#i need to replay rob

[beevean]

Second half of S2. I think the best way I can summarize my state is saying

and trying to put my thoughts in order.

While it is slightly less disjointed than OG S3, the sheer number of plotlines that they attempted to tackle means that every scene lasts about 30 seconds before having to switch over. I genuinely struggled to keep up with what happens in each episode, until E6 where everything converges. And what made it even worse is the realization that... very little of what I watched actually matterered to the plot.

"But Beev, it's a character-driven story! Like Best Character Of All Time Isaac's!" I get that. And you know what? With stuff like Maria/Tera and Mizrak, I do see the potential for a good character-driven story, especially as the show is finally tackling more complex themes with vampirism instead of reducing them to elves or evil oppressors! But... I cannot get invested. I failed to connect with the characters, and the show keeps throwing other shit at me to divert my focus. This is simply a mess that has been bombarded into my eyes, while simultaneously being empty of content. And it is frustrating, because I want to like the less irritating parts.

Like this scene:

This is adorable. Random and another instance of fixing things too late, but it is a treat to see RoB Maria and finally some genuine emotions <3 literally the best scene in both shows idc. too bad it's drowned by the edgy pretentious Peak.

Anyway, time for the usual breakdown, character by character.

Taking a page from the OG S2, the heroes did nothing until the finale when they get to show off how cool they are. Think about it. Alucard recruits his sidekicks, they go to the Louvre, they get their asses kicked by Drolta, they split, and Annette suddenly has the revelation that the visions of her ancestors haunting her were trying to guide her to the solution of all of their problems: go and retrieve Sekhmet's third soul in the spirit realm.

And here I was hoping that it was some kind of internal turmoil for her. No. They were just the new Miranda, conveniently leading the hero to the solution. She just had to take five episodes to realize that for the suspence.

It's really weird. Annette in S1 was the focus of the season, infamously so, being all about her past as a slave and her desire to free everyone and thinking lowly of Richter for being a coward. Now, she was definitely made more pleasant for ship purposes, but then what is left of her? It says something that technically speaking, Annette wasn't even there in the finale! She was being possessed by Sekhmet!

Which, by the way, isn't just lovely? The descendant of a god being chosen by a god to become the vessel of a goddess. Why do we even keep Richter around?

This is not rhetorical. Why is Richter here? What does he contribute? Being the guy whose 90% of dialogue is swooning over Annette, fretting over her, telling us over and over why he loves her? (while I still don't know how Annette went from thinking he's useless to blushing around him and thinking he's cute.) Now, to be fair, he does kind of sort of talk about himself a few times... but it doesn't land. I don't care about his doubts as a Belmont now because they aren't relevant.

I've known I'm a Belmont and what that means since... since I could form words. Fighting evil, serving some kind of higher purpose. But then I watched Olrox kill my mother, and I understood the bitter fսcking truth. My mother died for absolutely nothing. Actually, she died because I tried to help her, which meant she had to protect me, and that's what got her killed. My whole life since then, I told myself it was so I could live. As if I was the higher purpose.

Why are we suddenly caring? Richter hasn't thought once of his dead moms (moms, Tera raised him too!) and in S1 he was all "I am a Belmont, and Belmonts kill vampires!". I understand the survivor's guilt, I do, I understand the logic "I need to fight otherwise my mother died for nothing", but okay, Richter, tell me: what does being a Belmont mean, in your opinion? Because it certainly isn't being locked in a generational fight against Dracula and realizing that once he dies, you have no purpose in life anymore!

The world's changing so fast. Belmonts, we're something from the past. Maybe there's no place for us anymore.

You know, I almost don't blame him. No wonder he thinks that Belmonts are a thing of the past. They sure were a thing of the 1980s-2000s. These shows hate the Belmonts with a burning passion and do everything in their power to make them tertiary.

But yeah, Richter and Annette bond over dead moms, woohoo. Thankfully this new, revamped Annette doesn't mock him over it, now that he has magic. It does get a bit ridiculous when Richter asks Alucard if he could change being Dracula's son, Alucard says that that would change other parts of himself that he'd rather not, and Richter immediately asks about his mother. I don't think Richter even knows Lisa's name, but he just can't help connecting to people through dead moms!

Oh yeah, Alucard! He's still a cunt. That's what his fans love about him. That, and how hot he looks after taking a bath in the shit-filled Seine, I suppose. E5 started with a moment so infuriating, it briefly took me to the OG S2 days:

call me carmilla the way i cry bloody tears

Now, to be perfectly fair, Annette does get her first big W by reminding Alucard that they all thought he killed Drolta and yet now she's back and stronger than ever. hell yeah it takes an asshole to put an asshole in his place 🥰 (although I wish they had done the same to her when she insulted Richter and no one reminded her that Edouard died because of her.) But more seriously, this shifts that line from "Sypha having a boner for Alucard and defending him at all costs" to "Annette trying to comfort Richter that he's not as useless as Alucard implies". I am glad that someone is finally on his side. But still, I am very tired of this. In the OG S2, Alucard was in theory justified because he was a grieving teen: how come this wise 300 yo old man still snaps at Belmonts when he's mad at himself? Now it's even worse due to the age difference. You can't have him stroke his dick over how old he is when emotionally he's still the same brat!

But yeah, this is Alucard in this season. They try so hard to make him sound old and wise and experienced and jaded. To the point where he says that he has fallen in love "countless times", and this is why he dares to give Richter advice on how to approach Annette romantically. I really don't know how to feel about this. It's not wrong, per se, but doesn't gel with my personal vision of Alucard - not just the game version, naturally, but I also can't really imagine show Alucard opening himself up like this, especially since this season paints him as being almost completely detached from human society. What sort of people does he fall in love with? The Belmonts? People like Greta? Eh, I could just take this as a cheeky reference to his Launcher of a Thousand Ships status lol. lmao imagine if they adapt the sorrow games and it turns out soma is one of alucard's many descendants when he lived his best slut life in japan fhdsjkfhskdhkj

I really don't know why they still bother to remind us that he's Dracula's son, though. Sure, they're correcting this from the OG show where the dude sympathized with vampires. But it's not like anyone gives a shit about Dracula anymore. Juste lowkey implied he's less impressive than Olrox. Richter didn't even know who Dracula was. In this setting, Dracula was just a more meow meow version of Erzsebet, not the closest thing to Satan who periodically threatens the world. Not even Dracula cares about himself anymore, since a WHOLE ECLIPSE happened and he's still chilling in Hawaii. Alucard has no reason to tie his identity to what in his perception is a dead man that was forgotten by history. He sure acts like a celebrity, though!

literally "bitch, don't you know who i am? 💅" i don't know, who are you? the one who allowed vampires to become human nobility?

There is, however, something that greatly bothers me about Alucard's untold past.

(why 14? had they said 18, it would have been a neat reference to HoD, even though I know it can't have happened)

If the Drolta plotline (more on that later) didn't convince me that this season was hastily rewritten, this would. Alucard keeps flipflopping between being solitary and being a Belmont ally through generations, which he apparently counted. I'd assume that, considering how much emphasis on his age is put, "years" for him means multiple decades, perhaps a whole century. So which is it? Did he fight alongside Christopher and Simon, whatever they did, and then got tired by the time Juste was born?

Speaking of the Belmonts, what happened to Dracula's castle? Why didn't they stay there, as their new hold? Are you going to explain that, show? No? Okay.

By the way, once again, I was ready to call Alucard a cunt (not helped by his condescending "Trevor would be proud [at Richter's sarcasm]" which I hate on principle), but him being tired of seeing Trevor's descendants die is a pretty good reason for wanting to distance himself and spare himself the pain. See, once again, I'd care much more about Alucard's experiences with immortality if he was more likeable. I'd accept him being more standoffish because his heart has been hardened by so many people dying, if he didn't start out as an 18 yo piece of shit who insulted Trevor's whole lineage for petty reasons.

Oh, and if he didn't literally, deadass, lead the actual Robespierre in the revolution. What the fuck. You know, I was joking about him telling Galileo Galilei about the heliocentric theory! Now I'm totally expecting the Sorrow adaptation to mention in passing that he was the one who killed Hitler!

And you know what? You know fucking what? For all of his posturing, Alucard is just as useless as Richter! His only purpose in the plot is to basically tell the gang "here's what we need to defeat the villain", then he failed spectacularly by allowing Drolta to snatch the McGuffin (and blamed Richter for it), then he basically inserted himself dick first in the Revolution plot to give him something to do in the two-parter finale! He didn't even care about the Revolution! He said so! The Revolution is a completely pointless backdrop to the fight against Sun Thundercat! You know, I'm impressed, I honestly thought he'd be the real protagonist of the show, but no, they managed to waste him too. peak.

Maria, Tera and Juste are all connected, but Maria is pretty much the only character going through an arc here, as Juste is nothing more than Maria's babysitter and adoptive grandpa (yeah, clearly they're trying to establish a "found family" theme as also mentioned by Alucard, but sure it's nice of him to call Maria his family when dude abandoned his blood grandson and hasn't still quite reconnected with him). I think that what they're trying to do with him is to basically prevent Maria from falling down the same pit of despair he did until two days ago, but it doesn't really work, Juste feels like a plot device and Maria's reaction is different than his anyway, since she's falling into... well, edginess.

In fact, Maria is so edgy, that she out of nowhere gets the idea of making her mom bite her to turn her!

Maria: It feels good... to have such power. To control such powerful forces. To have power over life and death. Juste: It shouldn't feel good, Maria. The world can be a dark place, full of horror. But if you surrender to the darkness, what's the point in living? None of us counts for much. All of us will be forgotten eventually. But there's something miraculous about us being here at all. To see this world. Breathe its air. Smell the forest at night. Feel the sun on our skin. If we're still able to do that... there is a point in living. Maria: And maybe there's even more point in living forever. He's right. This was different. Killing my father. This was murder. I can never go back to who I was. But I could be with you forever. *exposes neck*

Just a taste of the dialogue here. Juste doesn't even feel like a real person at this point. Why is he talking to Maria like she said that she wants to die? Is he projecting his own depression? Or is it only so that she can talk about living forever?

Maria, the girl who sees the world in black and white and therefore slotted vampires in the "evil" category, being ready to ditch her humanity because she'd rather live with her mom forever and perhaps out of guilt for killing her father out of revenge and not a righteous reason, is a very interesting idea. And this is why it's never brought up again :) Tera, with shocking self control for a newborn vampire, runs away from her to "find herself", leaving Maria crying and to be comforted by Juste. By the way, Tera's arc is done here lol. She runs away, lowkey implying that she manipulated Maria into killing her dad because "he deserved to die", and then she's the only open plot thread left for S3, enjoying the executions and perhaps glad of the dark path taken by her daughter, leaving ambiguous how much vampirism corrupted her.

Again, I kinda like this arc. I like that it ends with Maria declaring that the humans who worked alongside vampires (which I didn't notice at all, but maybe it was because I was inundated with too much Peak) deserve to be executed, probably still thinking about Emmanuel. It just rings hollow because Maria has always been a serious righteous fuck who only cared about the Revolution, with all that it entails, so I don't see much of a change in her. Maybe it could have worked better if they hadn't been cynical hacks in S1 and kept her RoB innocent personality. And I'm also irritated that they could have given this corruption arc to someone else...

(also, since I'm a horrible person, I am compelled to point out that the show leans heavily onto the "bite is sexual" trope, as shown by how predatory Sun Thundercat is with women and later on by Olrox with Mizrak. Therefore, having Maria begging for her own mother to bite her so that the two could live forever together is very. mh. well this is getting interesting i suppose)

As for the villains, before the finale, I just have to say: why in the sheer fuck do the villagers bow down to an obviously foreign vampire noblewoman?

Your Abbot, as you know, is dead. Murdered by a revolutionary. Your Abbot compared me to Joan of Arc. But I am not like her. She was defeated, burned like a witch. I will burn all your enemies. All your oppressors. Burn them all to ash. I am the one who wields the knife.

I get that these people are against the revolution, but really? They trust her as being better? I don't know anymore. Also her Sun Thundercat 2.0 transformation is a punch in the eye but we all know that.

oh right, olrox and mizrak. uhhhh they spend most of the time still doing their drama. Olrox is a passive force who mostly spends his time spying on everyone, Mizrak wants to fight. Since they don't really matter, I'll summarize the rest of their arc here: Mizrak joins the fight like he suddenly belongs, he's fatally wounded by a random vampire, Olrox saves him and decides to turn him into a vampire. The last shot we see of them is vampire Mizrak ready to rail that cockrox raw lmao. And, again, this is a good concept. Mizrak was shown being torn between his faith and his desire to sin with Olrox: therefore, vampirism for him means shedding his inhibitions and indulging in the sinful pleasures he has always coveted. This is good! And completely irrelevant to the story! Even thematically, vampirism hasn't been treated in this way by the story, not even with Tera! These two just make their own sideplot that never intersects with the main one! What's with this series and being unable to organically integrate gay people into their plot?

Okay, I think I covered everyone, so it's time for the grand finale.

The final fight is basically two episodes straight of this

and it's boring. I'm sorry. I get that the animation is cool and the anime fights are cool, but I just find boring to watch a bunch of people throw flashy but redundant spells to an invincible foe. Yeah yeah muh Harmony of Dissonance spells, that just pisses me off at this point, you didn't even mention Maxim once and had him and Lydie be fridged offscreen while the game can't happen due to the lack of Dracula's relics but you're pretending we're suddenly fans of the games?

(a small correction, though. Apparently, Juste's ring is not meant to be the friendship bracelet, but the Aurora Ring, the one that increases the power of the Sacred Fist. While I don't understand why it's specifically that ring, since Juste never uses punches, I do appreciate a more niche reference.)

Hey guys. Remember how fun it was to play Portait of Ruin and having to protect Charlotte for 20 seconds as she casts her plot-solving spells? This is Sekhmet's role in the fight. A sitting duck who tries, for half an hour of real time, to absorb Sun Thundercat's Sekhmet soul to weaken her, while Richter sometimes goes to cool her down with his ice powers. For a goddess, she is quite weak. And I would dearly love for someone to come here and explain to me what the fuck was that monster that Annette fought for the entirety of the finale in the spirit world. And, in the meantime, Alucard and Olrox fight Drolta, with the weird implication that the latter is stronger than Dracula's son since he's much more successful at keeping her down (and that they met once, because we like making fans speculating). Again, I need to stress out: the heroes do nothing of importance until the plot lets them win.

And then this happens.

alright. So, memes are in order.

But I think it's time to talk about rewrites, right?

Sun Thundercat's death feels not just pathetic, but spiteful. Compare it with other deaths: Dracula cried that he was killing his boy and let himself be impaled, Carmilla exploded herself to not allow Isaac to claim a victory, Lenore sunned herself because her life got a little more uncomfortable. They are undignified deaths, but they are at the very least graceful. We are meant to feel something for them. Sun Thundercat has an utterly pathetic breakdown, and then she's randomly betrayed by Drolta, who cements herself as the Real Big Bad.

No one liked her. Erzsebet Bathory has been, from day one, derided as a flat, cartoonish villain with a stupid plan. Her design is ridiculous, her personality never goes beyond "smug wannabe goddess", and her only power is being invincible. She is boring, and always has been. But Drolta? Oh, Drolta was cool. Nevermind that in S1 she also had the depth of a piece of paper. Everyone loved her many designs, everyone thirsted over her BDSM get up, everyone thought she was a huge badass in fight. So, what did they do? Give her a whole backstory and kick her upwards to the role of the true puppetteer who was in control the whole time :) basically, they gave her the Isaac in S3 treatment.

yeet, you waste of screentime

And in the meantime, I'm here left asking two questions. One, why didn't Drolta absorb Sekhmet's soul from the get go, instead of wasting so much time finding the right vessel and killing countless women? She had no hesitation trying it now.

And two... why did we spend so much time with Sun Thundercat? What was the point of hyping her up as this great figure, much more terrifying than Dracula, only for this to happen? This isn't cathartic. This isn't fun.

Sun Thundercat is a pathetic villain, by far the worst in the series, even more wasted than Carmilla, with less feats on her belt than everyone combined despite the hype. And they didn't even try to fix her. Instead of making her a better character, they doubled down on her being flat and then pulled a bait and switch for fanservice purposes. Drolta is probably the most inoffensive villain in the series since Dracula, but that doesn't erase the sloppy, disingenuous writing.

She doesn't put much of a better fight, either. Now Alucard joins Richter in their epic team up, because of course. And I'm going to sound like a Classic purist, but I am sick and tired of the shows ignoring the Vampire Killer. Why in the fuck is Richter fighting Drolta with magic punches? Didn't Dracula mock Trevor for that? You have a consecrated whip, you imbecile!

oh, then they redo the same scene they did with Sun Thundercat, with Sekhmet being all angery that Drolta defiled her, Drolta sobbing and whimpering that she did everything for her, and the two engaging in some sort of Avatar spiritual fight that makes Annette's eyeballs explode or some shit.

Btw, gotta love this epic reference to Sonic '06:

I don't think you will live anywhere if you don't let her do her thing, genius.

I could be generous and think that he's so attached because he doesn't want to lose another person. I like some details here, like Richter using his ice magic to embrace Annette's searing body. It's just. I don't buy this romance's foundations, because S1 fumbled so bad. Alucard says that Annette laughs at Richter's jokes, and debates his ideas, which means that she loves him, but is that really enough for him to declare that she's more important than the world he swore to protect? Also, why does Annette like him back? Because he constantly tries to protect her, even though that should piss her off according to her S1 personality?

btw

shut up you cunt

Speaking of the cunt, Richter kills Drolta by using Alucard's sword infused with ice magic. No, I have no clue why it works except anime logic. The Vampire Killer can go fuck itself. yay. To top it all off, Richter is surprisingly chill when he spots Olrox, even calmly echoing his promise of "killing him one day, but not today". hey, remember how Richter used to suffer from PTSD over his mom's murder and panicked at Olrox' presence? remember how Olrox was built up to be this msyterious, charismatic figure with his own agenda and plans for the little Belmont? guess that's another tease for S3!

The ending feels like a fusion of the one of OG S2 and S4. Richter and Annette pull a whole Trepha and abandon Maria to her own grief. Nice job guys! She is still crying for her parents but you just have to bone in private, I suppose! So much for muh family! Well, at least Maria will hang out with her new grandpa and Alucard, who...

ah. mhh. well. This is bound to be very funny lol.

(btw, it's perfectly fine for a 16 yo to crush on an older man lol. We'll just have to see what said older man will do with it.)

Oh, Edouard! I forgot about him because he was nothing more than a jukebox: his only character development is that his extra hands move away from his face, maybe because he's no longer ashamed of himself. Well, he's coming to Saint Domingue too with Annette and Richter! Yes, as a Night Creature. Annette simply says "the people there have had worse nightmares than you" and the matter is settled. Hey, remember when she felt guilty for being the cause of his fate? Remember when she was this close to mercy killing him? It doesn't matter anymore! Yay, just like Dracula and Lisa! Conflict is for those who are sure they're going to get a next season!

And while Richter and Annette kiss and are all cute and everyone is happy, I'm left wondering who was the true protagonist of this season. Richter? No, he did fuck all until the end. Annette? Same. Alucard? He could have vanished in E1. Maria? She got a lot of focus, but ultimately irrelevant to the main conflict. Juste? Tera? Mizrak? Olrox? Don't make me laugh.

Drolta, then? The season took the time to give us her backstory to explain how she got here. She stole the mummy, which is what caused the final fight. And that's it. Once again, I feel the need to use Carmilla as a comparison: she was the true star of the OG S2, because she was the only character in both plotlines to actively do something, and she acted throughout the whole season, even if in the end she didn't get what she wanted. What is this season even about? How do you summarize it? Why is it so rushed and confusing? Why did they try so much and muddle every theme they could have tackled, like the effect of vampirism on your soul, or the dark path grief can take you, or finding a new family?

and oh right. the shadowy figure that seems interested in maria and tera. i don't even know. we'll see in s3 i guess. which will happen, since this season has currently a 100% on Rotten Tomatoes because it is considered peak fiction.

anyway,

[corneredcopia]

Whatever…more stob spoiler thoughts…speculating 🫣 (read tags)

I know it’s basically fanon that Rob can easily check stone’s heart rate, blood pressure, etc. through Stone’s watch or with a swipe of Rob’s control gloves….

So do you guys think if the same idea was implemented in canon it could work the other way around? Since Stone still has his watch on after crawling out of the water do you think he could have been alerted of Ivo’s pulse? When it slowed down after Gerald revealed his true plan to Ivo, when it quickened during their fight, or maybe when it fell back to normal when he spoke to stone over the livestream?

And do you think Stone could’ve been notified when it had halted to an immediate stop?

[ansburg]

yall ever read da meta and know that op thought they were cooking. but the post is like this

[mikaelsrose]

thinking about the fact selena and rob's love is literally "I'll find you in every universe"

[idontmindifuforgetme]

I think I’m spiraling out of reality and into a state of psychosis where all I listen to is Victoria Monet’s discography on repeat

[truethes]

the fun thing about luoch.a is the realisation of how his defense isn't donning a mask, he's more of an actor instead. the version of him that you meet is typically the version of him that you, as a person, have interpreted in your head - and one in which he, in turn, will continue to play off as and, effectively complete that role.

like please think complete angelina joli.e girl interrupted rn: i'm playing the villain baby, just like you want.

[writersdrug]

omg you mind holy wow i love your brain i would never come to lobotomize you omgomg by god i need more bartender!simon you recently mention, maybe abt how they interact and develop? idk i really dont care what exactly you write, i js need any words from you abt bartender!simon

Hmmmmmm I have some headcannons!

You show up for work thirty minutes early because you're NOT risking losing this job.

Simon sometimes lets you bang on the back door for a few minutes, yelling for someone to let you in, until Soap gets tired of hearing it and opens the door. Simon finds it funny.

You think Simon is the owner of the pub until Price comes in one day with cash for your tip payout. You screamed as soon as you saw him walk in through the backdoor, thinking you were being robbed.

Simon barely managed to swing into the kitchen and grab you around the waist before you pummeled Price with an empty beer keg.

Price later told Simon he thought you were a perfect addition to the team.

You do your tips at the end of the bar every night as Simon polishes the glasses across from you. Lets you have one drink on the house.

First floor is the restaraunt/pub, second floor is the pantry/walk-in fridge/office where Price does money work, third floor is the studio apartment where Simon lives (Price discounted it for him).

When it's slow, you and Simon and Johnny all take a smoke break in the alley out back - you don't smoke, but you talk to them while they share a cig, complaining about customers together.

You bring it up to Simon that you've noticed how Johnny always comes to the front of house when Kyle brings the new kegs in, "Simon, need ya to check somethin' - ah, hey, Garrick!"

Simon scoffs at your revelation. "Jus' now seein' that?"

You live ten blocks away from the pub and ride your bike to work. Simon let's you stuff it in the alley for safekeeping.

If you're feeling especially sporty, you pop in your earbuds and take your skateboard. Simon nearly had the breath sucked from his soul when he saw you zipping by the window the first time.

You mop front of house because Simon hates it. Simon restocks the to go boxes because you can't reach the top shelf where the overflow sits.

You tried to pour a lager once when Simon was busier than usual. After watching you attempt it, he banned you from doing it ever again.

You enter Pino grigio in the POS as "peeno greeshio" and Simon hates it, but you love the way Soap cackles from the kitchen when he sees it.

Kyle sometimes sticks around to help you drag the new beer kegs up the stairs, and he shows you how to connect them to the taps.

You're constantly begging Price to set up a Karaoke machine in the corner of the bar. He says when you can afford it, you can buy it.

You broke the soda gun once; you and Soap were frantically filling container after container with tonic water while Simon was on his back under the bar, cursing and trying to turn the water off.

Monday mornings are deep-clean days, and everyone has to participate. You're all wearing sweats and bleach-stained shirts, pulling out the stove, sweeping behind the kegs, dragging the mats into the alley to clean them, emptying the fridge and scrubbing the entire thing.

Simon doesn't like to think too much about how hot you look in your sweatpants, ratty t shirt, and sweaty, flushed skin when you're exerting yourself.

You're constantly thinking about how those sweatpants hug his hips, those muscles in his arms flexing, and the grunts he makes when he's shoving the stove back into its place.

Simon gives you full permission to return any nasty attitude the customers dish at you.

After you go home for the night, Simon often finds himself lying on his bed, one arm behind his head and the other hand on his chest, staring at the ceiling, replaying the events of the day - and they're all centered around you

[circlebuttons]

Rafe on Love Island

- this is a throw away rant because of how obsessed i am w love island us rn. I feel like Rafe would be a mix of leah and rob with a bit of caine for rule breaking.

-

You get coupled with Rafe in love island on the very first night. When all the guys walked in your eyes were on him immediately, he's taller and broader than everyone else in his sharp grey suit with his white button down being unbuttoned just a tad. The closer he gets you notice that his eyes are already locked on you. His eye contact makes your heart race and the cherry on top is the sly smirk that creeps up on his face when you lean over to the two girls you already befriended in such a short time and quietly inform them that, "Buzzcut is mine." He scoffs out a silent laugh on account of you never look away from him once or block your lips from being able to be read. You're the first person he introduces himself too, holding your hand firmly and probably for a bit too long.

He sits on the couch facing you and during the icebreaker questions you learn that Rafe Cameron is a man who's lived a lot of lives but is now a certified businessman, looking to find his first ever stable relationship. The most important thing you learn is that your feelings of attraction are mutual when he pulls a card that reads "Kiss the islander who you think is a gold digger"

His eyes immediately land you and he clarifies to everyone that he's picking you not because he thinks your a gold digger, but because he'd rather have you be his sugar baby, it's all about perspective at the end of the day.

"You can take all my money" he mumbles before kissing you gently at first with a coy hand on your neck, but you're the one to deepen it and he follows your lead immediately before you break apart, softly saying, "Nice to meet you" while using your finger to wipe the rouge lip combo that you both are now wearing.

There's no doubt in your mind when picking Rafe to couple up with. After the coupling Rafe is on your heels following you like a puppy to an area of couches where you're meant to get to know each other a bit better before sharing a bed. There he asks a lot more questions about yourself, hanging onto every word that leaves your mouth. You eventually leave to go get ready for bed and he reluctantly separates from you, being the first one under the covers laying awake with bright eyes when you climb in on the other side of him. "Courtesy pillow?" he asks looking at you cautiously. "Not unless you need it, I'll behave for the first night" you smirk at him before turning to your side and getting comfortable and little do you know how long he stares at the ceiling replaying every event from today, avoiding reminiscing on the kiss to avoid becoming to worked up, but worked up nonetheless because he feels insane for falling for a girl this fast into the game.

That morning Rafe wakes up with a smile on his face for the first time in ages and he wakes up like that everyday in the villa because no matter what it's always you. He's nothing short of obsessed with you, just as much as you are him, but the two of you being head over heels doesn't make for good tv until Rafe starts playing more defensively. The first male bombshells that get added to the villa get nothing but glares from him as they get way to comfortable with you in the games and attempt to pull you for chats while you're literally right next to him. Production had made it clear that it was off limits to physically fight, so Rafe had to settle for pulling in other guys for secret "chats" instead where he'd just loom over them and make sure it was understood you were happy being coupled with him.

Production would have to step in again to remind rafe that it was also against the rules to hinder filming in anyway meaning saying blunt no's when another girl tries to pull him or turning his head when the objective of a game is to kiss. It unexpectedly makes better tv when Rafe starts his malicious compliance as he sits either blank or stank faced and awkwardly silent in one on one chats with girls who insist on talking with him and in challenges the cameras capture the disgusted tight lipped faces he makes when he's forced to kiss someone else. You feel the same way he does, you're a bit more complacent with production and don't mind participating. It bothers Rafe sure, but at the end of the day it fuels him seeing you kiss another islander and knowing that he's ten times better than any of these guys will ever be. You and Rafe discussed that you have to do what you have to do for tv, but outside of mini games there was to be exclusivity. Exclusive is a word you use a lot, waiting until the outside to be a real couple.

Although what you don't wait for is having sex in the villa after finding out all the guys left for casa amor. Hearing that Rafe was the only guy to refuse not only made you proud, but surprisingly horny too. Making out at night or even grinding on each other wasn't foreign to either one of you, it's when your hand drifts into Rafe's waistband that he shoots up to flip you under him, eager to finally have all of you. After that night the two of you sneak around fucking like absolute bunnies. You protest weakly every time he starts kissing on your neck, knowing what's about to to happen, mumbling "Fuck me, my moms watching" before you the two of you duck under covers and have the best sex of your lives.

[somethingvicked]

Forget me not pt 2

An Eddie Munson story.

warnings: female reader, memory loss, talks of injury, angst.

Y/N’s mother brought Eddie out into the corridor. “This is why I didn’t want any of you to visit her yet, Eddie. The doctor’s told me that it’s very common to have memory loss when you’ve gone through that kind of head injury, but that it usually is temporary. If there was a possibility of her regaining the memory without having to go through another trauma – meeting people she doesn’t remember that clearly remember her – I wanted to spare her that.”

Eddie nodded, understanding. When Y/N’s mom told him that it could be temporarily he felt a flicker of hope.

“So, there’s a chance she will be okay, maybe tomorrow or so?”

Y/N’s mom smiled. “Maybe. We can only hope. If she does, I will let you all know. But now I must ask you to let her rest.”

As Eddie walked out of the hospital, his own memory replayed the moment when Y/N looked at him as if he was a stranger – because that was what he was to her now –  he ran into Gareth.

“What the hell, man,” Gareth said, stomping up to Eddie. “How could you not call us and let us know Y/N’s been in accident? She’s our friend too!”

Eddie rubbed his forehead. “I’m sorry, dude. It’s all been so…” he couldn’t finish the sentence.

Gareth’s face softened. “Is she okay?”

“She… she punctured a lung and broke some ribs but it’s… they say she’ll be okay eventually.”

“That’s a relief,” Gareth exhaled and then frowned. “Then why do you look so… “

Eddie looked away. “Her mom hasn’t told anyone yet, because there’s a big chance it’ll go away, but…” he swallowed ,”she… Y/N doesn’t remember me. I visited her and she… there was no recollection. She didn’t know who I was.”

Gareth’s eyes widened. “Damn!” he cursed. “Shit man, I’m so sorry. She doesn’t remember you… and you’re her best friend!”

Eddie felt tears burn behind his eyelids. Gareth patted his shoulder and led him toward his van, telling him that he shouldn’t drive being this upset.

Eddie couldn’t compel himself to tell Gareth the whole truth about why he was so troubled. The last conversation he’d had with Y/N, what he had told her:

“I wish you could forget you’re in love with me too, Y/N. I wish we could forget about this whole conversation! It’s ruined everything.”

 Just remembering those words made him feel like someone had punctured his lung too.

The next day Y/N’s mother called and asked for them all to meet her in the hospital cafeteria. She didn’t want to be away from Y/N too long, so that was the best place.

Eddie felt cold dread creep down his spine when Y/N’s mom explained to the others about Y/N’s memory loss, but that they weren’t certain how far it went.

Y/N had recognized her parents without a beat but she had no memory of the accident or the hours before that.

“When the doctors asked her what the last thing she remembered clearly was she told them that it was coming home from school and practicing the violin,” Y/N’s mom said, and Eddie gasped.

“But… she quit playing the violin years ago!” Before they became friends.

“Exactly,” Y/N’s mom nodded. “But we have to be patient. The doctors tell me that when she’s well enough to go home, to the house she grew up in and with her own room, surrounded by the things she’s seen daily it will probably help. And until then, I need to ask you not to visit her. She’s got enough on her plate.”

Eddie swallowed, looking down into his lap.

“When… do they know when she will be able to go home?” Robin wondered.

“They’re going to do some more tests and another MRI on her brain – just to make sure there isn’t some small bleeding that they missed which will cause trouble. If there’s not she will probably be able to go home at the end of the week.”

There was nothing to do but wait. At the end of the week Y/N was allowed to go home, and her mom let the gang know that she recognized her room. A happy surprise was that she also recognized Robin from a photo, so Robin was allowed to visit her and talk to her.

Robin told the rest of them that Y/N seemed to have grasped that she wasn’t thirteen anymore, and that she also seemed to remember some songs and movies she had seen and listened to after middle school, even though she didn’t remember the moment she had experienced them.

Y/N’s memory was jumbled but she was making progress.

In all this time, Eddie didn’t spend any time with Chrissy, not even in school. Somehow, it felt like a betrayal to Y/N. Even though Y/N didn’t even remember he existed.

Chrissy was patient at first, but when  two weeks had come and gone she took Eddie aside to talk to him.

“I understand you’re upset about Y/N. But… there’s nothing you can do for now. I know she’s your best friend, but I’m your girlfriend. If you can’t even spend time with her because she doesn’t know who you are, what is stopping you from spending time with me? Not even talking to me?”

Eddie became furious with her and accused her of being insensitive. When he barked that Y/N was the most important person in his life, and how did Chrissy think it felt when that person didn’t even remember you? – Chrissy shook her head and walked away.

Eddie deducted that this was most likely the end of them but he couldn’t bother to care. The fact that he had called Y/N the ‘most important’ person in his life didn’t slip by him. Or that Chrissy had said exactly the same thing that he had told Y/N that day.

Now he knew that Y/N was in fact the most important person in his life and he felt guilty as hell for how he had treated her. A flirt with a popular girl had made him forget her.

And now he’d gotten his karma. Y/N had forgotten him. Completely.

Another week passed and Y/N’s recovery went well. From photos she had been reacquainted with more of her friends, and her mom had told Steve and Eddie they were welcome to visit, to see how she would react, if she remembered them. 

Steve still seemed angry at Eddie, but he didn’t bring it up at least, and Eddie was grateful for that. He hoped that Y/N would remember something, anything about him and their friendship.

As they were let inside Y/N’s room, they saw she was sitting by her desk, looking through some photos.

She raised her gaze and smiled politely at them. “Hi,” she said and Eddie and Steve greeted her.

Steve sat down on Y/N’s bed and Eddie sat down beside Y/N but made sure to give her space.

“You are… Steve, right?” Y/N said, pointing at Steve and Steve nodded excitedly.

“Yes, that’s right. You remember me?”

Y/N brought up a photo of him and her from a pool party. “A little,” she told him. “But it kind of clashes… I remember you in school… being… well, quite a jerk,” she admitted with blushing cheeks and Eddie snickered, “but I also remember you being really nice, and something about… ‘always being the babysitter’?”

Now Steve laughed and nodded. “Yes, that’s correct. In high school I was quite a jerk but… I grew up quickly the last year and after I graduated – and not getting into college. Made me realize that peeking in high school was not something to be proud of.”

Now Y/N laughed too and Eddie couldn’t help but feel left out.

Then Y/N’s eyes widened. “Wait… I remember now. You were called… King Steve!”

Steve groaned and rubbed his neck. “Damn. I really hoped you wouldn’t remember that!”

Y/N laughed again and even though it was nice to see her laugh, Eddie looked down into his lap, almost regretting that he had come. But that wasn’t right. Y/N couldn’t control what she remembered.

Now she turned toward him, and tilted her head. “I remember you from the hospital,” she told him and then looked through some photos, finding one of Eddie and her with the Hellfire group. And another of him and her, at the Hideout, Eddie, sweating after a performance and Y/N looking so proud.

Then another, from a Halloween party… there were so many of them, Eddie realized. Even though they hadn’t gotten to know each other until junior high, there was practically a whole lifetime’s worth of photos of them.

And it all came back to him, things he had all but forgotten, getting lost in Chrissy. He had never been more ashamed of himself.

“Were… were we a couple?” Y/N wondered when she came upon one where they hugged in front of a Christmas tree in her living room.

“No,” Steve replied, before Eddie could answer and Eddie glared at him. “No, but Eddie was… is, your best friend.”

“Oh,” Y/N said, and the way she said it, like she wasn’t disappointed at all that they hadn’t been a couple… it felt like someone had drove an ice pick into Eddie’s heart and the cracks spread by the second.

“You don’t… you don’t remember any of this?” he wondered carefully, not wanting to stress Y/N.

“No,” she said, shaking her head, looking frustrated. “No, I’m sorry. When I look at Steve, I remember bits and pieces. It’s like a puzzle – pieces fits together but it’s not a complete image. But with you… I’m so sorry, but I don’t remember anything, except from when you came to visit me in the hospital.”

She looked really apologetic for that and Eddie felt even worse because now he had made her feel bad.

“It doesn’t matter. Take your time,” he assured her.

They didn’t stay long after that. Y/N got tired rather quickly and her mother shooed them out, saying she needed to rest.

Eddie expected that Steve would say something like ‘serves you right’ when they left but he didn’t. Not even Steve seemed to want to kick Eddie when he was already broken.

And it just continued. Y/N kept making progress with the others. She remembered funny moments hanging out with the kids, teasing Dustin, helping Max and El with clothes and make up, supporting Lucas about basketball, talking to Nancy and Jonathan about the school paper, even cheering for when Hopper and Joyce finally got together.

But she still didn’t remember anything about Eddie. He tried to help her remember, with photos of his own, tapes they had switched, playing his guitar for her…

He refused to give up, even though he felt more and more and despair from the lost look in Y/N’s eyes.

And each and every time he tried to help her remember, he had to remember. How much they had meant to each other, what Y/N had meant to him.

And how he had thrown all that away for Chrissy. A girl he couldn’t even imagine a future with.

He was living with the constant regret of it, practically crying himself to sleep every night.

One day Steve took him aside, looking worried. “Look, man… I understand what you’re doing. But maybe you should stop.”

“Stop what?” Eddie wondered.

“With Y/N. I see how hard you try, but… there’s a possibility she might never remember you, have you thought of that?”

Eddie swallowed. “That… no, that can’t be…”

“It’s possible,” Steve continued, “there are people that has had memory loss that never regain every detail of their life. And… while I think what you did to her was shitty, I’m worried about you. This… it’s not healthy for you or her. Maybe… maybe you should just accept what it is and move on.”

“I can’t do that!” Eddie gasped. “I can’t! She...”

“Eddie… you were ready to cut her out of your life just a couple of weeks ago – for Chrissy. And now… she doesn’t even remember you doing that. I understand you feel guilty, but…”

“You think I’m doing it because I’m feeling guilty?” Eddie hissed. “Well, I do! But it’s not that… I… even before she crashed into that tree… I tried to imagine a life without her and… I couldn’t,” he admitted, wiping his eyes.

Steve was quiet for a while. “Maybe… maybe she doesn’t want to remember you.”

Eddie gasped, staring at Steve. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Steve said, rubbing his forehead. “Maybe… her subconscious is trying to protect her from a painful memory – what happened between you two.”

Eddie’s eyes widened and his mouth turned into a small O.

“But… what do I do then? Should I bring it up… what happened?”

“Not sure,” Steve said. “I don’t have any answers, Eddie. Is there something you haven’t tried? Something that might give her a push to remember?”

Eddie honestly wasn’t sure. He felt like he had tried everything possible and then some.

One thing he had noticed, was that Y/N had become more at ease with him. She didn’t shy away any more, even though he was respectful of her space and never touched her like he used to do before; putting his arm around her, or throwing her over his shoulder and carry her somewhere, or had tickle fights with her.

That, too, made him realize how much she meant to him and how much he now missed touching her like he used to.

But despite the fact that Y/N didn’t remember their shared past she seemed to have taken a liking to him anew.

Her face lit up when he came over and she was interested in hearing him talk about his day, his life or something that had happened. It felt strange to tell details of his life to the one that used to know him about as well as he knew himself, but he did so without complaint because it seemed to fascinate her.

But he missed the old Y/N, he couldn’t lie and say he didn’t. This… this was just a shell of the girl he used to know.

And as the days passed, turned into weeks he was starting to fear that he would never get her back.

But he wouldn’t give up on her. Or leave her. He would never do that again. If this was some kind of karmic punishment for what he had done to her… consider him chastised.

He would only leave if Y/N herself told him to.

The next day Y/N called him, asking if he could come over. “I have a favor to ask you,” she said, “I can’t ask anyone else.”

Eddie got excited, wondering what it could be and immediately drove over to her place.

“What can I do for you, sweetheart?” he wondered and she smiled, blushing at the nickname. Even though he missed the old Y/N he had to admit it was a delight to see her blushing at the old nickname.

“I… I wonder if you could drive me to the scene of the accident,” she said, looking into his eyes. “My mom doesn’t want me to see it, but… I think it might help.”

Eddie wasn’t sure if it was a good idea – not to mention that going behind the back of Y/N’s mother scared him a little bit; she had become something of a mother bear since the accident, not that he blamed her.

But of course he couldn’t say no to Y/N. So they got into his van and drove there.

The car wreck had been towed of course, but some of the glass was left, glittering in the sun. There were two deep dents in the bark of the tree she had collided with, but other than that the tree seemed to have gotten out more unscathed than Y/N and the car.

Y/N was quiet, going up to the tree, the glass cracking beneath her shoes. She put her hand on the dents, as if she was waiting for the tree to start whispering secrets to her.

Then she frowned, bending down. Eddie looked down and his eyes widened.

Beside the tree there was a single blue little blossom. It had dried, but it wasn’t withered. He squatted beside Y/N picking it up.

It was one of the few flowers he recognized – Forget-me-nots.

He smiled and gave it to Y/N. “Almost seem like a sign, don’t you think?” he wondered but when Y/N suddenly clutched her head he immediately got worried. “Sweetheart?”

Y/N didn’t reply for a few seconds, but when she looked up… there was something new in her eyes that hadn’t been there before.

“Eddie?” she questioned and… he could see it. The recognition.

“Y/N?” he said, his voice trembling.

“I remember now,” she said, her voice devoid of emotions, and Eddie got cold all over. Because if she remembered, then she also…

“I remember everything.”

taglist: @ali-r3n @quinnyficsy @animechick555 @h-ness1944 @eddie-is-a-god

@megatronmunson @melodymunson @rainybloo28

@daisy-munson @bartkevicius03 @stylesxmunson @ziggeddie @ali-in-w0nderland @up-l4te-4t-n1ght @fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes @duncanhillscoffeecups

[ghostbsuter]

I'm on the writing grind, you can see that I just finished rewatching the Teen Titans (2003).

Edit: Here is some art I did for Titan!Phantom

.・゜-: ✧ :-

(The end is near.)

Gripping the communicator, the bright yellow case with a cartoonish 'T' on top glared back at him.

(The portal was growing.)

He presses the button, the communicator switches on and he calls out.

"Phantom to Titans, do you hear me? Phantom to Titans."

The crackling sound came as a sign of connection, It didn't take any heavy weight off, however.

"Robin here, Phantom? Everything alright?" The soothing voice of Teen Titans leader answers him, and he suppresses a sigh.

"Robin," he bites his lip, the portal only growing.

The ghost zone is eating Amity and all just because fucking Vlad couldn't, for one ancient time, sit still.

"I—" a deep breath. "I'm sorry," he apologises with a wince. "You're gonna be really angry at me when you... find out."

Concern leaks through the voice as Robin speaks. "Phantom? What's going on?"

Thr screen on the communicator switches on and Robins brow knitted expression stares back at him.

It quickly changes, alarmed. "Phantom." The vigilante says. "Is Amity Park okay? Do you need backup?"

Always on the right track, dear leader. Danny shakes his head fondly.

"It's too late for backup," he admits quietly.

"Phan—"

"Just tell new members of me, okay?"

Danny doesn't let the other finish, giving a bitter smile before throwing the communicator on the ground, breaking it.

The familiar yet threatening green of the ghost zone welcomes him.

—

"Titans! Emergency call, Phantom got a situation!"

The bright red lights is enough for the rest of the team to flood to the common room.

"Rob?" Cyborg asks. "What's the situation?"

"We don't know!" The bird answers, stressed. He's pulling the audio and video recording of the call up to the monitor, replaying it for the team.

They don't figure it out until they are at Amity, landing with the jet and jumping from their seats.

Raven and Starfire fly ahead, and they all reach the border of Amity.

Or what of Amity remains.

Because–

The entire city is gone—!!

Complete annihilation.

(When robin finds out who did this, he will have words with them.)

"Robin," Raven waves them all over to her side. She's crouching, hand in a sphere of black, her magic. "Amity wasn't destroyed. It was relocated."

Her expression is grim. "Someone abducted a whole city."

All he does is nod, looking at the team before him.

"Someone call Herald, Titans, we got work to do. Our mission is to find Amity Park, Phantom, and save both." With sombre nods, they prepared for take off.

"Titans! Go!"

And they separate.

[ghost-proofbaby]

twenty four hours (modern!eddie munson x fem!reader)

HOUR EIGHT

in which graves are dug up, walls are built, and nobody knows what happened in the bathroom that night.

→ tropes: enemies to lovers, forced proximity, slow burn

→ warnings: strong language, eventual smut, upside down does not exist, minors dni

→ wc: 4.6k+

masterlist.

spotify playlist.

◁ previous part, next part▷

8:00 ────ㅇ────────────── 24:00

DINGUS: hey, do you guys remember the first night they met? 

BIRDIE: you mean when we took her to the bar to meet everyone and they very clearly fell in love at first sight? no, doesn’t ring a bell. 

DINGUS: stop being such a fucking smart ass

NANCE: @DINGUS What about it? 

DINGUS: she just called me asking me about it. said eddie was nice until you guys went to the bathroom. apparently he acted differently when you guys came back, but i can’t remember anything about what was said?? did eddie actually start acting differently??? 

BIRDIE: i remember that! thought it was weird or eddie just started overthinking? i dunno. i was in the bathroom obviously.

ARGYLE  😎: oh i remember that night very clearly brochacho

ARGYLE  😎: kind of surprised you don’t, dude

JOHNNY: Oh God yeah @DINGUS you’re living up to your namesake dude

NANCE: You really don’t remember, do you? 

DINGUS: @NANCE and how the fuck do YOU remember? you weren’t even there, nance. you were in the bathroom as robs put it.

NANCE: Best friend privileges. You really might want to remember, Dingus. 

BIRDIE: @NANCE message me real quick? 

DINGUS: hey! no fucking whispering! that’s not fucking helpful! @JOHNNY @ARGYLE  😎 what did i say? 

NANCE: @BIRDIE I will. Let me call Eddie first.

—

HOUR EIGHT - 11:00 PM

You weren’t trying to eavesdrop - you were trying to sleep. If anyone asked you, you could have honestly defended yourself. The couch was uncomfortable, your back aching as you repeatedly twisted back and forth to just try and find a minute of rest. Your mind was reeling, still replaying all of your moments with Eddie leading up to this night. Suddenly, you were overthinking it all. You couldn’t differentiate between things that really happened, or things that you’d simply blown out of proportion due to your innate need to spin the narrative of Eddie being the villain. 

“Yeah, I… I think she’s sleeping.” 

You hadn’t even heard Eddie opening his door finally, your back facing the hallway as you stayed curled up tightly. His footsteps are heavy as he gets closer to you.

“She’s… uh, she’s on the couch.”

Immediately, you can hear a shrill voice shouting over the line. It’s hard to miss. You can imagine the way he’s wincing, holding the phone out from his ear in an attempt to not let her scolding damage his ear drums. 

“I didn’t think she went to bed!” he hisses, trying to stay quiet, under the impression you’re still asleep, “I- Jesus H. Christ, Nance! Calm down, calm do-” he’s cut off as the anger over the line still leaks into the calm air of the room, “No. No, I wasn’t- I was going to let- Nance. Please, can I get a fucking word in?” 

You hold your breath during his pause, and the clear scolding, Nancy’s scolding, finally ceases. 

“I wasn’t going to let her sleep on the couch,” he says slowly. You almost turn over, almost face him and show him you’re very much awake and not sleeping. “I didn’t think she’d go to bed while I was in there. I thought… I thought- Jesus, I thought at worst, she’d snoop through my shit. Maybe go for a walk or something. I didn’t- I just… Fuck, I needed space. It’s just been a long night.”

Nancy’s voice is no longer audible, but it’s clear he’s listening to what she has to say. You’re nearly overcome with guilt; you’ve done plenty of things wrong, but to eavesdrop on a private conversation? It might be your worst crime against Eddie yet. 

Suddenly, he says, “It’s just been a lot.” 

Something in his tone has changed. It’s gone soft, whispering from his lips in sudden muted blue. It’s a type of sadness you can’t quite place – it’s the kind of mourning you’d seen in his eyes in the photo. 

Nancy must say something, because he hums in response. It’s obviously not good enough of an answer for Nancy over the phone, because her voice grows back to audible levels, less shrill, more stern. 

Eddie answers with words this time. “I… I think I do.” 

He thinks he does what? 

“I do. I really fuckin’ do.”

He’s more sure in his answer the second time around to the unknown question. The guilt grows. Inflating, turbulating, ready to crack your ribs. The vines are no longer there to hold you together.

You’re put out of your misery when Eddie murmurs out a bye, Nance and you can hear his phone snap shut. If it were just a mere few hours ago, one hour ago, you would have made a comment about it - you would have joked again about what year it was, how maybe the two of you should get to sleep so first thing in the morning, you could drag him down to the Apple store to get a normal phone like the rest of you. But you’re not a time traveler, and Eddie is still an ocean away from you. 

And you’re not a strong swimmer. The water’s were rocky, were vicious, and if you dared to try and backstroke to his side of the water, you’d surely drown. He had to come to you. 

You’re praying he comes to you. Eyes tightly screwed shut, still resembling a ball on his old couch. 

Please reach out for me, your mind screams, please wake me up. Please tell me to come back to bed with you. Please tell me we can forget all the words said in the kitchen. Please, please, please. 

You don’t know where the pleading comes from. But whatever gods and goddesses may exist, whatever higher power in the Universe that would normally ignore you, hears out your silent pleas. 

His hand is warm when he first grabs your shoulder. 

It’s not rough, surprisingly gentle as fingertips press into your clothed skin and the first shake comes. It’s hardly enough to rouse a truly sleeping person. And Eddie realizes this as the second shake is a bit more firm, moving you a little more with a soft whisper of, “Hey, wake up.” 

The command isn’t as harsh as you’re used to from him. It’s crushed velvet, smoothing over your skin like the blanket you’d previously pondered for, making the guilt begin to deflate. A slow release of air and the accompanying feelings of dishonesty and disloyalty leaves your chest weathered when his next whisper comes not only louder, but closer.

“C’mon, you’ve gotta get up,” he insists, but all you care about is his cologne. He never changed it from that first night. Always something warm, always something spiced. And you hate it, because it’s still the feeling of coming home from a long week, “You’re not sleeping on the couch. I’ll carry you if I have to.” 

That makes your sleeping facade crack. Your lips betray you - one twitch, and Eddie knows you’re awake, pressing you to roll onto your back. 

“I know you’re awake now. Let’s go,” you can hear the dimples in his tone. You can picture the lazy smile, the shining eyes. With your eyes closed, you can pretend you never had to meet mean Eddie. When you’re not looking at him, it’s almost as if the man you initially met still exists, to have and to hold, to make inside jokes with as you let the scenery around the two of you fade to black. 

You crack your eyes back open to find him looking down at you just as you’d expected, but not nearly with as much mischief or mirth as you had craved. 

The Eddie you first met is gone. He’s not coming back, and you can’t live with your eyes closed. Hell, maybe he had drowned in that ocean between you two as well. 

Maybe if you took the leap, just attempted to take on the waves, you’d meet him somewhere at the bottom of it all. 

“I thought you said you’d carry me?” you tease. 

His hand. His hand is still on your shoulder, and his palm is still searing you. You couldn’t pull away from its burn if you tried. 

“I’d carry you if I had to,” he corrects, “You’re awake, therefore, I don’t have to.” 

“I don’t know. I think my legs may be broken.” 

Eddie says your name firmly. It takes you off guard, momentarily distracts you from the way he squeezes your shoulder, “Let’s go before I change my mind and leave you out here.” 

You decide against putting up any further fight. You’re just happy he’s talking to you again. How odd and peculiar that feeling is. 

You rise from the couch and take him in. He’s no longer in his jeans, having traded out his earlier day clothes for something more comfortable. A pair of comfortable grey sweatpants, one or two sizes too big with the drawn string pulled to its limit and tied into a knot. He’s wearing a faded band shirt, loved in every way possible: it’s been cut along the bottom to shorten it in length, several holes torn along the torso and in the neck hole, the once black fabric now a stormy shade of grey far darker than the sweatpants. There’s a logo across the chest, peeling away at the edges. 

“Deftones?” you ask, squinting to make out the words written amongst the logo, “What is that? A band?” 

He chuckles, almost in disbelief, before he realizes you’re serious, “Wait, you’ve really never heard of them?” 

You shake your head, “No, are they any good?” 

You’re still making no move to stand, Eddie towering over you as you tilt back to meet his gaze. The disbelief is morphing, ever changing, pulling in and out of his features like the sea against sand. Like the waves of his self-imposed ocean that taunts you. You only dig your toes into the sand, you only stand at a far enough distance to not get your feet wet yet. You’re not ready to dive in. You’re not brave enough yet. 

His chuckle this time isn’t in disbelief. 

“Yeah, yeah. They’re great. I can show you them later, if you just come to bed.” 

The game of teasing and begging is over, and you refuse to push your luck. He’s talking to you. Normally. You finally stand and shrug off that hand on your shoulder, finally trying to get your wits and not glance down at the waistband of his boxers. 

“Okay, lead the way,” you gesture before spinning your upper body around with your feet planted in place, a soft crack coming from your back. 

There’s no words exchanged in that brief walk to the bedroom; there’s nothing else to really say. The fight happened, Eddie locked you out, you’re both having to start from square one. The ocean still calls to you, and there’s nothing you can change about it. 

His room is the same as it was hours ago, when you’d locked yourself into it. A little messy, a little boyish, but comforting all the same. 

“A couple ground rules,” he finally breaks the silence. Oh, this oughta be good. “One, no more looking through my shit for…. Uh, magazines.”

“Trust me,” you hold up a hand in defeat, “Learned my lesson the first time. You can keep your gross Playboys.” 

His brows wrinkle in minute irritation, “Gross? They’re not gro- You know what? Whatever. Yeah. Stay away from my gross playboys. Second rule, I have enough pillows we can make a… wall, I guess?” 

You have to bite back your amusement, you have to remind yourself of the roar of an ocean. Maybe if you taste the salt on your lips again, you’ll remember that this is all temporary. 

“Sounds good to me,” you agree. 

“Obviously that means staying on your side of the bed. And it’s not a big bed, obviously, so-”

“What side of the bed do you prefer?” 

“Excuse me?” 

He’s dumbfounded despite the question not being a hard one. “The bed – which side do you prefer?” 

“I, uh, I-” he brings a hand up to the back of his neck, a nervous habit as he rubs his curls that are matted at the nape, “The left, I guess? Or I mean, if we’re looking down at it, it’d be the right, but…” he waves his hand in the general direction of the side he’s referring to, the one closest to the wall, “You know.” 

A nervous Eddie is a sight to behold. The fidgeting, the flush of his neck and cheeks, the stuttering sentences. He’s nervous about sharing a bed with you. 

“Perfect,” you offer a smile, although you don’t think it does much for him considering he’s looking down at the ground in bashfulness, “I prefer the right side. I just refer to them by left or right when you’re laying down, by the way.” 

You don’t have to add that tidbit – you don’t need to reassure him that your mind works in the same way as his in the slightest. But you do, and the red of his cheeks lightens. 

“Cool,” he murmurs.

“Cool,” you echo. 

The awkwardness can be afforded as the two of you straighten out the comforter, not needing to focus on shaking hands or fluttering chests as Eddie climbs in first and begins to rearrange his spare pillows as a barrier. His sweatpants slip down a bit lower as he does this, and you catch sight of the band of his boxers.

The band of his boxers pressing into the jut of his hips. The streak of alabaster, soft and unmarked unlike his arms, and the coarse patch of hair that interrupts the center of it all. 

“Have you ever considered getting hip tattoos?” you blurt out, and immediately, you both freeze. 

You really need to learn to think before you speak. 

“Uh… what?” Eddie chuckles nervously, presenting an opportunity to redeem yourself. 

He didn’t even have to catch you staring. You’d outed yourself.

And yet, you choose to double down, to take the embarrassment in stride as if it doesn’t phase you, “Hip tattoos. Have you ever thought about getting some? I think they’d be pretty sick.” 

Your self-destruction pays off when Eddie smiles up genuinely at you. Sugar coated sweetness, a bit of authentic amusement. 

“You’re right. They would be pretty sick.” 

He should have mocked you for staring at his hips. He should have taken the opportunity to embarrass you and run, but the tides are shifting between you two, and you keep taking two steps closer to his ocean. The sand only grows colder and colder the closer you get to the edge, and it has your mind reaming with the possibility of what it would feel like to recklessly dive in. 

“I’m sorry, I’m going to need you to say that again, this time into the microphone,” you make a fist, an invisible microphone in your grasp as you thrust it out towards Eddie. 

He laughs. He laughs, and its reverb travels through the caverns of your chest. Suddenly, you’re sipping a watered down Amaretto Sour and his breath smells of Jack & Coke, and the lowlights of the room have become treacherous bar lighting as you lean into his shoulder, sitting side by side on bar stools. 

The echoes still carry as he swats away your hand, eyes squinted with the mirth you’d be seeking out since he ‘woke’ you up, “Jesus Christ, you’re an idiot.” 

“Yeah, a funny idiot.” 

“Oh, now you’re just pushing it too far.” 

“Too far? I don’t think I’ve gone far enough.” 

Why don’t we ever hang out? Why don’t we ever banter like this when out with the others? 

It’s so easy, easy to continue to giggle as you turn out the bedroom light before crawling into bed with him, feeling his warmth radiating even through the pillows between the two of you. Pillows, oceans – they all have started to feel the same. 

Once the two of you have settled, you on your side and Eddie on his back, a nicer sort of silence blankets you. It’s almost as soft as his voice when he woke you, almost the same type of crushed velvet if you don’t reach out to it. But if you were to touch it, brush your fingertips over the material with intention and inhibition, you’d find the roughness. Roughness that mimics sand amongst an ocean’s waves, a roughness that says there’s more to be spoken about. 

“The bed’s nicer than the couch,” you speak out loud rhetorically, not necessarily to him, but to the coarseness. To the sand and to the fake velvet, “More comfortable.”

“I know,” he answers to fill the space. I know, meaning he’s slept on his couch. 

It makes sense. It’s his couch. But your mind runs rampant with the scenarios. Did he discover this through afternoon naps after hard shifts? Or maybe after one too many night outs that ended in collapsing face first into the cushions because he was too drunk to make it to his bedroom? 

You jump when he sits up suddenly, “Fuck.” 

“What’s your problem?” you twist from your position of your back facing him, squinting into the darkness.

“The photo.”

“What photo?”

“Photo evidence, you idiot! We have to send a photo to those fuckers.” 

You had nearly forgotten that this is what this is; your friends and a bet are the pushing force behind this all. It’s not fate, it’s not the moon bringing two tides  together. You didn’t happen upon his beach because you two decided to give this, whatever this was, a fighting chance. 

You sit up next to him, crinkling your nose, “My phone’s in the living room, I think.” 

“I can go get it.”

An offer of chivalry you didn’t even have to ask for. 

Same as him sharing the bed. Same as him paying for your meal when you forget your wallet, or catching you when you trip up steps outside a bar. You really wish the list would stop growing. 

He’s shuffling out of the bed, down the line of pillows and off the end of it, before you can even protest. You didn’t even tell him where the godforsaken phone might be besides that it’s in the living room. That doesn’t stop him. 

It feels like an eternity, but is probably no more than a full minute, before he’s returning back to the room. He’s looking down at the phone, your screen lit up and basking his face in the only light in the room. 

“What is it?” you can only assume the chat is messaging for a photo, by the scrunch of his brows and the small part of his lips. 

“Nothing.”

That was the first thing that made your stomach drop.

The second comes when he returns to the bed, fighting his way up into his original position, handing the phone over to you as you glance at the notifications. 

A notification from Steve. A private message, not sent in the groupchat. 

STEVE-O: i’m sorry, i really don’t know what happened that night. the others won’t tell me either so they’re kind of useless. whatever it was, i don’t think it was you, though, honey.

Honey. Mother fucking Steve Harrington, and his need to use nicknames. 

“All good?” Eddie asks, as if he didn’t just have access to this message, as if he doesn’t know what Steve’s said. You don’t know why the thought of Eddie seeing Steve’s careless nickname throws you over the edge. You just assume he’ll take it out of context, that he’ll spin it as a weapon against you. 

“Fine,” you curtly reply, opening your phone and ignoring the message, going straight to the group chat and opening your camera. Your heart is still racing in terrible inconvenience as you glance over your shoulder at him, “How do we wanna take it this time?” 

“I don’t know about you, but I personally just love to take it laying down-” 

“Are you trying to make a sexual innuendo right now? Because if so, stop. It’s terrible.” 

More giggles, more chuckles, more taunting waves of a daunting ocean that is scaring you less and less. Maybe the jump is worth it. Maybe the initial chill will break and show you warmth. Maybe it would never be cold to begin with. 

At least he’s teasing you, which is a good sign. You lay down in the same position as earlier, this time Eddie propping himself up to peek over the wall of pillows so his face is in the picture. 

It’s too dark to really see your faces very clearly. You can still make them out, to be fair, but it’s hard. You have to strain your eyes quite a bit to make out the mess of your hair and the indents of Eddie’s dimples.

Eddie’s dimples. His dimples. Oh God, he’s smiling.

“Turn on the flash,” he reaches over, invades your space with boy and spice and nostalgia to tap on the screen himself and do as he had just requested. 

“What was the point of telling me to do it, if you were just going to do it yourself,” you grumble, trying to yank the phone out of his reach. He only leans further, pressing into the boundary of pillows, his collarbone knocking against the back of your shoulder. 

Warmth. So, so much warmth. It occurs to you that it’s not just the smell of his cologne that feels like a long week’s homecoming; his touch and presence can manage to do the same, when he’s not being a pest of course. 

“Shut up and take the photo,” he bickers before giving up and settling back into his pose. He even adds to it, throwing up a peace sign with the hand not holding him up.

You can’t help but tease him for it, mimicking the motion with your own hand and failing at holding back your tittering. When you tap the button to take the photo, the screen flashes white and you both immediately groan before rubbing your eyes. 

“Fuck.”

“Wow, bright idea.” 

“Was that a pun?” Eddie stops mid eye rub, side-eyeing you, “Fuck off. That was a terrible pun.” 

“I never said my puns were good!” you try to defend yourself, blinking to bring relief to your scorned irises and focus on the photo of the two of you, “I said my jokes were good.”

“Puns are jokes.” 

You completely ignore him, and instead sigh deeply when you see the photo, “We need to retake it. No flash, this time. They can adjust brightness on their own time.” 

The photo is terrible, truly. The photo captures the moment somewhere between your enjoyment of copying Eddie and the pain the two of you had brought upon yourselves. Squinty eyes, coiled lips. Two peace signs of two drastically differently sized hands. 

Don’t you dare, you scorn your mind at that trail of thought, don’t even start that comparison.

“Why?” Eddie protests, once again beginning to lean over and take a closer look at your phone, chest brushing your shoulder again, “Oh, c’mon, it’s fine – just send it so we can sleep before they bother us again.” 

You just shake your head, already reopening the camera app and being sure to adjust the settings. No blinding this photo. 

“Say cheese, pretty boy.” 

It’s not until you’ve tapped to take the photo that you both realize what you’ve said. 

Pretty boy.

Eddie is leaning in still, just as he is in the photo you’ve taken, and both of you look far too happy to be sharing a bed. The words – the nickname, the compliment – are still formed on your lips in it. If the flash was on again, you’d see the blush of his reaction. 

Neither comment on it. You won’t lean into your embarrassment for a second time tonight, and Eddie isn’t in the business of teasing you cruelly anymore, it seems. 

You can hear him swallow hard before he asks, “Is that one good?” 

“Fine,” you squeak before clearing your throat, “Um, yeah, it’s good. I sent it.” 

“Okay, good.”

“Good.”

The awkwardness is stifling. Heavy and drowning and goddamn stifling. 

You toss your phone far too quickly onto his nightstand, wishing the bed would swallow you whole. 

If you two were friends, it would have been mindless teasing. The same as when Steve calls you honey, or Robin rambles about how hot you look on a night out. But you two aren’t friends.

You two aren’t friends because of some mysterious change that occurred in Eddie while you went to the bathroom. You haven’t forgotten the burning question, and the longer you two lay there, the more you let it consume you rather than regret. 

“Hey, Eddie? Can I ask you a question?”

He’s laying flat on his back as he answers you, hands nervously wringing on his stomach, “You just did, but sure.” 

It should be a good thing. He’s still teasing you, it’s still a good thing. But all your questions die in your throat. 

What happened when I went into the bathroom that first night?

Why did you turn so cold towards me?

 Was it my fault?

Why aren’t we friends? 

The last one doesn’t go down without a fight. It reverberates and battles you, it tries to pull you into the ocean head first. 

Why aren’t we friends? 

“Do you still drive a motorcycle?” 

That sure was a funny way of asking what you needed to. 

He’s quiet for a moment, clearly puzzled by your random question, but nevertheless he says, “Yeah. Why?”

“No reason.” 

You’re picturing him stalking away from you again, without so much as a goodbye, straddling the bike and tucking his head away into the motorcycle. The last glimpse you’d ever had of everything he could have been to you. It’s enough to make your eyes water, your bones shake, your toes curl into coarse sand until they bleed. 

The next time you hear his voice, he’s whispering your name. You don’t respond, and so he tries it again, saying it a bit louder this time. 

“I know you’re not asleep. No one can fall asleep that quickly.”

“I can,” you snap, still choking on his waves and personal mourning, a yearning you need to find the grave of once more to bury – for good this time. 

“Clearly, you can’t,” he shuffles, but you don’t check to see if he’s sitting up. (He’s not, he feels like his back is glued to the bed). His voice is back to crushed velvet and kindness, vulnerability and softness, a sort of home you can never return to, “I just wanted to say I’m sorry.” 

That piques your interest. You turn, laying on your back and looking at the same ceiling as him in that moment, “For what? Earlier in the kitchen? Or at the bar?” you feel his flinch, and are quick to add, “Because consider it water under the bridge, okay? You’re forgive-”

“I mean for everything. I’m sorry for… everything.” 

Everything. Ten letters, four syllables. It means a whole lot more than it should be capable of. 

“Everything?” your voice is hardly audible as you turn to look at him. He’s half hidden by the wall put between the two of you. But if you squint, if you adjusted the brightness, you wonder if you’d see his eyes shining with the same remorse yours burn with. You wonder if you’d see the dirt caked under his nails from also digging up graves he shouldn’t have tonight. 

“Everything.”

Ten letters, four syllables, one leap of faith. The ocean isn’t as cold as you’d thought it would be. 

—

BIRDIE is typing…

DINGUS: i swear to god rob. if you’re not about to tell me what the fuck i did that night, you better lock your phone and just go to bed. 

BIRDIE stops typing.

taglist: @catherinnn @haylaansmi @gaysludge @paprikaquinn @manda-panda-monium @audhd-dragonaut @amira0303 @blushingquincy @hellkaisersangel @eddieslittlewh0re @ajkamins @prettyboy200 @munsonzzgf @blue-eyed-lion @digwhatudug @madaboutjoe @wickedslashdivine @sweet-villain @somespicystuff @big-ope-vibes @jadequeen88 @sylviin @emma77645 @notbeforelong @lolalanaie @lo-siento-ama @happy-and-alone @micheledawn1975 @aysheashea @moon-huny @munsonswrld @bambipowerblueaddition @averagestudent03 @bakugouswh0r3 @mattefic @mxcheese @bietchz @nativity-in-black @tlclick73 @stezzil @vngelis @coley0823 @folklorebau @luvmunson86 @theherothesavior @keene200213 @hargrovesswifee @m-chmcl-rmnc @cherrymedicine13 @iunaelumen777

taglist is now closed.

[yandere-wishes]

⋆ Anomaly ⋆

❤Summary: Reader is an anomaly. A noblewoman of foreign descent. She doesn't belong here. But oh how she wishes to burn the world down just like William.

❤Author's note: A little something for Ana (@yandere-romanticaa) I hope you enjoy it!!

❤Warnings: Reader is traumatized, Yandere behavior, killing and blood, cryptic. I swear I know how math works…I've just been slaking this summer.

There are equations written over your skin. Complex formulas he's yet to solve. Exponents and variables freckle your body, scattered shards that try to tell him something, whispering the world's secrets every time he kisses your hand. You are an anomaly he thinks. Face full of cracks where the stars seep through. You're a mistake in the universe. A perfect doll misplaced. You are something, William is almost sure of it.

At heart, William is and always will be a mathematician. It just so happens that crime and math follow the same principles. Both require diligence and practice. Carefully throughout plans of how one must approach such a conundrum. One may call it a formula or a modus operandi or anything else as jejune. But in the end, a rose by any other name would still smell as sweet.

And yet to Moriarty, you are an equation that refuses to be solved. An enigma he's desperately sought to unravel since your first meeting.

William notices something odd as you stroll down an exquisite exemplar of the golden ratio. Something the lord of crime can't fully place. You're akin to a puzzle missing far too many pieces to properly depict its picture. Maybe it's the setting he ponders as he watches you take careful steps in heeled shoes. Maybe it's the music from the ballroom or the meaningless prattle of the aristocrats that robs your form of all logic. Something is amiss with you and he's frantic to find out what it is.

William introduces himself when you reach the bottom of the staircase. He's never been one to show primary interest in the ladies. Rather he waits in the faint glow of the moonlight until someone approces him. Maybe it's the need to distinguish himself from the other aristocrats, maybe it's the repulsion for their customs and manners that refrains him from ever commencing idle chatter. Yet with you, a girl he's never met before, he finds it fitting to say hello first. To talk, about nothing and everything in the same breath. He mentions his admiration for the staircase in passing. Never expecting you to latch on to the words and morph them into the divine proportion. "My father was a mathematical enthusiast, he's passed that on to me as well." Your words slip into his veins like a narcotic, like the melody of an ancient tune lost to time.

William smiles, easy and bright like the melting rays of the desert sun. "Quite the coincidence, I'm a mathematics professor at Durham University". There's a giggle that bleeds from your rose-tainted lips. Reverberating in the chambers of his heart. "A toast then" you propose "to the lethal magnificence of calculation"

You click your champagne glass against his, as something feral festers within the young nobleman.

It's only days later when he's replaying that night in his head as he sips his afternoon tea. That he realizes your champagne glass was empty that whole time. How strange he pondered, wondering if he'd even seen you touch a single intoxicant all evening.

Four days and three sleepless nights later William finds himself tracing the letters of your name with tender adoration. As if he's engraving prayers upon his bones. He needs to see you again as desperately as he needs to breathe. The letter he writes is aloof, meticulous. Prying on your curiosity, hoping you'll take the bait. One miserable day later Louis delivers a letter bathed in your fragrance. Informing the lord Moriarty of your acceptance of his invitation for tea. William folds the letter with the leniency of a biologist regulating their slides. Tucking it away within his breast pocket.

You wear red when you oblige his invitation. An odd red, one that breaks his perception of the color. It's too vibrant yet too opaque. He's beginning to wonder if everything about you is an irregularity. When he ushers the conversation to your garment you merely laugh and brush it off as having belonged to your mother. There's something wrong with that reply as if the universe weeps at your every word. William watches astonished as if he's been told a secret lost to time.

It becomes a habit, an obsession, an addiction really. Tea thrice a week with the woman who plagues his dreams. He lets his cover slip between sips of tea. Permitting you glances into his dark affairs. There's a moment that breaks the norm. A bizarre instance when you ask him to spare no detail in recounting how a poor tormented man murdered the marquess that raped his wife. William stops the proclean cup mere millimeters from his lips. His voice dies in his throat as his mind races to find an appropriate way to tell a lady such a bloody tale. For a second reality slips away.

Reality has a tendency to slip away unnoticed when he's with you.

You weave William tales of foreign lands that sound like they belong in children's fairytales. You tell him about heroes who've done the impossible and kings whose hearts are as pure as the summer skies.

Something about you reverberates in his subconscious. Oh, how he wishes to engulf you, to pick apart your flesh revealing all those dainty secrets you keep in your pretty little chest.

He asks how you know of such utopic lands. You smile. "Because I once lived there"

One day, as Louis serves black tea with rose petals, you bring up a rather peculiar request. "Permit me to assist you in your quest for equality lord Moriarty." William's beginning to believe he's going mad when he hears you. Albit it may as well be expected. Any sane noble lady would have run away many times over. Yet you remain. Forever poised in your adorned seat. Now more than ever William wishes he knew what you truly are. "I want to help you", you plead. "Allow me to aid you in burning this world down and starting anew". He shouldn't have accepted, he shouldn't have nobbed. He shouldn't have left his seat to trace the side of your face with more love than he knew he possessed.

Sometimes, William wonders if something is haunting you, an apparition nesting within the depths of your heart. He ponders what could drive a brilliant mind such as yours to crave the blood of the rich. You once told him about a heritage disrespected. A legacy buried under sand and water lilies. He's yet to find the true meaning behind those words. Does that make you a threat or an ally? Can either be exalted to a lover?

Moriarty promises you the world. Promise you revenge. He's not sure if he too will burn away in your vendetta. Yet he's willing to take the risk if he can hold you close after every murder case.

"I've tried to kick the habit of strolling around the cemeteries at night. Yet I must admit I rather enjoy this." William smiles at your twisted words as he leads the way. If everything has goes as planned -which is most often the case- then the two of you should be prepared for quite the spectacle. A certain Count - who had shown more interest in you than Moriarty could permit- would be getting knifed by his butler whose life he had ruined. A whole new meaning to the term 'the butler did it'. Quite comedic from William's perspective.

You lean on a withering oak tree, hidden by London's thick fog. William stands by your side, the personification of a grim reaper. You watch the play begin, the cobblestone stage illuminated by the blood-red moon. The confrontation, the knife being thrust into the rich vermin's heart. Again and Again and Again. The butler screams into the bloodstained night. His words quelled by his sobs and screams of agony from his dying tormentor. You only catch half of his reasoning, half of his allegations. And yet that is more than enough to comprehend his motive. You sympathize with the poor man, one whose scars mirror your own.

William's scarlet gaze befalls you, as the performance nears its end.

You pick at your nails in a manner that William finds a little too adorable.

You are an anomaly masquerading as a human. Depression lays heavy over your bones as stardust gathers in the corners of your eyes.

You pray to the creator of the moon, pray for a place long since destroyed.

"I've yet to find someone who truly understands me," you say as the two of you begin the journey back to the Moriarty estate.

"Then we share the same burden, my lady," William says, stopping in his tracks.

He lays a firm hand on your shoulder pulling you backwards into his embrace. Somewhere in the distance, three crows consecrate you with their blessings. Willian's hands rest heavy on your sides. He holds you like a little boy holds his father's arithmatic books. Full of care, full of wonder. "What are you" he whispers into your ear. Leaving a playfully hard bite to the shell. His lips trace yours like one traces a treasure map. Trying to unearth all the riches of the world. "My anomaly" he mutters before he finally commits.

When Moriarty kisses you the whole world melts away.

There's an intriguing lightheadedness that follows. As if the stars themselves have exploded within you. You wonder if basking in his presence will mend your tattered heart.

"My precious little anomaly"

Tag list: @elvyshiarieko @himerurun @latolover @aru-nightmare @guidingstarsstuff @myfancollections

[set-wingedwarrior]

I wasn't sure about writing this post.

Even right now, as I am writing, I still don't know if I will actually post this or just add it to my drafts as nothing more than a personal vent. Regardless, I guess that if I am here I just need to talk about this.

So let's talk.

The way the FNDM has been acting all defeated all month long has really grown to annoy me, and I am tired.

RWBY's future is unsure right now, and all this uncertainty is painful. My feelings are all over the place, swinging from terror and sadness to hope, all the time. I constantly check Kerry's and RWBY's Twitter page in hope to find any kind of news.

I can't give you a certain answer because, again, this is all uncertain. But that also means that there's still hope.

My point is, acting as if we have already lost isn't going to help anyone. Not RWBY, not CRWBY, and not ourselves, the fans who love this show so dearly.

I don't know what is going to happen, but I know that I refuse to stand around and do nothing. It's why I keep checking for news, why I am playing the show both on rooster teeth and crunchyroll all the time for views (I think that on CR I already replayed the whole series at least twice). It's why I am spamming tags, and being loud about my love, and looking and sharing all RWBY and CRWBY posts to give engagement, why I am watching every rwby_vt live on twitch.

I want to know what is going to happen more than anything, not knowing is killing me, but at same time I am terrified of the answer. Despite that, and despite my feelings swinging all around, I am still choosing to have hope.

Hope is a conscious choice, and a brave one. Because I know that being pessimistic is easier, it avoids setting us up for disappointment... but if we rob ourselves of the chance that things could turn out alright then all we're doing is decrease the chance that it will happen, and just anticipate our pain and disappointment.

As Yang said, no hope means we have already lost, and that's not the case. CRWBY, Kerry, is working really hard to save RWBY. Acting defeated already isn't just a disservice to us, but to them specifically and to everything they are currently doing. It's like telling them that it's all useless, that they've already lost, and I find that insulting. I refuse to. They deserve to see that we care and believe in them.

RWBY is THE show about hope. Shouldn't we follow the example?

[goldsbitch]

Twelve grapes

chapter 2 - Red and Blue

Does he always talk so much?" Charles asks, wondering whether excessive talking is a requirement for Red Bull drivers. Max snaps right back. "Only when he's awake." Charles nods understandingly. "Must be hard for you," he mocks Daniel's tone.

or Charles spends the afternoon pinning over his ultimate rival.

warning: m/m kiss, 8k words

Fake it til you make it. But, Charles has been faking it for so long now, he can hardly remember what it feels like to believe in himself. He pushes through. There is no other option.

It only dawns on him after the dreadfully long medical exam, when he’s finally out of the car and watching the replays of Alonso launching himself over his Sauber. It hits him when he sees all the other people, worried and then relieved that he survived just fine. Another tell-tale sign is all the phone calls and messages he keeps getting, from just about anyone he's ever met.

But, there isn't fear inside of him - he does not allow that emotion entrance, ever. He is convinced that if he had, it would be over for him in the world of motorsport. And who is he without that?

Anger piles up inside him, which is not an unfamiliar feeling, but the intensity is on another level.

It feels like the paddock is trying to suffocate him. There are people, cameras everywhere and he would give anything to leave - like right now. He walks and walks and walks. Circles, triangles, whichever will confuse anyone watching the most.

The start of his first F1 season feels like a bittersweet dream. Him coming in, having three amazing races and then finding the person source of misfortune for the following ones. DNF's, crashes and who knows what else. There is always the debrief afterwards, where he has to sit and watch his mediocre teammate smirk with unmasked joy. Charles believes he is not a violent person, but if he really had to punch someone, it would be without a doubt Marcus Ericsson.

The more he spirals, the clearer the face of his teammate becomes, until Charles finally snaps, finds an alley between the technical trucks and proceeds to start kicking one of the tires with everything he has.

The-stupid-blonde-asshole. Untalented-waste-of-a-seat. He can't rob him of his chance at Ferrari. He is so close.

"Uhm, hm."

The excessively loud pseudo-cough snaps the young driver back to reality. Only then he realizes just how tense his whole body is and how his foot hurts from the numerous kicks he granted to the truck in front of him. He can't calm himself immediately. But, he stops and turns around, to evaluate the damage he would need to clear by not making sure enough to avoid any witnesses. He quickly concluded the worst thing to happen would be for a fan or a team principal to stand there. When he locks eyes with the person standing few meters into the alley, he makes a mental note never to assume he can imagine the worst.

Standing there, with all his grace and beauty is none other than Max Verstappen. He spares him one look and then goes on to examine the kicked tire. Charles is about to drown in embarassment when he hears him speak.

"Not bad for a French guy," he remarks with a smirk and stands back up. Why anyone would think teasing someone mid-rage is a good idea is beyond Charles. He avoids looking at him as he bites his lips in frustration and adds blond people of all hair shades to his list of enemies. Max's hair counts as blond, therefore that makes them two people he wants to kick, along with Marcus. As if he could read his thoughts, he runs his hand through the messy, post race strands, which sends Charles into the loudest sigh he probably ever mustered.

"You know, I have a special wooden desk back home for when I need to punch things," the Dutch says matter-o-factly.

"I don't have an anger problem like you," he snarls through gritted teeth, failing at proving his point.

"Right. I also have a cheeky bottle of whiskey in my driver's room, if you wanna take the edge off." Yes, alcohol after an anger spree practically screams healthy, Charles wants to reply - but doesn't.

His heartbeat is somewhat coming back to down to post-race normal, he rests his hands on his waist and stares at the tire once again. He gulps, turns his look back at Max, who is still standing there, waiting. Never before he thought that Max would be the one offering him help to find his peace of mind. He must be tired or sick. "Come on, Charles," Max states, but does not move. There is something incredibly grounding about his certainty. A wave of calm hits Charles like a tsunami. Out of nowhere, it's like time stops and the world around fades into a grey hue. Charles counts his deep breaths. Stoic Max stares at him, as if he knows something more than him. It's the tone he uses that grounds him the most. Charles would normally snap back into getting mad at that fact that three words and Verstappen manages to change his mood - but he is so tired. Sudden realization of that steers his answer. "Ok," he says simply and tries not to read into the smile that creeps onto Max's face. Charles can't get the song Pale Blue Eyes out of his head.

//

Charles is happy that unlike him, Max still has all of his five braincells working and chooses the least visible way into Red Bull motorhome. It is probably a miracle that he manages to sneak him in, though it was way later after the race than Charles assumed. His anger walk must have been minutes long. He suppresses any guilt about his team, who are probably searching for him. He likes Sauber people, but tries not to think of the as his team. Because they hopefully won't be for long. It's the thought about the ongoing Ferrari talks that get his riled up again. Maybe walking into the den of the devil - Red Bull - was the biggest mistake he made that day. A visible reminder of how Max already had everything Charles wished for. Top team that's capable of fighting podiums. A place that screams "Max' home". He is not a visitor, he is someone who the teams counts on in their plans for the future. Not only is Charles still angry, he feels smaller than ever, as he drags behind him. The perfect metaphor for his career so far. Anger is slowly getting replaced by despair. Typical Charles' spiral.

He sinks in deep into the couch in Max's room. A small glass with honey colored liquid is in his hands immediately after. This is the moment Charles remembers he hates whiskey.

"So, you're on a bit of a run of bad races, huh?" Max opens and sips his drink, without even a hint of having an intention of toasting. Then again, Charles has nothing to toast to. Yet. Despair gets overshadowed by the hope the Ferrari contract might be a way out of this "run of bad races".

"Yeah. The car just does not have it. Or maybe I don't have it and it's actually good that other people crash into me, at least the fans get a good show."

"There is a difference between self-criticism and self-hatred, you know?" Max says in an uncharacterically calm tone. Charles can't think of any other reply apart from an eye roll.

"However, you had an impressive start. I was actually worried," Max continues, making Charles's heartbeat freeze. "For a moment," he adds maliciously after few seconds of silence, bringing Charles back to life. Max was worried and now he pities him. Oh, how nicely paved the way to hell is.

"I don't need you to feel sorry for me," he spits out, party regretting that he ever followed Max, partly happy he can be unreasonably mad at someone without much of a consequence. He's always playing the good PR boy. It's all calculated, he is not in his final destination yet. His goal is not simply to be in F1, his goal is to crush it. And he is sitting across from the one who is on his way to have it all. Max dared to smirk as he kept casually leaning against the motorhome wall.

"I would never degrade you by feeling sorry for you, mate," Max reacts, his tone hinting he shared Charles's disregard for drivers pitying each other.

"Good," Charles concludes and sips from the horribly bad drink.

"Was the crash bad? I saw some replays and I'm surprised you're sitting here. I'd expect you be to locked with the medics," Max changes his tone to a more casual one. Like they weren't talking about a several G crash involving multiple cars and a world champion flying over his head.

"I think this was my worst one yet," he admits. "The medics let me go after making sure they do every test on this planet on me."

"So, tell me. You pregnant?"

Charles laugh as the stupid joke. He blames his tired mind. It is noticable that Max is pleased with himself. Who would have though he'd be sitting here, in a Red Bull driver room, after a massive crash, cracking dumb jokes with Verstappen out of all people.

"How long is the car going to take to repaire?" the Dutch asks, waking Charles up a bit. Was that why he brought him here? To lure information out of him?

"I'm sure it's fine. I have other cats to whip," he remarks quickly, already planning on starting to being the one asking questions.

"Wha-you're whipping cats?" Max frowns, half confused, half concerned.

"Yeah, why would-"

"Whipping cats?!" It is Max now who would be called the "angry" one in the room.

Charles doesn't understand why he looks so baffled. "Yeah, j’ai d’autres chats à fouetter, it's the mechanics problem to do so."

There is pure confusion in the room, before it finally clicks. "Mate, I don't think that translates directly. I don't want to give out advice, but don't go around saying you're whipping cats for fun," Max mutters.

"Um, does it not?" Charles speaks while red runs into his face. It's all the languages in his head, one jumping over another. How is it that everyone else seems to not make these mistakes anymore.

Finally, Max lets out a small chuckle. "Happens to all of us," he contradicts what Charles didn't even have a chance to say.

To say the door opens silently and smoothly would be an understatement. Daniel Ricciardo slams in, like the owns the place. Charles does not understand many things, the Australian driver will probably be on the top of that list. He automatically stiffs up.

Daniel closes the door and pauses, taking in the scene with his "punch me" grin. "Well, well. What do we have here? Max Verstappen and… wait, don’t tell me." He snaps his fingers theatrically. "Charles Leclerc. Sauber’s crown jewel."

Charles’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t respond.

Max observes without a reaction. Daniel does not wait a response. "Didn’t expect to find you here, mate. Shouldn’t you be back at Sauber, poring over data and figuring out how to make that car go faster than a lawnmower?" he sings his vowels in a tone so unpleasant to Charles's ears. Yes, Charles thinks. I should be. But I am not. Sue me.

Max shoots Daniel a warning look, but Daniel either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.

He leans against the counter, his tone shifting, almost sympathetic. "It must be hard, though. Coming into F1, everyone expecting you to be the next big thing. Having all those hopes and dreams on your shoulders, only to realize... the car’s not good enough. That no matter how talented you are, sometimes you just can’t win."

Charles stiffens, his grip tightening on the glass. He feels his anger building up again and the urge to storm out growing inside. He closes his eyes with the hope that maybe once he opens them again, the Australian will be gone.

Daniel smiles, almost kindly. "But hey, chin up. Every legend has to start somewhere. Even if it’s at the back of the grid."

There’s a beat of silence. Charles swallows hard, trying to keep his emotions in check. Max, sensing the shift in mood, stands abruptly.

"Daniel," he says sharply. "Enough."

Daniel puts his hands up in defense. "Chill out mate, I'm just surprised he is here and I wanna cheer him up. But, Charles," he turns away from Max, "you're always welcome here. As a visitor, you know. Just to be clear," he says and ends it with his iconic, punch-worthy smile. To add another layer to Charles's pile of discomfort, he goes and puts his arm around Max, like the overly touchy friend he must be. Max does not seem to be phased by it. Charles tries not to think about how often that must happen. It's hard to control the cocktail of emotions, so adding a hint of jealousy to it is making his glass overflow. The older driver pinches the younger one's cheeks and Charles can't help but roll his eyes and shift his focus on the nearly empty glass of whiskey. One more minute of this and he is out.

To his luck, since Daniel seems to have run out of jokes to throw around, he spins on his heel and starts walking away. "I'll leave you guys to it then. Charlie, if you want, we are going out later in the evening, text me if you wanna join," he says and walks out. Charles finds it amusing to think he'd have Daniel's number saved. Once the door closes behind him, he can finally breathe again.

"Does he always talk so much?" Charles asks, wondering whether excessive talking is a requirement for Red Bull drivers.

Max snaps right back. "Only when he's awake."

Charles nods understandingly. "Must be hard for you," he mocks Daniel's tone.

Max nods back overly dramatically. "Yes. It is. Especially when the noise blocking headphones are just...not good enough."

Charles puts his head in his hand, exhaustion creeping in.

Max seems to not notice that and continues in their talk. "You really don't like him, do you?"

There is a smirk forming at Charles's lips. "And do you like him?"

Only he knows with what kind of undertone he is asking. The jealousy still present in the air. He hopes Max does not pick up on it. Or does he? It's a confusing day.

"Yeah. He's a good friend," he murmurs back, blue eyes now locked with the messy green ones. "Do you want a refill-"

Charles can't cope anymore. No more whiskey.

"Max, why are you being, so..." he interrupts him and immediately pauses, searching for the right word to define what ever he had been so doing. And since he can't find anything better suited, he inevitably ends up with: "...nice."

Out of all the things he would describe Verstappen, this was probably the last of them. Truth be told, the only reason he followed Max to his motorhome in the first place was the immortal curiosity Charles was born with. Anything that involves Max seems to draw him in. All of the arguments - which there hadn't been many these last few months - all the snarky comments and exchanges, frowned upon looks and lines shared through media...Charles knew, deep down his biggest weakness was just how much he wanted to be accepted by Max. The allure of Verstappen - Charles imagines that's how everyone feels about the Red Bull driver.

"I don't bother spending my time on thinking why I do, or say, things," he proclaims nonchalantly, providing Charles with something that feels like the key to the enigma of it all. Well, of course, that would explain hell of a lot things about this man. He stares at him, as he keeps his casual lean on the table and fiddles with his glass. There is something about that statement that Charles finds hard to believe. But he decides to keep that question for the future.

It's only now that Charles realizes he is not calm, in fact, he is the opposite of that emotion. Tense, on edge. Like before jumping off a cliff. He wasn't like that before Daniel interrupted them, only once he left them alone again. The contrast of just how much he hated Daniel's presence and if fact appreciated the lack of it starts to hit. Charles had been in different driver's room before. But, never in Max's and it was never kind of like this. Suddenly, he is hyper aware of his every move, how small this rooms feels, contrasting its actual size. The couch underneath him is too hard and the icy glass is starting to hurt his fingers. He gulps. Max has never looked so tall before.

"You're weirdly quiet. Getting calmer now?" Max asks and interrupts the thought spiral Charles fell into.

"Yeah, all calm now," he lies and almost burn holes into Max with his stare. He wants to stay in this moment forever. There is nothing pleasant waiting for him out there.

Charles winces after taking a last sip of whiskey. "You don’t even like it," Max notes, watching him. "No," Charles admits. "I hate it. It tastes like someone melted a campfire and put it in a glass." Max laughs, genuinely this time. "Then why did you take it?" "I don’t know. Peer pressure?" "Next time, just ask for a soda. You can still be mad with a Coke in hand."

Charles just nods, without needing to respond. Max takes a deep breath in and a pause, before he speaks again.

"When are you leaving Spa? Do you have time this evening?"

Charles's response would have been very different hadn't been for Daniel's invitation. "I'm not going out with you and Daniel," he says firmly.

Max rolls his lips. "So, you do have time."

There is a tingle somewhere deep inside him. An urge, curiosity and the inability to say no to Max. "I'm leaving at midnight," he replies and it sounds more like a question.

Max grants him one of the most obnoxious smiles this century has seen. "We'll just have to make sure you're back on time. Go to the hotel and pack your things in advance. Oh, and don't wear white sneakers."

//

Charles is totally normal about it. It's a perfectly acceptable reaction to pack in a time a pit stop crew would be impressed by. Cancelling a gaming session with one of the engineers he had scheduled for the evening was also a perfectly ok thing to do. The pacing around the room and nail biting until his finger tops bleed is maybe little over the top, but he is alone in the room. He's allowed to freak out.

He and Max are mere acquaintances. The definition of friends not really applying to them. It would be totally ok for him to hang out with his usual suspects, but this was new. Was Max luring him into a trap? Was he going to have him strip naked and then have his Dutch friends jump over from the bushes and laugh at him?

Charles is someone who freaks out ahead of things. He considers that to be an advantage for racing, panicking on flights rather than in the cockpit.

He unpacks and then repacks his suitcase, just so that he has something to do. Curses himself for only bringing one pair of dark blue sneakers (and white ones, of course).

He has been like this for the last hour. Waiting on Max to text him he can finally go downstairs - because he is not going to let him know that he is pacing nervously. He is not going to sit in the hotel lobby, like some loser that has nothing better to do than to wait at him.

Charles blames the headache on the crash.

The sky gets progressively darker when he start giving up on Max ever texting him. Charles is a stupid, stupid boy, for believing he was talking seriously about making plans with him.

This hotel room ceiling isn't the most interesting piece of art work, but Charles would be able to repaint it by memory by the amount of time he spends laying on the unmade bed and staring at it. There is a little crack in the left corner, slight elevation between the hallway and the bedroom and a knock on the door.

A knock on the door. His mind goes immediately to the handsome Dutch driver (not that the image of him ever left since they departed, really), but he quickly gets himself up and adjusts his expectations to reality. It's probably someone from Sauber checking on him. Or his manager with some updates, he also rarely texts before coming over.

Deep breath and he opens the door. His face is calm, but if someone took Charles's pulse, they'd probably send him straight back to the medical centre. Max is standing there, looking calm and composed as ever. Back in his casual non-team wear. If it were up to Charles, he'd finally take him shopping for some flattering clothes. This is not doing him justice at all. Thank God his face is protected from the effects of that ugly stripy t-shirt.

"Hey, man. You good to go?"

Most people would send a text—or, at worst, ask reception to make a call. The fact he must have asked for his room number (and the more alarming fact he managed to get it from them) and then came all the way up, is concerning.

Max's brows furrow. "Have you lost the ability to speak in the last two hours?"

Charles slaps himself mentally. "Funny. Hello to you too."

A totally concerned-free smile spreads on Max's cheek and he walks past him to his room. "Let's grab your bag and get going, we're on a schedule."

Before he has time to blink, he is standing in a hotel elevator and Max Verstappen is carrying his bag.

//

There is the usual crowd of people mingling around the hotel - crew members, reporters, some overly excited fans. Charles tries to hide as Max leads them through shortcuts, this place obviously being his playground. Charles manages to relax himself a bit when he realizes nobody probably managed to get a picture of them walking together. Another miracle of the day. 

The sports car, older model, but obviously worked on, growls to life as Max turns the key. The engine’s rumble reverberating through Charles’s chest. He sits stiffly in the passenger seat, his fingers unconsciously gripping the edge of the seat.

There is an old school smell of a cheap gas station car scent that punches through his nose. Max seems to be extremely comfortable in the car, as if he’s had it for years. 

Without much of a conversation, they depart. The car smoothly jolts forward, tires screeching slightly as Max accelerates out of the hotel parking lot. Talk about subtle. Charles is sure the sounds of this vehicle must have had half of the heads turn. The streets of Spa blur past them, the small town lights quickly giving way to the empty countryside roads. They drive on roads between fields, sometimes pass a small lump of forest. Max is treating the road as an old partner, smooth sailing - but definitely on the edgy side of things. If Charles hadn’t known Max as a Formula 1 driver, he’s think he was some small town tuning guy. 

"You drive like this on the track too?" Charles mutters after minutes of silence, trying to sound casual.

Max grins, a glint of mischief in his eyes. "No, I’m much faster on the track,“ he says as he hits the top of the hill a little too fast and sends them nearly flying before they land back on the road. He laughs and it is in that moment when Charles realizes that THE Max Verstappen is just another car guy. 

The countryside passes them by and Charles has to admit there is some sort of magic to it. It’s different than the roads around Monaco, more rustic and northern. Less glam and more roughness. Had he grown up here, he’d probably spend his teenage years cruising through. 

„Did you used to drive here a lot when you were young?“ He asks, head lots in his own thoughts. 

Max does not reply immediately, but then he goes onto explaining that yes, he has driven through every road this place is surrounded by. As early as when he was fourteen. Charles rolls his eyes and makes few comments on the incompetence of the local police. 

//

„Is there a specific place we’re going to?“ Charles asks after what feels like thirty minutes of driving, glancing nervously at the dense trees closing in around them. He is not checking the time, his trust lies with Max on that.

"You’ll see," Max replies, his tone maddeningly cryptic and sends the car into another turn in a way that would have then crash had there been any car in the opposite lane. Charles is not bothered by Max's driving, he knows he is more than capable of judging the situation. Had the driver been anyone else, he'd be out of the car after the first turn. His faith lies in the fact Max probably does not want both of them dead.

"Great," Charles mutters. "This is how horror movies start, you know."

Max chuckles, flicking the headlights to high beam as they zip down a narrow country road. "Relax, Leclerc. If I wanted to kill you, I’d have done it on the track. More fun."

Charles throws him a glare. "Very comforting. Thanks."

Max doesn’t respond immediately, his focus sharp as he takes a turn far faster than Charles would.

"You’re tense," Max remarks, barely hiding the amusement in his voice.

"Oui, I wonder why," Charles shoots back with lips turned upwards. It's a different kind of adrenaline, to completely give in and follow his lead.

Max glances at him briefly, his smirk widening. "You don’t trust me?"

"I trust you to try and scare the shit out of me, yes," Charles remarks.

"Good. Keeps things exciting."

Charles tries not to wonders what exactly "things" means in this scenario. He notices that he left all of the worries and stress of today back at the hotel. It feels like they'd been on the road for days, in the good way. Time works in funny ways.

//

The road grows narrower, the trees taller and denser. They block nearly all of the remaining sunlight. Charles realizes he hasn’t seen another car, or even a house, for several minutes.

"Seriously, Max. Is there a destination we're going to?" His tone is sharper now, just a hint of panic in it.

"You ask too many questions," Max replies smoothly, his hands steady on the wheel.

"Forgive me for being curious when you’re driving me into the middle of nowhere," Charles says, his voice rising slightly, tone set on teasing mode. He hasn't noticed, but he is scrunched in the seat, leaning on the door and completely comfortable, despite the potential death threat of this all.

Max chuckles again, clearly enjoying himself. "Are you always this dramatiqué?" he mocks his accent.

Charles turns to him, exasperated. "Dramatic? You’ve practically kidnapped me. It is what it is, I have to face the situation. I am ready to cooperate. Should I start preparing a ransom note? "

Max tilts his head thoughtfully, his smile teasing. "Who would pay for you, Leclerc?"

"Funny," Charles deadpans, though his heart skips at the flirtatious edge to Max’s tone.

He leans over to examine the dashboard. "At least we have enough fuel to last us long."

Max looks in the same direction and bites his lip.

"What?" Charles asks, double checking if he hadn't read it wrong.

"Yeah, that thing has been stuck like this for years."

Charles lets out a loud breath. "Putain, Max."

//

Max finally parks the car as they reach something resembling a gate and a fence (he, of course, does not park like a normal person, but drifts the car in - Charles is not even surprised at this point).

"We're here," he announces and kills the engine.

Charles examines the creepy surroundings and sighs.

"What's up with you now?" the cheery Dutchman asks him.

"I'm trying to pick which God to pray to."

He hits his arm playfully. "Come on, enough with the drama, you're gonna like this," he says convincingly and gets out of the car. Charles has no intention of not following him, his blood flowing in the opposite direction than usual. Or at least that's how it feels.

He walks few steps behind him and takes in the scenery. The damp grass, leaves and small stick crunch below their feet. A distinctive humid forest smell is something he hadn't felt in forever and it's surprisingly refreshing to take a deep breath. He tucks his hands into the sleeves of his jacket, trying to fight the chilly air. Max appears to be unaffected by any of it and walks with intention. He passes the small cottage, which looks like it needed a renovation twenty years ago. Charles was expecting that to be the their final destination, so when Max walks by it, he nearly trips on wet leafs, trying to follow his direction. He hopes it went unnoticed.

It all starts to make a bit more sense when they pass the first two cars, parked in a place where normal people would plant a tree. He starts to realize this must be some sort lair of the Verstappen family or their close friends. The further deep they go into the forest / garden, the more car parts, tires and general junk they pass. Charles has many questions, but the anticipation of what is that Max actually wants to show him stops words in his throat.

Right on cue, Max starts speaking on his own, gradually slowing his steps. "My dad and I would come here in between races and we'd fix old cars together. It's a good place to test parts and repair karts. But it's become so messy over the years," he comments as he has to kick a random door frame blocking their way. "One day I'll come over for few weeks and clean it all up. He's never going to do that on his own."

The intimacy of this information is something Charles wasn't ready. He keeps his silence, sensing Max does not need a reaction anyway.

"But, there is a plus side to this being currently a shit hole," he stops and turns around to face Charles, who mimics his move. Even in this dim low light, Max's eyes shine like something out of this planet. "We can fuck some shit up," he grins like a little kid he was just few years and hands Charles an obscurely massive hammer that he picked up somewhere along the way.

Charles gives him a questioning look, before slowly accepting this strange object. Max's grin does not leave his face.

Charles stares at the hammer in his hands, its weight unfamiliar but oddly grounding. "What am I supposed to do with this?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.

Max gestures ahead, and Charles’s eyes follow to where an old, rusted Volvo car sits under a drooping tree. The windshield is cracked, the paint flaking off like dead skin.

"Whatever you want," Max says casually, leaning against a nearby pile of tires. "But I’d start with the windshield."

Charles’s jaw drops slightly. "You want me to, what? Smash it?"

Max nods, arms crossed, looking far too pleased with himself. "It’s therapeutic. Trust me."

"Max, this is ridiculous."

They stare at each other and Charles feels guilty all of a sudden, for dismissing his idea so bluntly. He sighs as he faces second instance of peer pressure from the other driver within the span of few hours. He wonders which choice exactly he made this morning that steered his day in such a different direction. Had someone told him he'd be smashing cars with Verstappen in the evening, he'd laugh in their face.

"Just try it. One hit. I won’t tell anyone."

Charles hesitates, his grip tightening around the hammer’s handle. The thought of swinging it, of letting loose, feels... disturbing. But then again, everything about this day has been weird. Maybe that’s the point. Max babbles along, as he always does once he starts, something about getting all the emotions out.

Charles ignores the rest of his speech and tries to imagine this is just like any other sport, be it tennis, golf or anything that involved swinging. He takes a deep breath, picks up the inexplicably heavy hammer and swings it against the windshield. The material is surprisingly sturdy and the hammer bounces back, driving the force into Charles's body, as if to mock him. This pisses him off, he can't have Max laughing at him and calling him a "pussy". He tightens his lips, adjusts his stance and swings once again.

Finally, a crack appears at the point of impact, the quiet sound of breaking multiplied by the silence of the forrest. This is followed by a muffled cheer behind him. Charles is still surprised at how much force he needs to use to actually make any damage on the old plastic laced glass and it rilles him up. He is not going to walk away from here being beaten by a windshield older than him. He swings again.

And again, again and again. Each impact comes with bigger force until the glass start to crumble apart. He does not feel cold anymore, the old fire he barely tamed this afternoon fully back up.

Marcus. Alonso. Stupid lawyers making things too complicated. The reporters. Sauber. Ferarri. Ferrari. Ferrari.

The pieces are not only crumbling, but now they're falling in every directions - and Charles feels alive. Ferrari. He moves a bit to smash every little part that still survived in the corner. Ferrari. The structure of the windshield is completely falling apart. Ferrari. He smashes the big pieces that are pathetically lying on the ground, mushing them down into nothing. He lefts out a heavy breath. Ferrari.

I will be a Ferrari driver next season.

Only when he lets go, no more damage left to be done on his victim, he realizes he said those words out loud. He is met with a curious stare of Max Verstappen. Charles slipped up when he wasn't suppose to. It's been brewing in him for weeks now. Only his managers know. He figures not even Sauber knows.

"Nothing is final yet. It could still fall to shit," he clarifies, staring at Max with anticipation.

Max shifts his weight from one leg to another and blinks few times. "Nice. I hope it works out for you."

Charles is careful now, coming down his high, facing the consequences. "Please, don't tell anyone," he almost pleas, worried that this info getting out might somehow sabotage the whole mission.

The mood changes. Surely, he must feel it too. This is no longer "two bros smashing shit together". Oh God, please, does he notice the way the air stopped moving? Is his mouth also dry? His skin fired up with unholy electricity? Max as unreadable as ever. It's making Charles's brain spin. He would give everything, almost anything, for a quick glimpse into the brain of the enigmatic guy standing in front of him.

He isn't a teenager anymore, but Charles knows the boy is not fully a grown up yet. His features are a mixture of the hard lines and angles of and adult athlete, but all of that is still combined with youthful - Charles would dare to say naive - softness. It must be something in the damp air. Maybe he is suffering from fresh air reverse-toxic shock. His lungs so used to the painful unnatural environment of a racetrack, that it only takes few minutes in the forest to make him feel dizzy. He has to draw his gaze away for a moment. Deep down he knows he's going to appear as a creep, eyeing his rival, with an open mouth. If he could, he'd choke on the words Max's says and drown in his eyes for hours. But, that is not normal. Max is just few centrimeters taller than him, but it feels like he is towering over him. Charles's main concern should be that he had just revealed a precious information to the competition. He has to actively remind himself what the objective is - and that it does not have anything to do with just how long Max's eye lashes are.

"You know I wouldn't tell anyone," Max says, momentarily kicking Charles out of his haze.

He stands still, frozen and barely reacts to the smile Max sends his way. Once again, it's like Max is drinking a third brew of the same tea Charles is having - the smirking boy unaffected by the bitterness.

He takes two steps closer to Charles. "My turn now," he whispers and reaches for the hammer Charles forgot he was holding. Max passes him by and the Monegasque stays still for a moment, trying to memorize the feeling of Max's fingers lightly brushing his own.

//

The trip back is like a negative photo, contrasting the brightly colored banter they shared when they were driving in the opposite way. The car is quiet, so quiet in fact Charles's in praying for Max's stereo to work. It does and now their drive is accompanied by some bad radio station, speaking in a language he does not understand. Like a third passanger in the car, laughing Charles directly into his face. You don't even understand the radio. How can you believe you'll ever understand what you feel right now.

Darkness has fallen some time ago and it's the first time Charles actually whips out his phone, to check the time and his messages, but mainly to distract himself and avoid looking at Max. Because suddenly, the Dutch boy is too close. He doesn't know why, but it's like Max has found a way how to make it physically impossible to be in his presence - yet this car, with Max in the driver's seat, is also the only place on the planet where Charles wants to be. There is comfort and excitement. Comforting excitement. Charles must be going crazy, he thinks and ignores all messages on his phone and reverts back to watching the dark countryside.

"Text your team that you'll arrive directly to the airport," he hears a pragmatic order from the driver's seat. Charles dares to look at him, but his eyes are glued on the road. He obeys without a comment. The realizations only hits him at that moment. Max has probably ditched way more people than he himself did, in order to go on this ride into nothingness. There are probably people waiting at him at several bars, his motorhome and few volunteers lined up to follow him to his hotel room. And yet, there he is, sitting next to him, driving on nameless roads.

"Did you have good time with me?" he asks, like the anxious boy he is. It's not a brave question, it's full of unspoken uncertainty and a worry, that Max had hoped for him to be a more entertaining company. Is that why he doesn't speak as much as he did on the way here?

Charles knows the way to doom is to push Max Verstappen. That boy won't do a single thing he does not believe in, unless the contract under he is makes it impossible. He hopes he is not pushing right now.

"You know this is the first time you've looked at me since we left the cabin?" the Dutch proclaims, ignoring his original question. And he is right, Charles is hyperaware of that.

Charles lets out a short laugh, the kind that’s more exhale than sound. "You’re impossible, you know that?"

Max’s lips roll into a grin as his eyes flick back to the road. "I’ve heard that before. But I think you like it."

"Don’t flatter yourself." Charles rolls his eyes, but there’s no real bite behind it. 

"Too late," Max fires back smoothly, his grin widening. "Besides, you’re the one who agreed to smash my old car. What does that say about you?"

Charles straightens up, almost offended. "I did not-"

He is quickly interrupted by the Dutch. "You did not what - you didn't smash my car? Is that what you're saying?" He is clearly amused with himself and to prove that he playfully smashes the steering wheel.

Charles is silent, inhaling so much air to calm himself down he might actually explode. Impossible, this man was sent from hell to torment him.

"And didn’t that feel good?" Max continues smoothly, his voice dripping with chilli honey. Sweet, but punching.

Charles doesn’t answer, which only makes Max’s eyes widen.

"Aha! You did like it," Max says triumphantly.

Charles huffs, crossing his arms. "I never said that."

"You didn’t have to." Max’s tone is smug, his confidence infuriatingly unshakable. "Admit it. You enjoyed smashing something for once instead of, I don’t know, smiling politely and saying merci."

Charles snorts. "You think I’m polite?"

"Painfully," Max replies, his tone still teasing but just sharp enough to make Charles sit up straighter. "Like you’re afraid to let people know what you’re really thinking."

"And what are you thinking, Mr. Painfully Blunt?" he says more like a joke and does not expect and answer.

To prove Charles wrong, once again, Max turns slowly to face him. He makes sure each word he says has enough time to ripe. "That it's obvious I had a good time with you, Leclerc."

It's the same as trying to ignore a deafening sound. Even if you block your ears, it still pierces through. It creeps up into your chest in waves invisible to the naked human eye. A loud beat that makes your chest alive and your throat stuck - because whatever you might say, it won't be heard over the noise anyway. It does not need addressing, but it's impossible to disregard.

If I slip up, even for a moment, it might ruin everything we’ve both worked so hard to pretend doesn’t matter.

To completely counter anything he is trying to suppress, Max casually puts him hand on Charles's thigh - on Charles's thigh. The part of the human body between the knee and the hip. It's a true test to stay normal about it.

"Don't get lost in your head again, Charles," he says ever-so-casually and removes his hand to put it back on the steering wheel.

If they were to crash and die right now, Charles probably wouldn't mind. He's about to have a heart attack anyway.

//

It was getting more than clear they were reaching the final destination, even if only by the decreasing amount of trees growing next to the road. City lights and signs pointing to the airport giving away that this trip is about to end.

If Charles started this afternoon angry, he is ending it confused - about himself, about what kind of person Max Verstappen actually is and how is he suppose to go about his life after this. It's not a new information to him that he likes guys. But it is the first time he has to face having a tiny, minor, minuscule crush on another driver.

As they near the airport so much he can see the small plane he is about to board with the closest of his team, Charles speaks again.

"Maybe drop me of one street away...Just so that people don't have questions."

It's a pragmatic suggestion and he hopes Max does not read anything into it.

"Fair," is the response he gets and is somewhat satisfied with.

This time, Charles braces himself for another "drift park", but is met with a casual and very precise parking on Max's part.

They sit in silence for a moment. Charles wants to do something, but he can't put a name on it.

"Well, it's been fun. Thanks," he says almost coldly and pulls the thirty years old door handle.

Nothing.

Next to him, there is a chuckling noise. Charles tries again, but the only effect this has in the increase of volume on Max's laugh.

Fine, two can play this game, he figures and turns to him with a raised brow.

Charles meets his gaze for a long moment, the weight of the playful challenge hanging between them. "You know," he says finally, his voice low, "I could just climb out through the window."

Max snorts, leaning back and pressing the unlock button with a flourish. "Be my guest. The the dramatic diva you are.“

"You use that word a lot, you know?"

Max keeps his act on. "I think it's time to leave now," he teases and does absolutely nothing in order to open the car.

Charles leans back, also not intending on moving. There is warmth in his chest and it's spreading all over his body. The smile he has on his face is one he can't prevent.

"Is it now," he questions, and tries to open the door once again, this time without even looking at the handle. None of them expecting any other result.

After few shared looks, Max clicks some random button on his side of the car to unlock the doors. The soft click feels like a challenge. 

Charles lingers, his hand resting on the handle but not pulling it. "You know, for someone who claims not to care, you sure put a lot of effort into keeping me around."

Max raises an eyebrow, his grin turning slightly lopsided. "You noticed?"

"I’m not blind," Charles replies, leaning back into the seat, a flicker of playfulness in his expression.

Max looks at him for a moment, something sparkly in his gaze before he nods toward the door. "You better go before I change my mind."

He tries opening the door once again and this time it really does.

Charles moves back and exists the car, pit in his stomach growing. He has to wait few seconds for Max to get and open the trunk with his keys. Illuminated only with the back lights, red mixing with yellow, he moves automatically, never letting Charles go off his sight. He hands him his bag and receives a little "Such a gentleman," comment from Charles. And then they keep standing there, as if Medusa herself turned them into a stone.

Charles feels possessed. Like he’s not in control of his movements anymore. He lost that ability somewhere in the woods. 

He is pretty sure he’s shaking from the panic that drives him.  His body is floating two meters above the ground. 

Max’s eyes burn into him, as if it was all a dare. 

The boy is standing too close for his own good. 

Charles is pretty sure there is acid running through his veins.  He knows, he is absolutely certain, he will regret whatever he is about to do. 

There will be no going back. 

Should I touch him, it will the perfect way to ruin this newly found friendship.

Max does not move or walk away. 

Fuck it, he thinks and slams his lips again Max’s.  Knock the wind out of me, Max Verstappen. 

It is quick as a lighting, but bright as such. He reaches over to the back of Max’s head and holds him still, but giving him enough freedom to pull away. I’m begging you, please don’t. 

It’s cathartic to know what his plump lips feel like against his own. He holds his lower lip between his own and moves, once or twice. He knows his time is running out. For a moment, he allows himself to drown in this real life fantasy. Max’s lips are soft and addictive. It’s like running a marathon is the time you would do a sprint. 

He fights the urge to continue and moves back. Knowing this one moment, lasting only few seconds will be locked in his fantasies forever. 

He pulls away and tries to avoid looking at Max’s face, knowing well enough that whatever he finds there, won’t be pleasant. 

„I’m sorry,“ he murmurs and almost runs away to the airport. 

Festival of shame is about to begin, but the insides of his body still burn with excitement and desire. He kissed Max Verstappen and he didn’t pull away immediately. 

Their first and only kiss. 

It was a mistake, one that Charles will have to apologize many times. 

But he’ll be happy to die for. Feeling this alive should be illegal.

He does not look back. His bravery ran out the moment he put their lips together. 

Oh, God.  I’m stupid, I’m stupid, stupid, stupid.

chapter 3

[strwbabydoll]

pairings: Steve x fem!reader

word count: 1k

notes: love at first smell, playful flirting, and tons of fluff

All of it started out as a joke between you and Robin, something to pass the time whenever class got too boring and they were feeling mischievous. They have way too much fun playing with Steve all day and they loved the way he was never able to catch on.

It started when you brushed past the duo making them stop whatever conversation they were having, necks craning to watch as you seem to float down the hallway, the peach scent still lingering in the air even as you turn the corner and disappear from their line of sight. Robin sighed as she turned around and stared at Steve, his gaze still fixed on the hallway the mysterious girl walked down. She can’t help but to chuckle at her best friend before she elbows him in the side causing him to frown and turn to her.

“What was that for Robs?” He gets silence in response as she stares at him with an eyebrow raised before she shakes her head.

“Nothing dingus, let’s get to class.”

Weeks went by and slowly Robin introduced you to her world and her dingus, as she calls him. Once she found out you shared the same class, she made it her mission to accompany you to class, meet you in the cafeteria, and make you as comfortable as possible. You fell in place rather quickly, joining in on the jokes and playful banter and even small remarks about Robin’s crush on Vickie, it was hard to even imagine that you were never a part of the group from day one.

Robin watched every time you sat down at their table, she watched how every time Steve made a joke his eyes would glance over at the newcomer, how he always included you in every conversation - asking for your opinion or whether you agreed or disagreed, and that’s when she knew exactly what she had to do.

It was the day after she had discussed her plan with her closest female friend and you can’t help but to be a little excited, a bright smile plastered on your face as you walked in and sat directly in front of where Steve usually sits. You wait eagerly until you spot his frame walking through the doorway and you can’t help but to wave happily at the boy. You can tell you took him by surprise with the way he seems to freeze mid-step before he picks back up and continues his way to his seat. He sends you a soft smile before sitting down, you can’t hold in your excitement as you bite your bottom lip as you smile back at him.

Steve can’t focus, your peach scented fragrance is filling his nose and flooding his brain. He can’t help but inhale deeply, breathing in your sweet scent even deeper and his eyes flutter close. It’s not too strong and not too sweet, it’s comforting and welcoming, and sweet and oh so addicting. He wishes he could bottle your scent and carry it around with him, something to bring him joy whenever he’s with the group of kids he just always happens to have to babysit. His daydreams are interrupted by the sound of you clearing your throat, the sound soft and delicate and honestly could be music if he could replay it over again.

“You should put being a creep on your resume Steve.” Your tone is nothing but playful paired with a soft smile on your lips as you bats your eyes cheekily.

“You just smell good. Sorry.” The heat rushes to his cheeks and you can’t help but to blow him a kiss in response.

It’s been weeks of torture, weeks of smelling peaches everywhere he turns, weeks of hearing your mindless flirting and seeing your face every where he goes and he almost thinks he’s going crazy. He can’t seem to escape you and he’s not sure he even wants to, he just needs something to happen. Something other than the harmless flirty banter and the gentle and purposeful touches during conversation. He walks up to you and stands beside your locker, watching as you grab her books from it.

“See something you like Stevie?” Your voice is dripping with honey as you speak and Steve can’t help but to smirk.

“In fact I do, peaches. Just wondering if you taste as good as you smell actually.” He leans against the locker, the metal digs into his shoulder painfully but he doesn’t care, his smirk grows bigger as he watches as a shy smile appears on your lips.

“Why don’t you test it out?” The flirty tone is back and he can’t help but to thank whoever is in the sky and hope he isn’t reading this wrong.

His eyes drop to your lips briefly before returning back to your eyes, eyebrows raised before he leans in just a fraction. You nod softly as you lean in to match him, your own gaze flickering to his lips and one hand raises to rest on his shoulder. Your heads meet, lips meshing together blissfully and Steve can’t help but to rest his hands on her waist and squeeze gently. Your head tilts back ever so slightly and Steve hums softly. You’re the first to break away, a dopey smile in place and you laugh softly. Steve smiles back and leans forward to peck your nose before nodding.

“Just as I expected, you taste just like peaches.” He laughs gently as you push his shoulder gently.

“I’ll pick you up after school okay?” Steve asks and you nod slightly before parting ways.

And from that moment on, his favorite scent became peach, and you’d never catch him without something peach scented or shaped, whether it’s a tube of Chapstick he definitely stole from his now girlfriend, a little peach pin attached to his jacket or a little bottle of your favorite peach perfume he would bring to his nose at random times and the loving smile would quickly begin to appear on his lips.

[imaginesbymonika]

Tender | Preview

Pairing: Robbie Williams × Gallagher!sister reader

Plot: There's nothing more heartbreaking than appearing in your (secret) ex-boyfriend's new biopic. Especially when it reveals unknown truths that shift the almost forgotten past into a brand-new light...

@/glden has made a tik tok

(song used: “I Love You, I‘m Sorry” by Gracie Abrams)

89,918 likes and 429,176 replays

anni ྀིྀིྀིྀིྀ: no because why did i cry 43 times in the span of 20 minutes 🫥

see all comments…

user 1: i am going to have nightmares about this movie

user 2: did you just stab me?

anni ྀིྀིྀིྀིྀི: yeah, sorry about that

user 3: NOT THIS SONG

user 4: am i just a viewer to you?

user 5: when he was actually begging on his knees for her to STAY I WAS SOBBING

user 6: NO BECAUSE I LOOKED IT UP AFTERWARDS AND YOU CAN ACTUALLY SEE THE BRUISES ON HIS KNEES WHEN HE PERFORMS GLASTONBURY THE NEXT DAY

user 7: oh 😀😀😀

leaked scene from better man

Robbie couldn’t bear to look at her. After all, he had noticed it in her eyes when she walked in. Y/N deserved better than what he gave her, so much better. Might actually the world- and he couldn’t even manage to be sober for her.

The hotel room was a mess. The once white bedsheets were laying on the floor with stains all over them, together with his clothes and there was a ripped-open condom wrapper on the nightstand.

Y/N couldn’t tear her eyes off it. There was a hole forming in the depth of her stomach, and it was growing bigger and bigger with each passing moment. It was followed by a kind of burning sensation she couldn’t define to anyone- let alone herself.

Robbie meanwhile was following her gaze.

“I need to get out of here.”, she whispers standing up. Her voice is raspy and while she attempts to sound cold and somewhat distant … there’s so much pain in it, that even he thinks he might drown in it. He should let her leave, yet without thinking, the man gets up as well. His legs are trembling, while he quickly reaches her with a few big steps.

“That isn’t mine. I promise! I would never do that to you!”, he declares:” I love you.”

Tears are emerging in her eyes. “Rob.”, is all she lets out, perhaps it’s all she can say without bursting into tears. God knows she has been doing nothing but that lately. She’s tired. So fucking tired.

“No, Y/N.”, his unstable legs give up under his weight and he collapses onto the floor, almost dragging her with him. He knows it must be pathetic beyond words. After all, there is still some cocaine stuck to his beard. “You can’t go, please. You’re all I have left, please- I’ll get sober. I’ll stop drinking. Please, fuck- I’ll do anything you want me to do. Just don’t go. I’m scared to be alone.”

But what are promises out of the mouth of a notorious liar?