#i mean in a couple of years i'm sure i'll get bored & go back to school if i can manage it

[gideonisms]

Bench time ♥️ last official day of class maybe ever, just gotta turn a few things in

[kaidatheghostdragon]

"You must be Ra's," Tucker stated, careful to keep on a poker face while he frantically assessed the situation - tied down to a chair, in what was probably the heart of this particular fruitloop's lair.

And there was a frankly disturbing number of similarities to the OG fruitloop: the way he stood, the style of his hair, the perpetual sneer.

The way he sent a shiver down Tucker's spine like Vlad used to be able to way back when he was still intimidating.

"Gotta say," Tucker continued, shoving his emotions down like only a human-born liminal that dealt with empathic rogues on the daily could ever manage, "not that impressed. For starters, your vibes are rancid, dude. Like, what do you do, bathe in corruption all day?"

That earned him a slap on the face, "You will speak when spoken to," Ra's ordered.

Tucker witheld a smirk. This guy seemed like the type to order subordinates around to do absolutely everything. The fact that he personally slapped Tucker with his own hand? It could only mean that Tucker was already under the guy's skin.

"Well, that just means I can keep talking since you just spoke to me," Tucker retorted, unafraid of another slap. Really, compared to the abuse he put himself through helping Danny, and the way his liminality skyrocketed in the last couple of years, it was barely even a love-tap. It didn't even sting.

Ra's raised a brow, giving the distinct impression that he was absolutely livid, though that may have been the liminal empathy cluing Tucker in. He'd never been great at reading emotions until that particular ability developed.

"Who do you work for?" Ra's began the interrogation.

Tucker returned with his best affronted glare, "Frankly, I'm offended that you don't believe I could do all this entirely on my own."

"Kill him," Ra's stated as he turned to leave, sounding so unimpressed that it almost seemed bored.

Out of the shadows, an arrow flew straight at Tucker, who slipped his restraints (thank you liminality for giving him limited ghost powers) and caught the arrow before it pierced his chest, "Yeah, no. Imma veto that."

Ra's turned back around, looking almost impressed.

It made Tucker feel way slimier than Vlad could ever hope to achieve. He repressed a shudder. After all, his job here was to keep Ra's distracted while the others invisibly raided the place, destroyed the pits, and planted explosives.

Tucker, being the technopath, would normally stay behind in the chair, but the League of Assassins was well defended against cyber attacks, forcing them to pivot somewhat in order to successfully infiltrate the place. He ended up creating a digital duplicate of himself (a literal duplicate, like Danny could do, but Tucker's duplicate could only ever exist inside of a computer, by all appearances a true AI) that the others could upload to the servers once they found them.

Beyond that, there wasn't much Tucker could do beyond providing a distraction. Sure, the LoA's technology was absolutely worth drooling over, but they didn't rely on it like most of the modern world did. There was no internet connection, electronic locks, or surveillance for Tucker to hack into and make his own. This place was all stone doors and medieval fortifications.

"Impressive," Ra's complimented after a moment of silent appraisal, "perhaps you are worthy of my attention after all."

Tucker scoffed, getting the clear impression that this guy fully expected the ground he walked on to be worshipped after admitting such small praise, "You're not the first megalomaniac I've had to deal with, and you won't be the last." (Team Phantom had an entire list of fruitloops to work through once their LoA financial backing was removed, after all) "I'll give you props for the sweet ninja cult you got going on, though. Gotta say, that's a first for me."

"Assassins," Ra's corrected.

"Same diff," Tucker retorted with a handwave, knowing full well that a guy like Ra's would be miffed by such a dismissal. He further feigned disinterest by examining the arrow he was still holding. Tucker had taken a few archery lessons when he was younger and picked it back up by training a bit under Princess Dora's royal guard. He was... decent, with a bow. He could reliably hit his target as long as he had a couple of seconds to aim - or used something laced in technology that allowed his technopathy to steady it.

The arrow was expertly crafted and perfectly balanced. His heightened liminal senses smelled a substance on the arrowhead - probably a paralytic, not that it would have kept Tucker down for very long, even if it had breached his heart, which would have been a quick death for any baseline human. He tossed it from hand to hand a few times, feeling the weight, the threw it like a dart into one of the nearest shadows. A soft thud echoed through the room when the arrowhead bonked the chestplate of the assassin standing there, then a clatter when it fell to the ground.

"If I had a bow, he'd be dead," Tucker needlessly commented, thumb pointing to the hidden guard. He was somewhat surprised the dude didn't catch the arrow like Tucker had. But then again, if the shadows were meant to fully conceal him, catching the arrow would have given him away from the arrow not making noise or falling to the ground.

"You knew he was there," Ra's stated more than asked.

"And the eleven others," Tucker easily replied, "A full dozen to guard the King of the Cult. Not that it'll make any difference. I've already won."

Tucker didn't have any misconcieved notion that his liminality would give him an edge over a dozen trained assassins. It doesn't really matter how good your senses are or how fast your reflexes when you have to dodge a dozen attacks simultaneously. But what he could do was turn intangible during those first few seconds of adrenaline-fueled panic, more than long enough for either of the Phantoms, neither of which were currently more than a few hundred yards distant, to reach him and drag him away from immediate danger.

So Tucker latched onto that confidence borne of complete trust in his team, and radiated it as much as he could, daring Ra's to call his bluff with nothing more than a knowing smirk.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Country Rose 3

Warnings: age gap, power dynamics, creep behaviour, other dark elements. As usual, be mindful of your content consumption.

I also beg of you to leave me some tuppence in the form of a comment and/or reblog. You are cherished!

Enjoy, my loverlies.

You go down and find Martha in the kitchen. She smiles so brightly as you appear and offer to help her finish the corn. You can't help a sliver of glumness. Your mother never was so happy to see you. No, it's her disappointment that pushed you accept the job  to move away to the middle of no where. 

The more you think about it, the more you doubt yourself. To what end are you putting yourself through this desolate purgatory. It might be novel and peaceful now but you always tend to grow bored with the familiar. It's the very reason you flunked out of college. You couldn't do the same day over and over.  

"What are we making with the corn?" You ask, hoping the conversation can ease the tension, not just with Martha but in your mind. 

"Oh, I got some potatoes to roast and some beef. Homegrown," she explains, "you do a lotta cookin', sweetheart?" 

"Mostly out of boxes," you laugh, "but I'm willing to learn. How are you roasting the potatoes? Quartered? Sliced?" 

"Oh, you are so darned helpful," she brightens and gently taps your arm, "you can grab the sack just there," she points to the pantry door, "and give em a scrub before you cut em. Anyway you like. I'll pick out some seasonings." 

"Sounds like a plan," you agree. 

You set to work. You haul out the heavy canvas bag with a grunt and barely get it on the counter. Martha hands you a metal strainer, dented from years of use, and you fill it, rinsing the skins in the deep sink. 

"Clark said something about school," Martha says, "you'll learn a lot more out here." 

"Oh, yeah, dropped out," you turn and pick up the knife she set out with the thick board. "You know... just wasn't for me. My mom didn't want me sitting around and to be honest, I hate doing nothing." 

"Lots to do around here," she assures. 

She doesn't seem sad at the statement. She seems excited for your help. You're almost relieved as you expected cow dung and horse flies. 

"I'll be sure to carry my weight," you promise as you start chopping.  

"Mm, how sweet you are," she trills, "I see why Clark brought you here." 

"Uh, yeah, I'd hate to let him down. And it's a far way from home." 

"Why, you're grown. Not really meant to be home, is it? Finding your way like we all do," she hums and fills a pot with water, covering the corn cobs. 

Before she can attempt to lift it, you're at her side, "let me, please." 

"Oh, dang, you are just like, Clark," she mutters  "I'm not out to pasture just yet." 

"I know, but... it's heavy even for me," you assure her and show your effort as you carry the pot to the stove. 

"Mmm, still my house," she frowns and backs up. "Well, when I was your age, me and Jonathan were married for a while. Couple years but... no kids. Not til Clark came along." 

"Oh? How old were you when... when you had him?" You ask out if courtesy. You peek at her. You're not sure of her age and you're not bold enough to guess. Clark has to be at least in his mid-30s. 

"Oh, yes, about his age now," she answers as if reading your mind. "He's mine. Ours. Not by blood. Could never... you know..." she looks grim as she lowers her chin, "all the same, me and Jonathan never saw him as anything but ours." 

"Adopted?" You wonder. 

"Think we were meant to wait for him," she perks up, "anyway, how can I be sad with such a good son? Don't ya think?" 

"Yes, Clark is very nice," you agree. 

"Sweet boy," she preens, "strong, gentle, smart." She clasps her hands together, "I'm sure I don't need to say it." 

"Mm, uh huh," you murmur, not really sure what she means. 

“I know a lovely idea,” she says, “I have the meat marinating so why don’t you take him some of my sun tea? It’s his favourite.” 

“Ah, um, sure, I can do that.” 

“And take your time. You don’t gotta stay inside all day,” she chimes. 

“There’s a pitcher in the fridge. Put some ice in before you rush off. Have some yourself if you like.” 

You take the task as an opportunity to see more of the farm You pour a glass of the dark iced tea and add a few cubes of ice. Martha watches you go with a bright expression that leaves you a bit uneasy. It’s just her way, you guess. Maybe it’s a part of her condition. Clark mentioned she wasn’t quite herself. 

You head out and stop at the top step of the porch. You realise, you don’t know where to look for him. Instead, you look out at the fields and the barn, and the meeting of blue and green off on the horizon. It’s beautiful. You think this is what it feels like to have your breath taken away. 

“Hey,” Clark startles you as he appears. “Dinner already?” 

“Um, just tea, your mom sent it out,” you come down the steps to meet him. His skin glistens in sweat that dampens the edges of his shirt. The fabric clings to the thick muscles beneath.  

“Thanks, you have any?” He accepts the glass and gulps deeply. 

“Not yet, maybe with dinner.” 

“How’s ma doing?” 

“Fine, fine. I’m just helping her. She seems happy.” 

“She would be,” he shrugs, “always wanted a daughter. Spoiled me for sure but I know. She would’ve done well with one.” 

“Yeah, uh, but she loves you.” 

“Well, yeah, but every mother wants a daughter,” he says, “what about you? How are you settling in?” 

“Um, good. It’s... different.” 

“For now,” he says, “but you’ll get used to it.” 

[abbysbunny]

puhlease PLEASE a hazel callahan fic takşng place after the movie when hazel thought the kiss was special but PJ is treating her the same so hazel tries to make PJ jealous with y/n but they actually start having feelings (at first passionate) towards each other????????

FEELING'S AREN'T FAKE

--------------------------------------------------

plot: fake dating never works but sometimes it does just in different ways

warnings: light angst, nothing too serious, r is a cheerleader but that doesn't really affect the story!

word count: 1.8k

notes: sorry this took so long to get out but I'm a little burnt out rn! hope you like this anon🫶🏼

--------------------------------------------------

after hazel and PJs kiss, hazel thought that something was there, she tried hanging out more with PJ, but she would just pushed away and end up getting hurt. one lonely night hazel had the bright idea that maybe she could try and make PJ jealous, of course it was a dumb idea but at this point it was all she had.

she opened your contact and sent you a short message proposing the plan

'hey I know it's late but I'm trying to make PJ jealous so I was thinking we could fake date for a while, you down?'

of course she rewrote the message a couple times but when she got it down she nervously pressed send. a half hour later she got your confirmation

'sure, make it simple please I don't wanna waste too much if me time on this'

she smiled at your message excited for tomorrow, trying to go to bed all she could think about was PJ, how she would finally get to be with her, after years of waiting.

you sat on your bed and typed on your computer trying to finish up an essay do tomorrow, but you kept getting distracted by the thought of fake dating hazel, after a long 40 minutes of homework you closed your computer and put on some comfortable clothes. laying in bed you turned over and shut your eyes all of your thoughts just being about hazel

you walked onto school campus and saw hazel sitting on a bench reading something in a small book, 'i wonder what she's reading' you furrowed your brows and started walked over to her, 'hey!' you shouted to her, she quickly looked up and waved at you, you sat down next to her and she closed her little book, 'whatcha reading?' you questioned, 'uhm...she drives me crazy' you nodded, 'okay so what's the plan stan' she chuckled at your lame attempt of a joke and turned her head to you.

'so were just gonna act like we're dating, so hug and flirt and hold hands, all that gross shit, and hopefully PJ will get jealous' she said with a look on her face insinuating she was a very proud of her plan, you nodded and stood back up, 'sounds great to me, I gotta get to class so I'll see you later' you waved and grabbed your bag, 'wait!' hazel said a little too loud, you perked your head up at her, 'shouldn't we go in...together?' she suggested in a nervous tone

'oh shit yeah you're right' you stuck out your hand for her to grab on to, she took your hand and you started walking side by side, you entered the hall and people already turned they're heads to look at you two, I mean it is pretty weird seeing a cheerleader and a total nobody date, you got to hazel's locker and you leaned against against the a near wall, out of the corner of your eyes you saw PJ and Josie walking towards you

'pj and Josie are coming over here' you whispered to hazel, she turned around and shut her locker, a couple seconds later they stood right in front of you, the weird thing is that you had never actually talked to them, so now that you "dating" they're friend you would have to, talking to the girl your crush fake girlfriend is in love with was not on your bucket list. as they started talking you zoned out mid conversation, they talk about such boring stuff, how were you supposed to keep up?

next thing you heard was the loud bell ring, you saw that they had left and now it was just you and hazel, and of course the swarm of students late to class. hazel unexpectedly grabbed your hand and led you through the crowd, you both got to class in time, kinda. the boring school hours past by fast and as soon as you knew it was lunch, you thought you would sit down with your friends like you do everyday, but that was before you were pulled to a table in the corner of the cafeteria with hazel and the rest of the fight club.

as they talked you felt hazel's hand snake around your waist, you felt you face get hot but you continued eating, after an excruciating hour of listening to them talk as hazel moved her hand from your waist, to hips your to shoulder to your thigh, it was finally time to leave you packed everything up and sped out of the cafeteria, hazel catched up to you and walked with you out of school. you both sat down at the same bench from this morning

'so did I do good as a fake girlfriend?' she questioned with a cocky grin on her face, you rolled your eyes and turned your head to face her, sure having her as your fake girlfriend was gonna be nice but what if you catched even more feelings? what if her and PJ actually get together and you're just left alone again. 'you did pretty good' you said leaning against the back of the bench, you smiled and immediately started talking about the rest of the plan.

it has been 2 weeks of the fake dating and it really seemed like PJ didn't care, but tonight there was a big party at Isabel's, hazel thought it was perfect opportunity to make PJ "jealous". you decided to get ready together like a cute couple,hazel wore some simple baggy jeans and a white t-shirt, she almost looked like a frat guy, you chose what you usually wear to party's, nothing to flashy but nothing too simple.

when you got there it was loud and already smelled like BO and alcohol, you sat down on a couch with hazel by your side, she put her arm around your shoulder and you stiffed up, still not used to her touch. almost the whole party you say right there, getting up a couple time's to go to the bathroom, when the party died down, Isabel came out from the kitchen with an empty beer bottle, 'what are we 12!' PJ shouted, you chuckled and sat down next to Josie I'm the big circle of people

Isabel spinned the bottle and it landed on Josie, you could see Isabel blush and Josie had a nervous look on her face as they entered the small downstairs bathroom, after was felt like a life time someone yelled, 'seven minutes is up' you heard the door unlock before Isabel came out with a very visible hickey on her neck, some people gasped and others laughed, they sat back down and now it was Pj's turn, she spinned the empty bottle and it landed on, hazel.

hazel tired to hide her smile and she looked over to you, 'aren't you guys dating?' PJ looked at hazel then you, you opened your mouth to say maybe it was better if she re spinned, but before you could hazel spoke up, 'no it's okay, I mean it's just a dumb kids game right?' hazel looked at you trying to indicate that she really wanted to do this, you looked at the ground for a second before agreeing with her, some guy patted your shoulder and called you a 'chill girlfriend' you let out your best fake laugh and put your knees to your chest

meanwhile the scene of hazel and PJ in the bathroom was to say the least very awkward, 'so do we kiss?' hazel anxiously asked, PJ nodded and moved closer to her trying to make things more natural, hazel cupped PJs face and brought her lips to hers, she finally kissed PJ, after years of waiting she finally did it and she felt, nothing. absolutely nothing, she bearly even kissed back, you got up and told your friends you needed a drink and somehow they believed you, you walked into the kitchen grabbed your purse and left that god awful party, you didn't even think about saying goodbye because if you did you would have to watch them come out of that bathroom and see the start of they're relationship

hazel unlocked the door early and people were confused, 'you have to do seven minutes not three!' Sylvie shouted and people agreed, hazel noticed you weren't there and got worried, 'c'mon guys we're not middle schoolers and where's my girlfriend?' she shouted back, 'oh I think she left' some guy slurred clearly intoxicated, hazel grabbed her phone and said goodbye to everyone and that she was going to find you. what she didn't know was that you were already home by the time she had left, she urgently called you trying to understand where you were so you could talk

after 5 missed calls you finally picked up, 'where are you?' she said through the phone, 'home' you responded dryly, she let out a sigh of relief and started walking to your house still on the phone with you, 'why did you leave?' you thought about actually telling her why but the you remembered you actually dating, 'i was tired' she scoffed as she finally saw your house through the dark, 'open your front door please' she stood waiting impatiently for you, 'are you outside my house?'

you said walking down your stairs, 'yes just please open up it's cold' she hung up, you put your phone down and opened up your front door, you looked hazel up and down and saw no hickey, weird. you moved from the door and she stepped in, she shut the door behind her, you quickly grabbed her hand and took her to your room, she had never actually been in your room, you had been at her house but she'd never been to yours, you closed the door and say down on your bed next to her

'so why do you wanna talk haze?' she sighed and looked you straight in your eyes, 'i don't think I like PJ' she confessed, your eyes widened, had you done this whole plan for nothing, had you hurt yourself...for nothing? 'okay then who do you like? I'm not going to go through this plan another time just with a different person, I really hope you know that' you said in a frustrated tone, she moved closer to you and put her hand on your thigh, 'what the fuck was she doing?' you questioned to yourself

she just responded by crashing her lips with yours, at first you were taken aback, very taken aback, but then you felt how soft her lips were and how passionate and pure this moment was, you quickly kissed back and moved yourself closer to her, she dragged out the kiss for a couple more seconds before pulled away. you couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity of the situation, she laughed with you and pulled you into a tight hug.

'i love you' she mumbled into your shoulder, you sighed and kissed the side her neck, 'i love you too' you mumbled back.

[malecftw]

Dirt - Tom Blyth

A/N: Duuuuuuuude, I feel like I'm in an alternate universe. Never would I have thought I'd ever be writing again, years later! Please please please let me know what you guys think since this is my first story back. It'll probably play a part in wether or not I'll write more since I obvs love writing, but a writer isn't a writer without readers.

Enjoy xx

Warnings: fluff.

(Not my gif obvs)

The cool breeze of the opening car door makes you smile. The vehicle moves slightly as someone sits in the driver's seat. After some rustling you hear: "Open up." You do as you're told and open your lips slightly, only to feel the cool metal of a reusable straw. A groan escapes your lips as you taste your favorite cooled beverage. By now, he knew all your favorites by heart, just like he knew your dislike for the standard paper straws they've started using everywhere. You're all for saving the planet, but paper should never be sucked on. You lean your head against the headrest as you turn your head towards the driver's seat, even though your eyes could only see black.

"Does this mean you're gonna be my servant all day?" You hear a chuckle. "Don't get used to it hot stuff. You're only blindfolded until we get there." You puckered your lips, "and where is there exactly?" you try again. For months, he's been keeping you in the dark about what he had planned for your birthday. He hyped it up quite a bit so your curiosity only grew as it led you to this moment, literally in the dark about the whole thing. He just kissed your lips and you knew that was the only answer you were gonna get.

The drive was filled with your favorite music, the occasional chatter and regular hand kisses as he held yours in your lap. Although you couldn't see anything, you weren't bored. It was rare that you got to spend much time together, so even this was a treat. You still found it crazy how he had been able to persuade the producers and director to film around your birthday. Well, persuading isn't exactly the right word. He had a few different gigs lined up, so he could basically tell them: "Give me these days off, or I'm going for the other job."

He was always the assertive one in the relationship. Especially when it came to you. Any free moment he could get, he would make sure to capitalize on it just so he could spend it with you. Ever since you guys met at Julliard, you'd been absolutely smitten with eachother.

Your thoughts were interrupted as the car came to a halt. "Slow down tiger." He said, quickly grabbing your hand moving towards the blindfold. "Tooooooom, please..." you whined, squeezing his hand. "You'll find out soon enough, trust me. Now I'm going to come over to your side to help you get out okay. No peeking."

The dramatic sigh that left your lips made him laugh, loving the advantage he had over you. As you play with a loose thread on your jean overall he opens the door. Grabbing your waist, he lifts you out of the Jeep, squeezing your sides in the process.

"Okay, take off your blindfold on my mark." He exclaims, followed by alot of shuffling, making you aware of multiple people present. "Go for it babe." He says loudly, and you do as he says.

The sight infront of you startles you, not at all what you expected. It feels like you're in some kind of national park. Only stones, sand and dirt in sight. If you exclude the group of people infront of you that is.

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY!" Everyone shouts at the same time and you jump back a little in surprise. In front of you are you closest friends, as well as some of Tom's coworkers you'd been lucky enough to get close to. A few Billy The Kid costars were also there, you assumed the others had to keep filming while he had a couple days off.

As you take in the sight, hand over your mouth, still in shock, you notice everyone has a bucket hanging from their wrist. "What the fuck!?!" you shout, happy but confused. Tom walks up to you, takes your hand and walks you closer to the group. He hands you a similar looking bucket, a chisel and a hammer.

"We're going crystal digging." Tom smiles, stretching out his arms proudly as he looks at the scenery. Your heart nearly bursts at the seams as you throw your new equipment to the ground and jump in his arms, clinging onto him like a Koala.

"Tom Blyth, you are the most unrealistically perfect boyfriend ever and I do wonder how I ended up with you." You whisper, looking into his eyes, trying to make him realise how much this means to you.

It's not like you were crystal-obsessed. It's just something you'd been drawn to your entire life. A little quirk one might say. It was a subtle part of your life. One that you had often gotten judged for by previous boyfriends. Tom never spoke negatively about it, it was just a part of who you are and if it made you happy, why would he try to manipulate it out of you like the ones before him. It's not because he himself wasn't that interested in it, that you weren't allowed to be.

"Babe, all I do is listen. It's not rocket science." He smiles as he gives you a little Eskimo kiss. "So humble," you mock swoon as het puts you down. "Oi, don't be jealous if I find the biggest rock okay." He grins while nudging your side. "Not gonna happen. I'm a crystal magnet." You say cockily as you join the group.

After a couple hours, everyone was covered in dust and dirt. Happily you look at your bucket, having found a couple huge, beautiful crystals and a lot of smaller ones. Next to you Tom was also holding his bucket closer to his face to inspect what he found. Your shoulder touches his elbow as you say: "You know what, I might have a couple of them made into some lovely jewelry pieces."

Tom looks at you bewildered. "Like what?" You don't think much of it as you answer. "I don't know. There's some beautiful stones in here for some earrings, necklaces, bracelets... Or maybe I can make some stuff myself you know. Get my creative juices flowing." He sighs softly at your answer. "I love you." At that you raise your eyebrow. Neither you or Tom were shy of expressing your love for eachother, but this was a bit random. "I love you too. I honestly don't think you realise how much this means to me. I never would have guessed this to be the surprise. It's so thoughtful. It truly shows how much you know me through and through." "I'm glad you like it. You're always down to try anything, even if you're not sure about it in the beginning. That's why I feel comfortable trying something new. I'm aware it hasn't been easy now that work's been steady and I've been away from home a lot. And you have no idea how much I appreciate you giving me the freedom to follow my dreams."

He leans down and kisses you passionately. Melting into his touch you stand there for a while looking at the scenery, taking everything in.

*That evening*

"You clean up nicely mr. Blyth." You comment on his attire. He does a little twirl, smirking as he checks you out. "You're not so bad for a little scavenger." You poke his side and sit down in one of the chairs. After you'd said your goodbyes to the rest of the group, Tom had driven you about an hour away from the crystal mine. You knew that wasn't the end of your birthday surprise since he'd told you to also pack some nice evening attire.

Tom had booked an amazing restaurant. The owners went above and beyone to blow your mind, preparing an outdoor table with the best view. After dessert, you both were enjoying some lovely wine and eachother. Catching up after not having seen eachother for a while since you'd only flow in yesterday so you could spend your birthday together.

He absentmindedly played with your fingers as a comfortable silence settled between you two. You felt him rubbing your ring finger and noticed him looking at it. "Looks quite empty doesn't it." He says quite casually. You roll your eyes and jokingly hit his chest. "Don't play that game." You say, smiling widely. You'd talked about marriage before, you both knew you wanted it at some point in your life. Sure some people say it's just a piece of paper, and you couldn't fully disagree, but it also had a deeper meaning to the both of you. The promise of choosing eachother, every day, forever.

He looked into your eyes and shook his head.

"I'm not playing games anymore love."

The way he said it made you shiver. He'd made that joke before, but never with an answer so serious. He leaned back in his chair. "Do you remember, early on in our relationship, that time I forgot my tie for one of the first plays I did at Julliard?" You smile as you think back to that memory. "How could I forget. You were basically a living zombie for 3 weeks leading up to that play."

Tom nodded, back to playing with your fingers.

"I remember I had been so stressed. The character I played was so dull. I struggled so much finding ways to make him more interesting to the audience. And that damn tie. It was so important to me. Silly how something so small could mean so much at the time." "So much that you forgot it at home 3 hours before the play." You humored.

Looking enamoured, he continued.

"And I remember you. You with your make up half done, running towards me in a fucking thunderstorm. And when we met in the middle, you just casually opened your vest, handing over that damn tie."

Laughter exploded from your chest. You were in the middle of getting ready to attend the play when you got the frantic call from Tom. You didn't think twice and started running towards the school, and didn't even realise it was raining until you were running through the streets of New York City, by then it was too late to turn back to dress appropriately for the weather.

The man infront of you smiling, as he relived the same memory.

"That's when I knew."

A questioning look painted your face.

"I knew. Right then and there, that I'd always look for you in the crowd."

Speechless, you squeezed his hand.

He sat up straight in his chair. Taking both of your hands in his.

"I love you. I love the way you still can't use our airfryer, 2 years after we got it. I love your random obsession with knitting and making me wear your handmade sweaters to work. I love home, but only when you're there. I love that you let me be who I truly am and I love that you are fearlessly yourself."

He stood up and kneeled down infront of you, taking out a red, velvet box.

"Please allow me, to fulfill one more dream of mine."

As he opens the box he speaks with shaking voice and tears in his eyes.

"Will you marry me?"

[pinkandgoldensoul]

Heyo!

Since I'm definitely a fan of your writings and this tinkling feeling of requesting you something has been irking me, can I request something like an arranged marriage with Pierre?

Angsty and maybe a happy ending. That's upto you.

Love your works. Hoping for more great pieces.❤️

Happy New Year 🎊

(At the end of the fic I'll leave a note about this request ❤️)

Navigation || Masterlist

If this is your first time here on this blog, please check the Disclaimers here.

pairing: pierre gasly x female!reader (feat. esteban ocon x female!reader and charles leclerc as reader's bestfriend) genre: arranged marriage, angst, fluff and comfort !tw!: swearing, mention of s*x (not graphic), cheating, violence word count: 18.6k plot: you loved him, he loved you, and neither knew. Will an arranged marriage, an old love triangle and a special friend be enough to finally make you confess your true feelings?

Walking down the aisle, a bouquet clumsily held by trembling fingers, your whole chest was filled with quick butterflies batting wings, desperate to spread free. He was perfect. An astonishingly crafted smirk plastered on his face, ready for the flashes of the cameras to be captured, the suit slid on his athletic body without creases. You reckoned yourself inadequate in that white, plain dress: feeling pins pulling your hair left and right after hours of work by the hairdresser, the steady arm of your dad was the only anchor to the present moment. He never strayed his stare away from you, removing your veil in a slow, tantalizing motion. There were no vows to be exchanged and get mistaken in anxiety, no rings to be put through the wrong finger: you were and had always been his since forever, without he even had to ask. You peeked behind Pierre’s shoulder and saw Charles showing you an encouraging smile, which you tried to reciprocate despite sweating cold. You remembered his huge grin when Pierre had handed him the invitation: dimples on full display, Charles had flicked his eyes between the two of you and had been stoked ever since he was told he’d be best man. He’d been happier than Pierre himself had been about the news of the engagement with you and, consequently, about the wedding.

>>♥<<

«Okay, cool.» That had been his answer to you two fathers’ decision. They had grown best friends over the years, and they both didn’t like Pierre’s womanizer lifestyle, which was quite detrimental to his reputation. So your dad had decided to offer his own daughter to the Gasly’s like a sacrificial victim, knowing you had always had sympathy for the youngster and sure he would simply love you back with time. Of course, you were painfully aware of Pierre’s usual behavior around girls and, even though befriending him in teenage had made you helplessly fall in love with him, getting married felt like the cruelest assault to your dignity. For sure you would love him. And for sure he would not. Sitting on a couch right in front of each other, your parents discussing a couple of meters away, he simply bore his eyes into yours while drinking a glass of juice, legs spread out. «We’re going to have fun the first night together or…?» Your eyes threw a dagger to him, hit in your pride for the insensitive comment; Pierre wasn’t known for being delicate and considerate, when you used to hang out in group with him. After all, his humor was one of the things that had you capitulate before his feet. «Okay, I see. No jokes.» You squeezed your fingers into fists, uptight, dissatisfaction cursing through your blood. «Not on such things, Pierre.» «Like what? Sex?» he raised a brow. «My wedding.» you sighed. «Our wedding, you mean.» «Doesn’t seem as pivoting to you. Nothing will really change for you.» «We’re both going to wear a ring, y/n. Never seen a marriage without the groom or the bride.» He downed the last sip of the juice and placed the glass on the coffee table. You knew from the start it wouldn’t be a fairytale.

>>♥<<

«Don’t think a bride should stand on her own and look so sad.» Charles’ words whispered in your ear made you roll eyes and brought an immediate smile to your face. «Don’t think a best man should bother the bride with stupid remarks.» «Do you think it’s stupid?» he asked, raising his brow to insinuate doubt. «Pierre is having a blast and you… well, you’re here listening to the stupid remarks of the best man.» The small stem glass of champagne you still held had dried out of bubbles, but seemed interesting enough to draw your eyes down; Charles, genuinely sorry to witness your let down expression, wetted his lips and briefly glanced back at Pierre, laughing and dancing with the other guests. «Let’s go dance.» Caught by surprise, you tilted your head back up, wide eyes. «C’mon, don’t pretend you didn’t hear!» Charles chuckled, holding both your hands. «We’re going to make fools of ourselves…» «But that’s what we do the best when we’re together!» You let yourself be dragged in the middle of the dance floor set up under an outdoor gazebo: Charles’ ridiculous moves made a visceral laugh emerge from the depths of your fears, as he tried to involve you in his bubbly fun, despite the dress not helping the flow of your groove. «Geez, I feel so awkward!» you let out, head leaning backwards, invested by a childish happiness. «Just dance it out, we’re doing amazing!»

The sun setting down at the horizon threw an orange gold ray cut through the air, hitting Charles’ profile, getting both enlightened and obscured in two poetic halves which danced relentless and made you twirl around without a single thought. Out of notice, the guests had gathered around the two of you, enjoying the show you had put up; and when the music faded out to a slower tune, catching your breath in Charles’ arms, hands resting on his heaving chest, your sight found Pierre’s blue eyes, filled with an unreadable expression. As slower notes filled the air, he walked over to you, confident in each firm step, putting Charles’ luminous smile in defeat: when Pierre was around, there was no chance for you to look at any other person. He simply took your hands, implicitly warning Charles to move away and make room for him, tenderly joining the swinging fabric of your dress. Too affected by his presence and by racing thoughts about the future you would share with him from that moment on, you placed your burning cheek upon his chest, right above his heart. «Why didn’t you ask me to dance?» His question breached your overthinking silence. «You were too busy entertaining the guests.» You didn’t mean for your words to sound as veiled of sadness and resigned as they did, but you felt somehow content in letting Pierre know how you felt about the whole situation. He had you wrapped around his finger; his ring one. You were engraved in the inner circle of gold touching his skin, kissing it tenderly, vowing love to him any second. «I thought I’d make you uncomfortable giving you all my attention. You dropped a glass during lunch because of it, and I don’t want you to get hurt.» His smirk disseminated deep, red shame on your cheeks; why did you put blush on earlier that morning if Pierre was managing to do all the work by himself?

An unerasable pang of hurt chained your feet to the ground, unable to sink deeper into Pierre’s gentle hands holding you throughout the dance: you told yourself it wouldn’t shatter you completely if you thought he didn’t mean any of the things he did, he said. Holding you closer, cheek resting on his white, unbuttoned shirt, he left an unexpected and unseen peck on the top of your head, as you both still lulled to the beat. He then leaned on a side, dropping whispered words into your ear. «Want to see a smile on my wife’s face. It’s our wedding, after all, not our funeral.» As much as you wanted to feel hatred, you let Pierre’s jokingly voice sink, unconsciously obliging to his request right away. You felt young, drunk, foolish. You’d enjoy every bit of attention he’d spare you. Every single scramble.

>>♥<<

Pierre had insisted on picking you up before entering your newly bought apartment, to stick to the tradition; between giggles and laughs, you had admired you two’s mothers astonishing work of petals and candles signaling the way over to the bedroom. The dim lights enchanted your sight, as you stood speechless before the bed. Pierre’s hands caressing your forearms and slowly making their way up to your shoulders awoke you and froze you at once. The tip of his nose brushing your neck, you didn’t dare move nor speak as Pierre pressed soft kisses all over. Were you ready? Pierre encircled your waist with his arm, both relieving and accentuating the knot forming in your stomach. Would you ever be ready? You hadn’t talked about that moment, you hadn’t considered there’d be the need to. You thought he wouldn’t even touch you, once everybody’s eyes would be out of sight. So why was he taking all his time carefully unbuttoning the back of your dress, leaving open mouthed kisses on the bare skin he had available? «Pierre…» You soon realized your moan had been an incentive to Pierre when an airy chérie was whispered upon your shivering skin. «Pierre, I don’t know if we should…» «It’s our first night married, y/n. This is exactly what we should do.» His voice was warm, slightly raspy, perfectly calm and collected, concealing a burning desire underneath. Pierre tucked a lock of your neat hair behind your ear, leaving your neck shivering at the touch. «I know this probably isn’t how you hoped your wedding to be… But now I’m your husband, and I’m willing to do everything I’m supposed to. I’m not backing down.» «Will you ever love me?» you asked, suspended. Pierre tucked another strand of hair in the same spot. «I can’t promise that.» Of course, how would he? «But I’m always going to respect you, no matter what. I swore it and I’ll stand by it.» You slowly turned around to face him, picking up the gown of your dress and pressing a hand to your chest so that it wouldn’t slip off due to the strings being loosened. «Please, don’t… Please, promise you won’t hurt me, Pierre.» The pleading tone of your voice unexpectedly pulled a string inside Pierre’s chest. «Do you really think I’d do that on purpose? Y/n, we’ve been… we’ve known each other for so many years.» «That’s what scares me.» You diverted your gaze, staring at your own reflection on the window: you were now gripping at Pierre’s shirt, the bodice dangerously threatening to slip down, eyes brimming with tears. How could you be more miserable than asking your husband not to hurt you? «Y/n, I’m not a teen anymore. And I’m kind of offended that you think I’m what other people say and what the media want to make everybody believe.» «I wouldn’t have agreed to the wedding, if I believed all the things they said about you.» you whispered. «Then trust the words I said at the altar.» Pierre delicately cupped your cheek, leaving a slow, tender kiss on the opposite temple. «For better and for worse…» he said, boring his eyes into yours. «For richer and for poorer…» he carried on, swiftly freeing your arms from the dress’ sleeves. «In sickness and in health…» Pierre breathed upon your lips, grabbing the dress fallen down to your hips. «Until death do us part.» Gripping tight Pierre’s arms, you let him take your breath away with his sloppy kiss, shivering, despite your face feeling warm and flushed in heat. «I will love you, y/n.» Pierre tucked yet another strand of hair behind your ear. «Maybe not like a charming prince, but I will love you as much as I can.»

His fingers pressed on your shoulders, silently asking you to sit on the edge of the bed, to which you obliged without even thinking twice. The air was thick in pleasant tension: Pierre had let his jacket shuffling its way to the floor, staring at you as he unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirt; on your side, you had joined his intentions fidgeting with the buttons crossing his chest and abs, fully focusing on the slow, tantalizing task, instead of searching the force to bear his magnetic eyes. The golden shade casted over your cheeks, blending with the natural reddish shade of feelings spreading over your skin, left Pierre with an unexplainable tug inside the chest, pushing him to bend down and trap you on the mattress with yet another kiss, suddenly impatient. His shirt long forgotten on the floor upon the jacket and his tie, Pierre’s roaming hands dragged your dress down, making sure you’d slip completely out of it, so that you’d be bare for him to avidly see, touch and savor. Senses overwhelmed by his presence, helplessly amazed at how he could enchant your limbs and make them so reactive and sensitive to his touch, your fingers searched for relief on his body, between his brownish locks of hair, on his muscled neck and upper arms. Anything, to release the growing yearning he was masterfully building and lighting up inside of you. Pierre stopped all of the sudden, one elbow keeping him up, eyes lost in focus, as the fingers of his free hand traced an imaginary line from your sternum, down your chest. Before you could swallow hard at the gesture, he placed a lewd kiss right where his pointer finger had stopped. Again, uncontrolled, a soft moan escaped your already opened lips, tugging at his hair as to both pull him away and push him deeper into your soul. He raised his eyes to look at you hungrily, lips still stained with your skin. «I will honor you all the days of my life, y/n.» Pierre read the soft stare you gave him and the lovingly caress of your hand on his head as an invitation to drag his mouth upon your tender breast, finally free from the white cloth he had wished to tear apart since he had seen you walking down the aisle, swearing to himself he’d not be satisfied until he’d heard you scream his name from the top of your lungs, with his own hands, eyes and heart full of you.

The wedding being held in Italy at the beginning of September, right after Monza’s race weekend, you both had spent only a couple of days in the new house in Milan, in the attempt of building the sense of affectionate routine you would inevitably lose after taking the flight for Azerbaijan, following Pierre in the double-header awaiting him. The media had called it “racing-moon”. It was no ordinary honeymoon, travelling across the globe to support your husband, watching him with a pair of headphones and staring at him from a screen inside Alpine’s box, shying away from paparazzi’s cameras ready to capture glimpses of intimacy you didn’t even know how to spark yourself. A night of love wasn’t enough to erase the helpless feeling of distance and separation around Pierre: you were friends, sure, but your heavy crush on him had always prevented the relationship from growing further as it had happened with Charles. Daydreaming about him laying down your bed, earphones plugged, you had known every single detail about the things he liked while being in your early teens; now, looking at him packing his suitcase, standing at the doorframe you realized you either had never known him before or you had forgotten anything at the altar once he had kissed you alive.

«Do you need help?» you asked, closing and releasing your fingers from a fist, feeling useless. «Oh, didn’t notice you were there.» he quickly peeked at you. «No, thanks! I don’t know how, but it took half the time.» You raised a brow, leaning against the frame with arms crossed. «Maybe… it was the perfectly organized wardrobe I spent two days filling up with all your clothes?» «Mmh, I’m not really sure… Maybe I’ve just got quick with packing, since I’ve been doing it every other week for years now.» His smirk triggered an eye roll in you, so noticeable that Pierre turned to you, taking the suitcase off the bed and letting it roll on the floor. Not kind of expecting him to get that close to you after only stopping by the room, suddenly aware of how his stare could get your whole body drawn to him, succumbed to him, enchanted and gravitating around his brightness, you let yourself be courted by Pierre’s teasing fingers running up your arms. «I’m done now, so…» he said. «So?» «The bed is clear.» Throwing him an amused glance, about to laugh at how lewd his voice had sounded while hinting at the endless list of things you could do there, you pretended not to get his point. «Well, good job! We have somewhere to sleep tonight then.» «There’s no way, right?» Pierre squinted his eyes, hands still warming your skin caressed by the hot Italian wind blowing from the window. «Way to do what?» you asked, faking innocence once again. «I think you perfectly know.»

September’s heat had paired up with the warmth creeping up your ears while Pierre encircled your waist and inched over, causing butterflies inside your chest to awake your heart, moving past your thoughts to put them to sleep, as an overwhelming flow of love made you crave that heavenly attention and touch every second more. Pierre seemed to stop in his relentless chase of a kiss: he stood still, enjoying the closeness, the intimacy of the moment, with your arms enclosed around his neck. There was no rush. The house was hollow and silent; only your breaths could be heard, mixed with the distant chatter coming from the street. Maybe that was the happiest and most peaceful corner of life he would ever know. Maybe holding your waist knowing that you were his wife, that he had settled his forever home, maybe spending his life with you was happiness. He struggled forming deep rooted love feelings towards you, yet could picture the two of you having kids so easily, travelling together, filling that empty house with memories. Maybe it was the fondest look in your eyes making every fantasy so incredibly near and easy. There was something, though, that Pierre didn’t find hard to spark at all. «Changed your mind?» you whispered, teasingly but soft. Attraction. Pierre was so desperately enamored with your body; to be fair, he had always quite been. Untouched by innocence, back at the time you would hang out in group, he would see you utterly oblivious to how other guys glanced at you and wonder if you had ever had sex before. The night of your first time together – the wedding’s – he had both been unfazed and surprised about noticing you weren’t a virgin: it totally made sense for someone as beautiful as you to have been with a guy, but at the same time he had no clue of who you had appointed as the one, and it was weird, because you used to hang out with the same people. He had always thought you had been in his universe, like a satellite, and had always taken your presence for granted, without ever considering he could be the planet on the margin of a totally different galaxy you shined in. Pierre was so intimately envious of a past you didn’t allow him in, and his only way to cope was making sure he could be your only future. «Not at all.» The fastest flicker of his eyes down to your lips was the warning, which you took in with delight: and Pierre was all over you, dragging you into his lighthearted desires and plans, igniting a shy flattering shade beneath your cheeks.

Pierre had insisted on entering the paddock hand in hand; in return, you had insisted on giving your right hand, standing on his left side. He had frowned just enough for you to capture it, not able to understand your request. «As you wish.» But you knew why: and your thumb gently stroking his wedding ring knew as well. Unexplainable excitement was the first feeling which had insinuated in you as you put foot past the turnstiles: Pierre had reminded you quite a few cameras would be following you in a bee line right around you. You were too happy to care, in your first outing as a married woman. As a married couple.

«Oh, hello to the royal couple!» You couldn’t stop yourself from eye-rolling at Charles’ comment, drinking Pierre’s laugh like a shot of bliss. «What, are you jealous?» They laughed and joked around, giving friendly pats to each other, while you watched them with a grin plastered on your face, enjoying the luck of spending time with people you loved. So many things had changed, but it still felt like you were still sixteen, walking without destination in group, young and careless, emptying your pockets full of dreams and using them as currency of exchange between each other. «Catch up with you later, I’ve got a meeting now!» «See you later!» you waved at Charles, as Pierre greeted him.

Entering Alpine’s hospitality you squeezed Pierre’s hand in fright: out of the blue, a deafening clapping concert made your heart fly across the room, as mechanics, engineers and other people from the staff celebrated you two. Pierre looked down at you, curious to see your reaction, still infected by the serene and uplifted atmosphere, swimming in delight as soon as your eyes clicked with his and saw you flattered. There was a bit of pride in showing you off like a trophy, proving everybody wrong with the assumption he’d never settle down and never find the one. Well, he didn’t really choose you out of love. But nobody was meant to know that.

«Congratulations, mate.» The voice reaching from behind your back made you turn, despite it being directed at Pierre. Your eyes flew high to Esteban���s face, enlarging in surprise: he wasn’t looking down at you, caught in the weirdly friendly interaction with your husband. But as soon as Pierre was dragged into pats and hugs by team members, you were left with a whole bag of memories and discarded feelings coming back to the surface, standing still next to someone you once knew. «It’s like the old times, isn’t it?» he casually said, as you both stared at the packed room, side by side. «No, Esteban. Everything changed.» Bittersweetly shoving your left hand before his face to make a definite statement, he carefully grabbed it and brushed your ring with the thumb, taking a close look. «I don’t believe so.» he let go of your hand, smiling politely. «What are you talking about?» you asked, kind of annoyed. «You still think you have Pierre all to yourself when we know nobody does.» «Don’t… don’t you dare talk crap about him in my presence. You know nothing.» Staring into the void, you tried to stay calm and collected, swallowing the phantoms of the past. «I respect that. But I just wanted to remind you of when you were the one talking crap about him in my presence.» «That was years ag-» «And I was there to listen to you.» You dropped the accusatory finger you had brought dangerously near his chest, mind invaded by guilt and yellowed pages of life. «I’ll still be here for you when Pierre messes up again.» «He won’t, Este.» «We’ll see.» he shrugged, glancing back at the room. «But I’ve spent more time with him in the last year than you have, and I know he is no easy character.» «I’m not going to change my mind, if that’s what you’re trying to do.» you raised a brow, skeptical. «I simply wanted to wish you good luck.» Esteban’s impassive tone left you with the urge of replying: as much as you were filled with doubts and fears, you somehow trusted Pierre and his promises and wouldn’t bear anyone implying stuff. Especially Esteban. Because, to a degree, he knew the situation better than any other. His eyes, that despicable spark of mischief, anger and regret inside of them told you things you didn’t want to hear. «The staff would like to get to know my wife if only my teammate would let her be.» Pierre’s amused interruption startled you, almost feeling caught red-handed with the most terrible crime: talking to a guy he trusted and had grown to hate over time. «Sorry, Pierre! My fault. I was… keeping up with the Gasly’s.» The awkwardness and the tension of the moment didn’t go unnoticed to any of you, and you mentally thanked Pierre’s hand resting on your waist, slowly guiding you away from Esteban, who still stared at you with a small courtesy smile. «We’ll have to bear his presence, I know. Trust me, if I could, I’d rather have him on the other side of the planet.» Pierre sighed defeated while whispering those apologies laced with hatred in your ear and a pang of nostalgia, guilt, sorrow pushed you a little closer to him. «He’s not a problem, Pierre. We know how to be civil.» He looked at you, faking amazement at your reply, nodding his head with raised brows. «You’re more mature than I thought.» «More mature than you are? For sure.» You expected him to laugh; instead, he grinned in silence, a strange sparkle wobbling in his irises. A part of you clung onto it, wishing it was a veil of tenderness, affection, or anything like it towards you. For a moment, you held the hope in your hands, and you carefully caressed it, cherished it, making room in your heart to plant it and nurture it there, as if that single twinkle could ever be the seed of love.

>>♥<<

Baku’s street didn’t seem as bumpy to Pierre, now that he was walking on it with a small group of engineers; the main straight heading to the finishing line seemed unnecessarily long, especially since he had just travelled the entire track and had the pitlane as destination. Left with nothing else to discuss with his team, he enjoyed the sun setting and painting the city gold, taking it easy and slow. «Pierre!» The Frenchman turned around and immediately grinned wide, waving to Charles jogging to him. «Track walk? Thought I’d see you speeding riding a bike.» Charles chuckled, adjusting his jingling bracelets. «I wanted to enjoy the atmosphere better.» «Yeah, me too.» They strolled pensive, no rush to be drowned by the buzzing life of the paddock. «I can’t believe it.» Pierre looked at his friend, who had a pleased grin painted and hung by his dimples. «What?» «This is your first race weekend married. And I was your best man. Isn’t it crazy?» «Time flies, Charles.» Pierre scoffed with a smile. «I saw you celebrated in the hospitality, earlier.»

As Pierre narrated the small party the team had organized to Charles’ ecstatic eyes, his thoughts lingered on you, on the myriads of unexpected congratulations he had received for choosing such a kind and fine woman and making her his. Though, there were moments he felt like he was just above an acquaintance to you. Pierre sighed. «What was that?» Charles asked. «Sometimes I think I don’t really know y/n. Not as much as I should, I mean.» «You do know her, though. You’ve been hanging out together since high school.» «Charles, I don’t even know who her first boyfriend was.» Pierre’s pinch of helplessness caught Charles by surprise, reciprocating his sudden stare with bewilderment. «Did- I didn’t even know she’s had a boyfriend.» the Monegasque stuttered. Pierre looked down at the asphalt. «Hoped you did. But you see? We don’t really know her.» «Well… You’re married now. You have all your life to get to know her.» Charles put his arm around Pierre’s shoulders, giving him an encouraging look. «Yep. That’s my best man right there!» Pierre reciprocated the grab and smiled as the two of them walked down into the pitlane, serving friendly smiles and beautiful shots to the photographers buzzing around the garages.

>>♥<<

«Hello?» «Uhm, am I disturbing you?» «Yes, absolutely. But I’m going to be the nicest just for you.» «Thanks for the usual teasing, Charles.» «What’s up?» «I… I’m deeply embarrassed, but I think I’m lost. I can’t find the way to the track.» «Never heard of Google Maps?» «I’ve tried, but I ended up exactly back at the hotel.» «Ooof. There’s actually someone out there who’s worse than me then.» «Ah, I wouldn’t have called you if Pierre wasn’t busy.» «Can’t I be busy as well?» «Cha’…» «I’m just joking. Are you at the hotel?» «Yep.» «’M on my way.»

The bubbly air of that Saturday morning brushed your bare arms, anticipating the warmth falling onto the grey asphalt, as you walked quickly alongside Charles, trying not to get stopped by fans too many times. «Why didn’t you come to the track with him?» «I think he tried to wake me up, but I… uhm… fell asleep.» «It’s incurable, right?» You both chuckled, still marching towards the paddock. «How is it going?» «Uh?» «With Pierre.» A horn startled you, while Charles waved towards the Tifosi on the other side of the street and smiled under his Rayban’s. «Good! I mean, way better than I thought.» Charles studied your expression, letting your own statement sink in. «You know, I talked with him yesterday. He asked me if I knew who your first boyfriend was.» «Did you tell him?!» you gasped. «Of course not, I’m not that mad.» he looked straight ahead. «But he seemed somehow disappointed. He really wants to know you on a deeper level.» «And tell him about my hookups as he did with us? No, thanks.» «Not necessarily about past relationships. There are so many things you could rediscover now as a couple, and he’d like to. He… he cares. Pierre isn’t the asshole you believe him to be.» «You know my reasons, Charles.» «I do, y/n. But I also know Pierre, and I’ve never seen him as determined and serious in any other relationship before.» A doubtful glance at him turned into an amused snort, as you saw Charles’ dimples already exposed for you to admire. «I should give him a chance, uh?» you joked, kicking a pebble. «Yeah, you definitely should.» «I hate you.» «What’s that for?» Charles chuckled. «You’re too convincing.» «Maybe you only wanted to hear someone else’s confirmation.» You took a moment to reflect, still looking at his green eyes, letting the sentence resonate inside of you. Perhaps you had only been waiting for a sensible reasoning to justify the senseless, self-destructive and visceral need of trying to build a stronger relationship with Pierre.

>>♥<<

Crossing the room, hands intertwined with yours, Pierre felt alert, almost knowing something about bringing you along to that small reception organized for commercial reasons only was intrinsically wrong. Until he spotted a pair of brown eyes lingering way too long on the fine straps grazing your shoulders’ skin. Esteban’s. Despite the years, despite trying, despite the countless shots he had given to their relationship, Pierre couldn’t let go of hatred: the memories of the three of you in the same couple of meters, in the same suffocating room were still a fresh wound which had reopened once more. Unaware of anything, you reciprocated with a reassuring smile Pierre’s tighter hold on your hand, an enquiring look on your face. He expected you to stiffen at Ocon’s mere sight; instead, you stood like a fragile yet flexible flower against the blowing wind, only caring about being… as marvellous as you were. Pierre had been learning it to his disadvantage each day a tiny bit more, trying not to read too much into your rosy cheeks and your fond, unmistakable stares. The delicacy and the grace you would use with others any time you got the chance to talk with people from the team, the paddock, the entire world, really, hit him in an unknown spot of the soul. Probably as hard as Ocon approaching the two of you with a champagne glass in hand did on his nerves. «Didn’t expect to see you here.» Esteban said, only addressing you. Chewing a lump of awkwardness, you threw the quickest glance over to Pierre to check his reaction after being deliberately ignored by his teammate. «Here I am.» you whispered, pressing your lips together with an embarrassed smile. «Wasn’t I clear enough when I told you to stay away from her?» A lightning struck the room. The bitterness in Pierre’s tone triggered a light-hearted laugh from Esteban, theatrically opening the arm and letting the small wave of champagne wash the resentments of the past away. «Come on, Pierre! How many years passed? We aren’t teenagers anymore.» His fingers grabbed your hand tighter, restraining himself from spitting words of fire against his former teammate once again: the bottled-up anger, though, had resurfaced much to Pierre’s surprise, and to yours as well, pressing the button “play” on the reruns of the day their entire relationship crumbled.

No matter what you could’ve done to avoid it, Pierre and Esteban were born to disagree. Nobody could stop that tickling bomb hiding in both their chests as soon as they would spend enough time together to let it explode. Even without you, they would’ve nurtured antipathy for each other; that was how it was supposed to be, and they both knew it. Nestling against Pierre’s loving arms draping you all, you stared at an indefinite point of the packed, but still empty, room. «Do you think it’s my fault?» Pierre placed his chin on your shoulder to listen to your whispered rumbling, joining you in the contemplation of the void. «No, I don’t. He was a douchebag even before treating you the way he did.» It didn’t seem like he was lying, to be fair. You knew very little about the stormy past between the two, since you had met Esteban way later than you had befriended Pierre; he had never told you a thing about a terrible kid who grew up with like a brother and then discarded him due to insane competitiveness. Esteban was dead to him. A Mr. Nobody existing without any string to his life but hate and resentment’s. Unspoken truth, they both liked you and cared for you in very different ways, so it was only natural for them to notice each other’s evident preference for you and clash because of it; that was how it was supposed to be, and they both knew it, deep deep down. «Can we please forget about him?» The careful urge of the sentence was paired with a swift brush of his hands taking yours, silently asking you to dance to the music now blasting through some speakers in the room. Maybe lightness was all you both needed to be happy.

Singapore’s humidity clung onto your lungs like a suffocating net, twirled around your trachea, squeezing it tight. With an invisible layer of sweat all over your skin, heat as well as worries and doubts made you melt before the evidence, before reality. Two weeks and you had already become a ghost. Imprisoned in the highest tower of the lies’ castle, your honeymoon had turned into a tour around the globe inside a golden cage: everybody saw you as the “trophy-wife”, a peculiar and exotic animal stupid enough to bear Pierre’s company, showed left and right, avidly and superficially looked at, never considered as a real person.

Any time Pierre would come home from unbelievably long training sessions and meetings of all sorts, you didn’t even have the strength to start an argument and cry your loneliness out. He’d absent-mindedly kiss your cheek, go take a shower and leave you to your unfinished essay draft sitting in the dust of your laptop’s memory. Eating some take-out he’d leave you choosing in religious silence, punctuated with brief chat, you’d often watch a movie on the couch: staring blankly at the screen, you’d focus on how foreign the touch of his arm around your shoulder would feel. An afterthought, quick enough to disturb the turbulence of your headspace. I simply wanted to wish you good luck. Luck. It would’ve never been out of love, but out of pure chance. As if Pierre could never learn to love anyone. Still, admitting to yourself Esteban was right would’ve been an unnecessary added humiliation. «We’re too slow in the middle sector, I’m understeering everywhere…» It was a secret you wanted to keep buried in your chest. «But you gain in the last sector, you see? Our top speed is good.» Not being reciprocated. An ineffable hurt. You miserably looked at your husband debriefing intensely with his performance engineer, standing at the back of the garage so that you wouldn’t be in the way of the many mechanics working around the car. Envious, you fixed your gaze upon the fan Pierre held in his hand, still busy talking and pointing at data on the screen. The air felt too thick to be breathed in, too dense to slide down your lungs and swoop your dark thoughts away. You had agreed to be his wife, due to the endless love you had. But what if he let that love slowly wither and die? What if you could grow out of love? What if finally having him was enough for you to become indifferent? What if neither of you could remain loyal to the promises you vowed?

Swallowing hard, you shut your eyes shooing the sudden dizziness away; and at the very same time, you felt a gentle weight lingering on your right shoulder, asking quietly for permission. You opened your eyes, obliged to wide them as soon as you saw it was Esteban. «Here, drink this.» A water bottle was handed to you, still struck by the soft eyes and the attention being addressed to you. «It’s electrolytes. With this weather I always make sure to keep hydrated, since it’s easy to lose liquids and mineral salts as well.» A thousand questions ran through your mind, to the point Esteban could almost see them being scattered from one pupil to the other. He invited you to drink once again, poking pride sitting in his chest as he had noticed you being in discomfort first. First than… him. The quick glance Pierre gave the two of you was enough to stir up even stronger satisfaction, a lovely victory in the endless mind-war they fought. «Thank you.» It came out stifled, high-pitched, a bit squeaky, but somehow filled with unexpected sadness. Pierre crossed the garage in a couple of strides, wearing a mask of concern you couldn’t read the authenticity of, shielding you with his body from the unwanted attention Esteban had provided you with. «Are you okay? You could’ve told me you were thirsty.» «Pierre, I’m fine.» you told him off, almost whispering. He darted a glance at his teammate once again as soon as his hand reached yours to grab the water bottle back, willing to take off the hideous smile he wore on his face. Lots of eyes inside the garage had observed the scene in silence, still glancing over you, as Pierre’s attentions and barely noticeable physical touch felt all too much to bear at once. You would’ve died for it, only a couple of months earlier. If only the wedding weren’t a well-thought plan, a pact between family friends, a tie nobody but you craved intimately and deeply because of the loving, totally disregarding the real practical reasons behind it. Ocon’s silhouette being drowned in his side of the garage made your mind slip back into the past, unboxing a metallic box of memories you had buried six feet underground.

Disappointed. The disapproval you had read in Pierre’s face right as you showed up to the club next to the “new friend” you wanted to be joining your historical trio had your heart shattering like a glass of wine from a polished tablecloth, painting the floor in red diamonds. Pierre had dragged you in the middle of the dancing crowd, leaving Esteban hanging at the entrance before a confused Charles. «Why did you bring him here?!» «He’s… I wanted to introduce him to you and Cha’!» you yelled, in order to be heard amidst the chaos. «I know him already, and he’s an asshole. Now tell him to leave! I don’t want him anywhere near me!» «You can’t force anyone to leave a public place! And… And I want to spend time with all of you.» He bored his eyes into yours, letting the blasting music take over your thoughts. «I’m not hanging out with you if you buzz around him.» It was definitive. «Call me when you’re done wasting time with that piece of shit.» Giving you his back, you saw him dive into the sea of people, to find and rapidly grab the waist of the brunette who had accompanied him to the party; he didn’t even bother to be far enough so that you wouldn’t see him shove his tongue down her throat, a tangle of hands messily roaming, touching, squeezing yearning skin. Este’s hand softly intertwining yours guided you towards a quiet table, to which Charles sat waiting, with drinks for the three of you; and as much as you would’ve liked to be grateful for Charles’ delighted stare, for Esteban’s soothing words, your heart still drowned in bubbles at the bottom of your cocktail. He’s my boyfriend. Those were the words you were about to say at the door of the club, to Pierre. You had already anticipated the sweetness of the moment, the satisfaction in proving you weren’t his little puppy, a slave rebelled to the master showing him the jingling keys which had freed him. The mere need to prove him anything was the undeniable sign of slavery. You’d never be free.

>>☆<<

«Are you sure?» «Yeah…» «Here? Don’t you want to go-» You shut Esteban up pressing your lips on his, carrying on the messy make out session you had started in the club’s bathroom. «Y/n, are you really sure?» The kiss was interrupted once again, leaving you with an unbearable, unsatisfied yearn making your heart swell and explode in ashes of frustration. «Don’t you love me, Este?» you whined, your fingertip dragging his bottom lip down in the drunken attempt to seduce him even further. Of course he loved you. He had agreed to take your virginity away as you leaned your back onto a bathroom’s door, during the most boring and miserable of nights out, accepting to be humiliated by Pierre in front of you, his own girlfriend, and dancing awkwardly in the crowd before you dragged him there to pour out the unexplainable need of getting your brain fucked out. Esteban loved you purely, too purely, to be fair: he felt like a noob and inexpert, an amateur he was not, while listening to your heavenly choir of whimpers and profanities, with his fingers gripping tight your hips, as not to lose you. Deep down he knew he should’ve been satisfied and content, he should’ve enjoyed that piece of pleasure and love – but was it love to you? Esteban wasn’t quite sure – because he had managed to snatch you away from Pierre’s clutch, he had laid his hand onto someone he hadn’t had already: he had won where Pierre had lost. Still, thrusting into you as waves of pleasure rocked your body and transfigured your expression, Esteban only felt like he had lost you, indeed, like he had never truly had you, not even physically. And when your warm hand caressed his cheek, he got the confirmation: you pitied him, because no matter how bold the “boyfriend” tag could be, your heart could only crave, think of and wish Pierre.

The break-up was, nonetheless, harmful. After damning yourself, considering how nice and kind Esteban was to you, how sweet some of the moments you had spent together had been, you had come to the conclusion that no other feeling in the world could replace or overshadow the consuming love you felt for Pierre. You didn’t need it to be easy and satisfying; as hurtful as it could be, you only needed him. And to his own dismay, Esteban knew it.

«Can you drop me off at that bar over there?» you pointed at the end of the street. «Why?» «I simply need to hand this to Pie-» «Oh, no, just save it. I should’ve known.» You frowned, looking at his tensed arms. «Is there something wrong?» He scoffed, gripping the steering wheel ‘til his knuckles turned white. «Absolutely not! My girlfriend only runs after another guy who also happens to be a moron and doesn’t give a shit about her while I’m being the third wheeler to my own relationship!» Esteban harshly braked in front of the bar. «Y/n, we’re done.» «What?» you gaped, still stunned by the whole conversation. «I don’t want to be with you anymore. Now get out of the car.» Beyond bewildered, you searched for sincerity and honesty in the brown chocolate eyes you had often lost yourself into, stung by hurt as you found them. «Are you seriously breaking up with me for this? I just need to return this hoodie to him!» Esteban’s eyes bore yours outraged, almost incredulous to your words. «Can’t you see the problem? Can’t you notice how you’re chasing after him and are not willing to treat me nearly the same as you treat him? You share clothes with him and you’ve never even asked once for my hoodies!» «Did you want me to?» «That’s not the point, y/n! The fact is it seems like I never cross your mind, whereas Pierre is always in your thoughts. Sorry, but I can’t bear to see you love him more than you love me. I can’t do this anymore.» Gasping for air and for words, you found none: you witnessed helpless as Esteban got out of his seat and reached to your side to open the car door and invite you once again to get out. «Y/n, don’t force me to be drastic. Come on.» «You’re being nonsense! Este, please, you can’t do this!»

Watching your first relationship crumble under the weight of painful lies, you desperately held onto the car door, despite Esteban’s hand trapping your wrist, firm. «Y/n, I told you to get out.» As you pleaded him, whispering “sorry”s like prayers, few tears pricked your eyes, which seemed to sort the opposite effect of what you had hoped for. Esteban, blinded by hurt and rejection, pulled your wrist towards him in an attempt to drag you out the car, and as an unconditional reflex you cried out to him, a tear cutting through your cheek. «Este, please… Please, don’t do this to me!» «You didn’t care about hurting me, why should I care about hurting you?» As he spitted out these words, scornful, he managed to pull you out the car with a jerk, eliciting a chain of heavy tears to reach the ground, which blurred your vision. Esteban was still talking to you, wrist aching to be freed underneath his hold of steel, but your mind refused to make sense of any of the insults directed at you, as much as your eyes couldn’t clearly distinguish his angry face. You had stopped fighting him, though, surrendered to the sad truth he had unveiled despite you trying to cover it up. A truth made of lies. Exposed to your own blade, humiliated and full of regret, you stood still, frozen, incapable to react. And it was then that you saw Esteban’s body being crashed violently onto the chassis of his car with a loud thud. Your wrist was suddenly snatched from the grab, and you swiped some tears to witness clearly the scene unfolding before you. Pierre holding Esteban by the collar. Pierre was shouting onto his face, unleashing his fury, barking his disgust and hatred; and though you and him both expected some sort of reaction from Esteban, you both watched him stay silent at the accusations. «Don’t ever touch her again! Don’t you even try to show up again, understood? Go fuck yourself and stay away from us!» Pierre shouted, putting a protective arm around your neck and bringing you close. But he couldn’t protect you from those brown eyes, which swallowed down the secrets you weren’t ready to share with Pierre. Esteban judged you in the harshest way possible: leaving you to your own conscience. «It’s okay, now. You don’t have to cry anymore.» Pierre wiped your face off, pulling your head to him for his chin to rest upon, rubbing your back with his hand, as you watched Esteban get back in the car and disappear in a cloud of smoke. «He won’t bother us anymore, I promise. You’re safe, with me.» What a paradox: safe in your captor’s arms.

You let yourself be cradled by Pierre’s honey-laced reassurances, trying to digest the shock of the whole situation bit by bit, failing not to feel sorry for having deceived Esteban and yourself. You had believed you loved him; which wasn’t and could never be true. And the awareness weighed on your chest even heavier while being held in Pierre’s arms.

HOT NEWS: Alpine’s driver Pierre Gasly is told to had been seen very intimately close to another woman during a formal gathering with top sponsors of the team. Has the recent marriage with y/n cracked already?

𝚆𝚑𝚘 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝙿𝚒𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚠𝚘 𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚔𝚜 𝚊𝚐𝚘 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚎𝚠𝚜? 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝! 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙵𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚑 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚜, 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚙 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚢/𝚗, 𝚠𝚑𝚘𝚖 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚂𝚎𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛.

>> 𝐒𝐞𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭: 𝐏𝐢𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐞 𝐆𝐚𝐬𝐥𝐲’𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐞𝐱𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐯𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐨𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐬

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚞𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚙𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝙶𝚊𝚜𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚗 “𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚐 𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕”. 𝙻𝚎𝚝’𝚜 𝚋𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕... N𝚘 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚘𝚞𝚋𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚒𝚎𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚓𝚞𝚒𝚌𝚢 𝚒𝚗𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚑 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚝𝚑 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚙𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝙶𝚊𝚜𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚖’𝚜 𝚟𝚒𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚜… 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙵𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚑𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚜𝚗’𝚝 𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚝𝚘 𝚓𝚞𝚖𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚙 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛; 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎, 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎, 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚛𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚎𝚕, 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚏𝚎. 𝙸𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐? 𝚄𝚙𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚎: 𝙵𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚊 𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚍: 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚊 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚐𝚗𝚒𝚣𝚎 𝙿𝚒𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚎’𝚜 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚞𝚗𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎 𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚖, 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚖𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝙰𝚕𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚎’𝚜 𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚊𝚗. 𝙸𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚊 𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚝 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝙶𝚊𝚜𝚕𝚢? 𝙸𝚗 𝚜𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚎, 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚖𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚞𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚗𝚘𝚛 𝚑���𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚏𝚎’𝚜.

Paralyzed on the spot, you let the phone gently thud against the kitchen counter. It was nothing you didn’t expect to happen to you; you had lived through it even before whispering with soft eyes “I do” at the altar, when you used to scroll his Instagram picture-perfect shots with his girlfriends, but the timing he had chosen was way off your forecast. The thunderstorm had darkened your sky too early. You hadn’t seen it coming, you hadn’t heard a single roar of the wind in the distance. Nothing. Pierre had given you nothing either to hate or to love. Somehow, a small part of you felt sickly relief in knowing you could finally turn your eternal suspicion into hatred: you wished you could mold it in shape, form sentences to dagger him with, cries to let out your throat with violence. Nothing came. Nothing.

You stood by the counter as you let the bloody red liquid boil into the pan; staring at it, you absentmindedly kept stirring the sauce, not able to do anything else. Your ringtone blasted through the empty kitchen and it pierced your ears unexpected, instilling in your nerves a hit of anxiety which caused your hand to hit the pan; it dropped inevitably off the stove, collapsed to the ground, poured its vermilion content on the luminous tiles. Dodging quickly enough not to have the pan falling on your feet, still hearing your phone ringing, your chest benched inward with a deep, exasperated sob, sharply taking in air to fill your shaky body with. Waves of tears ran down your eyes, arms still half-hanging in the void, as if you waited for someone to pick you up and nail you to a cross, to cease your unsubduable sense of betrayal. It all crushed down on you, eyes closed, stilling liquid sadness, which ricocheted between the walls of the emptiest and loneliest flat in the world. The phone stopped ringing. It seemed to calm you down at first; the silence left you with curiosity to see if the nightmare was over, opening your eyes back to the disastrous sauce on the floor, which was supposed to be ready for dinner. With caution, your trembling fingers grabbed the phone from the marble counter, and you jumped on your feet as it started buzzing and ringing against your skin once again. A name appeared, impressed on your retina. You couldn’t help but suffocate a sob: the grab on the phone tightened together with the clench wrenching your heart, making it as small as a crumble.

>>♥<<

«Charles…» He didn’t hesitate to take in your wandering hands, flinging towards him and holding onto his shirt. Right as he had read the news, he had reached out to you: for he had witnessed you breaking down because of Pierre too many times not to know you would, eventually, need a leaning shoulder. He wore the friend’s armor with the usual embarrassment of being both friend to you and to Pierre; he was used to balancing between two sides, trying not to pick one, working as a bridge to keep you walking in the same direction. Charles always felt helpless before your broken heart: he knew Pierre and how he would’ve never done anything to hurt you, but still, he had, undoubtedly, and there was no defense Charles himself could put up. Especially if he had you weeping and sobbing in his arms, so painfully close to his heart. «I can’t do this anymore, Charles.» «I know, y/n. I know.» He swallowed hard, caressing your hair, searching for comforting words even though he was damn aware there were none. «W-why? Where did I go wrong?» Charles’s heart panged at your words: he immediately took your face in his hands, wiped tears off it with both thumbs and silently hoped to find an answer. The truth is he hadn’t a single one of them. Glancing at you, Charles wished he hadn’t been excited and bubbly about the marriage as he had been; he had nurtured so much joy, watching the relationship timidly sail the month before the wedding. He had pictured you and Pierre being the couple everyone would envy, perhaps even building a family together. He had got enamored with the way your wedding dress fitted you, how the golden ring adorning your hand had lit up your smile and your complexion even more, how every piece seemed to be finally falling into place.

In a few weeks’ time, he had witnessed the cast away of hopes. Charles wanted to tell you Pierre would’ve never done anything like it, he would’ve sworn it, if only facts didn’t force him to question everything he presumed to be sure of. «I know you’ll hate me for it, but…» he tucked a strand of your hair behind an ear, «…we should know exactly what happened before judging him so harshly.» «Charles! Do you think I really want to know the details?» your chin twitched. «I don’t need to know where… how… and since when they started fucking.» Shaking your head while picturing the atrocious scenes in your head, you put a hand on your forehead, face dropping down, incapable of tolerating Charles’ eyes boring into yours with an awful mixture of pity and sorrow. «It disgusts me.» you said, even feeling your stomach upset. Charles watched you spit out hatred as he rubbed a hand on your upper arm, slightly squeezing it in reassurance. He was friend with both of you and wasn’t keen on the idea of losing either, nor choosing where to stand. Somehow, he couldn’t pick a side. «Don’t I deserve better? Don’t I deserve to be loved?» Charles looked at you sternly, almost scolding you for such a question. «No doubts you do.» he said, definitive. «But Pierre knows that too. Before being his wife, you’re his friend.» He placed his firm hands on both your arms, searching for eye contact as he kept addressing you with a gentle tone. «He’s always loved you and respected you, even if it might have been hard to notice.» «He’s never going to love me… He never will.»

You both stood in the hall of Charles’ suite: the silence wrapping the luxury furniture was punctuated by your quiet sobs, your shaking breath, the strenuous beating of your heart. The air was warm; it flushed your cheeks and Charles’ as well. After a more attentive look, his green eyes seemed dull and tired. The night was already projecting its dark shadow onto the sky, and it was the sign which put your soul into a state of guilt: right after Charles had called you, you had run to him without a single worry of disturbing him. You had left a mess in the kitchen. You hadn’t prepared the dinner Pierre had asked you for, like the perfect lovely wife you had been up until that moment would request you to. As much as you could try to hate him, a solid and unbreakable part of you held onto the hopeless love of him, never ending source of suffering, yet inevitable. At the thought of your condemnation, you sobbed and cried a little louder, pulling Charles’s shirt near you, defeated, exhausted, distraught.

>>♥<<

The quiet sound of clinking metal timidly reached you and awoke you; you stirred, onto the couch, feeling a bit sore from sleeping all night in the same position, cranked. The sun filtered through the curtains, lighting your cheek right as you got seated. The room seemed to wheel ‘round you, on and on: thoughts started racing the new circuit of your mind, lap after lap, causing you to shut your eyes and block the incessant flow which was making you dizzy. Putting memories in order, you recalled the events. You had spent the night at Charles’ place: he had offered you to sleep in his bed, but you had decided not to profit of his generosity. In the quiet darkness of the suite, you had thrown your phone on the carpet, nestling against the squared pillow, shying away any thought concerning Pierre. But you had failed and wondered, haunted, if he might have been searched for you. After all, you weren’t home, when he clearly expected you to be there. He might have noticed. Or maybe not. Perhaps he had been taken care of by that daddy’s girl; maybe he had left you a text saying he wasn’t coming home either, leaving you wasted and rotten together with your nicely cooked dinner. If only there was a dinner to see rotting ; the red liquid crusting on the kitchen tiles printed on your mind like a crime scene you wanted to forget. The idea of your house being empty crashed your insides and twisted them in helpless disappointment. Still sitting, you eyed the phone, lying backwards on the floor, turned off since last night. What was the point of switching it back only to be flooded with more rumors you would never be ready to face?

You then finally stood up in the middle of the living area, looking around you like a stranger, and followed the noise coming from the small kitchen. There you found Charles, jogging around the counters, attempting to cook. You checked the time on the clock hung up on the wall: Monday, 1:12 p.m. «Oh, finally! Good morning!» Charles chirped, interrupting the trance status you had swamped into. «Good morning. Are you cooking lunch?» you asked, getting closer to the stove. «Yep! Some pasta with pesto for lunch!» You gulped at the mention of food. «I just woke up, Charles… I don’t know if I want to eat so much for breakfast.» «I’m sure you’re going to be hungry as soon as you see my delicious plate.» he chuckled, right before quickly removing the lid to the pan which was about to overflow in white bubbles. Done with stirring up the water, he turned towards you, who were already seated at the table, and leaned his palms onto the marble behind him. «How do you feel?» he asked. You rubbed your temple. «Tired.» Charles sighed. «You should’ve slept in my bed and let me take the couch as I-» «I’m not tired physically, Cha’. I slept quite good.» He nodded to himself in silence, looking down. «I see.» You drowned in the white noise of the pan boiling and the kitchen fan filling the otherwise dead silence, mentally visualizing the blurry picture you had been shocked by. The dizziness grew stronger and a large, deep pit in your stomach opened like a black hole swallowing your feelings. «I’ll talk to him about it as soon as I see him.» You heard Charles’ voice, but didn’t listen, as the cooking water roaring against the steel was the sound you had tuned into, and it grew louder and louder, almost unbearable to your focused hearing. With a quick glance, you saw the white foam resurfacing behind Charle’s silhouette. «Charles, the pan!» you urged. «Oh, fuck!»

>>♥<<

You stared at the plate, keeping it at a distance ahead of you with your fingertips, listening to Charles’ chewing, which never seemed that loud. The chewing stopped, together with his fork clinking against the ceramic, and you felt his eyes fixed upon you. «You need to eat something, y/n.» «Sorry, Charles, I have a messed-up stomach… After all the things I read…» «I know, but please, just have a few bites.» Charles gently pushed the plate back near you. «I can’t see you like this.» It was meant to be an unheard thought, just above a whisper, but the kitchen was so silent you could listen to his breathing. The shining fork on the tablecloth, a small piece of penne pierced; half a bite. Eyes closed, and Pierre was still there. Maybe he hadn’t even texted you: he hadn’t wondered about you at all, but left without warning, completely indifferent to your absence. The invisible wall built brick after brick in the last two weeks suddenly turned gray and heavy, painfully present. Pierre would never love you. The fork crashed against the plate, hand covering your mouth; Charles raised his eyes and stopped his every movement to observe you once again. He saw you hesitantly get up from the chair, quite unsure about what was going on, until the air punched your stomach and caused it to fling upwards, together with all its content. With no time to reach the bathroom, panic building in your chest, you abruptly turned towards the sink behind you, fingers unable to stop the wave climbing up your throat.

Charles got up, as you intended hearing his chair screeching. Not quite sure about what was happening, he first let his arms raise up a bit only to be lowered back down, helpless, indecisive, confused; then he got near you, pulling your hair out of the way, trying not to feel grossed out by the scene. «’m sorry…» you mumbled, breathing through your nausea, hoping the worst had passed. «Are you okay?» he rushed. You shook your head in denial. «Y/n, what’s up?» Your marriage was in shambles after a couple of weeks only and an insufferable urge of hiding from the entire world pulsed like a drill in your head. «I don’t know, but I’ve kind of been feeling sick the last couple of days.» «Are you ill?» Charles sighed, sorry. To think he was lying in somebody’s arms, cuddling in someone else’s warm touch, careless enough to forget about your existence and your feelings, your ego so easily, paired up with the sudden shock and horror of throwing up in front of Charles, put you in the worst state of anxiety and despair. Then, the realization. A sly thought, slithering tantalizingly amidst your scattered mind. What if…? You gripped the counter so hard your knuckles turned pale, washed out, eyes wide opened and bewildered, in fright and disbelief. Your heart ran wild, as your thoughts did, while a sigh of hysteria and awareness triggered your cry.

Charles, who had opened the tap in the meantime and had handed you a piece of paper towel to clean yourself up, slowly put down his hand and frowned, disturbed by how exasperated you sounded. «Please, please, it cannot be… It can’t be true.» you chanted low and quick, but slow and high enough in tone for Charles to understand your words. «What can’t be?» Charles asked, searching for your attention and your eyes through your erratic movements: you rinsed your mouth with water, closed the tap and swiftly dried your face with the piece of paper he was still holding. You stared at him intensely, as much as he did: he immediately read the fear overwhelming you, but still failed to see the reason, which you hoped to be able to communicate without giving it form with words. A couple of seconds were shared in that exchange of terrified glances; and before he was able to say anything else, Charles looked at you pacing quickly to the couch, raising all the pillows in search of something. «Where’s my purse?» you asked, frenzy. «I- I don’t know!» «Did you see my wallet at least?!» You picked up your phone from the ground and pressed in hurry the switching on button, cursing as it took an insufferable amount of time to turn on. Charles stepped right behind you, glancing left and right, pondering your request quickly. «What do you need money for?» Charles shouted, set in panic by your erratic behaviour. With a swift turn, you stared at him once more, eaten alive by anxiety. «A pregnancy test.» You could hear his soundless breath of surprise as he left his mouth ajar, as well as his brain’s gears in motion, getting a grip of the situation. «You… You two…» You gave Charles a regretful and desperate stare, pleading him with your eyes not to judge you harshly for falling into Pierre’s trap, chin twitching, tears pricking your eyes. «It was our wedding night. I just… I just wanted to be happy.»

You broke down in tears before you could end the sentence, covering the face and the shame it displayed with your hands. Charles froze, trying to clear his mind and think of the next step he should take; your cries, though, only distracted him from doing so. «Y/n, hey, come here.» He carefully engulfed you in a hug, shushing you, in an attempt to calm you down. «I��m going to buy a test now, okay? Stay here, sit on the couch and relax. I’ll come back in a second.» The lightweight kiss he pressed onto your head as you plopped down onto the sofa, spent, felt distant and muffled, as much as the door closing shut behind his hurried figure. You stared into the void, replaying the night of the forbidden love over and over again, in search of any possible mistake you two made, to no avail: you had been so enchanted by Pierre and buzzed in bliss that the rerun became fader and fader, the memory even more distant, as if it were a mere fruit of imagination, as if you and Pierre had never been happy together. Before you could realize it, Charles was already flinging the door back open, pouring the content of the whitish plastic bag onto the table, unwrapping the test and placing it in your hand, closing your fingers shut around it.

«Okay, so… It says to hold the stick downwards, so maybe it’s better if we use a cup or something.» Charles opened a cabinet of the bathroom and took out a plastic cup, which he handed to you. «"If testing early, use first urine of the day"… Well, that’s perfect, because you’ve just woken up! “Don’t drink lots of liquid”, done as well… I think we’re good to go.» Sniffing, you stared at Charles, in wait. «W-why are you looking at me like that?» he nervously chuckled. «I need to pee.» «Right!» He immediately rushed out of the bathroom, pressing his lips together in embarrassment.

He leaned against the door, impatiently waiting for you to signal to him to enter back again, which you didn’t. After a couple of minutes, Charles knocked, not able to bear any more silence. «Y/n? Can I come in now?» No answer. Charles put his ear against the varnished wood, trying to capture any sound, knocking once again. He got startled by a sudden yelp echoing from inside the bathroom. «Y/n?» Charles was about to put his hand on the knob, when he heard the lock being sealed under his helplessly slow fingers, which vainly tested the knob in a rush, too late. «Y/n? Please, open the door!» As if it weren’t enough, his phone started ringing and buzzing in his pocket: moving a couple of steps away from the door with a loud sigh, he was struck by the caller. «Pierre?» His name pierced your ears like the tick of a bomb: the pregnancy test in your trembling fingers, you bore your stare into the bright lines signalling the positivity of it. A child. Pierre had just cheated on you and, of all the moments, the pregnancy news had sprung at the most inconvenient time. «Have you heard from y/n? Do you know where she is? I’ve been trying to reach out to her, but she doesn’t answer.» «Yes, she is…» Charles swallowed hard and glanced at the wooden door, still perfectly closed and sealed. «She’s here with me, at my place.» «Oh, thank God. How is she?» «What?» Charles almost choked at Pierre’s enquiry. The thought of your benching figure throwing up in his sink was still vivid and his shirt was somehow slightly damp and stretched. Pierre sighed. «She trusted the news, I suppose…» Charles’ end fell silent for seconds, in which he stared at the door opening and showing your silhouette marked with tears, emotionless, holding the pregnancy test upwards so that he saw the result right as you stepped close to him. «I’m coming over. Don’t let her go, okay? See you soon.» Pierre concluded, impatient. «Bye.» You both stood in silence, thoughts taking over the room. «How can I raise a baby without a father?» The sudden question melted Charles’ heart. «Y/n, it’s going to have a father: Pierre would never leave you alone, even if you two weren’t married and the child weren’t his.» «But I don’t need him as an uncle, I need him as a father and a husband who’s present and loves us both!» To that, Charles couldn’t answer anything: he couldn’t swear Pierre’s love for you, it wasn’t in his power, though he would’ve liked to reassure you in any way possible. He hugged you for the umpteenth time, cradling your never-ending weeping self, mentally uncovering the weight of tragedy: not only you might be hurt by Pierre refusing your affection, but preferring someone else’s physical, carnal company. Discarded, thrown away like a valueless thing, having to face one of the biggest challenges of a woman’s life without the certainty of support from the man you loved.

Charles noticed a swelling point near his heart, tormented by the whole situation, which soon turned into utter panic as you twisted abruptly into his arms, startled by a loud knocking on the door. «Who’s that?» you asked, holding the pregnancy test to your chest and looking around, trembling and confused. Some other knocks thundering through the suite. «Charles! Open the door!» You daggered your eyes to the Monegasque, torn between utter terror and betrayal: why had he made him come over when he was supposed to keep you safe from the whole world, especially from Pierre’s cruelty? Charles stared at you, motionless, waiting for you to make the first move and implicitly give him the consent to unlock the door. «He cannot know.» you stated, attempting to sound firm, and failing to conceal panic. «But-» «You owe me this, for allowing him to come here in the first place. Don’t you dare to say a word about it.» Charles shook his head, eyes full of disapproval yet showing pity; then, without adding any other word, he watched you fiddle with the pregnancy test to hide it beneath your shirt and approached the door to let Pierre in. «Where is she?» Pierre urged, hurried. Your sitting silhouette towered on the couch right in front of him: your profile contrasted the long curtains of the living room and the pale, greyish tones of the weather outside casted on your skin a livid, gloomy shadow. He knelt down before you, trying to get your eyes to look at his, but he was met with the deadliest still stare he had ever seen: your glossy irises worked as a push for his hand to reach and stroke your cheek, but you shied away his touch. «Can you leave us alone for a few minutes, Charles?» The Monegasque mumbled a “Sure” under his breath, drained by the whole situation.

Pierre never stopped observing you with attention, which cost you a lot of effort into not locking gaze with him; and when you finally did, a clench of rage shut your jaw, annoyed by his behaviour. «Aren’t you tired?» «Tired of what?» you spitted out. «Of consuming yourself after a false accusation.» You reluctantly strayed away your eyes from him once again, unluckily charmed by his proximity. «But you’re not consumed, right? You expected it from me, you were waiting for me to make a mistake, weren’t you?» he sarcastically added. «You swore you would love me and trust me until the end of your life, but you didn’t hesitate to buy into whatever lie someone spread to ruin my reputation once again!» «Your reputation! Always your fucking reputation first! And what about mine? Don’t you care about how people will think of me from now on?» «I’m not saying I don’t care, I want to point out the fact that some bastard sold the news on purpose to damage me!» «I don’t give a shit about who did that, you cheated on me!» «I DID NOT! For fuck’s sake, this is what I’m trying to tell you! Someone took an out-of-context picture at a dinner where photographers weren’t allowed to try to ruin me and our relationship as well! Are you so stupid to fall for it too?»

At this point, you were crying without containing anymore; after the heated altercation, you stopped and felt your chest sting with hurt pride and feelings. «I’m stupid for having fallen in love with you since the day I met you.» Your words seemed to stun Pierre: his lips had parted in surprise at your confession, as much as his eyelids had uncovered completely the majestic blue eyes now bored into yours. The silence which followed your unwanted declaration made you curl into a ball, sobbing loudly to yourself. As soon as you felt a pair of arms embracing you, you fought back to avoid them with little whines and cries, only to be defeated by its comforting warmth: you let Pierre seal your bubble of despair, like a shield. «I’ll prove to you I did nothing, y/n, I promise. Nobody should’ve dared to write about us the way they did.» What Pierre reckoned to be soothing words weren’t reassuring to your ears at all: the missed reaction to your hopeless love for him fuelled your fears concerning the buried, but growing life in your womb. How could a child live without love? How could you? A sudden wave of nausea made you break the embrace Pierre had engulfed you in, bringing a hand over your mouth yet another time, eyes shut. «Don’t you feel good? What’s wrong?» he unconsciously put his hand on your thigh, affectionately squeezing it, as he asked. «I cooked some pasta and it tasted awful. My fault.» You quickly glanced at Charles, who had rejoined the room, getting near the couch. His stare on you was stern and tender at the same time, communicating both his blame and his will to help you cover up the pregnancy, for the moment, at least. «You’ll never learn how to cook, right?» Pierre snorted. «Probably not.» Charles huffed a smile, happy to have brightened the mood of the room a tiny bit. «I’m a bit hungry, though. Got anything in the pantries?» Pierre asked. «I’ll go check!»

While Charles walked away and left you alone once more, you sniffed and dried your cheeks, gazing down, looking away from Pierre’s burning and suddenly careful stare. «I called you a thousand times yesterday.» he spoke low, as not to be heard. You shook your head, smally. «I think you know why my phone was switched off.» «I came back home and I saw the mess in the kitchen.» he ignored your words. «What? Were you disappointed about not having dinner served?» Pierre pressed his lips together, holding back the quick answer rolling off his tongue. And then he decided to let it out. «I was worried about you.» No, he wasn’t, you told yourself. He’s trying to fool me. Still, the heartfelt tone he used to deliver the sentence rose a commotion deep in your soul: the gentle chords of golden love vibrating for him only were put in restless motion at the sound of the confession. It was just so small, but your entire feelings could feast with it for months, for years, after bearing starvation for as long. «I’ve already talked with my lawyer to sue the journalists and the source of the rumour for defamation.» he caressed your cheek, slowly, as not to startle you with the touch. «I won’t let anyone come between us. Soon it’ll be again just you and me, only us.»

As much as you would’ve liked to trust his whispered words, soft as you had never heard him talk ever before, your choked lie laid untold and yet high like a wall in the room. Pierre leaned his forehead against yours, closing his eyes, fingers still lingering over your face. Flushing your eyelids down, you recalled the same tenderness being offered to you on other occasions, too short to your liking, too faintly impressed in the memory’s film, too brutally in contrast with the bittersweet tumult raging inside of you. «I need you by my side.» Maybe you had imagined it, as it left Pierre’s lips lighter than a whisper; or, maybe, it was the first time you had witnessed some kind of fragility and sweetness in him, just so that you could fall for him even deeper and harder.

The following days, the tension you anticipated to lay between you and Pierre was replaced by a layer of anguish and plainness, wrapping you like a wet, cold cover: the pregnancy test you had hidden carefully haunted your thoughts throughout the day, making you insensitive to Pierre’s attempts at building back again a sense of familiarity, and kept you awake at night, gripping the sheets tight, shaking away the loneliness of the present and of the future.

You knew you didn’t have much time before being forced to tell Pierre: but you had never been as scared to lose him as you were, walking side by side into the paddock, sitting on a stool in the garage, avoiding your husband’s stare while he kissed your cheek, gentle. The weight of your mind drew your gaze down, to the floor. «It’s so cold in here, isn’t it?» You peeked upward at Esteban entering the garage, rubbing his arms as to shake them up from coldness; to be fair, Texas’ air was far from cold, and you struggled interpreting his sardonic smile. Pierre turned around to throw an annoyed look at him, as he gathered the upper part of the suit higher to zip it up. Having gained both of your attention, Esteban fixed his eyes on you, in mischief. «It’s so sad to see a couple being so distant and cold to each other…» You frowned, surprised by the unusual tone of his voice and the sparkle of malice shimmering on his features. Esteban tilted his head, still looking at you, his expression now turning to an unbearable shade of pity, masked by a sinister grin. «Poor y/n… I had told you Pierre would mess up.» «It’s none of your business, you don’t know a fuck!» Pierre shouted, crossing the garage to face him directly. «And stop addressing her like you’ve known her forever.» he added in a lower tone, threatening. Esteban glanced at you back again, letting out an amused scoff. «Didn’t you ever tell him?» «Stop talking to her! Take it out on me and leave her out of this!» The increasing tone of Pierre’s voice, as well as Esteban’s cornering words, made you stand up from the seat and left your mouth dry like the desert, no chance to reply. «Pierre, she can decide on her own if she wants to talk with me or not, you don’t control her. Is he always acting like that with people getting close to you?» Pierre, of course, anticipated your reactionless self. «No, only with dickheads like you! Fuck yourself and don’t get near to her!» «Isn’t it a bit pretentious for someone who cheated on his wife?» The sentence sorted the effect Esteban clearly was expecting: Pierre’s fingers gripped his suit tight, pushing him a few steps backwards due to the threatening force he used. «IT WAS YOU! You made the picture, you were there!» «Pierre, please…» your voice, shaky and feeble, made Esteban laugh. «Stop fucking laughing! Who gave you the right to ruin both our lives?!» «Oh, trust me, Pierre, if I wanted to ruin her, I had a far more interesting story… Which I think you should hear.» With one, fierce shrug, he got rid of Pierre’s tight grab, pointing his eyes back at you. «I was her boyfriend, back in high school, when you used to hang all out together with Charles.» You stood lifeless, dreading the moment Pierre would turn to give you a disappointed or maybe even mad look; but he didn’t. Esteban kept going. «You’ve always had her on your tail, but you never noticed she was in love with you… I’ve never seen anyone more pathetic.» he let out a snort. «She had so little self-respect to let me take her virginity away in a club’s bathroom… She used me like a fuck-toy and then discarded me. This is the girl you married.»

The whole garage fell silent, since nobody dared to interrupt the helpless flow of words. An involuntary yell escaped your lips as Pierre ferociously crashed Esteban’s back onto the back wall, finally getting a reaction from the mechanics and engineers, trying to get in between the two to separate them. Pierre was screaming in French, at the top of his lungs, defending you – unbeknownst to you; Esteban simply stood without reacting much, as he had done years earlier at the same physical attack he had experienced, but this time his revenge was consumed. He knew he had won after hearing Pierre shouting it was over; seeing him approaching you with big strides and hugging you, leaving the box without uttering any other word. Reading your expression on the verge of crying, a sick pleasure overtook him. He had won the war.

«Cheers, les gars!» «Cheers!» Amongst the choir of glasses jingling, toasting in delight, you raised yours without being able to reach everyone’s cup, then obliged to set your eyes on the non-alcoholic beverage you had ordered. You had received numerous side-eyed glances and mocking exclamations for even daring to ask for a banal juice on the celebration night of Pierre’s new contract with Aston Martin, which came after the unexpected departure of Lance. «Someone will have to drive us home tonight, and I don’t think Pierre is going to spare himself…» you half-joked, as an excuse. Everyone bought it with a loud chuckle, except for Charles, who didn’t miss any of your movements, bearing the incommensurable weight of truth on his chest.

He had been texting you quite a lot in the last few days: you had informed him of the explosive moments lived inside Alpine’s garage, ultimately leading to Pierre signing with Aston for next year; he had asked you, in turn, how things were now going with Pierre, if you trusted his version of the story. A few nights earlier, while reading Charles’ texts, you had looked down at Pierre, who was peacefully heaving against your chest. You couldn’t tell whether he had fallen asleep to the soothing head scratches you had been giving him since you had snuggled on the bed, as silence and quietness lingered in the air. “Did you tell him?” Pierre’s arm encircled your waist, radiating warmth all throughout your core: it served as another subtle reminder of the news yet to be shared. Though, you had never felt more terrified: it was the first time in years that you perceived Pierre’s affection being that close. Announcing the pregnancy might have taken away the precious blossom of his love, which you now couldn’t live without. Charles knew your fear, he could read it well between the lines, and he hoped you would soon rely on Pierre to get the support you’d need.

Drinking plain juice didn’t prevent you from joining friends on the dance floor, gripping handfuls of hair and shaking it to the thick, hot air of the club. Standing still at the edge of the crowd, sipping on a cocktail with eyes fixed on the group – on you, mainly – Charles and Pierre talked, undisturbed. «What are you looking at?» the Monegasque asked with a smirk. Pierre didn’t answer, he didn’t stray his irises from your dancing silhouette, drowning and resurfacing in the crowd. «She’s beautiful.» «As if you haven’t been telling me this for the past ten years, Pierre.» Charles chuckled, taking a sip from his own drink. «It’s different, now.» «How so?» Pierre hesitated before answering, gathering the right words to express his muted feelings. «Last Monday, when I came back home and I couldn’t find her, I freaked out as I’ve never done before. I called her twenty-five times, left a fucking voicemail – who does that anymore? I just didn’t know what to do, I was panicking. I slept on the couch thinking she’d wake me up after coming back at night.» «I should’ve warned you she was with me, sorry.» Pierre lightly shook his head. «No, I think I deserved that, for all the times I treated her bad.» After a small pause, Charles, frowning, prompted another question. «So what’s changed?» «I… I’m falling in love with her.» he breathed out in realization, enchanted by your vision, watching you move like a fairy amongst the large group of his friends enjoying the blasting music. Charles couldn’t stop himself from snorting and laughing. «What?» «That’s a lie.» Pierre looked at him puzzled; Charles took another sip, smiling in delight and amusement. «You’ve always loved her; but you didn’t know what love was yet.» «Said the philosopher!» Their laughter was so bright and loud that you turned your head towards the two of them patting each other friendly. Pierre’s features were painted in deep, rich warm tones, under the dim lights of the club; the sudden need to refuge in his arms and rest your lips on his draw your eyes to him like an undefeatable magnet, whose force he seemed to feel as well. «I think I know now.» Pierre said, gaze turned back again on you.

>>♥<<

Exiting the bathroom, you saw Charles waiting right near the door frame, arms crossed, distressed expression, wetting his dry lips as soon as you got near him. «Is it all good?» he asked. «Jeez, Charles! Can’t I just go to the bathroom now?» «You ran away at the speed of light! Pierre was confused and I had to stop him from following you.» Sighing, you quickly rubbed your temples. «Listen… I don’t like lying to Pierre. You need to tell him, y/n, he has to know.» His pleading voice twisted your stomach in a pang of regret and fear. «I want to see a doctor first… And I need to come back home for that.» «Why don’t you try with a clinic here?» You darted your eyes at Charles, half in disbelief, half surprised at the idea. «I can help you find one, I’ve got some contacts. Plus, I think you should check as soon as possible if everything’s okay with…» «With me, yes.» you breathed out, feeling Pierre’s heavy stare on you both. Before you knew it, he was making his way amidst the crowd with a frown, seeing you and Charles confabulate away from indiscreet ears. «He’s coming.» you whispered. Charles, visibly frustrated and failing to hide it, huffed and waited for the storm to run over both of you. And it came. Pierre’s body was burning a few centimeters away from you, igniting shame and terror, knowing you were putting the newfound trust on the line, like a fool. But it isn’t your fault, a part of you said. «Why did you stop? I want to hear about the State affair too.» Not willing to test Charles’ trust for the umpteenth time, you jumped in before he could add anything to his deadly stare directed towards Pierre. «I was telling him I’m tired and I’d like to go home, but he thinks we should stay here a bit more since we’re celebrating you.» A soft caress of his palm was enough to melt the hurried tension entangling your muscles, sure he had bought into the lie after seeing a veil of fondness cover his blue eyes. «Oh, don’t worry, I was thinking of calling it a day too. We can always party more than once, after all.»

>>♥<<

The shirts had slipped away swiftly in a matter of seconds, as your shivering skin warned your senses. You kissed in passion, somehow already accustomed to each other’s pace, yet so new and undiscovered beneath the physical layer of quickened breaths, intense heartbeats and roaming hands. Pierre dragged your head up with his long lasting, tantalizing kiss, trapping both your wrists with a smirk which spread further blush on your cheeks. «So that piece of douchebag was your first time?» He didn’t seem to wait for an answer, as he leaned down to your neck, tasting your skin open-mouthed. You simply moaned, incapable of uttering a word. It was the first time he enquired you about the awful talk you had had in the garage with Esteban and, noticing the unexpected silence on the topic for days, you had simply guessed he would never tackle it again. Still, getting drunk had probably loosen him up more than he would ever admit. «Pierre…» «What? I’m just curious.» «I don’t want to be reminded of that day.» you whined, already out of breath. Mischief gleamed in Pierre’s blue irises, pupils enlarged to take in as much of you as they could. You were able to interpret his intentions a few seconds after his stare: he buried his face behind your earlobe, teasing your skin with his teeth, just enough to gather a shot of blood cursing pleasure and electricity with its flow right where he was leaving kisses. «Is it because you don’t feel… proud of yourself?» he murmured against your neck. Guilt tangled in the middle of your chest, words and acts painfully reminding you of the infamous night. Only after years, you could realize how despicable and poor your choice had been; though, you couldn’t bring yourself to blame it. After all, it had led you to embracing Pierre as close as you would’ve never even imagined in your wildest fantasies. «Is it because you think you acted selfishly?» A sweet yet poisonous bite was left just above your collarbone, another soft breath escaping your control. «Because you hurt people around you?» Now Pierre looked hungrily at you, halting just a few centimeters from your parted lips, letting your focus drift towards his quick hands unbuttoning your jeans, as if they didn’t know any better. The stormy meaning hidden behind those words seemed senseless to you, impossible: and still his irises showed turmoil… Hurt. You were almost about to mouth a question, something along the lines of “What do you mean?”, maybe you even did; but you couldn’t tell, because Pierre thrusted his body upon yours all of a sudden, diluting your thoughts in a stain of useless reasoning, moans and whimpers the only incoherent reactions. «Is it because… you wished you were with someone else?» The floodgate of your heart crushed open: it rocked your body in such an intense wave that you had to hold onto Pierre, gripping his shoulders tight, while he kissed down on your neck once again, lavishly, anywhere he could print his love on you.

Overwhelm of senses almost ended up in a gracious state of numbness, in which Pierre seemed to be the only actor: he handled you with ease and carefulness, though intoxicated by the physical contact, and before you had realized, the night was consumed, the abatjour casting a gentle warm shade on your bare, entangled bodies. Drunk in love, you chuckled in silence, warmed by Pierre’s touch. «What’s that?» he asked. «I… When I’m with you, I feel both anxious and so happy I could die.» «Why is it funny?» «Because it’s childish. I’m still crushing on you like a kid, I only know extremes.» He hummed, pausing for a few seconds. «Why do I make you nervous?» he then enquired, again. «Because I’m scared to lose you.» It sounded so fragile that Pierre involuntarily tightened his arms around you, drawing you nearer. And deep in thought, he stared at the void. «I think I know how you feel.» «What?» you turned your head around to look at him, as if you hadn’t paid attention to his words. «I’ve felt this way too, since… forever.»

>>♥<<

The faint sound of fingers typing filled the kitchen, otherwise silent. You had woken up early, after rolling in the sheets for hours, not sleeping much; you had had a little bit of breakfast – as much as your upset stomach would allow you to – while you scrolled the online page of one of the clinics Charles had suggested you, searching for a cell phone number. You stopped, engraving the digits in your mind. If you had dialed, a spiral of appointments’ calls, check-ups and exams would follow, and you wouldn’t have been able to stop it from tumbling and assaulting you. Pierre would know soon. The mere thought scared you to death. As you saw Pierre's ruffled hair and creased eyes peeked out inside the kitchen area only to direct the slow and unsteady steps towards the bathroom, you bolted as fast as a lighting. «No, the bathroom is mine!» You stomped the door in front of his face, preventing him from stealing the precious space and time to clean yourself.

Pierre quickly eyed the laptop on the marble counter, figuring out you must've been up for quite a while; a stained mug and tiny crumbles were other signals of your silent presence, lingering around his numbed senses through the waking. He had missed the warmth of your body, the securing hold of his arms around your waist, the sweet scent cursing through him while resting his head close to yours, near enough to perceive the undeniable pull drawing him like a magnet. «You're lucky I love you!» he yelled, in order for you to drink in his amused tone. You wished you didn't. That only sentence made your guts twist and horribly enhanced the dizziness, obliging you to grip the sink tight. You had waited so many years for those words to have a meaning and now you might have it. Still, you found yourself to dread them. You were about to ruin everything.

He had not intended to; he had tried, vainly, to stop himself from looking at the screen of your laptop, but the gaze dropped involuntarily, fast, the quickest glance, while placing the mug on the counter. And the first words he read only invited him to linger on the page further. A clinic. A phone number written in bold cyphers. «Y/n?» Resurfacing from the trance status you had fallen into while lazily brushing your teeth, you answered with a whine. «Can you come here for a sec?» You deeply inhaled in annoyance, sure it was either to pull a prank on you or to get some help with the absurdly expensive coffee machine Pierre had asked for in the suite - and didn't quite know how to use yet. The puzzled look on his face told you right away all you needed, as much as his fingers brushing the laptop’s pointer pad. «Why were you searching-» «Why are you going through my stuff!?» You flung yourself onto the pc, pulling it away from his touch and his sight, hoping that could be enough to erase the content from his thoughts. As you imagined, it didn't. «What's that for? You left it spread open, how was I supposed not to see it?» Pierre followed your gushing figure placing the laptop back in the bedroom, closing the door after you two. «Can you please stop a second and explain to me what's going on?» Your body seemed to slip under Pierre's touch, then ultimately gave in, anxiety paralyzing all movements but trembling. Immediately noticing your distress, he stroked your hair in reassurance, trying to calm himself down as well through the action. «Y/n, I'm not asking again. What's the clinic for?» You avoided his stare as much as answering. «Did something happen? I need to know, y/n.» he wetted his lips, visibly frustrated. «It isn't just you, now. It's both of us. We're in this together.» After minutes spent crafting the most realistic lie, painfully witnessing Pierre being tender and caring only to be fooled by you, you were finally ready to utter a word. «I had booked a routine appointment with a gynecologist before I knew about the trip, but we aren't getting home soon, and I didn't want to miss it.» Pierre's forehead distended like a folded sheet laid spread and fresh onto the mattress, irises still concealing a hint of doubt. «Why didn't you tell me?» «I thought it'd be embarrassing… for both.» «It isn't to me.» he said, softly. «And you can talk to me about anything, you know that.» You rested your cheek upon his palm, enjoying the caress with eyes closed, quietly accepting the lie still holding up the invisible wall of miscommunication you purposely built. «Especially when the topic is dear to me.» Pierre's smug tone lifted a stone from your shoulders, as well as dropping it in your chest, heart swimming in a lake of mixed emotions. You would’ve liked to cast a spell and stop the flow of time, because bittersweet guilt and happiness were the telltale signs a fairytale was possible, after all, almost within reach. And you had ruined it.

>>♥<<

A thought had been flying around his mind all day: jogging lightly before free practice, revising the track with his performance engineer, laughing and joking around with other drivers ahead of media duties. It hadn't bothered him, it hadn't shown; not even when he came back to the hotel and didn't find you there as he expected. It slipped from his consciousness even while drifting into sleep, your scent dazzling and lulling him. It harboured beneath the surface, though, and its stealth presence made itself evident - yet misunderstood - on Saturday morning. «Where's my shirt?» Pierre asked abruptly, entering the bedroom in a hurry. Despite him trying to get you to get up multiple times as he got ready, you were still lying in bed, sick to the core, unwilling to admit it, exhausted already by the day. «Y/n, c'mon, we need to go!» Pierre huffed, poorly concealing the annoyance. You whined, weakly raising the duvet in order to get seated. Before Pierre could snort again and feel even more dissatisfied with the sudden lack of energy you showed, he hesitated on your dark eyebags, on the slow movement you dragged your limbs with, on the aura of fatigue encircling you. He stepped closer, taking your arms and lifting you up, guiding you to the kitchen steadily, but still rather quickly. As you took a seat, he placed before you an amount of food – for breakfast – which you would've always considered sufficient and that now seemed exaggerated. «If you're not hungry, drink at least. You need to keep hydrated.» Pierre's demanding voice partially saved you from the impasse of refusing food, so you obligingly sipped the cup of coffee he had pushed towards you without adding a word.

From that moment onwards, Pierre eyed you with a carefulness unknown before. He only realized now how sluggish and overall low-key you had been behaving: though, the restless rhythm of flights, hotel check-ins, suits packing and racing sessions were draining enough to present themselves as valid reasons for your lack of verve. Taking your purse underarm in a hurry, you crossed eyes with Pierre’s. «I’m ready, let’s go.» Dumbfounded by his sudden aplomb, you stood in silence, hair barely brushed, shirt carelessly half untucked in your jeans; you didn’t stray your stare from Pierre’s while he slowly took your hands in his, a strange thoughtfulness guiding the movement. The silence said more than you two were capable of. It seemed to be thrown back in time to those longing, perusing stares you studied each other with, always analyzing expressions and reactions, never sure of getting it right yet desperately needy of the other. You both swam comfortably in that tacit conversation, exchanging fears, doubts, loving care; but Pierre knew it was time to go – it had been for a while, already – and couldn’t restrain himself from clearing his throat. «Yep, I told you. Let’s go.» you whispered.

>>♥<<

It had been Charles' idea, to have a brunch all together inside the paddock: he had found a small sort of restaurant, right in front of Pirelli's backdoor, unfrequented by VIPs and paparazzi. If you didn't know Charles well enough, you would've guessed he simply wanted to check on you; but him craving some good old company and wanting to shy away from the crowd of the track was the most likely scenario. Hanging out together, the three of you, felt like a fever dream, every single time: the memories would merge, the jokes and the laughs would crack on their own with such a flow and an ease unexplainable to anybody else. Sitting next to the most important people of your life was a luck you would never take for granted. «…should buy one. What do you think?» «I think that’s awesome, really.» You became self-conscious of the wedding ring pressing Pierre’s name onto your skin as an endless kiss, recalling the ebbing moments of the day you became one. «Y/n?» Again. The wave knocking at the pit of your stomach, the sudden harmony of smells emanated by your dishes was quick to stir your quiescent sickness. «Y/n? Did you hear the question?» Charles’ voice obliged you to answer. «Uh? Yeah, yes, I did.» you composed yourself as quickly as you could. «I think it’s a beautiful opportunity for you.» «We’ll help you, if we can do anything for it. Like, if you need taste testers, we’re more than happy!» Pierre chuckled. You forced a smile too, in order not to contrast your husband’s bright expression. However, it all spiraled when a pile of used tires – the F3 free practice had finished less than a half an hour earlier, you reasoned – was dragged in a small interstice near Pirelli's building, leaving an unbearable smell of burned rubber. You felt yet again nauseous, making it blatantly obvious clasping your mouth and nose, focusing on your breathing, eyes closed. Pierre and Charles' stares laid on you in a single motion, both catching on what was happening (with different awareness, clearly). Pierre couldn't let the memory of your missed breakfast fade into nothing, and his racing mind quickly figured you must be ill; he trapped your free hand in a grab which you immediately complied, he got up and kneeled next to you, seeing you didn't give any signs of the clench in your stomach loosening.

In the meantime, Charles quietly and politely asked you if you needed a glass of water, if you'd want to go to the restroom, to which your silence only fueled his helplessness and sly embarrassment. «I'm okay, guys.» you breathed out, finally removing your fingers from your lips, but still too scared to open your eyelids and be attacked by their sharp stares. «No, you're not, y/n. You've been sick for at least a week.» Pierre's statement worked as a tymbal clang to both you and Charles, so that you looked at each other briefly but intensely, wondering whether the ticking bomb laying untold amongst you three had just exploded without you noticing. “Tell him” was painted in capital letters, bold, inside Charles' green irises.

Internalizing the truth impossible to fool, you let Pierre's fingertips gently move your chin towards him, since you had enchanted in reflection on Charles. Suddenly confronting your husband's – yes, because he was your husband – unexplainable beauty like it was the first time you really saw him, the news seemed to brim out your lips, overflowing with contrasting emotions you weren't able to conciliate. Gathering all your courage despite the trembling of your chin, you reciprocated the hold of Pierre's hands: it was building up, from your chest up to the throat, bypassing the rationality check. «I need to tell you something.» It was nothing but a whisper; Charles, unknowing to either you or Pierre, slowly got up from his chair, standing near you and placing his hand on your shoulder, squeezing it for comfort. Pierre waited in silence for your words, pupils scattered all around your features trying to get the smallest hint of which nature the news was. The tears pricked your eyes as soon as the thought hit your synapsis. «I'm pregnant, Pierre.» Releasing the pent-up distress, finally relieved by the burden of secrecy, you cried freely, ready to face the consequences of the news.

A part of you expected an endless chain of angry sentences and despair, complaints, immaturity. And the part of you who didn't expect such a reaction, or at least hoped for a better outcome without much conviction, still managed to astonish before the taken aback but sweet curve of Pierre's eyebrows, unbelievably moved by your words. «Really? Are you sure?» His mistrust annoyed you slightly and made you scoff through tears. But before you could answer with a snappy remark, he was all over you, hugging your sadness away, melting in an embrace that swiped bad omens, that dissolved the clouds of doubt in a sparkling, bubbly dust of relief. Pierre left a long peck on your forehead, which only freed tears from running ceaselessly. «I can't believe it…» he whispered out of an uncontainable smile. Your body and soul, both in shock from experiencing the most releasing happiness, trembled like leaves under the wind of Pierre's affection. He glanced at Charles, looking for confirmation, which he found expressed through the dimples of his best friend; then focused back again on you, whose reaction Pierre couldn't quite make out. «You're happy, right?» he asked, almost fearful of the answer. Sobbing a laugh, you leaned against his hand cupping your cheek and enveloped it with yours, fond. «Of course I am.» He paused, taking a full look at you in excitement and amazement, letting the thought settle in his heart. «When did you find out?» he asked, cupping your cheek as a fragile corolla of petals. Your mouth dried out, your throat was still knotted; thankfully Charles beat you on time in answering. «Almost two weeks ago.» You waited for it, you anticipated the hatred and the – righteous – disappointment in getting to know that his best friend had witnessed and received the news first. Fear invested you once again, through sobs and hiccups. «Y/n… Look at me.» It all seemed to down on you at once: sat in your weakness, you had disclosed all your cards and were now the most vulnerable you’d ever been with him. Not even when you had promised in front of your families to love him for the rest of your life, not even lying in his embrace and cuddling with him after breathing out affection and pleasure on top of each other’s skin; no rejection could hurt you more than now, while carrying two lives inside of one body, two souls, doubling the sorrow. His serious demeanour only spiked up your anxiety, as you realized you weren’t ready at all, neither emotionally nor mentally, to face him yet.

He shut his eyes closed, he prepared himself to talk; you braced yourself for the impact of the cruel reality. It had been fun, until it had lasted. This is no fairytale, you chanted to yourself, lulling your crying soul. «I love you.» You looked at him dumbfounded, waiting for the answer to be completed with a "like a friend", or something of the sort which would've stabbed your heart with pain as he would always do; but a peaceful silence followed his words, and the longer you stared at each other, the deeper the realization would set in your heart. The promise you had been waiting for since the day you had met Pierre, which you expected to hear at the altar, was now vowed to you, him still kneeled down. «When…?» you involuntarily voiced your reasoning, not able to make sense of it, caught by total surprise. «Since forever. It just took me a while to realize…», he then glanced at Charles. «… and the help of a friend.» Spontaneously, you flung your arms around him, heart aching in joy and bliss. You watered and creased Pierre’s shirt, feeling life flourish just by listening to his words; to seal them, he plastered a kiss on your reddish, smooth lips, and heaven reached earth. «A baby, uh?» Pierre said almost to himself, placing his spread hands on your belly. You couldn’t help but have eyes brimming with emotion, gently brushing with your fingers his: was there anything which could make you happier and more strongly bonded together? «Charles… I think we’ll need plenty of your ice-cream in the near future.» «Hey!» you patted Pierre’s shoulder, amusingly offended. «Oh, for sure. I’ll make you a discount, since you’ll buy it in large quantity.» «Guys!» you laughed, trying to stop their endless flow of jokes. With your left hand still pressed onto Pierre’s, you gazed down at your wedding ring, shining and glimmering under the sunlight. Maybe, no matter how unhoped and unplanned, yours was truly a fairytale.

to @gaslysainz: Thanks again for the request! I really hope you’ll like it…I’m not fully satisfied with how it turned out, but I couldn’t work on it any further 😂 I’d be glad to know what you think 🥹❤️

AND TO ALL OF YOU, THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING AND FOR BEING PATIENT! I’D REALLY APPRECIATE IT IF YOU LEFT A NOTE FOR FEEDBACK, SO THANKS IF YOU DO! HOPE YOU HAVE A NICE DAY! . · ˚✧

Navigation || Masterlist

[firegirl888101]

how would the harbingers react to a reader who's good at drawing? like, they like to draw the harbingers or other things

Good at drawing?

I'm shit at drawing so I'm not really sure what to say, that's why I didn't reply to this for awhile. But, I eventually got a couple things when my friend was sketching some stuff in front of me.

Sorry that the current Insatiable Madness chapter is taking so long, I've been studying a lot these past couple of days.

I also got another ask where it asked about Halloween. I don't really celebrate Halloween, because I never grew up with it. I've always been too shy to trick-or-treat and I didn't have many friends (and still don't) who'd want to go with me. Quite sad actually, but it's alright. I don't think I missed out on much.

Is anyone expecting me to make a Halloween special? I don't mind doing it, but I'll need inspiration as I wouldn't know where to start 💀

Actually, the more I think about it, I do have one fun idea. (Harbingers going trick-or-treating??? Halloween party if that even exists? Idk, I'll have to do some research.)

|You can take this with Yandere and without - some will probably lean towards yan though.|

So, to begin with:

Pierro wouldn't be too bothered. I feel if Y/N had a skill they were confident in, and wanted to show it, he'd let his curiousity get the better of him and check it out. But, if it's something like drawing he'll probably leave a comment then leave. Whether it's positive or negative, you be the judge. This man is like a slate slab. No personality I'm sorry 😭😭 (When I see more of his character, maybe I'll like him more?)

If you were to draw this man, he'd be humbled. A Grandpa who received his very first present from his grandchild. Would definitely frame the damn thing in his office (which originally was your parent's) he'd put it on the desk. It's his office now, don't argue for it back.

Capitano would show interest. Not too much since he's the main captain of the Fatui, but still interested. If he's bored, or deems the 'fort' (the house) safe, he'll sit down with you and watch what you're doing. Occasionally asking you if he could doodle with you - but I think that would be very rare. His main objective in his mind is guarding you when your own is low whilst you're having fun, doodling or drawing something.

Would 100% deny the picture of him at first. He'd think, that looks like me, but it can't be. Yes, it's him, you'd reassure. Eventually he does take it and folds it in his coat. After that, he'd probably leave the room in embarrassment. Since then on, he'd definitely keep all drawings you've made of him in his pocket. There's too many? Let's put it in the second pocket. That's full too? Looks like he's buying a new coat. Oh? There's room in his military coat he hasn't worn in two years? That'll do just nicely.

Dottore would be intrigued if he saw you practice anatomy - or if you drew more of a gorey scene. I think he'd be even more interested if you liked to draw the human body with extra things (such as arms, legs, eyes or even got rid of a few), and question you on your design choices and if it already exists somewhere. (He's not fooling you, he's obviously taking inspirations for a new experiment). If he didn't know, or wasn't good, he'd probably ask for tips on how to sketch ideas like yours. He reassures you it's not for any experimentation but once again, he's not fooling you at all.

If you were to draw him he'd treat it like glass. Nobody has ever given him a sketch before - bonus points if you draw him injured whilst you're angry with him. He'd treat it as if you drew him with love, and not as if you'd stab him in the heart if you ever got the chance. What do you mean he shouldn't like it this much? It's a work of art! He'd be very quick to correct the drawing if you got anything wrong. Who knows what this man has in his body at this point.

Columbina would join you in your drawing activities. Maybe add some glitter if you have any. The second you complain about cleaning up, however, she has somehow disappeared and has become very forgetful about the events upstairs. 'How curious!~' She would hum to herself with her usual smile. Is definitely the type to ask if you could draw her. Who are you to refuse? Especially when she gives you that look of daunt hope and kindness which makes you drop your pen in fear. Before you can give her an answer, you've already picked up your pencil and began to sketch her beautiful headpiece.

When Columbina receives her multiple sketches, she's overjoyed. Oh, look how you drew this part! How you drew her clothes! She's quick to kiss you on the cheek as a thank you and runs off somewhere. Huh, you feel like you've just been used.

Arlecchino will roll her eyes at first. She's seen many children in the hearth draw for her. Her initial thoughts were vague, she didn't really see much of your hobby. That was until she actually saw what you were drawing. She would stare as you worked, your pencil delicately brushing against the paper you most likely bought the other day. It soon will become a habit to watch you work, becoming a therapeutic source for her. She sometimes questions why you're drawing... certain things, but she wouldn't actually stop your creative mind from working.

Handing Arlecchino the drawing you drew of her would make her blood rise to her cheeks slightly. Sure, she's received a lot of gifts in this sense before. But from you? What an honour! She'll accept it with a soft smile she'd usually show the kids, and pat your head treating you like one. Little do you know she's trying so hard to control her cute agression response by not tearing the paper.

Pulcinella would react very similarly to Pierro. However, he'd have more experience with complimenting and encouraging 'a child' in a hobby they're having fun with. If he saw your skill, he'd probably compliment it whole-heartedly with a chuffed smile. Massaging his mustache like some aristocrat, in the 1940s... Anyway, he'd be very pleased when he watches you draw more and more. He's happy that you're spending your time doing something you like under the tense situation his coworkers (and him, but he doesn't like to admit it) have brought upon you.

I do not see you drawing this man at all. He's a short, dobby, old, looking as man. I don't see him as the type to ask either, at all. He's minding his own business in your house and plans to keep it that way until the situation is resolved.

Scaramouche really doesn't care. We've all got our own likes and dislikes, but he's not bothered about yours. Will most likely purposefully pass by you working on a piece and insult it just to get attention. He'd never actually mean it though - he just never tells you that important fact. As time progresses he'll sneak into your room just to look at more sketches or finished drawings you've done, and assess your progress from each year if you've been practicing for a long time-period.

Now, here's where things get interesting. If you were to draw him and never show it to him, said puppet finding it for himself in one of your drawers, he'd first feel angry. Why wouldn't you show him this? It's of him! ...But then he'd quickly realise it's because of the way he treated you when you were working (oops). If you actually handed it to him and let him keep it, he'd be delighted. You actually drew him? He didn't even have to manipu-- he means 'ask' you to draw him? This is a good step forward to where he wants to be in your heart.

Sandrone would be delighted to know that she's finally found a use for you in her head. She never thought that purposefully walking past you one evening would lead to her shuffling through all the sketches and designs you've done with awe. Where did you get this idea from? How can she recreate it? Would you be happier and more devoted to her if she were to make your dreams true? She digresses. Watching your creative little mind draw your ideas to life inspires her also, and makes her want to recruit you as a special exception to the 'no non-artificial beings' allowed in her workshop. Thinking of all the monstrosities you could design with her help sends pleasurable shivers up her spine.

Drawing her, however? This was rather unprecedented. Out of all the things-- no, people you could have drawn... and you decide on her? And ooh! You even drew her slave she likes to travel around on, how thoughtful, you're already expressing your adoration for her works! Trust me, don't draw her. You'll give her daydreams that will never happen.

Signora, like most of the harbingers, wouldn't care at first. She hates your house and hates your world, why in Teyvat's name would she be interested in what you're doing? That's what she used to think, until her arrogant slick eyes caught sight of what exactly you were drawing. In my opinion, there's only a couple things that would interest Signora. Drawing dresses, if you were interested in fashion designing, would definitely be the main one. Viewing your designs after you finished them would soon become a small hobby for her, and soon, she'd eventually ask you to draw her in one of your designs.

You'd say yes, of course. An excuse to draw a drop-dead gorgeous woman in one of your designs for free? No way you were going to pass this opportunity! For her hard work in modeling, you'd definitely pay back twice and give her a drawing of her in her harbinger uniform too - which I think would flatter her a bit too much.

Pantalone wouldn't care, and would never become interested. He's a very rich and successful banker, not any ordinary man. As soon as he sees you drawing somewhere in the house, he'll shrug and go the opposite way. He knows what it's like to be interrupted through a thoughtful process, and he doesn't feel like getting an earful from you if he interrupts it. What he does think about, however, is if you're making money from it. Maybe an online business. He asks, and receives a very disappointing answer. No? What do you mean no? These are good, he'd pay for a portrait! Well, if Mora was a usable currency here. Ugh, the thought of being a poor man in this world makes him disgusted.

Drawing him would result in lots of praise. He'd be very happy you used your own time to draw him. He didn't even have to pay for it, it was gift! You even said so yourself. Immediately taken from your hands and framed somewhere. You can't seem to find the drawing though... Pantalone insists it's still in the house, but no matter where you look you just can't find it! Oh well, it's probably better you didn't know where it went. (You would have never been able to find it, he hid the location so well after all.) Pantalone told you he'd give something back to you as a thank you, but you're not holding him to his word.

Tartaglia would be interested the second he sees you doing something he hasn't seen you do before. That looks interesting, let him give drawing a try! He'd boast how his siblings love his drawings he creates, but you knew he was lying to set a cheery mood. Your understanding was backed when you actually saw his 'Amazing Drawing'... It was embarrassing to say the least. He would heed all your little tips and eventually get good at drawing from your guidance! I can see him as the type to use these skills later for his siblings, and as the type to continue drawing even if you begin to get bored of it... He's skilled with his fingers after all-- okay I'm sorry I'm done.

Drawing him can go one in two ways. I see him as someone who will whine about being drawn. He'll say: 'Have you drawn me yet?' in one of the most annoying voices he cna muster. He knows and understands you find it annoying when he asks you to draw him, so he's found a loophole. Just keep asking questions related to it until you get the hint! ...You got the hint weeks ago, but you're refusing to do it. Well, you're refusing to show him your drawings you've already finished and hid out of sight. Showing him these drawings would make him really happy! Would fold his favourite and carry it around with him everywhere like some of the other harbingers. His next commission he's planned to ask you is of a drawing of Capitano. You eagerly declined, not wishing to impose on the Captain's privacy.

[themultifandomgal]

Kelly Severide- Finally

Kelly and I have been married for 3 years now. We met because of my brother Matt joining firehouse 51, then Kelly and I dated for many years before he proposed. Our wedding was a beautiful day and filled with so much love.

After a couple of years of marriage we decided that it would be time for us to start a family. Unfortunately this took a lot longer than expected. We even went to the doctors to find out if there was anything wrong. They just said that for some men and woman it can take longer and to come back in a year if we are still yet to conceive or if we struggle to carry full term.

Of course seeing negative after negative pregnancy test it really effects you mentally. So we stopped taking pregnancy tests so regular. We will only take one if I think I could be pregnant.

I wake up feeling off like I've drank to much. Headache and nausea. Rolling over I place my hand on Kelly's side of the bed, but I'm greeted by the bed being cold. That's when I remember that Kelly had to head off to work early this morning. I groan sitting up, my head spinning as I do, I swallow dryly feeling so ill. Slowly I crawl out of bed and go into the bathroom to get myself ready for the day. Thankfully I work from home so I don't have to go out anywhere.

I'm typing on my laptop when I have to quickly run to the bathroom to throw up. Which weirdly makes me feel immediately better. I clean my teeth getting rid of the nasty taste in my mouth and go back to my work.

I spend the next few hours working, but when my day of work ends I'm absolutely exhausted so decide to take a nap before Kelly comes back home.

This goes on for the next few days which does make me wonder if I could be pregnant. So while Kelly is at work I route around in one of the draws for some pregnancy tests that I bought months ago. When I find them I pee on the sticks and leave them on the back of the toilet before going back to work.

I forget about the tests for a couple of hours before I have to go to pee again. I pick them up not thinking that it will be positive, but when I see the little plus sign on all of the tests I am shocked. This is the first time I've ever gotten a positive pregnancy test, but still not wanting to get Kelly to excited I want to make sure that this is true. So that day I ring up my doctors and book an appointment for the next day. However I'm going to have to sneak out because Kelly is off.

The following day I wake up in Kelly's arms making me smile. I turn around to face him and brush some hair out of his face making him sigh and pull me closer

"Morning" he says in his gruff morning voice

"Morning" I reply placing a kiss on his lips "what have you got planned for today?" I ask

"I'm staying home and cuddling you all day. I've missed you" I giggle at his reply

"I've missed you to, but I've go a couple of jobs to do this morning"

"Like?"

"Well I have to go to the bank, then pop to the grocery store"

"I'll come with you"

"No" I say way to quickly causing Kelly to frown "I just mean it's going to be boring and you've been working really heard the past few days. Why don't you sleep in" Kelly frowns not buying what I'm selling

"What's going on?"

"Ok you caught me. I am actually getting you a surprise but I'm not telling you what it is so you'll have to wait"

"Ok? Why?"

"Will you stop asking me questions. Go back to sleep I won't be to long" I place a kiss on Kelly's lips before getting up and getting dressed.

So I'm pregnant! I run to the store and buy a gift bag, some dippers, wipes and baby bottles. I then head back home with all of the 'gifts' in the bag and head into the house

"I'm home!" I call out and Kelly is quick to greet me with a smile. He wraps me up in his arms causing me to giggle at his affection "go sit down for your surprise" he eagerly leaves my side and sits down on the couch still with a wide grin on his face "ok close your eyes" I say and he does. I place the bag on his lap and tell him to open. He puts his hand in and the first thing he pulls out are the packets of wipes

"Baby wipes? You trying to tell me to wipe my ass or something?"

"No. Keep going" next he pulls out the baby bottles. He frowns taking out the box of diapers. He looks at me still frowning, but a look of realisation crosses his face as I keep smiling at him

"Are you...? Are we...?"

"Yes. I'm pregnant" Kelly is up in an instant and spins me around then kisses all over my face

"I love you so much!"

"I love you to Kel"

"I'm going to be a dad"

"Yes you are. We're finally getting what we wanted"

[mlmxreader]

Room For One More | Dean Winchester x gn!reader

『••✎••』

↳ ❝ Hi can I request “The undead surround me. Have you ever talked to a corpse? It's boring! I'm lonely!” with dean Winchester please?

Thanks! ❞

: ̗̀➛ A hunter's lifestyle is difficult enough as it is, but it's even harder when you have an unnatural ability that can't be explained.

: ̗̀➛ alcohol consumption, swearing

•───────────────★•♛•★──────────────•

Nobody ever really knew what you were, as not only could you see the dead, but you had the ability to actually speak to them as well; morgues and graveyards were atrocious places for you to be, as you were constantly cornered into conversation even if you didn't want it.

You were born and raised as a hunter, and it was only natural that you had known the Winchesters; only three years younger than Sam, you were good friends with them both, although you only saw them few and far between.

But as you grew older, you learned to actually control your little gift, and you learned that it led to a lifetime of loneliness and boredom, too.

You did sometimes wonder if the Winchesters were ever in the same boat, but they had their family, and you didn't; it seemed like the moment you turned twenty, you were completely on your own, and as the years went by, you came to realise that you were right.

You were on your own, and you always would be; nobody would ever understand what you could do, and if they did, they always assumed you were a demon or a witch or a vampire or whatever.

So they ran, and they left you all alone every time.

But luck was never on your side; a job in Mississippi turned to you meeting with the Winchesters again, and while Sam was doing some investigation at the library, you and Dean were hunkered down in the motel together. Sharing beer and talking shit between going through just about everything.

"So," he coughed. "You still got that, erm, direct line to Casper?"

You glared at him, shaking your head. "You mean, can I still talk to the dead?"

"Yeah," he nodded. "Can you?"

"It's not something I can turn on and off at will," you huffed. "Every time I walk through a morgue or a cemetery, the dead surround me. Have you ever talked to a corpse? It's boring! I'm lonely!"

Dean quirked a brow, tilting his head to the side. "I thought you could control it?"

"I can control it anywhere else," you told him. "Just not there... honestly, you should try it for a couple of days - listen to Old Man Jenkins rant about how kids these days are always on their phones, or or how television these days is shit! You try explaining that Rock Hudson was gay to Granny Letitia!"

Dean chortled loudly as he covered his mouth, trying not to laugh too loudly. "You really had to have that conversation?"

"Several times," you groaned. "It's boring, Dean!"

He shrugged, pouting a little. "It could've been worse, though. I mean, at least you're talking to Granny Letitia and not someone worse."

You rolled your eyes, scoffing. "Yeah, and that makes me such a catch, right? Waking up in the middle of the night to tell Old Uncle Bob that no, I can't bring him back from the dead. Guys sure love that!"

His smile dropped, and he nodded slowly as he cleared his throat. "Hey, you me and both... we're not... we're not ever gonna get the normal, white picket fence life. People like us, we don't get normal."

You raised your beer slightly before taking a long swig. "I'll sure drink to that."

Dean eyed you curiously; last time he saw you was about a year ago, and he remembered thinking that you were good-looking then, but now?

Something was different. Maybe it was the beer, maybe it was the way you held yourself. Maybe it was how your lips looked and how he couldn't take his eyes from your mouth. He swallowed hard, shaking his head.

"Talking to corpses," you scoffed. "Even other hunters won't get involved with someone who does that. Not even psychics will. But I don't expect you to understand - you don't... you have a family. You have Sam, and Bobby... I don't. I don't have anyone."

"You got me," he said quietly. "I might not be family, but erm... I'm still here."

"I appreciate it," you sighed out. "I really do, but... Dean, can I be honest with you?"

"Always," he nodded curtly, putting aside everything in front of him.

You rab a hand down your face, chewing at the corner of your lip for a moment. "I'm lonely in the romantic sense, man. I mean, I... I want a partner, y'know? But I... no one ever stays long enough once they find out about... this."

Dean nodded slowly. He probably understood that feeling more than anyone else in the world, and as he looked at you, he could only hang his head. "I get it. I mean, y'know, I'd be lying if I said I never wanted it - a family, a spouse... all that."

"Right?" You said quietly. "I know it's not... look, I know as a hunter, I'll never have a normal life - but thanks to... this! Whatever the fuck you wanna call it! I can't even have a fucking partner."

Slowly, Dean crossed the room to sit next to you, and with a harsh gulp, he gently put his arm around you, letting you rest your head on his shoulder. "You're a hunter, I'm a hunter. Monsters hate you as much as they hate me and Sammy, and y'know... maybe it wouldn't be so bad. I mean, I wouldn't worry about you being safe, and you wouldn't worry about me..."

"But it would be ling distance," you pointed out.

"Or not," he shrugged. "There's room in the Impala for one more."

You stared at him for a moment, furrowing your brows. "Are you sure?"

He nodded, daring to smile. "Course I am... as long as you wanna try, I'll try, too - besides, it could be handy, having the undead on speed dial."

"Dean," you deadpanned.

"I'm joking," he chuckled. "Sorta. Mostly."

Gently, you smacked his chest, shaking your head. "Talk to Sam, first. I don't... y'know, I don't wanna be a nuisance."

"Sammy will be fine," Dean reassured, hooking his finger under your chin and forcing you to look into his pretty green eyes. "I'm willing to try, if you are. If you wanna come with us, then... then there's room for you. There always will be... just don't tell Old Man Jenkins or Granny Letitia about me, right?"

You could only laugh as you put your hand on his face, cupping his jaw softly. "Of course not."

[fantasy-nerdddd]

Is Epic A Tragedy?

I've seen a couple people here question whether epic is a tragedy or a celebration of ruthlessness. I'll try to answer that by checking the criteria of definitions of ancient greek tragedies and tragic characters and the modern interpretation of tragedy.

Tragedy in ancient Greece was not defined as something bad or what we call tragic. It's actually, according to Aristotle:

"Εστίν ούν τραγωδίαν μίμησης πράξεως σπουδαίας καί τελείας, μέγεθος έχουσιν, ηδυσμένω λόγω, χωρίς εκάστω τών ειδών έν τοίς μιριοις, δρώντων καί ού δι' απαγγελίας, δι' ελέου καί φόβου περαίνουσα τήν τών τιούτων παθημάτων κάθαρσιν." (Yes, I did copy the ancient Greek definition. No, I don't know why)

We'll go over Aristotle's points one by one:

Imitation of actions (μίμησης πράξεως): The tragedy must imitate and show actual actions. Of course it is. Even if we don't count the animatics, Epic will become a play, or a circus play, or whatever it will become at some point. Still in progress Epic does have both animatics and imitations purely by the music.

Has a certain length (μέγεθος έχουσιν): The tragedy needs to have a length not too short in order to relay every message and meaning, but not too long in order to keep the audience focused and entertained. Epic fulfills both, at least to me. I don't think you could say Epic is boring.

Cleansing (κάθαρσιν): The tragedy should satisfy the audience. The hero can't be way too bad, because the audience won't sympathise with them and will think of their punishment as inevitable and deserved. However, they can't be too good, because the audience won't understand the Gods and their punishment will be met with anger. The main character should be ambiguous. Odysseus manages that well; look at all the people defending him and all the people defending Poseidon, Circe and Polyphemus. He's not the best morally, but he is not hated by everyone and a devil upon earth.

Serious and important (σπουδαίας): Ofc, the tragedy must be serious and important. I think Epic is both. I mean, the Odyssey is a very serious matter, and taking 10 years to return to your homeland is pretty important. It wouldn't have been the second most well known epic if it wasn't important.

Finished (τέλειας): The tragedy must have everything that happened, the reasoning, the consequences and the excuses presented in some way. I'm not an objective judge because I knew the Odyssey before Epic, but there are no plot holes like that from what I know.

Seasonings (ηδυσμένω λόγω): The tragedy must have something to make it more interesting and entertaining. Yes, Aristotle used a parallel to cooking, but he mainly meant rhythm and music. I think the title shows that, yes, there's both. Epic The Musical is a musical after all.

Correct me if I'm wrong or missing anything, but for now the answer is yes, according to Aristotle, Epic is a tragedy.

That's going to be short, but tragedy is generally interpreted as a misfortunate event in general. Yes. I'm pretty sure Epic is a tragedy in this kind.

Now, let's see whether or not Odysseus is a tragic character. According to my Helen by Euripides professor, a tragic character has to:

• Fight with Fates and Gods generally but also other humans, sometimes even themselves.

• Go from ignorance to knowledge through facing tragic dilemmas, contradicting situations and dead ends. It also has to include the consequences of these actions (guilt, loneliness, woe, defeat or redemption)

• Result in moral freedom, which shows the personality of the tragic character

Okay, so, point 1. Odysseus fights with all 4 in some ways. In No Longer You, he hears that he won't make it back, misinterprets it and decides to change his personality in order to fight fate, making No Longer You a self-fulfilling prophecy. Gods are numerous. Poseidon in Ruthlessness, Get In The Water and Six Hundred Strike. Zeus' will in The Horse And The Infant. Athena, if we stretch it, in Warrior Of The Mind, Remember Them and My Goodbye. Calypso in Love In Paradise. Humans is Luck Runs Out and especially Mutiny, as well as the upcoming song Odysseus. Himself and his morals is one of the additions from Jorge, and a constant theme of Epic. Just A Man and Monster are centered around that however there are hints everywhere.

Point number 2 might be controversial, but I'll take as knowledge the "Ruthlessness is mercy" mentality and Odysseus' belief that it works as the story goes on. Odysseus starts with the Open Arms mentality, and in later songs starts to accept, even welcome and hunt ruthlessness. He starts to believe that ruthlessness will make him achieve his goal, showcased in Different Beast, Scylla, Thunder Bringer and, most of all, Six Hundred Strike and Odysseus. Does it work? For him and his family, his main priorities, yes. I'll take that as growing knowledge it will. He even says so in Monster:

"Ruthlessness is mercy upon ourselves

And deep down I know this well"

Are his words to be trusted? No, not really. But it's just one more point. As for the tragic dilemmas, contradicting situations and dead ends, I think I've got at least one example for each. Dillema is obviously the infant, Astyanax. Do you kill an innocent soul because you were told it will kill your family? Or do you spare it and hope for the best? Contradicting situations could be the lyrics from Just A Man and Puppeteer:

"Deep down I would trade the world to see my son and wife"

"There's no length I wouldn't go if it was you I had to save"

Up until Thunder Bringer, that's possible. But not both can happen when Zeus makes Odysseus choose. He'll either see his son and wife, or he'll save his brother-in-law, Eurylochus. I know he didn't really want to save Eurylochus at this point (though I don't believe he wanted him dead), but those promises are contradicting. Love In Paradise is a dead end for Odysseus. If Athena didn't care for him, he would have been left in Ogygia for eternity as Calypso's plaything. Odysseus thought it was a dead end. He saw death as his only way out. Hell, he almost acted on his suicidal thoughts (that was a very, very stressful part of the musical for me). And is anyone going to argue Odysseus doesn't feel guilt, woe, loneliness, defeat or redeemed at some point in the story? I thought so.

EDIT: I forgot point 3 for Tragic Odysseus, let me add it. The story hasn't ended yet, so we can't tell for sure. But I believe he'll have the choice, after killing the suitors, to soften down and live in peace or continue the ruthless, cold path. From the snippets we've heard, it's going to be the former. Which also reveals a thing or two about his character: he didn't want to be ruthless or cause pain. He has always wanted peace with his family, and he'll get it.

Odysseus is a tragic character, at least in Epic.

So why isn't the Odyssey classified as a tragedy? Or Odysseus by Homer a tragic character? There are two reasons.

a) It has no music or rhythm. Which means it doesn't fulfill all the criteria for a tragedy (look to the seasonings section)

b) In Homer's time, the word tragedy didn't exist. The word was created centuries later to fit plays like Prometheus Bound by Aeschylus, Antigone by Sophocles and Medea by Euripides. I'm not going to analyse those, but they involve acting and music, not just a guy reciting a poem.

Anyways, I didn't expect this to get this long. Tell me if I've missed anything or made a mistake :)

[ckret2]

Chapter 19 of Human Bill Is The Shack's Prisoner But They Haven't Told Anybody Yet (title tbd), featuring: Wendy!!! Who hasn't been told yet! But she sure as heck knows something is going on.

also featuring: Bill wrangling Mabel into a secret plot against her better judgment; guest appearances from Soos, Melody, Thompson, and baby dragons; and digging into what Wendy's got going on under the "cool girl" facade.

####

Sitting on the attic bench, Mabel said, "Okay, here's an abstract one."

Lying spread eagle on the floor staring at the ceiling, Bill said, "Hit me."

"A president, an astronaut, and a movie star."

Bill paused. Bill looked at the ceiling thoughtfully. Bill said, "Which president?"

"Your favorite."

Without hesitation, Bill said, "Bury the astronaut, bed the—"

"Stop doing it wrong!"

Bill sighed noisily. "Betray the astronaut, befriend the movie star, and betroth the president."

"Really? You never marry politicians over artists."

Bill hesitated. "I don't?"

"Which president are you thinking of."

"I'm not playing anymore."

"Bill. Which president—"

"I quit. I'm bored now."

"Give me a hint," Mabel insisted. "Is he on a dollar bill—"

Bill sat up and pointed out the attic window. "Oh wow, what's that!"

Mabel's head whipped around to look.

"It's a change of topic!"

Mabel whipped back to glare at Bill. 

"No—no, I'm serious, don't give me that look." Bill lowered his voice. "I've actually been meaning to bring this up. It's something I need your help with."

Mabel gave him a skeptical look—behold the coward, trying to weasel out of admitting which president he clearly had a crush on—but said, "What is it?"

Bill glanced around. "Not out here. Anyone could listen in. Somewhere private."

Mabel pointed out the window. "But Candy's mom's about to pick me up..."

Bill stood up and peered out into the early nighttime dark. "Not for at least fifteen minutes, she isn't. I'll be quick. Come on."

"You're acting really suspicious."

"No, I'm acting secretive. You're the suspicious one. When have I ever given you any reason to be suspicious of me?"

Mabel raised a brow.

"Point taken. When have I given you any reason to be suspicious of me this year?"

Mabel raised the other brow.

"Any reason this week."

"You have had a good week," Mabel conceded. "Fine, but I'm not taking you somewhere private without taking precautions."

"Fine," Bill said. "What precautions?"

####

He looked in dismay at the sock gloves tied onto his hands with yarn. "You couldn't have at least given me the colorful socks?"

"Sorry! Dipper's socks are thicker than mine and all he has are white. I'm not taking any chances."

"You hate me."

Mabel shut the bedroom door. "Okay!" She sat on her bed. "So tell me what it is you want."

"Okay," Bill said.

He told her.

When he was done, she studied him with a thoughtful frown.

"What? I thought you'd love the idea!"

"I do," Mabel conceded. "The problem is all the other things you could do once you get your hands on it."

"From inside this shack? Not a lot."

"Mmm... It is a great idea..." Mabel screwed her face up. "I'll think about it."

"For how long?

"Give me a day."

"We don't have a day to spare. We're working in a very narrow timeframe if we want to pull this off."

"And whose fault is that?" Mabel planted her hands on her hips. "You pushed this on me at the last minute so I couldn't think it over!"

"I did not," Bill said, affronted. "I only thought of it myself a couple hours ago. Do you think I'd have wanted to do this last minute if I'd thought of it any sooner?"

Mabel wouldn't put it past him, if he thought the pressure would make her more likely to agree. "I'll consider it."

"For how long? Look, kid—it's a great idea, you know it's a great idea, but the longer we take to get started the less likely it'll happen, and if you don't do your half I can't do my half, and then the whole thing's ruined—"

"Hey!" Mabel pointed at Bill. "I said I'll consider it! If you try to make me answer before Candy's mom gets here, it's gonna be no."

"Okay, okay!" He raised his socked hands. "So, what—by morning?"

Mabel thought, then nodded. "Okay. I'll decide by the time I'm back from Candy's."

Bill cracked a wide smile. "I know you won't let me down." He glanced out the window. "And good timing; your ride should be here in..."

He trailed off. Mabel had put her glass pyramid from Ford in the window so it could catch the sunlight, and Bill was completely focused on it. "Hey, where'd you get that?"

Mabel looked at the pyramid. "Oh, that? Grunkle Ford gave that to me."

"He did?" Bill looked at her with undisguised shock. "What for?"

This was it. This was Mabel's opportunity. The moment she'd prepared for. With a casual shrug, she said, "To commemorate my initiation."

Bill's eyes widened further. "Your initiation?"

"Uh-huh. Into the Mysteries."

"Into the MYSTERIES?" If Bill's eyes got any bigger, they'd fall out of his skull. "Hold on a second! Did Stanford join a mystery cult? And he didn't tell me? Which one! Is it about me?"

Mabel tipped her head back. "I'm sorry, Bill, but I don't think you've been initiated into the Mysteries. I can't tell you what they're about."

"It's about me," Bill insisted. "It's got to be about me, why else would it involve..." He flailed one socked hand at the pyramid.

Out the window, Mabel glimpsed headlights sweeping by below. Perfect timing. "Sorry, Bill, that's my ride!" She put on her sleepover backpack, scooped up a doll—Allie-Ann the Alien could come this time—and tried to shove Bill toward the door. "Move. I'm not leaving you in here unsupervised."

As Bill was pushed, he twisted around to stare in wonder at the pyramid. He tripped over a pile of Dipper's dirty clothes and stumbled shoulder first into the wall. "Ow. At least give me a hint! Where did the Mysteries originate? Are we talking the original Greek stuff? Fishmasons? Cheap knock-off Cabala? Real Kabbalah? I've been expecting Sixer to get into that for years. It can't be, I didn't have anything to do with Kabbalah—"

"Who said the Mysteries have anything to do with you!"

"But the pyramid—!"

Mabel got Bill out of the bedroom with one last big shove and slammed the door. He stumbled over his feet and almost hit the wall again before righting himself. Mabel jogged past him to the stairs. "Bye, Bill!"

"Kemetism," Bill tried. "I'll be so disappointed in Ford. At least tell me it isn't Kemetism!"

"See you tomorrow!"

Bill groaned. "Hey! Remember what we talked about!"

The door slammed.

Bill dragged his hands down his face. His fluffy hands. Right. He'd forgotten to ask her to free him. 

He looked at one of his hands suspiciously. "It's not Kemetism, right?" he asked it. "You wouldn't do that to me."

He manipulated the sock into a hand puppet, deepened his voice, and said, "Of course I wouldn't, Bill. You taught me to have better taste than that." Gah, terrible impression. He sounded more like Stan than Ford.

Bill could go downstairs and pester one of the humans into freeing him from his sock gloves; or, he could figure it out himself, in case they tried to restrain him like this again.

Bill sat on the floor and started chewing through the yarn.

####

Wendy's parents looked at the forest differently.

They both had a tendency to go still and quiet when they were surrounded by trees, but that was where the similarity ended. Her father looked at the forest with Knowing, and her mother looked with Seeking.

Her father was a lumberjack. Her father was a Corduroy. He stood in the forest like he was a tree himself: still, tall, skin rough like bark, rooted to the spot by six generations. Wendy didn't know why "family trees" were illustrated as branches and leaves. They were root systems; your ancestors were buried deep below your feet, and their bony grips on your ankles slowly pulled you down into the dirt too.

Her father looked at the trees like he already knew every secret they held—every ancient lightning scar, every squirrel love affair, every bird with too many eyes and every eye in search of a bird. If you asked him where the Hide Behind was, he'd point at a tree without hesitation, and then he'd tell you to stop staring.

That was the thing with him: stop staring. He knew everything about the forest, except the things he didn't, and the things he didn't know he didn't want to know—and he didn't want his children to know them, either.

When her mother stood in the woods, eyes upturned, quaking like an aspen, she was like a pilgrim in a cathedral, standing weary and rapturous in the nave and gazing up at the stained glass windows. In later years, she'd seemed like a pilgrim who'd just realized she'd walked into the wrong god's church.

Aspens weren't native to Gravity Falls. You found them around Portland.

Her mother always wanted to know more. She talked about things her husband didn't and asked about things he wouldn't. But Wendy didn't think she was ever happy with the things she found out.

One of Wendy's last memories of her mother was of seeing her standing on the overgrown path to the old, abandoned Corduroy family cabin in the woods. Staring at it like it terrified her, but like she had some question she couldn't leave without asking it.

Her father, knowing what he knew and refusing to seek more; her mother, always seeking but never comfortable knowing; and Wendy was somewhere in between.

Wendy had worked in the Mystery Shack long enough that she knew where its occupants were, the way she knew where her heart and lungs were. When there weren't tourists, she could hear the pipes in the morning and know Mabel was showering upstairs—it was always Mabel, everyone else in the shack either showered before Wendy arrived for work or after she'd left for the day—and she could hear the TV through the "Employees Only" door and know from the cadence of the muffled murmurs whether it was playing an English or Spanish station; and she knew when somebody was cooking and could tell who it was based on the smell; and through the floor boards she could hear the washing machine in the cellar, but she could predict when laundry day was coming two days ahead of time because Soos had run out of white dress shirts and switched to blue.

She did the same thing at home. From her room, she was always aware of where her brothers and her father were supposed to be—there was a little hole in her awareness where she felt like her mother should have been—and each thud and smell and footstep and shut door confirmed her instincts. She wondered if she got that awareness from her mother or her father.

From her post behind the cash register, she was quietly, casually aware of where everyone should be. And when something was wrong, she knew.

####

Mabel came into the shack through the gift shop entrance, wearing her sleepover backpack and carrying a stuffed doll under her arm. "Hey Wendy!"

"Hey, Mabel." Wendy glanced at the ceiling under the upstairs bathroom. She could still hear the pipes running to the shower. Huh. Maybe Dipper decided he didn't want to stink this summer. "What's up?"

"Not much, not much." Mabel heaved herself up to sit on the counter next to the cash register and set her alien doll beside her. "So. Wendy. Home girl. I need a little help, and I hear you're the gal to help me."

"Oh, yeah?" Wendy propped her chin in her hand. "What kind of help?"

"You have a fake ID, right?"

A surprised smile crept across Wendy's face. "Yeah? Why?"

"The gas station cashier knows my family too well for me to use mine."

Wendy laughed. "Okay, you know what? I'm in, just to find out what a thirteen-year-old needs a fake ID for. I can't do drinks, but anything you need to be eighteen for, I've got you covered."

"Awesome! I'll see you after work?"

"How about my lunch break? Thompson's picking me up to go get something." Since the start of summer, Soos had asked Wendy not to keep her lunch in the kitchen fridge anymore. He said it was because between his own household and the visiting Pines, there wasn't any extra space. It was too crowded. "Too crowded" was the same reason he'd also asked Wendy not to eat in the kitchen, or use the indoor toilet, or spend her break in the living room. Wendy had her doubts. "We could get lunch at the convenience store instead of a drive-thru."

"Even better! Thanks, Wendy! I'll see you at lunch!" Mabel waved as she ran to the living room.

Upstairs, the shower turned off.

Wendy stared at the ceiling. Huh.

####

When Soos escorted the first tour group of the day into the gift shop, Wendy greeted him by bursting out laughing. "Your suit."

For almost two weeks now, Soos had been conducting his tours in a slightly-too-tight, slightly-too-short suit jacket Wendy would bet he'd had since high school. He hadn't said anything about it, but Wendy figured something had happened to his normal coat on the night he and the Pines had been dealing with that thing they refused to talk about.

But today, he finally had his usual, properly-fitted jacket back on; but the sloppy repairs done to the huge gashes in the back stood out like a sore thumb. "Man, you never told me your paranormal problem did this much damage."

Soos winced. "Is it that bad?"

"Dude." Wendy laughed. "The back of your jacket is shredded. It looks like you escaped a horror movie." She paused. "Uh—the repairs aren't bad though! They look great. You did a great job."

"Thanks, but it's okay. I'm gonna work it into the show. I'm telling the tourists a mama dragon almost killed me."

Wendy's eyes lit up. "Did you finish the baby dragons?"

Soos glanced around to make sure none of the shopping tourists were listening too close, then picked up a cardboard box. "Boom. Check 'em." It was full of live lizards with rubber bat wings attached with alien superglue. "Awesome, right? I'm gonna set up a terrarium for them in the museum. I'm putting in some red Easter eggs like they just hatched."

"This is gonna blow the tourists' minds." Wendy fished around under the cash register for a bag of chips and dropped a couple in for the lizards. "So... what was going on here a couple weeks ago? You never told me."

"Um." Soos immediately lost the ability to meet Wendy's gaze. "Well. It's—it's complicated."

"What, is it still a secret? I figured it was over by now," Wendy said. "It wasn't actually a dragon, was it?"

"No."

"Then what, a werewolf?"

"No... I really can't—"

"A ghost?"

Soos paused. "Define 'ghost.'"

"Uh... any kind of dead person."

Soos squirmed uncomfortably under the weight of the interrogation. "Does it count if the person should be dead, but, for some reason, is not?"

"Did we have another zombie uprising?"

"Not exac—"

A muffled voice shouted, "Hey!"

Something above the shop thudded. Wendy saw a light flicker. Wordlessly, she and Soos looked up.

"HEY! This isn't what we agreed to!" The thudding traveled across the ceiling, meandering through the gift shop. A few tourists gasping in alarm as the lights swayed over their heads. "If you think you can keep me locked up in here, you'll regret it! Let! Me! OUT!"

Everyone in the gift shop—Soos, Wendy, and a dozen tourists—fell completely silent, looking up. The ceiling creaked and rattled above them one final time before falling silent.

Soos swallowed hard. He let out a strained laugh. "Whoops, heh. Guess you guys found out what happens to tourists who don't buy anything. Am I right?"

The tourists laughed.

"Ha! Yeah, you guys get it! Wendy, hold down the fort a minute, I've gotta... check on something I forgot to deal with. Um. With the... spooky sound effects."

He rushed through the "Employees Only" door.

####

When Soos cracked opened the bathroom door, Bill's face was inches away, wet wavy hair dangling all over his face, irritated red eyes glowering straight into Soos's.

Soos flinched. "Dude. You jumpscared me."

"Nice of you to finally free me from the bathroom." Bill elbowed past Soos.

Soos rubbed his stomach where Bill had shoved him. "Hey, Bill—I know getting stuck stinks, but uh.... if you shout like that, the tourists could find out about you, you know? And you don't want that."

Bill whirled around. "Correction: if you don't keep your promise to let me move freely around the shack, you cause the tourists to find out about me, and you don't want that! We both know you'd never give me any rights if I didn't make the alternative worse for you—so if you don't want to risk getting arrested for kidnapping, don't put me in a position where I have to make things worse."

Soos patiently waited for Bill to finish spinning the narrative in his favor. "Okay," he said, "granted. But I just sort of accidentally didn't tell someone else to listen for you while I was giving a tour." Soos spread his hands in what he hoped was a conciliatory gesture. "Perhaps, in the future, you could make spooky ghost noises to remind me you're up here, so I can go 'Oh no, I forgot the triangle guy is taking a shower' without the tourists suspecting anything, instead of escalating straight to self-endangerment? That—that seems mutually beneficial, right?"

Bill considered that. He screwed up his face. He said, "Sure! Fine. That's fair." His voice was a lot more chipper than his sour expression. Soos wondered if Bill was aware that his face gave stuff away. "Next time I should just get Stanford to supervise. He'd say I have an hour and he'd be back in sixty minutes and zero seconds."

"Yeah, I don't think Ford wants to do that. Lately he's kind of busy with the whole figuring-out-how-to-kill-you thing."

"And I don't want to shower. Nobody is happy." Bill turned away from Soos. "Is Mabel home yet?"

"Uh, I think I saw her in the kitchen—"

And just like that, Bill lost interest in anything Soos had to say. He drifted down the stairs, stumbled on a couple of steps, and was gone.

####

Soos returned to the gift shop. "Thanks, Wendy."

Wendy dragged her gaze down from the ceiling. "Sure, no problem." She opened her mouth to ask what all that had been about; then decided she didn't need to hear again that she couldn't be told anything about whatever was going on here. But something was going on.

Whenever a customer wasn't checking out, Wendy listened to every creak and sigh of the wood, the way her mother once listened to the wind rustling in the birch trees. There were so many more thuds and thumps in the shack than there used to be; she'd noticed it for days. From her post behind the cash register, she was quietly, casually aware of where everyone should be. And when something was wrong, she knew.

There was something wrong in the Mystery Shack.

Time to start seeking.

####

Mabel trotted out of the gift shop in a dark blue sweater with an old-fashioned Polaroid camera knitted on the front. The camera lens was a piece of reflective plastic that looked like it had been popped out of a pair of sunglasses. She was also wearing a pair of cheap plastic reflective sunglasses with one lens missing, so Wendy didn't think there was much mystery about how Mabel had made this sweater. Mabel plopped down on the steps outside the shop beside Wendy to wait for Thompson's arrival.

"Okay," Wendy said, "I've gotta ask. How did you know about my fake ID?"

"Robbie said Tambry told him!"

"Oh, you guys are hanging with Robbie?" Wendy wondered if he and Tambry were back together again. She should ask Lee; he'd be the most likely person to know who it wouldn't be awkward to ask.

"A little. He's working on a music video that he wants creepy synchronized twins for, so he asked me and Dipper. We met up to talk about the details."

"Oh dude, he mentioned he was working on some kind of spooky song. Something about the 'ghost of childhood'?"

"That's the one! We're the childhood ghosts."

"Awesome. Let me know how it goes."

Mabel gave her a thumbs up. "Okay, I answered your question, now you have to answer one!" Her voice dropped to a faux whisper. "Why do you have a fake ID? Is it so that you can work at a casino across the border where you rendezvous with a handsome foreign spy?"

Wendy laughed. "What? No." She looked around. "I'll tell you, but you can't tell anybody else. Except Dipper I guess, he's cool."

"Promise!"

Wendy took off her flannel shirt, tugged her hair over her shoulder, pushed aside her undershirt to expose her right shoulder blade, and turned her back toward Mabel. "Check it out."

"Whoa! Tattoo!" Mabel poked the bag of ice tattooed on Wendy's shoulder.

"Yeah, I got inked in February. I think it's cool. Like, it's a weird tat, right? Who gets a tattoo of a bag of ice? But if you know, you know. That makes it personal." Wendy pulled her shirt back on and buttoned it up. "Plus, in like five years, I'll probably be dating someone who goes—" she put on a false high voice, "'Hey Wendy, why did you get this tattoo?' And I can go," Wendy squinted off toward the distant trees and adopted a faraway voice, "'It's a long story. About the greatest fight of my life. When the world... nearly ended.' All serious. But then it's still a dumb bag of ice."

"That's such a cool idea. We should all get matching tattoos!" Mabel pulled up her sweater sleeve, showing off her rainbow rock bracelet. "What if I get it on my wrist! So that the tail of the shooting star wraps around it like a bracelet! Do they have glitter tattoos?"

Wendy chuckled. "I don't know, but that sounds awesome. But you guys are gonna have to wait like, five years to get yours. Ooor, get a fake ID that says you're eighteen." She winked. "Robbie's talking about getting one too. He wants it on his chest, over his actual heart. I'm still waiting for a really funny time to be like, 'Oh, you haven't done it yet? I already got one.'" Mabel laughed.

Thompson pulled up, and they piled into his minivan.

####

Wendy wasn't quite sure what she'd expected Mabel to need an 18-year-old's assistance for (her best guess had been helping Stan commit voter fraud), but nowhere on her list had she considered—

"Scratch cards," Mabel said to the cashier. She would have looked like a real slick customer, with her serious expression and reflective shades, if one of the lenses hadn't been missing. She was a 50% slick customer. "I'm gonna need to see, uhhh..." She pointed at three of the scratch cards on display behind the cashier. Their art displayed a purple unicorn, a diamond-encrusted tiara, and a neon beach party. "All of these!"

The cashier gave Mabel a skeptical look. "How old are you, again?"

Wendy leaned on the counter beside Mabel and quickly said, "She's with me! I'm buying." She slid her fake ID across the counter to the cashier. "Mabel's just my... uh... helper?"

"Psychic helper!" Mabel said.

"Psychic helper," Wendy agreed.

"Yeah, I can tell which cards are gonna be winners," Mabel said. 

The cashier looked between them, looked at Wendy's ID, and shrugged. "Okay," he said. "You said you wanna get... all of these?"

Wendy went quiet, trying to figure out how much that would cost. "Um."

"No no no!" Mabel waved her hand. "I just wanna see them all. You know. For psychic purposes."

"I can't hand customers cards they haven't paid for. You might start scratchin' 'em."

"That's fine! Can you just... hold all of them up? One at a time? So I can get a really good look at each of them?"

The cashier stared at Mabel, then gave Wendy a weary look.

Wendy smiled nervously. She regretted not asking Mabel what she was planning. "Please? It'd be really cool of you," she said. "Also, I'll leave you a tip." She only had like fifteen dollars. She hoped she could cobble together a decent lunch cheap enough to afford leaving a tip.

The cashier sighed heavily and grabbed the unicorn scratch cards first.

While the cashier showed Mabel every card in all three of her chosen categories one by one, Wendy and Thompson circled the convenience store, prowling for food. Wendy grabbed a cereal bar, a protein bar, a couple flavors of jerky, a bottle of milk—added together that had to be, like, four and a half food groups, right?—and drifted over to the ice cream. "Oh, dude. Check this out, they're selling Summerween ice cream." She pulled out a pint and waved it at Thompson, showing off the jack-o'-melons on the packaging. "I thought Summerween was only celebrated around here. Is Doug & Jimmy's a local brand?" She didn't think she'd ever heard of the brand before. She studied the packaging, but only learned that all proceeds went to an (unnamed) charity.

"I don't recognize it. What flavor is it?" Thompson asked.

"Watermelon sorbet." The only other two Doug & Jimmy's flavors on the shelves were marionberry and huckleberry, which was about as stereotypically Oregonian as you could get. Maybe they were local.

"Aw, I don't like sorbet."

"Hey, Thompson! Buy me this pint, I'll pay you back later."

"What! Why don't you pay for it?"

"I've gotta use the last of my money to tip the cashier." She hoped Mabel had brought her own money to pay for the scratch cards. Wendy doubted she could pester Thompson into that. "C'mon, man, it's only like four bucks. I get my paycheck this afternoon, I'll pay you back." She shook the sorbet in his face. "And it's for charity. Are you gonna notdonate to charity?" She gave him an impish grin.

Thompson sighed, but held out his hand for the ice cream.

There were piles upon piles of unicorn-ed, tiara-ed, beachy scratch cards on the front counter when Wendy and Thompson came up with their purchases. The cashier said to Mabel, "So, that's all of them. Which do you wanna buy?"

"Hmm." Mabel put her hand to her chin, making a show of looking thoughtful. "I think... I'm gonna have to sleep on it and come back in the morning. I'll let you know then."

The cashier stared at Mabel in disbelief. The cashier stared at Wendy in disbelief.

Wendy grimaced. "Sorry, man. She's got this... process?"

"I've got a process," Mabel agreed, nodding firmly.

Wendy shrugged. "Psychics, you know?"

The cashier sighed heavily and shoved the scratch cards aside to scan their food.

Back in the van, Mabel watched as the convenience store disappeared behind them; then, laughing, reached into a hidden pocket in her sweater behind the knit camera, pulled out her cell phone, and stopped the video recording.

Wendy glanced back, did a double take, swallowed her mouthful of jerky, and said—with no small amount of awe—"Did you hide a camera inside a picture of a camera?"

"Yeah!" She pointed at the sunglass lens. "It sees through this like a one-way mirror."

"That's the coolest thing I've ever seen."

"I thought of it myself!" She played back through the video, rewatching to make sure she'd gotten reasonably clear shots of all the scratch cards.

"Why were you recording in there, though?"

"So I can show all the scratch cards to a real psychic!" Mabel stuck her phone in her skirt pocket and beamed at Wendy.

How much did Wendy believe that? Considering this was Gravity Falls, she figured the odds Mabel had turned up a real psychic were about 50/50. "Who is it? Anybody I know?"

Mabel was silent long enough for Wendy to turn and give her a questioning look. Mabel smiled winningly and said, "It's a secret!"

Wendy shrugged like it didn't matter. "All right, sure." There were a lot of secrets in the Mystery Shack these days.

####

"Omigosh are these baby dragons!" Mabel squealed. Several tourists turned to look at her.

Melody laughed. "Yeah! Soos 'hatched' them this morning." Out of sight of the tourists, she winked for Mabel's benefit. "He's gonna set up a terrarium for them this weekend, but for now they live in the shop." She saw Wendy coming and relinquished the cash register to her. "Hey, Wendy. How was lunch?"

"Hey Mel." She took back her seat. "Gas station junk. I found this, though." She held up her pint of half-eaten, half-melted Summerween watermelon sorbet.

"Oh, that's so cute! I've never seen that before, do they do that every year?"

"Dunno, first time I've seen it. I think the brand's new, they only have like three flavors."

"This'll only be my second Summerween," Melody confessed. "Last year, nobody warned me about it. I thought I was going crazy when I saw a bunch of kids running around in Halloween costumes in June. Some guy in a scarecrow costume knocked on my door and tried to scold me for not having any 'Summerween spirit' when I didn't have any candy. He calmed down when I told him his costume was awesome and asked if he'd explain the holiday to me. I think I gave him a bag of sour snakes? It was the only candy I had on hand."

"You really dodged a bullet," Mabel said.

"Oh yeah," Wendy said. "You're from Portland, right?"

"Yeah," Melody sighed. "There's nothing awesome like Summerween there."

Wendy wondered, not for the first time, how Melody could voluntarily move from Portland out to Gravity Falls. The local quirky holidays weren't that alluring. Anyway, everything Wendy had heard about Portland suggested it was the kind of city that would love to adopt something weird like Summerween.

Mabel said, "this is Dipper's and my second year too. Summerween sophomores!"

"Summerween sophomores!" Melody laughed. "This year, I'm going all out. I promised not to spoil the details, but Soos and I are doing a couple's cosplay, it's gonna be great."

"That'll be awesome! Hey, can you mention that in front of Dipper? We haven't made plans yet, and I'm worried he'll try to flake out on doing a twin costume with me this year. Maybe he'll be more interested if he knows some adults are doing it!"

"Ha! Yeah, I'll let him know."

"Oh, hey, Melody," Wendy said. "You're going in the house, right? Could I ask a small favor?" She held out the sorbet. "I know Soos doesn't want me using the fridge but, would you mind sticking this in the freezer just until the end of my shift? I don't wanna stick it in the cooler out here, I'm worried a tourist will walk off with it."

"Oh. Sure, no problem." Melody took the pint. "You leave at like three on Fridays, right?"

"Yeah. Thanks!"

####

Three came and went, and Wendy went as well.

She didn't pick up her sorbet—exactly like she'd planned.

####

(Thanks for reading! Please toss me a comment if you enjoyed, I love hearing y'all's thoughts and I'm excited we're finally getting to Wendy snooping around!)

[letmesleep8]

even if I die screaming // elliexreader

CHAPTER 3: Cassiopeia

AO3 | chapter 2 | chapter 4

content warnings/tags: cheating (not on/by ellie); mentions and use of drugs; subtle homophobia; slight discomfort.

notes: hello loves! i'm back with chapter three and it's a bit longer than usual, hope you like it. also, there is a minor OC mention in this one. nothing too much, it's actually such a quick role that i didn't want to waste a character in it, not going to happen often.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────••─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────••─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

"With my back to the shoreline, I dreamt that he drowned"

 — Georgia, Phoebe Bridgers

January 22, 2039 Winter

Dear diary, 

I've been avoiding Ellie for the last couple weeks since Christmas. The last time I saw her was during New Year's Eve, tried to come talk to me but my mom was there and she had had a couple drinks. I realized it was better for me to not cause any type of scene.

After what she saw on Christmas mama said it'd be better for me if I got closer to Dina since we "have much more in common", of course what she really means is that I should not go anywhere near Ellie. She's also been really trying to set me up with one of Seth's boys, Mike. The older one, I think he's like 18 or 19. I really don't give a shit, I've only been seeing him so she would stop coming to my door late at night to pray for me while I'm asleep. 

Tonight there's gonna be a community get-together at Tipsy and I know for a fact Ellie is gonna be there. And so will Mike, I guess. God, he's so fucking annoying. I mean, he doesn't actually do anything bad, he's just boring and... shallow.

Anyways, I'm going right now 'cause Cat promised to give me bangs. I bet it's going to look awful and mama's gonna kill me. If it does happen I'll make sure Dina burns this journal. 

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────••─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────••─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

The sun had just set, the sky was not too dark. I grabbed the cake I baked for the community party and filled up Stevie's water bowl before leaving out of the door. As I turned to lock the door behind me, I got scared by a voice.

"What are you doing? Were you leaving?" Mike said, making me jump and almost drop the cake. "I said I was going to pick you up, why were you going by yourself?" He smirked, realizing I got spooked. 

"I completely forgot, I'm so sorry", I smiled while trying to hide the fact that I wanted to throw the vanilla cake into his face, I absolutely hate getting spooked.  I could see his smirk getting wider, he probably realized how distressed I was. And I think he liked it.

"Where 'ma hug at?", Mike tilted his head. I could feel my face twitch as I walked down the steps to my front porch. I looked up and put one arm on his shoulder, hugging him. He was quick to put both his arms around my waist, making me furrow my brows. I'm usually really not a fan of physical touch and Mike was always really touchy. After about two  seconds, I pulled away and started walking. 

The walk to the bar was quick and sorta quiet. He asked to hold hands, saying my hands must feel cold. I said I'm fine and stuffed them in my pocket. The lights on the street were beautiful, taking away my attention from him completely. We then got to my mom, sitting beside Seth. He got up, with a smile. 

I smiled back, wide and polite, as always. "I baked a vanilla cake, I hope people like it", I uncovered the cake and handed it to Seth, who seemed impressed. "Well, at least I know ma' boy won't be starving anytime in the future", he said with a grin. I could feel my smile getting smaller by the minute. The boy laughed with his dad.

On the other side of the room I could see my friends, all sitting together on the same table. Ellie included. I think Jesse saw me staring because he waved at us, calling us over. I thought if I should wave back but before I could even come to a decision Mike was headed towards them, dragging me along. 

"Look who's here! I thought you got kidnapped by Santa or something." Dina laughed, elbowing me. 

"Nah, was just doing an internship as a reindeer, but I'm back in town", I scoffed. Ellie was quiet, sitting on the corner chair. "Hi", I waved to her, reluctant. 

"Hey", she replied, her voice low. With the slightest of smiles, she points at my fresh bangs and says: "I like the new cut, suits ya' good." 

I smile and I can see her cheeks get fairly flushed. I open my mouth to respond to the compliment, but get rudely interrupted by Mike: "no shit, you cut your hair?", he's surprised. 

"You didn't notice the whole walk here?" I knew Mike wasn't exactly the brightest but I never took him for being blind too. He shrugs his shoulders and opens his mouth, trying to find an excuse for his lack of attention. Luckily, Seth calls him over to the kitchen for help, sparring us both with this useless talk. "I'll see ya' ", he says as he walks to his dad. I sat with my friends.

"Not noticing a haircut is a man's worst flaw", Jesse jokes. I roll my eyes and reply: "I really don't give a fuck. Anyone got a beer? Any alcohol? Anything?"

Dina whistles and laughs. "For you?! I'm impressed, look who decided she likes beer now!" Dina always liked to mess with me, especially about the fact that I don't usually drink with them. 

"Well, I can't always babysit you all", I mock Dina. "Time to return the favor." Dina lifts her hands in the air, so does Jesse. I turn to look at Ellie.

The auburn haired girl sighed and got closer, whispering: "s'okay, I do have something on me but y'all can't tell anyone otherwise we'll all be in trouble!" She gets up and all three of us follow after her. 

We sneaked out to go Ellie's house, she unlocked her door. "It's a mess, I wasn't expecting to have guests. You wait outside." I leaned against the front door, Dina leaned against Jesse, whispering something in his ear that made him chuckle. Soon after, there she was with a 6 pack of beer. We all walked together, deciding to stop by a creek, as usual. 

Ellie sat on a rock and I sat by her side, she handed me a beer. Jesse and Dina got a beer each and went to sit further, guess they needed some privacy. I took a sip, trying my best not to make a face. I'm really not used to alcohol. I try to break the cold silence. 

"So..." I looked up to the sky. "Do you really just keep a 6 pack hidden in your room?"

She chuckled, not saying anything else. Maybe she is mad at me. I would be. But her being mad would mean that it actually meant something, I don't think it did for her. Did it? Do I? Do I mean something for Ellie? Well, maybe now she sees me as a heartless bitch. I take another sip of the beer, thinking about how Ellie completely despises me. 

"Are you sure you wanna drink it? I know you hate beer." I looked to the side to see Ellie looking at me, smiling sweetly. "I could give ya' something else, if you want, of course." She laughs. 

"What? Oh, sure" I try to brush it off, as she reaches for something inside her jacket. I watch as she takes a joint and a lighter off her pocket and try to play it cool, even though I've never smoked a cigarette before. She lights it up, gives it a puff and passes it to me. I try to mimic her and end up coughing really hard while she laughs at me. 

"You've never smoked weed?", she laughs. "I've never smoked anything!", I reply, still coughing like an old man. "Aw shit, if I knew I wouldn't have done this, you should have told me!". She took it off my hand and smoked it again. 

Ellie blows out the smoke into the sky as I recover. "I can help you if you want", she says with a smirk. I raise an eyebrow, pretending to be innocent. I think I know what she's gonna do, I've seen guys do it in movies. I nod my head yes, "go ahead".

She puts the cigarette between her lips and takes another drag, but holds the smoke this time. She gently cups my face with her hand and slowly gets closer, I open my lips, not sure if I'm just going on with the bit or actually trying to say something. Lightly brushing her lips against mine, she blows out the smoke in my mouth. I closed my eyes and took it, breathing it in, and for a moment I could feel her smile against my lips. She backs away. I can see her rosy cheeks, they match the state of her eyes. She takes another drag to herself, looking the other way. As she turns around I can see the freckles on the back of her shoulder. I look to the sky and back to her, until she notices.

"All good?" Ellie smiles, looking a bit embarrassed. I shake my head.

"Toss your hair to the side", I say. She does so without asking a single question. "Now turn back around."

I take my index finger to meet her back, making her skin shiver. Move it to one side then another, tracing patterns, connecting dots. Constellations. 

"Cassiopeia." I moved my finger again. "Big Dipper." I moved it once more. "Cepheus". I whispered under my breath, by her neck.

Ellie chuckled. "Are you tracing stars on my back?" She got the weed back to her lips, dragging on it once more. Afterwards, Ellie looked into my eyes, close to her neck. She got close and brushed her freckled nose against mine, shamelessly touching lips and blew out the smoke into my mouth again. Our gazes intertwined and our faces closer than ever when I heard Dina approaching. We both backed away.

"Sorry for bothering you two. Mike's looking for ya'." Dina grinned, shaking her head and walking away. I quickly got up, adjusted my hair and walked away too, without looking back.

[hollowed-theory-hall]

detentions: what do you think about them?

I assume this is in the context of Harry Potter because otherwise, I can't say much as my school didn't really do detentions. I'm gonna talk about detentions in HP and a bit about what my school did instead.

Now, detentions vary between the books quite a bit (probably because the Wizarding World & Hogwarts changed in JKR's mind), so, I'll outline the different types of detentions and what I think about them in general. I will not include detentions like with Umbridge or the Carrows, since that clearly isn't what's supposed to be happening at the school by the point we see in canon.

Ridiculously Dangerous Detentions

This sort of detention only really appears in book 1, probably so JKR could have Harry in the forest and see Voldy munching on a unicorn.

“I shouldn’t be too friendly to them, Hagrid,” said Filch coldly, they’re here to be punished, after all.” “That’s why yer late, is it?” said Hagrid, frowning at Filch. “Bin lecturin’ them, eh? ‘Snot your place ter do that. Yeh’ve done yer bit, I’ll take over from here.” “I’ll be back at dawn,” said Filch, “for what’s left of them,” he added nastily, and he turned and started back toward the castle, his lamp bobbing away in the darkness. Malfoy now turned to Hagrid. “I’m not going in that forest,” he said, and Harry was pleased to hear the note of panic in his voice. “Yeh are if yeh want ter stay at Hogwarts,” said Hagrid fiercely. “Yeh’ve done wrong an’ now yeh’ve got ter pay fer it.”

(PS)

From the later books, it appears this sort of detention isn't normal. And for good reason. I mean, it's bizarre to send 11-year-old kids whose only defensive ability is shooting red sparks to spend the entire night in the Forbidden Forest, where something is killing unicorns. Yes, Hagrid is with them, but technically Hagrid isn't allowed to carry a wand and even if he is there, the group gets separated so Hagrid isn't with them at all times.

I assume this was a special case detention and not the norm. Likely personally requested either by Hagrid or Dumbledore for various possible reasons. Regardless I consider this one an outlier that shouldn't be counted since there is something deeper and more specific going on in this particular detention.

I'd also want to note:

“What — what are you doing?” said Professor McGonagall, her eyes following the bouncing ferret’s progress through the air. “Teaching,” said Moody. “Teach — Moody, is that a student?” shrieked Professor McGonagall, the books spilling out of her arms. “Yep,” said Moody. “No!” cried Professor McGonagall [...] “Moody, we never use Transfiguration as a punishment!” said Professor McGonagall weakly. “Surely Professor Dumbledore told you that?” “He might’ve mentioned it, yeah,” said Moody, scratching his chin unconcernedly, “but I thought a good sharp shock —” “We give detentions, Moody! Or speak to the offender’s Head of House!”

(GoF)

That I find McGonagall's outrage funny here. I mean, yeah, a student could get hurt badly as a bouncing ferret, but so could four 11-year-olds you send to spend the night in the forest filled with dangerous, lethal creatures that is coincidentally right next to the school.

What Hogwarts Detentions are Actually Like

So, the Forbidden Forest one, as I said, was a unique exception but what does a normal student’s detention look like?

It looks like manual labor:

You will be polishing the silver in the trophy room with Mr. Filch,” said Professor McGonagall. “And no magic, Weasley — elbow grease.”

(CoS)

It was, as Harry had anticipated, useless, boring work, punctuated (as Snape had clearly planned) with the regular jolt in the stomach that meant he had just read his father or Sirius’s names, usually coupled together in various petty misdeeds, occasionally accompanied by those of Remus Lupin and Peter Pettigrew. And while he copied out all their various offenses and punishments

(HBP)

Cleaning trophies, sorting detention records, signing photos for Lockhart — basically something boring and manual that wastes your time. This is pretty normal as far as detentions go (I think, again, my school didn't have them), but from what I read/saw/heard detention is a time you are supposed to spend quite at school, being supervised and not having fun while not being hurt. So, yeah, the Hogwarts detentions we see mostly fit the bill (save for Lockhart who keeps Harry in detention way too late, but, that's a Lockhart problem).

Now, do I think this is an effective punishment that doesn't harm students unnecessarily but still deters them from further wrongdoing? Not particularly.

I mean, we see students like the Mauraders, the Weasley Twins, and even Harry and co aren't at all deterred from their behavior by the school's punishment system. I mean, after book 1, most characters don't seem to care about detentions and house points.

So, detentions seem to be kinda useless since they waste time for the teacher and the student, and the student doesn't seem overly affected, at least, not the ones we follow. I'm not really an authority over disciplinary punishments in schools, and at the end of the day a student with a strong enough will / doesn't care about staying at school, wouldn't care for any punishment and you'll need to improve behavior by a method that isn't based on punishment. Fear is a motivator that can only get you so far.

I mean, Sirius mentions he and James had too much fun in detentions together and that's why teachers separated them to actually punish them. And then, James and Sirius made the two-way mirrors and still had fun in detentions.

This is why detentions never deterred them from anything. It's a relatively soft punishment, and if you don't mind sitting around, it's hardly a punishment at all. That being said, I am incredibly opposed to corporal punishment.

What did my school do

As I mentioned, I'm no expert in student discipline, but I can talk about my own experiences. My high school was a weird semi-private school and didn't do detentions (when I'm saying weird, I mean weird. We had peacocks walking around between the buildings like at Malfoy Manor. Sometimes, they got inside the buildings. Who needs hall monitors when you have hall peacocks. We also had school goats, and one of them attacked my mom once). We didn't really have punishments at school at all. Teachers just told us very clearly: "If you enter the classroom, it means you're here to learn. Don't want to learn, stay outside," and that was kinda it. You weren't punished for skipping class besides low grades, so it made behaving well in class a student's responsibility. You won't be punished, you'd just be told to leave and your grades would be what suffers.

Class was a pretty freeform kind of environment as well with most teachers. Like, students with hyperactivity were allowed to pace at the back of the classroom during lessons, students could sit on the window seal if they were more comfortable there, you could come and go from most of the classes as you pleased (especially in the final two years), and on nice days, sometimes, we'd have our classes outside on the lawn. Most classes acted more like discussions rather than just a teacher lecturing at you. I had classes where the teachers told me I could just skip since I'm ahead of the class and I'd use these hours to do homework in other subjects. I had a classmate who despised one of our teachers personally, so she made an agreement with him that he'd not arrive at her classes, study on his own during class time and only arrive to do exams. Because this is how the school operated, we didn't really have displanary issues in classes, hence no detentions.

Any sort of fighting or bullying that got to the staff was punished by an immediate suspension, during which your parents were expected to be the ones to dish out the punishment they found appropriate. You only got 3 suspensions, anything suspension-worthy you did after that almost always got you expelled, and that'll be the end of it. So, that wasn't much of an issue either. I actually don't really know of bullying that happened at my school (at least nothing extreme and targeted. Mean comments flew about for sure, but no one really cared, everyone was making fun of everyone pretty equally. The school only got involved when things got violent or verbally extreme. Like, calling someone a 'shithead' here and there doesn't count), I heard about fights, and even was in one, but not bullying. The fights were not a common occurrence either, most students (and teachers) were just pretty chill, especially in the upper years.

So, yeah, that's what I have to say about detentions.

[feyspeaker]

Hii me again. I'm not sure if I sent the ask I'm talking about on anon, so maybe that's why you didn't see it? It partially got answered with a recent ask you got anyway so no worries. I was just wondering if you use 3d in your process and if so, how? I've seen other illustrators use it to varying degrees and it seems like a really helpful tool to push your work.

Oh that's so weird! No I periodically go through my asks in chunks and I didn't see anything like that. I've had a few people in the past few months send me asks that looked like the second half of something else with no context, so maybe it's Tumblr fuckery. Sorry!!

I recommend learning Blender so you can help sculpt shapes and render lighting onto them in order to get the weirder/more complex shadows right. You can also apply colors onto the things you sculpt in order to see how the colors act in different lighting. It's pretty much an invaluable tool to me as it keeps me from having to problem-solve too much. I did a lot of digging around in my house to build references to photograph but it was just impractical to achieve the things I want to a lot of the time. I still do that, and you would not believe how many goofy photos I have of my husband in the poses you've seen me paint Astarion in lmao...

I do think that it needs to be used in moderation if you are a more beginner artist- I think that using 3D is DANGEROUSLY close to becoming a massive crutch for a newer artist and improper usage or over reliance on it can lead to stiffness or artificial looking colors. You need to be able to train your eye to create compelling compositions by bashing things together, and train your hand to replicate/add/subtract as needed from your references with an organic feel.

I will say this as a total committer of this crime myself in the past, it's VERY easy to tell when an artist relies too much on, for example, Clip Studio Paint posed models as bases for pieces without a good enough grasp on their fundamentals. And I also used to prickle when I saw more advanced artists warn of this, so I do think maybe it just has to run its course sometimes, because I know that using 3D for reference seems like an easy-button.

I've taken a lot of in-person classes for live figure drawing and painting, as well as just totally done drills, basically, on sketching and painting from life before relying too much on static imagery/3D/etc.

I often fret over every piece I do looking too stiff even still.

You have to do a LOT of the boring hard stuff the old fashioned way. And I regularly go back to it over and over when needed.

For example, I recently did a stupid amount of rose petal/flower studies deconstructing and painting ugly little paintings/doodles over and over because I know that I've been horribly weak at painting flowers for years (actively avoiding them). And I've been doing a lot of floral stuff lately due to that.

Whenever I start a new piece in new territory, I know it's going to mean several 3AM nighters where I have two other tabs open on Photoshop where I test out different textures or do a couple of studies. I'm working on a piece of my OC right now that has a lot of gore/medical instruments and I've been working on testing out different methods for shiny metal painting and some anatomical studies. I'll come to a snag in a painting and go "here we go" and work through it one piece at a time.

My Halsin piece, "Secret Spot" in the hot spring, was a massive undertaking with a lot of these moments. The Karlach x Dammon piece took 3 times longer than it should have due to me just having to go back and fix things knowing I could do better after doing some studies.

Ultimately I personally find art tutorials to be quite useless overall once you get to a certain point, unless they are teaching the use of a tool/software because you HAVE to figure out what works for you. And even then I use Blender like a monkey with a keyboard, I suspect, because I've just bruteforced through it, so I could probably use a tuneup from a good teacher on that haha. I hope this helps some, and sorry if I overstepped if I sound preachy.

[uriekukistan]

Something I've been thinking about in the past couple of months is what current fans of JJK will think of the series in the future: 1, 5, 10+ years down the line after it ends. I don't think it's a secret or anything that fans are really divided and have during opinions about where the series is going and how it might end, but I'm curious about what it's legacy will be. Do you have any thoughts about that? (Also hi I hope you're having a good day!)

oooh interesting ask, thank you winnie :D hope you're having a good day too !!

hhhhh im not sure im smart enough to conceptualize this kind of thing fairly, but im gonna do my best 🤞 sorry in advance for the essay omg

one thing i wanna touch on really quickly is that i feel like the lifespans of fandoms are decreasing. im not sure if this is a fair assessment, but it seems like people move on quicker that they used to and migrate to new fandoms quickly as series end. i think it has to do with the increase in the amount and accessibility of new media, plus the trend of "consuming," rather than enjoying. part of a growing problem of rapid consumption and accelerating trend cycles.

that being said, jjk is still ongoing for who knows how long (allegedly finishing this year), and has to be animated after that. so depending on how they break the series up, and how hard mappa decides to push their workers, could be up to 5 more years of releasing content, which means retention of old fans and acquisition of new fans. i also think it will be impacted by the ending of the story.

the other two fandoms i participate in are 10+ years old (death note is 20+ at this point...) so im gonna use them as reference points

i was like...1-5 years old when death note was actively releasing, so im not sure how ppl were reacting at the time. but death note has become a "classic" anime/manga that new fans are constantly discovering and appreciating, keeping the fandom going. a lot of people still love death note, and from what i've seen, it's generally less divisive. people like death note, generally. everything has flaws and can/will be criticized, but as far as anime/manga goes, people are generally able to come to a consensus that death note is good. it has interesting characters and interesting themes and comes to a satisfying conclusion- that no man can be god. because of that, it still has a large and active fanbase that has enjoyed much longevity.

in contrast, tokyo ghoul is very divisive, and its aggravated by the fact that the anime completely diverges from the manga, and creates its own story, so the reviews are always mixed. it's wonderfully tragic or it's edgy. it's beautiful or it's boring. it has great themes or it's incoherent. it doesnt help that the mangaka was seriously burnt out towards the end of creating it. despite the fact that tokyo ghoul was one of the most popular anime/manga at one point, its fandom, while very much alive, is also pretty small. im either oomfs or oomfs-in-law w pretty much everyone here. i think the amount of criticism tokyo ghoul got (which dont get me wrong, some parts are very much worthy of it, but that's not what people were saying) affected the longevity of the fandom.

that brings me back to jjk. i think there's two camps of people in the fandom right now: those who are only interested in a "happy ending" and those who are interested in whatever ending may come, so long as it suits the themes and the character arcs feel completed. so i think the way jjk ends will be the deciding factor of its legacy and the direction the fandom takes.

personally, i'll be happiest with the second option, i mean im a tragedy fan if nothing else, and i love the thematic aspects of jjk. but i know most people will be looking out for a happy ending, at least based on what i see people saying. the fact that so many people are back to saying jjk is good after last night's leaks is proof of that to me. i think if the manga ends happily, whether it suits the story or not, people will be more likely to stick around than if it ends in a way that is less happy, but suits the story perfectly. if that makes sense.

[pencap]

Hey your poetry is so pretty and evoking and I've gotten back into practicing fiction writing in recent years but in my own criticism I don't think my prose is very evocative. It gets the job done and I think my stories are readable and enjoyable, but I don't think my descriptive language is particularly striking and I would like to improve on that! Sometimes I read and the author has used such creative brilliant metaphors and descriptors etc and it comes across as artistic genius. So, if you have any tips and time to share them I would love to hear about how you select your descriptors, if there's any advice you've heard before on this, etc. <3 feel like my brain simply can't come up with creative language after my decade long break lol

Hello, darling! Thank you for the kind words. I don't exactly have a formal process, but I can share some of what works for me.

The simplest, truest, and least fun advice I have is just this: practice. Practice, practice, practice. The more descriptive writing you do, the better you'll become at it. It's much easier said than done, I know--it's been months since I've posted anything here myself--but it's unfortunately true.

But beyond that, in terms of strategies, I have a couple. I think "evocative" can mean a lot of things, but it sounds like you're specifically thinking about description (as opposed to, say, emotionally evocative) so I'll focus on that. I'm gonna reference january 2nd a bunch, just for concrete examples.

Having a clear image to start with always helps. So when I wrote january 2nd, for example, I had a vivid mental image of an empty beach at dawn, practically abandoned 24 hours after thousands of people crowded together to watch the first sunrise of the year. The stretched out horizon, the dark blue twilight overhead and pale hazy dawn on the eastern edge, the shy peek of the topmost edge of the sun, the soothing ceaseless rush of the waves, the clear expanse and white-foam edges of the water, all of it. The loneliness of it, sure, but also the freedom of it. The quiet and the peace.

It also helps ot have a why. What are you trying to achieve with your description? Often in poetry I'm going for a specific emotional or visual effect, so I try to focus as much as I can on the pieces that resonate for that. In january 2nd, it was the horizon in particular. Nothing in the poem actually mentions a beach, even though that's part of my mental image, because the beach wasn't as important or effective. The sky and the horizon is what worked for the emotional tone, for me. Specifically their openness. Not the light, not the darkness, not the water, but being open, so that's what the first stanza revolves around.

If you're going for "fresh" / "interesting" / "unexpected" / etc. I like to play around with one of three things. One is transferring descriptors from one target to another. (In january 2nd, I take crowded from jostling people on the beach and transfer it to the horizon.) I think these are most fun when you take human(-adjacent) descriptors and put it on inanimate objects / the environment, but that's just my taste. Another trick is to try for hyphenates, which didn't come up in january 2nd. But two of my recent favourites are in Precious: sleep-warm and heartbeat-quiet. sleep-warm is about evoking both the cozy comfort of sleep and the warmth of holding a living, breathing animal in your hands. heartbeat-quiet is about both the volume and the intimacy and the repetitive rhythm of it. The thrid trick is simple and boring and exhilarating when it works, and that's playing around with synonyms. I remember sacred weight of the untouched being difficult. Is it sacred or precious or treasured or holy? Is it untouched or new or young or innocent or unsullied or pure? Try them out and pick the one that feels right, or at least feels the best.

Sometimes I'll think about sound, though not in janary 2nd. soothing ceaseless rush a few paragraphs ago was a deliberate sound-based choice, though. That repeated s-sound feels and sounds like waves. Sometimes I'll think about rhythm, although that's a bit more important in poetry than prose. Sometimes I'll think about length--of the overall description, of the specific phrase or sentence, of the words themselves. Rule of three feels good to me and you'll very often see me write things in triplets (young and fresh and new), frankly a bit more often than I wish I did. Short words can bring emphasis, or abruptness, or simplicity. Long descriptions can be more flowing, fluid, relaxed.

Almost every and any element of language can be leveraged for descriptive power. You'll rarely if every use all of them at once, but it's fun to try many of them out. Maybe you'll figure out versions that feel easiest or best for you.

Alright, I think that's long enough! If you had a specific line or poem in mind, I'm happy to break it down further. Caveat that some of the pieces on this blog are quite old and I might not entirely remember what went through my mind years and years ago, of course.