#it was so funny i was in a different timezone at the time travelling

[unsurebazookacore]

does anyone else remember when the release of stranger things s4v2 caused netflix's entire server to crash for like, a solid 5 minutes?

i think about that a lot

[leclsrc]

more than anyone ✴︎ cl16

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

word count: 13.7k  

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

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

nsfw warnings under the cut!

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

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

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

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

“What’s going on?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wrong.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So it’s a no.”

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Charles laughs dryly. “Who asked?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Charles.”

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

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

—

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

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

“Hmm?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah.”

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

A beat. “What?”

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

“Europe?” You shook your head. America.

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

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

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

“You’ll be fine.”

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

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

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

“Charles,” you sighed. 

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

Just: “We’ll be okay.”

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I need to talk to you.”

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

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

“Why should I be charming with you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Say it.”

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How American.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

“Hi.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So you’re friends?”

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who said that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So what happened?”

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

Cut. Lovely. Just lovely.

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

—

“Okay. What else do you remember?”

“I… do you remember the recital song?”

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

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

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

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

“Do people ask?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s it mean?”

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

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

“I don’t underst—”

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

“I don’t—I do not ever remember say—”

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

Muffled by the bedspread: Charles’ place.

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

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

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

“Do you want gelato?” No, no.

“Love Island?” In a minute.

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

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

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

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

She doesn’t answer, because you already know.

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

Behind you: “Are you okay?” 

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

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

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

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

You nod in response. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

Date: 14 October 2014

To: You

Subject: Urgent!

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

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

Date: 14 October 2014

To: You

Subject: Buttercup

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

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

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

charles

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tremendous. Merci, Buttercup.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[ninjakarkki]

Old art galore but it dawned on me I never posted about my mini AU here so while I craft new art I'll just post the very few arts I've made of these guys in the spawn of 6 years??? (time flies oh gosh)

more info under cut

This AU is offically known as Time!duo, my accidental AU lmao. First started with only Grillby and his bar that floats in time and space and serves those traveling the multiverse. Then I also added Sans to be his pal because can't have an au without Sans (and can't have Grillby without Sans either)

I thought with all the alternative universes out there, it would be funny if there was like a resting point to those who travel around x)

This Grillby has a very good knowledge of the multiverses due to the many stories he has heard during his time behind the bar from customers. Unlike his companion Sans, Grillby doesn't leave his bar often, if not at all. The times he has left, he has gotten lost.

This Sans is familiar with almost all alternative universes out there as he regularly goes out and travels within the multiverses and has seen the many versions of himself. Unlike his companion Grillby, Sans is out of the bar often since his job is to keep sure they're stocked up with supplies. He also has a side gig as a mailman for their customers. Sans also does shifts behind the bar when Grillby needs some rest.

All the clocks he carries around represent different timezones, the one around his neck his own time.

[the-final-sif]

the situation w karl now is so funny considering your rb on dreamupdates 😭😭 anon was right we're both delusional

I've seen a random account on twitter claim random discord screenshots are Karl, and tbh I cannot believe people are taking a random account posting screenshots that don't even have dates on them nor attached context as legitimate and 100% true, unaltered and presented fully in context. I could've made those in about 15 minutes if I wasn't trying very hard. Like they intentionally removed the timestamps and claimed it was for "privacy" and to conceal the person's timezone. You can just. Change the date on your computer or w/e.

"There's no reason to fabricate these" Drama, clout, boredom, smearing someone, etc. There's no reason to believe these are real and not someone taking the piss.

Like, take one screenshot where he says "That's the worst video ever taken". Let's suppose that's a real screenshot for a moment, within the screenshot there's absolutely nothing that indicates what he's actually talking about. It's literally JUST that. The burner account CLAIMS that Karl said it was about one of Dream's singing tiktoks, but there's nothing even remotely presented that indicates that. Literally JUST "That's the worst video ever taken". He could literally be talking about any video.

Again, there's no verification that any of these are real, and some of them don't even make sense???

Like, okay, what would Karl not wanting to Paris have to do with anything? Like, maybe he didn't want to travel to Paris, maybe he was exhausted from flights, maybe he didn't want to deal with the jetlag. Maybe he said that sarcastically as a joke. The message before that was someone joking about him going to france being bad. There's again, no timestamps or context. He's within his rights to not want to go to Paris. It has nothing to do with anything else.

Also claiming that Karl was planning to intentionally distract people, because he "knew this would come out" by streaming with Sapnap or spamming tweets about other stuff? I- What? If he knew a mod was going to leak stuff, why would he not remove that mod? Why would he keep saying stuff in the chat with that mod in that? How would he even gets a heads up that the mod in question intended to leak stuff? Without knowing who it was?

I have no idea if these messages are real, again, this is something that takes literally seconds to fabricate, there's no confirmation any of this is actually coming from one of Karl's mods, there's absolutely no context included in any of the messages for if he might be being sarcastic or even talking about totally different topics. No context for dates/times other than "Today" which is honestly pretty sus because either it implies that Karl went and said this all in one day, like randomly he decided to shittalk people in his mod chat, talked about it, knew someone would leak his messages and just thought that was all well and fine. And that's assuming any of these are even real in the first place. Which is a pretty huge assumption.

Anyways, I'm begging people to stop taking discord screenshots from random fucking people as gospel. Some of you are legitimately falling for what is stupider than Infowars shit, "oh my secret sources in the government totally told me this is real". Next y'all are gonna come up and tell me that you found out that Karl or Dream or whoever is funded by Soros and you found the contacts posted on 4chan I stg.

Don't spread things you can't verify. Don't take fucking discord screenshots from a burner account at face value. Do we need to talk about fucking hypixel ss again?

[kimhortons]

five years.

on the 17th of February 2024, we celebrated our 5th year together. this was the first time na nag celebrate kami na ginastusan namin. thought we'd like to try something new, so nag book ako ng photo session sa isang self-shoot studio dito sa Legazpi.

may be something different sa photo booth like yung nasa Timezone na 1st year palang namin together, binalak na namin na hindi naman matuloy tuloy haha. then i got the idea when we had the experience last year with my bestfriend and her husband sa isang photo booth din non sa Trinoma. so why not try a photo session nalang din.

the experience was fun, kahit ang hirap picturan ni J kasi laging funny yung mukha niya at awkward yung smile niya—kailangan ko lagi siyang patawanin para makuha ko yung gusto kong smile niya. haha. actually, awkward narin ako mag pose, i'm not that confident enough narin para mag pose e haha ewan ko ba.

also, we had baby back ribs for our dinner date at Gringo. i find this really something special cos beside sa di nga kami nag cecelebrate masyado ng monthsary at anniversary, lagi lang din kami sa fast food kumakain. ito lang yung second time na gumastos kami ng libo para sa food namin. hehe. (medj kinikilig tuloy ako ngayon cos playing in the background ang Anchor by Novo Amor while typing this haha)

now i realized, na ang layo na pala talaga ng narating namin. dati nung LDR pa kami hindi kami nakakapag celebrate ng birthdays and anniversaries namin together, ang hirap kapag LDR diba. halos 2 years pa kami di nagkita nung pandemic. nito lang kami nakapag celebrate ng magkasama nung andito na ako.

ngayon, iba naman sa panunuod ng sine na usual na ginagawa namin tuwing monthsary or anniversary. hindi natuloy yung na-plan naming travel last year for this, so baka next year nalang. hehe.

dati lagi kong iniisip, ang tagal na namin pero never pa namin natry mag ganito, ganyan—nagtatampo pa ako kasi parang ang boring ng relationship namin. pero napagtanto ko, marami pa namang taon ang dadaan at pagsasamahan namin para itry lahat ng bago sa relasyon na 'to.

[gabessquishytum]

Not at all inspired by horny things trying to escape containment via autocorrect at the worst possible time...

So Hob and Dream are in a partial long distance relationship because Dream has to travel for work. Often, the timezones end up being incompatible for video or even calling, so they make up the difference by sending off little sexts for the other to discover when they are on break. Dream gets style points for how well written and elaborate his are, but Hob has him beat on sheer volume.

It comes back to bite Hob when he is sending out a mass email to his classes at so-late-it's-early-o'clock in the morning and forgets to proofread what he's sending out. Usually, when Hob’s typing is sloppy, it's because he's horny and trying to get off while texting Dream. His phone, though, can't tell horny from exhausted and autocorrect and autofill just go with what they've been trained on so the email ends up with a lot of unintentional spice.

Hob wakes up to more engagement with his email than he's ever seen before, only to be mortified when he realizes why. Not to mention, he's suddenly very worried about his job. He writes up an apology email at light speed, only checking it over about forty times before sending it off. The students find the whole thing funny and don't really care about the mistake, but they do wonder what Professor G is getting up to that his phone defaults to those particular words and phrases.

Dream may make it a point to be seen around campus with Hob when he returns, just so no one gets any ideas. Hob is his horny mess, after all.

Dream loves teasing Hob with the slip-up because Hob blushes so pretty with mortification whenever it is brought up. That is until Dream almost sends out an email to a client that would have been far more friendly than he ever would want to be with that particular person. After that, they call a truce and maybe figure out how to sanitize their autocorrect.

-💥

Oh, Hob. I sympathise, honestly. All the horny stuff I do here does lead some very odd instances of predictive text.

Something like this, perhaps?

Hello everyone!

I hope you all had a pleasant weekend. I spent most of mine in bed with a cock. At least it isn't COVID.

Wednesday's class will still be going to give you head. As a reminder, you can find the required reading on the student portal. Please also remember that summative ass assessments are due in 3 weeks! If you need an deadline extension please apply sooner rather than later.

Have a great fuck!

- Professor Gadling

The cold may have contributed to the fact that he didn’t read it through before sending. Oops.

[raynavan]

thinking about dinomas instead of the many other things i need to do

previous post about it:

so. more about pre eeby:

Akari the T-rex, and her three Pteranodon siblings, Dawn, Barry, and Lucas, love going on the Dinosaur train pretty much every day.

Ingo and Emmet basically run a sort of... Sociology/physiology class, where the kiddos observe different dinosaurs and try to figure out why/how they do things ("i have a hypothesis!" as Buddy says in the show)

Ingo and Emmet have friends! like Skyla the microraptor, or Elesa the Dromiceiomimus!

pretty much everyone knows about Ingo and Emmet and thier love for battles. there are specific cars on the train to house small ones, but mostly its just done near the Train station. many dinosaurs try to test their strength against the twins.

Troodons are verrry smart! so once Ingo and Emmet meet a species they've never met before, and battle them, they immediately try to figure out an effective way to take them down (again, these are all friendly battles. its enrichment, if you will)

basically Ingo and Emmet can tag team pretty much anyone. if they've met the same species before.

this is getting long so more post eeby under the cut

so, the Dino train can travel thorough time, but there are some places, if the gate is not big enough, the the train cannot go through

that, however, does not mean a dinosaur cant go through =]

so basically Ingo doesn't remember how to leave the timezone he fell in (somewhere in the Pleistocene period) and Emmet cant get there bc the time tunnels (apparently that's what they are called in the show) are too small.

pearl clan, a group of Scimitar Cat (kinda like the saber tooth/Smilodon but their teeth are Much smaller.) take Ingo in after their Lady Sneasler carries him over

no one really knows what the heck ingo is, but they let him be warden of Sneasler. both clans are actually mammals in this one, with diamond clan being Beringian lions, (who, fun fact, might have been completely maneless! which is confusing considering the cold climate, but they might have been completely covered in thick fur...)

ingo chills there for a long while, until suddenly, out of the tiny time Tunnels (or space time distortions, as the Clans call them) a T-Rex appears. the group of Tigers called the Galaxy Team take her in and they occasionally meet up with the other clans.

a few days after Akari lands in the future (ha!) a bolt hits the nobles and they go into a frenzy. Akari is sent to take care of it.

the nobles are!

Kleavor- giant beaver (cut down trees) (they were the size of bears today!)

Lilligant- Scrophulariaceae (its a flower. its kinda sentient. don't ask.)

Arcanine- Dire wolf (but a big one. for context- Dire wolves are around the same size as a yukon wolf, which is 85 cm (~2.8 ft) tall.)

Electrode- a rock. (it'd be funny)

Avalugg- the ever approaching glacial movements. (melts and gives fresh water- that's why its a noble)

and the ride pokemon just to cover all basses:

Wyrdeer- caribou

Ursaluna- giant short-faced bear (VERY big. one and a half times the size of a grizzly bear. which is. Big.)

Basculegion- Quinkana (a crocodylian! big guys!! in the time period they are in, around 6 m (20 ft) long!! there is even some debate of them being 9 m long!!)

Sneasler- giant ground sloth (up to 3 meters long!)

Braviary- Haast's eagle (one of the larges known true raptors- but with a strangle small wingspan for its size- possibly up to 3 m)

i am well aware these guys would not live in the same area btw- but im talking about a universe with dinosaurs that built a time traveling train and magic- so...

anyway, eventually Akari and Ingo meet, and both are like "i have seen you before!!" but other than that vague feeling they don't really remember. she and Ingo talk a lot, and eventually come to the realization that the space time distortions (time tunnels) could lead them home.

Ingo instinctively knows that they should Not just. walk in one, and instead they chip away the the surrounding rock of one until ingo feels its Just the right size. for what, he isn't sure. he does think that there should be some shiny metal things coming out of it... but he doesn't know where to get that kind of material, so he doesn't bother with it.

one night, they are woken up by a sheer whistle, and then a horrible crash. Ingo rushes out to the Time tunnel to see a train completely derailed in front of it, tipped over onto its side.

a white Troodon stumbles out of it.

anyway thanks for reading this far! here is some art of ingo i did =]

[peace-coast-island]

Diary of a Junebug

How easy it is to spiral into negativity without realizing it

I’ve stayed in many kinds of unique hotels before, but never an underwater one until now. It kinda feels like being smack dab in the middle of an aquarium. Instead of seeing buildings or some sort of landform outside, all you see is water and sea creatures. This is probably closest I’ll get to living underwater and I’m fine with that. I guess it’s not too different from being in a submarine except you’re not moving and you have hotel service.

Being in the middle of the ocean underwater isn’t as scary as it sounds, at least that’s what Connie told us. Since they’re a lot more familiar with these parts, I trust their judgement. The sea is vast so it looks a lot more isolated that it actually is. The westernmost part of Sango, Kaede Island, is a two and a half hour ferry away.

I’ve always wanted to see some of the places Connie has traveled to so I’m happy to finally have an opportunity to see a bit of Sango. Hopefully someday in the future I can see other places that they mentioned. I would’ve loved to visit Ayaka, Mamoru, Shinobu, and Aoi, but they live on Tsukiko Island, which is in the east - basically west coast, east coast situation. That would mean we lose a day because of travel and timezones, which is a shame, but there’s always time for another visit. Sango has five islands in total, Tsukiko being the main one while Kaede is second most populated.

Funny thing is that the main reason us campers are here is because Pascal invited us to stay at the Mermaid Shell Hotel, except most of us spent our time above water. I mean, it’s not like there’s not much to the hotel - it really is fascinating, don’t get me wrong - but it is kinda in the middle of water. According to the locals, the main purpose of this place is to serve as a stop in between long ocean travels, except they took the extra effort give you a different experience, so I’d say they succeeded in that. I consider it a win when the place you’re staying at is just as interesting as going out.

Pai gave me and Daisy Jane a quick tour of Kaede and introduced us to some people. The island kinda reminds me of Taimani in terms of aesthetic, the mermaid pastel, coral and Japanese style they’ve got going on. Compared to Tsukiko, Kaede is said to be more quieter, though that doesn’t mean there isn’t as much excitement or activity. There seems to be a lot of differences between the two islands in terms of culture and stuff - it really is fascinating.

After doing a bit of sightseeing, we met up with Connie, Shino, and Makoto, who happens to be visiting. I’ve heard from Toki and Sara that he has some ties to Sango, which isn’t surprising since Kimotori and Sango are kinda like branches to each other in terms of ancient history. As it turns out, Makoto is well acquainted with Mei - and to an extent, Mio - as in they refer to each other as older sister and younger brother. They’re not blood related but they have a really long history together - to sum it up, it’s a bit complicated but basically even at their worst they still have each other’s backs.

From what I gather, the fact that Makoto and Mei are close kinda muddles things in terms of their relationships with other people. Miko, Toki, and Raiden don’t know too much about their connections other than it’s something that Makoto doesn’t like to get into, and there’s nothing wrong with that. Mio apparently isn’t satisfied with Mei and Makoto giving vague answers when she tries to prod but she respects their boundaries. Then there’s people like Shino and the Divine Priestess who don’t have the best relationship with Mei - Mio too in Shino’s case - so Makoto tries to keep both sides separate. Though they all kinda work together because they’re part of the government so even without Makoto they have to maintain a professional relationship.

Makoto was right, some relationships are hard to explain. This is just my understanding of it so maybe I’m oversimplifying or misinterpreting things - either way it’s a complicated web and that’s pretty much all I need to know. Fascinating yes, but I’m only an outsider to all this so if that’s all I’m gonna get out of them, I’m fine with that. I’m sure my relationships with some people in my life are sure to raise some questions that I can’t answer. Complicated seems to be the right word to describe things like this.

Connie and Pai are hanging around Sango before heading to Hualong, where they’ll be staying for quite a while, at least before they’re called back somewhere else for something big. Connie says they’re waiting to get approved to go to Marillon, the next destination on their travels. Fortunately they’re in no rush to get there so hopefully things won’t get held up like last time.

Makoto has been meeting up with the Amatatu Orchestra for some recording sessions, something he can’t really go into detail with at the moment. Several months ago they did a recording together, Let Me Pretend That You Care, that ended up getting a lot more attention than anticipated. I remember Makoto mentioning some recording projects that were in the works and since then a couple songs came out.

Let Me Pretend is kinda in the same vein as Moon and Stars Intertwined in terms of being inspired by classical and traditional music - in this case, Japanese instead of Chinese. The song is beautiful, but also sad. Turns out the general consensus of that song is, “who hurt you?”, not in a mean way though, it’s just one of those things that kinda makes us feel deeply. Makoto said they were kinda hesitant to record it because it was so personal - in response to the question of who hurt you, they said “I don’t think we have time to unpack all that” with a laugh.

On a somewhat serious note though, the song ended up catching the attention of one of those people who had a complicated as well as toxic and problematic past with them. While the lyrics aren’t specifically about that person, it was someone who apparently still holds a grudge. Somehow they felt the need to write a strongly worded letter to Makoto that about how they ruined his life and they’re a terrible person who deserves to die painfully (not an exaggeration), blah, blah, blah - like what the fuck.

Anyway, Makoto said that kinda set them off and left them in a bad mental place for a while. Can’t blame him for that. Somehow Mei found out about what happened so she went to check up on him, which was surprising. She even offered to find out where that guy was - she responded along the lines of “That bastard’s still alive? Want me to shut him up for good?”. Obviously Makoto told her to back down but they appreciate the gesture. As far as he knows, Mei hasn’t done anything crazy - yeah, I’d be worried too since Mei can and will kill for reasons that are justified to her.

The whole thing was bad enough that Makoto considered quitting but he said that’s just him being overdramatic. I don’t hold it against him, it sucks that sometimes all it takes for one asshole to ruin everything. They’re definitely one of those people who have been through a lot of shit - even more so than the average person when you don’t operate by normal human lifespans - so it’s safe to say that there’s a lot going on. Connie - who’s an ancient elder compared to Makoto - says that they’ve never met anyone over 100 who isn’t at least a little bit fucked up.

It sounds sad but at the same time I think it kinda makes sense. I don’t think I’m equipped to live as long as they have so I’m fine with my short lifespan. Sorry, but immortality just isn’t for me.

After taking a lengthy break from recording, Makoto returned to Sango to record Falling in a Spiral, which came out last month. That song basically sums up his mental state and how easy it is to get caught up in negativity when things go wrong. Again, beautiful song with a depressing message - nothing wrong with that but I get that it’s not everyone’s cup of tea. Fortunately no one has come after Makoto for that song so it seems like an isolated incident.

Along with being an expressive singer with an impressive range and a talented musician, Makoto sure knows how put emotions into words. Apparently he’s described by some as overly sensitive, which he admits can be a problem. Well, sometimes you can’t help but feel the way you feel, but you have to take responsibility on how your emotions affect others. At least with music his sensitivity works in his favor or else we wouldn’t have Let Me Pretend and Falling and whatever else Makoto has in store.

Things are still up in the air but Makoto plans on recording a few more songs with the orchestra. Unfortunately it’ll be an inconsistent schedule since it’s a long way from Kimotori but for them, music has always been a side thing so it’s not that big of a deal. Another issue is that Makoto doesn’t want to back themselves in a corner by releasing more songs in the same vein of the other two. Like they said, they have a tendency to be overemotional and pessimistic so constantly writing songs about the negative - while cathartic at times - probably isn’t that good for their mental state.

They say the same for journaling, something that I’m trying to take into account more. While it’s good yo get your thoughts out on paper, one common trap people fall into is focusing too much on the negative. I know because I have fallen victim to that myself. There’s nothing wrong with venting but you have to balance that with the good or else you’d end up associating journaling as something negative. I guess it’s kinda like that saying where if you keep looking for one thing, that’s all you’re gonna see.

I wouldn’t say I’m bad as some people when it comes to getting stuck in negativity but sometimes you ca’t help it. Things go wrong, you feel inadequate, insecurities take over - again, you can’t always help feeling how you feel. I don’t think I’m overemotional - maybe a bit touchy according to some - but I can be my own worst enemy so I guess it’s more of an inward thing that I keep to myself.

What I’m saying it that sometimes you can’t help but be hard on yourself but don’t let it trap you into a spiral.

Although Makoto can’t say too much about what’s going on now, they got permission to bring us to a rehearsal. All they can say is that this song isn’t like the others in terms of it’s more positive - not that any of us were worried about them being typecast. From the music alone I can say it’s on the same league as the other two so I have high expectations. Being there reminds me of when I was in school and the orchestra did rehearsals in front of the parents, so it’s interesting being on the other side.

Maybe I’m biased but more mainstream music should include orchestras, just saying. At least there’s a growing niche of artists like Makoto, Hua, Clarry, and Desi who are incorporating classical and traditional music into their works. I don’t know too much about classical music but I have an appreciation for it, same with I guess what they classify as world music. The idea of taking something that’s considered elitist or out of reach and making it accessible is something that I’m all for because I think art and music should be for everyone.

Later, Shino gave us a more in-depth tour of Kaede, specifically Yokoshina Village, which is one of the oldest villages in Sango. There’s an okonomiyaki and croquette shop that’s a must visit place according to many travelers so of course we stopped by. Shino’s friends with the owner who keeps insisting it’s on the house when he tries to pay - I didn’t see the outcome but considering that it’s a regular thing they probably worked something out. As expected, the food was great.

Another notable place is the Miyakami Library and Archive Center, a building that contains a wealthy trove of information on Sango. Most people come for the library but for someone like Connie, the archives are worth looking into.

Because of their connections, Connie is one of the very few who has open access to those records so that’s a pretty big deal. While it is extensive Connie says nothing compares to Adrikha’s, though both are equally as overwhelming. Because trying to find specific information that may or may not be there is like searching for a needle in a haystack but worse, Shino and several others are trying to find someone to help Connie navigate the archives.

Unlike in Adrikha where they know a couple people who work directly with classified information and are familiar with it, that’s not the case with Sango. It’s just a matter of the two nations handling things differently - meaning Sango does not have people who are super familiar with the archives. That’s not necessarily a bad thing though, while Miyakami does have valuable stuff, Dharma has proven to provide more specific intel on what Connie’s looking for.

The library’s been my go-to place when I’m alone and have some time to kill. The decor kinda reminds me of a teahouse, except with lots of books. Shino says he often goes here for his side job with Mio, using one of the private rooms in the back if he has to show up for a meeting. I often hang out at the lounge area - like what I’m doing right now - and it’s been nice. There’s a lot of interesting books here so I’m taking the opportunity to sit down and read some since I can’t check them out.

I have a couple books with me right now - Narukami Chronicles and The Princess’s Folly - both recommended by Connie because they think it’ll help me understand a bit more about Sango’s history. From a quick glance Narukami Chronicles seems kinda dense so I think I’ll read that last. The Princess’s Folly seems interesting, the book is bound in leather and appears to be well preserved. It’s a fairy tale story that’s based on history, an allegory type of thing, so I guess that’s why Connie recommended it. I’d better get started if I want to finish both before meeting up with the others for dinner at the beach.

Read on AO3

[laminy]

Hi! Happy Sunday. I hope you had a good weekend. We are finally beginning to enjoy more than one day at a time of spring temperatures and fewer opportunities for snow, which is nice. Can I request a Ben & Gwil ITBASM snippet? Just wondering how things would go if their jobs took them traveling in opposite directions at the same time for a couple of weeks. Perhaps Ben actually translated an exhibit into French and went along to Paris to supervise the installation while Gwil is assigned to do a 2-week residency in the farther reaches of Scotland teaching all kinds of wildflower classes. Angst? Sure, a little. But, what a reunion!

I hope you have a lovely week!

“You must be getting ready for bed soon.”

Ben frowns, and looks at the time on his laptop. “It’s only 8:30,” he says, looking back at Gwil’s face on the screen.

“Oh, you know, time differences and all that,” Gwil says, waving his hand dismissively.

Ben snorts. “It’s only an hour. So my brain thinks it’s actually 7:30. I know I like sleep but I don’t go to bed at 7:30!”

“Alright, agree to disagree,” Gwil says, smiling.

“Why exactly was I worried I’d miss you again?” Ben asks.

“Don’t be mean to me, love,” Gwil says.

“I know,” Ben says softly. “I won’t. I do miss you.”

“I miss you too,” Gwil says. “But we’re not far.”

Ben makes a quiet sound, and nods. He shifts on the bed; he’s staying in a hotel, which has a great view of the city but the mattress is way too soft and he keeps feeling like he’s sinking in. It’s certainly not as nice as the bed he shares with Gwil. “Can I ask you a stupid question?”

“There are no stupid questions,” Gwil says.

“Were timezones invented before 1939?” 

Gwil laughs, and Ben pushes himself up, struggling some on the soft bed.

“No, really,” he says. “Did you come back and were like, why is Cologne an hour ahead, what’s going on?”

“Well, I’ll be honest, it is a relatively new invention for me,” Gwil says. “But no, I was quite familiar with them when I left.”

“Okay,” Ben says. “Just wondering. Sometimes I don’t know what you knew or didn’t know. Even after all this time.” He gives Gwil a small, nervous smile. “Told you it was stupid.”

“It’s not,” Gwil says. “And it’s fair. Since I came home and didn’t know what duct tape was. You can’t really assume with me.”

“Tell me what you’re doing now then,” Ben says. “What flowers were you looking at today?”

“Looking at, nothing sadly,” Gwil says. “We’re still looking for the Alpine Blue Sow Thistle. There’s only four known populations in the wild, so, we’ve got our eyes open to make sure they’re still around.”

“I hope you find them,” Ben says. 

“Us too. It’d make the course quite exciting. I absolutely refuse to come home until I see them.”

“Really?” Ben asks.

“No, of course not,” Gwil says. “I’m only joking.”

“Good, I was worried,” Ben says. 

“Were you?”

“Thinking you wouldn’t be there when I got back.”

“No, I’m sorry, love,” Gwil says. “Of course I’m going to be there. Do you think I’d miss that for some flowers?”

“I don’t know,” Ben says. “You do really like flowers.”

“Oh, I love them,” Gwil says, and Ben has to smile. “Absolutely gorgeous.” He murmurs softly, and gently touches his laptop screen. “But I still wish you were here.”

“Can I be honest?” Ben asks.

“You don’t have to,” Gwil says. “I already know what you’re going to say.”

“Oh, and what’s that.”

“That you would hate to be stuck up here in the mountains looking for flowers, and you’d much rather I was in Paris with you.” Gwil grins. “Am I right?”

Ben groans, and rolls away from his laptop. “It sounds awful when you say it.”

Gwil laughs. “No, I think it’s funny.”

Ben looks back at the screen. “You’re too cool for Paris anyway, it’s fine.”

“Tell me about your day,” Gwil says. “I want to hear. Is everything going alright?”

“I think so,” Ben says. “We’re really close to ready. I think it’s going to be good.”

“Do you spend all day talking French?”

“Bien sûr.”

Gwil playfully clutches at his chest. “Mm, I love that.” 

Ben laughs softly, and then they each lay there, in comfortable silence, just watching the other on the screen. After a few moments, Ben quietly says, “tu me manques.” He’s pretty sure Gwil doesn’t know exactly what means, but then Gwil says, “I miss you too,” and Ben can’t help but smile.

[zerosocialskillz]

About myself

You can call me Zero or Rainbow.

Nonbinary, any pronouns (particularly she/her)

AroAce (So what if I have no bitches?)

Autistic

Lives in Japan so timezone is JST

Icon by me

Sona looks like this

If you are going to ask me to donate to something, please do not use the askbox for that purpose. I will assume it’s a scam and delete it, regardless if it’s for a good cause.

What I post

Reblogs of (or original)

Fanart

Fanfiction (reblogs are rare, and I usually write them)

Fandom shit in general

Memes

Random shit

Interests and fandoms (hyperfixations in italics)

Story

Games

Story-driven games

Memes

Cat (cat)

Mild gore (...Should I create a side blog about this?)

Kirby (Zero my beloved…)

Ultrakill (GabV1el my beloved)

UTAU

Kaiwai songs

Madness Combat (Hank my beloved…)

Friday Night Funkin’ (Comfort character: Boyfriend & Hex)

QT lore (sideblog for it is @isinhumanoutyet)

Ace Attorney (especially Godot, and maybe Phoenix)

Cocotama series (I draw cocotamas at @dailycocotama)

Famicom Detective Club (especially Emio)

Social media

Ao3

YouTube

Niconico

Pixiv (I don’t use it much tho)

osu! (yes I play osu)

Discord

Toyhou.se

Artfight

…that’s it, really. Unless you want to see my Twitter account, that is.

Tags and crap

Some of them are for your viewing pleasure, but others are usually recurring comments.

My art: #my art

My music: #music

Fanfiction: #fanfiction

Nsfw and suggestive shit: see here.

Some stuff I wanted to say for whatever reason: #attempts at socializing

Art of my OTP that are very gay (+ some gay-ass jokes): #gay gay homosexual gay

Basically @blorbotag, but it’s before it existed: #blorbo

Me talking about my blorbos: #blorbo talk

Other people’s OC that can be mistaken with actual canon ones (although they’re mostly about Banksy…): #others’ OCs

Dreams from my sleep (not the Minecraft YouTuber): #Dream

Stuff that I say at the dead of the night: #late night ramblings

Blazed posts and their notes: #blaze shenanigans

Sone funny shit: #*wheeze*

Some very funny shit: #*big wheeze*

Some seriously funny shit my stomach hurts: #*big-ass wheeze*

All things wholesome (in my opinion): variants of #(*´ω`*)

Userboxes that apply to me: #userbox

Misinformation that is corrected within a post: #net zero information

Cat: #cat

…And many more comment-type tags

...as you can see, my tags are usually straightforward.

Important links

Some hand exercises for Splatoon and shit

An informative post about the dreaded shadowban

I will reblog this when I lose the game. Also, you lost the game.

I will reblog this when I win the game! It’s different from the other one.

My asks are currently open! You can ask me about the currently defunct Love & Sorrow AU, the currently running Zero of the Skies series (Amaterasu’s reading ‘em) my two ULTRAKILL AUs that technically are the same universe until they aren’t because time travel, or some random-ass shit. Standing on New Grounds AU asks go to @standingonnewgrounds (even if you do ask here I’ll reblog it to there so feel free to ask here)

When drawing, I use MediBang paint for art, and ibis paint for making memes. Yes, I’m using a painting software to make memes. Don’t ask.

This blog is cool with LGBTQ+. Likebombing is fine.

[niiwa-angel]

Plastic Smiles

Hal couldn’t wait for this upcoming weekend. After months of much debate and discussion, Barry had agreed to move to California with him, and they were relocating this Saturday.

Hal was beyond excited to be able to properly show his boyfriend around his home city without worrying about when he had to go home. He knew Barry was also excited, but nervous as well. The blond was hiding it well, always smiling and bubbly when he mentioned the move, but Hal also knew that it was hard for him to leave Central and his family behind.

At the moment, Barry was off visiting his dad one last time before Saturday, and he was bound to be emotional when he came home, so Hal had picked up some pizzas and wings for him when he came home. There wasn’t much left to do, a majority of Barry’s stuff was already packed and had been sent ahead to their condo, all that remained were a few pairs of clothes, his toiletries, and his laptop and charger.

~~~~

“Why can’t I just run there?” Barry grumbled, leaning against Hal’s chest while they sat in the airport waiting lounge.

“Because it would raise too many questions.” Hal reminded him, tugging him closer and kissing his head.

Barry huffed and snuggled closer, Hal feeling his tension in his shoulders. He knew that Barry was not looking forward to the four hour flight at all, so he had made sure to pack a variety of snacks and had downloaded a couple of funny movies Barry liked so that they had something to do.

Hal pulled Barry to his feet when their flight was called to board, feeling his boyfriend tremble when they had their tickets scanned and were waved aboard by the stewardess. Hal guided him to their seats, knowing that they had an entire row to themselves, courtesy of a brilliant idea on Bruce’s part, that having an extra seat might give Barry more room to breathe.

The stewardess started on the safety brief, making Barry close his eyes tight and start shaking harder. Hal shrugged off his jacket and tucked it around the blonds shoulders, taking his hand and giving it a reassuring squeeze.

“Remember, this is the safest way to travel.” Hal reminded him, hoping Barry didn’t throw up on the flight.

“Shut. Up.” Barry hissed through clenched teeth, his eyes shut tight.

Nodding his understanding, Hal kept holding his hand while the plane started moving. When they tilted back for lift off, Barry squeezed his hand so tightly Hal felt his bones grind together, the blond whimpering and shaking as the plane bounced in the air.

When they got to their desired altitude, Hal grabbed his laptop and fired up one of the movies he had bought as a distraction. From there, there wasn’t much Hal could do other than wait for the flight to land.

~~~~

It had crossed Hal’s mind to carry his boyfriend over the threshold when they got to their new shared accommodations, but he figured that after a nerve wracking flight, Barry wouldn’t be too keen on being picked up.

The condo currently looked like only Hal lived there, Barry’s things still in boxes in the living room. The couch was draped with a few throw blankets, and the sliding glass door leading to the garden cast a square of waning sunlight on the hardwood floor.

“Do you wanna just order in?” Hal asked while Barry toed off his shoes.

“I guess.” Barry agreed, holding up his phone and waving it. “I just have to call Iris first and let her know I’m still alive.”

The blond hurried off towards the bedroom to call his adopted sister. Hal leaned against the counter of the kitchen and started looking up delivery services near them, mentally flagging a sushi joint and a mongolian grill that would deliver to them.

~~~~

The pair sat at their kitchen table, a banquet platter of sushi in the center of the table between them. Hal was almost completely mesmerized by the sunshine lighting up Barry’s blond hair and reflecting off his blue eyes while he looked out the window. The only thing distracting him from his boyfriend's perfection was his full plate.

“Do you not like the sushi?” Hal asked, snapping him out of his daze.

“No, no it’s good. I’m just not that hungry.” Barry explained, dragging his attention away from the window.

Hal froze, waiting for the punchline. Barry was always hungry, it was unheard of for him to turn down food unless he was really sick.

“Are you feeling alright?” Hal asked, looking him over.

“I’m fine.” Barry waved him off. “It’s just left over nerves from the flight and the move.”

He wasn’t fully convinced, but he let the subject drop. He knew Barry had really hated the flight, and had been anxious about it for a while, but he had also never heard of him getting stress sick. He pondered it while he finished his own meal, trailing Barry when he stood up and packaged the remainder of his sushi and what was left on the platter.

When the supper dishes were washed, dried, and put away, Hal wrapped his arms around Barry’s waist and pulled him until his back was pressed against his chest. The blond relaxed against him, shifting so they were swaying a little. Hal pressed a few kisses into Barry’s neck, feeling his pulse on his lips.

“Ya’know, we’re only a five minute walk from the beach. What do you say to walking down and watching the sunset?” He asked.

“Mmm, maybe tomorrow.” Barry hummed, “I just wanna go to sleep right now.”

Hal nodded, kissing Barry’s neck again and pushing them towards the bedroom. He was really looking forward to taking his boyfriend down to the shore and cuddling while they watched the sun sink into the sea, but he also knew Barry was tired. Plus, now that Barry lived here, they could do that anytime they wanted, the sun wasn’t going to leave anytime soon.

The pair brushed their teeth, changed into their pajamas, and crawled into bed. After some shifting and getting comfortable, they settled in with Barry resting his head and hand on Hal’s chest, tracing circles with his finger while Hal dozed off.

~~~~

Hal woke up in an empty bed, the other side of the mattress cold. For a moment, he forgot Barry had even moved in, but when he remembered, he got up and went in search of him. When he found him, the blond was stretched out on the couch, sleeping. Not really sure why his boyfriend was sleeping on the sofa when there was a perfectly comfortable bed in their room, Hal started making coffee.

Maybe Barry had woken up at night, been unable to get back to sleep, and had gone to the living room so he didn’t bother Hal. Perhaps he had gotten up to grab something, sat down for a moment, and fallen asleep. Or, Hal pondered, he was suffering from Jetlag, Missouri was in a different Timezone than California, so he might have just been following the routine his body was used to.

Not wanting to wake Barry up, he took his coffee out to the patio to watch the sunrise. It was a brisk morning and the cool air made Hal shiver as he stepped outside, while it made the hair on his arms stand up, Hal enjoyed it, it made his hot coffee feel that much more satisfying. After a half hour, he heard the sliding door open and felt Barry drape himself over Hal’s shoulder, kissing his cheek and playfully trying to steal his mug.  

“Good morning Handsome.” Barry mumbled.

Hal moved his cup out of his reach but he returned the kiss. He reached around and pulled Barry until he was sitting in his lap.

“Good morning.” He returned. “Why did you sleep on the couch?”

‘Mmm.” Barry hummed, “I got too hot.”

Hal was taken aback, their bedroom was one of the coolest rooms in the condo, aside from the bathroom. The rest of the condo was also air-conditioned, so overall, their home wasn’t overly hot, it didn’t make much sense that he would get overheated.

“You got too hot?” He clarified, making Barry nod.

“Yeah. I think it was just because you were pressed right up against me.” He explained. “It just got to be too much, so I went to crash on the couch.”

“...Okay.” Hal said slowly.

That wasn’t really unbelievable, he knew through previous relationships that he ran hot when he slept. If he and Barry had been cuddling while they slept, it was reasonable to state that Barry had really just gotten too hot and had gone somewhere cooler to sleep.

“Oh my god, how are you sitting out here?” Barry muttered, climbing off Hal’s lap and finding his own seat in the shade.

“What? Too cold?” Hal asked.

Barry sent him a look of disbelief, shaking his head.

“It’s fucking hot out here.” He moaned, pressing his palms into his eyes.

“Oh come on! It’s only, like, eighty-five degrees out here.” Hal acclaimed.

“That’s hot!” He cried.

Hal laughed, standing up with his mug in hand, going to get a refill of coffee and offering a cup to Barry.

“Whatever. Do you want a cup of caffeine?” He asked.

“Yes please.” Barry said.

Hal smiled while he went back inside, grabbing another mug out of the cupboard. He filled his own mug with coffee, adding a spoonful of sugar and a small splash of milk. He filled Barry’s with tea, adding two spoonfuls of sugar and a splash of French Vanilla Coffee Mate.

He had to use his ring to open the door again for himself, and behind him when he stepped through it. He set both mugs on the patio table, turning to his boyfriend to invite him over.

Barry looked a lot different than he had when Hal had left for the kitchen. He was sitting hunched over, with his hands clutching the sides of his head. Hal couldn’t see his face, but the back of his neck was flushed and his hands were shaky.

“Bear?” Hal asked, “Straw-Barry, are you okay?”

“Hmm?” The blond hummed.

“Are you okay?” Hal asked again.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m good, just a little warm.” He muttered.

He stood up on wobbly legs, creeping over like a newborn fawn to the patio table for his tea. Hal watched him while he took a sip, he could now see that he was incredibly red in the face and he looked unfocused.

“I’m going to get you a glass of water.”Hal said, hurrying to the kitchen.

He had just filled the glass from the dispenser when he heard a heart-wrenching thud from outside. Slamming the cup down on the counter, he rushed to the patio door.

Barry was huddled on the floor, clearly having fallen. Hal threw the door open and rushed to his side, kneeling beside him to check on him. Barry was, blessedly, breathing, and there was no blood around him. While he was checking him over, Barry’s eyes fluttered under the lids and he started tilting his head and moaning.

Having lived in California for the majority of his life, Hal quickly recognized the signs of heat exhaustion in his boyfriend. Cradling him carefully, Hal lifted him up and carried him inside. When he laid him on the couch, Barry’s eyes had opened and he was looking around, confused. Hal pushed him down when he tried to sit up, wiping his sweat-soaked forehead with his hand.

“Stay here, I’m going to go get some water for you.” Hal ordered.

He retrieved the half-full glass from the counter, folding a clean tea towel and throwing it into the freezer. He rushed back to the sofa, wrapping an arm under his shoulder, helping him to sit up and take a sip of the cool water.

He made Barry slowly sip down the half glass of water, leaving briefly to refill it and swipe the now cool towel from the freezer. He folded the towel and placed it on Barry’s forehead, having him sip down some more water. By now, he was confident that Barry could sit up by himself, Hal left for the bathroom to draw a cool bath.

He only filled the tub up halfway, swishing his hand around in it to make sure that the temperature wasn’t too cold to handle. He went back to the living room, grabbing Barry under the arms and hoisting him to his feet, assisting him to the bathroom. He helped Barry peel his sweat soaked sleep shirt off, tugging his pajama pants down and step out of them.

He had Barry sit in the tub, sloshing the water to make it wash over the parts of his skin not in the bath. Hal could feel Barry’s skin start to cool down under his hands and he stopped shivering.

“Thank you.” Barry whispered.

“Of course.” Hal replied, handing him a towel as he climbed out of the tub.

Convinced that Barry wasn’t about to fall down without Hal there to hold him up, he went to the living room to tidy up. He brought the coffee mugs in from the patio, placing them on the coffee table to come back for them later. Even though their condo was cool enough inside, Hal turned up the AC and shut the blinds so Barry could come back to the living room and rest.

When all that was said and done, Hal hurried back to their bed room for something to give to Barry to wear. Given that most of his things were still packed in boxes, the quickest things on hand were what he had brought in his suitcase, which wasn’t much at all. If it had been solely his decision, he would just have the blond be naked, but Barry was far too modest for his own good so Hal grabbed a clean pair of boxers and took them to the bathroom.

His boyfriend was much the same as when he had left him, wrapped in a towel and sitting on the closed toilet lid with his head down, he looked positively miserable. Slowing his movements down so he didn’t overwhelm him, Hal carefully took Barry’s chin between his thumb and pointer finger, tilting his head up until Barry was looking at him. He looked even more dejected once Hal could see his face, his mouth was set in a sad pout, his eyes were glistening with tears, and his cheeks were still tinted pink in a feverish way and it made Hal’s heart twist.

“Hey Beautiful.” Hal whispered, “How’re ya feeling?”

Barry sniffled quietly and wiped the back of his hand under his nose.

“Better.”

His voice was still soft and weak, that one word sounding like he had put his entire heart and soul into saying it outloud.

“Okay, I brought you something to put on, and then maybe we can go watch some of that new Star Trek series you like, how does that sound?” Hal asked.

In response, the pilot got a small nod and a shaky smile, a fleeting thing that looked like it took all of Barry’s energy just to produce.

“Okay, hang tight Love.”

As he went to help Barry stand, he noticed that he was still wet from the bath. Not soaked, but not dry enough to comfortably sit and watch T.V. Hal knew he needed to fix that before he could get Barry somewhere more comfortable, so he slid an arm under his armpits and lifted him up, he used his free hand to pat Barry dry with the towel, employing all the tenderness usually reserved for newborn kittens.

When he was dried off, Hal made him grab onto his shoulders so he could keep himself upright while he knelt to help Barry step into his boxers. Tugging Barry into a hug, Hal rubbed his back and ran his fingers through his sweaty hair. He had already made the decision that Barry wasn’t walking anywhere for a while, not even to the couch, so he hoisted him up and started walking to the living room with Barry’s perfect nose tucked into his neck.

He sat down on the couch with Barry in his lap, grabbing the remote with his power ring so he could queue up an episode of Star Trek for them to watch. As soon as he heard the intro, Barry shifted and climbed off him, getting comfy beside him with his head resting against his shoulder. Hal wrapped an arm around his bare shoulders and gave him a kiss on the crown.

“Doin alright?” He whispered.

“Yeah, sorry about that. It never gets that hot in Missouri and it shocked me.” Barry whispered back, “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. I just need some time to adjust.”

That made sense, in Hal's mind at least. Barry had been born and raised in the midwest, he had grown up with snow storms and sweaters, hot drinks and winter boots. Even in the summer, it had probably never gotten as hot as it currently was outside, so Barry had no natural defenses to the heat yet. Fortunately, Hal knew that the man was strong as hell, given time to adjust to the climate, things would get better.

~~~~

Six weeks later, things had not gotten better, in fact, they had gotten far worse. Contrary to Barry’s claim that he would adjust with time, he hadn’t, and Hal was stuck watching him get sicker and sicker.

While at first they could be brushed off, the changes were now impossible to ignore. While he had always been skinny, Barry had also been strong as well, now he was frail and weak. He was shaking constantly, not with passion or pent up energy but like he could topple over at any minute, and he was always exhausted. Given how sick he actually was from the heat, he could rarely sleep and never was in bed with Hal, always on the couch, alone.

Because of how hot he was all the time, he had started to avoid any physical contact of any kind, the closest he could get without feeling like he was burning was to brush his hands against his boyfriends, on a good day, they would hold hands, but those were becoming farther and farther between. Hal suspected that the lack of affection was hurting Barry more than anything else, given that he had always been touchy, even before they were dating. To add salt to the wound, he could barely be the Flash anymore. He could hardly walk in the California heat, running was out of the question, and given that he couldn’t stand without trembling, he was no longer fit for duty.

Of course, when Hal had asked him about it, Barry had painted on a fake smile and played the optimist. He was still insisting that he would get better, he just needed to get himself sorted out, that everything would work itself out, just like he had said a month and a half prior. But Hal wasn’t so convinced anymore, Barry had lost a lot of weight and his clothes were starting to hang off him in ways they hadn’t before, and he was miserable.

Though he tried to hide it, Hal knew, he could see that the plastic smile Barry put on was getting harder to maintain, he could hear him crying quietly to himself when he was alone in the shower or on the couch at night and his voice sounded wobbly whenever he spoke to his sister or dad over the phone about his new residence. He suspected that the only reason Barry hadn’t voiced how awful he felt was because Hal had pushed California hard, bringing up the benefits of living in a blue state in a blue city, with all the perks that brought to them, he didn’t doubt that Barry was keeping silent because he thought it would make Hal happy.

Hal couldn’t stand to see Barry so miserable, he knew he needed to act fast or there could be irreversible damage done to his physical and mental well being. Which brought him to the present, in a crowded bar, stuffed into a corner booth with Oliver and Guy. He had sent them both an SOS text, briefly explaining the situation and begging them to meet up with him to give him advice, and here they were.

“So,” Guy drawled, “What didja fuck up this time?”

Normally, Hal would have been frustrated with Guy’s blunt ‘never beat around the bush’ conversation style, but tonight he was grateful for it. He felt like he was running out of time, or like water was slipping through his fingers.

“Barry’s sick. Really sick.” Hal answered, “He’s been sick for a while and I don’t know what to do.”

“From the heat, right?” Ollie piped up.

Hal frowned, looking at his best friend quizzically. He hadn’t told them everything over the text he had sent and Barry didn’t really like Oliver, so he wasn’t sure how he knew what was making Barry sick. Ollie picked up on his confusion, and answered the unasked question.

“Dinah and Barry talk a lot, she told me that he’s been suffering from the heat.”

“Whatever.” Guy grumbled, waving the archer off. “Why did you ask us here?”

“Because I need advice! I don’t know what to do, Barry’s gotten so sick recently that I’m scared to leave him by himself, his powers are acting up, and he’s so depressed!” Hal rushed out, “I don’t know what to do, he’s suffering and I can’t do anything.”

“Yeah, right.” Guy scoffed, taking a sip of his drink.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Ollie snapped, angry on Hal’s behalf.

Guy rolled his eyes, looking at the pair like they were idiots. When it was clear that they really weren’t on the same page, he scoffed again and shifted to glare at them while he lectured.

“You can do something, you moron, you can take him home. He’s obviously not cut out for the desert heat, whatever, he gave it the ol’ college try. He’s made sacrifices for you by coming all the way out here and leaving his family behind, now it’s time for you to grow a pair and do the same for him.”

“I- I don’t know if that would work Gardener.” Hal attempted.

“Whatdaya mean ‘it wouldn’t work’?” Guy spat, “Listen you dumb fuck, you don’t deserve Barry, he is too good for you. I know it, you know it, this blond moron knows it, everyone who has ever met the pair of you knows it. The only one who hasn’t figured out that Barry deserves better than you is Barry, so for the love of God man, you need to keep him from figuring it out!

“He loves you! For reasons I cannot understand, he loves you and you know it. That’s why you pushed so hard to bring him here, even when he had the most to leave behind. You know Barry would jump through hoops for you, so you had him move to the middle of the fucken desert.”

“Hey, he wanted to come!” Hal defended.

“No he fucking didn’t, he wanted to be with you! He doesn’t care about California, he cares about you and he’s scared you’re going to pull the same disappearing act on him that you’ve pulled on every other poor bastard you’ve dated so he moved to keep you happy.” Guy snarled.

“I wouldn’t just ditch Barry!” Hal snapped, responding with equal hostility. “I’m more than willing to admit that I’ve done some pretty shitty things and put some people through hell, but I’m in therapy, I started sorting through those issues before Barry and I became an item!”

“Then why did you drag him out here? You have no friends here, the only family you’ve got, you don’t talk to, at best you’ve got Coast Uni, but you’ve been done school for years now. From every standpoint, it would have made more sense for you to move to Central, Barry has his sister and his Dad, he’s exclusive to Central unless he’s with the league, you just fuck off across the galaxy!” Guy argued, “But you begged him to come to your home city because you’re a prideful son of a bitch who's watching the man he loves decay in front of him, and you know how to fix it but you won’t, for reasons I don’t think even you understand!”

Hal sputtered, grampling for any defense for himself. He knew he must have looked like a fish out of water, and he knew he didn’t have a defence for himself. Barry was a people-pleaser, always had been and Hal knew it, he had known that Barry would come to California and now he was staying even though it was killing him.

“Look man, for what it’s worth, I know you didn’t plan on hurting Barry, I know that he’s pretty much the only reason you’re a half-functional human being.” Guy offered, “And listen, you can fix this! If you go and say that you want to take him back to Central, you’ll be his personal hero, his sister will be relieved that he’s back, he’ll be able to see his dad again. Fuck, in ten years when you two have your two point five kids, a dog, and a picket fence, this can just be a really funny story.”

Hal nodded, knowing that Guy was right. He was either going to take Barry somewhere with a more accommodating climate for him, or he was going to lose him, either because he got so sick that he could not recover or because their relationship would fall apart from the stress. He had come to these men for advice, it was obvious what that advice was, so now he needed to figure out the practical end; how he was going to get Barry back home.

His boyfriend was stubborn, so much so that he was surprised that he didn’t have a Green Lantern ring of his own, admitting that he was struggling was hard for him. Still, Barry was getting sick, his powers were acting up, and he needed to be back in a climate he was accustomed to. Of course, that wouldn’t be easy, they would have to break their lease and find a new place in Central because Barry had gotten rid of his, not only that, but Barry would need to get his job back at the CCPD. None of that would be easy, but he hoped that it wouldn’t be too hard. He would talk to Bruce and Iris later, see if either of them could help him out in some way, but for the moment, he bid his friends adieu, paid his tab, and headed home to Barry.

~~~~

The blond was sleeping on the couch when Hal got home, his arm dangling over the side and a throw pillow under his head. The guilt Hal had felt earlier tripled while he looked over his sleeping boyfriend, dressed in a tank top he’d stolen from Hal and a pair of boxers. He didn’t look completely comfortable, just slightly more at peace while he slept.

Even though it was even later in Gotham than it was here, Hal knew he needed to start putting his plan in action sooner rather than later. First, He gently lifted Barry up off the couch and carried him to the bed, pulling back the covers with his ring and laying the forensic scientist on the mattress. Then he went back to the living room, stepped out onto the balcony and called Bruce.

“What do you want?” Bruce asked, picking up after the first ring.

“I fucked up.” Hal admitted, careful to keep his voice down.

There was silence on the other line for a moment, dragging on for so long that Hal checked to make sure he hadn’t been hung up on.

“So?” Bruce asked, “That isn’t new for you.”

God, Hal hated his boyfriends best friend sometimes. Bruce had gotten along with Barry from the start but had hated Hal since the first second they met. While he and Barry had grown closer, Bruce had hated him more, rolling his eyes and being slightly cheeky to him whenever they had to speak. When he had started dating Barry, he had called a truce with the Dark Knight of Gotham for his boyfriends sake, but he doubted that they would ever get along. Still, Hal needed his help.

“I know but this is worse than usual.” He confessed, “Barry’s getting sick, he can’t handle the heat. I want to get him back to Missouri before he gets worse but I need help, I need to convince him to move again and I was hoping you would have some advice.”

There was silence on the other end again, making Hal feel even worse about himself. He had prepared himself for some gloating, knowing that Bruce would probably rub it in his face that he didn’t deserve Barry.

“I wondered if that would happen.”

There was the silence broken, and Hal braced for the verbal dress-down.

“He’s what I can do. I need a safe house in California and I have too many in Missouri.” Bruce began, “I can sell you and Barry one of the houses in exchange for you subletting your condo to me so I can see if I want to buy it.”

That… Was very generous. Incredibly generous and far more than Hal had been expecting.

“That’s… That’s amazing Bruce.” He stammered, “I cannot thank you enough. How much do you want for the house?”

“For anyone else, I wouldn’t go less than three hundred thousand. But, it needs some work done, I haven’t updated that interior since I bought it, and it looks like something out of the nineties.” Bruce said slowly, “And someone was murdered in it before I bought it, which really decreased the value, so I’ll give it to you for one hundred thousand.”

Alright, knowing someone was killed in the house was weird and he could see why it would decrease the value. But a house they owned would be far better than an apartment they could rent, they could redecorate and make renovations, and it was far more private than an apartment building, which was good for their alter-egos.

“Bruce, I cannot thank you enough. I need to talk to Barry about this, but thank you so, so much.” Hal thanked, mentally adding ‘get Bruce a muffin basket’ to his to-do list.

“Just, don’t kill Barry.” Bruce muttered, “A guy like me only gets one best friend in life, and when he’s gone, I don’t get a new one.”

That was sweet, though Hal would never admit it. Apparently Bruce did have a soul, or at the very least, he had borrowed it back from Satan for this phone call exclusively.

“I’ll keep him alive.” He promised, “Have a nice night Bruce.”

He didn’t get a response, just a dial tone as Bruce hung up. He would normally mumble about his lack of manners, but tonight he could only inwardly rejoice while he went back inside. His phone buzzed in his hand, Bruce having sent him a link to view the house, which he emailed to himself so he could show Barry in the morning.

Hal took a quick shower, got into pajamas, kissed Barry on the forehead, and went back to the living room to sleep on the couch. He shifted around for a while to get comfortable, which wasn’t easy on the small sofa, he eventually managed it, willing himself to fall asleep.

~~~~

Hal woke up with a kink in his neck and a sore back but a good feeling in his heart. He hurried through making coffee, logging onto his laptop while he waited for it to brew. As soon as the computer was awake, Hal pulled up his email and clicked on the link leading to pictures of the house Bruce had offered.

It was a nice house, two levels and a basement, lots of windows, a large kitchen/living room/dining room area. There were two bedrooms, the master bedroom, which had an attached bathroom and a spacious walk-in closet, and a smaller room that they could use for a guest room and home office. There was another bathroom across from the smaller bedroom, decked out with a bath/shower, toilet, and a sink with lots of cabinet space under it. And of course, the basement, but it wasn’t finished, it did have a washer and dryer down there though.

The backyard was also nice, the back deck obviously needed some work but it was nice enough. The yard was fenced with a wooden plank wall, attaching to the house with a gate on one side. It was nicer than Hal could have ever hoped for and he hoped Barry would see it the same way. He checked the neighbourhood it was in and saw that it was pretty nice, located close to a library and a community center, with a grocery plaza not even fifteen minutes drive away. It would be an amazing spot for them to live in, and it would be better to own a home than to rent one, now he just needed to wait for Barry to wake up to talk to him about it.

~~~

An hour and a half later, a very sleepy Barry Allen dragged himself into the kitchen. He was still in the clothes he’d been in when Hal had put him to sleep, the stolen tank top and his boxers, his hair was a fly away mess, and his eyes were still cloudy from sleep. It was better rested than he had looked in weeks, not healthy, by a country mile, but it was better nonetheless. His boyfriend shuffled in and rested his head against Hal’s shoulder, linking their fingers together and squeezing his hand. That had been a pretty standard display of affection between them for the majority of their time in California, it was intimate but not so touchy that it was too hot for Barry.

‘Good morning Beautiful.” Hal greeted, kissing him on the head.

“Morning Handsome.” Barry mumbled.

The blond pulled away and set about making himself tea, pouring boiling water into a mug, adding a tea bag, and then poking it with a spoon to make it brew faster. Hal stared, leaning against the counter, watching while his boyfriend moved around the kitchen, making his drink. When Barry bent over to reach the creamer in the fridge, he couldn’t stop himself from ogling his perfect ass.

“You put me in the bed last night.” Barry said, standing up with the creamer in hand.

��I did.” Hal confirmed, taking a sip of his coffee.

“Why?”

Hal sighed into his coffee and put the mug down. He turned to Barry while he added sugar and creamer to his tea.

“Because you’ve been bending over backwards to accommodate me and I haven’t been taking care of you like I should be.” He answered.

“You’ve been taking care of me.” Barry protested, frowning.

“Not like I should have been, not like you deserve.” Hal said.

Barry scowled and crossed his arms, glaring at his tea cup.

“I’m not some helpless baby, I don’t need someone taking care of me.” He muttered, “I’m fine.”

“You are not fine!” Hal snapped, “You’ve been sick for weeks, that is not fine!”

Barry flinched at his tone, his eyes welling up with tears and he closed his eyes against them. He swallowed hard around a lump in his throat and tried to compose himself enough to talk but he wasn’t having much success. Hal noticed he’d been too harsh and cursed in his head, making Barry defensive and weepy wasn’t the right way to start the conversation they needed to have.

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to sound cross.” He apologized, sweeping a hand through his hair. “Shit, Bear I’m sorry. Just, come sit down with me, we need to have a talk.”

Hal took his coffee and brought it over to his laptop on the coffee table, putting his mug down on a coaster and sitting on the couch. Barry stayed in the kitchen for a moment, putting away the sugar and creamer, stirring his tea, and then following Hal to the living room and sitting down on the sofa. He didn’t put his mug down, he held it tightly in both hands with it sitting on his thigh, he wasn’t looking at Hal but he was close enough for a heartfelt conversation and that’s what he wanted, so Hal just started talking.

“So listen, I know that California hasn’t been your cup of tea. I can see you’re sick and I know it’s from the heat.” Hal began.

“If you’re going to break up with me, just do it already, don’t drag it out!” Barry snapped in a teary voice.

Hal paused and mentally reset. Break up? He didn’t want to break up with Barry! He loved Barry!

“Break up? Babe, no no no, I don’t want to break up with you!” He said in a rush. “I love you! I want to spend the rest of my life with you! I don’t want to break up!”

“Well then what do you want?” Barry sobbed, wiping his eyes.

Hal bundled Barry into a quick hug, nothing so long that he would feel too hot, but long enough to be reassuring for him. Barry returned in with one arm, the tears coming hot and fast from both of them. When they broke apart, Hal started to explain what he had discussed with Bruce.

“Straw-Barry, I want to take you home. Back to Central.” Hal explained, “You’re obviously sick, and you’re not getting better.”

“I’m trying!” Barry interrupted, crying hard. “I’m trying to get better, I’m trying to get used to the heat!”

“I know you are! I know that, but Barry, you’re hurting. Badly. Listen, I talked to Bruce last night, he has a safe house in Central he doesn’t want anymore that he’d be willing to sell to us.” He said, “I think we should take it and move you home.”

“But you love Coast City.” Barry protested.

“Not as much as I love you! I don’t care if this damn city burns, as long as you’re safe by my side.” Hal promised, “And right now you’re not safe.”

Barry sniffled, wiping his eyes one at a time, left then right.

“But it’s cold in Central and you hate the cold.” He pointed out.

“I do, I do hate the cold. But I’ll get some warm sweaters, and start drinking hot chocolate, and I have my space heater of a boyfriend to cuddle with. I can put on more clothes to stay warm, you can’t really get any more exposed than naked to stay cool here. Not that I’d have a problem if you want to go around naked all the time.” Hal joked to lighten the mood.

The joke landed and Barry laughed, no fresh tears being shed anymore. He leaned in close and rested his forehead against Hal’s collarbone for a second, then shifted to the back of the couch.

“You’d really come back to Central with me?” He asked, looking up at Hal with big blue eyes that made him melt.

“I would follow you anywhere you go.” Hal whispered.

Both men rested against the sofa, looking at each other with affection. Pushing through his heat exhaustion, Barry reached over and took Hal’s hand, giving it a squeeze.

“Show me this house you and Bruce talked about.” He requested.

“Of course!” Hal agreed, reaching for his laptop.

They spent the morning like that, settled on the couch with the laptop open to the pictures of the house. Hal grabbed a notepad and a pen, both of them discussing paint colours for the rooms, upgrades for the kitchen appliances, and what they wanted to do with the garden. At some point, Barry ordered Uber Eats from Mcdonalds for their breakfast and some drinks from Starbucks, a sugary coffee for Hal and an elaborate iced tea for himself. For the first time in weeks, Barry looked truly hopeful.

~~~~

A month later, Hal woke up in their shared bed in their new house. Barry was cuddled into his side, giving off plenty of warmth to keep them comfortable. From the windows, the early morning sunlight reflected off of the snow and into the couples room.

They had moved all of their things from California to Missouri three weeks prior. They had been greeted by Barry’s joyful adopted family, who had helped them get home from the airport and unpack. Later, they had come over to help with renovations to the house, repainting rooms, setting up appliances and furniture, and cleaning up afterwards, then they had all had pizza and wings together and spent the night laughing and joking together.

Barry had gotten better, his colour was better, he had gained weight, he was bouncy and energetic, able to be The Flash again, and he was smiling. Real smiles this time, not fake, plastic smiles to gloss over how much he was hurting. The couple was able to touch each other again without Barry getting sick, and Hal rejoiced at having their sex life back on track after nearly two months of it being nonexistent.

As for Hal, he had been adjusting to the Missouri winter. He had gotten a heavy winter coat and snow pants, a pair of winter boots, and a set of hat and gloves to wear outside. He and Barry had gone and gotten him winter clothes from the mall, so he wouldn’t be cold when they were hanging out in the house. Barry had also gotten him some heat packs for his boots and gloves to wear when he went outside, which was the best gift he had ever received.

He found that he really liked the snowy winter. He and Barry had made some snowmen in their backyard one Sunday afternoon, then they had made a snow fort and had a snowball fight. Hal really liked watching the snow come down, especially when it was twilight and the streetlights had just come on. He could spend hours in the armchair in front of the window, Barry cuddling with his legs over his lap, each with a cup of hot chocolate, just watching the snow come down.

In his sleep, Barry shifted and hummed, drawing Hal’s attention back to him. The blond was in a warm pair of striped pajamas, with the blankets tucked up to his chin. Hal settled back into bed, wrapping his arms around Barry to leech off his body heat. He would have plenty of time to admire the snow later, for now, he was just going to cuddle.    

[emotional-blender]

sharing a bed.

warning: idk last half has some (what i think is) vaguely described sex. 

i was thinking earlier about what sharing a bed with calum would be like, and about how your sleep would be affected by the amount of traveling he does. the first couple of days when he leaves for tour are rough. the bed is too big and the smell of him slowly fades away as weeks and weeks drag on. but duke always snuggles into the back of your knees as you curl up on your side for the night. at least you're not the only warm body in the bed you share. after the first couple nights you get used to it. it's easier to fall asleep, sleepily texting goodnights and fighting your sleep because timezones are bitches and sometimes he's three hours ahead of you. sometimes six. sometimes he's a couple behind. and for as long as it takes to get used to him being away from you, when he gets back? it takes nothing. when his body slips into bed next to you, exhausted from travel and shows and being social for weeks, it's like no time has passed. and on that first night after some much needed time refamiliarizing yourselves with each others bodies, you fall asleep naked under blankets. you stay curled up on his chest, an arm securely wrapped around you until he's just about to drift off for food. he iterrupts his own soft snores to turn over, facing you.  but he keeps his arm around you, and you shift in it, snuggling in closer with your back against flush against his chest so he's spooning you. instead of the pillow you normally sleep on, your head rests on the firm muscle of his bicep and his other arm comes to wrap around your middle, hot skin against yours comforting you as you drift off to sleep. you never realize until he comes home how badly you sleep without him, because the first night is always like getting a full night's sleep you've been craving for months. you don't wake up until you hear the distinct sounds of duke's whining sometime early in the morning. you shift as calum shifts, burrowing deeper under the blankets as he sleepily wipes at his eyes and slips out of bed. you can hear his scratchy morning voice as he talks to the dog, so excited his human his home. "you gotta go, buddy?" he asks and duke responds by whining louder. you don't have to look to know that his whole body is wiggling, feet tap tap tapping on the floor as he does his morning pee dance. you know they won't be long. you can hear the familiar sounds of calum pulling on a paid of sweats and off they go, disappearing from the room only to return a few moments later. when he slides back into bed with you, his skin is cold and you whine a little at the temperature difference. "baby," the word leaves your mouth and even though you want to pull away from him  because he's cold, you can't bring yourself to do it. instead you burrow close to him. the sweats are gone again and you let your legs tangle wit his as you press your forehead to the concave of his chest, staying there and not even caring that breathing against his skin this close leaves your face feeling a little moist from the enclosed space. his lips press one kiss against your lips and you feel duke's weight climb back up onto the bed, nestling himself into a little ball amongst the mess of feet inder the blankets. duke is snoring before either of you fall back to sleep, but even then, it doesn't take long.

that's how most nights go. sometimes you lay with your side flush against his as opposed to your back, one of your hands idly resting at the inside of his thigh as you drift away to sleep. sometimes, you just fall asleep cupping his dick, familiar with exactly how it feels both when it's soft and sleepy and when it's hard and ready for you. sometimes you sleep facing his beck instead of his chest, the same moist feeling hitting your face as you breathe into his skin, an arm wrapped around his middle and a leg slung over his. you press a few small kisses to his back and it's so easy to fall asleep that way too. you tend to move in sync with one another, turning from side to side so you're not breathing in each others faces. he pokes you awake in the middle of the night sometimes, mumbling about things that happened during the day and those are, honest to god, your favorite times of the day. because somehow at 4am, sandwiched between four hours of sleep on either side of whatever's happening, time stands still. the tv plays some netflix show on the background and you whisper bad hokes to each other until you're both laughing so hard your sides ache. they're not even funny jokes. you just love each other and the moment so much, and you're so close that the weird shared inside language you have that only either of you could understand, is so funny when neither of you has had enough sleep. sometimes instead of jokes it's things that are even dumber. sometimes it's shadow puppets on the wall behind you, and you argue about how to make a wolf because one of you is definitely doing it wrong.

sometimes your middle of the night break isn't full of laughter at all.  sometimes you wake up to his hand rubbing softly at your back, his hips rolling into yours from behind. there's no words and you wonder, for a fleeting second, whether or not he's awake or dreaming. you sigh sleepily and nestle back into him, pretending to still be asleep while his hand moves to your bare stomach, softly rubbing the skin there instead. and this time when you press back against his hips  it's with a purpose and he knows just as well as you do that neither of you are asleep. when his hand travels down between your legs there's nothing you can do to stop yourself from spreading your legs for him. his fingers find what he's looking for easily and there's no teasing here. a soft moan leaves you and you push back against him again. he let's out a groan of his own against your ear and you sigh contently. you're content for a few moments longer, til you're wet and slick for him, and then you can't help it, you have to move against him, turning onto your back and spreading your legs even more for him. he's quick to move his own leg, his heavy thigh pinning one of yours down so you can't close your legs again even if you wanted to. his fingers are moving faster now, dipping lower to the source of your wetness to aid him in making you feel good. you're already so sensitive from the day you've had that cumming doesn't take long. your back arches for him, trembling as he trails open mouthed kisses onto your neck and chest.

"good girl," his voice is raspy with lack of use, coated in sleep as he lets you ride out your orgasm, coaxes you down til you're almost ready to drift off again. but then he's hovering over you, lips pressing kisses to your collar bone and shoulders and you can't help  but reach out for him. it's instinctive, the way you lift your kees for him. your arms wrap around his shoulders as he lines himself up and pushes into you. you gasp, head pressing back into the pillow as you let yourself get used to the stretch. it's uncomfortable but only for a moment before the discomfort gives way to pleasure as he starts moving inside of you, slow at first. you know this won't last long. it never does in the middle of the night, but you're going to enjoy every single moment of it. shifting a little under him, you lift your knees higher and whimper a little at the new angle. he nods against you, pressing his forehead to the crook of your neck as you bring hands up to his buzzed head, letting your nails scritch at his scalp as he fucks you. he picks up the pace a moment later, lifting his head and covering your lips with his and your mouth accepts his moans readily. he lets out a little grunt with every thrust into you and his hands are moving to your thighs. you've had yours; this is his  but it doesn't mean you don't completely enjoy it. he lifts his body up as he moves quicker, and before you know it your knees are up by his shoulders and while he doesn't specifically put your ankles up there, the angle and the way he's burying himself deep inside of you over and over has you crying out over and over. there's still no words.  both your moands and cries are inaudible and as calum lets out one distinctive whine, you  know he's close. it's his tell. the whine and the way his hips jerk and he stops moving, trying to hold on just a little longer.

swallowing thickly you catch his eyes with yours, nodding your head at him and while he's still inside you you clench your muscles around him and whether her likes it or not, he can't hold on anymore. with one cry he starts moving again, quick shallow thrusts as he finishes, cumming inside of you with a series of moans and cries as his hands grasp at your thighs, squeezing tight and holding on. you  know he's strong. there'll be the faintest finger tip shaped bruises there tomorrow and you might not be able to see them, but you'll be able to feel them as you walk. and you wouldn't have it any other way. he collapses on top of you and you hold him close, his head pressed to your chest as he weakly pulls out and lays on top of you. you'd let him stay there but your hips ache a little at the angle your legs are laying at, still spread as he lays between them. you push at his shoulders a little and he gets the idea, shifting and flopping onto  his back. neither of you bother to clean up. instead you just curl up on his chest, and he reaches a hand up to your hair, smoothing it down on top and moving your messy bun so that it's not in his face. he doesn't hold you nearly as tight, spent from cumming,  but his hand lays on your shoulder for a few moments before sleep takes him and it falls back to the mattress. you're out a moment later, muscles relaxed and pliant, like an overly mushy noodle. the sheets will have to be changed in the morning.

when you wake up, you're burrowed into the blankets and somehow you've ended up curled up on your side, calum pressed into your back the way he had been in the middle of the night. this time he's still snoring soundly and you groan a little, shifting under his arm. duke is whining and since you know you're the one who can hear him, and calum is still out, you know it's your turn. you slide out of bed and grab a pair of calum's sweats and a tshirt, calling it good enough as you and duke make your way out to the backyard. you impatiently stand with your arms crossed over his chest as he does his thing, ushering him back in and making sure his bowls are  full before you go to the bathroom yourself. when you get back to the bed, calum's got his eyes close but you know he's awake because as you kick off the sweats and his shirt, he lifts the blankets for you to crawl back under.

"mornin's too cold," you whine but he doesn't say anything. he just pulls you close and presses a kiss to where ever his lips land on your shoulder. like always, a hand comes up to smooth your hair down and to move your bun from being in his way too  much. both an arm and leg are slung over you as he holds you close, trying to cover as much of your body with his as he can. his warm skin against your cool skin is comforting and you nestle back against him easily, eyes closing, letting yourself drift off again because the only member of your small family who wants to be awake right now is duke, throwing his own toy around in the living room.

[chyuans]

          hello , hello  !   first of all ,  i’m super excited to be here even if i’m like 10 hrs LATE  ( gmt timezone things )  i’m noe ,  a gay  they / them at the age of 19 ,  and this privileged lil disappointment of a jock boy is gonna be filling the position of kong_01 . despite the rumours ?  yuanjun’s actually not nearly as bad as some of the people he’ll be meeting here >:)  but you’ll get to know more about that below  !  if you’d like to plot just light up that HEART , or add me on disc*rd which i’ll give out in im’s , where i’m infinitely faster .  if i’m not gaming .  no tw’s under the cut  .

* backstory. > many people know of yuanjun, but few people truly know him. he's the famous kong families’ son, heir to the kong legacy, now forward position for south korea men’s national hockey team - which brought forth a ton of international fame from back home and amongst hockey lovers worldwide. while his talent is undeniable, he is long overshadowed by his families’ accomplishments, forever reminded that he’d never be the perfect son they’d hoped for, and no one ever lets him forget it.

> being the child of business tycoons who’s art business seemed to never be on the decline, tended to lend itself to an unconventional, pretty lonely childhood. 

> although jun no longer wants to dabble in the stupid shit he probably did as a teen, and escape from their home in a childish fit of rage and make the lives of the various nannies that tended to him while his parents were off being great hell, he still wonders sometimes whether this profession is what he would’ve wanted if he’d just not wanted to spite his parents. he loves hockey - that fact is undeniable. he thanks the nanny who took him there once out of necessity to stop his whining, and he fell in love with it almost instantly. but he also questions whether he gravitated to it because it was something he could throw himself into wholeheartedly to fill a void.

> he's very open to different types of people, and after being scouted at 19 and having a massive shift both in culture and identity as he then begun to travel worldwide, he’s a tiny bit more wordly now than he was back then. he's much more concerned about who you are underneath than superficial appearances, which means developing relationships are few and far between, because a lot of people do approach him because of his fame/fortune. he's unjudgemental to the point where his friends worry about his naivety and how easily he trusts people, but he's absolutely not dumb, just very well versed on telling good people from the bad.

> jun may even come across as naïve, but he's very aware of that perception is nearly important as reality. he's not extroverted in a way that demands conversation, but he knows how to talk to anyone from any background even if its just to maintain pleasantries. after competing in various competitions and versing players from canada to japan, he's become much more sharp and ambitious, a guy who very rarely lets distractions take their course. perhaps it’s with this that his family loathe his choices all the more, with his appetite, he was born with the skills required to run a business - pity he never took to anything of the creative sort.  

> working in a fast, stressful, highly coveted job such as pro-sports is a full time job and then some; jun doesn't spend much time not working on it. outside of his schedule, he likes bettering his stamina at the gym and eating healthy. he likes being surrounded by authentic people or nobody at all. he’s not one for trying new things and having new experiences due to time management, tending to stick to a schedule.

> he gets a lot of bad press though, which is beginning to weigh a little heavy on him. doubly now the murder has people talking. from being accused of performance-enhancing pills, various personality scandals, to being linked with ‘dating’ (see: ruining the image of) idols and chaebol’s alike. right now, he’s currently battling a lot of unwanted publicity because of a misunderstood interaction online against a wealthy sweetheart that went sour. 

> while jun might be generally unsympathetic and analytical when it comes to developing relationships with people that’ll last long-term, he's a bleeding heart when it comes to kids who may have experienced the same lonely upbringing as he did, without the financial gains. right now he spends sunday’s teaching a bunch of local foster home kids how to skate, and is trying to fund a couple of sports scholarships for those who show promise under a fake name, just generally being a good ‘ole guy.

> his family do not approve of his job, ofc. in fact neither of his parents have ever attended any of his matches to this day, and are only on semi-decent terms with him because jun begrudgingly is still tied by name to the business and shows his face at events for all of 30 minutes until he physically can no longer maintain pleasantries. his celebrity image perhaps is one thing they can manipulate, and even then, jun could get into scandals galore and still be doing his job. good press, bad press, it has the kong’s family name at the forefront of peoples’ minds, which always brings forth revenue.  

> pros: could be a lot worse considering his upbringing, collected, and level-headed most of the time. wicked good at sports, and keeps a cool head in a tough situation. ambitious, curious, a little reckless. eager to prove himself, rich? and very endeared to people/places he finds fascinating. which are many. knows where the good, authentic chinese cuisine is. hardworking and very interested in the idea of Progress.

> cons: the most private person alive, will not divulge any palatable information about himself or his feelings. devil's advocate always. will put himself and others at an arm’s length the second he feels (disgusted noises) e-emotions (love, namely). gets bored easily. paranoid, leads with the head more than the heart. friends > > > family. a little self-involved, never fucking sleeps - will be that neighbour you can hear padding around above your apartment at 3.05 am like it’s mid-day, aaaaand Loves Winning Above All Else

* personality & relationships.

> like many others, jun has his fair share of surface-level friends. he’s quick to be interested in people, to get to know them better, but it's difficult for him to get closer than that after a childhood of being picked up and dropped by those who looked over him - which kinda has left him with abandonment issues.

> he’s a curator of neat things that aren’t too overtly complex, and that includes friendships. so if you have something unusual about you, whether it's a talent or a way of thinking, he would be inclined to get to know you better. also, he has a lot of leverage with his job. being friends with a sports star slash million dollar trust fund baby who can get you free shit never hurts, just don’t befriend him for the perks, yanno?

> jun is very dedicated to his vision of things, and can sometimes be very obstinate in the way he a) wants them to be done b) doesn't accept other options, think steve jobs. he's very mercurial and can be nice one minute but isn't afraid to switch to hardass boss to get things done and did.  > he is insanely competitive and his strive is drawn out by always wanting to be on top. truly first child material. that's the kind of guy he is, with standards that do not reflect his passive side too well, which sometimes can get him into some “personality” scandals. he is driven, motivated, always looking for ways to be winning.

> i'm sure someone is bound to hate him, he’s probably got a few accounts online dedicated to a steady stream of shit-talking, given his cutthroat status or holding many hockey cups.

> jun doesn’t think too much about his sexuality - he'd probably best be labelled as pan, but leans towards those who identify as women? because of his current placement in a workspace, and with a cultural identity, that both don’t often lend themselves to lgbtq+ rights, i doubt he’d ever make that public.

> he works amongst some of the fittest people in the world, he knows how to appreciate beautiful bodies, but he's not about to discriminate. he's tragically a committaphobe and isn't interested in anything long-term right now, although i think it'd be funny if someone tried. he's very open for flings and one-night stands and even a friends with benefits sort of set up. 

* wc’s.  >  bring me his baby bro and sis. i command u. i have many thoughts  >  somebody who maybe gets in on his foster-kid situation? idk maybe they have a perception of jun being what he is in the articles they read of him, but they see him and are like <3_<3 he actually real Nice huh. i see this being romantic but it could bloom a really nice, wholesome friendship too. >  enemies. not gonna lie, he doesn’t vibe with rich kids w / a stick up their ass, especially since a lot of the people he works with aren’t from exorbitant families. people who loathe him for declining to take over his families’ business? like the boy can’t even name more than 3 artists off of the top of his head?   > fwb except neither of them know what “just friends” mean.  > i would love if jun had a confidante. a best friend, a partner in crime, a total bromance 'cause i can never get enough of those. whatever label you ‘wanna put on it. wiping up each other’s messes. maybe a Betrayal in the works  > again, gonna be a wc, but i would love a “rival” of jun's on a similar level (or bigger)  that’s entirely fabricated based off of trashy articles or a misunderstood interaction online. bonus points if they’re an absolute sweetheart, well loved by most people, and generally the antithesis of jun with his multiple drug/personality rumours, which in contrast, make him seem like the bad guy. 

> party buddy. this guy hasn’t touched alcohol/cigarettes/any other stimulants since he was underage and wanted to rebel. the word “relax” does not exist in his vocabulary. Help

[ofhoneyblood]

BRYCE ATLAS WINSLOW

pronouns: HE , HIM , HIS

age: THIRTY - EIGHT

species: HUMAN

nationality: IRISH , ITALIAN , AMERICAN

sexuality: PANSEXUAL / DEMIROMANTIC

sign: AQUARIUS SUN , LIBRA MOON , VIRGO RISING

occupation: OWNER & BOUNCER @ RED HOT PUSSY LIQUORS

+ traits: INVITING. FAIR. FUNNY. OPEN-MINDED. TOLERANT.

-- traits: GUARDED. DETACHED. DESPERATE. SELF-DESTRUCTIVE. 

faceclaim: MILO VENTIMIGLIA

soundscapes: HERE

aesthetic: HERE

yo yo you yo , it’s lydia ( yes , that’s my real name ) here with my noble beast bryce winslow ! i have had bryce as a muse longer than any other and it’s been literal years since i’ve written him so i’m extremely excited. this is the first time he will be milo though and i’m super hype to get things going ! i have headcanon after headcanon for him , so hit me up if you want to do something bc i am ready to do some shit !! again , i’m lydia ( or nary , nettle , snottie , etc. ) and i love a good name change , twenty five years old , pansexual demigirl ( she / her & / or they / them ) residing in the central timezone.

this is THIRTY-EIGHT year old BRYCE WINSLOW , the OWNER OF & BOUNCER AT RED HOT PUSSY LIQUORS BURLESQUE AND BOOZE who uses HE / HIM pronouns. he grew up in DUBLIN , IRELAND but came to pleasance in JULY 2006 ON HAPPENSTANCE AND TO RUN AWAY FROM HIS PAST and now enjoys spending his time at FOR KEEPS AND RED HOT PUSSY LIQUORS. BRYCE is written by LYDIA.

PERSONALITY

element: air ruling planet: uranus — planet of originality body part: ankles good day: communicative , original , open-minded , fair , logical , inviting , tolerant , funny bad day: guarded , detached , self-destructive , out-of-touch , irrational , desperate , lonely favorite things: dancing , teaching , team sports , anything with a cause or mission , independent films , working out , baths , animals , preserving plant life / flowers , reading least favorite things: injustice , drama queens , feeling isolated , owing money or favors , having to choose just one thing , personal questions , gossip , cigarette smoke secret wish: to experience total freedom how to spot him: a cute smile lighting up a tired face , quirky movements , tired eyes , long legs , big hands , flannel , old beat up truck where you’ll find him: backpacking or hiking , protesting , coaching a team , revolutionizing the industry he works in , the gym , red hot pussy liquors , alone at home , working on a project , taking a walk by northwood lake keywords: friendliness , eccentricity , teamwork , humanitarianism , technology , groups , avant-garde

first thing to know about bryce winslow is that he’s a free-spirit that prizes individuality and plays well on a team. he has been known to do things his own way , moving on a path different from everyone else’s. some call him eccentric , others appreciate his cutting-edge originality and authentic style.

one of the many ways that the irishman is a paradox ? he’s highly individualistic , but also an amazing team player. he might look like the fresh-faced guy next door on the outside , but inside he marches to his own beat. naturally popular , as he’s vibrantly social and loves to be among people , telling jokes and introducing thought-provoking conversation topics.

people truly do make his world go round , and he can become friends with the most random strangers. can be a bit of an alien — a little “ out there ” in his approach to different things. not that he cares about offending anyone ! loves a good casual connection , bryce can disengage as quickly as he connects. in fact , platonic pals sometimes get better treatment than romantic partners. 

while he can be a bit unsentimental on a one-on-one level , he can be moved to tears by the plight of animals , the environment or other social justice issues. yes , this big irishman is a bohemian at heart in some ways , but he also gets the job done. as a tenacious aquarius , he can be quite hardworking when he devotes himself to a goal. 

a competitive ( and lesser-known ) type a streak can emerge when he really wants something. nothing turns him on like progress , especially in the name of his grander ideals ! playing hard to get REALLY works on him lol

philanthropic and objective , bryce is in a lot of ways innovative and avant-garde. from experimental electronic music to community-oriented living , there’s nothing that this man hasn’t or won’t explore. as someone who loves being a part of a good group or team , bringing people together is also one of his specialties. 

intense bryce energy is cutting-edge , “ out there ” and even a little strange at times. a total nerd for all things futuristic , science fiction and wacky inventions. no topic is too cutting-edge with this irishman: extraterrestrials , stem cells , cloning , robots taking over the earth…yup , bryce will go there. 

while he likes to influence rebellion and detaching from reality ( c’mon bryce , back to earth ! ) , he likes to help others see possibilities they wouldn’t otherwise. the essence of his true energy is: community-oriented , original , open-minded , fair , logical , humanitarian , connecting , and inviting. 

the negative expression of bryce’s energy can be: guarded , detached , destructive , out-of-touch , irrational , and desperate.  reluctant to express emotions — the irishman prefers rational reasoning and cool-headed logic to the messy tapestry of the human feelings. 

one of his favorite authors is ayn rand , founder of the objectivist movement , and that’s pretty much all you need to know. objectivism has been a major influence on the libertarian movement , which has a real bryce flavor. it’s an organized system that also preserves individual freedom and limits government intervention. it’s very “ fringe ” and mainstream all at once , a fascinating paradox and something that really intrigues him.

playful gusts and a social butterfly whirlwind combines into a gale force of humanitarianism for all. bryce is a visionary , dreaming up quirky utopias and alternative realities that can shake up the status quo.  emotional detachment , unpredictable energy and rebellion are major factors in the irishman’s personality. not going to lie , he can be “ type a “ and totally quirky all at the same time ??

a stabilizer — the one who sets up a solid goal or foundation then starts building. bryce can take the enthusiastic idea that someone else sparks and craft it into something real. he picks up the ball when another passes it , running the distance to the goal. 

the trustworthy type who likes “ to-do ” lists and fancy titles. if a friend says , “ let’s go on vacation ! ” he’s already calling the travel agency , booking the tickets and hotel , and sending everyone a list of what to pack.

true believer in friendship and teamwork , so bryce tends to be more focused on a group than an individual. freedom is important to him , which is why he likes to keep things light on an interpersonal level. that way , he won’t feel bad about running off to the opposite corner of the world at a moment’s notice. 

at times , this nomadic strategy backfires , leaving him lonely and disconnected. in truth , the irishman is uncomfortable with too much intimacy. this free spirit belongs to the world and feels off-balance giving his considerable energy to just one person. 

while bryce’s friends get first-class treatment , family and lovers see a different side of him: moody , brooding , anxious and neurotic. he may pick one ( and only one ) person to open up to , getting attached to the point of obsession. 

learning to accept and express his emotions would help him avoid the massive freak outs and anger flashes that come from pretending everything’s cool when it isn’t. bryce appreciates a quirky or eccentric twist , enjoying colorful characters and people with counter cultural personalities.

BIOGRAPHY

bryce atlas winslow was born into a very straight lace , play by the rules , catholic family.  his father , matteo winslow , was an italian military man and his mother , deirdre winslow , was a cold irish homemaker. matteo was every bit the ‘ man of the family ’  and bryce grew up only answering to his father. deirdre would only every answer a question with ‘ ask yer da ’ or  ‘ dija’ ask yer da ? ’

she was a mostly spineless , god fearing woman that was afraid of her own shadow and that’s what made her such a good puppet for matteo. bryce’s father was a stern , angry man that only grew angrier when drunk , no one dared put even a single toe out of line with him around. 

( TW: implied child abuse ) with bryce being the first born and only son he was expected to be perfect , from a very young age he felt the pressures of that. it was like walking on eggshells , always afraid of making a mistake or displeasing his father. he did not have the fun , happy-go-lucky innocence a child should expect of their early years ; instead for bryce winslow there was not much more than discipline , hard work , and punishment.

for the most part , bryce succeeded at being the perfect son his father expected him to be — a robot more than an actual living boy. nothing more than a machine , a machine being bred for war. 

it wasn’t until the beginning of his secondary school , when puberty and hormones began blossoming , that things became precarious. voice cracks , uneven patches of hair…. oh , and a sudden sexual desire for the same sex. 

( TW: suicide ment. ) now , the winslows were catholic - extremely devout catholics - and bryce grew very self-loathing and afraid in this confusing time. he contemplated suicide , all because ‘ homosexuality was wrong ‘ and ‘ you go straight to hell ‘ if you engage in anything associated with it. it didn’t matter how good of a son you were , because ‘ man shall not lie with man. ‘  he kept it hidden for years , he also managed not to act on it until well into the last year of secondary school. 

despite bryce’s fears and shame , when he was sixteen he fell in love for the first time. first loves can be explosive , dangerous even and this one was nothing short of just that. the boy kept his forbidden love a secret from everyone , his family and father above all others.

all good things must come to an end though or so they say , for the boys it came far sooner than later. matteo , bryce’s father , happened upon a note from the boy bryce was seeing , cian , and in said note was all sorts of information including a meeting spot. as you can imagine , matteo flew from the house in a drunken rage in search of his “ sinner “ of a son only to catch him red-handed. 

( TW: assault , child abuse ) bryce managed to save cian from his father’s wrath , taking the brunt of the attack. cian watched as bryce was beaten , begging and screaming for the man to stop , that he was killing him. the drunken bigot was turning on the younger boy when bryce told him to leave and never come back , so that is what he did. 

( TW: implied abuse ) to this day , he has never laid eyes on his young lover and that was probably for the best. after his father had tired himself out and satisfied his rage , he left his son there in the dirt and the beaten boy didn’t bother moving. 

( TW: suicidal thoughts , conversion therapy ment. ) will to live depleted , too tired to go on , pain too much to endure — he just slept there until the next morning. he was awoken with a kick of dirt in the face , his father telling him that he was being sent to a ‘’ special ’’ facility where they would get rid of his ‘’ ailment. ’’ 

( TW: conversion therapy / facility ) time melded in the facility , but he estimated nearly a year of his life was wasted away in there. resistant and defiant for most of his time there , it wasn’t until his father visited him , the one and only time . that things changed. 

( TW: suicide ment. , homophobia ) his father brought news that his mother had killed herself but this was a vicious lie , a last ditch effort to get bryce to change his ways and boy , did it work ! hardly a month later , the young man was discharged from the facility only to find his mother was indeed very much alive.

matteo up and moved his entire family to england after bryce got out of the facility. his father gave him nonsense about wanting to get away from the bad memories , starting over new , and ‘ lead not into temptation ‘ by sending him back to school with ‘ sinners ’ and ‘ sodomites. ‘ 

so , bryce finished out the remainder of his schooling in england and went straight into the forces as per his father’s wishes. sadly for him , he would never become what he so longed to be. he had just finished boot camp and life had just started to seem somewhat normal - if you can call anything the winslow’s had normal - when he lost it all.

( TW: eye injury ) the young man was honorably discharged after an accident that left him legally blind in one eye , when he returned home after his short stent in the defense forces there was no longer a place in the family for him. his father quite literally disowned him all for something he had no control over , a mere accident , but there was nothing more disappointing to matteo than a son that was ‘ kicked out ‘ of the forces.

( TW: gang ment. , human trafficking ) fast forward a year , bryce had found himself in a gang. this part of his background is the most unresolved seeing as it’s not part of his original backstory. long story short , he was involved with the gang until he was twenty three but it all became too much for him after his boss tried to involve him in human trafficking. 

( TW: gang ment. , suicide , death ) when you join a gang you don’t usually do it thinking someday you might one day retire or quit said gang , but then as you get older you realize you’re not as tough as you thought. bryce was twenty-three when his mother finally really did ‘ commit suicide ‘ , the first time his father spoke to him since he returned home from the forces was only to blame him for her death. 

( TW: death ment. , implied murder ) honestly , it was just the straw that broke the camels back. bryce wasn’t allowed at the funeral or anywhere near it , he’s almost certain his mother’s death wasn’t by her own hand or an accident but he’ll never truly know. after he was certain she was in the ground , bryce fled to america in the hopes of outrunning the gang and getting lost in the melting pot. 

once in the land of opportunity , he got his hands on the cheapest ride he could find first and just started driving. it was well after his twenty-fourth birthday , right smack in the middle of a hot ass summer in ‘06 ,  that he found himself in pleasance of all places. he never had any intention at all to grow roots there , it simply happened.  

other than that , the man busies himself with drying and preserving flowers , taking baths , working out , and playing with his dog.  he parades around like this big , tough hard ass when in reality he’s quite the domestic goofball type.

ETC.

has a dog ,  it’s a beagle named shiloh literally 

a big hobby of his is preserving flowers in his spare time , he keeps a small book of pressed flowers and plant life on him a lot of the time in the chance he comes across something he wants to preserve

can play guitar and doesn’t have a bad singing voice either

legally blind in one eye , but doesn’t wear his glasses often

has a younger sister that he does keep in contact with , but not very well ( WC ? )

a guilty pleasure of his is taking baths ; he enjoys adding bath salts , flowers , and other so-called ‘ feminine ‘ products like bath bombs , etc. to them and honestly takes one nearly every day

he was born and raised mostly in dublin , ireland and has a thick accent that only gets thicker when intoxicated or angry. he does use a lot of uncommon terminology to american’s ( yes , i own the feckin’ book of everything irish. . . it’s that serious ) but i’ll lyk in the tags what it means unless i forget

@phqextras​

[chwrpg]

What's happenin', hot stuff? -- Duk Barnes

A NOTE FROM ADMIN R: Can I just say, you knocked this completely out of the park, Kayla !!! I am so, so, so, so ready to see what you’ll be doing with Duk given the groundwork you put down in this application. Not just that, but Duk was simply missed on this dash. I love, love, love him and thank you for taking him up once more.

OOC NAME/ALIAS, PREFERRED PRONOUNS, AGE & TIMEZONE:

Your fave Kayla, she/her, 26, EST

DESIRED CHARACTER:

Donald “Duk” Barnes

HOW ACTIVE WILL YOU BE?

Okay so like I am always trying to be better for you guys, so let’s be optimistic and say 6 out of 10.

SECONDARY CHOICE:

N/A

DESCRIBE THE CHARACTER:

One of the things I’ve always loved about Duk is his kind heart. Like, underneath that very attractive exterior, there’s really a heart of gold. When I have written him before, I’ve always enjoyed how much he loves his family. It’s something I connect to and part of what draws me to him. He especially loves and is close to his sister, Sage. He never has seen her as weird, she’s just Sage. His relationship with his two younger siblings is different, of course, but I know he loves them and would do anything for them. It’s the same principle that I see in him with his friends. He’s very much ride or die, as the kids say. He’s also respectful and so funny. I love him so much and I’m forever grateful to be part of giving more depth to a character that was originally just a stereotype.

SAMPLE WRITING:

Adjusting his AirPod in his ear, Duk Barnes reached for his phone, hitting play on his coming to America playlist he had curated specifically for this moment when the pilot announced they had reached America and would reach their destination shortly. 

In a second, he heard the familiar strains of his first track begin just before: “I hopped off the plane at LAX / With a dream and my cardigan / Welcome to the land of fame excess / Whoa, am I gonna fit in?” 

It was a surprisingly apt song for having been released over ten years ago in what felt like an entirely different world. He could remember Sage playing this song over and over until he broke her CD in a moment of anger. He smiled to himself, thinking about how she’d laugh about how he was willingly listening to it now. 

It had been over two months since he’d seen her in person. Or anyone in his big, loud, crazy American family. He’d talked to them through instant messaging, Skype, FaceTime. But that was it. For he had done something crazy on his own. 

He’d gone to Singapore. To meet his biological family for the first time. 

The thing was when Duk had turned 18, his mom had sat him down and presented him with a rather thick packet tucked inside a time-worn Manila envelope. 

“This,” She had said with a shaky breath “Is everything I have about your biological family. You’re an adult now and your dad and I think that it’s time for you to have it.” 

At the time, he didn’t know what to say. He’d taken the big envelope without a word, just nodding. 

“You don’t have to do anything with the information if you don’t want to, of course.” His mom said rather quickly, having taken his surprised silence for disinterest. “But it’s yours. You used to always want to know more about your… your roots. At the time, I didn’t think it was right for me to share. But in there,” She nodded then to the packet where Duk was touching the golden brad holding the envelope shut. “In there, I think you’ll find the answers.” 

In truth, he hadn’t opened it until a year later, He’d found it stashed in a neglected high school science textbook he had forgotten to return while preparing his things to return to college. Sitting at his desk, he finally pried it open. And his mom had been right, the answers to each question he could have wanted to ask were there. 

There was also a letter. In a perfect script, on a fine soft-feeling stationery, written in English. It was from his mother’s mother. She wrote about her disappointment that Duk was given up for adoption, how she wished to raise him herself in Singapore, and gave some background about their family, how they were proudly Chinese and Malaysian and had such history that could be traced back over centuries. She wrote about how his mother had come to Chicago to study and fell in love with a white man. They’d broken up before Duk was even born and it was clear that the man didn’t want to be involved in raising the child. But his mother gave him up because she wanted to focus on her career and how the whole family had prayed that this baby would find a good home and a good family to love him as much as they all did. 

However, most importantly, it said that Duk was, no matter what, part of the family and welcome to come to Singapore and meet them. 

Using some of the names mentioned in the letter, Duk cautiously typed them into Google. The results were mostly in Mandarin, which he knew very little of, so he used the translate function to see what could be made of the articles. It looked like his maternal grandfather was something of a mogul. He had created a hotel and resort empire that spanned not only Singapore, but other countries in Asia and, apparently, a few in development in Europe. It felt unreal, and sat heavy in his chest. So much so that he had abruptly shut his laptop so hard he thought he would break it. 

But it all had stirred up something in Duk. A yearning for something he couldn’t quite name. So, he took up learning Mandarin. He wanted to be able to communicate with his newfound biological family, on the off-chance that maybe some of them wouldn’t speak English. First with Duolingo, then borrowing Rosetta Stone from the local library. He wasn’t fluent, might not ever be so, but as he kept working on it, he realized he took to it almost naturally. The words felt right in his mouth. He saved money in a Tupperware container that he hid in the back of his sock drawer. He had given the adoption agency his information in the hopes that he would hear from his family and the first person to email him was his maternal grandmother. She was who he practiced writing Mandarin to, then, slowly, spoke to on Facetime. She was an adorable lady, with a big smile that reminded Duk of his own and the same shared love of the chaos and beauty of life. She encouraged him to come to Singapore and offered to help financially, but he told her it was okay. He could do it. He’d get there, he’d just need a place to stay. 

“Well,” she said, a determined but amused look on her face. “That much I can do.”

Singapore was… beyond words. He would never be able to put words to the beauty of the country of his biological family and the feeling that settled in his chest when he stepped off the plane for the first time. It took his breath away, looking out across the tarmac, toward the trees and then the city skyline just beyond. It looked like something out of a movie about the future. If he didn’t know better, he would have been anticipating to see flying cars in the sky. It was amazing - and insanely scary - to meet the family, some of whom were eagerly awaiting him as he walked out of customs. It was kind of freaky, too, to notice how he could see himself, for the first time in real life, in other people. Grandma had given him the biggest hug and kissed both his cheeks. He wouldn’t remember all their names and how they were connected to him at first, his head felt full with information and tired from long hours whiled away in the air. He was, however, mildly surprised to discover that his family all seemed to speak English better than he could and playfully teased him with smiles on their faces about his choppy Mandarin. 

Looking at his phone now, he flipped past photos of himself with cousins and various friends of the family, past the TikToks and other videos he had made of his travels (he had been surprised when his video of himself dancing in various airports on his way to Singapore to Billy Idol’s “Dancing with Myself” had begun raking in the likes). It made him smile and he knew already he couldn’t wait to go back. Grandma had begun hinting, toward the end of his time there, that he could try for dual citizenship and had outright offered him a job with the family company, even though Duk wasn’t sure if his uncle - the current CEO of the business - was certain of him. He stops on a video of himself doing one of the many TikTok dances with his cousins outside of a nightclub. They’d been the ones to show him the country’s nightlife, showed him what was what and brought him up to speed on the culture. They’d even managed to get him onto Weibo, the Chinese social media site, and looped him into their WhatsApp groupchat. 

They had encouraged him, too, to meet his mother. Which was… easier said than done, it would turn out. He didn’t meet her until his last few days in Singapore. They’d texted a little before that, mostly just to set up a time and place. And when he had seen her, sitting by the window at the tea shop, it was like looking in a mirror. They had the same eyes, same mouth. And she had smiled at him like he was an old friend. Their meeting had been a little awkward, with pockets of nervous silence on both sides. But when they said goodbye, they hugged and Duk held his composure until he was back in his room, where he broke down into tears. Not sad tears, but tears of relief, of joy. It was all so much more than anything he could have expected. 

The plane makes its final descent into O’Hare and Duk closes his eyes, uncomfortable still with the way the plane downshifts toward the ground, even though he knows it’s safe. He gets his things together once the plane settles on the tarmac, steering toward the gate. Turns off his AirPods, checks his phone for messages. He smiles at the notifications already popping up on his screen; friend requests on Facebook, new followers on Instagram, new likes on TikTok. Most are family, but he doesn’t recognize several of the new likes on TikTok or followers on Instagram. There’s also a text from his sister that just came through: Why is there a video of you dancing on TikTok????? 

He shrugs it off, blowing up on social media doesn’t mean much since he’s still on cloud nine about his trip and eager to just get the hell off this plane already. He’s tired, almost running on fumes, but he still has a bounce in his step that always seems to be with him. 

Then, once he makes his way through disembarking and through hectic customs, there’s the Barneses. Crowded right up to the metal barrier. They’re there to greet him, his mom waving her hands in the air as if he can’t see her in the crowd. His father is saying something to Michael, who is hoisting a big sign up into the air. Sara is picking at Mike, as usual and Sage is just looking around as though she would almost rather be anywhere else. But their eyes meet and she smiles. And he knows she is glad to see him, too. Duk tilts his head to one side, studying the simplified Hanzi type lettering on Michael’s sign. “You do know that the sign says ‘fried rice here’ right?” He asks the group. He didn’t expect this to be his first words to his family upon his prodigal return, but then again, normal to the Barnes family is always entirely subjective. Immediately, his mom shot a look at Mike, who is covering his face to hold back a burst of roaring laughter. “Michael!” She hisses and the boy finally lets loose peals of laughter. Sarah punches his shoulder and he grimaces as Sage rolls her eyes, turning her attention to her phone instead. It was the best welcome home he could have ever received.

ANYTHING ELSE?

Nothing! I love you all!!

[woozisnoots]

♣ hehe (๑¯◡¯๑) hope you have a good day today alex 💓

no, i hope YOU have a FANTASTIC day 🥺💞

You’re my: same name friend hehe

How I met you: that’s a really good question uhh 👁👄👁 okay i don’t think i ever told you think but like i’m... 91% sure i’ve read one of your smaus? but i didn’t know you then OOPS but you joined the cwc server and i noticed we had the same name, and our friendship ✨blossomed✨

Why I follow you: CUZ YOUR CONTENT IS BOMB AS HELL DUDE. i bet you go look back at all the stuff you post and think wow i’m a frickin genius

Your blog is: so pretty to look at 🥺

Your URL is: ohoho i see what you did there 😏

Your icon is: the one i always see on my dash... is that.... still jeonghan?

A random fact I know about you: we’re both named alex/allex and we’re both filo lets go B)

General opinion: if we didn’t live in completely live different timezones, i would literally talk to you all the time :(( you’re literally so nice, chaotic, and funny! when i travel back to the philippines, hmu 😙

A random thought I have: foodfoodfoodfood

mutuals send me a ♧!