-Pitch’s death was born.

Many people believe that Grimm knew their performance would fail, leading to them fading from the public eye. To prevent this, Grimm chose to murder his wife and use the sympathy he garnered following her death to get elected. He, allegedly, drugged her, waited for her to die, and hid her body in their room until, six days later, the police grew suspicious of him, so he dumped her body in the bay as a cover-up. Proponents of this theory claim that the mortician performing the autopsy was paid off to lie about finding drugs in her system.

Another popular theory surrounds Fiona Pitch. Pitch has a record of substance abuse, so theories have circulated about her, accidentally or otherwise, giving Grimm-Pitch more than she could handle (despite multiple sources stating that she never used drugs). The theory states that Grimm-Pitch managed to leave her sister’s hotel room before she started experiencing delusions and paranoia. Her sister, who had aided in the search for her, then found her body six days later, dead from overdose, and dumped her in the bay to avoid indicating herself in manslaughter. Many point to a 1995 case involving Pitch where her boyfriend, Nicodemus Petty, overdosed in their London apartment. Pitch herself barely survived the ordeal, but was saved when Petty’s sister, Ebeneza Petty, happened to visit that morning and was able to call paramedics. Pitch was convicted of illegal substance abuse and spent five years in rehabilitation facilities. She claims that she has been clean ever since.

Others believe that it was simply a case of mania, despite Grimm-Pitch’s nearly spotless mental health record. She had been prescribed Wellbutrin following the birth of her son, but stopped using it after only a year. To this day, the case remains unsolved.

Despite the rumors surrounding the family, they have seen unbelievable success. Grimm still enjoys a successful political career, but the star of the show is Tyrannus “Baz” Grimm-Pitch. He has grown a large following online, amassing thirty million followers on his Instagram since its creation in 2018. Grimm-Pitch enjoys a life as an Instagram model with an estimated net worth of nearly $10 million. Despite being in the limelight since his mother’s death, he has yet to publicly comment on the infamous case. His aunt acts as his manager, but abstains from all public appearances.

[elliemarchetti]

Possibilities

Inspired by this comic and @microficmay’s prompt 29. You can picture this as part of Comfort in Times of Pain’s universe if you felt sorry for Marlene but are into Wolfstar (and sapphic monster romance, if you squint) OR as the prologue of a Sirius x Marlene x Remus story (I’m starting to get into throuples and I see the potential here, so if you’re interested DM me with ideas and I will write them!)

Prompt: Thrall

Words: 708

Marlene was walking on the shores of the Great Lake with a cigarette between her lips, one of her usual walks to clear her mind after an argument with Sirius, when she felt the water behind her move unnaturally, as if something big was shifting underneath the surface. A hissing voice called out to her, and as she turned, she met a pair of yellow eyes set like precious stones in a semi-human face with greyish skin, framed by long green hair similar to algae hanging from the reef. The mermaid had a long silver tail and sharp teeth, exactly like the Care of Magical Creatures book pictured them, but her interest didn’t seem to be direct on the fresh human flesh that made up Marlene’s body, but rather on the fag from which a thin line of smoke emerged and quickly mixed with the fog extending from the water to the land.

“Does it work with your gills?” she asked, waving the cig.

“Not exactly good for your lungs either,” the mermaid replied, making her laugh. Even though her accent was a little creepy, and the Headmaster has told them to stay away from mermaids and centaurs alike, Marlene saw no harm in bagging one with a favour that cost her nothing, so she gave her a cigarette and lit it for her.

“I thought the agreements prohibited you from coming to the shores,” Marlene commented, to fill the silence, as she sat down on the stony shore.

“They heavily suggest it,” responded the mermaid, pushing most of her torso out of the water, her elbow almost touching Marlene’s exposed knee. “But I like it around here: the people are nice and there’s some kids who give me some of their scampi on Friday night if I show them my tits.”

Marlene laughed again. That’s where Peter and Carter disappeared with all that food every Friday night, then. She wondered if they realized the mermaid had no real boobs. They should’ve asked her to blow the smoke out of her gills, like she was doing now. The show was definitely more interesting than whatever they thought they were getting.

“You don’t seem to be bothered by me,” stated the creature, the corners of her thin lips slightly raised, as if the fact amused her, or made her someway happy.

“I’m used to non-humans,” she retorted, thinking of Remus and his condition, how the moon affected his mood and his energies. Even though they thought they had kept the secret perfectly, the Marauders weren’t exactly the most cautious people in the world and it took Marlene very little to connect her classmate’s absences to the lunar cycle. The fact that Lupin was a werewolf in no way changed the respect and affection she had for him: he was her friend, regardless of what had happened to him when he was a child and which was probably also the cause of the long scars that crossed his face. She heard many girls call him disfigured and lament the uneven, white tissue as a waste of beauty, but Marlene still found him handsome, one of the few things she actually agreed on with Sirius.

“Would it be rude to ask if we could be… regular?” inquired the mermaid, hopeful. “I don’t get to see many girls often and I enjoy to chat.”

“Sure,” Marlene rejoined, surprised but flattered. “Just, don’t siren me.”

“I wouldn’t,” countered the mermaid. “Thralls make terrible conversation. Furthermore, it would be a pleasure to have a human friend I could borrow magazines from. I love to look at all your pretty clothes.”

“And I’d love to hear some underwater gossips,” added Marlene. “I bet some interesting shit happens in this lake all the time and us students are blissfully unaware.”

“This time tomorrow?” asked the mermaid, and it was the first time Marlene saw one of their kind so enthusiastic. “If I bring you some pearls, would you get us some food to share?”

“You don’t have to, it’s be my treat,” replied Marlene. “And I’ll leave some cigs and my lighter for you.”

“I can’t wait!” exclaimed the mermaid before diving back into the water, waving with one of her webbed hands. “See you tomorrow!”