#its NOT TRUE. well i mean i do adore him but i wouldn’t call it a crush necessarily

[muirneach]

told my ma about janniskaya and she wasn’t even phased? hello?? is this not the hottest gossip??

[maxlarens]

Hi, I have a smau request for Charles (based on c.ai bot lol, and the fact that I love painting), so the reader is invited by her friends to a house for vacation, her friends are all with their s/o and they also always try to set up reader with someone, that's when her and Charles meet, and reader finally gives it a chance because she knows her friends won't stop to set her up. They talk for a whole evening about what they do in life (reader is an artist/painter) and they get along really well. Eventually they get together and reader is very liked by the public, even if there will always be haters, but most fans thinks she's just very adorable (especially because of her insta/twitter posts)

CL: slip up and i call you baby

pairing(s): charles leclerc x artist!reader

summary: you love your friends, you really do. you just wish they’d stop trying so hard to set you up with random guys. [smau + written fic] (read on: ao3) (part 2)

fc: faceless

word count: 5.1k

warnings: mild sexual references

a/n: this is such a cute idea! thank u so much for sending it in!! u will not believe how much this idea gripped me like i never write one shots like this its just unheard of for me if im honest. anyway i know u asked for a smau so i will be doing a second part/continuation to this that is solely an smau to make up for that. (ALSO sorry for disappearing i was super sick for the whole week and have been getting my shit back together in the aftermath😭)

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ynusername italy we are in u!!!

Amalfi Coast, Italy

You’ve never been particularly boy crazy. At least not the same way your friends are.

There have been a few not-quite boyfriend’s over the years, but those relationships never last long. They never really get you, or they never really get the art thing. Which means, of course, that they don’t get you and never will— and that’s fine, you’re content with that. If living for your art means you’ll never be in love then so be it and frankly, good riddance to them.

For the most part, you’ve given up trying. You go on a few dates here and there, but you never let them stick around. Even the ones that seem interested in your paintings you don’t bother with— none of them really seem to be able to grasp what art truly is to you. It isn’t just paint on a canvas, it’s living, it’s breathing. You are only yourself with a way to make art.

It’s difficult to put into words.

So you don’t. Instead, you send texts that say ‘thanks for your time but this isn’t working out’ and you keep the men your friends try to set you up with at arm's length. You placate Chloe and her partner Rowan– who collects friends like they’re Pokémon– with, “he wasn’t my type” and “I’m not looking for a relationship right now”, which you suppose is true, but also isn’t the entirety of it. Yet, every time without fail, there’s a new boy at the scene of the crime.

Chloe doesn’t get it, none of your friends get it. You don’t try to explain it to them. So, y’know, here you are again.

Anyway, here’s the thing: they’re getting closer. Inexplicably, without knowing how you really feel about it all, Chloe and Rowan are getting better and better at picking the boys who are able to tempt you. Which is a pain really, because sometimes you’re trying to have a perfectly nice vacation in Italy without the lure of a boy you can’t let yourself have. But alas, these things generally don’t go your way.

You should know that by now.

Charles Leclerc is bang on the money, he really is. He is unbearably cute, like so cute that you have to leave the room when he walks in, because you don’t trust yourself to be in close proximity to him right now. You have a hard time looking at his face when you are forced to be around him. The dimples when he smiles, the squint of his eyes even when he isn’t. If you look too long you’re liable to stare and that wouldn’t lead to anything good at all.

He’s nice as well. So nice, just like Chloe told you. You try to pretend he doesn’t exist and he still asks you questions about your job and the area of Monaco you live in— like he’s even interested, like he’ll remember you two weeks from now. You try your best to be pleasant, to answer without it being like pulling teeth, and to ask questions of him as well. You’ll probably see him again after this, so best to not to go too far and act like you hate him. It’s difficult though, toeing the line between friendly and encouraging of more. Or it feels difficult for you. Charles doesn’t make even the slightest suggestion of the two of you being set up by your nosy friends. That’s unbearable too. Part of you wishes he’d just make a clumsy pass at you so you can rebuff it and make your intentions abundantly clear. But, obviously, he doesn’t, because he’s perfect or something.

It sucks. You hate him, you think.

Or you want to.

On the second day of the trip, you’re on the villa’s private beach, laying in the hot sun. Chloe, Anaïs and Bea are there; everyone else is either still sleeping off the wine from last night or swimming in the glittering ocean. You’ve got a secondhand book, a 2B pencil and a pair of sunglasses over your eyes. You’re trying to read but you just end up doodling, drawing your friends bikini-clad bodies over the text and shading grapes into the margins. Trying desperately not to accidentally put Charles Leclerc’s dimples, messy hair, or sloped nose to paper.

“So,” Chloe says conspiratorially, as you abort an attempt at drawing a slightly squinted eye with thick lashes, “What do you think of Charles?”

You raise an eyebrow carefully at her over your sunglasses, betraying nothing of your inner turmoil, “I think nothing.”

Anaïs laughs, rolling onto her back, “That’s such shit. You practically sprint away from him everytime he comes near.”

“I do not,” you answer too quickly.

Anaïs laughs again, louder. Chloe joins in and Bea raises her eyebrows at you like you’re a fucking liar. You frown, glaring a little before stubbornly turning your head back to your book. The conversation about Charles ends there, but unfortunately your actions have spoken for themselves. A chill of something like panic chitters up your spine and into your shoulders. You have to roll them to make the feeling go away.

As the sun climbs higher in the sky you lose some people to the heat and gain others. It’s just you and Chloe sweating onto your towels when Rowan and Charles finally give up on whatever game they were playing in the ocean. Rowan collapses unceremoniously into the space between you and Chloe, kicking up sand and getting water droplets all over you like he’s a wet dog. You let out a noise somewhere between a laugh and an exasperated groan as you roll away from him, landing in the sand.

“Watch it,” you cry, “You’re getting my book all wet.”

Rowan laughs, “You’re drawing in it!”

“So.”

He pulls a face at you that makes you roll your eyes; then he turns into Chloe, shoving his face into her collarbone and flinging limbs over her. You snort, leaning over to snag the book off your towel before it gets dragged into the mess that Rowan is causing. You’re about to get up and go inside until you realise Charles is still standing there. Has, in fact, been standing there since Rowan ran over. Your breath catches, heart skipping a beat as you look up to find him standing there.

“Hey,” you smile briefly at him, quickly looking away from his damp hair and bare chest (–which is difficult to do because, holy shit–) so you can gather up your towel.

“Hi,” he replies.

He might smile back. You don’t look. You’re trying to get the image of his washboard abs out of your head. This proves difficult when you clamber to your feet and find yourself face to face with him.

“Are you heading back?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

God, you want to kick yourself. You’re being so awkward, and right in front of Chloe too, who may not be watching but is absolutely listening to you make a fool of yourself in front of a guy you have very firmly said that you are not interested in. It must be clear to him too, that you’re trying very deliberately to not be interested in him. You cant tell what would be worse; if that means he’ll think you’re a weirdo or if it means he’ll take it as a sign that he should make some kind of move.

Ugh.

“I’ll come with you?”

“Hmm,” you blink yourself back into existence, seeing the questioning look on Charles’ face, “Yes, yeah. Sorry.”

You say goodbye to Chloe and Rowan who barely look away from one another, still rolling around in the sand like teenagers.

“Gross,” you say to Charles, as the two of you trudge through hot sand toward the sandstone steps that lead up to the villa.

He laughs, a breathy thing that tapers off with a sigh, “A bit, yes.”

You don’t say anything else, but you find yourself staring at his back and the way his muscles shift and move underneath his tanned skin. At the top of the stairs you part ways, he smiles at you and you offer something awkward in return, trying to pretend you hadn’t been looking at him. You don’t think he notices, but your cheeks red burn anyway.

You don’t see him watching you leave.

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chloegarelli hungover, sunkissed and lovesick

Amalfi Coast, Italy

Dinner is a huge affair, as it always is on these trips.

You, Anaïs and Chloe spend three hours in the kitchen that afternoon making chicken fricassée and about a hundred different side dishes to go with it. Everyone crowds around the dinner table to eat and drink even more wine than the night before. Piero Piccioni plays on the old record player, crackling away as you laugh and talk and tell stories with your friends well into the night. You watch the sun set through floor-to-ceiling glass windows and you wish wish wish that you had your paints right now.

You brought along a set of oil pastels and one of your art notebooks, but it doesn’t compare at all to painting. If you could get your hands on cadmium yellow in all it’s hues, maybe vermillion and a powder blue, your lack of paintbrush or canvas wouldn’t even matter. You’d use your fingers if you needed to. It bothers you so much that you get up in the middle of clearing away the meal and go to your room for the pastels and notebook. You need to get it on a page at least.

You push a few plates to the side, folding out your notebook and immediately marking the page up with a creamy white pastel. Bea teases you when she comes over to take the rest of the dirty dishes, but you just mumble something unintelligible, too engrossed with smudging the sunset into something that looks like what you’d seen out the window. When the oranges and yellows blend to your satisfaction you take the black and brown and draw in the top of your friends’ heads, not thinking about how much attention to detail you’re paying to the shape of Charles’ side profile.

When you’re finished, you’re surprised to see that the table is cleared save for a few half-full wine glasses and a fresh bottle. Only Chloe, Rowan and Charles are still sitting by you. You’re listening to another Piero Piccioni album now, or maybe just the other side of the record. You remember saying goodnight to the others and saying yes to a glass of wine, so you’ve not been totally dead to the world, but it’s all in a bit of a haze.

You think this might be part of the reason why you can’t hold down a boyfriend. The disappearing into your art like you cant breathe until it’s finished. That may as well be the case if you’re honest.

You sigh, wiping your stained fingers on the next blank page, then you take a long sip from your glass of merlot, pretending you dont notice the others’ eyes on you.

“All done?” Chloe quips, somewhere on the border of teasing and being annoyed at you.

You look at her, your eyes just narrowing enough for her to notice. She does and purses her lips. You raise an eyebrow to ask okay, what’s your fucking problem? And you see her eyes flash to Charles. You follow her gaze to see him and Rowan pretending to look disinterested in your answer. Charles is tracing the base of his wine glass and absently biting the inside of his mouth. You have to tear your eyes away.

“All done,” you answer, tone clipped, before gathering your things (including the wine glass) and leaving the room in a move you hope doesn’t come off as too rude.

At your back you hear Rowan ask Chloe, “What was that?”

Chloe means well, you think as you wind through the villa, making your way to the balcony overlooking the private beach. She wants you to be happy and she thinks you need a boyfriend to be happy. But she’d found the love of her life in Rowan after only a few years of dating around and she doesn’t quite understand that it’s never going to work like that for you. There aren’t enough people out there that understand the kind of passion you have for your art and certainly not many that would also be compatible with you. You’re fine with that, but Chloe doesn’t know what to do with it. Especially not now she’s cottoned onto the fact that you have some kind of interest in Charles. It’s killing her.

It’s irrelevant though, whatever interest you have in Charles doesn’t factor into anything. He’s cute, he’s nice, but so were the dozen boys that you’ve already dated and not continued dating. So really, Chloe needs to stop pushing it because it’s pissing you off. You’re here for a holiday, not to be forced into conversations with a guy you don’t know. If she needs to have an argument to finally understand that, then so be it. You’ve been friends for years, it’ll blow over eventually.

You flick a switch and blinking lights illuminate the balcony. Fairy lights are wound up the posts and draped on the awning, intertwining with the lush green vines that have grown up through the wood slats. The air is balmy and the breeze light as you settle into one of two cushioned chairs situated by a coffee table. It’s perfect. You spread the oil pastels out next to your glass of wine and set your open notebook on your crossed legs, listening to the sound of waves lapping against the shore.

You’re alone for what feels like a long time but is probably only an hour or two.

When the sliding door clunks open you expect it to be Chloe coming over to have it out, but it’s not. Instead, Charles slips through the gap with the rest of the wine gripped in one hand.

“Hi,” he greets, smiling at you in a way that makes dimples carve in his cheeks, and dashing any hopes you have that he’d walk right past you.

“Hey,” you forget yourself for a moment and bite your lip on a broad smile.

He holds the bottle out toward you, offering more. You lean over your notebook and hold your empy wine glass up in acceptance.

“Merci,” you say, and in a moment of weakness (and probable wine drunk-ness) you gesture at the plush chair across from you.

Charles, somewhat caught off guard, looks between your outstretched hand, the chair, and your face, before shaking his head almost imperceptibly and finally taking a seat. Despite his apparent shock, you find it hard to believe he’d come out here simply to offer you some of the last of the wine. Surely, this is Chloe and Rowan’s doing. Though, strangely, you cant quite bring yourself to care.

He sets the bottle on the coffee table, next to your oil pastels. You lean forward to place a few back in their rightful spots, snagging your wine glass as you go.

Charles eyes’ scan your face for a moment, searching for something you suppose, then he points at your notebook, “Have you been drawing?”

You nod, “Mmm.”

You think perhaps the answer is a bit obvious. He seems to realise this, you watch a blush spread onto the top of his cheeks and he flutters his eyelids slightly, almost like rolling his eyes at himself. You don’t think about his eyelashes, thick and dark as they brush against his cheekbone, and you don’t think about his eyes, the lights reflecting off them, making them sparkle.

“What are you drawing then?” he asks after a moment of collecting himself, an edge of embarrassment to his voice.

You give in easily to the strange urge you have to show him, grabbing the notebook off your lap and holding it out for him to see what you’d been scribbling in the book for the past two hours. You let him take it off your hands, ignoring the spike of anxiety. He holds it gingerly, like it's a precious artefact (of course, to you, it is), which makes something warm bloom in your chest. You take a sip of wine and gesture for him to flip through a few pages, which he seems hesitant to do without permission. The book is angled in such a way that you can see most of the page, so you’re content to let him. Or at least you are until he flips to the page you’d started when you’d first come out here.

Panic drops like a stone in your gut because he’s looking right at a fully rendered drawing of his eyes. It’s in amongst some pillars strung with lights and covered in climbing vines; your best attempt at capturing the way the beach looked earlier in the day; and, perhaps your saving grace, Chloe half asleep on her towel. But the drawing of her is haphazard, it’s half-scribbled and half-finished, whereas the one of Charles eyes’ is as detailed as the sunset scene you’d done the page before. It had been something you just needed to get out, drawn in one of those hazes of yours. You’d felt better after it was done, your hands had stopped feeling like they were itchy.

Now, you itch to snatch the notebook off him, but you fear that would be even more incriminating. So you watch him look at the page and try to sit with the panicked feeling spreading in your chest.

Eventually, he points at the page, “Is this me?”

You bite your lip, breathing slowly through your nose to try and abate the blush spreading up your neck. You don’t say anything exactly, just shrug and rock your head back and forth in a kind of confirmation that doesn’t really admit anything. Though, there’s no denying the drawing is him.

“It’s good,” he says, seemingly stumbling over the words, “It’s very good.”

You frown into your drink, “Thank you.”

“I mean it.”

You know he means it. It’s not that.

“Yes,” you put down the wine glass, looking at him but avoiding eye contact, “I know. I know it’s good. I’m just… I’m embarrassed,” you admit.

He furrows his eyebrows– or it’s more that he squints and his eyebrows fold in with it. You watch his tongue dart out to run across the top of his bottom lip and you stamp down the less than innocent thoughts that come bubbling up at that. He waves the hand that’s not still holding carefully onto your notebook about for a moment, trying to conjure up words that he doesn’t have yet.

Slowly, he says, “You shouldn’t be embarrassed. I– It’s–”

He’s about to say flattering, so you cut him off, not wanting to hear the tone of it, whether it be pity or something else entirely.

You try to explain yourself, “Things get stuck in my head sometimes. Like after dinner,” you reach forward and flip the page back one, to the sunset, “I have to get it onto paper. Or… or… it just runs laps in my head for the rest of eternity, I guess. I don’t stop thinking about it.”

You cringe internally. You’ve just told him that you were so consumed by thoughts of his eyes that you had to draw them immediately. That is perhaps worse than just wanting to draw him because you thought he was cute. Charles raises his eyebrows, clearly surprised by your admission, but there’s perhaps also something sincere in there? You can’t pinpoint it, but it makes you feel a fraction better you think.

You sigh forlornly, “That’s weirder, huh?”

He laughs, properly laughs, and it sends some strange feeling skittering down your spine, “No. No, I get it. I don’t have any way to get it down as quickly as I’d like, but I definitely understand the feeling.”

You bite the inside of your lip, hesitant but still curious, “You understand the feeling? Really?”

“Yes,” he smiles easily now, relaxing more in the chair after he places your notebook onto the counter with a cautiousness you still don’t expect, “For me, with racing, it’s like I get an idea and I can’t sleep until I try it on track or talk about it with someone. Some of them don’t work, or aren’t possible, which is fine, but if it sounds right to me and it checks out with the people that it needs to, then, well, then it literally does run laps in my head.”

You laugh, mostly to yourself. You’re not sure yet if he understands what you’re saying, but he’s trying. That’s more than you can say for a lot of people. You try not to let that thought linger for too long.

“You think it’s similar?” you ask in a way you desperately hope comes across as curious and not accusatory.

He hums, waving his hand around again for words, “Perhaps. I think the urgency is the same. The passion is the same. Do you ever feel like something terrible will happen if you can’t–”

“Yes,” you’re a bit breathless in your haste to agree, to talk about this feeling with someone who understands, “Yes. I do. It’s like I need to put it somewhere before I lose it. Otherwise, it won’t be perfect, or it’ll be too late.”

“Exactly,” his eyes seem to light up, for a long second you watch the flickering lights reflect in them, “Exactly.”

“It’s never as good as I want it to be,” you admit, finding it easier to look him in the eye now that some strange barrier between you has been broken, “It’s never quite how I imagine it in my head.”

Charles points at your notebook, “These are very good, really. I don’t see how they could be better. But,” he shrugs, “Eh, I will win a race and still think of everything I did wrong.”

You nod eagerly in understanding as you lean back into the chair, finally relaxing into the cushions. It’s strange to have this conversation, knowing you’re talking about two entirely different careers, but feeling like they’re so similar. Maybe it’s just you and Charles that are similar, maybe your jobs have nothing to do with it? You don’t know, you just know it’s nice to feel like someone gets what you’re talking about.

Charles continues, speaking like he’ll explode if he doesn’t get this off his chest, “It’s there all the time, do you know what I mean? Maybe I’m not thinking about it every second, but it’s always there waiting for something to draw attention to it. And people ask what else is going on in my life, and of course I do other things, and I enjoy other things, but I want to be on the track. I want to be driving whenever I can.”

You nod again, more subdued now, “Mmm, right. I want to be making art all the time, and when I can’t it’s like missing a limb. To me art is– it– it’s like–”

“–breathing,” he finishes, almost the lilt of a question to it, but not really, it’s like he knows exactly what you mean… how you feel.

You exhale, long and slow, “Yeah. Like breathing.”

Both of you are quiet for a little after that. You’re trying not to stare at him, but it’s not easy. He’s looking at you almost blatantly and you can feel blood rushing to your cheeks the longer he stares. The air feels thick with some feeling you can’t place. All you know is there are butterflies in your stomach and a smile keeps pulling at the edge of your pursed lips.

The smile takes over as you catch him starry-eyed in your peripheral vision, you mutter, “Stop that. Stop looking at me.”

“Why?”

You tip your head back so you can’t see him looking at you, “Because.”

“Because?” he laughs breathily, shaking his head at you, “Okay, well, tell me if I’m misreading anything, but I’m pretty sure that drawing of me in your notebook says something, at least.”

You run a hand down your face, sighing loudly, “Yes, okay. I suppose it does. But– I–” for a moment you struggle for the right words to explain yourself, “I guess I’m not really looking to date anyone.”

He tilts his head to the side, furrowing his eyebrows and looking for all intents and purposes, like a confused puppy, “You guess?”

You nod, resisting the urge to just launch over the table and grab his face. He is very cute and he is making this so hard for you.

He sucks his teeth briefly, shrugging, “I’m not really either.”

“Alright,” you say, “Good.”

As over as that should make the issue, strangely enough it doesn’t feel like you’re done with Charles Leclerc and it certainly doesn’t feel like he’s done with you either.

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Amalfi Coast, Italy

You try to avoid Charles after that, you really do, but he doesn’t quite let you.

For a few days of the holiday you give him pointed looks and purse your lips a lot when he’s around. Chloe catches on straight away and that makes it all infinitely worse until she finally realises she might need to leave you alone (yeah, shocker). When Chloe finally forces everyone to get off your back about Charles, it becomes much easier to be around him. You’re not glaring at your friends while they make eyes at you, or worrying if you’re acting weird; you’re just allowed to be.

It’s nice. He’s nice.

But you knew that already.

Neither of you are looking for a relationship so there’s no pressure for it to be anything at all. But you have this sneaking suspicion that perhaps both of you are looking for a relationship with eachother regardless. You try to ignore the thought.

On day five, you’re sitting together on an outcropping of rock that overlooks the ocean and you’re letting Charles doodle in your notebook with a ballpoint pen. The bare skin of both your arms are pressed together, they stick with sweat from the hot midday sun but neither of you seem to care. As you watch him doodle inexpertly you can smell him— salt and sweat and whatever cologne he uses masking the very faint scent of burning rubber. Your hair, still damp, brushes his forearm, you wonder if you smell of acrylic paint and mildew from all the water cups you accidentally leave out for your paintbrushes.

You reach out to trace a line he’d made, “Here, it should be more like…” you taper off, taking the pen from his hand and quickly fixing the curve of the beach before handing the utensil back.

“Hmm,” he hums, giggling a little, “I guess that looks better.”

“You guess?”

He nods, “What if I had a very specific vision?”

You raise an eyebrow in disbelief, leaning back to look him in the eye you tease, “A vision. Did you?”

He tilts his head down to look at you. You’re very close now, you can feel his breath fanning over your face. In the reflection of his sunglasses you watch your lips part slightly and your eyelids flutter. Your chest grows tight with anticipation and maybe a little bit of panic. Still, you reach out and slide his sunglasses up to settle in his hair. You’re a little careless, but you like the way his hair pokes out from them at odd angles. As he breathes out you hear it catch for a split second.

“Did you?” you repeat, knowing he won’t remember what you were talking about.

He blinks twice, still staring at you, “Hmm?”

“You said you had a vision,” you breathe.

“Oh,” as he says it, his eyes flicker down to your mouth, only for a second, but it’s long enough to you know you’re done for.

You both lean in at the same time, your noses sliding off each other in your eagerness. You breathe a kind of laugh into his mouth and you feel him try to suppress a smile against your lips. It’s slow for the first few seconds, just you and Charles figuring out how your mouths fit together. His mouth is warm and wet and so soft, and it’s easy to lose yourself in it. You move the hand that had adjusted his sunglasses, sliding it up his shoulder to the back of his muscled neck. Your fingers weave into the short hair at the base of it, your nails scratching absently there. He groans, ever so slightly into your mouth and it sends heat skittering down your spine, into the low of your gut.

The hand of his that isn’t clutching onto your notebook slips forward and winds around to press at your bare back. He pulls you closer to him as you slide your hand up to cup the back of his head, tilting his head to deepen the kiss. Soon it’s a mess of tongue and teeth and Charles blindly shoving your notebook somewhere it wont slip into the water so he can grab you with both hands. He tastes like red wine and coffee and you love the way his fingers dig into your skin and the way his teeth have been grazing at your bottom lip, like he wants to sink into it.

You’re almost in his lap when you’re forced to pull away for air.

Foreheads pressed together, you breathe heavily into the space between you. Your hand is still stuck in his hair and one of his on the small of your back, the other holding your knee. The sides of your noses touch, you nudge yours against his affectionately, tempted by the proximity of his mouth.

He laughs and you feel it against your lips, intermingling with your own breath, “Alright. That was–”

“Yeah,” you finish, dipping forward to kiss him again.

You’re lost for another few minutes. Tongue and teeth and the sound of the waves crashing against the rock behind you. And his hand on your jaw and in your hair and pulling you closer closer to him.

He pulls away this time, turning his head to press your cheeks together, mouth at your ear, “So,” he drags the word out with a laugh, “are you looking for a relationship now?”

You snort unceremoniously, and tease, “Hmm. I guess I would be amenable to that.”

“You guess?” he asks— but not really needing to at all because you can feel his dimples pressing into your cheek as he smiles knowingly.

You nod, smiling too, “I guess.”

🎨 yes of course i made a playlist>> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6cAJaZjvK0V7SrmxoMosBX?si=ADlJGHxxQYKnlZ1jWFJxfw&pi=a-AI0MKbo3RTqE

taglist: (pls message if you'd like to be added to the taglist for charles. my yuck! one is full so need to start a new one😭)

[greg-montgomery]

Friends to lovers with hotch. Bau!Reader has been pining forever but is deciding to move in after seeing Aaron and Beth be with each other. New guy also happens to be a single dad with a boy in jacks grade. Jack is not happy about another boy stealing his mom figure yk? Father son duo working together to get the girl.

Tbh idc what you write coz its always good. And im a sucker for jealous hotch ALWAYS

okay can i just say that when i saw this ask i got obsessed with the concept immediately!!! like that’s so cute???? also while writing this i was thinking “jack is such a little sweetie he wouldn’t have an attitude” but then i thought of this tiktok and remembered he can actually be salty af <33 LMFAOO

♡ ♡ ♡ ♡

“Buddy, what’s wrong?”

Jack hadn’t spoken a word the entire ride from school. Aaron was used to his bubbly sweet voice filling the car, telling him all about his day; so the silence was deafening.

“Nothing,” he replied, dropping his small bag on the floor and running to his room.

The truth was, Jack had been pretty moody lately and it was all because of you. Well, it wasn’t your fault of course, but it was your absence that had Jack throwing tantrums in a way he never used to before.

As Aaron’s best friend, your presence in his house, in his home, was a constant. Movies, dinners, board game nights…Jack had grown used to you. And he absolutely adored you.

When Beth came into Aaron’s life, though, things started to change. You were pulling away from him, from them. At first, Aaron thought that maybe you were jealous; and if that was true, he would drop Beth in a heartbeat and run into your arms. After all, she was only a distraction to him in order to get over you.

All those dreams of him were shuttered one day, when he had called to ask you if you’d join him and Jack for a movie night, only to be told you had a date: a date with the dad of one of Jack’s classmates. You told him the two of you met when you went to pick up Jack from school one day, and Aaron cursed the moment he had asked for your help. If he knew the dads there would be all over you, he wouldn’t have let you set foot into that damned school in the first place.

“Jack?” Aaron said, knocking on his door.

“Go away!”

“Jack, please talk to me. I want to help.”

There was a long pause before Jack finally opened the door and let his dad in.

“What did you do to her?” he asked with tears in his eyes.

“Buddy, what are you talking about?”

“Y/N. Why isn’t she your friend anymore?” Jack looked incredibly sad and it broke Aaron’s heart.

“We’re still friends,” he answered, softly. “What makes you think we’re not?”

“She’s never here anymore.”

“I know,” Aaron said. “But that doesn’t mean she’s not our friend anymore. We’ve just both been busier than usual.” He wasn’t technically lying, but he still felt bad.

“Why couldn’t you get together like they do in the movies?” Jack raised his voice. “Now she’s with Charlie’s dad. And she packs Charlie lunch and makes him sandwiches that look like dinosaurs like she used to do with me! It’s not fair, she was ours first!”

Well, that explained why he was so mad after school today.

Aaron couldn’t find any words to say, and how could he when he was just as jealous as his son? Jack was right; you were theirs first. And they’d win you back.

--

“And dad told me we’ll go get ice cream later with Y/N!” Charlie exclaimed, but Jack did not share his enthusiasm.

“Okay,” Jack answered, rolling his eyes.

“And maybe we’ll go to the movies after. She said she loves watching cartoons! She doesn’t think they’re boring like all grown ups,” the kid continued, not realizing he was making Jack upset.

“I know, we watch cartoons all the time together,” he replied.

Right next to them, their fathers had a separate conversation, but very much similar to theirs.

“The kid loves her already,” Charlie’s dad, Nick, said, watching you from afar. They were all waiting for you to finish your little chat with that teacher friend of yours, so they’d finally leave the school building.

“And how can he not, I mean she’s so great,” he added.

“She is,” Aaron agreed, though gritted teeth.

“I’ll take them for ice cream now so they can bond a little more. This girl loves ice cream.”

“Yeah, I know.” Who did that guy think he was? Thinking that any detail about you would be news to Aaron. Of course he knew you loved ice cream. He knew you better than anyone. Anyone.

“Sorry!” you said, walking fast towards their little group. “I hadn’t seen my friend in a while.”

“That’s alright.”

“It’s okay.”

Aaron and Nick talked at the same time, which ended in them sending annoyed glances to each other.

“Well, we better get going then,” you said with a smile.

As all of you walked out of the building, Aaron heard you telling something to Nick and Charlie. “Can you wait for me in the car? I’ll be back in a minute!”

To Aaron’s surprise you approached his car with one eyebrow raised. Oh no, you were mad.

“Y/N,” he said, but you cut him off.

“Why are the two of you being mean to Nick and his son?”

“We’re not mean to them,” Aaron said, but Jack’s voice was louder. “Because we hate them!” he said.

“Jack.”

“What? It’s true. You said that Mr. Nick is ugly and a jerk!”

“Jack, language!” his dad scolded him.

You turned your gaze to Aaron. “Is this true?”

He sighed, in defeat. “Jack, can you please get in the car? I want to speak with Y/N.”

“Fine,” he said, and followed his dad’s request.

“So?” you said when you were finally alone.

“So…I may have said some things about Nick.”

“Why?” your soft voice asked.

“Because, I can’t stand the thought of him with you. God, Y/N, I can’t do this anymore. I want you. I want you to be mine. I wanna be the one who takes you for ice cream and the one who brags about you to the other dads.”

“Aaron…”

“I understand if you don’t feel the same way-”

“Of course, I feel the same way, you idiot,” you said. “But then Beth showed up and I thought it was one sided!”

“Beth’s in the past.”

“She is?”

“Yes. She didn’t mean anything to me. It’s always been you,” Aaron admitted.

“Wow…” you said, placing your palm on your forehead.

“Yeah…”

“Well, I have two people waiting for me in the car right now. And I don’t want to just  blow them off.”

“I understand.”

“I’ll talk to Nick tonight. I promise,” you said, touching his hand. “Okay?”

“Okay.” Aaron smiled.

“She touched your hand,” Jack said with a smirk when his dad got back in the car.

Aaron stared at him through the rearview mirror with furrowed eyebrows, but Jack could read him very easily. So he just giggled.

--

“Ew!” Jack yelled, his face forming a disgusted expression at the sight of you and Aaron kissing.

“Hey, you got your wish!” Aaron told him. “You should be grateful.”

“You know what I think?” you asked.

“Hm?”

“That our little Jack is jealous because he’s not getting any kisses.”

“No!” he giggled, as you and Aaron chased him, ready to cover his chubby cheeks with sweet kisses.

[doudouma]

“serenity found in a calamity”

hua cheng who’ve known calamity m!reader for a long time!

_______________________________________________

╔══ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══╗

you and hua cheng are both calamities and is in love! how sweet♡ knowing eachother for a long time, a third person shows a glimpse into both of you twos mind, but both of you keeping your true desires at heart〜

there are no warnings, my dear lotus.

reader is male.❀ 〜

a/n : i changed a few things canonly to match what i was trying to go for! please excuse me〜 i also need to continue reading tgcf, so excuse anything that is incorrect!

╚══ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══╝

ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻ੈ✩‧₊˚ ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻ੈ✩‧₊˚

you and hua cheng has been intamite for a while.

a while just being a few years. “few years” being over 500 years

the both of you had stood together since the beginning of time, through thick and thin, ascension and descension, war, and any situation. you two were there for eachother♡how romantic!

also with you two being calamities, you guys often poke fun or just mess with the heavens together!

there’s countless amounts of time fighting alongside eachother, dealing with one another’s hardships, hanging out at paradise manor, and even just gazing upon beautiful stars.

although your lover will just gaze at you, insead〜

your most intimate lover, san lang. the type of lover you cannot ask for, and instead is a gift sent to you, just for you♡

“gēgē/dìdì, i’ll forever be grateful and cherish the things you do for me. but i will always return your energy times a million, to show you how much more you mean to me.”

although you’re a ghost, that won’t stop your lover from being devoted to you. he’ll make sure that any work you have, will be done by his hands.

you don’t even have to ask either, hua cheng is quite attentive! one minute you say you have some work to do, the next moment its already done!

and of course, you’ll have shrines and statues made just for you! exchanged ashes, as well〜

as we all know, he’ll go to any extent to protect you, and would absolutely melt if you protect him, since you’re just as strong♡

(no different from xie lian) hua cheng will definitely address himself as san lang to you, so you can secretly call him a term of endearment〜

he would wholeheartedly adore you two just taking a stroll around ghost city and paradise manor!

he doesn’t even have to show you off to his citizens because they’re already so drawn to you! not only because you’re the hua cheng’s lover, but also because you have status on yourself, as well〜

expect a lot of his citizens to dote on you, and ask you to gamble, but they would definitely back off if you or your lover requested them to.

they just love you too much!! as much as their hua chengzhu♡

since you’re a calamity too, and they have territories, your lover would be more than delighted if you two hang out at your territory/city!

even if it’s not the best, that wouldn’t matter to him, it’s the fact that it’s yours that he loves.

“i could stay here for hours. it’s a comforting spot to me. it’s as close as i could get to a ‘home’ feeling. i’m glad my beloved gēgē/dìdì is able to make me feel this way.”

by the way, you have a (not-so) secret admirer! how cute〜 who could that be?

e-ming, of course! he's always looking at you with the most cutest puppy eyes, always anticipating even a small glance from you♡

if he succeeds, he’ll start squealing and vibrating, which will result in a smack right to the eye…

his squealing and vibrating gets immensely stronger if you hold him! your lover will be quite envious of his own scimitar, but the sight will be cute too see.

e-ming represents hua chengs emotions, and if you catch onto that he’ll be fairly embarrassed and attempts to limit the things e-ming tries to get you to do.

be sure to give your lover himself just as much praise and love!〜

with your attention brought back up from your lovers waist, you’re probably wondering, where’s xie lian all this time?

the truth is, i don’t know, either〜

regardless, you and your lover has spent almost both of your entire lives knowing and loving eachother, and perhaps a handsome man in white caught you and your lovers attention on multiple occasions.

the three of you conversed before, the interaction, however, is for you to determine〜

your beloved san lang is like no other. and to him, you are like no other, and much more. you two complete one another in every way.

in a world of chaos, you and san lang always find peace and serenity in each others embrace.

maybe the flower the crimson rain sought out this whole time was you?♡〜

this were extremely fun and lovely to write! although i did have a few hardships, like trying to fill in the void of me not knowing everything that happens in the book. or trying to make sure it’s still romantic just enough. nonetheless, i loved the outcome regardless! my precious flowers, as always, thank you for your time and patience!❀〜

[igglemouse]

As sunlight streams through a few kitchen windows on an ordinary Tuesday morning, I find myself in my zone, right in front of a stove and preparing what hopes to be a delectable breakfast.

Today, my craving calls for a special oatmeal creation that only a chef's touch can perfect because I plan to fold in a generous amount of berries and a few swirls of cream, maybe even a sprinkle of cinnamon? Who knows, sometimes when it comes to cooking its more about a feel and a whim to create a symphony of flavors that will get my taste buds dancing and singing.

As for Pascal, he was busy working out. Always working out. That is one dedicated man but that is one of the main reasons I'm attracted to him. I do love a man that has a goal, that has something driving him and Pascal definitely fits that criteria.

After my breakfast and after his workout we meet up on the couch.

"I'm so happy that you've been staying over,” he starts. “You know, you can stay over as long as you like, right?”

"I think you've said that before,” I reply, but I do like hearing him say it again.

"Well, it's true! I don't mind you being over here. There are many pros and I can’t think of any cons but I guess there might be a few.”

"Oh? A few cons, really?" I challenge.

"Nah, just kidding, no cons at all now that I think of it."

"The pros then?"

"The food is always amazing and the company is somehow better than the food."

"And by company you mean?”  He gets just a little closer as I ask, close enough that our shoulders brush up against each other and he puts aside his patience and brings me in for a kiss... 

And he kissed until somehow some way my clothes were off...

After our little romp I was reminded that I'll be needing clean clothes for the week and for some reason the man doesn't have a washer or dryer. I think he mentioned that he relies on the equipment manager at the stadium or something? For a professional athlete, he sure does live modestly, I’m not sure if financially this is a good or a bad thing but lets go with bad since it leaves me here washing my own clothes in a bucket of water under the hot Oasis Springs sun. 

Being filthy rich was never my goal and I don't want to just tie myself to him in the hopes that his next contract will be the thing that makes him wealthy but...it wouldn't be so bad, would it?

At least there would be a washer and dryer.

Right after handling my laundry I receive a text from Irene. She's asking if she can come over to hang out. It is a good idea since I don't have much planned for today, so it would be great to catch up with her and spend some time together.

But that won't be till later as right now is about lunch.

The enticing aroma of tamales drags Pascal from presumably whatever workout he was in the middle of and right into the kitchen. A big goofy grin on his face contradicts the accusatory look of his eyes, directed right at me, or rather, past me and at the stove. "Actually, this is definitely one of the cons."

"Didn't you say earlier that my cooking was a pro,” I say, playfully desperate to defend myself but thankfully my tamales are ready to go to help in my defense.

"Yes, but your cooking will make me fat and slow. I'll be cut from the team in a few months!"

"Pascal! You told me you didn't want salads so-"

"Cut in a year, Frida, think about that..."

I just laugh because no way this guy is going to put on weight with how much time he spends on the treadmill and working out.

Right as I finish my lunch I’m pulled to the door by a gentle knock which I correctly assume is Irene. Seeing her does put a smile on my face and I hurry to wrap her into a hug because I feel like there is an instant connection between us.

Instead of inviting her inside I led her to the side of the house as the weather really was too perfect to stay inside. 

Irene was eager to talk about my food or more specifically, the tacos I had for sale.

"I absolutely adored them!" she tells me but I could tell just by the look in her eyes. “Just a very classic taste and texture to them and-”

"Some foods just don’t need much experimentation," I offer because its true. I don’t try to reinvent the wheel with my dishes I simply try to make the car go faster.

"You're right about that you know but I've been trying to spice things up, you know? Fusion tacos, trying to mix things up and create a signature dish."

"Oh, hows that been going? What about that man ummm...your boss?" Remember him, Martin Lucena? He tried to hire me and was very very upset when I told him no? 

"Yeaaaa, he's not much for experimentation," she says with a laugh and I think more about my run in with the man just last night. Hard to imagine ever working for him. "But you know, I do it on my own time. One day I'll be on my own, like you are, and having a signature dish or two will help me stand out."

"Hmmm," she has a point there. I could use a signature dish myself. After all, a flying car must be better than one that just goes faster, right?

It was nice to spend more time with Irene but the day grew late and left me with Pascal who was at this time making love to his treadmill once again. I decided to bother him and annoy him a little because why not? He was having none of it though and decided to use the art of telling corny jokes to fend me off. 

"Why did the striker bring string to the game?" he asked. I froze in pure fear of what the answer might be, pleading with a look for him to not continue. "He wanted to tie the game!"

I cringe, already throwing in the white flag. "Okay Pascal, I don't-”

"How does a player stay cool during the game?"

"Water?"

"No, they stand near the fans!" He said, jubilant, as if he had scored a championship winning goal.

"Why does-"

"Noope! You enjoy your workout!" I get out of there just in time. 

So yeah, I really am enjoying my time over here...

Frida Varela Index ~ Next 5.2

[seravphs]

ੈ♡˳·˖✶ — TODOROKI SHOTO x FEM READER

You miss home, but isn’t it true that home can be a person? 

wc — 950

tags — fluff, reader is homesick, food

You squeeze the lemon over the sauce with increasing irritation. It only irks you more when you go to mix and the whisk slides out of your hands, slippery with juice. By the time you finally get all the ingredients incorporated, you’re fuming. 

Though, to be fair, you were mad before you even started the sauce. 

You dip a finger into your creation and watch it drip off. It’s the right consistency, but the taste is what’s most important, so you pop your finger into your mouth. 

Immediately, you wrinkle your nose. The flavor’s all wrong. None of it tastes like home. 

The kitchen door creaks.

Quiet feet pad past you to the cabinet. Shoto is halfway through filling up the mug he just obtained with water when he notices you and the mess. 

“Were you that hungry?” Shoto says wonderingly. His eyes flit from the open packet of crisps to the pile of wrappers littering the table, the leftovers of an unsatisfying feast. “I would’ve made you something.” 

It’s not a physical appetite you’re trying to curb. Your mind is what bothers you, not your stomach. Your tongue is lonely for familiar tastes. 

It was your choice to move across half the world, and you don’t regret it. You’ve made great memories here, many of them with Shoto. 

It just gets lonely sometimes.

Your friends and Shoto have never let you doubt that you’re loved, but there are things they can’t understand, no matter how hard they try. They do try, though.

Shoto calls your mother for nearly an hour every week. It used to be to get to know you and the place you came from better, but from the snippets you overhear now, it’s devolved to gossip and grocery shopping tips. 

She’s the reason he knows what you’re making as he peers over your shoulder and dips a spoon into it, so much more refined than you. Rich brat, you think, but there’s so much fondness in it. 

He makes a noncommittal hum as the flavor hits his tastebuds. You can’t tell if it means he likes or dislikes it, though he wouldn’t have a frame of reference for what its supposed to taste like anyways. 

“Isn’t it supposed to be more salty?”

Or not. 

Your mother really had rubbed off on him. It’s endearing, even through the haze of your frustration. You give him a wan smile and wipe your hands off on your apron. It’s late and you’re tired. There’s no point in trying another batch tonight. 

He looks adorable with his hair in clips you bought him. It makes you feel a bit better about your failure as you lean in to kiss a tiny spot of sauce off the corner of his mouth. He’s not always as perfectly well-mannered as he tries to be, not in the comfort of your home, and you love him for it. 

“I’ll try again tomorrow,” you tell him. “Let’s go to bed.” 

You don’t have to explain it for him to grasp what’s going on. He knows without words, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he helps you wash up and lets you tug him back to your shared mattress. 

If you can’t go home, Shoto resolves to be home for you. 

It’s harder to keep a secret than he thought it would be. He’s not used to hiding things from you, not when you’re the person it’s easiest for him to be completely relaxed around. His fear of being found out doesn’t stop until you go to work, completely unaware of what he has planned for tonight. 

You come home earlier than he expected you to. He scrambled to hide it at first, then realizes that even with all the new muscle he’s developed as a pro hero, he’s still not bulky enough to cover the entire table. Instead, he goes for a shaky “Surprise?” 

He doesn’t mean for it to come out as a question, but it does. 

You survey the kitchen, eyes wide. He tried the best he could, but some things aren’t quite right. He burned the main dish, and the dessert is just a little on the side of too sweet. But he tried. 

He hopes you’ll be able to tell. 

The way you’re examining his offering is making him nervous. The fear that you might not like it genuinely scares him, but he doesn’t expect you to burst into tears. 

“I miss it,” you cry. He rushes past the kitchen island to get to you, bruising his hip on the counter.

“I know,” he frets, his hands fluttering over you. They’re uncertain, wishing they knew where to touch you to make the pain stop. If he could, he’d take it all away. “Here, have a bite.” 

In desperation to stop your tears, he shoves a spoon in between your teeth, but he’s clumsy in his hurry. It’s too big of a bite, leaving you choking as you try to swallow. Now even more concerned, he rushes to bring you a glass of water. 

How did his gesture of love go so wrong when he meant so well? 

At some point, he realizes that the hysteric little gasps you’re making have changed from tears to laughter. You’re laughing - and it’s at him. 

He frowns. “I was trying to be nice, you know.” 

Even grumpy, when you open your arms for a hug, he draws closer, ever enticed by the promise of a cuddle. “You ridiculous man,” you say, unable to stop laughing. “I love you.” 

You kiss his forehead. 

“I love you.” 

You kiss the bridge of his nose. 

“I love you.” 

He stares at you, wary. “You’re not upset?” 

“You’re the love of my life,” you tell him honestly. “Now, please, can we eat the meal you put so much effort into?”

[my-castles-crumbling]

Soooo, i’ve been following u for a while (adore ur microfics btw ❤️) and now I require advice… thankfully you’re good at that. 

So i’m straight. And i’ve fallen in love with this guy. He’s adorable and sweet and brave and honestly the best person I know. I met him about a month and a half ago at a work thing (he doesn’t work where I work tho, not that it matters) and we’ve been dating ever since. 

We haven’t done anything sex related yet (don’t worry this isn’t abt that). But the other day I decided we should talk about it, because he seemed super bothered by the idea (i had a hunch he might’ve been ace, which I was fine with) but it turns out it’s not that, he’s trans. 

He told me he transitioned pretty young, and that he’s had top surgery but not bottom. I reassured him this doesn’t change anything, cause it doesn’t, but to be honest, i’ve never really been around trans people? I know queer people but i’ve never had a trans friend or anything. So i’m worried about how to do this right. 

I assume it’s best to just be normal? Sex has never really mattered to me that much, so I guess in that regard i’ll just go with the flow of whatever. But I just thought, is there anything I should know or think about? 

I think this could be a really great relationship, we want the same things and get on so well. 

Maybe i’m being panicky, trying to make sure I don’t do anything that could hurt him. He asked me if it was okay that he’s trans because i’m straight. I told him that I love him and I don’t doubt that. And that I still feel straight. I still love a man. I wouldn’t really aline my sexuality with genitals anyway? 

I don’t know. I’m nervous I guess. I’ve been in plenty of different types of relationships. Good and bad. And I just don’t want to mess up or make him uncomfortable or not notice a hint he’s trying to give me? 

Look tbh I don’t totally know what i’m asking but like- advice? Please? Thanks Cas ❤️

AHHHH I think this is so cute. The fact that you're being thoughtful enough to ask is UGH. SO sweet.

So, you're ABSOLUTELY right. Sexuality has to do with gender, not body parts. So you're a girl (I'm assuming) and you're straight. Meaning you're attracted to boys. And this person, trans or not, is a boy. Simple! The fact that he is worried about your reaction is probably because he's experienced transphobia in the past. For this, just remind him that you see him as a boy, regardless of his body parts.

Trans people can deal with something called 'dysphoria' meaning they are uncomfortable (physically or mentally) because they feel like their expression or body doesn't match the gender they identify as. Dysphoria can be caused by anything - looking in the mirror and seeing something they don't like, a comment from someone else (even unintentional), or intimacy (amongst other things).

As far as sex, I'm going to break my rules here and give you some advice because I think it's important.

Sex could cause dysphoria. It's super important to note that every trans person is different. Some experience extreme dysphoria, others just a bit, others none at all! The same thing is true with intimacy- every trans person (just like cis people) has different preferences with intimacy. But this is especially true because for some trans people, intimacy could cause dysphoria because you're interacting with body parts that are normally not as...interacted with, lol.

Because of this, its super important to communicate. Ask him what he's comfortable with. What does he/doesn't he want you to touch? If you're going to use dirty talk, does he prefer certain terms for his body parts?

But here's the thing- communication is important for good, healthy sex anyways. And for a healthy relationship. And it's much better to just ask. Asking questions isn't wrong, and it shows that you don't want to make him uncomfortable. It could also be a great idea to make it clear what you've said to me- you see him as a boy, you don’t want to mess up or make him uncomfortable or not notice a hint he’s trying to give you.

Keep the communication open and everything will be fine <3

I'm going to name you adoring anon in case you write again!

[bronx-bomber87]

We're off to episode 3 another fantastic one for our fav couple. Let's get started shall we?

2x03 The Bet

Tim and Lucy are getting ready to head out when she asks how his night was. Seems like an innocent enough question by her. So Tim is honest. Lucy's response is sassy to say the least. Being as comfortable as possible in its delivery. Tim isn't too happy with her reply. Let me say this, Lucy is the ONLY person Tim would ever allow to talk to him like this LOL No way in hell he would indulge anyone else to even broach the subject. But then no one else would have the guts to like Lucy either. She is always the exception for him.

Once again Lucy is doing it for his own good. To shake him out of his routine. Help him move on. Everything this woman ever does is in his best interest. Tim’s deep breath in the first gif when she starts up is so funny. Like he is bracing himself for whatever Lucy barrage is headed his way. He knows she is going to say something he doesn't want to hear LOL She tries to broach the subject lightly but is instantly shot down. Now he isn't mad so much as annoyed which is progress believe it or not haha

Lucy clams up pretty quickly after he mentions jogging behind the shop all day. Her face is hilarious. Lucy has learned to take her foot off the gas when need be. She opened the door a crack to this convo and shut it quickly. It’s like she pokes the bear gauges his reaction then strategizes for a bit on how to better approach him later. She is no where near done meddling in this matter.

We rejoin them at the station booking a couple of sex workers. This is where Lucy decides to bring this subject up once again. The lack of personal space in this scene is primo. Personal space? Never heard of her.... I love it so much. My goodness they are awfully close to one another in this scene hehe She sees this as her window and is right back at it. Lucy is saying she thinks she can help him. He looks at her like she’s insane. But he allows her to continue. Almost bemused at her confidence to set him up properly. It becomes a point of pride for Lucy. The more he seems to doubt her the more she wants to prove him wrong. What else is new? Haha

This quickly goes from setting him up to a work flirt. I mean look at those two above. They're not subtle in the least...All their work flirts stem from challenging one another. This whole situation goes from helping Tim go out on a date to a competition. Because well it’s them LOL They’re both so damn competitive...That’s literally what this entire thing boils down to. Both of them digging in their heels and not relenting. Thinking they're right and the other is in the wrong.

Tim has grown a lot I keep saying but it’s true and I'm just so proud of him. Last season Tim wouldn’t have allowed Lucy anywhere near his personal/love life. Let alone make a bet about it with her. They’re both SO cocky and confident they’re going to win as well. They decide on the the winner's spoils. For Tim he gets 50 push ups after each call. Lucy gets the short sleeves she was robbed of.

Tim agrees and says she has to pay if he does this. Lucy doesn’t even care and hastily agrees to this. Just wants so badly to be in short sleeves. These two are ridiculous fools and I love them for it. Also the way Lucy looks at him after they make their bet above is so cute. Little smitten kitten this one. As I've said before as transparent as glass. She is so adorable in how she looks at him. If he looked next to him he would see the heart eyes being lodged his way. Also lets pay back attention to the lack of space. *sigh* I just love them so much.

Tim does what he does best. Getting under Lucy’s skin as much as possible. In a way only he knows how. Since Lucy is paying he’s taking Rachel to most expensive restaurant possible. He's such a shit haha I adore him though. The work flirt continues. We haven’t had one in a bit this definitely constitutes as one. Tim going on about the expensive food and wine. You can see the irritation all over her face. Eric and Melissa are masters at conveying so much with a look. Right now she wants to shove him off that chair.

Lucy is trying to turn it back in her favor. Saying how romantic it is. That he wouldn't have chosen that if he wanted his date to fail. Their banter is unrivaled. I enjoy their verbal sparring so much. Tim is ever so cocky of course. He thinks he has this in the bag. That Lucy is destined to stay in long sleeves till her probation is up. Well if he has anything to do with it she will.

He is more excited at the prospect of Lucy doing those push-ups and winning this bet than the date itself. Oh Timothy. His damn cute smile in that last gif though above. Lord help me. I swear he only smiles that way with her. Amazing the amount of chemistry these two have without even touching. Testament to how good it is.

I don’t know what’s funnier. The fact that Lucy is casing his date or that she dragged Jackson along for it LMAO Kills me. ‘Mama needs to get into short sleeves’ I’m dying haha Also Jackson telling her how weird this is. I loved their friendship so much. Down to do and help each other with whatever.

Tim crashing and burning on this date is too funny. He needs an ice breaker. What does he do to rectify the situation? Brings up his work wife. Yes baby, that’ll fix the current train wreck you have going on. Smh. He does look damn good though. Feast for the eyes and all that. I will say I did like Rachel. She was the perfect person to get him back into the dating world. A Lucy 2.0 you could say. Because she challenges him and calls him on his crap too. I mean look at that second gif. Got him to go from saying Chen to Lucy with a pointed look.

I like Rachel for what she represented for him. Showing him he could have a functional relationship post Isabel. I think she was very important in shaping Tim into who he becomes in that regard. I hope this doesn’t sound as mean as it may come off. Rachel was a means to an end for Chenford. A good one but one none the less. Serious enough to show Tim he was capable of that again but not enough that he would leave LA for it.(But that’s much farther in the future for s2.) I will say I do love what Rachel does for him in the long run. I didn’t hate their scenes by any means. They had their purpose. I.e. Lucy who will eventually win this bet as we will see later on.

Lucy and Jackson continue to watch the date. It looks like Tim is flailing and Rachel is off put. Tim admits the bet he has with Lucy. That he wants to win. Rachel flirts and says being with her isn't a win? Then they start to click a bit. Tim says he can help Rachel with her civil standbys. She asks what he’d like in return? Tim being Tim knows Lucy is watching. Has Rachel slap him in the face and leave. Lucy is crushed and convinced she will be in long sleeves the rest of her probationary period haha

Oh Lucy you know why you care if Tim dates LOL Just last episode you recorded an old ass book for this man. But it is far too early for you to understand the true meaning of those actions just yet. She cares so much and is so empathetic. She will do things to her own detriment. Like this date haha Jackson’s reply is the best though. ‘You just want everyone to be happy. That’s a good quality’ He was such a good friend. ❤️

I love that Lucy couldn’t stand the idea of Rachel thinking badly of Tim. So she made sure early the next morning to visit her and rectify that. Almost like she couldn't move on with her day until she did this. That even if they didn’t work out romantically, she had to come and defend Tim to her. Lucy has seen his good side more than anyone else. To her there is no one better to defend his name than her. So that’s exactly what she did. Gah I love it. She’s so loyal.

Lucy looks down and sees a pair of boots. Then Tim does his glorious entrance. A shot we all love let's be honest. He's all wet from the shower and in a low hanging towel. Phew lord. Lucy looks a little thirsty at first. Then she turns her brain back on. (I can’t blame her girl I'm thirsty from seeing him too ahaha) Lucy confidently looks him in the eye and says ‘Short sleeves’ then takes off with a glorious smile and stride out of Rachel's place and back to her car.

Tim is so mad he’s lost this bet he doesn’t even care Lucy is seeing him in a towel. Or the fact that he’s there cause he spent the night with her friend. He’s more annoyed she won the bet LOL Classic. He thought he was going to have his cake and eat it too. Sorry Tim that’s a hard no haha This ep was one big work flirt for them both and I loved it.

~~~~~

Side notes- Meh didn’t really have much. Was cool to have couple Castle peeps on the show Seamus and Jon retuning. And Wopez was cute with his mom and stuff but nothing major. Jackson' SL with Smitty was really good tragic but good.

Forgot to thank everyone last review my apologies. Always so very thankful to those that like/comment (I adore comments)/ reblog and such you all are the best. :)

[ask-the-pale-elf]

This is to the mod. I forgot to say this way earlier and kept putting off actually doing it cause bad memory and brain being weird, but I adore how you write/interact as Astarion! You don’t try and push his response to lean in favor towards things he wouldn’t normally respond that way to, such as, for example, my first ask! You have him still with his own personal thoughts and characteristics, being true to how he is without trying to push towards what would be considered a more ‘favorable’ response! I love how you captured his character and portray him and have him be true to himself instead of trying to force things! I don’t really know if this makes sense, but hopefully it does?

And really, please don’t worry about updates and such on this blog when irl things are getting in the way or are demanding predominance. You have your own life outside of the blog, out side of offline, and you chose to create this blog so you could do/share your enjoyment of bg3 and Astarion with others. You don’t owe anyone an apology for irl stuff getting bad or stressful, you run this blog in your free time, you are by no means obligated to answer asks or do anything you don’t want to or don’t have the time or energy to. Thank you for creating such a lovely blog and for portraying our beloved pale elf so well!

- Starlight

Hi it’s Ghost here, and omg you’re making me melt. You’re making a lot of sense, I get what you’re trying to say and thank you so much for saying that. I’m always a bit hesitant when roleplaying Astarion since he is a complicated shithead and his actions and words reflect that. And as much as I’d like to give people a favorable response, it just wouldn’t be him at all. It doesn’t feel right, and yes he’s a fictional character and he’s not real but… he’s spent so much of his life not being able to be himself and acts a certain way to be favorable to others. So I guess I’m trying my best to honor the character in a small way, although I don’t blame people writing him to be more favorable. He is a dickhead. Like that’s the point but Jesus, I’ve yelled at my computer screen so many times because of the things he’s disapproved of or the shit he does.

Aren’t I a lovable little scamp?~

*sighs* His character is complicated, it isn’t nice, it isn’t easy, and it most certainly isn’t static. The reason why I love his character so much is because it hits so close to home and it feels so cathartic to watch him in action. I won’t get into here or at least not now, but Astarion makes me feel seen and that I don’t have to be a good person in order to heal. That being said his story serves as a cautionary tale about perpetuating the cycle of abuse, it’s utterly beautiful. He’s constantly shifting despite his stubbornness and flirtatious facade, which is what I’m hoping for in my portrayal of Astarion. I have to rewatch a lot of scenes and listen to his lines a lot just to get the character just right. I’ve roleplayed Astarion in a few voice call sessions with my friends actually, and it’s really fun! Sure I don’t have Neil Newbon’s wonderful accent and the picture perfect voice for him but it doesn’t matter, its the energy and feeling that does. And I read out my dialogue for these asks out loud in my Astarion voice lol, it’s not a good imitation by any means but it’s just my take on the character.

I’m constantly in awe of not only Neil Newbon’s performance but also the writers, the modelers, the artists, the directors, and the entire ensemble that all came together to create our favorite vampire spawn. Honestly it feels so surreal to have a character like Astarion in the world, but I hope there are many others that touch my heart this deeply like he did.

Don’t say that darling, as if they could ever compare to me.

Of course, you’ll always be my favorite. But one thing that always gets me is what Neil Newbon says about playing any of his characters, “I think the main thing is to not to judge a character, I don’t judge a character in good or bad terms. I don’t have villains or heroes, I play characters that are very complicated and have needs and wants and obstacles… You can’t judge the characters, you have to love them, support them on their journey even if you as a human being would never choose that. You have to honor what their story’s about, what their decisions would be based on what the amazing writers have done… you just have to love and support them and hug them through their journey without stopping them, you know?”

And we all know that Astarion needs all the hugs he can get. He’s very lovable even when he thinks that he isn’t. I want to have Astarion be a bit more vulnerable in future ask responses but at the same time, it really depends on the relationship because his whole arc is a slow burn for a reason. It’s literally like pulling teeth to get him to talk about and confront his feelings and issues. Trust me I’ve tried.

You hear a little scoff in the background.

Anyways if you’ve read all this, thank you. As you can tell, I think about Astarion a lot and I’ve always wanted to make an rp blog so I decided eh what the hell, let’s make an Astarion one. I’m blown away by how many of you like my posts and keep coming to see my take on Astarion. I deeply appreciate it and thank you for understanding. Yeah a lot of stuff is happening irl so responses won’t be as quick as I’d like them to be but hopefully it’ll clear up in the future. Because I have a few things planned including a fic that I’ve been thinking about for a while.

[dearrosaceae]

God maybe I do still miss him

Yesterday night, all I could think of was him, and so were any other nights. Lately, he’s been liking my photos on Instagram stories a lot which raised my suspicions. I had my coins on a bet that he would text me soon and he would text me first. It took a while but after the first few likes, he texted me first.

He deleted the text initially, followed by “Sorry, I accidentally press a button and hit reply”. I raised my eyebrow at that excuse. Yes, it sounded like an excuse.

A lousy excuse.

I wasn’t fussy about it either as I did have been waiting for him to text anyway even if it’s by accident. I was right nonetheless; he did text me, and he texted me first. I tried to play it cool, asking what’s up like that deleted text didn’t bother me. In reality, I was howling to myself. “I told you so! He came back?!” I cackled, which was so the opposite of cool.

“you missed me, huh?” I asked again. I didn’t know what got into me, I just thought to myself like let’s test the water to see where he is at right now, emotionally. If he responded positively, I’d take it as a go. To my disappointment, he shot that down as quickly as the question came. I was a bit dejected, but his casual response didn’t mean anything else either, just that he didn’t miss me.

Then again, he wouldn’t tell me if he missed someone else.

The conversation got upbeat as we got to talking. Just random stuffs like singing, about him posting really sad statuses, about me spamming mine. I missed this, us. I had to admit that, maybe I haven’t completely move on. I really missed him. I even thought of morphing the conversation into a phone call even, just because I missed his voice. I decided to not do that out of self-respect that I built for myself over the couple months.

I tried to milk the conversation, just talk about something a little while longer. I didn’t want him to go away, and let the conversation died out just like that. I ended up opening up about my best friend (whom I talked once here, and had a temporary crush on which was CRAZY and) whom had a familial-financial related personal problems. I asked him of his opinions, which he took the role adorably seriously.

I didn’t open up about too many things on my best friend as I kept it very vague, and I addressed mostly about my concerns on their circumstances and past self-inflicted abuses. He asked me a couple of questions as well, and gave me his opinion from a bystander P.O.V. I appreciated it, although his was not any different from mine.

I already knew what to do, it’s just that it’s a woman’s things to pretend to be dumb in certain situations in the presence of someone they like. Not that we are acting inferior, we crave the attention and just want to reel the guys in. Other than perhaps sometimes having the guys do all the work for us hehehe but the guys feel great to help too.

The conversation, like our situationship, met its end eventually. I said my thanks and bid him goodbye while he sent a sticker which I left on read. Somebody has to leave the chat, right? I prefer it to be me because I have a thing that if I’m the one left on read, I look at myself like I’m desperate. Most people might not care, so I take that generalization to my advantage.

Today, my day went as normal as it can be, per routine. I still think about him, which is also true to routine. My yearning for him might die down a little, but my feelings are harder to kill. I know it is not healthy and beneficial to stay emotionally attached to someone, but I don’t know if it’s any healthier to find a rebound; someone who I’ll form another relationship with in order to forget or move on from my past relationship.

Both options seemed toxic, so which poison will I ingest anyway?

[hellenichu]

WELL THEY'RE GETTING ART FROM ME ^_^!!/silly!!

On that note, here are a few reasons why you should vote COPPER HUSBANDS!!

1. Because they're like, so silly. And so cool.

2. If it wins, @pastaracell (mastercheif) is going to eat a ghost pepper on camera(or so i heard 👀)

3. Like look at empires 2 scott. Just a guy and his llama best friend who is totally okay in the head. Adorable. And they bond.

4. I'd be so cool yknow?

5. Rat scott would be proud of you (yes thats my cosplay+rats copper husbands is so QPR to me)

6. Pirates scott and Owen mean everything to me and they should to you too. Just look at them. They're the guys.

7. Have i mentioned i did shitty doodles for them?

8. If they win i will do a month of daily doodles for them, even if my art tablet isnt fix yet.

9. If they win i will give them the bigger part of my birthday cake(yes they're on it idc whatever anyone thinks). Yes I'll put minecraft skins of owen and scott on my birthday cake. What will you do? Stop me?/lh

10. They’re made of copper and oxidise into a beautiful green colour and yknow what else is green? The world yes!! So click yes on the vote button for them!!

OH ALSO, MORE REASONS!!✨✨

1. Look at their platonic bestfriend dynamic in rats 1. When every time scott was scared he ran to Owen, where owen protected Scott from everyone who tried to hurt him. Where after scott was trapped by the janitor owen ran up and hugged him tightly.

2. Copper husbands beat snowbugs because of neurodivergency, you wouldn’t hurt my sopping neurodivergent wet cat would you???-pastaracell

3. Also another rats fact, look at how when Owen said he didn't like flowers cause they die, so Scott went out of his way to make him a flower out of copper, so it never could die.

4. They were in so many series together think of new life too where scott helped owen understand his origin and stuff.

5. WE WILL MAKE MORE ART

6. Look they're not that much of a rare pair but small enough considering flower ranchers and majorwood.

7. Everyone literally takes it out of context and say they're not ok with shipping when it's literally not even true. They just spoke out saying they're not comfortable being called that by default since they have no plan about being romantic, mainly on rats. But neither of them have a problem with shipping. Pls understand the difference here. Besides as long as the community keeps it tagged properly its fine, its just a ship?😭🙏

So yeah. Vote Copper husbands. Thanks guys. ^_^!!!!👍👍✨

(obviously no hate to the other person?? Duh?? Im just making my own silly reasoning tab🙏😭😭 love you all and stay safe out there mcyt community/pos/lh)

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

I Prefer My Heart To Be Broken, Chapter Two: Chaos-Bringer

A bad mood. An even scarier visitor. Some dangerous realizations. 

AO3 | Playlist | Masterpost

-----

CHAPTER TWO: CHAOS-BRINGER

Martin is angry.

He tries to hide it from Jon—to acknowledge the guilt that Jon wears like skin—because it’s obvious Jon is already blaming himself for everything, and Martin doesn’t want to add to it.

But Martin is pissed, and he decides to take it out on firewood.

Jon should have woken him. Chop.

And no, it probably wouldn’t have done any good, and it had been the logical choice, but damn it, Jon needs to stop defaulting to doing this on his own. Chop.

And how dare some fucking monster show up here, now, when they’ve minded their own business, and haven’t called anything, or tempted anything, or done anything to deserve this interruption of hope and future and peace? Chop.

How dare it ask them to damn the whole world?

The axe goes through the firewood into the stump and gets stuck.

Fortunately, no one seems to have noticed his mood. It’s market day in West Village, and everyone is busy setting up their stands, exchanging stories, laughing lightly, focused on their own things.

Martin mutters at the axe as he wrenches it loose, then stands still, studying its edge.

Could the tentacle-god-thing be chopped? Maybe.

Would he survive the encounter? Really, no.

Damn it, Jon, Martin thinks, because Jon can’t help somehow luring these things like he’s fresh bait, but Jon also makes a convenient outlet for frustration.

“Martin!” Julia arrives with a basket of herbs and a smile. She kisses his cheek. “Peter and Mark are looking for you.”

“I’ll be sure to keep an eye out,” he says cheerfully, smiling the way they all do here—bright but vague, never quite making eye-contact, chin up and shameless and sweet.

Too direct, and they grow afraid. Less direct, and they worry about you.

He’d mastered their non-verbal cues in less than a day. And if someone had asked him to explain how, he would not have been able.

“You do not have winter clothes,” Julia suggests in the way they do here without asking questions.

Questions send people toward panic, and neither Jon nor Martin know why.

“Well, I mean—not yet,” Martin says. “But we’ve been saving up, and we have a few more weeks until it gets uncomfortable.”

She smiles. “When it’s time, we’ll help you choose what’s best for our weather. Don’t forget to stop by later so we can trade for bread.” And she goes, swinging her basket, face turned toward the sun, not a care in the world.

For some reason, Julia, Peter, and Mark worry about him, anyway, no matter how he plays the game. He’s not sure why, but he’s grateful. They’ve helped so much.

Those three were Martin’s favorite “family” here—a proper polycule, though they didn't know that word. An open, multi-gender threesome in the middle of this quaint village, wearing homespun, and offering aid when Martin first arrived. Incredible.

Peter and Mark even discreetly helped out when Martin realized he’d need personal lubricant, and had no idea how to go about getting it here.

Vegetable oil, it turned out. Who knew?

There were some ways that Martin loved this place, and this was one of them: no one could be outed. You loved whom you loved.

Not that this helps Jon.

Jon’s problem is not whom he loves.

Jon is eldritch. Jon strikes people as weird, and they don’t know why.

Jon is not human, and he can’t lie worth shit.

So Martin works the people of this village with every ounce of charm he has—for Jon. Martin can lie for him. Martin has made it clear to everyone that he adores Jon, and Jon makes him very happy.

That bit is all true, and easy to communicate.

Thus: the people who like Martin tolerate Jon.

Martin tolerates Jon some days, too. Especially when he encounters a god on the front step and doesn't wake his partner. “Normally, it’s adorable, being him,” he mutters to his axe, setting up the next log. “Fumbling around. Getting excited over bugs, or whatever. But not like this, Jon. Not like this.”

“Mm, love is so confusing, isn’t it? Really makes you wonder if it’s worth the time,” drawls a voice that Martin has never heard before.

What the hell kind of statement was that?

Martin turns, smile plastered on, remembering to lower the axe so he doesn’t seem aggressive (a million little lessons embedded since his final, wild growth spurt in his teens). “Hello! I’m sorry, I didn’t think the market was open yet. I don’t think you’re quite allowed back here, yet? Maybe?” he suggests.

The man laughs. He doesn't look like… anything. Just a guy. Moderately attractive, brown hair, tanned skin, unremarkable clothes.

But that laugh felt weird.

Not quite like the Distortion’s laugh, but it shakes Martin the same way, unnerves him, unbalances him.

It makes him want to peel his own skin off, and that is very not good.

Martin’s grip tightens on the axe. His smile, however, does not waver.

“You’re really good at that!” the guy says, and there is nothing about his grin that should make it the worst thing Martin’s seen since the worms and corkscrew days, but it is, it is, it is. “No wonder how you ended up in such a complicated relationship. Just wormed your way in there, didn’t you? Would he even know you were doing it? Oh, oh—maybe he does know, but he just doesn’t care because he’s so desperate for love, which makes you lucky, doesn’t it, cupcake?” And the man laughs again.

Right, so none of that was good.

Martin doesn’t want to just assume this guy read his mind, but it sure did seem like he did.

Like he knows Martin’s quiet, deep fear that he manipulated his way into Jon’s heart, that Jon absolutely loves him but Martin made it happen, that Annabelle’s comment about getting what you wanted through smiles and shrugs and stammerings had embedded itself in him.

Martin pushes that aside. The more important issue is this guy asked questions.

Nobody asks questions. Nobody talks in such a sharp, present manner here.

This is already brushing up against Martin’s spook-limit, but he keeps it together.

He wants a reaction, Martin thinks, and decides not to provide one. “Sorry?” he says, his eyes wide and worried. “I’m not quite sure I follow. You know, you seem lost. I can always help you go wherever you need to get to. I’m Martin, by the way. Nice to meet you!” And though he’s so afraid he can barely breathe, Martin offers his hand.

It’s not even shaking.

“Oh, now, that’s just talent, isn’t it?” says the man, showing too many teeth. He grabs Martin’s hand in both of his (and they are hot, startlingly hot) and shakes it with wild enthusiasm, grinning the whole time. “Call me Kayne. Nice to meet you, too… plus-one.”

Okay, this had gone too far.

He considers using the axe.

He considers trying to run.

Kayne tsks at him. “Now, after I actually bothered to get your attention, you’re going to run away? Come on, now, Kartin, there’s no need for that. If I was gonna hurt you—” The axe in Martin’s hand breaks, snaps, just pops like a piece of straw, and Martin drops it with a gasp—”I would have.”

Martin’s hand is riddled with splinters, and it throbs with his heartbeat, and he takes two critical seconds to evaluate, recalibrate, shift tactics.

Because (and this is important) if the spooky guy is bothering him, he isn’t bothering Jon. “I’m going to have to replace that handle, you know,” he says, trying for just prickly enough to irritate, and braces himself for the worst.

Kayne tsks again. “Relax, muffin. No consequences for you today. Look around, my darling—it’s all waiting, just for you.”

It is waiting. It’s stopped.

No birds chirping. No movement.

A dog is frozen mid-trot, literally off the ground.

Please be safe, Martin thinks at Jon, though he knows Jon won’t hear because Jon is too far away and at least theoretically respects his mental space. “That’s, uh. That’s… pretty scary?”

“It sure is, my little baklava. Come on, now. Come on! Walk with me. Talk with me! We have some things to discuss. Oh, and a word of advice? The other guy can be chopped (though not to great effect), but I can’t. Won’t work. Wouldn’t want you to be disappointed.”

His patter reminds Martin of some sort of cinema carnie, fast and cheerful and aggressively friendly, but Martin still feels the weird, frighteningly literal urge to peel off his own skin.

Hold his attention, he thinks again, and walks where Kayne leads. Which seems to be nowhere, just wandering through the stalls.

Everyone is frozen, mid-prep. Market day is important, and goods are on display, left and right—produce and clothing and tools, spices (mostly salt), and bundles of late summer flowers to brighten homes.

Martin hopes no one’s being harmed by this.

He won’t lead this conversation. If this Kayne actually has something to say, he can say it. Silence is hardly an issue.

“No, it wouldn’t be for you, would it?” says Kayne, reading his mind without so much as a please, and a wave of cold, familiar isolation washes through Martin.

It is just a second’s worth, and already too much.

The Lonely. That was the Lonely, splashed in his face like a glass of water.

Martin keeps it together, somehow, and huffs as if that didn’t absolutely terrify him. “Rude. Can we get this over with? Sorry, just, I’m kind of over the apocalypse, you know? So maybe just say whatever it is you want to get off your chest, and I can go back to work.”

“Oh, you’ve got even more potential than I thought,” Kayne says in a low, pleased tone, hands in his jacket pockets, striding along and watching the sky as if he hasn’t a care in the world. “Creative. So focused. Positively tricksy. Sorry it’s not going to work out that way. Your BFF got visited by the King in Yellow last night, my friend. Things are afoot!”

“That’s... nice?” Martin finally knows who this voice reminds him of—that guy from Tangled. Flynn Rider. Only from hell.

“Ooh, so close! But no. Outer Infinity. Same concept, better amenities. So!” Kayne stops abruptly and claps his hands. “Can you guess why I’m visiting your AnimalCrossing island? Hm? Go on, go on, no wrong answers. Do your best.”

“For Jon,” says Martin without hesitation.

“Mmm, nope, nope, not my taste, I do not want him. Ew. Try again.”

But the thing last night had said… “The Entities,” says Martin softly. “You all want the Fears brought here.”

“Half a point for effort, cupcake. I don’t want that, either.”

What was with the weird pet names? “So… so what are you saying? Then what do you want?”

“Well, not to vaguepost, but some people,” Kayne says, using air quotes, “love a bit of chaos in their stew (excellent flavoring), and some people,” again with the air quotes, “really, really, really, really hate it. Let’s just say I prefer things savory—and the raw potential for chaos your snuggle-muffin brings to the table is causing quite the stir.”

“Chaos,” repeats Martin.

“C-h-a-o-s,” spells Kayne.

The god in yellow’s trigger word. “You,” says Martin, unable to keep his voice steady.

“In person and at your service, sir!” barks Kayne, and bows. He’s produced a full-on feathered cavalier’s hat, which he doffs with a flourish. It vanishes the moment he puts it back on.

Martin’s hand is sticky with blood. The splinters throb. “All right. Well. Jon won’t do it. I mean, I know that. And if you’re so good at reading minds, you know it, too.”

“Well, he won’t yet, sweetums,” says Kayne, “but it’s only a matter of time. You know that, right? I mean, it’s going to happen. It’s just a question of when, and I want it delayed.”

“It’s not a question of when. It’s not going to happen.” Martin feels sick, has to fight the urge to bend over, head down, pushing back nausea, dizziness. “It’s not. You don’t know Jon.”

“But I do. Didn’t like it at all.” Kayne sniffs imperiously. “He just shows everything in his dreamy brown eyes, doesn’t he? Can’t lie for shit, spends half his time in his own head, stabbing himself. Useless. You, on the other hand… there are all kinds of secrets in you, aren’t there?”

“I… I don’t…”

“I mean, you successfully fooled people who could read your mind. That takes some doing, sweet cheeks, and I am here for it.”

Martin has no idea how to feel about that statement. He swallows. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because, because, because your affianced is not human. The King can’t just break him or control him (like either of us could do to you) without also breaking whatever it is that can invite all his friends to the party, you get me? And that’s not fair—so we made a bet!”

Martin’s heart is racing. “What bet?”

“Oh, whether he can get the Archivist to do it, of course. I’m going to lose,” says Kayne cheerfully. “But along the way? Drama! Romance! Tears! And since there’s no one who could influence our messy messiah, our herald of the end, our angel of music, better than you—you’re only all the little antichrist thinks about all the time—” Kayne cackles—”I took you.”

Martin takes a step back. “You what?”

Kayne flaps his hand. “Relax, cinnamon bun, I’m not here to kidnap you like an antisemitic goblin. My point, cupcake, is he’ll do what you want. You, the rudder for a nascent and deeply depressed god. That’s quite a lot of power for such a fluffy little pastry, isn’t it?”

This couldn’t be happening.

A bet.

A bet, again, with him and Jon as the game pieces. Anger makes his mouth sour. “You… you made a bet?”

Kayne studies his fingernails. “I just said that, Martin. I don’t like to repeat things. If you’re not going to listen better, I’m not going to come back.”

That is a threat, though Martin can’t fathom what might be worse than his attention. “Jon won’t choose to end the world. Why are you so sure you’ll lose?”

Kayne smiles slowly, like searing flesh, like Martin asked a question that pleases him, then suddenly flings one arm around Martin’s shoulders.

It’s like being encased in hot iron. It hurts, and Martin cries out.

“We are going to have so much fun, you and I!” Kayne says, squeezing tighter in response to Martin’s struggle. “Of course, we have to finish all this folderol first. You’ll do anything for him, he’ll do anything for you, blah, blah, blah, it's all so… so…” Kayne apes sobbing, mimics wiping tears, then switches it off and finally releases him.

Martin stumbles back, shoulders aching. Terror has finally blinded him to what to do next. It’s risen in his throat, lumpy and wet like clay.

“There, there, dumpling,” says Kayne. “Go on back to your crucial, ever-so-important work. You get to tell him all about this when he gets home.”

This can’t wait, Martin thinks.

“Oh, it can. It will. Because your little buddy with a bullseye is learning things right now that he’s going to need, and you don’t want to interrupt that, do you?”

“Then why did you come now?” says Martin.

“Stir the proverbial pot. Plant some seeds. Test your soul’s pH. You know, the usual.” He reaches for Martin’s cheek.

Martin dodges back.

Kayne smiles with poison, with such deep and dire eagerness that Martin almost starts to cry. “Ciao!”

And Kayne is gone.

Except for his cavalier’s hat, which is inexplicably in Martin’s good hand for two seconds, then vanishes.

Everyone is moving again. Time has resumed like nothing happened.

Martin’s bleeding hand aches.

He feels like a monster just put him in its mouth, chewed lightly to test for doneness, then spat him out again.

“Hey, Martin!” calls James, who seems to think Martin’s opinions on the price of cheese matter more than anyone else’s.

“Oh, hey!” Martin calls back, cheerful, smiling, because he is very good at this, very good at not scaring anyone, very good at hiding tears and making sure he’s liked.

And his hand is bleeding, and he holds it behind him while James talks, and only goes to pull out (cut out) the splinters after James has walked away.

#

“So, in summary: in mid-January, year 63, Emperor Turdot died, leaving behind a deeply unstable situation. He’d refused counsel, refused to allow anyone to know what he was doing or why, and the resulting power vacuum and destabilization gave the Church of the Thousand Young what they needed to take over, transforming the last unshepherded empire into an Esoteric theocracy.”

Jon stops, tracking which students are still paying attention (most), which students are making the connections he’s tried to lead them towards (none), and which students are so distracted by matriculation that they can’t fully focus (all).

He’s not sure yet if he likes teaching. It’s deeply intimate, more than a little uncomfortable. And given what he has to work with, it’s also like trying to plow in fresh mud. “Questions?” he prompts, expecting none. “Ah! Yes—William.”

“Mentor, tell us more of the Esoterics.”

Jon listens for the answer and finds everyone around him seems to know the same broad, unhelpful things. “Ancient beings, origins shrouded in eternity, who guide the world through their carefully-formed Churches.” Dear lord. “They control every government to some level, dependent on the individual nation’s history and relationship with their Esoteric One.”

The visitor in yellow had to be one of these things.

His students watch him, rapt. Jon doesn’t know why; he’s too busy gathering his answer to look into that just yet.

“Some nations are, as Gaul now is, theocracies, which means the deity and its underlings are physically present, openly and aggressively. These nations are considered less free by those outside of them, and unpleasant places to live, leading to—” Oh, that’s new—”the tradition that, when refugees appear, they are treated well. It is considered a mark of a good person and a civilized society to show compassion toward those who’ve torn their lives up by the roots to escape their god. It is doomed to be a cursed life—eventually, so goes the rhetoric, the gods catch up to you.”

Well, that explained why being “refugees” had put them in such a position of aid.

The students stare at him, and Jon takes a moment to try to know why.

Ah. They want to know which nation he escaped from, and how. It seems he evinces none of the things they look for as clues to his origin.

(What things? That’s hard to say, but it seems at least one of those nations would have left him with w-shaped pupils, like a cuttlefish. Yikes.)

“Any further questions?” says Jon, trying to keep that image from messing with his head.

Of course there aren’t. Nobody has questions in this place. They’re all staring at him in awe, though, because they think he will be hunted down by an Esoteric, and they’d like to see it happen.

Lovely. “All right—your final test of the season is tomorrow. No excuses—your families have known you’d need the ink all year, so I expect you to arrive fully stocked.”

“And then matriculation!” shouts Donovan from the back, and his whole class—aged fifteen to sixty-four, all genders—cheers.

He still doesn’t know what students who matriculate actually do. None of them seem to have any plans.

Still, Jon smiles with them. “Yes, yes. Go on, now. Be safe, and may the wind hide you.”

Why do they say that? He doesn’t know because they don’t know.

And no one asks.

He just doesn’t understand why nobody asks.

Jon gathers the books permitted for these classes and—per standard—locks them away. (Why did the books have to be locked up? No clue! Nobody knew! Nobody asked!)

He takes his time cleaning up—dusting, straightening, adjusting the chairs and desks so they’re all even.

He’s lingering. He doesn’t quite know what mood Martin will be in when he gets home.

Martin was not happy with last night’s adventure. Oh, he would probably be fine by tonight, but…

Making Martin upset for any reason was something Jon couldn’t really handle. It echoed things neither of them talk about, things Jon would take back if he could.

Things they maybe would never talk about.

Well. At least he had new information, finally.

Year 63 was the end of Gaul’s human rulers. This was year 376.

What was everyone counting up from? Something so significant happened 376 years ago that it changed how human beings reckon time, but no one knew what it was.

Jon sighs. School had always been a place of comfort for him—where what you knew mattered more than who you knew, or what you wore, or any other thing—but here, they all knew so little.

Though Jon doesn’t want to admit it, it’s beginning to physically hurt.

He feels starved. No, dehydrated. No… something.

It’s not a need for statements, he tells himself—which is good, as he has taken none since arrival. It has to be something else.

Sure.

Jon rubs his chest and tries to focus on this new knowledge.

The Esoterics. So strange, so undefined; just other, powerful, out there somewhere. Not that theocracies hadn’t existed in his own world (three concurrent popes all calling each other heretics like in that Spiderman meme remained one of his favorite weird historical moments), but this was different.

Actual deific embodiments. No wonder nobody he’d met here was an atheist.

They just all knew, believed, accepted, did not question. And they did not like his questions, felt terrified when asked, and he did not know why.

It was like pulling teeth to get his students to even comment on lessons.

There was little doubt that an Esoteric had come to visit last night.

Why would any of them want the Fears closer? Surely a god couldn’t get so bored that it wanted competition.

“Knock, knock,” says the Paragon.

“Come in, Mason,” says Jon, packing away the remains of his lunch.

Jon does not like the Paragon.

The Paragon makes him think far too much of Jonah. His eyes are gray. His smile is banal. His mind is heavily shrouded. While Mason is far from the only one whose mind Jon cannot see, it’s worrying.

The Paragon also provides Jon’s guilders, so Jon tries to not to let any of that show.

“So, you’ve done it,” says Mason, smiling and leaning on the door frame, like they’re old friends. “Made it through your first season. It looks like you enjoyed most of it.”

That’s another thing Jon doesn’t like: the man states his guesses as though they are fact, and often, is right.

Jon tried to hint he’d taught before.

Mason hadn’t believed it for a second.

Jon tried to hint they hadn’t traveled far.

Mason laughed like he’d made a joke.

Worrisome. “I did, thank you,” says Jon, taking up his satchel and double-checking the clasp.

“Well,” says Mason, a little gleam in his eyes (Not his fault they’re gray, Jon tells himself every time they talk), “the position is open for next season, if you’re interested.”

Three weeks between seasons, Jon has learned, is normal. A three-year program for those few who qualify, four seasons a year—eight weeks on, during which students are expected to do nothing but learn, and three weeks off, during which they must produce one new fact they learned on their own.

(But still without asking questions, and Jon is bothered.)

“That sounds lovely, assuming I’m not taking someone else’s job,” he says.

“For someone with your vast knowledge, I would make a spot, even if I had to dig for one,” says Mason affably. “Someday, you’ll have to let me know why you didn’t matriculate.”

Jon doesn’t understand what that means, or how Mason knows he didn’t, or why it matters. He focuses on his bag because he knows his face is not neutral. “Someday. Sure.”

Mason doesn’t look like Jonah. He’s younger. Slightly rougher, living in a world without spa days, or whatever Jonah did to Elias Bouchard’s body. But those eyes….

Stop it, Jon tells himself.

“There is one more thing.”

Jon tries not to tense, then decides Mason probably saw it, anyway. He smiles weakly. “Those words usually aren’t followed by anything good.”

Mason smiles back. “They are this time. I would like to invite you and your partner to a mentor’s gathering tonight. We’ll be hosting mentors from the three closest Groves, as well. It’s a good chance to meet your own kind—since I know you’re unfamiliar with our area.”

See, there it was again. That phrasing; it could be read in all different ways. Maybe Mason was trying to figure out where Jon had run from, too. “I’ll ask and see if he’s interested. Neither of us feels overly social just yet.”

“Really.” Mason’s eyes widen. “It seems your beau is quite social, from what I hear.”

“Professionally, of course he is,” says Jon, trying so very hard not to feed his suspicion of this man.

“Fair enough, fair enough. Well, I hope he says yes. I’m heading to London after, so I won’t see you again until next season. Have a good night, Jonathan.”

Jon doesn’t correct his name. He just leaves.

Worth it, he reminds himself, because it is, and he isn’t tied down, and they can leave at any time (quitting was an option here, and he had damn well made sure).

Cresting the hill before their cottage, he pauses, looks; it’s market day, and Martin will be late.

Jon’s going to bake something. Welcome him home with good smells and love.

He checks the dough that’s been proofing overnight, liberally mixed with fresh rosemary; it already smells divine, and he has high hopes for it as he sticks it in the oven.

Happily, he doesn’t have to light a fire. Electricity works here between the hours of five AM and seven PM—even though there are neither wires nor outlets.

It’s wireless power in a place that doesn’t even have radios. Yet another mystery.

What was the world like before that event of 376 years past?

Jonathan was a Hebrew name, and Jon had it because of religious and cultural integration. Others here had names like Mark, which was originally Greek, and—back home—common for the same reason.

There was no Church of Rome, couldn’t be in a world with floating gods, and without the common foundation of that Greco-Latin influence, the language should not be the same. The word theocracy had Greek roots, for crying out loud.

He had to wonder if they were actually speaking English—if the Eye was doing something to ease communication.

But if it was, how would that work for Martin?

“It just doesn’t make any sense,” Jon mutters, bringing leftovers up from the narrow, deep cellar.

Maybe the Fears hadn’t been able to come through because this world was so different.

There didn’t seem to be much suffering, at least. Nobody talked about anything frightening, ever; and when he skimmed minds, he never saw the concerns that should, by reason, be there.

No one worried for their future or their health or war or money.

No one worried for their children or their parents or their crops or their cows.

It’s like they were all caricatures of people, two dimensional—kind, hard-working, but unable to think deeply about anything.

How could they be like this in a universe run by terrifying beings like last night’s god?

There is no way to know, of course, (You could know, tempts the Eye, and Jon ignores it), but he highly doubts the yellow-cloaked being is going to be patient with him for long.

Would distance make a damn bit of difference?

Esoterics rule various nations, but the fact that refugees get chased down means fleeing probably won’t help.

Escape might be possible, but it might not—and if it isn’t, running would just piss off the thing that was after them.

There is a London, but Jon’s not found a map. Is there an Oxford? Probably not. The likelihood of there being an exit, another Hill Top Road, is slim to none—and whatever hole they’d fallen through originally was definitely no longer available.

He didn’t want to risk returning to their original world, anyway. What if the Fears continued to follow him, tethered? What if they weren’t as stuck as he hoped?

Jon sighs. “Focus, Sims,” he mutters, because wherever he and Martin land, here or elsewhere, he is determined to make a home for them. No matter what it takes.

Even if that means figuring out a way around a god.

“Hopefully, with no more stabbing,” Jon mutters, chopping everything for a makeshift fry-up.

And suddenly, he knows whose territory he is in.

His hand slips, and he cuts his finger.

Cursing, he runs it under the sink; while it heals, he tries to stay calm.

He hadn’t reached for this new knowledge. Hadn’t asked. Why had it been given to him? Why had—

“Jon?” says Martin from the door. He is very pale, and his hand is bandaged.

Jon drops everything and runs to him.

#

They sit together on their old, broken-down couch, ignoring the springs that press into their backs and bottoms. “What are we going to do?” Martin says, very small.

“I don’t know.” Jon cradles Martin’s bandaged hand. He doesn't mention his own cut, already healed.

“We have to do something. Maybe go somewhere. We—we have enough saved. If we had to buy passage overseas or something, maybe we could.”

“I don’t know, Martin. I don’t think it would help.”

“We can’t just sit here!”

Jon sighs. “I think our visitors are truly in charge here. That whole Esoteric thing… I mean, what kind of a name is the Church of a Thousand Young, anyway? It has something to do with what they call the Black Goat of the Woods. Can’t you feel how terrible that is?”

Martin cannot, but he can see how it affects Jon—disgust and fear, equally rancid—so he nods.

“And do you want to know which Esoteric rules here? I found out while I was… before you got back. Alba belongs to the Church of the Pallid Mask. Do you know what that means?”

“No,” whispers Martin, breathing faster, because something about the way Jon said that was too familiar, tipped him off that Jon got this information illicitly, and if he’s listening that hard, actively searching, then he’s stretching his powers, and he hasn’t needed statements yet, but what if he starts needing them, and—

“A white mask, Martin. Like the King in Yellow was wearing.”

“We’re in his territory? Then we should leave!”

“Even if we got away from him, I don’t think we could from your chaos god.”

“He’s not my chaos god,” Martin snaps, and doesn’t know why he does.

Jon flinches. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Oh, Jon.” Martin pulls him close, sighs against his hair. “No, I’m sorry. I’m on edge.” He sighs. “And my hand hurts, and I had to pretend it didn’t all day because if I get so much as a scrape, everybody’s all over me to help.”

Jon smiles against his shoulder; then laughs. He can’t help it. “Of course they are. My man, the Village stud.”

“Stop.” But Martin’s smiling.

“The mysterious thoroughbred from far away, the most eligible gentleman—”

Martin’s laughing now, too, and he’s red behind his freckles. “Jon, you’re being ridiculous.”

“What, just because I happen to be sleeping with the most strapped, the most—”

“All right, all right.”

“Even Salesa was into you, you know.”

“What?”

“’I like this one,’” Jon mimics in a poor attempt at Salesa’s accent.

Martin gives up and kisses him quiet, laughing against his mouth. “You’re impossible.”

“Yes, I am,” Jon smirks, but then the moment has passed, and his smile fades. “This bet of theirs is insane. I won’t bring the Fears into the world, Martin. I’ll die before I do that to this place.”

Martin is silent for a long moment. “You’re assuming you can die.”

“I assume it because it’s reasonable. I don’t have the power I did back home, even before Jonah’s ritual. Yes, I can gather thoughts, but I don’t need them. And I can’t force people to tell me things—there’s no compelling at all.”

“You’ve tried?” says Martin, softly.

Jon blinks at him. “Well, yes.”

“Jon, when did this happen?”

“I… not long after I started looking for a job. I….”

“You didn’t tell me.”

Jon looks so surprised. “I didn’t want to worry you! Besides, what’s there to tell? You know I’m not the Archivist here. Whatever lingering effects there are, I’m not that. I don’t have the powers, and I don’t have the protections.”

Not all of them, anyway.

“Who did you try to compel?”

Jon sighs slowly. “Just a shopkeeper. I haven’t gone back. I… I just needed to know if I could do it.”

Martin is silent.

Jon feels suddenly ashamed, though he hadn’t a moment before. “Martin, I had to figure out what remained inside me. I doubt I can look anyone to death, either.”

“No, I’d assume you couldn’t do that. But Jon, why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t think it was important.” Which is the truth (because Martin was right and Kayne was right and Jon can’t lie for shit). “I just did a few tests, realized I can’t compel, can’t just know everything—but I also don’t need statements. I don’t have to feed the Eye, Martin.”

“I know you don’t, but….”

“I’m sorry we haven’t talked about it,” says Jon, softly, looking up (and Martin wants to melt into those eyes, wants to kiss away the pain he sees there, the lingering sorrow and shame). “You’ve been so focused on just keeping us afloat here. So have I. We just… haven’t talked about not needing statements.”

They haven’t talked about a lot more than that.

Martin sighs. “I felt like if I did, I’d be pushing our luck. Jinxing it.”

Jon’s smile is not a good one. “If you don’t want to be jinxed, you’ll need to stay far away from me.”

“No. No,” says Martin, firmly, uncomfortably reminded of Kayne’s comment about Jon mentally, repeatedly stabbing himself. “None of that. You know better.”

Jon neither confirms nor denies.

Martin cups his face. “I am with you because I love you. I choose you,” he says. “I didn’t know it would be this way, but that’s how all love is. That’s how life is! I mean, if I’d known it would be like this, I would have stabbed Jonah in the back of the head or something, but I’d still be with you. And we’d be in Honduras.”

“Honduras?” says Jon with a little smile. “Why?”

“Non-extradition treaty,” says Martin. “I looked it up.”

Jon manages a small laugh. His smile fades, changes into something intense, eldritch, too much to bear, and Martin has to fight not to drop his own gaze. “I don’t deserve you,” says Jon.

“Stop that,” says Martin. “Also, I think I smell bread.”

“Damn, the bread!” Jon says, and leaps away to get it out of the oven.

Damn Jonah is what Martin thinks, because he sees the wounds, he sees the scars, sees how brilliantly Jonah destroyed whatever confidence Jon had once had.

Of course Jonah had. He hadn’t wanted the god he’d created to come after him.

And Martin doesn’t know how to heal him.

It angers Martin that his love isn’t enough to reach the bottom of the wounds Jonah left.

I’m just jealous of everybody, aren’t I? thinks Martin, considering his reaction to Oliver Banks, and has to laugh at himself. “What a pair we make,” he mutters.

“Safe,” says Jon. “Rosemary bread tonight. It’s going to be lovely.”

Not nearly as lovely as Jon’s expression, Martin thinks, studying the way his eyes crinkle, studying the way he actually shows his teeth with a smile this real.

Why can’t we have this? Martin thinks at the universe. Just let us have this.

The universe does not reply.

(part three)

NOTES:

It's ALMOST AS IF they really need to talk about some stuff. Hmmmm!

[sixtypackofcrayola]

Ooooohh❤️❤️❤️ Lovesick Monkey King and Maquace are adorable!! Can we have MK, RedSon and Nezha affected by a love potion too?? Pretty please🙏🙏

well since ya asked so nicely

✰ LOVESICK (Part 2) ✰

Fandom; LEGO Monkie Kid Character List; MK, Red Son, Nezha Genre(s); big helping of Fluff for ya Pronouns; None used for Reader TW/CW; None

A/N; you can read lovesick for macaque and wukong here if ya like + i dont think nezha can get any kinda sick but its ok :smile:

🌷

-I think Nezha would realize what’s going on and try to fight the effects for a bit, but inevitably he’s done for  -And once they are completely under the effects, they’re like a mix of Wukong’s clingyness and Macaque’s nonstop flirting -Ik I say this a lot, but ohu boy -Nezha isn’t usually super touchy, but once you come around/he sees you he is all over you. Craves their partner’s touch even more, loves feeling you close to him, holding your hands or face -Put your arms around his waist they will internally lose it -They’ll gently take your hand and kiss it n call you prince/princess -He’s oddly poetic with his words sometimes when he flirts with you, expect a bit of flowery language  -Suddenly very forward but also easy to fluster so keep that in mind -Smoother tone, speaks a bit softer  -Again, expect flowers -A little more protective, kinda looms behind you. If you two happened to be in public with them disguised, they wouldn’t give anyone you talk to a dirty look per-say, but there’s definitely this aura. Not inherently scary, but enough to make someone slightly more careful with what they say to you -He seems to smile more with you too, no matter what you’re doing. They’re enthralled by how you manage to be stunning with every little movement -If he could still partially think clearly and didn’t know they were under some kind of influence, he’d think they were definitely sick. Except they don’t get sick.. so after that he’s lost -I’m not gonna say the title.  -Alternate scenario; they’re like half under the effects bc Nezha is just less affected by things like this. And they say and do all these things but occasionally after there’ll be like a moment where they partially snap out of it and just; “That was so- Gods, I’m sorry for that, I- I mean it’s not like it isn’t true! It’s just.. bolder than how I would’ve.. Sorry-” ‘n get a little flustered over what he said to you -Their thoughts are flooded with you and it’s not that they hate it, it’s just overwhelming, all these loving emotions suddenly amplified by like 20 -”When does this wear off...”

🔥

-Someone’s getting a bit possessive  -Will always try to keep you close to them, they want you to themselves -And it’s not really harmful,, they wouldn’t dare hurt you and they’re not gonna capture you or anything. If you do wanna leave they’ll eventually let you! They just really want you with them,, -Not as physically clingy as some of the others, in fact, you touching him at all especially if it’s a loving touch like holding his hands, arm, face or kissing him anywhere will set his hair aflame -And if you weren’t already together, they would try to deny at least some of what he’s feeling towards you and how their face gets so red when you merely lean on them, but inevitably they’ll break as well -Obsessed with you, everything you do, your reactions to him. They’re suddenly even more aware of every little detail that makes you you and he’s simply falling faster -Tries to impress you with his magic or one of his newer creations and if you say you like it he’s beyond happy. I can just see the floating hearts my guy -Will get you anything you ask for. Want this specific item? Say no more! Craving a certain food? I mean, in his words he’s practically a professional cook so don’t even worry about it -Also might ask you to marry them, y’know as one does. A few times throughout the day when you’re just doing anything. Lovesick, bro. -Roll credits -And later would actually approach you with a ring and everything and ask you to marry them,, like, right then. -And if you say it’s probably too early for that he’ll get a bit upset, but they’ll ask if you’ll marry them one day at least because they are absolutely in love with you and if ya say yes they’ll still give you the ring and promise to get you an even better one when you do get married! 

💫

-Basically, like father like son -Also annoyingly sweet and cheesy with all the pet names he can think of, except he’ll actually use your name sometimes -Distracted by you while doing anything. The most wholesome thoughts from this man he just really wants a bunch of kisses from you and for you to tell he’s pretty because he’ll certainly be telling you that all day! -Stares at you lovingly if you’re farther from him, heart eyes and all -Pages full of doodles of you in his sketchbook with little hearts around -If you aren’t together quite yet he will definitely be embarrassed of and hiding those from anyone after this wears off -Also gets flustered with even little touches you give him and he’s tryna play it off but... no -Praises you for just normal things you do. You could just be wiping down a counter and he’d be like; “Wow, you’re uh- Really good at cleaning! Heh-” -Attempts to flirt, half fails but it’s cute -Either he trips somehow and you catch him and the way you look at him has his heart doing flips or he’s distracted by your beautiful face when he tries to- -Will ramble about you if he’s with others even if you’re around and he’ll say the sweetest things about you but he’s been going on for several minutes -Subtly but no so subtly tries to keep you to himself for the day. He doesn’t really wanna force you to stay with him but- -”Oh haha sorry! Me and [Name] are- gonna go doing something right now! Together! Us, together! Going to- somewhere! Yep, haha- uh, my bad but we gotta go, kay byeee!”  -Wants to spend as much time near you as possible, he loves looking at your face and he definitely will say that getting lost in your eyes line or something what’d I tell ya -Give him kisses all over his face he will absolutely melt and be a flustered giggling mess it’s what he’s wanted all day -Might purposefully let you win in Monkey Mech which he would never do otherwise so it got you a little more concerned,, orrr he’d try to play his best but the way you look so confident and determined and excited while trying to beat him has him distracted again ( Fin ~  ✰ )

[wheelsup]

kissing lessons

summary: one of your classic movie nights with spencer turns into a learning opportunity

A/N: this is really fluffy, but the whole story centers around kissing. use your own judgement! i’d say it’s at worst 16+

category: spencer reid x gn!reader, fluff (with a bit of spice)  best friends to lovers (sorta)

warnings: just kissing, a brief implication at the end

word count: 3k

Occasionally, the team will spend an extra night in their hotel before heading home from a case. Be it due to poor weather conditions, or the fact that your case wrapped in the dead of night, the reasons for flying don’t ever matter. Because the majority of the times when you have to stay that extra night, you and Spencer have sleepovers.

The routine is pretty much the same. You’ll stock up on gas station snacks – sour peach rings for Spencer, salted microwave popcorn for you – and reconvene in one of your hotel rooms. Preferably, whichever of you got the better deal that week – a bigger tv, a room further away from the ice machine. And you’d rent the cheapest movie available on-demand, the options spanning from low-budget sci-fi to poorly written rom-coms. That night, the viewing fell under the latter category.

Spencer perched at the foot of your bed with both feet tucked under his legs, criss-cross style, while you laid against the headboard to watch. Every now and then, you tossed out your commentary and he’d ignore it. He always says you’re too critical of movies and you’re of the belief that he’s too forgiving.

“I don’t think they should end up together,” you mumbled, words slurring around your mouthful of popcorn. You pulled a face right as the movie approached the romantic climax, after spending the past ninety minutes actively rooting against the couple. Spencer ignored you, pretending to be engrossed in the movie to spite your disparagement of it. “They both suck.”

You groaned, slumped further against the pillows, and shoved your sock-clad toes under Spencer’s left thigh in a call for attention. He jumped at the intrusion, but ultimately, your efforts were futile.

And then the big kiss commenced, and your booing finally piqued his interest. “Gross! I feel bad for people who kiss like that.”

A small bell went off in his head and he took a curious glance at you over his shoulder.

“What do you mean?” he asked. He stopped chewing and the piece of candy in his mouth pushed out his cheek, giving him an adorably innocent look. His brows scrunched in the middle and his nose had a tiny crinkle in it, utterly confused.

You scoffed and matched his expression. “Are you serious?” You jerked your head in the direction of the television and Spencer whipped his head back, squinting. He couldn’t figure out what you were pointing out, what it was that was so obviously wrong to you. “Spencer, he’s swallowing her chin!”

Oh. He hadn’t noticed.

Feeling dumb, he muttered, “I thought that’s how you’re supposed to kiss…” It wasn’t the deepest confession to admit to you that he lacked some knowledge when it came to kissing, but he still refused to look at you as he said it.

“Spencer, please tell me you haven’t been kissing people like that.” You narrowed your eyes at the back of his head, sitting up straighter in bed. He shrugged and lowered his head, focusing on his snack as his fingers dug into the packet of gummy rings in his lap.

He popped another piece into his mouth, pretending to be occupied with eating so as to avoid your prying. “I dunno.”

It didn’t occur to you until that moment that Spencer might have learned everything he knows about kissing – among other things – solely through watching movies. How else could he look at that and think it’s normal? And you’re left wondering if he’s ever even practiced it with another living human. He clearly didn’t want to talk about it, but unfortunately, that only heightened your interest. You had to know.

“Have you ever kissed anyone before?” You kept your voice low, your tone implying that you were ready to exchange this secret with him. You wouldn’t judge him if he admitted he hadn’t.

He scoffed loudly, and though you couldn’t see his face, you’re positive he rolled his eyes too. “Yeah, of course.” Then quietly, he added on, “But it was only like… for four seconds.”

You nodded thoughtfully, considering how this new piece of information adjusted your existing view of Spencer. For some reason, you couldn’t tell if you actually expected him to be experienced or not.

He didn’t exactly scream that he’d… gotten around, for lack of better words, but you’re still surprised to learn that he’s barely done it at all. You supposed he was objectively cute, that maybe you could see it if he weren’t your best friend. And yeah, he’s a little awkward, but he’s smart and kind, so he has three great things going for him, and you’re surprised more people haven’t swooped him up yet.

Your lips curled down in thought, brows raised in curiosity. “And was it good?” It was a genuine enough question, because you’ve never really thought about Spencer Reid and kissing in the same sentence before. As it turned out, there was a lot of missing information relating to those two things.

“I don’t know! I didn’t get, like, a feedback form,” he grunted, angling his shoulder even further away from you. If you could’ve seen him, you’d notice his face boiling and turning red with heat. All this inquiring made him think harder about his … talents … than he’s ever had to before, and he’s not a fan.

You were prepared to do some more digging when the slump in his back made you feel a tinge of guilt. It was your fault he looked so defeated. You pressed too hard, disregarding his boundaries just because you wanted to know more. And now, he was wondering if there was something wrong with him, because you wouldn’t leave it alone.

He barely noticed as you swung your feet from under his thigh and rocked onto your knees, leaning forward to nudge his shoulder with your palm. It hauled his attention out of his thoughts and back into the room. You wanted to apologize, but instead you settled with “I’m sure you’re fine, Spence.”

He nodded unconvincingly. By the glow of the screen, you could see he was still gnawing on the inside of his cheek, focusing his eyes as he played with a loose hangnail on one of his fingers. It made you feel even worse. “Are you actually worried about it?” you asked, laden with concern.

“What if I am bad at it?” He whispered, like saying it too loud would make it true. “And that’s why it’s only happened once?”

A large exhale puffed out of your nose as you weighed your options.

You could go back to your original plan and apologize for setting him down this path of doubt. But that wouldn’t do anything to stop him from worrying, anyway. You could tell him there’s no correlation between the way he kisses and how frequently it’s happened; that you’re sure the reason isn’t because he’s bad. But you don’t know that for sure.

So, fuck it, you thought, grabbing a fistful of his pajama shirt and tugging him closer to you roughly, pressing your lips onto his.

This way, you’d at least have an informed opinion to be able to tell him if he was good or bad.

His lips were softer than you expected – not that you’d thought about them often, they’re just impossibly softer than they look – and invitingly warm. But they were completely stiff.

You could tell he was trying to kiss you back by the way his mouth ferociously moved over yours. He was trying to be a passionate, engaged partner, but he forgot about the aspect of tenderness.

His lips felt like two solid objects just sliding around on your face. They didn’t move in any sort of accordance with yours. There was no push and pull, your lips didn’t mesh perfectly together to form a solitary unit as they moved in unison.

It felt more like his lips were your opponent, putting up an attack and defense play against the actions of your own.

You pulled away, resisting a giggle at his bewildered face. “You’re not so terrible,” you swipe the corner of your mouth, smudged with Spencer’s flavored chapstick, “But it could use some work.”

He was at a loss for words, mouth gaping open as his eyes darted around the room and all over you. Maybe he’d find an explanation for what just happened carved into the walls somewhere or written across your forehead.

What happened was that you kissed him. And he was a little bit bad. Simple as that.

“I-I wasn’t ready!” he stammered, chucking up his hands defensively. He’d process the fact that he’d just made out with his best friend at a later time, right now the bigger concern was the slight cringed look on your face. He sulked and folded his arms.“What was so bad about it?”

“Well,” you scratched the back of your ear, trying to gauge if he’d react well to getting some advice, “my first tip would be to relax your lips.”

“Okay, I can do that.”

“And don’t think too hard. You should react to what’s happening in the moment, not worrying about what your next move is gonna be.” You could see the gears turning in his head as he tried to envision what that would play out like in a real situation. “You wanna try again?” you offered, figuring he’d learn much faster if he was more hands-on about it.

He nodded, and you leaned in close, waiting for him to go for it. His heart quickened under the pressure of performance, eyes screwing shut as he closed the gap. His mouth smashed into yours as he dove in hard. It was toeing on the side of too harsh, but you let that one slide in hopes it was just a byproduct of his nerves.

You had to tap his knee to remind him to relax, and he loosened some of the tension he had in his lips. He slotted his between yours, allowing them to be pliable to your movements and remembering to react, not plan.

He moved his mouth leisurely against yours, trying to match your pressure and pacing. They actually started moving in time with yours at some point. The kiss took on a shape of its own as he started getting out of his head, letting himself enjoy the kiss for what it was in that exact moment.

It was already better than before. Leaps and bounds better. But then he tried to deepen it, building on its intensity but adding more… something into it. You couldn’t even tell what it was he was trying to do.

“Okay, second tip…” you inhaled sharply, pushing him off of you with a palm against his chest. Whatever it was, it needed to stop. “You kinda do this thing like… where you’re blowing air into my mouth?” You scrunched your nose, punctuating your dislike. “That feels weird. Don’t do that. If anything, do the opposite.”

“I’m supposed to suck the air out of your mouth?” His face contorted, voice already slightly exasperated. He barely understood what the air thing was that you claimed he did. He didn’t realize in the process of trying to add pressure to the kiss, he was just forcibly blowing against your mouth.

“Not literally, no.” You laughed a little, rubbing your palm in a comforting pattern on his chest.”But you can use your lips to suck on mine, or my tongue… just nothing involving the exchange of breath. We’re not in CPR training.”

He eased up a little with your joke, adjusting to your advice he gave it another try. After a few moments, he latched onto your bottom lip with his own, sucking it softly into his mouth. “Yeah, like that,” you mumbled against him, voice pitching high in encouragement. He sucked on it with a little more greed, holding it for a second, then eased up, varying the pressure of his movements just like you did before.

You made a mental note to praise him for that at a later time, deciding to instead part your lips to see if he’d venture into further experimentation.

He caught on quickly. He parted them further, prodding his tongue against them as you opened to allow him entry. Just as you started to really enjoy it, he ran his tongue over the inside of your mouth, moving it fast and roughly like he was a washing machine.

“Stop,” you grimaced, tearing away quickly. You had to swipe your hand over your mouth to get rid of the excess saliva that really shouldn’t have been an issue in the first place, given how brief the frenching was. “Your tongue is way too aggressive.”

Overwhelmed, he tilted his head to the ceiling and let out a frustrated grunt, slapping his hands down to the top of his thighs.

There were too many factors to worry about. He had no idea how you looked at him with a straight face and told him not to think too much when there were a million things he needed to remember all at once; he needed to vary his moves to keep it interesting, but make sure he’s not ruining the flow by changing things up too much, and to be gentle but not timid.

All of this was second nature to you, but it was brand new to Spencer. Could you really blame him for not getting the hang of it right away? You decided to stop your list of critiques short for this round to spare him. He’d get there eventually, but not if he felt discouraged too soon.

“I don’t see why people like it in the first place,” he huffed, his head returning to it’s normal posture. In Spencer’s eyes, there truly wasn’t any appeal to kissing with tongue; it looked sloppy and unnecessary, and as you’d just confirmed, it actually was.

You thought about his statement for a second. There’s a certain allure to it, and you didn’t know how to describe it to him. So instead you cupped his cheeks in both your palms and slid your mouth over his again. As his jaw slacked its tension, you slowly pushed your tongue past his lips and gently pressed it against his own before swirling them together.

You sighed softly into his mouth, running your fingers through his hair and tugging carefully at the ends. He made a small noise against you, something like a whimper, and you swallowed the vibrations of it. As you retreated, you captured his bottom lip between your teeth and gave it a light, teasing tug. You soothed it again with your lips before releasing it, a proud giggle forming in your chest as Spencer chased after your lips as you broke apart.

“That’s why.” You smirked at the dazed look on his face. His eyelids remained closed longer than necessary, still feeling the ghost of your mouth on his and a tingle where your fingers were in his hair.

“Oh.” His voice came out meek as he slowly came back to reality, brows wrinkling up his forehead as he opened his eyes.

He put both his palms down on the mattress, one laying flat on either side of you, and dove forward to resume the kiss right where you left it. A surprised squeak left you as his mouth collided with yours with an insatiable hunger. You brought one hand back to his hair, and he was a goner.

He unfolded his legs from under himself and shuffled onto his knees, following his hands until he practically crawled into your lap. Each of his legs hooked onto either side of your thighs as he hovered over your lap, leaning his body entirely into yours.

The physics of it didn’t hold up; he’s taller than you are, and his chest was too heavy for you to carry. The balance was off center and it sent you tumbling back onto the mattress, bringing him down with you until his chest laid on yours.

It was the perfect force – the weight of him on top of you. He tasted like peach candy and sour sugar, and you found yourself craving more of it.

You shuffled higher up the mattress, giving him space to stretch out his body as he followed yours. One of his hands found your waist, gripping tightly, while he placed the other on the mattress beside your head, using it to steady himself. Sliding your legs out from under him, you wrapped them on the outside of his hips, using them to pull him closer down to you.

It only broke off in moments when both of you absolutely needed to get air, gasping as you pulled apart for brief reprieve before colliding again. He followed every word of your advice, getting better with each passing second until he exceeded expectations by leaps and bounds.

Your fingers weaved through his hair, passionately tugging the wavy strands to angle him against you and igniting his nerves under your touch. A soft moan leaves him and you’re encouraged to tighten your grip on them. His hips bucked reactively at the sensation, and he quickly pulled back, a slight embarrassment creeping up his cheeks. He got too carried away.

You took in his flushed face and swollen, kiss-bruised lips. They’d turned a shade of red brighter than you’ve ever seen them, and it was all you could do not to dive for them again as his tongue sweeped over them, soothing the burning heat you’d left on them.

Before he could apologize for his eagerness, you nudged your nose against his, your smile skimming against his lips. “So what else don’t you know how to do?”

☆

☆

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[mel-the-fangirl]

The Witch & The Freak

Eddie Munson x Reader

Words: 5,132 (oh, boy...)

My first Eddie fic! I really could not help but stan this guy because, let's admit it, he's pretty adorable. I know we're well into November but I'm still feeling the Halloween vibes so this might get just a smidge creepy. It's long as hell, there's a little slice-of-life action, I just went with it but I hope you all enjoy!

Please like, reblog, or leave me a comment if you liked it!

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October 31, 1986

Somewhere in Salt Lake City, USA

Eddie Munson tightened his grip on the steering wheel, paying no mind as his knuckles turned white. His mind was obviously somewhere else, trying his hardest not to dwell on the fact that he was so totally lost. He had been driving on the same stretch of road for about half an hour now but not a single car had passed by him.

“Fuckin’ Henderson.” Eddie hissed, cursing his friend for getting him in this situation

Since when was he the babysitter anyway? Wasn’t that Harrington’s job? What was he doing wasting his Halloween playing chauffeur to Dustin Henderson when he could have been playing a killer Halloween setlist at the Hideout. He told Steve just as much but when he heard that Dustin didn’t have a ride back to Hawkins since his car was in the shop, Eddie was pretty much out the door without a second thought.

He was all huffy and puffy about it, sure. But if he was being honest, he just really needed a distraction from this weird feeling he was having that something was about to happen. He had no idea if it was something bad like a zombie ambushing him and eating his brains, or something good like finally getting off this damn road and back to civilisation.

Wherever this place was, it was giving him major heebie-jeebies. Probably because it was too goddamn quiet. Like the air was sucked out of the whole area. 

“Radio!” he exclaimed, a light bulb finally going off in his head. He fumbled with the dials until the static finally turned into Steve Perry’s “Foolish Heart”

Eddie looked around with an eyebrow quirked up like he was expecting the gang to somehow pop up in the backseat. Once the coast was clear, he sang softly at first, bobbing his head along.

“I need a love that's strong, I'm so tired of being alone..”

As the song reached its peak, Eddie Munson, Eddie the Freak, Eddie the big bad guitarist of Corroded Coffin, belted out with all the passion he had,

“Foolish heart, hear me calling. Stop before you start falling!” he swayed side to side in time with the melody

What a sight to behold. A tried and true metalhead singing his little heart out to a mushy soft rock ballad. As far as everyone he knew was concerned, if it wasn’t metal, Eddie wouldn’t touch it with a ten foot pole. But honestly? He loved all types of music, he was just sure if people knew “Candle in the Wind” made him tear up, all the mean and scary street cred he had would fly out the window.

The music began to fade out and so did the tension in Eddie’s shoulders. He rolled them out, exhaling in relief.

“Nothing to be afraid of, Munson.” he chuckled to himself, “You’ve been through worse than a quiet roadtrip, haven’t ya?”

Instinctively, his free hand wandered to his stomach, tracing the length of marred skin. A constant reminder that no girl would want to see him shirtless ever again.

Just like that, his mind replayed the events of the last few months. Dustin shattering his leg carrying his dead weight back to the portal in the Upside Down, nearly losing Max forever, his month-long stay at the hospital, his very public trial and acquittal not long after, finally graduating.

He never was able to give Principal Higgins that one finger salute, not to his face at least but he did flip him one behind his back, the whole crew hooting and cheering for him from the stands.

Getting wrapped up in all those memories, Eddie didn’t even notice that “Total Eclipse of the Heart” started playing. It was another one of his guilty pleasure power ballads, only to be listened to using headphones, with his door and window firmly closed.

Turn around,

Every now and then I get a little bit lonely

And you're never coming 'round

Turn around…

Turn around…

Turn around…

What?

Eddie eyed his stereo warily as the lyric repeated over and over, he kept his hand on one of the dials but no matter how much he turned it, the station never changed, Bonnie Tyler’s voice just kept getting lower and lower until it was almost demonic.

TURN AROUND!

The volume maxed out of nowhere. Static and feedback mixing together at varying pitches, Hell's choir harmonising. Every hair on Eddie’s body stood on end and his hands started to shake. The calm he had built within himself shattering into pieces. 

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon.” he tried his hardest through his trembling hands to turn off the damn thing but to no avail

He pushed his foot into the gas, speeding along the deserted road, hoping it was just a really fucked up signal patch. 

The distance did manage to get rid of the demon choir on his stereo but the damn thing still wouldn't turn off. The static, the fucking static was making him lose his mind. The screeching sound filled the entirety of the van and was close to crawling into his head. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. Be cool, Munson. Be fucking cool.” he breathed in and out steadily

Just as he was starting to have some semblance of calm, his engine started sputtering until gradually and agonisingly slowly, the van halted to a complete stop. Eddie could have sworn someone had it out for him. He got out of the van on shaky legs, his Reeboks crunching on the gravel as he lifted the hood of the van up.

A flashlight would've been handy. The streetlights did nothing to help him see any of the wiring. He couldn’t help but slam the hood down in frustration, the harsh sound echoing off into the night. Of course, something like this was happening to him. Noticing what was across the empty street only confirmed his beliefs that he was probably the unluckiest bastard to walk the earth. 

A fucking cemetery of all the fucking places to be. At night. On Halloween. Smack dab in the middle of nowhere, USA.

“Just my fucking luck.” he exhaled, placing one hand flat on the slightly heated hood and the other on his chest, Eddie screwed his eyes shut and tipped his head forward, curly locks falling all around him

How did it get like this?

There he was, quietly making his way to his teenage friend who needed a ride home, a chivalrous act. Next thing he knows, he's a sitting duck right in the middle of the road. Easy prey for whoever wanted a piece of him. Of course, they'd have to go around the parts that haven't already been picked at.

He snorted at that. 

Nothing like a bit of self-deprecating humour to get him up and running again. He raised his head and finally got his thoughts in order.

Obviously, the van was busted and he was stuck. That much was clear. According to his watch, it was thirty past one in the morning. He still had hours to go until dawn so he should probably get some rest. The rollercoaster of emotions he'd just been through was enough to drain whatever energy he had left.

"And so, it was decided," Eddie narrated in his Dungeon Master voice, climbing back in the van. 

"Eddie the Banished would spend the night in his faithful but useless van, clutching in his grasp, the 2x4 he could never be bothered to throw away. Guess it came in handy in the end."

What was also handy were the blankets and pillows he stored in the back. He'd have to thank El for coming up with the idea after he took the gang out to a drive-in and literally everyone complained about how uncomfortable it was.

Oddly enough though? Eddie was comfortable. Having the van break down right across the street from a cemetery and that freaky thing with the stereo aside, being nestled in those blankets in the darkness of his van was actually kind of cozy. Hugging the 2x4 like a teddy bear, he drifted off to sleep, hoping he wouldn't have to use it.

…

A dull thud roused Eddie from his sleep. He shifted around in his blankets, nearly taking his eye out with the edge of the 2x4 he forgot he was cradling in his arms.

He groaned, cracking his knuckles above his head. He almost forgot where he was. 

The realisation was like a cold bucket of water down his shirt. He let his guard down for God knows how long. What could be lurking out there? What if he was surrounded by enemies already? He shot up, crawling to the passenger’s side window. Eddie muttered his own version of a prayer under his breath and very cautiously took a look across the road.

Everything was pitch black beyond the rusty cemetery gates, save for a few lit candles. He could make out the flickering flames in the distance but other than that, not a fucking thing. Even the goddamn lamps perched on the gate didn’t seem to be working.

Eddie craned his neck to get a view farther along the moss covered stone wall that bordered the property. Nothing but rustling bushes and darkness.

Wait.

Rustling… Bushes?

Thankfully, his eyes were starting to adjust. He kept his gaze glued to one spot, hoping to catch whatever critter was in those bushes. Suddenly, a flashlight poked through the leaves. It circled the ground until it abruptly shone in the direction of the van. Eddie dove out of sight, immediately regretting the move. He was sure his cover was blown. 

Army crawling back under his blankets, Eddie tried his best to peep out of the van's rear windows this time. The light in the bushes was gone and there wasn't anyone in sight. 

He sighed in relief. Safe for now but his mind was running wild with theories of who could be in the bushes

A squatter, maybe? 

Someone trying to set up camp for the night? 

This wasn't exactly a camper's hot spot but who knows, right? Nine times out of ten, Eddie's morbid curiosity led him to places he couldn't even imagine.

Out of the quiet, he heard it. A little muffled from his spot inside the van but it was there all the same. 

"GOD DAMN IT!" the voice from outside yelled

Eddie froze, brown eyes bigger than even thought possible.

Not much had changed outside. The light was still gone, the bush was still moving. No other cars had passed by. Though that little expletive was confirmation that there was a person in the bushes.

What he was going to do with that information was still up for debate.

He could just leave it alone… Really though, what good was it going to get him if he left the safety of his van? 

But then again, what if they needed help? No one in their right mind would be poking around cemetery bushes if they weren’t in some form of distress. If there was something that Eddie learned from what he went through, it was never to run away.

He was still fucking scared though, don’t get him wrong. But he wasn’t going anywhere.

With a deep exhale, he stepped out of the van, trusty 2x4 in hand.

His pulse thumped uncomfortably in his ears, like at any time his eardrums would burst. Every step he took to close the distance between him and the cemetery gate, he felt like he was being watched by unseen eyes.

“Christ.” he muttered, trying not to look straight at the candle-speckled darkness that lay ahead

His footsteps went unheard as his mystery lurker continued to… Well, lurk in the bushes, moving to and fro along a particular stretch of grass.

“Uh, hello? Do you need any help?” his voice wavered ever so slightly at the end of his sentence

The rustling stopped. For Eddie, it seemed like everything stopped in those few seconds where he thought he was going to die for real this time.

That was until, you finally poked your head out.

Then everything stopped for Eddie a second time.

You had to be a ghost or something right? Because there was no way. NO WAY. Anyone alive could look as ethereal and unreal as you. Sure, there were leaves stuck in your hair and dirt streaked on your cheek but to Eddie that just made you look even more heart-stopping.

“Uh,” you cleared your throat, rising to your feet and dusting yourself off as best you could

Taking stock of your sudden companion, you mentally checked off a list. 

Long shaggy hair, check. The devil on his shirt, check. And finally, big brown eyes, check. Though your powers of divination were improving, they still didn't work well enough to find the damn crystal you dropped. 

“Hi, um. I’m sure this looks a little strange,” you gestured to the bushes you’ve been searching through for the past fifteen minutes or so.

“But I, well I dropped something around here and I’m having a real tough time finding it as you can see.” you chuckled breathily, patting at your jeans, knees covered in grass stains

“Oh, uh,” Eddie stepped towards you, feeling a weird sort of gravitational pull. “When’d you lose it? The caretakers might’ve done away with it, y’know.”

“That’s not it.” you waved your hand dismissively, returning your gaze to the grass beneath your sneakered feet. “I lost it just now when I fell off that damn gate.”

Something was totally off, Eddie could feel it. For starters, he kept involuntarily walking towards you, completely disregarding the bush right in front of him. He couldn’t even see his Reeboks underneath the leaves anymore. Second, his eyes were practically glued to the ground. Every time he'd try to raise his head, it was like there was a hand pushing it back down again, forcing him to search for something but he had no idea what.

“Just uh,” he walked along the line of bushes just as you did, squinting at the ground. “Just now, huh? What’re you even doing here at this time? It’s uh, it isn’t safe.”

He crouched down and began poking at the bushes with his 2x4. The intent look on his face made you giggle, he was an easy one to influence.

“While I appreciate the concern, I can take care of myself just fine, thank you. Now, be a doll and look over there..”

Like a little marionette, Eddie made his way over to the bush you were pointing at. He couldn’t even stop to question why the hell he was just blindly following your orders, his brain was covered in a thick fog. His one-track mind concerned only with finding what you had lost.

“It would be really helpful if I knew what I was looking for.” he whispered to himself. 

Before he could even blink, you were only two steps away from him. How the hell did you do that?

"You'll know it when you see it." you said, watching him closely

The close proximity was making Eddie's head spin, if he was being honest. The scent of warm cinnamon sugar mixed with the dewy grass you fell in wafted off you and invaded his senses. Not even the pricier stuff in his stash could make him feel this way.

This had to stop. Somehow his hijacked brain connected the dots, whatever effect you had on him would only stop if he found what you were looking for. He took the flashlight from your hand and got on his knees. 

"That's a bit much, isn't it?" you remarked, tilting your head to see how he was doing

"You're.. You're doing something to me." Eddie struggled to get the words out. His lips were barely moving, like they’d been glued together and it was just starting to dry

"Huh. Intuitive." you thought. Perhaps shutting him up was a bit much but you were exhausted and really wanted to get home.

As he swung the flashlight to search somewhere else, a glint partially obscured by a fallen leaf caught Eddie's eye. He bent down and flicked the leaf out of the way, revealing a shiny, palm sized pink stone of some sort. As he picked it up, it felt warm to the touch.

“Rose quartz.” you filled him in, closing your hand over his

Of course Eddie had no fucking idea what that was but you had his full attention, you were only about a hair’s breadth away from each other now. 

“Eddie Munson.” you smiled slowly, noticing how your heart was beating a little too fast

At the mention of his name, he could feel the haze that had settled in his mind starting to lift. He nodded, still not able to produce any words with your hand still in his. You weren’t sure if he could feel it, but the rose quartz began to vibrate under your entwined hands.  

What that meant, you weren’t entirely sure.

In one fluid movement, you managed to take your crystal out of his hand and step away.

You cleared your throat and dropped your crystal into your bag with the others, "The love crystal." 

“What?” Eddie’s lips were finally functioning again but he felt out of breath

“The one you picked up. It’s also called the love crystal.” you clarified, kicking at some pebbles with the tip of your shoe

“Crystal…” he shook his head, looking at you apprehensively. “What the hell did you just do to me back there? Are you some kind of witch or something?"

"If I’m being totally honest, I find that term offensive and I don’t like being called that. It’s so goddamn archaic…" 

"Wait, hold on-"

"...I mean, what is this? The 17th century? You gonna report me to the Witchmaster General too?" 

"SHUT UP!" Eddie yelled, his voice echoing all throughout the empty street

His sudden outburst caused you to let go of your bag of crystals, the lot of them clattering to the ground. You tsk-ed in annoyance before dropping to your knees to round them all up again. 

"Was just trying to make conversation. Didn't have to fucking yell at me." you muttered, occasionally shooting nasty looks at him

He joined you on the ground, hurriedly picking up your crystals. "Shit, um. Look, I'm sorry. I just.. Well, how the hell do I even put this. You're-You're a witch? Like an actual real life witch? Is that how you knew my name?"

"No, you idiot. I watched your trial a few months back. I bet everyone in America knows your fucking name.”

“Oh.”

“But I am a witch.”

“Oh.”

The thing about him is his wit was always quicker than his common sense. The quip was already tumbling out of his mouth before he could stop himself.

“Hey, I thought you didn’t like being called a witch?”

“I don’t.” you almost growled at him

Oh, man, if looks could kill… There would definitely be a grave at that cemetery with Eddie’s name right on it but his brain-to-mouth filter wasn’t going to start working just because of that.

“Alright, alright.” he put his hands up in mock defence, “You got a name or should I just call you Sabrina?” 

The silence stretched long between you, both of you sizing the other up. Then, much to Eddie’s relief, you burst out in laughter. He wasn’t exactly sure what that meant for him but the sound made him smile anyway.

“Oh, you’re funny,” you held out a small bag towards him, “Drop my stuff in here please.”

“Not gonna lie, I was a hundred percent expecting you to sock me in the jaw.” he chuckled, doing as he was told.  The sound of the crystals knocking together was kind of soothing for him.

“I really wanted to.”

“Well, I’m glad you didn’t.”

“I’m glad too.”

You two stood there for a beat, saying nothing, just awkward half-smiles and heads filled with scrambled thoughts. Most of them consisted of wondering how someone could be this pretty.

“That must be some name if you’re gonna keep me waiting this long.” he stuffed his hands in his pockets, a playful twinkle in his brown eyes

Heat rose to your cheeks in an instant. “It’s Y/N. You can call me Y/N.”

Call it sleep deprivation or being under the light of the moon too much but the sound of your name automatically plastered a smile onto his face. God, if the kids could see him now acting all cheesy. He’d never hear the end of it.

“Well, I guess I don’t need to tell you my name.”

“Nope.” you shook your head

Warmth flooded your body as you kept your gaze on his smiling brown eyes. Oh, he was cute.

“Sooo,” he began, swaying while placing his hands behind his back

You in turn, crossed your arms over your chest and raised an eyebrow, the move made him want you to step on him. He didn’t even care that you only knew his name because of all the murders it was associated with.

“Sooo?”

He scoffed, throwing his arms up, “Come on! You’re really not going to tell me what you were doing? In the bushes? At this time of night?”

The rise in his pitch was definitely starting to sound like a whine, a small smirk played on your lips.

"I thought you got the gist already." you teased, gently shaking your bag of crystals

Would you believe that he actually pouted? You were struggling to keep your eyes off his plump pink lips.

“Well, would you be kind enough to enlighten me?” he whined some more, completely melting away your defences

“Since you asked so nicely,” you smiled, reaching into your little bag

The first crystal you held up to the moonlight was the exact one you'd hoped for, Tiger's Eye. It glowed in different shades of brown. Almost the exact same shade as Eddie's eyes. You made eye contact with him and winked which made him blush in return. 

"It’s nothing complicated," you began, "People use crystals for a lot of different things so just like a human would, they get worn out."

"So, the moonlight.. Recharges them or something?" Eddie ventured a guess

"Exactly! Very good, Eddie. We might make a warlock of you yet."

Ah, praise. A surefire way to get on his good side. Not that you weren't already.

"And the cemetery?" he asked, already wondering if ghosts had something to do with it. Could you see ghosts too? Would you be offended if he asked?

“I was coming from a party. I cut through the cemetery and figured I’d do a cleansing since the moon was full.” you shrugged nonchalantly

The simplicity of it all made Eddie laugh out loud, soon enough you found yourself laughing along too.

“Maybe I should have said something cooler, like oh the spirits of the dead fuel the crystals with more energy.”

He wiped at his eyes, feeling his cheeks hurt from smiling too much. “No, no. I, uh, I appreciate your honesty.”

“And you?” you nodded to his van across the street, “Camping?”

“Ah, something like that, madame,” he replied in a mock posh accent, “I’m afraid my faithful steed has let me down tonight.”

You looked at the van pensively while Eddie admired the slopes and angles of your face like a dorky schoolkid looking at his first crush.

“Mind if I take a look?”

“Huh?” he blushed hard, hoping you didn’t notice him drooling all over you. “Oh, uh, yeah. You know about cars? Or is there like, a crystal for car trouble?”

It was a completely innocent question, his tone filled with curiosity. Absolutely nothing like the other mocking questions and judgmental looks you usually got when people found out your beliefs. You couldn’t help but walk a little closer to Eddie’s side as you made your way over to the van.

“Not car trouble, but there is one to ward off car accidents and stuff like that.” you answered, lifting up the hood and producing a mini flashlight from your back pocket

Eddie tried, like he really tried not to be a creep but you were just so goddamn pretty. The shadows that continually moved across your face as you moved your flashlight across the engine reminded him of this nightlight he had that spun around, sending stars all over his dark room. But tonight instead of stars, he had you and he preferred that more.

“Eddie, could you try starting it up, please?” your brows knitted together as you shut the hood

He could’ve lassoed the damn moon if you asked.

To his surprise, the van roared to life with the radio blasting the chorus of “I Wanna Know What Love Is” deep into the night. Eddie scrambled to get it under control while you doubled over in laughter.

“I didn’t peg you as the power ballad type, Eddie.” you walked over to the driver’s side and perched your arms on the lowered window

“Well, I didn’t peg you as the mechanic type, Y/N.” he countered, cheeks burning but he still found it in himself to bring his face closer to yours

He could pinpoint the exact second your pupils dilated and Eddie figured it was as good a time as ever to finally do what he'd been thinking about all night since seeing you. 

"Thank god for that fucking rose quartz." Eddie mumbled before softly pressing his lips to yours

It was almost as if your lips were covered in a million tiny live wires, sending your entire body alight with sensation. The air was positively snap-crackle-and popping all around you, all that was missing were the actual sparks.

Eddie pulled away for a second to jump out of the van and take you in his arms, he smelled of leather, soap, and a hint of smoke. It was almost second nature to you, wrapping your arms around his waist and letting him kiss you once again.

Despite your disdain for the term, you were a witch. That much was true. You had abilities, you studied, and you practised. But this right here, kissing Eddie. That was a whole other sort of magic all together.

Once you found it in yourselves to pull away, breathing hard and smiling like fools, you hopped in the van.

“What did you do to get her running again?” Eddie asked, making sure you fastened your seatbelt

“Nothing. There wasn’t even anything wrong.”

He decided to leave it at that. Eddie just pecked you on the cheek before pulling back into the road with you guiding him on the right track to the Bingham House which surprisingly, you didn't live far from.

As the sky changed from midnight blue to a purple-dusted orange, you and Eddie watched and talked as the sun began to peek just over the horizon. He told you about his life in Hawkins and about what really happened, the whole demobats took a pound of flesh from him truth, not the censored bullcrap the authorities told him to stick with. He didn't doubt it when you said you believed him. 

You told him all about your abilities, about all the people who just didn't understand, how you really did make him do your bidding back there and how you foresaw that he'd be coming for you. It all flowed out, the easiest conversation either of you had in your lives.

"Quite a pair we are, huh?" he nudged you affectionately, an easy smile on his face

You nodded, reaching over to lace your fingers through his, "The witch and the freak."

"The witch and the freak." he agreed, bring your hand to his lips

… 

"So, just take the next left then straight on till morning, Eddie." you kissed him one last time before hopping out of the van

"Aw, c'mon, Y/N." he whined and pouted

Him whining and pouting was quickly becoming one of your weaknesses. 

"It's just one more block, why won't you come with me? Had enough of me already?" 

"Because, Eddie! My mom's going to kill me if she catches me sneaking in. Don't worry, we'll be seeing each other again soon."

Eddie knew the finality in your voice wasn't for nothing, you've probably already seen how this was going to go but still, he loved pushing your buttons.

He scooted to the passenger's seat, "And how are you so sure about that, hm?" he puckered his lips at you

With a chuckle, you planted a big 'ol smooch on his waiting lips. Already visualising what the next time you'd see each other would be like.

"Because I'm sure! Now go! The Binghams usually serve a feast for breakfast. I hope you like kids!" you waved him off, already knowing that you didn't need to consult your cards to see if you were right or not.

You blew him a kiss which he playfully stuffed in the pocket of his jean jacket before slipping quietly into your house.

"Oh, what a night," Eddie shamelessly sang along to Frankie Valli, shimmying his hips as much as he could while seated

"What a lady, what a nigh-Oh shit!" he slammed his foot on the brakes, tires squealing against the pavement

He forgot to ask for your phone number. 

"Stupid, stupid, stupid!" Eddie hissed, bonking his head on the wheel

Just as he was about to turn back around, he noticed something on the passenger's seat that definitely wasn't there five seconds ago. 

A crystal that Eddie recognised was the colour of your eyes and a note.

"When did she have the time to write this?" he wondered

It seemed like you already knew he was going to think that. 

"I'm a witch, remember?" the note began, making Eddie shake his head in awe

You're under strict rules to keep this crystal with you at all times, Eddie. It will protect you and hopefully make you think of me. We will be seeing each other again very soon. 

Love, Y/N.

You also had the foresight to scrawl your number on the back along with, 

Can't believe you forgot to ask!! >:(

Which made Eddie Munson giggle. Thank God no one was around to witness it or else he'd never live it down. 

Having everything he needed, Eddie started up the radio again and went on his way to the Bingham's. 

Those fingers in my hair

That sly come-hither stare

That strips my conscience bare

It's witchcraft. 

"You got that right, Frank," Eddie placed a kiss on the crystal you left him, "You got that right."

[prettyoddfever]

do you like Ryan's or Brendon’s version of Nearly Witches better?

lol do y’all think Spencer just sat in a corner until someone told him to play drums or what? 

Around early 2007 Ryan told Helio “on the new record that we just started to write it has been Spencer and I writing the lyrics together and working out what we call the plot line.” I was excited about that because Spencer had a huge imagination, a flair for the dramatic, and was the creative vision behind a lot of visual aspects of the band in the Fever era. Ryan and Spencer were a strong team for the years while they were still on the same page (and one of Spencer’s favorite authors was Chuck Palahniuk btw). Hopefully this goes without saying, but just because one person gets credit for writing the lyrics doesn't mean that they were the only person involved in creating the song as a whole.

Obviously it was a good thing that the cabin album got scrapped. The band needed to unwind and go in a totally different direction after the absurdly intense end of 2006, but the cabin album wasn’t something they could actually tour with or play on festival stages with normal instruments (more info here). It was way too complex for a start. Ryan was even talking about writing a companion book with more of the story for that album. Songs like It’s True Love didn’t work very well outside of the context of the cabin album when the actual storyline was missing. Brendon’s voice was having a hard time in general at Summerfest on July 7th, but the absolutely brutal fan backlash online for It’s True Love focused completely on the lyrics. People were treating it as a single meant to stand on its own and were totally missing the tone & context of any possible story. It didn’t really work.

Jon was the most eager to put the scrapped album behind them and just move on (maybe because he was such a key player in defining the band’s new direction in summer 2007). Spencer was the one who came to the defense of the cabin album the fastest in many interviews in late 2007 & early 2008. He often said something about how the idea wasn’t bad or the songs themselves weren’t bad… it just wasn’t the right time for them. Now skip to summer 2008: Nearly Witches wouldn’t have made it onto FOB’s mixtape if the band was 100% over it. There was still something there. However, Ryan and Jon were moving in a very different direction with the songs they were writing for P!ATD’s third album that season (they ended up using a lot of those songs for The Young Veins). They wanted to get so scaled-back that Ryan was even eventually talking about how he didn’t want to use any orchestration on the next album (contrast that with how Spencer was saying during the Pretty. Odd. era that “Ideally it would be amazing to play with a couple of string players and a couple of horn players every night” and also said that he hoped the band could eventually travel with “a string quartet and a three-piece horn section” lol. Spencer definitely did want to do something “different” after the Fever era ended, but he absolutely retained his flair for the dramatic and his large-scale creative vision).

The original version of Nearly Witches sounded like it was about Cricket, but we don’t know how it fits into the larger story of the cabin album. We’re missing the context. Spencer and Brendon were able to take the early version of Nearly Witches and turn it into something bigger that could stand on its own. It’s pretty incredible how they made it fit a completely different album too.

Both versions are amazing. I just see them as serving very different purposes for different stages of the band.

BRENDON'S VERSION IS NOT MOCKING RYAN:

I don’t think that Brendon was “mocking Ryan” in the intro to that song during the V&V era or whatever some people think these days. Brendon did that voice sometimes in the pre-split years too when he was being an adorable little weirdo in his narrator character onstage... he even did that voice recently at the Seattle show I was at (here’s a contrast of that same voice over 16 years apart). Plus, google the definition of burlesque and you get:

A burlesque is a literary, dramatic or musical work intended to cause laughter by caricaturing the manner or spirit of serious works, or by ludicrous treatment of their subjects.

That's literally what he was doing. Brendon’s delivery in the “here I am, composing a burlesque out of where they rest their necks” intro to that song completely fit what he was singing. I really have no idea how that could be perceived as mocking Ryan.

Also, AFYCSO is absolutely not the "burlesque" that any version of Nearly Witches is referring to. The more old-fashioned vaudevillian second half of AFYCSO was written in the studio in summer 2005 with the help of Matt Squire, where the guys were drawing inspiration from a whole range of decades and sources (the album’s cover art portrayed that too). The whole vaudeville visual theme with the band wasn’t really around until Lucent Dossier got involved with the IWSNT video in late 2005 and returned for the 2006 summer tour. In between, the band talked about “English dandy” inspiration during their first headlining tour in spring 2006 and the most flamboyant aspect of that show was Brendon’s top hat and bow.

Yes, Ryan wrote most of the lyrics for AFYCSO. But he was very clear that Brendon & Spencer were involved in the overall process of creating the songs as well (see the bullet points in this post). If Brendon or Spencer took a dig at AFYCSO, they’d be targeting themselves too.