#laugh inducing design

[feyburner]

I ??? woke up at 3am with this scene fully written in my mind palace and quickly jotted it down in the Notes app

*

Clark’s shaking his head before he realizes he’s doing it, and feels a twinge of embarrassment at his own bad manners when Bruce stops mid-word to look at him, brows raised.

“No?” he says.

“No,” Clark says, again without thinking, and again with the reflexive urge to apologize. Somewhere his mother is tutting without knowing why. But he doesn’t apologize, because he’s already saying, “No, it can’t—it can’t be that.”

“Okay,” Bruce says slowly. “Can you elaborate?”

He is, honestly, having trouble taking his eyes off the screen. The mockup design of his new suit is there, dark and sleek, ridged like tactical gear. The blue is like the last shade of evening before you can’t call it evening anymore, the color of nine PM in Kansas in July, so exact there’s a strong chance Bruce color-picked it from a photo. The yellow accents are the cool fluorescent yellow-green of lightning bugs. The red is dark as arterial blood. Every aspect of the suit has been updated—the colors deeper, the angles sharper, the S extending to the corners of its frame—but Bruce has done it without changing the fundamentals. It’s immediately recognizable as the Superman suit, just… well, a little cooler, maybe. A little more of the times. Even the tailoring is modernized. The neckline. The shape of the boots. Where the belt hits at the waist. Clark can tell just by looking that Bruce has not only spent a lot of time on this in general, he’s spent a lot of time designing it specifically with Clark in mind, Clark’s needs and preferences and the small discomforts of his current suit, things he might have mentioned offhand after a mission but never with the assumption that Bruce was listening or filing it away. No doubt the next slides of this presentation will detail all the hidden features of the new suit, and they’ll all be incredibly thoughtful if not slightly overkill, and Bruce will pretend his sole motive here was practicality and risk reduction and respond to any thanks with a curt nod.

And Clark wants to thank him. He will. It’s just.

“It can’t be… cool,” he says, inane. Bruce is watching him with that steady look that used to feel clinical, piercing, and now mostly reads as attentive. “It can’t be—like yours. Tactical, military-grade.”

“Lightyears beyond, actually.”

“It has to—Ma said once, a kid should be able to draw it with crayons. You know? I can’t look like a weapon. I have to—I want to look like a friend.”

He can feel himself flushing. It’s rare that he speaks like this, and rarer still that he does so while being stared at intently. Bruce may think of himself as the darkness, but his gaze is a spotlight: unwavering and revealing and more a little sweat-inducing, for one reason or another.

“Sometimes, when I show up, people laugh,” Clark says. “If it’s somewhere out of the way, where they haven’t seen me before. I show up and I look like a festival performer. It’ll be the worst day of their lives, and they’ve got no reason to trust my face, but when they see what I’m wearing—it goes from ‘Who are you?’ to ‘Who is this guy?’ And that’s a good thing.”

“Hard to be afraid of a man dressed in primary colors,” Bruce says, almost to himself.

“Exactly.”

“I see. Thank you,” he says, “for explaining.”

Clark tries not to show how surprised he is to hear that. Judging by the crook of Bruce’s mouth, his success is negligible. “Of course. Sorry I didn’t—I mean, thank you, obviously, for going to such trouble. I didn’t mean to come in here and—I really do appreciate it, I can tell you put a lot of work in—”

Bruce’s eyes cut away. “No. No need. I didn’t ask, before I…. It was only a first draft. If you’re amenable, I’ll incorporate your feedback into the second one.”

“Oh! Yeah. Yes, of course, but you really don’t have to—”

“If you have any further notes, I would like to hear them.”

There’s something determined in the lines of his face. Clark has the sense that this moment is important, that it’s a turning point, even if he’s not sure why. It feels like striking out into a sea of ice, a blank white expanse under which something precious and vital is hidden, has been hidden all along, just waiting for him to find it. To want to.

“Sure,” he says. He looks back at the suit and swallows, and knows Bruce will see the flicker of his throat and take some meaning from it, and wishes he knew what the meaning was. Or maybe Bruce won’t notice or read into it at all. Maybe Clark needs to calm down, in fact. “Um. I don’t want to assume, but does it… do things?”

“It does things,” Bruce confirms, after the barest pause. “Let me show you the next slide.”

[orangeblossomsintheair]

WRITTEN IN THE SAND | CS55

summary : He was too old for this. For you. For the way you looked at him like he wasn’t already years past the reckless abandon that seemed to define everyone else in this house. He shouldn’t have noticed the way your laughter sounded like sunlight, or how your smile seemed to tug at something deep in his chest.

wc : 8.5k

an : im a slow writer chat mb 😞 also nearly a month on this site!! tysm

“What’s the game plan for the summer?” Kika didn’t even glance up from her phone, one hand lazily stirring her drink with that tiny straw she always insisted on.

You were sprawled on a cushioned lounge chair in a swanky Monaco terrace bar, the Mediterranean sun heating your skin, but the breeze kept things just shy of unbearable.

You took a sip of your drink and smirked. “Seduce Carlos Sainz.”

Kika’s straw froze mid-stir. She blinked twice at her screen before slowly looking up, sunglasses sliding down her nose. “Sorry, could you run that by me again? Because I swear you just said you’re going to seduce Carlos Sainz, which is clearly a champagne-induced delusion.”

“Nope, you heard me loud and clear.” You leaned back, full of confidence. “Carlos Sainz. Mine. By the end of summer break.”

Kika blinked at you, deadpan. “Sweetheart, no offense, but you’ve been thirsting after this man since you were, what, 16? That’s six years of unrequited daydreaming.”

You squirmed slightly but held your ground. “Doesn’t matter."

"If he hasn’t noticed you by now, what’s your plan? Set yourself on fire in front of him?”

“Only as a last resort,” you said, deadpan.

She threw her head back, laughing so hard she nearly spilled her drink. “Oh my God, you’re serious. This isn’t a joke.”

“Dead serious.” You popped the cherry from your cocktail into your mouth like it was the period at the end of your sentence. “I’m done playing it safe. This summer is about action.”

Kika raised an eyebrow. “Action? You tripped over your own feet last week trying to order coffee. What are you going to do, hit him with your car and hope he falls for you during physical therapy?”

“Of course not.” You stood abruptly, tossing your straw onto the table with a dramatic flourish. “That’s plan B. Now come on.”

“Come where?” She squinted up at you, clearly unimpressed.

“To get the tools I need.” You grabbed her hand, yanking her out of her seat.

Ten minutes later, you dragged her into a boutique that was a Monet painting of excess. Silk curtains, chandeliers dripping with crystals, and the scent of overpriced jasmine perfume floating through the air.

A sales assistant appeared out of nowhere, all smiles and perfectly coiffed hair. “Bonjour, mademoiselle,” she greeted, eyeing your Chanel tote approvingly.

“Bonjour,” you said, breezing past her.

“Why are we here?” Kika asked, dodging a rack of bikinis that looked like they’d been designed with dental floss.

“Seducing my brother's teammate? Keep up, Kika,” you groaned, holding up a red bikini that looked like it belonged in a Bond movie. “Men are simple creatures. You can’t argue with science.”

“That’s not science, that’s objectification with a catchy slogan,” she deadpanned, plucking a neon green bikini off a nearby rack. “But sure, blind him with this and see how that works.”

You recoiled, snatching it from her and tossing it back like it burned. “Please. Focus. I need chic, sexy, and unforgettable. I need to haunt his dreams.”

“What you need,” she muttered, ducking under a display. “is a therapist.”

“And yet, here you are, enabling me.” You held up another bikini, black and sleek, with delicate gold accents. “This says, ‘I’m hot and I don’t care if you notice,’ right?”

Kika folded her arms, leaning against the counter. “It says, ‘I’m hot and definitely care if you notice but will pretend I don’t.’”

“Exactly!” you said, thrusting the bikini at her. “This is step one material.”

Kika frowned. “Step one material?”

“Yes. Step one: look absolutely irresistible,” you replied. “Carlos has seen me as Charles’s little sister for years. This summer, he’s going to see me as a woman. A very hot woman.”

“And you think this is going to do the trick? He’s a man, not a magpie.”

“Every detail matters. If I look stunning, he’ll notice me. If he notices me, he’ll talk to me. If he talks to me…”

“You’ll forget how to form a sentence?” Kika offered, smirking.

“...I’ll be charming and mysterious,” you continued, ignoring her. “Carlos loves a challenge. And I? I’ll be the challenge of the summer.”

She snorted. “You’re the challenge of my summer, that’s for sure.”

You flashed her a grin, unfazed. “Collateral damage.”

Kika raised an eyebrow, surveying your choices with a mixture of disbelief and mild concern. “You do know Charles is going to kill you, right? Or worse, he’ll tell your mother.”

“Charles doesn’t need to know,” you said confidently, grabbing a cover-up that was so sheer it might as well have been a polite suggestion of fabric and tossing it onto the pile.

“He’s going to know the second you start giggling like a schoolgirl,” Kika shot back.

You paused, giving her your most serious look. “I do not giggle. I smolder.”

Kika raised an eyebrow. “You giggle. You giggle like someone told you tacos are calorie-free.”

Before you could respond, the sales assistant, who had been lurking in the background with a grin wide enough to rival the Mona Lisa’s, swooped in. “Vous avez fait un excellent choix, mademoiselle,” she said, beaming. “Très… sexy.” You made an excellent choice, miss

You flashed a smile back. “Merci, ma chère,” you said, tossing her an air kiss. “I do try.”

Kika groaned audibly. “What is that? French for, ‘Please don’t let my stupidity kill me’?”

“Not quite,” you replied breezily, adding a sheer cover-up to the pile. “But close enough.”

The assistant’s smile widened to terrifying proportions. “Peut-être vous voulez essayer ces sandales aussi?” She gestured to a pair of sky-high gold heels that looked more weapon than footwear. Maybe you want to try these sandals too?

You tilted your head, admiring the craftsmanship. “Oh, I absolutely do.”

Kika slapped a hand over her face. “I can feel my soul leaving my body.”

“Catch it,” you said, handing over your credit card. “We have work to do.”

The assistant handed you your shopping bags with reverence, her eyes glittering with admiration. “Vous êtes une inspiration, mademoiselle. Vraiment.” You are an inspiration, miss. Really.

“Merci beaucoup,” you said, winking at her. You turned to Kika, your heels clicking on the marble floor as you strutted toward the exit. “

Kika followed you out into the sun-drenched street, muttering under her breath. “Mark my words, Carlos Sainz is going to look at you and-”

“-see the one thing he can’t have,” you finished for her, sliding on your sunglasses.

“The one thing he can’t have is peace.”

You scoffed. “You’ll swallow your words when you’re sitting front row at my wedding.”

“To Carlos or Charles’s ghost?”

“Whoever makes it there first.”

—-

The next step was getting Charles to invite Carlos over the summer, which, thankfully, proved embarrassingly easy.

"Sœurette," Charles sang as he sauntered into the living room, lifting your feet off the couch with all the grace of a forklift before plopping down dramatically. Your legs ended up sprawled across his lap. "Comfortable, are we?"

“Move,” you said, giving his stomach a solid nudge with your heel.

“Ow- merde!” He rubbed his abs like you had mortally wounded him, throwing in some exaggerated groans for good measure. “You’re cruel. No respect for your poor frère.”

“What do you want?” you mumbled, not looking up from your phone.

“Wanna go to Ibiza with me?”

You finally glanced at him, raising a skeptical brow. Sure, you wanted to, but seducing Carlos was still an active operation, and time was of the essence. “Pass.”

“Wait, wait,” Charles interrupted, holding up a finger like he was about to offer you the cure for boredom. “I’m inviting some of the guys. Pierre, Carlos-”

He hadn’t even finished the sentence before you were already mentally booking your plane ticket.

“-and Lando,” he continued, oblivious to the fact you had stopped listening at “Carlos.”

You forced yourself to stay cool. No big deal. Act normal. Charles couldn’t know

“Hmm. Okay.”

His brows knitted. “That’s it? Okay? No arguing? No ‘what’s the catch’? You’re just saying yes?”

“Don’t make it weird, Charles.” You shrugged, scrolling on your phone like you were barely paying attention. “Now get off me, you oversized cat.”

“Excusez-moi, I’m the one providing the luxury vacation, and you’re kicking me?”

“I’ll kick harder if you don’t move.”

—-

Carlos almost didn’t recognize the woman chatting with Lando by the poolside when he arrived at the villa Charles had rented for their summer getaway.

He lingered by the sliding glass door, his suitcase forgotten at his side. The sun cast shimmering patterns on the pool’s surface, reflecting onto your skin in flashes that made him question whether he was still half-asleep from the flight.

You were gorgeous. Too gorgeous. Scandalously gorgeous. And suddenly, Carlos felt a flicker of betrayal. How could Charles not have warned him about your presence here?

A wave of jet lagged self-awareness hit him—rumpled T-shirt, unkempt hair, and dark circles under his eyes.

Definitely not the first impression he wanted to make, especially not in front of you.

You wore a deep red one-piece swimsuit with an open back, the kind of effortlessly elegant choice that made him wonder if you knew exactly how much attention you commanded.

Sunglasses perched delicately on your nose, you stood at ease, laughing lightly at something Lando said.

“Carlos!” His friend called out, waving lazily when he spotted him. “You made it!”

Your voice was bright and warm, carrying over the quiet splashes of water.

Lando, predictably, was soaking up your attention with his signature grin, and Carlos already felt the prickling need to intervene.

You turned at the sound, shifting your weight onto one leg. Though the sunglasses obscured your eyes, the faintly mischievous smile tugging at your lips was enough to throw Carlos off balance.

Dios mío.

Carlos straightened, brushing a hand through his hair in a futile attempt to look less like he’d been dragged off a plane.

He inhaled deeply, summoning whatever charm the flight hadn’t stripped away, and stepped forward, dragging his carry-on behind him.

Your smile widened, but you said nothing, tilting your head as if appraising him.

“Hey,” he greeted, nodding at Lando first before letting his gaze linger on you.

“I don’t think we’ve met.” His voice dipped slightly, sliding into that smooth, natural lilt he knew could win people over when needed.

“Right,” Lando cut in, either oblivious or deliberately sabotaging him. “This is-”

“Let him figure it out,” you interrupted, holding up a finger with a playful air.

Carlos blinked, momentarily thrown off, but a sly grin found its way onto his face as he leaned on the handle of his suitcase. “Is that how it is?”

“That’s how it is,” you replied smoothly, folding your arms.

Lando chuckled, glancing between the two of you as if he’d stumbled upon the first act of a drama he couldn’t wait to watch unfold. “Good luck, mate,” he said, clapping Carlos on the shoulder before wandering back toward the pool.

Carlos watched him go, then returned his attention to you. “Okay, give me a hint. Something to work with, no?”

You shrugged, adjusting your sunglasses. “You’ve got a whole week to figure it out. Make it count.”

Before he could counter, a loud, familiar voice broke through.

“Carlos!”

Carlos turned, spotting Charles striding toward him with an easy grin. His friend pulled him into a quick hug, slapping his back affectionately.

Then Charles’ gaze shifted to you. He gestured casually. “You remember my sister, right? She hasn’t been at the paddock much, but you’ve met her before.”

He turned back to you, eyes scanning for something familiar, something to anchor the dissonance in his mind. There it was: the teasing smirk, the air of quiet confidence. You were now barely suppressing laughter.

Carlos froze mid-handshake, his thoughts scrambling to process the bombshell.

Sister?

Oh, no.

Oh, god.

He just flirted with Charles’ sister.

“You’re-” he stammered, pointing at you like the gesture might piece things together faster.

“Oh,” you said lightly, dragging out the word with unmistakable glee. “I think he remembers now.”

Charles glanced between you two, clueless. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” you replied too quickly, your smirk sharpening. “Carlos was just… introducing himself.”

Carlos rubbed the back of his neck, heat crawling up his face. “Right,” he muttered. “Nice to see you again.”

Your sunglasses slid down your nose just enough to reveal your eyes. Bright, amused, and entirely too focused on him. “I don’t know,” you said, voice like silk. “I feel like I’m meeting you for the first time, don’t you think?”

Lando’s loud laugh from the poolside made Carlos glance his way in exasperation.

But his real problem was standing directly in front of him.

Because now that he knew who you were, he also knew your age.

Twenty-one. And him? God, he was thirty. Nine years. Practically a decade.

He swallowed hard, his throat dry.

This wasn’t just an awkward misunderstanding; it was a moral minefield. He shouldn’t even be looking at you this way, not with the easy pull of your smirk still tattooed on his thoughts.

Carlos latched onto the excuse like a lifeline. “Yeah,” he said quickly. “Be right back.”

Charles, blissfully unaware, gave Carlos an out.

“Anyway,” he said, gesturing toward the house. “Go put your bags inside. Lando already claimed the biggest room, so you’re stuck with whatever’s left.”

Dragging his suitcase toward the villa, he could feel your gaze following him. Against his better judgment, he glanced back.

Carlos shook his head, muttering under his breath as he disappeared inside. He needed a cold drink, a cold shower. Anything to reset his brain.

You were still there, reclining on a lounge chair, the picture of confidence. A cocktail glass dangled from your fingers, the cherry swirling lazily in the liquid.

When your eyes caught his again, your smirk deepened, as if you knew exactly what chaos you’d caused.

This week was supposed to be about relaxing.

Instead, it was shaping up to be a survival test around you.

—-

Carlos had made his decision.

For the sake of his own sanity, and for the sake of his friendship with Charles, he was going to ignore you.

It was the only logical choice.

Because if he didn’t? If he let himself get caught up in whatever quiet game you seemed to be playing, he knew it wouldn’t end well.

You were too young, too vibrant, too untouchable. Like sunshine in a bottle.

He was too old for this. For you. For the way you looked at him like he wasn’t already years past the reckless abandon that seemed to define everyone else in this house.

He shouldn’t have noticed the way your laughter sounded like sunlight, or how your smile seemed to tug at something deep in his chest.

He’d lock it all down.

So that was it. He’d be polite, civil even.

But anything more than that? Off the table. No lingering glances. No indulging in the spark of mischief behind your eyes. No letting his thoughts drift to places they shouldn’t when you smiled his way.

It was a good plan.

Unfortunately, plans didn’t account for things like the spontaneous game of cards that had started on the patio that night. Or the dangerous way the stakes had escalated as the hours passed.

“What about strip poker?” Pierre had suggested with a mischievous grin, his words slurred just enough to suggest he’d had one drink too many.

Everyone had laughed, the idea absurd enough to feel harmless.

But somehow, after a lot of ribbing from Lando and an alarming lack of objections from anyone else, the game had actually started.

But tonight? Tonight, his carefully honed poker face was utterly useless.

Carlos had always considered himself good at poker.

Calm, calculating, unreadable. Qualities that served him well on the track and at the card table.

You were to blame.

Sitting across from him at the patio table, with your head tilted and a soft, amused smile tugging at your lips, you were impossible to ignore.

The warm glow of the overhead lights softened your features, and the lazy way you shuffled your dwindling pile of chips made it clear you weren’t taking the game half as seriously as he was.

You didn’t have anything.

Across from him, you hesitated, your lips pressing together as you studied your hand.

The chips in front of you were dangerously low, and Carlos could see the flicker of indecision in your eyes.

You sighed, reaching for your chips, but Carlos cut you off. “Raise,” he said, pushing more into the pot.

Your gaze snapped to his, your brows furrowing. “You’re raising now?”

“Got to keep it interesting,” he said lightly, masking the tightness in his chest.

You tilted your head, clearly suspicious, but you matched his bet anyway, your hand trembling slightly as you tossed the last of your chips in.

The others at the table were too busy bickering to notice the undercurrent between the two of you.

Lando, already down to his boxers, was arguing with Charles over the merits of bluffing, while Pierre leaned back in his chair, looking far too pleased with himself for someone whose pants were in the discard pile.

Carlos barely noticed them.

When the cards were revealed, his pair of eights was enough to beat your pitiful hand. A mismatched collection of low cards that hadn’t even come close to forming a straight.

“Guess that’s it for me,” you said, your tone light but resigned. You reached for the hem of your sweater, clearly ready to pull it off and join the ranks of the semi-dressed.

Carlos acted before he could think.

“Wait,” he said sharply, drawing everyone’s attention. “I fold.”

Pierre frowned. “You can’t fold. The round’s over.”

“Then I forfeit,” Carlos said, tugging his shirt over his head in one swift motion. The cool night air prickled against his skin, but he ignored it, tossing the shirt onto the growing pile in the center of the table.

You stared at him, wide-eyed. “You didn’t have to do that,” you murmured.

Carlos shrugged, forcing himself to meet your gaze. “I’m just keeping things fair.”

Charles raised an eyebrow but said nothing, and the game moved on.

It kept happening.

Every time you were on the verge of losing, Carlos found a way to sacrifice himself instead. He’d bluff too hard, bet too high, or simply fold when he was holding a decent hand. It was reckless and obvious, at least to you, but no one else seemed to notice.

By the time Carlos was down to just his jeans, he realized he was playing a very dangerous game.

“Bold move, mate,” Lando said, grinning as Carlos slid his last few chips into the pot.

“Desperate,” Pierre corrected, his tone smug.

Carlos ignored them, his gaze flicking to you. Your stack of chips had grown considerably, thanks to his strategic losses, but you weren’t gloating. If anything, you looked concerned, your brow furrowing slightly as you studied him.

“Carlos,” you said softly, barely above a whisper.

He shook his head. “I’m fine.”

You hesitated, then glanced down at your cards. The silence stretched as you debated your next move, and Carlos could see the exact moment you decided to fold.

Not this time.

“I raise,” he said, pushing his remaining chips into the pot.

Your eyes widened. “Carlos-”

“Call it,” he said firmly, his voice low.

The others were too busy watching the pile in the center of the table to notice the exchange between you two.

You sighed, finally revealing your hand. It was better than his, but not by much. He grinned as he tossed his own cards down, leaning back in his chair with a shrug.

“Guess that’s it for me.”

Charles groaned, muttering something under his breath about bad decisions, but Carlos didn’t hear him. His focus was on you, on the way your lips parted slightly in surprise, on the way your gaze lingered as he stood and pulled his jeans off, leaving him in nothing but his boxers.

“Next round?” Pierre asked, shuffling the deck.

Carlos shook his head, grabbing his shirt and tossing it at Pierre’s face. “I’m out.”

He glanced at you one last time before walking inside, his pulse racing.

—

When Carlos woke up the next morning, the first thing he noticed was the sunlight streaming through the thin curtains, warm and golden against the soft white of the sheets. The second thing he noticed was the blissful lack of a hangover, despite the absurd amount of wine Pierre had insisted on pouring last night. Small mercies, he supposed.

The faint sound of clinking dishes drew his attention. Throwing on a shirt, Carlos padded out of his room and into the kitchen, where he found Charles leaning against the counter, one hand wrapped around a steaming mug of coffee, the other scrolling through his phone.

His hair was a mess of sleep-tousled curls, and his voice still carried the rough edges of morning as he glanced up.

“Morning,” Charles said, holding up his mug in greeting. After a beat, he added, “Thanks, by the way… for last night.”

Carlos froze mid-step, frowning as he tried to piece together what Charles meant. “Thanks for what?”

Charles finally looked up, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “You know,” he said, gesturing vaguely with his coffee mug. “For saving my sister a few dozen times.”

Carlos’ stomach dropped. “What?”

“You know,” Charles repeated, tilting his head slightly as if it were obvious. “During poker.”

“Oh.” Carlos shifted awkwardly, his fingers tightening on the toothbrush he was holding. He forced a casual shrug. “It’s fine. I’m just bad at poker.”

Charles snorted, setting his mug down on the counter. “Don’t give me that. I’ve seen you win against professionals before. People who actually know what they’re doing.”

Carlos busied himself with turning on the tap, wetting his toothbrush like it was the most fascinating task in the world. “I guess it just wasn’t my night,” he said lightly, though the way his pulse quickened betrayed him.

“Hmm,” Charles hummed, leaning back against the counter as he studied him. His expression was unreadable, but the weight of his gaze made Carlos’ neck prickle.

“You’re imagining things,” Carlos said, his voice a little too quick, a little too defensive.

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

Charles chuckled softly, shaking his head. “You’re not very subtle, you know. Every time she was about to lose, you suddenly went all in on terrible hands. It was painful to watch.”

Carlos groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “It wasn’t like that,” he muttered, though even to his own ears, it sounded unconvincing.

“Sure it wasn’t,” Charles said, his tone dry. He took another sip of his coffee, his eyes narrowing slightly over the rim of the mug. “You know, you’re lucky I trust you.”

Carlos froze again, the words hanging heavy in the air.

“Trust me?” he echoed carefully.

“Yes,” Charles said simply, setting his mug down and crossing his arms. “Because if it were anyone else, I’d be having a very different conversation right now.”

Carlos blinked, unsure how to respond. He could feel the heat creeping up the back of his neck, and for a moment, he considered denying it outright. But Charles wasn’t stupid. And Carlos wasn’t a good enough liar to get away with it.

So instead, he sighed, setting his toothbrush down and leaning against the counter opposite Charles.

“Look,” he began, keeping his voice low. “I’m not trying to... I mean, it’s not like that.”

Charles raised an eyebrow.

Carlos rubbed the back of his neck. “Okay, maybe it’s a little like that,” he admitted reluctantly. “But I wasn’t. Nothing’s happening, alright? I wouldn’t do that to you.”

Charles studied him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, to Carlos’ surprise, his lips quirked into a small, knowing smile.

“I know,” he said simply.

Carlos blinked. “You... know?”

“Yes,” Charles said, his tone light but firm. “That’s why I’m not threatening to kill you right now.”

Carlos let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “Thanks for that,” he said dryly.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Charles warned, his smile fading. “I trust you, Carlos, but I also trust her. And if you do anything to make her upset, I will kill you.”

Carlos nodded quickly, swallowing hard. “Understood.”

Charles nodded once, apparently satisfied, before grabbing his mug and heading for the door.

—

“Hey, sœur- what the fuck is that?” Charles called out from where he lounged on the sofa, still half asleep. His eyes were fixed on your bikini. “Is that... dental floss?”

You rolled your eyes dramatically, adjusting one of the straps. “Non, idiot. It’s a bikini. Fashion. I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

He scoffed, leaning back, crossing his arms. “Fashion? Ça? Ça, c’est un crime. Who sold you that? A two-for-one deal with a pack of gum?”

“Ha ha. Très drôle,” you said dryly, walking past him toward the beach. “I didn’t ask for your opinion, monsieur modesty police.”

Charles held up his hands in mock surrender, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Okay, okay. But when the waves steal that little string you call swimwear, don’t say I didn’t warn you. Bonne chance.”

“Pfft,” you muttered, waving him off. “I’ll be fine.”

But, as you made your way down the steps to the sand, something felt odd. Charles hadn’t fought you on it.

No complaints about ‘covering up’ or embarrassing remarks about ‘respectability.’ No last-minute insistence on changing into something more “appropriate.” It was... new.

And oddly suspicious.

Wading further in, you let out a satisfied sigh, the gentle waves lapping at your legs. You dove under the water, resurfacing with a triumphant gasp.

You pushed the thought aside as you let the warm sand squish beneath your toes. The salty breeze tossed your hair, and the ocean called to you.

You dipped a toe into the water, pleased to find it perfectly cool.

For a while, you floated peacefully, content. Until one particularly aggressive swell caught you off guard.

You felt it immediately.

The tug of the water.

The loosening of straps.

Panic shot through you as you scrambled to grab the top of your bikini, but the slippery fabric slipped through your fingers and was swiftly carried away by the current.

You had two options: wade out and grab it, hoping no one was around to witness your embarrassing half-naked sprint… or stay hidden and pray it washed back on its own.

“Oh, merde! Non, non, non!” you hissed under your breath, frantically cupping your breasts as you scanned the empty beach for help.

It was still early. Too early for anyone else to be up and running and save you from this mortifying situation.

Your cheeks burned as you stood there, half-submerged in the water, desperately trying to figure out a plan.

Option one was looking more appealing until you heard the soft crunch of footsteps on sand.

Carlos.

Of course, it was Carlos.

Because fate had a sense of humor, and apparently, you were its favorite punchline.

He ambled out of the villa, a towel slung lazily over his shoulder, his dark curls sticking up like he’d just rolled out of bed. His face was adorably grumpy, the pout of someone who hadn’t had coffee yet. And then his gaze landed on you.

He froze.

You froze.

You tried to act casual. Well, as casual as one could while half-submerged, hugging their chest like they were reenacting a dramatic shipwreck scene.

Carlos’s frown deepened, concern flickering across his face as he took a hesitant step closer. “Are you… drowning?”

“Not drowning,” you chirped, your tone overly bright. “But thanks for checking!”

“Oh.” His voice cracked slightly. He cleared his throat, looking anywhere but at you. “Right. Uh… do you- want me to…?”

His brow furrowed. “Then why are you…?” His words trailed off as his eyes drifted to the water, where your bikini top bobbed lazily with the current.

Realization dawned like a slap, his cheeks instantly turning a satisfying shade of pink.

“Be my hero, Carlos,” you said with exaggerated sweetness, gesturing dramatically toward the water. “Save my dignity before the ocean claims it forever.”

He stared at you for a moment, his lips twitching like he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or groan. “Unbelievable,” he muttered under his breath before tossing his towel onto the sand and wading into the water.

You tried not to watch him, but… well. You were stuck here, and it’s not like there was much else to look at. The way his muscles flexed, the water slicking over his skin.

It was distracting. Infuriatingly distracting.

He resurfaced a moment later, holding up your bikini top like a trophy.

“Got it,” he called.

“Oh, congratulations, Captain of the Swim Team.” You clapped. “Now bring it here before someone else decides to take a morning stroll.”

Carlos swam back, wading into shallower water as he handed it to you. His smirked when you snatched it from his hand.

“Need help putting it back on, princess?”

You raised a brow. “Funny. Actually, yes.”

That wiped the smirk off his face.

“…What?”

You turned your back to him, holding out the tangled strings over your shoulder. “It’s all knotted. Be a gentleman, Carlos.”

He made a strangled sound. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Nope. Chop-chop.” You wiggled the strings for emphasis.

Carlos muttered something in Spanish, but he stomped through the water toward you anyway. You could practically feel the heat radiating off him as his hands carefully took the strings.

His fingers skimmed over your bare skin, and your breath caught in your throat. Sharp and shallow.

“Stop fidgeting,” Carlos muttered, his voice rough with concentration.

“You’re taking forever.”

“It’s not exactly easy tying this thing without looking.”

“Look, then.”

Carlos froze.

The silence stretched.

You could feel his breath behind you, hot against the curve of your neck.

Slowly, deliberately, his hands tightened around the strings. Not painfully, just firm enough to make you gasp and spin around.

“Carlos!”

He didn’t flinch.

His dark eyes locked on yours, sharp and unreadable. Then, with a darkness you recognized, his gaze flicked to your lips and lingered.

Too long.

Your pulse stuttered.

“Carlos,” you warned, softer this time.

He didn’t move. Neither did you.

And then it happened.

His mouth crashed into yours, hot and demanding.

You barely had time to gasp before his arms wrapped around your waist, yanking you flush against him.

For a moment, the world dissolved. The waves, the sun, the beach. All of it disappeared beneath the heat of his kiss.

And then he pulled back, breaking the moment with a frustrated groan.

“We can’t do this,” Carlos said, his hands still gripping your waist.

“Sure we can.” You grinned, breathless, leaning closer. “We’re already doing it.”

His grip tightened as if he was trying to anchor himself. “I’m too old for this. For you.”

You rolled your eyes. “Oh, please. You’re thirty, not eighty.”

“That’s not the point,” he snapped, his voice rough. “You… You deserve someone younger. Someone who-”

“Someone who what?” you interrupted, your eyes narrowing. “Someone who’s scared of me? Who wouldn’t be able to handle me?”

“Someone who doesn’t know better,” he said quietly, his gaze dropping to your lips again.

You softened, leaning closer. “Maybe I don’t want someone who doesn’t know better.”

Carlos let out a strangled laugh, shaking his head. “You’re going to ruin me, you know that?”

“Good,” you whispered, brushing your lips against his.

For a moment, he gave in, his mouth claiming yours again, desperate and unrelenting.

But then he tore himself away, his chest heaving as he stepped back, the water lapping at his thighs.

“This is a bad idea,” he said, his voice rough.

“Carlos,” you said softly, stepping toward him.

His hands came up, stopping you. “You don’t get it. I can’t just-” He gestured between the two of you, struggling to find the words. “If this goes wrong…”

“It won’t,” you said firmly. “You’re overthinking it.”

For a long moment, he just stared at you, torn between caution and temptation.

“God help me,” he muttered before pulling you back into his arms, kissing you like he’d never stop.

“Oh, please. You like it.”

That did it.

Carlos groaned, a raw, frustrated sound, and suddenly his hand was in yours, gripping tight.

“Come on.”

“Where are we-?”

“Somewhere with fewer witnesses.”

You laughed, breathless and exhilarated, stumbling after him as he dragged you toward the rocky outcropping at the edge of the beach.

“Oh, now you’re worried about witnesses?”

Carlos shot you a look over his shoulder. “Yeah, well, I’m not tying your bikini back on twice.”

You snorted. “Coward.”

“Keep talking, and I’ll leave you naked out here.”

“Oh, threats!” You giggled, letting him pull you behind the rocks, the world disappearing behind towering stone and crashing waves.

And then he was on you again.

No hesitation, no teasing.

Pinned against the rough stone, your body trembling in Carlos’s firm grip, his mouth crushed against yours with a ferocity that left you breathless.

His hands slid over your waist, pulling you flush against him, the heat of his body searing into yours.

He kissed like he had all the time in the world. Like he was determined to take every last bit of air from your lungs.

You gasped, fingers clutching at his shoulders as he backed you harder into the rock, the scrape of it barely registering against the dizzying sensations he drew from you.

His lips left yours, trailing down your jaw, to the tender spot just below your ear, and you shivered as his teeth scraped lightly over your skin.

“God, Carlos-” you whispered, but the words broke off into a gasp when his hands slid under your thighs, lifting you higher against him.

“Mm.” His lips curved against your throat, and he hummed low, a sound filled with lazy amusement. His mouth worked along your neck, deliberate and unhurried, leaving your skin flushed and tingling.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes roamed over you.

Your swollen lips, your heaving chest, your thighs trembling where they rested against his hips. He tilted his head, the corner of his mouth curving up, the faintest smirk playing on his lips.

“Has anyone ever made you come with their mouth before?” he asked though he looked as though he already knew the answer.

The heat in your face intensified, your breath catching as his hands wandered down your thighs, teasing the edge of your bikini bottoms.

You tried to respond, but the words stuck in your throat, and all you managed was a small shake of your head.

His smirk deepened, a low chuckle escaping him as he brushed his thumb over your flushed cheek. “Didn’t think so,” he murmured. “You’re so damn pretty when you’re flustered. Cute.”

Your hips instinctively arched toward him, but he didn’t rush. He held you steady, hands firm but gentle, guiding you with a patience that only heightened the ache between your legs.

His lips found your collarbone, kissing and nipping lightly, as though savoring every inch of you.

When he finally moved between your legs, the sight of him looking up at you from between your thighs sent a fresh wave of heat crashing through you.

His hands spreaded you open with a careful precision that made your heart race. Carlos nudged you higher against the rock, shifting you into position, gaze sweeping over you like he was memorizing every detail.

“You’re shaking already,” he said softly, his voice edged with amusement as he pressed a kiss to the inside of your thigh. “Relax, baby. I’ve got you.”

You whimpered, fingers tangling in his dark hair as his lips moved closer, teasing, never quite giving you what you wanted.

His stubble scraped lightly against your sensitive skin, making you shiver, and when his breath fanned over your core, you nearly bucked against him.

“Please,” you whispered, your voice trembling, desperate.

Carlos’s low hum vibrated against your skin, and he pressed another kiss to your inner thigh, his smirk audible in his tone. “So needy,” he murmured, almost to himself.

Then, without warning, his mouth was on you.

The first long, deliberate swipe of his tongue over your clit drew a sharp cry from your lips, your back arching off the rock.

He didn’t falter. His tongue worked you with slow, measured precision, every flick and circle designed to draw you closer to the edge.

You tried to move, to grind against him, but his grip on your thighs tightened, holding you firmly in place.

He was relentless, alternating between soft, teasing licks and harder, more focused strokes that made your vision blur.

“Oh, f-fuck-” you gasped, your voice breaking, your fingers tugging harder at his hair.

He didn’t respond, didn’t lift his head, just let out a soft, pleased sound that sent vibrations through you, his mouth working you even harder. His fingers joined in, slipping inside you with ease, curling just right, hitting a spot that made you cry out.

The tension coiled tight in your belly, your entire body trembling as he brought you closer and closer. It wasn’t rushed, wasn’t frantic. Just steady, unshakable control, like he knew exactly what you needed before you did.

It was overwhelming.

The pressure, the heat, the way his tongue and fingers worked together. It all built into something you couldn’t stop, couldn’t hold back even if you tried.

Your body tensed, and with a broken moan, the wave crashed over you, leaving you shuddering, your thighs clamping around his head as he worked you through it.

Carlos didn’t stop until you were nothing but a trembling, breathless mess, every last tremor wrung from you.

Only then did he pull back, his lips glistening, his chin wet with you.

He lifted his head, hands brushing gently over your thighs as if to ground you.

He leaned in, his mouth finding yours in a slow, deliberate kiss that left you dizzy all over again. The taste of yourself on his lips only heightened the intimacy, the rawness of it.

“First time for everything, huh?” he murmured against your mouth, his tone low and teasing, though his eyes were warm, almost soft.

Your breath came in shallow gasps, your body still trembling, and as you looked at him, at the way he gazed at you with that infuriating, knowing smirk, you knew you were ruined.

You barely recognized your own voice when you whispered, “Fuck me.”

His eyes found yours, dark and hungry, his control fraying at the edges. For a brief moment, he stayed still, as though restraining himself, the tendons in his neck taut, his jaw clenched.

Carlos had you against the rock again in seconds, his hands firm on your thighs, his body pressing into yours with a force that left no room for hesitation. He moved without teasing this time, his lips crashing into yours.

Your fingers gripped his shoulders, your nails biting into the hard muscle beneath his skin as he angled you higher against the rock.

The rough scrape of it bit into your back, but the discomfort was drowned out by the searing warmth of him, his mouth moving down your jaw to your neck.

You tried to gasp his name but he didn’t give you time to finish.

He lifted you higher, spreading your thighs wider around his hips. The strength in his hands was almost dizzying, his grip unyielding as he shifted your body to his liking. When his lips trailed down your throat, sucking hard enough to leave marks, your head fell back, exposing more of your skin to him.

His swim trunks were gone in a moment, and when you glanced down, your breath hitched at the sight of him.

Thick, hard, and impossibly big, he stood there like he was made to ruin you. The sheer size of him sent a shiver through your body, heat pooling low in your belly as your thighs clenched involuntarily.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured, his tone low but soft, the edge of a smile playing at his lips as he reached for you again. “Relax, baby. I’ll make it fit.”

Your breath stuttered, your fingers clutching his shoulders as he lined himself up, the head of his cock pressing insistently against your entrance. The first push was slow, almost gentle, but the stretch was immediate, sharp, and overwhelming.

“Carlos,” you gasped, your voice breaking as your body struggled to take him.

“You can take it.” His jaw clenched as he pushed in another inch. “Just breathe, baby. Let me in.”

You did, your breaths coming in shallow pants as he fed you inch by inch. The stretch was nearly unbearable, your body clenching around him as if trying to resist.

He groaned, forehead dropping to your shoulder, hands steady on your hips as he worked himself deeper.

“You’re so tight,” he muttered, his voice strained as though the effort of holding back was physically painful. “So perfect.”

The fullness was overwhelming, the sheer size of him stretching you beyond anything you thought possible. He didn’t rush, didn’t force it, but every inch was a challenge, your body trembling as it adjusted to him.

Finally, he was fully seated inside you, the press of his hips against yours sending a jolt of pleasure and relief through your body. For a moment, he stayed still, his chest heaving against yours, his hands gripping your thighs so tightly you knew you’d feel the bruises later.

“Fuck,” he growled, his voice rough, his breath hot against your ear. “You’re so perfect. Made for me.”

You couldn’t speak, couldn’t think.

Your body stretched and full in a way that left you dizzy.

The ache was sharp but fading quickly, replaced by the thrum of pleasure that sparked with every small movement.

Then he began to move.

His hips pulled back slowly, the thick length of him dragging against your walls before he thrust forward again, burying himself deep.

The sensation was electrifying, your body tightening around him as he set a steady, deliberate rhythm.

Each thrust was measured, controlled, as though he was determined to make you feel every inch of him.

The pressure was unrelenting, his cock hitting spots inside you that sent waves of pleasure rippling through your body.

You clung to him, your nails digging into his back as his pace quickened, the strength of his thrusts leaving you gasping.

The rock behind you scraped against your skin with every movement, but the sting was nothing compared to the pleasure building inside you.

Carlos shifted, lifting you higher against him, angling his hips to drive deeper. The new position made you cry out, your head falling back as the sensations intensified, every nerve ending in your body alight.

“You’re incredible,” he murmured, his voice thick and rough, his hands tightening on your hips as he moved faster, harder.

The fullness, the stretch, the relentless rhythm. It was too much and not enough all at once. Your body trembled, your thighs shaking around his waist as the tension inside you coiled tighter, threatening to snap.

“Carlos,” you gasped, your voice breaking as your hands fisted in his hair, desperate for something to hold onto.

“Come for me,” he growled, his hips slamming into yours with unrelenting force. “Come on, be a good girl and come for me.”

His words sent you spiraling. The wave of pleasure crashed over you, your entire body trembling as you shattered around him.

Your cries filled the air, your walls clenching tight around him as the release ripped through you.

Carlos groaned, his rhythm faltering as he chased his own release. His thrusts turned erratic, desperate, and with a final, shuddering moan, he buried himself deep, his release spilling into you in a rush of heat.

For a moment, there was only the sound of your ragged breathing, the crash of the waves a distant echo.

His forehead rested against yours, his hands gentle now as they smoothed over your thighs, grounding you.

“Are you okay?” he asked softly.

You nodded faintly, your lips curving into a small, breathless smile. “I’m perfect,” you whispered.

He chuckled, his arms tightening around you as he pressed a soft kiss to your temple. “You’re going to be the death of me,” he muttered, his voice tinged with both amusement and awe.

“Then you’ll die happy,” you teased, your fingers brushing lightly over his jaw.

He smiled, his lips finding yours in a kiss that was slow, tender, and unhurried.

—-

Carlos insisted on carrying you back to the villa, effortlessly lifting you into his arms and wrapping a towel around you to shield you from the cool evening air.

You tried to protest, laughing half-heartedly while squirming a little in his hold, but his arms only tightened around you, pulling you closer.

The warmth of his body against yours was a welcome contrast to the crisp early morning air, and despite your teasing resistance, you felt a pull of affection.

“Carlos, no, seriously. I’m fine,” you said, attempting to push lightly against his chest. “You don’t have to carry me like this.”

“Shh,” he murmured, adjusting his grip to make sure you were even more comfortable, a slight smile tugging at his lips. “You’re not fine. I just fucked you, and so I’m taking care of you. Aftercare, baby. So stop fussing.”

You rolled your eyes at the sentiment. “Carlos, seriously. Charles is going to murder you if he sees-”

Carlos’ grin only widened, a spark of mischief lighting up his eyes. You could feel the confidence radiating off of him as he held you effortlessly, his voice dropping lower, laced with amusement. “Charles already knows.”

Your brows shot up, a mix of surprise and confusion flooding through you. “Wait, what? He knows?”

Carlos’ grin softened slightly, the playful edge in his tone giving way to a hint of sheepishness. "Yeah… Poker night.”

You blinked, the realization dawning slowly but surely. “Poker night?” You almost laughed at the absurdity of it. “Oh my god, you told him?”

“Well, he kind of guessed. And then, the next morning, he gave me the talk.”

You stared at him for a moment, blinking as the full weight of the situation sank in. “The talk? That talk?”

“The one and only.”

You snorted. “I can't believe you let him talk to you like that.”

Carlos raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying the banter. “Trust me, I wasn’t about to argue with him.”

You nestled into his chest, feeling the warmth of his body, and smiled up at him. “You’re lucky I don’t have a talk with you myself.”

He raised an eyebrow, a playful glint in his eye. “Oh? You’d have the talk with me too?”

You leaned in closer. “Maybe later,” you said softly, the affection in your voice undeniable.

Carlos’ grin softened as he held you just a little tighter. “I’ll be waiting for it, cariño.”

—-

Hours later, Lando and Pierre stumbled into the living room, bleary-eyed and still caught in the haze of sleep.

They froze in the doorway, blinking in surprise at the sight before them.

You and Carlos were both fast asleep, tangled together on the couch, your head resting comfortably against his chest. His arms were draped around you, one hand resting lightly on your waist, the other tangled in your hair as you slept soundly.

Pierre raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching into a grin as he cast a glance at Charles, who was sprawled across the couch like he had nowhere else to be.

Charles didn’t even look up, clearly at ease with everything happening. Pierre nudged him lightly, amusement dancing in his eyes. “You’re okay with this?” he asked, voice low but tinged with disbelief. “I mean, just like that? No big deal?”

Charles didn’t stir, stretching out lazily as if the whole situation was perfectly normal.

He met Pierre’s gaze with a smirk, the kind that only came with complete indifference to drama. “Are you seriously asking me that?” he drawled, as if the question were almost laughable. “Better than any of you, I’ll tell you that much.”

Lando, however, was having none of it.

He threw his hands up in mock exasperation, his dramatic flair coming to the surface even as he tried to stifle a yawn. “Hold up, hold up!” He pointed an accusing finger at Carlos, his voice raising slightly, though still laden with sleepiness. “I can’t even flirt with her without getting death threats, but Mr. Smooth Operator here gets to just waltz in and- what? -sweep her off her feet? No questions asked?”

Carlos stirred slightly at the noise, his arms tightening around you instinctively as he shifted to get more comfortable. His voice was low, heavy with sleep, but there was an undeniable warmth to it as he spoke, still gazing down at you with affection. “That’s pretty much it,” he muttered, the hint of a lazy chuckle rumbling in his chest as he tightened his hold on you just a little more.

Pierre shook his head slowly, blinking as if he wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. “So… this? This is serious?” he asked, voice almost whispering as though not wanting to disturb the peaceful moment.

Carlos let out a soft sigh, the sound barely audible as he pressed his cheek gently against your head, completely content in the quiet. His eyes fluttered open, and he met Pierre’s gaze with a slow, sleepy smile.

“Trust me,” he started, barely awake. “There’s more to figure out, but this?” He paused, glancing down at you, his eyes soft with affection. “This is happening.”

—-

Permanent taglist :

@papichulomacy @alilcloudy @lilorose25

[theminecraftbee]

If Cleo hadn’t known Joe for longer than either of them have known Hermitcraft, she might be concerned about Joe having an argument with himself about which of his six contingency boltholes to hide the two of them in and discuss plans. She might be even more concerned about how blatantly questionable several of them are—she didn’t even know Etho had an attic, let alone one Joe knew how to break into and had hidden a bed in. However, Cleo’s known Joe since longer than either of them have known Hermitcraft, and frankly this is an impressively minimal amount of bafflingly designed anxiety-induced disaster prep for him, so she just lets him guide him into the room and sits cross-legged on the floor.

“No one ever remembers that the overworld smells different,” she says with a sigh.

“For example, here it smells like Etho’s socks,” Joe responds. “Why does he keep socks in the attic, Cleo? I still haven’t figured it out!”

Cleo snorts. “He’s a very strange little man.”

Joe shakes his head. “No, no, if he were a strange little man, I’d know. That’s what I am!”

“No, you’re a strange little puppet these days. Entirely different.”

“Oh, right.”

The two of them sit in silence for a bit after that. Cleo just breathes. They are supposed to be dead or exiled, and they are not. “Supposed to be dead but they’re not” is like, Cleo’s entire thing as a zombie, and Joe’s entire thing as a person, so that’s not what’s making Cleo’s heart race. Maybe Joe’s right; maybe it is the smell of socks. Maybe, though, it’s that the world is different colors. Everything isn’t the same awful grey and red, stretched out endlessly across the horizon.

A fuzzy puppet hand is placed on her own. Cleo looks down.

“Sorry I couldn’t talk to you the whole time. I was being hunted for sport,” Joe says.

“What? No, don’t answer that. Scar. That was obvious. Don’t know why I bothered asking.”

“Doc also kind of wanted to?” Joe says. “But as we both know, Doc’s really bad at making threats that are actually actionable. It’s sort of embarrassing. Cub, also, although Cub and I were mostly engaged in psychological warfare. It’s kind of a shame he exiled himself; who else has an appropriately complex relationship with fireworks and comic sans?”

Cleo snorts. “Never change, Joe.”

“I can’t promise that. To live is to change,” Joe says solemnly.

“Walked into that one,” Cleo says.

They both fall silent a little longer.

“The fact you called me at all, uh. Texted me. Kept me company. Fought a dragon? The drop shipping? I—”

“If my best friend goes mad from loneliness I’m not a very good friend,” Joe says.

“Still, thanks,” Cleo says. “Thank you. It was—thank you.”

“Anyone would have,” Joe says, and all at once Cleo is laughing and sobbing into their hands. Distantly, they can hear Joe panicking; he’s never been very good at other people’s emotions. It’s just—nothing, for days, and everything now, and the edges of their sleeves are still singed from Grian’s attempt to render it all pointless, and Joe’s right here, and Joe’s right here, saying:

“It’s alright, Cleo. I mean, it’s not, there’s an authoritarian government that isn’t letting me play Permitmaster. But it’s okay, for some definition of that, I think—”

“They really wouldn’t,” Cleo manages between choked breaths.

“What?” Joe says.

“You said it’s what anyone would do and they really wouldn’t,” Cleo says.

“…really?” Joe says, and he sounds so idiotically baffled and so exactly like Joe Hills, constant in Cleo’s life since before either of them knew what a Hermitcraft was, that she breaks down into sobs again. Distantly, she recognizes that this is a symptom of having ridden a horse across the nether roof for enough days in a row that her ability to emotionally regulate snapped a little. Immediately, though, she can’t stop thinking about how lucky she is.

Joe smiles, strangely kind for a puppet, and leans his entire felt body against her. He stops talking for the moment. Cleo knows it’s more that he’s probably panicking internally than out of any desire for silence, but…

She’s really, really lucky.

By some miracle stroke, they’re both left alone long enough for Cleo to pull herself together, and then, to the sound of distant fireworks and sirens, they escape Etho’s attic, laughing.

Together they really are going to be so annoyingly unstoppable.

[3n-vi-ous]

Falling Asleep With Them

a/n: felt soft. enjoy :) pairings: lucifer/reader, mammon/reader, leviathan/reader reader: sort of implied to be shorter than the brothers, but they're freakishly tall anyway cw: n/a

Lucifer - Avatar of Pride

It had been a remarkably long day at the Hall of Lamentation. While it was the weekend, there was still much to be done and there was no rest for you as the brothers' designated babysitter. At least, that's what it felt like you were.

You'd just finished washing up the dishes; Satan had cooked tonight, and you'd volunteered to clean up to avoid the headache often induced by the others fighting over who had to wash them. A look at the oven clock told you it was pretty late, and most if not all of the brothers have retreated to their rooms by now.

You sighed, wiping your hands on a dish towel and turning the kitchen light off. You left on the stove light for Beel when he would inevitably come down for a midnight snack.

On your walk to your room, you paused in front of Lucifer's office. A cursed record was playing and you could just barely hear the crackling of flames. Without a second thought, you knocked.

"Come in," Lucifer called. When you cracked open the door and stepped in, he finally lifted his head to look at you. A glare you presume he'd prepared for one of his brothers immediately softened upon seeing you. "Hello, love. Do you need something?"

You smiled in reply, clicking the heavy door shut behind you and padding across the hardwood floor of his office. He raised a brow when you tried to push him away from his desk, but he rolled his chair back anyways.

Lucifer couldn't resist a soft laugh as you crawled into his lap and made yourself at home, wrapping your arms around him. He looked down at you, a smile only you'd ever seen on his face.

"Are you alright?" He asked, rubbing your back and lifting your chin to look you in the eyes.

"Tired. Long day," you respond, leaning in to give him a quick kiss before snuggling up to his chest. He sighed fondly, affection sparking in his crimson eyes. He hugged you close and rolled his chair back in, dominant hand returning to his fountain pen and the other settling on your waist.

It was easy to doze off like that, listening to his slow, heavy heartbeat. Warmth- a mix of his and the fireplace's- enveloped you easily, lulling you into a gentle sleep.

Just before you slipped off for good, you felt a light pressure against the top of your head followed by Lucifer saying something you didn't quite catch. You knew it meant he loved you, though.

Mammon - Avatar of Greed

You were already in bed by the time Mammon came home, trying to sneak through the front entrance and up one of the grand staircases to his room.

You were startled out of your light sleep by the door slamming open, followed by a whispered curse. You sat up, gathering your blankets around you and leaning over to turn on your lamp.

With a click, the room was illuminated with warm light. Mammon stood in the doorway, staring back at you like he was caught doing something bad. You give him the most unamused expression you can manage.

"Uhhhh," he said smartly, glancing around the room as if looking for something to help him. He then returned his multi-colored gaze to you and gave a guilty smile.

"Mammo-"

"Listen! I know it's kinda late, and I know I promised to be home earlier, but my last shoot ran long and then I went to the casino with the cash and... Uh, I might have lost it all." He admitted, words coming out in a rush. He then stared for a moment longer before his eyes widened in panic. "Wait! Wait, I didn't mean to say that. I meant to say I'm sorry for being home late!"

You couldn't help the laugh that got from you. He stopped then, giving you a nervous look before, much quieter this time, closing the door. He walked toward the bed in such a manner that you'd think you were about to bite him. He only calmed down some when you patted the bed next to you.

"I can't say I'm proud of your gambling addiction," you begin, shifting to help him take off his jacket. "But so long as you come back to me in one piece every night, we can work on that some other time."

He smiled then, a real smile. It was kind of crooked, but it was so distinctly him that it warmed your heart. He leaned over to kiss you before standing to rid himself of the rest of his day clothes while you settled back into the pillows.

After he had shucked off his pants and shirt, he crawled over your side of the bed to his and collapsed next to you. You giggled, lifting up the blankets so he could get underneath.

Once he'd gotten comfortable, you threw your arm over his chest and cuddled up to his side. He sighed and ran a manicured hand over your hair before settling it on your back.

"My first man," you hummed affectionately.

"Always," he murmured as he drifted off.

Leviathan - Avatar of Envy

It was yet another late night spent with Leviathan in his room.

He sat at his PC, playing some MMO he'd just gotten the day prior. You were curled up in his bathtub playing on a handheld he'd given you. He'd set you up with a game akin to Stardew Valley, citing that 'normies like you' needed something a little simpler to begin.

While you did give him a look for that little comment, you did like the game. It was almost nostalgic in nature, giving you a warm and cozy feeling. But maybe that was the mountain of pillows, blankets, and plushies you were lying in. Could be both.

After countless hours of what was essentially parallel play, you began to get tired. I mean- who could blame you? Between the calming game, the comfortable nest, and the whir of his computer- not to mention the soft ambience lighting cast by the fish tank- it was easy to doze off.

Before that could happen, though, you saved the game and sat up. With a yawn, you stretched your arms above your head. You rubbed your eye, leaning over the edge of the massive tub and waving your hand at Levi to catch his attention.

"Sorry MC, I'm almost done with this quest!" He said. You couldn't help but groan- which you know he heard, being as he had his headphones shifted off the ear facing you.

"Levi..." You mumble, putting on your best puppy eyes and letting your arms hang limp over the side of the tub.

"I- uh- hold on! I promise I'll be done soon," he blurted, glancing between you and his monitor.

You give it one last go and make grabby hands at him with a soft whine. That did him in for good.

"Ahhh!! You're just too cute!" He shouted, turning to look at you and hiding his face. You smiled brightly at your victory. He hesitated for just a second longer before saving and shutting off his own game. He was already in comfortable clothes so he got directly into the tub with you.

After some awkward shuffling and him shyly muttering, you end up comfortable with his head resting on your chest. His lanky limbs curled around you, adding to your coziness.

"This is like that one scene in-"

He didn't get any farther in referencing some ridiculously obscure anime before you pressed a kiss right to his lips. He practically froze before tentatively returning it. The second you pulled away, he buried his face in your chest with a flustered huff.

"...Goodnight, MC."

[jinxvex]

PLEASSSSEEEE SOME MEL APPRECIATION!! I WANT SOME SMUTTY SWEATY SMUT WITH AFTERCARE PLSOSL

♱ insatiable. ♱

I LOVE THIS REQ!! TY!! + i am still alive, i promise! i've been lazy w/ writing but i'm getting back on the grind!!

(ALSO! i'm not ignoring your asks (i swear!!))

syp. messy tribbing with mel....

cw: nsfw content!!, tribbing/scissoring, dirty talk, sub-ish!mel, dom-ish!reader, praising/sweet sex, lil bit of teasing, lil bit nasty, vulgar language, AFTERCARE!!! she’s needy for u!

mel medarda is insatiable when it comes to you—completely, utterly, and truly insatiable.

mel is usually one to be perfectly put together. you marvel at how perfect she is; not a hair out of place, no stains on her designer clothing, and not a single piece of gold jewelry twisted or mismatched in any way. she takes pride in her appearance and how people view her as a spectacle; someone to admire and strive to be.

oh! what the people would think if they saw her now…

mel is perched comfortably above you, having found the perfect position to pin you down and grind her sloppy wet pussy against yours. her hands grip your shoulders while yours dig into her hips so she can't run. she’s propped one of your legs up on her shoulder to get as close as possible, mouth open wide in the shape of an O. she’s dripping wet, cunt sensitive, and stretched out from the various ways in which you fingered her, fucked her with the strap, and then some.

she still can’t get enough.

“god! f-fuck, you feel incredible. s-so good,” she’s repeating herself over and over, brain blurry and filled with only images of you and the way you make her fully feel. the way your pussy, which is almost as wet as hers, feels against her has her mind reeling.

your shared wetness is leaking down onto the bed, creating a large, cold wet spot below you. you're groaning at how her pussy kisses yours, a short string of cum gathering between you two each time you meet. her pace is slow, and calculated. like everything she does.

you laugh, enthralled at her desire, “yeah, baby? you fuckin’ like grinding your needy little cunt on me? after all the times you came? you’re all stretched out ‘n you’re still begging for more, ‘s cute.”

the tone in which she responds is nothing short of pleading.

“hmph. mhm! fuck yes, babe. i need you. need you to let me come all over you. wanna make a mess f’you."

“p-please…”

her need—her longing ignites a new sense of urgency in you. you need to make her gush, make her pussy cream over yours, and create something so fucking messy but still beautiful nevertheless.

you want to paint her in you.

you quicken your hips that hastily move upwards to meet hers and find your head lifting off of the bed to stare deeper into her eyes. your grip on her hips grows slightly painful. mel lets out an abrupt yelp, resembling a scream, signifying her surprise.

“keep goin’, melly. wanna feel that pussy cum. you’re gonna fucking make a mess all over me, princess.”

you continue.

“make yourself cum. gimme that shit, babe. yeeeah, gimme that pretty fuckin' pussy.”

she stills, hips stuttering and eyes rolling to the back of her skull.

“f-fuhh- oh my god! m’ cumming!”

“me too, baby, fuck! can feel you throbbing.”

and with those words alone, she’s gushing against you, clutching your leg in her hands in a silent scream and mouth wide open. she rides out her high, broken moans and cries falling from her lips, breaking her pleasure-induced silence.

“that’s it, melly, f-fuuuck. give it to me."

miraculously, her pussy is drenching your lower half in her cum—mixing with yours and it’s beautiful.

white clouds her vision, droplets of sweat dripping down her brows as she collapses on top of you. she quickly wraps her arms around you and she’s breathing heavily.

she’s definitely done for the night.

as she buries her head into your shoulder, your arms cage her in and wrap around her back. you break your own silence to praise her, worship her like she deserves.

“mm, good girl. you did so good for me, gorgeous.”

“you came so hard, didn’t you, baby?”

she nods, unable to speak.

“yeah, babe. you deserve it.”

mel then looks up, eyebrows furrowed and capturing your eyes with her fucked-out gaze. her lips part.

she inches closer to your lips, “kiss, please.”

“of course, c’mere.”

when you kiss her, you do it softly by cupping her smooth face in your hands and gently guiding her lips along yours. she can still taste herself on your tongue and that makes her close in even deeper, appreciating the closeness and intimacy of truly feeling herself within you.

you break the kiss to look at her, you smile and stifle a laugh at her disheveled state although you still see her as the most beautiful, magnificent gift the world could ever offer you.

“wha-what’s so funny!” she jokingly accuses you of nothing and everything all at once.

“nothing, you just- you’re beautiful, melly. i love you.”

“and, i love you, sweetheart.”

your smile deepens, “good. now let’s go shower.”

…

lmk if y'all want more aftercare for future writings... i need to practice with it!!

[trulyumai]

Sweet Taste of Nectar

Pairing: Messmer the Impaler / Wife! Reader

Warnings: Rough Smut

Synopsis: he liked to be rough with his wife, sure, but she adored it.

A/N: I’m trying a new layout to my writing, let me know if it’s any better!

Listen and read with a Messmer playlist I designed for the stories!

messmer could die a happy man, with such a sight to gaze upon.

his victories held no contest against such a feat displayed before him.

the man watched her bounce languidly upon his lap; hands upon his shoulders with a tight grip.

up and down his wife went, grinding against his hips with fervor, moans escaping her with each push and shove made inside her warm mound.

“please,” she had begged out, voice easing over the squelches echoing inside the chamber.

“so pretty,” he whispered. his eyes— never once straying from her moving breasts, catching them ever so often with his heat induced hands.

He knew she had to be close, the way her orbs glossed over with a light sheen, sweat dabbed across her brow and her legs stiffened with a tight pressure around the man’s hips.

she puffed out air as her neck leaned back tiredly. a simmering burn made its way across her stomach, to the middle of her core and she wanted it out— craved the much needed release just as much as he did.

messmer could no longer wait, for his patience had run thin. his torso sat up, pushing the girl to be underneath his lanky form.

her head dangled off the bed, sweat stuck to her skin like a cheap perfume.

“it— hah, you promised I could lead,” the girls shoulders shook with wanted need, and the man scoffed while looping her leg around his waist. his toned arms held up her legs easily, and it would have been impressive if she wasn’t numbed from the many hours of love making.

“pretty wife,” he was smiling now. it was small, didn’t reach his lust filled eyes.

his hips pulled back before he slammed roughly into her.

her head reeled back with a snap, a groan overtook her as the man slapped against her lower half with more speed than she could ever muster.

one hand free, he reached out to find the slim neck it craved to hold— to squeeze until she begged him to utterly destroy her, to fill her with as much seed as he possible could.

his fingers wrapped around the delicate skin as he picked up a steady pace. hitting her favorite spot over, over and over again.

“—nnngh,” the girls eyes rolled back uncontrollably, wet tears grazed her lashes, and fell down in waves upon her cheeks from the drawn on pleasure the man fed her.

he needed to hear it. taste the much desired words across his tongue.

pumping harder, faster, the bed piece creaked out in response. The wood squealed with every increase of the man’s pace.

“say it,” the knight demanded.

“say it, pretty wife,”

everything felt so numb. over and over he hit against her lower lips— and she could once more feel the fire in her belly build up.

messmer tightened his hold upon her throat, a low whine escaped her lips.

“say it!”

“I—,” the pace was perfect; the roughness the girl had needed and desired all day was finally here. her fingers swiped away at the tears that fell, mouth falling agape in the process. drool leaked out instantly, the man lapped it up, his pink tongue dragged across her chin slowly.

“—fill me. I—I’m all yours, my hus-husband!” the man shuddered, his form sagged against hers with his hips giving one final slam, letting both their juices run freely down his pale thighs.

looking down at the messy haired girl, he let out a laugh.

hair poked in each direction and sweat and spit swept over her body.

not caring for the sticky feeling across her thighs she groaned out, reaching to put her hands around the back of Messmer’s neck.

“bath?” he questioned; knowing that his wife must feel dirty

“bath,” she agreed. her eyes closed instantly while the flame picked up her sagging body, leading her to the tub just across the hall.

she did nothing but lean against him, as he washed and kissed every inch of her body.

it wasn’t until they returned back to their newly sheeted bed, that they exchanged pleasantries.

“i love you, dear wife,” lips molded against her forehead, down to her temple and cheek.

she hummed.

“and i you, my husband.”

[blushweddinggowns]

Eddie was wide awake for the fourth night in a row while Steve’s voice streamed through the walls. Every passing second had his pathetic crush on the man dissolving more and more. The last bastion between Steve and Eddie telling him to fuck off. 

It took one last laugh for him to finally snap. He couldn’t take it for another second. He threw the covers back, marching out of his room to start pounding at Steve’s door.

He didn’t have to wait long. He could hear Steve scramble to open the door, tripping over himself before finally getting it open.

“What’s wrong?” Steve asked immediately, clearly concerned, “Are you okay?”

The reaction took Eddie aback. He didn’t- how did he not know what he was here for? 

Eddie barrelled right past it, his anger winning over his confusion, “Dude, you gotta shut the fuck up at night.”

Steve frowned at him, “What?”

“You gotta shut the fuck up at night,” Eddie repeated, crossing his arms over his chest. If he wanted to fight with him on this, Eddie was more than ready to play ball, “I can hear every goddamn word and I’m sick of it.”

Steve’s eyes widened, a blush crawling up his neck as he tried to stutter, “I-I-I didn’t-”

Whatever reaction Eddie had been expecting, it wasn’t this. But now that he started, he couldn’t stop. His brain refusing to catch up with the expression on Steve’s face, “And the showers at thee something? That’s gotta stop too. Can you not hear yourself? What’s your problem?”

“I-I didn’t think you could hear me!” Steve stuttered out, “I didn’t- oh god, you could hear everything?”

“Everything,” Eddie confirmed, his anger slowing down at Steve’s panic, “It’s not like I can recite your conversations but it’s enough to make sure I can’t fucking sleep.”

He could see Steve visibly relax at his words. Which was… suspicious. Maybe he should have been listening in at night instead of seething from exhaustion. 

Steve ran a hand through his hair, “I didn’t- I could never hear you! So I thought that you wouldn’t be able to hear me. I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah, so am I,” Eddie sighed, “What? You’ve never had shitty walls before?”

“Not for this price,” Steve shrugged, cringing at the look Eddie gave him, “Not that I’m complaining! You didn’t design the building.”

He looked sincere but Eddie’s lack of sleep had his filter evaporating. He pinched the bridge of his nose, hating that he was about to go full RA. But this wasn’t going to happen for another night, “So who keeps you up all night anyway?”

“It’s my job!” Steve rushed out to say, “And my best friend. She’s studying in France and we’re obsessed with each other. It’s the only time our schedules line up to talk. I didn’t even realize how loud I was being.” 

Great. Now Eddie was starting to feel bad. But he wasn’t ready to admit it yet, “You really didn’t know how loud the shower is? Don’t you hear that shit in the morning?”

Steve shrugged, “I’m a heavy sleeper.”

“Is your job like, sweat-inducing?” Eddie tried, “Or can a shower wait until before work?”

“The former,” Steve said quietly, shifting foot to foot, “It’s… a lot of movement.”

Eddie squinted at him, confused at what that could mean. Until it hit him. The cash, the late hours, his stupidly pretty face. The question spilled out of Eddie’s mouth before he could stop it, “You’re a stripper?”

Steve cringed at the wording, crossing his arms over his chest, “I’m a dancer.”

“At a strip club?”

“At a gay club,” Steve mumbled, clearly getting more uncomfortable by the second. 

Eddie didn’t notice. Too shocked at what he’d heard. He felt like his world had just been flipped on its head. Steve wasn’t supposed to- he wasn’t an option. Right?

“I didn’t think you were the gay for pay type,” Eddie said dumbly, cringing at the glare that earned him. Holy fuck he needed some sleep. Or a muzzle.

Steve stood a little straighter, his embarrassment replaced with an anger Eddie wasn’t prepared for, “First of all, I don’t fuck for money. Secondly, I’m not straight. I didn’t think that was something you’d have a problem with.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Eddie was fucking this up something fierce, gaping at Steve like a fish. He hadn’t been ready for him to turn the tables like this. He was supposed to be the dick here, not the other way around. 

Steve stared at him, clearly unimpressed with his lack of response, “Is that it? Because I’d like this conversation to be over now. Good night.”

from the first chapter of this fic (my holiday exchange fic! To be completed by the 14th deadline but I wanted to start posting whilst in the editing phase!)

also tag list for the official fic link! @faery-god @the-fatal-lozenge @nyeddleblog @my-love-of-books

(btw I only tagged who specifically asked for it because I don't wanna be annoying. But if you implied it and I missed you my bad! I'm just paranoid! Thank you everyone who has had an interest <3)

[kkanabel]

drunken confessions ✫ chapter i

curly x reader

summary: Curly is the designated driver for tonight, so he’s helping you as you vomit your guts out because you pushed yourself too hard with the liquor. He knows you don’t like him the same way he does—right? At least he thinks so before you confess to him that you think about cuddling with him after sex.

directory/m.list next chapter ⇨

words: ~4k

t/w: alcohol overuse/abuse, vomiting, friends with benefits (not yet, but next chapter?), mutual(?) pining, confused!curly, hookup culture, slim jim exists, mentions of sex, gn!pronouns for reader (mostly, i think. if i fucked up somewhere, pls let me know), curly tiddies, no yucky yet :>

a/n: more self-indulgent shi

All you could feel was the burn of alcohol tearing through your stomach and throat, the sickening churn rising up in seemingly never ending waves. Every retch was like an eruption clawing its way out of you. Your knees dug into the grimy bathroom tile, cold and unforgiving beneath your trembling legs, while your head hovered just inches from the stained toilet. The acrid stench of stale piss mingled with the sour tang of alcohol-induced vomit in the air, but you were too far gone to care.

You gasped, desperate for a shred of relief, but all it brought was another violent heave, your body convulsing as the acidic mix of stomach bile and alcohol forced its way up. The taste coated your tongue, sharp and bitter, burning with every ragged cough. Tears streamed freely down your cheeks, blurring your vision until the world was nothing but smudges of color, swirling and shifting in a drunken haze.

The bathroom spun, walls tilting at angles that didn’t make sense. You closed your eyes, but the movement didn’t stop—it only grew worse, as if your head was spinning further and further from your body. Somewhere, distantly, you registered the heavy thud of footsteps approaching.

A shadow loomed in your periphery, tall and broad. You blinked, your vision swimming as the figure crouched beside you. A low chuckle and sigh cut through the haze, followed by a sigh. A warm, solid hand brushed your damp hair out of your face, careful and deliberate, though some strands clung stubbornly to your sweat-slicked skin. The hand was persistent in grabbing all of the strands of hair, still, and you felt those strands slowly dragging away from your face, tickling your cheek.

“Mmm, he smells good,” you slurred, the words bubbling out before your mind could catch up.

The figure let out a short laugh, his voice low and rich with an edge of exasperation. “Thanks, I guess,” he muttered, his hands working deftly to gather your hair. A scrunchie appeared—when had he grabbed that?—and his fingers moved with surprising precision, tying your hair back with a tenderness that made your head swim for entirely different reasons. The feeling of it mixing with the dizziness in your mind made you want to retch more.

You focused on the feeling of his hands, big and rough-looking but impossibly gentle and warm as they worked. It was easier to concentrate on that than the relentless nausea still clawing at your insides. For a moment, your head lolled forward, and your gaze landed on the thighs crouched inches from you.

Thick, solid, and muscled, the fabric of his pants stretched taut across them as he balanced on his heels. Nice legs, your drunken mind noted appreciatively. Such good legs. You nearly drooled at the thought, the alcohol-fueled haze exaggerating everything—the sheer size of him, the warmth radiating from his body, the confidence in the way he held himself, the relaxing scent emitting from him. No, it wasn’t the alcohol. He’s always like this.

You wiped away the saliva dripping down the corner of your mouth when you realized you were actually drooling.

“Drink,” he said firmly, pressing something cool and smooth into your hand. You blinked sluggishly, your gaze trailing up his body as if it took every ounce of effort to move your eyes. Slowly, his face came into focus—familiar blonde waves framing a sharp jawline, his blue eyes laced with concern and faint amusement. 

“Come on,” he urged, uncapping the water bottle for you and tilting it toward your lips. “Small sips. You’ll feel better.”

The room still swayed, but his voice was steady, grounding you as you forced yourself to take a cautious sip. The water hit your throat, soothing and alien after the harsh burn of alcohol and bile. For the first time in what felt like hours, your chest didn’t feel like it was on fire.

“Good,” he murmured, his voice softening as he settled beside you, his muscled arm brushing against yours. “Just breathe.”

You tried, but the alcohol still coursed through your system, muddling your senses and making everything feel heavy and slow. But despite the fog, his presence felt solid and safe.

You’d come to this party with Curly, Daisuke, and Anya, the agreement being that he’d take the role of designated driver. While the rest of you had steadily climbed the ladder of intoxication, he hadn’t had a single drink. Someone needed to be sober enough to herd the chaos, after all. But now, Anya—with her kind words and nurturing personality—had decided to crash here, swept up in the hospitality of her friends who were hosting the party. And Daisuke? He was half a step away from disappearing into a shadowy corner with someone you doubted he even knew the name of. That left you, a person switching between vomiting into a piss-stained toilet and clutching a water bottle as though it were a lifeline, and Curly, who had assumed the unfortunate role of babysitter.

You sat upright now, leaning heavily against the toilet as though the cold ceramic could anchor you. The spinning world tilted on an axis only you could feel. Your stomach still churned, threatening to revolt, but you’d managed to hold it down—for now. The bathroom lights seemed far too bright, stabbing through your blurred vision like tiny daggers, and everything smelled like disinfectant, vomit, sweat, and regret.

Curly was crouched in front of the cabinet beneath the sink, rummaging through its contents with quiet determination. His broad back and shoulders flexed under his blue zip-up jacket as he reached toward the very back, his movements deliberate. When he straightened, you caught the glint of victory in his blue eyes as he pulled out a half-full bottle.

He twisted the cap open with a practiced motion, pouring a measure of liquid into the cap. “Mouthwash,” he explained, handing it to you with the calm patience of someone trying to appease a feral animal.

You took it, your sluggish brain processing his words only after the cap was already halfway to your mouth. The sharp, minty taste hit your tongue like a wall, and your throat reflexively tightened mid-swallow. Oh, right—not a shot. You blinked, cheeks puffing out as you swished it around. The world seemed to swish along with it, the slow, nauseating spin threatening to pull you under again.

When you finally managed to spit it out into the sink, the lingering taste of bile was blessedly gone, replaced by the cool, almost medicinal mint. Relief washed over you in waves as you leaned heavily against the grimy counter. Curly stood only a foot away, leaning against the door while watching you with that infuriating mixture of concern and amusement.

You turned your bleary gaze up to him, chest warming with something that wasn’t entirely alcohol-induced. “You’re suuuch a good man,” you slurred, a lopsided grin spreading across your heated face. His expression shifted—a flicker of something you couldn’t quite catch mostly because you were trying not to fall—but he smiled back, soft and faintly melancholic.

And heavens, what a smile. The sight of it seemed to still the swirling chaos in your head. You frowned, your drunken mind scrambling for the words. “S-So,” you stammered, leaning closer, “Soooo prettyyy.” 

Curly froze, his brows knitting together as he tilted his head. “What?” he asked, his voice edged with confusion and something else, like he wasn’t sure if he’d heard you right.

You nodded sagely, or at least as close to it as your impaired motor skills allowed. “Pretty,” you mumbled again, gesturing vaguely toward his face. You huffed when you realized that the word your mind had come up with first wasn’t nearly enough to describe him.

He blinked at you, lips parting in disbelief before pressing into a thin line. “You’re drunk,” he stated flatly, though the tips of his ears gave him away. “C’mon, let’s get you out of here.”

Before you could respond Curly bent down, slipping your arm around his shoulder, his strong hands steadying you as he lifted you to your feet. The room seemed to tilt violently, and you stumbled, only to find yourself braced against his solid frame.

The walk to the exit was a blur of sensations. The muffled bass of the music reverberated through the walls, shaking your chest with every beat. Multicolored lights danced erratically across the room, spilling over the crowd like liquid fire. Laughter, shouting, and the occasional drunken stumble filled the air, the party now a surreal kaleidoscope of noise and motion.

Curly called out to Daisuke in the corner, who was mid-face eating. “Daisuke! Stay safe! Protection!” He said, simply, as he helped you walk. 

You heard a faint and slurred “Okayy, dad!”

But none of that held your attention. Your gaze dropped—your head still woozy—and landed squarely on his chest. The thick cotton of his shirt clung to him in places, the outline of his pecs impossibly defined. Broad and firm, the kind of chest that told you he spent serious time lifting heavy things and didn’t cut corners about it. Your lips parted slightly as you stared, your hazed brain hyper-focused on the rise and fall of his breathing.

“I wanna biiiiite,” you declared suddenly, the words drawn out in a sing-song slur.

Curly stopped mid-step, glancing down at you with wide, incredulous eyes. “You wanna… what?”

“Bite,” you repeated, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world, still staring at his chest.

He frowned, clearly trying to piece together your drunken logic. “Bite what?” he asked, his voice teetering between confusion and sheer disbelief.

You simply smiled, too intoxicated to elaborate further, and rested your head against his shoulder, murmuring something incoherent as you took in a deep breath of his scent. He didn’t seem to mind that you were blatantly sniffing him—especially because he was more focused on making sure that you didn’t collapse altogether and then melt into the floor. He grimaces at the memory of you collapsing onto the ground and refusing to move from your spot until he joined you.

His grip on your arm was firm but careful, guiding you through the dimly lit house. The party noise faded behind you, leaving just the steady rhythm of your uneven steps. 

He frowned at your heels as he thought about earlier that evening, when he’d picked you up from your apartment. 

When the door swung open, he froze in place. You were quite the view—your outfit hugged every curve, the fabric shimmering faintly under the light. Glittery flecks adorned your cheekbones and eyelids, catching the dim hallway glow and refracting it like a halo around your face.

An angel. That’s what you looked like. Like some celestial being who had descended to earth, radiant and untouchable.

“Hey!” you chirped, grabbing your bag and stepping past him to lock the door. “Ready to go?”

He nodded stiffly, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets to stop himself from fidgeting. “Yeah,” he replied, his voice coming out far too casual for the way his heart thundered in his chest.

Sliding into the passenger seat of his car, you adjusted your dress, the hem riding up just enough to draw Curly’s gaze to the expanse of your thighs before he snapped his eyes forward, jaw tightening. He gripped the steering wheel as though it were the only thing keeping him grounded, hyper-aware of your presence beside him.

“Thanks for driving, Curly,” you said as you buckled your seatbelt, flashing him a soft smile that nearly undid him.

“Yeah,” he replied, his voice coming out too casual, too even, for the way his pulse pounded in his ears. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to stare straight ahead. He needed to focus on the road, not on the faint shimmer of glitter on your skin, catching the light of passing streetlamps like you were made of stardust.

And definitely not on the fact that you were driving him insane just by existing. He needed to hurry and pick up Daisuke and Anya before he’d go crazy from being alone with you for too long.

You were always like this—effortlessly stunning, warm, and kind. The kind of person who could brighten even his worst days. Sure, you complimented him sometimes, but he couldn’t help but think you didn’t mean it the way he wanted you to. Every compliment you gave him only deepened the ache in his chest. 

Like that one time you’d glanced at his lap while he was driving and said, “Those pants look really good on you, Curls!” before flicking your eyes away so quickly it felt almost dismissive. Did you mean it? Or were you just being polite?

That doubt gnawed at him constantly, and that night and this night was no different.

At that party, he stuck close to the wall, cradling a water bottle instead of a beer. He’d made the conscious decision not to drink a single drop of alcohol tonight—someone had to drive, and he knew better than to let himself get sloppy around you. He couldn’t afford to let anything slip, not when he was already walking a fine line between admiration and outright longing.

From his spot near the edge of the crowd, he watched you, as he always did. You floated between groups, laughing, dancing, shining like the brightest light in the room. It was a privilege and a curse, being the one who got to witness you in these moments.

And then he saw him.

Some guy in a leather jacket, with a clean-shaven jaw and a cocky grin that made Curly’s stomach twist. He watched as you slid into the guy’s lap, your arm draped over his shoulder, your lips curling into that mischievous smile that he knew all too well.

“Mmm, your lap’s such a good seat,” you purred, your voice dripping with flirtation. “I wonder what else on you is...”

The words hit Curly like a punch to the gut. His grip on the water bottle tightened until the plastic crinkled audibly. He tore his gaze away, his jaw clenching so hard it ached.

Why him? What’s wrong with me?

The bitterness crept in, sharp and relentless. 

Why aren’t you doing that with m—

“Whoa there, tiger,” a familiar voice interrupted his spiraling thoughts.

Curly turned to see Jimmy leaning against the wall beside him, a lopsided grin on his face. His old friend looked the same as ever—rough around the edges, with a reckless air about him that hadn’t changed since they were children.

“You need to stop showing the jealousy on your face in broad daylight,” Jimmy said, taking a swig from his beer. “It’s embarrassing.”

Curly scowled, turning his gaze back to the crowd. “I’m not jealous.” His voice was low, clipped, as if saying it with enough conviction might make it true.

“Sure you’re not,” Jimmy said, clearly unconvinced. “But just so you know, pining in the shadows isn’t a great look for you. You should just tell them how you feel.”

Curly let out a humorless laugh, his gaze fixed on the far wall. “Yeah, right. They don’t see me like that.”

Jimmy raised an eyebrow, a knowing smirk tugging at his lips. “You sure about that?”

Curly didn’t answer. He couldn’t. The truth was, he wasn’t sure about anything when it came to you—except that you drove him crazy in every possible way and that he needed to get rid of these feelings somehow. From the way you filled every room with your energy to the way you always seemed to find him in a crowd with that warm, teasing smile of yours. That smile was like a lifeline and a torment all at once. Did you even know what you did to him?

Probably not.

He hated that he couldn’t read you, hated the way your actions seemed to contradict each other. Sure, you complimented him now and then. For a moment, he’d let himself think you might be interested. But then there were nights like this, where you’d sit in some other guy’s lap, laugh at their jokes, and tell them things that left his chest aching.

Why them? What do they have that I don’t? 

The question looped endlessly in his mind, a bitter echo that wouldn’t fade.

But what he didn’t know—what he couldn’t know—was that your behavior wasn’t just random. It wasn’t some cruel game or thoughtless act. You weren’t trying to hurt him, and you had no clue that you even were.

To you, it was simple: he couldn’t possibly feel any sort of attraction towards you.

After all, he never flirted with anyone, never went home with anyone after a party, and certainly never looked at you the way you imagined he might look at someone he actually wanted. Curly was kind, attentive, and always there for you, but it was easy to mistake that steadiness for a type of distant affection. The kind a best friend might give, not the kind that left your stomach fluttering and your chest tight.

So, in your own way, you tried to move on.

The guys you flirted with, kissed, let your hands roam over—they were placeholders, distractions from the ache of wanting someone you believed you couldn’t have. But there was one thing you never let yourself do.

You never hooked up with a guy who had blonde hair or blue eyes.

It felt too close, too much, like you were chasing after the ghost of what you really wanted but could never have. And in your mind, it was safer this way. A line you could draw in the sand to keep yourself from breaking completely.

But he didn’t know that.

All Curly knew was the bitter jealousy gnawing at his insides as he watched you, the taste of it sharp and acidic, almost choking. All he saw was you shining in someone else’s arms while he sat on the sidelines, telling himself, 

I’m just not their type. They just don’t see me like that.

Jimmy’s voice pulled him back.

“Look, man,” Jimmy said, his tone slightly softer now, less teasing. “I’m not saying it’s easy. But you’re not gonna get anywhere like this. If they really don’t see you that way, at least you’ll know for sure. Isn’t that better than torturing yourself like this?”

Curly stared down at his water bottle, the plastic warped from his grip. Is it better? He wasn’t sure. But the idea of confessing, of laying himself bare and being met with rejection—it felt unbearable. There’s no way he’d ever want to risk his friendship with you—making you feel uncomfortable around him since you very clearly don’t return his affections.

And so, he stayed quiet.

Jimmy’s voice cut through his thoughts again. “Look, man, I haven’t seen you in years, and this is how I find you? Sulking in the corner because a person you’re clearly in love with is sitting in some loser’s lap? You’ve got to get it together.”

Curly shot him a glare. “Why are you even here?”

Jimmy shrugged. “Got dragged out by some coworkers. Didn’t expect to run into you, but hey, maybe it’s fate. Someone needs to talk some sense into you.”

Curly shook his head, draining the last of his water. “Yeah, well, thanks for the unsolicited advice.”

Jimmy smirked. “Anytime.”

The sound of your drunken mumblings pulled Curly back to the present. You were slumped against the passenger door, a lazy smile tugging at your lips. The dim glow of the streetlights passing through the windows played across your features, softening the chaos the party had left behind on your smeared makeup. The quiet hum of the car engine was a soothing contrast to the noise still pounding in his memory.

“You doing okay?” he asked, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye, his voice gentle and tinged with concern.

You turned your head toward him, your gaze unfocused but somehow managing to land on his chest. For a moment, you just stared, lips parted slightly as if you were caught in some profound thought—or maybe just too far gone to find words.

Curly’s brows knitted together. “What?”

“I wanna biiiiite,” you slurred finally, voice thick with sleepiness, tequila, vodka, and who knew what else.

He blinked, his hands tightening on the steering wheel as his mind attempted to process. “You wanna... what?”

You didn’t respond immediately, your glassy-eyed focus shifting from his chest to his face.

“Bite what?” he repeated, his voice now tinged with exasperation and a growing sense of dread.

“Tiddies,” you mumbled, your fingers twitching in your lap as if you were reaching for a pair of two.

Curly groaned, dragging a hand down his face in disbelief. “Unbelievable,” he muttered under his breath as he slowed to a stop at a red light.

His exasperation earned a giggle from you, the sound light and airy, as though his frustration were a personal victory. But as the laughter subsided, your eyes lingered on him under the glow of the red traffic light. The crimson hue painted his sharp features, catching on the curve of his jaw and the faint shadow of stubble along his cheek. You stared at him for a long moment, something shifting in your expression as tears began to pool in your eyes.

Your lip wobbled. “How can one man have so much sex appeal!?” The words came out as a wail, slurring together with all the melodrama you could muster. A fat tear slipped down your cheek, and you sniffled, your face crumpling like a child who’d just dropped their ice cream.

Curly’s head snapped toward you, his eyes widening in alarm. Wait. Wait, what?

“Wh—What are you talking about?” he stammered, his tone a mix of disbelief and rising panic.

“You’re just—” you hiccupped, sniffling again, “the w-worst!”

His confusion deepened, his brows knitting as he stared at you like you’d just grown a second head. You were sobbing—full-on crying—and he had no idea what was going on. What did you mean by “so much sex appeal”? And why, exactly, were you crying about it?

Do people cry about things like this? he wondered, his mind racing. They find me attractive? Are they joking? Oh my God, they’re serious.

Panic prickled at the edges of his composure. “Yes, I’m the worst,” he said quickly, trying to calm you down. “I’m sorry, okay? Whatever I did, I’m sorry.” His voice was gentle, though his face betrayed his complete and utter bewilderment.

You sniffled again, staring at him as if he’d just confessed to being attracted to cartoon horses. “Nooo! Curls!” you wailed as he pulled into the driveway. “You’re not actually the worst! I’m sorrrrry!”

He put the car in park, still reeling as your hand suddenly shot out to grip his shoulder. You looked at him with wide, watery eyes, your other hand flying to your mouth like you couldn’t believe what you’d just made him say.

But barely five seconds passed before your expression glazed over again. Your fingers tightened on his shoulder, your drunken brain moving at a completely different speed.

“Mmm,” you hummed, leaning toward him slightly. “You look so comfy...”

Curly tilted his head, his confusion mounting. What now?

“You’d be sooo nice to cuddle with after sex,” you mumbled dreamily, the words slurring together into a drunken confession. “Curly? Sex? Woah… Mmmph…”

His brain short-circuited.

Did they just—no, they didn’t. No way. Except they did. WHAT IS HAPPENING?!

He gaped at you, his face caught in a perfect storm of shock, disbelief, and something dangerously close to flustered. His thoughts scrambled for some semblance of logic. They’re drunk. They don't mean it. This is just... random drunk nonsense, right? RIGHT?

“You—what—” he stammered, his voice breaking slightly as he struggled to piece together a response.

But you were already leaning back against the seat, your lashes fluttering shut as sleep began to claim you. And Curly? Curly sat frozen, staring ahead at the dashboard as if it held the answers to the mysteries of the universe.

His pulse raced as your words echoed in his mind, and he could do nothing but sit there, trying—and failing—to make sense of the chaos you’d just unleashed.

a/n: let me know what y'all think pls! i feel like this one isnt as good as the previous one i did buuuut i wanted to write about this so bad

taglist is open! lmk if you want to be on the taglist for just curly/mouthwashing characters or if you want the news on alll my fics.

also might be accepting requests hehe! i can’t guarantee that i can do em, but i’ll accept ideas!

as always, not beta read, please let me know if there are any typos/inconsistencies lmfao stay safe & hydrated as always!

thanks for reading! <3

crossposted on ao3

taglist: @m-carriaga2021, @skyeconch

directory/m.list next chapter ⇨

[harunayuuka2060]

Twst Unveil Event Part 3

Philomela: I hope everyone had a good night's sleep!

NRC, NBC, and RSA: YES!

Philomela: Great! Because you all are going to experience some body pain today!

The students: ...

Epel: Haha... Not everyone seems excited now.

Yuurin: She's never good in motivating anyone.

Malleus: How come she became your mentor?

Yuurin: My mother.

Malleus: Oh.

Philomela: I'll be explaining to you the mechanics now!

Philomela: Today will be the elimination round! You are free to attack anyone you please! And you have all the permission to use any type of moves even magic to your own advantage!

NBC student A: Eh? Isn't this a wrestling event?

NBC student B: If magic is involved, then we'll have better chances of winning.

RSA student A: Won't it be fair to not use any magic at all?

RSA student B: Yes. It feels wrong.

Philomela: Ha! Why? Do you think you can win just because you use magic?

The students: ...

Rook: Madame is right! There are many factors we need to consider!

Ruggie: Hm. Yuurin, you never used magic in any of your wrestling competitions, did you?

Yuurin: No.

Jack: I see. Does that mean...

Yuurin: Philomela is not impressed to any of them. That's why she's willing to give them a leverage to make this match worthwhile.

Floyd: Ne~ Mrs. Whale~ What other things we should remember for this elimination round?

Philomela: Nothing much, except that you have 30 minutes to fight anyone.

Floyd: Yay~!

Jade: Oh dear... *chuckles*

Epel: Can't I really join?

Rook: You'll get yourself hurt, Monsieur Crabapple.

Epel: *pouts*

Sebek: I promise to win this round, Waka-sama!

Silver: This is only an elimination round, Sebek.

Malleus: Do your best, Sebek, Silver.

Sebek/Silver: Yes, Waka-sama!/Malleus.

Ruggie: I guess this is the part where we start recording—

Philomela: Spectators! There is a designated room for us!

Malleus, Ruggie, Jack, Jade, and Epel: Huh?

Philomela: *leads them to a room that offers a panoptic view of the locations in the Kingdom of Heroes*

Epel: Whoa... *in amazement*

Philomela: Sick, isn't it?

Jade: Indeed. I've never been to such place before.

Jack: Ah! I can see everyone clearly!

Philomela: *laughs* Yes! This room will cater to your needs! Foods, drinks, and a good entertainment!

Rollo: *looks displeased*

Neige: This is great! Principal Ambrose will surely love this place!

Epel: Neige Le Blanche?!

Neige: Hello~!

Malleus and Ruggie: Flamme/Rollo.

Rollo: ...

Rollo: It's a pleasure to meet you again, mages.

Malleus and Ruggie: *smirks*

Jack and Jade: ???

Philomela: Everyone! Take your seats!

Epel: Um... But there are no seats— *a seat in front of him appears*

Epel: ...

Philomela: This room will cater to your needs. *smiles proudly*

Epel: Neat!

The students: *listening to Philomela's voice*

Philomela: BOYS! ARE YOU READY?

Floyd: Can we do a war cry~?

Philomela: *laughs* YES!

The students except Yuurin and Silver: RAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!

Yuurin and Silver: ...

Silver: Good luck to you, Yuurin.

Yuurin: *nods* You too, Silver.

Epel: Wow... Just wow...

Jade: That's Floyd for you.

*Floyd unleashed a flurry of clothesline strikes, taking out multiple students simultaneously with each powerful swing.*

Ruggie: Poor NBC and RSA students.

Malleus: Sebek and Silver are doing well.

*Sebek asserts his dominance by executing his running bulldog move; swiftly seizing his opponents by the head and driving them face-first into the ground with decisive force.*

*Silver expertly wraps his arm around the neck of each approaching opponent, applying precise pressure to cut off their air supply and induce unconsciousness.*

Epel: Wow... Everyone is amazing— Wait. Where's Rook?

*Rook's grin widens as he expertly locks his poor opponent into the sharpshooter.*

Epel and Ruggie: ...

Ruggie: That savage.

Jack: Ruggie-senpai! Look! Some of the students are attacking Yuurin!

Philomela: *smiles*

*Yuurin remains composed as everyone closes in on her. Then, she swiftly grabs one attacker, lifts them, and slams them to the ground with a powerful spinebuster move. With each opponent, she repeats this action, using their momentum against them to quickly take them down, one by one.*

Epel, Jack, and Ruggie: ...

Ruggie: Oh shit, wait— I need to document this.

Floyd: Whoo-hoo~! This feels great~!

The students he defeated: *groaning in pain*

Sebek: Ha! I've defeated 25 students!

Rook: Oh! That's impressive, Monsieur Crocodile!

Silver: Should we be counting?

Sebek: How about you, Yuurin?! Bet you didn't—

Yuurin: *students piled up like a mountain beside her*

Yuurin: It seems we're the only remaining ones.

Floyd, Sebek, Silver, and Rook: ...

Sebek: WHAT THE HELL?!

[overdressedcarp]

Honestly, I love how the plotlines with Tingyun and Wonweek in 2.7 retroactively help explain why the consecration of the Harmony affected Aventurine the way it did in 2.1.

"The consecration has weird side effects as a result of the power of the Harmony" was honestly a fine explanation in and of itself, but it's cool to get a bit more detail about why Aventurine had those encounters with his "past" and "future" selves. The memoria-induced fracturing/dissociation that Sunday describes when talking about himself and Fugue is extremely similar to what we see with Aventurine in 2.1, both in the tangible effects and the factors that make it possible.

Both Wonweek and the convocation of Tingyuns are identified as the result of a special try-not-to-laugh candy that elicits uncontrollable laughter from those who consume it. (Penaconian consumables infused with specific emotions are something the story has leaned into since our excursion with Sparkle-as-Sampo in 2.0, so it doesn't surprise me at all that a product like this would exist.)

Notably, the candy doesn't have the fracturing side effect on everyone: it works as expected for March and the Trailblazer, and presumably most of the other Dreamchasers who participate in the challenge. Sunday identifies two specific factors that caused the atypical effects for him and Fugue: vulnerable/sensitive mental state, and a fragile sense of self.

Tingyun/Fugue fractured into dozens of memory fragments -- including a younger self embodying her childhood innocence and early memories on the Xianzhou, in much the same vein as Kakavasha for Aventurine.

Sunday, meanwhile, describes Wonweek as "another possibility of me": one that embodies traits he dislikes about himself, similar to the manifestation of Aventurine's "future." Wonweek and Future Aventurine are both externalizations of negative self-talk, giving Sunday and Aventurine a sounding board to express (and push back against) their own internalized self-loathing.

It's also interesting to me that Sunday identifies tuning as the solution for such fractures, adding credence to the idea that the Harmony's consecration (which itself appears to be a form of tuning), could disrupt a fragile psyche in much the same way Sunday can use his abilities to bring someone's mind back into alignment.

To be fair, I don't necessarily think Sunday anticipated this particular side effect of the consecration on Aventurine's mind. The events of Double Indemnity highlight the extent to which Sunday misjudged him by Aventurine's own design, falling for the facade that Aventurine fed him.

Aventurine is resilient... but he is also brittle, as evidenced by Acheron's voice line about him:

This lack of a strong inner self is something that Aventurine tries desperately to distract others from seeing, through the shallow and showy outer layers he presents to the world. But Sunday describes tuning as something that actively prevents people from being able to hide their inner self (very fitting for the Harmony, an Aeon that fundamentally blurs the boundaries between the Self and the Other).

To me, this adds another layer of significance to the presence of Kakavasha and Future Aventurine: they're there because Aventurine can't hide from them while under the Harmony's influence. He's so used to lying to himself about his true intentions that his childhood innocence and his nihilism have to physically manifest in front of him in order to be heard.

Tl;dr Aventurine's experiences under the effect of the Harmony in 2.1 make even more sense in hindsight, and I love the retroactive layers that 2.7 gives to his story arc.

[tillysslife]

falling for you…literally—h. potter

pairings: seeker harry potter x cheerleader fem!oc

warnings: hufflepuff reader, perhaps incorrect use of quidditch terms…?

the quidditch stands were full, bustling with movement. it was horrid, but hufflepuff games never had the same amount of engagement as gryffindor and slytherin games. gryffindor was the clear favourite to win but still the crowd was evenly divided—not because of team loyalty.

no.

a good chunk of students were here for you, the head cheerleader of hufflepuff, the girl who had single-handedly turned quidditch into a spectacle beyond just the sport.

dressed in a golden and black cheer uniform that hugged your figure well as you stretched, your hair bouncing with every movement. your striking eyes sparkled under the sunlight as you guided your squad into an opening cheer, your presence commanding attention without even trying.

even from his place so high above harry could hear the chants of “y/n! y/n! y/n!” ringing through the stadium.

focus, potter.

madam hooch blew her whistle and the match began.

harry was usually lazer focused during games, his whole attention going towards finding that elusive golden snitch. but today, he was hopelessly distracted. when he passed the gryffindor stands there were students just watching you instead of the game.

and the worst part, harry was one of them.

the moment hufflepuff scored their first goal, you exploded into motion and it was mesmerising

you weren’t just leading the chants, you were really performing.

a perfectly choreographed routine of flips, spins, and wand-induced sparkles. your movements so fluid and effortless that it doesn’t even seem fair. you had a magnetic presence, an undeniable pull that had people from all houses staring, utterly captivated.

even harry, mid game, mid life threatening competition, found himself watching you instead of the snitch.

your laugh rang out as you twirled, leading a call and response cheer, your voice clear and sweet, designed to command a crowd’s attention. when you clapped her hands, golden sparks burst from your fingertips, illuminating the air around you in dazzling gold and black flares.

harry wasn’t even aware he was staring so hard until—

“POTTER, LOOK OUT!”

too late.

before he could even register what was happening, a bludger came hurtling toward him, knocking him straight in the shoulder. the sheer force of it sent him spiralling off-course, his firebolt tilting at a dangerous angle. for a split second he tried to correct it—tried to steady himself—but then his grip slipped.

and just like that.

he fell.

gasps rippled through the air as harry tumbled, the world spinning around him in a blur. he couldn’t break his fall, handing on the grass with a loud thud, his glasses turning askew and the breath knocked from his lungs.

laughter erupted from the slytherin stands. they always found pleasure in his misfortunes.

you covered your mouth, “bloody hell! did he just-“

your friend, Harper snorted “no way. did he just fall because he was too busy watching you?”

someone else cracked up “oh that’s golden.” and you for once were speechless.

the official whistle shrieked, signalling a pause in the game as gryffindor ran to check on their fallen seeker, oliver wood leading the pack frantically.

from the field harry groaned, rubbing his sore shoulder while readjusting his glasses. the world finally stopped spinning and his vision refocused.

people were flitting around him, feeling his shoulder and questioning him but all he could focus on was you staring down at him from a foot away.

he liked this view.

“enjoying the show, harry?” you called your voice dropping with tease.

harry pushed himself back, his cheeks flushing further “not at all.” he muttered, an obvious lie.

your smile widened as you hummed “sure.”

as he got back on his broom, face burning, he realised two things.

he had absolutely, without a doubt fallen for y/n y/l/n

and it had happened both figuratively and literally, in front of the entire school

[toriaaniin]

So do you think what we are seeing with L & A is a PR relationship? Perhaps it’s a way to take the pressure off of L & N so they can both show up at events for Bridgerton?

It's been a while since I had a question. I'm game for questions! I'm sure the quiet is because I have my anons turned off. The troll activity that we've all been experiencing - over the past few weeks especially - has been fucking DELULU inducing (no: believing in L & N's love isn't delusional, therefore I am not delulu). I used to laugh at how my Lukola bloggity friends have so cleverly responded to the trolls' ridiculousness, but lately it simply makes me want to throw up. Thank the Light that I haven't personally had to deal with that BS since turning off my anons. Now that I've written that statement, watch a troll who is willing to have their name plastered everywhere pop up in my messages. Especially after they read this post! Ha!

Okay... let's respond to the questions asked of me.

I'd like to quickly deal with the second part of this question: "... a way to take the pressure off of L & N so they can both show up at events for Bridgerton?" In a word, no. There should be no events for Bridgerton until they start promotion for season 4, and that likely won't be until 2026. At the earliest, late 2025. If you mean the upcoming BAFTAs on May 11th? A case could be made for BAFTAs (that I'll touch on below), but "pressure off" would not be that reason.

Your first question: "Do you think what we are seeing with L & A is a PR relationship?" I'll use another single word: Yes. The one word I'd change out in your question though is "relationship". I don't view Luke & Antonia as a relationship. THIS is a relationship.

I view the situation between Luke and Antonia as a working arrangement. Perhaps even a legal one (but I'm not going to get into the NDA stuff. @fiamat12 does that well with her Legal Anon, and she posted an update this morning). She's been hired to play a role, and she's paid for that work (how [not necessarily money] would be an agreement between her agent/legal team and Luke's).

So why? I have a theory around Luke's branding that I personally find compelling, but I'll leave that for now because it deserves its own post as well as a good deal of research to find PR evidence (it exists!!) to support it for my readers. Know though that my theory - while reluctantly agreed with (usually!) - has proven controversial amongst my private chat group friends!

I will however discuss two reasons for this PR relationship.

One is the BAFTAs as I mentioned above. The voting for this year's BAFTA TV nominations is conducted in 3 rounds and only eligible Members of BAFTA can vote. The second round of nominee voting ended on March 13th. The final nominees are announced next Thursday, March 27th (watch for it!) after which the BAFTA members enter into a third round of voting (officially April 7th, closing on the 14th), with the winners announced during the ceremony on May 11th. Phew!

Members of the Academy - their peers, creatives and professionals working in and making contributions to the television industry in the UK - have already voted on whether Luke, Nicola, cast, crew, designers, producers, directors, etc. will be the final nominees. Again, those final nominees will be announced next week... with the same Members responsible for voting the actual winners.

Why is this a big deal? Because Luke and Nicola don't want their performances to be undervalued by a belief that they didn't act their parts. That the love that we saw in Penelope and Colin was actually (and only!) the love of Nicola and Luke. More importantly (and I'm SURE this is more important to Luke & Nicola too) = if they are believed to not have been acting, it undervalues the contributions of the entire cast, crew, Shondland, Netflix... everyone!

So you see... it's not about "taking pressure off" because the pressure is ON until April 14th when voting ends. Maybe even until awards night, May 11th.

Deflecting eyes away from Luke and Nicola's real relationship will help with BAFTA votes... but the second reason I'm going to suggest takes us one step beyond that deflection. We're talking DON'T LOOK OVER HERE! strength diversion!! The reason they want that kind of deflection is because Luke and Nicola are, I firmly believe, new parents. In fact, the BOSS event was in part a ruse to shock the fandom and get them all up in arms about Luke and Antonia, all while Luke and Nicola had a baby. The result of 3 "let's get this done" hours of Luke's life? No media and stalker-fans sniffing around, looking for photo opportunities of the new family. Misdirection.

Then we come to the SAG awards where our couple tried sooooo hard to pretend they were "just friends". We saw the truth, didn't we? They've tried a few times since SAGs to misdirect us. Remember my friends, they don't want us to look too closely. One day they'll opt for private, not secret. After all you can't hide a baby forever. But not until they're ready. We're on their schedule. Thankfully we're familiar with their misdirection patterns. I'm sat firmly on this ship!

Aaniin Xxx

(In case you ever wondered: that third little x started appearing in the closing of my posts in late January/early February... and if you know where Xx comes from [which still lives on Luke's IG bio, BTW!], you now know why I've added it 💙)

[minjix]

cinderella → Vinnie Hacker x female!reader

summary: in which you’re the one catching his attention

warnings: fluff, and that’s a warning of itself lol + plus the standard swear word here and there. also I can’t for the life of me write an ending, so I apologize if it feels abrupt-because it is lol. also keep in mind that english is not my first language.

a/n: I write with breaks to actually be able to give it my all and not lose interest in writing- which is a genuine fear of mine

word count: 2.6k :)

masterlist

reblogs and comments are very much appreciated!

It was all a stupid cliche in your eyes as you stared at the tweet Vinnie had posted. “who is she.” Simple as that, yet mostly everyone knew what he was referring to, but they didn’t know whom and Vinnie didn’t know either.

Like previously stated, it was all a stupid cliche- a masquerade party filled to the brim with influencers and small celebrities, crowding a huge mansion which felt tiny as you pushed your way through to get a much needed breath of fresh air, away from the liquor stained breaths.

You sighed in relief as you stepped into the cool L.A, two am breeze, the music thumping through the ground, vibrating your whole body. “I feel the same way,” a dark voice chuckled. Startled, you looked into the direction of which the voice came from, and there he stood, leaning on the wall, head tilted back and eyes on the night sky. He was dressed simple, something you rolled your eyes at, and his arms of which were folded in front of his chest was covered in tattoos. “Huh?” Was all that you managed to get out, your tongue deciding to twist on itself.

The corners of his mouth twitched as though he wanted to smile, but refrained from doing just that. “Wanting to get away for a few minutes,” his voice was velvety and , his skin shone red from the neon lights seeping through the huge windows.

“Oh- yeah, you answered stupidly, “totes.” You wanted to smack yourself. A laugh rumbled his chest and escaped from his lips as his head tilted in your direction, his eyes meeting yours. “Totes? Never heard that before-in real life that is.” Duh, because you’ve spoken like a bad stereotypical surfer dude.

You didn’t know how to respond so you simply nodded your head, very aware of his eyes trailing down your body. A tattooed hand entered your peripheral, “I’m Vinnie,” he introduced himself. It was then more sober you connected the dots, of course it’s Vinnie the Hacker. The only disguise he had was a black eye mask with black crystals in intricate designs; it looked expensive and it most definitely was, knowing who he was and all. You hadn’t bothered to wear a mask, but had regretted that decision the moment you stepped into the mansion.

You didn’t shake his hand. “Cool,” you shrugged mentally preparing yourself with whatever half assed excuse you could come up with to leave. ‘my apartment is on fire’ don’t want to jinx myself you thought afterwards. “Um, nice to meet you?” You sounded awfully unsure, and guilt brewed in your stomach when you saw Vinnie wince. “So,” he began carefully, trying to get an understanding,” what’s your name?”

But you didn’t feel like answering. “I’m hungry.” You spat out and his eyes widened. “What?”

“I’m hungry, so I’m going to leave. Bye.” You turned to leave but a careful grasp of your arm halted you, “do you want to get McDonalds with me? I’m kinda hungry too.” He sounded shy, and you couldn’t even imagine turning him down, he looked like a sad puppy for Christ sake.

“Sure.”

The drive to the fast food chain was surprisingly comfortable, even though Vinnie tried his best to get you to tell him your name; to no avail. And soon enough the two of you were seated by the window, both with big macs in hand, awkwardness thrown out the window as the alcohol induced hunger made everything taste oh so much better.

“so fucking good,” Vinnie groaned through a mouthful causing you to almost choke on your fourth bite. Your eyes didn’t leave his form, his hair in a disarray and his eyes closed as he ate the burger.

You forced a chuckle, “won’t your friends get mad or something?” You mumbled, playing with your fries. The tattooed man shook his head, “no? Why would they?” His eyes were on yours now and you couldn’t help but feel bare under his intense gaze.

“You kinda ditched them…” you trailed of as a smirk grew on his lips, his tongue quickly darting out to lick them. “Trust me they won’t notice.” He sounded sure. “Why?” You asked and this time he laughed softly, “you’re very curious, huh?” You shrugged, “I guess.”

He continued, “but no, they were pretty busy trying to get laid so I really doubt they’d notice me missing.” He stressed the word ‘really’.

“Oh.” He laughed again as he stared you down, “you’re really weird, y’know that?”

“Thanks?”

You and Vinnie had spent an hour talking nonsense, and when the two of you noticed the hard stares from the workers you both decided to leave. Vinnie had insisted on dropping you off at home but an uncomfortable feeling grew in the pit of your stomach as you politely declined, telling him a white lie to soothe his worries about leaving a girl in the streets of LA at three am.

——-

The morning after, curiosity had you in its grip as you reluctantly opened Twitter and searched for his handle.

@/vinniehacker: who is she. posted at five am. Quicker than lightning you exited the app, contemplating on deleting it completely, but you refrained from doing it.

You grew frustrated at yourself, you had an amazing night last night with an amazing attractive guy, and you full out blew everything to bits.

Your best friend tended to call you a flesh ball of anxiety, a saying that left a sour taste in your mouth and cheeks aching from faking a laugh. You were a people pleaser, but at the same time you hated everyone and preferred to be by yourself. So you did everything to stay out of the spotlight, simply rooming with your childhood best friend who went viral on TikTok months ago. And Vinnie was the opposite of staying out of the spotlight.

Before your brain had caught up to what your hands were doing, you had already entered the cursed bird app again, entering his handle, tapping on the tweet and reading through the comments. ‘she????’, ‘what?!’, all in a similar fashion. Speculations were thrown left and right and thirty minutes had passed of you endlessly scrolling, biting your lip raw until you tasted iron.

“Get up! We have an event to go to!” You wanted to cry, to come up with a lie that you were sick and didn’t want to spread it further. You lied a lot, at least tried to before your brain took you through the endless possibilities of consequences coming from said lies. So you heaved a sigh and got ready.

———-

The event was extremely overcrowded and overwhelming, the LA sun beaming down on bodies dripping in expensive perfumes, a cloud of strong smells begging for a headache to form. You were a plus one, a non famous one at that, so you stood awkwardly to the side as your friend and her famous friends took promo pictures. In your hand was a mimosa, minus the champagne, so orange juice.

You didn’t bother to keep up the happy charade, settling on frowning while sipping your expensive orange juice. You had half a mind to ask what brand of juice it was but decided that you were already looking stupid so there was no point of making it worse.

You were painfully aware of how lonely you looked so you grabbed your phone and entered the weather app, wondering how the weather in Hamburg was.

“So, uh, how’s the weather looking?” A velvety voice asked from above your right shoulder, warm air tickling your skin and you froze. Shit. “Uhm, cloudy with a chance of rain,”

You turned towards him and tried not to gape at what you saw. He was wearing a half buttoned white blouse with his hair slicked back except for a few strands in the front. He wore black and expensive looking trousers, and silver rings wrapped around almost each finger with a silver braided bracelet. His sleeves were rolled up revealing his tattoos on his sun kissed skin. And he smelled so fucking good.

He gave you a mischievous grin, “hey, you.” His eyes trailed over your form, several times with a glint in his eyes. You whispered a hey back, flustered for some reason and you were also ashamed, for what, you had no idea.

“I never got your name,” he muttered, his hands in his pocket. You could only shrug, words not agreeing with you. And there it was, that nauseating shameful feeling you got, you were ashamed of yourself for some reason, well you know why, but actually taking the bull by its horns are the hard part.

“I know,” he frowned at your answer, raising an eyebrow. “So you’re not going to give me your name, so I’ll just have to call you Cinderella then. “ he smiled smugly at the end of his sentence, as though he had conquered the world with his pinkie.

“Cinderella?” You asked confused and a smit insulted. “I didn’t drop my shoe…” you trailed off, combing through your memory, and sure enough, you had both your shoes on, or you would’ve noticed otherwise.

He laughed out loud, his teeth on full display and eyes closed. “No, you didn’t drop your shoe. But you did leave me with not being able to stop thinking of you…” he said, his eyes unrelentingly searching yours as if he could simply read your name in your irises. Your eyes widened and you felt as though your stomach was turning inside out. This has to be a cruel joke, you thought to yourself as you glared at him.

“That’s not funny,” you murmured through clenched teeth. He looked confused, brows furrowed. “It-it wasn’t a joke,” he said sheepishly. He looked genuinely hurt, and it made you doubt your insecurities.

“I genuinely had a great time with you last night, and I want to get to know you.” He kept his eyes on yours the entire time. “So please, what’s your name?” He sounded desperate, as though your name would unlock every story there was to know about you.

“Y/n,” you whispered and you watched in awe as he tested your name on his tongue, several times before settling with a “I like it, it suits you.” Vinnie telling you that your name suits you felt like a thousand suns were shining down on you. You bit your lip to repress the grin that was threatening to grow and instead you settled for a shy smile, praying that you didn’t have anything between your teeth.

“Y/nn!” A voice called, it seemed as though your friend had finished with her promo pics. “I got you a goodie bag-oh,” she paused when she saw the Vinnie Hacker standing beside you. “Hey,” she smiled and fluttered her eyelashes and a boulder dropped into your stomach. Of course, you thought. She’s so much prettier than me, and famous.

He only nodded in acknowledgement with a small ‘hey’, it didn’t deter your friend from asking a lot of questions. You took that as your queue to leave, slowly walking backwards whilst Vinnie’s eyes were on yours the entire time, looking confused as to what you were doing.

You quickly nodded towards your friend, who was still animatedly talking, whilst wiggling your eyebrows suggestively, ignoring the knot in your stomach.

Once again Vinnie looked confused before the dots in his head connected. His eyes widened before he shook his head, something your friend hadn’t noticed as she was too busy scrolling through her TikTok to show Vinnie a specific video of her. He mouthed the word ‘NO’ several times whilst staring at you with his wide eyes.

It was kind of endearing to watch him panic. A chuckle escaped you before he turned to your friend, an apologetic smile on his face. “Excuse me,” he said softly, eyes still on you before walking towards, grabbing your hand with utter care before he led you inside the building.

He stopped in an empty hallway, staring down at you with a smirk on his lips. “Trying to set me up with your friend,” he murmured lazily, eyes tracing your lips. “When you know fully well that I’m interested in you…”

It felt like a fever dream, and you had to mentally force yourself to focus on the situation at hand. Is Vinnie about to kiss me?

“You don't even know me,” you retaliated, a frown on your lips, your lips of which he still stared at. He shrugged at your answer, a serious look taking over his face. “So let me,” he began. “Let’s get out of here.”

You shook your head, “I can’t just leave my friend-“.

He interrupted you, “your friend who seemed very busy, in fact, I recall you standing by yourself.” You had nothing to say to that except for a gentle nod with a smile on your lips. Vinnie grinned in return before tugging out of the building and into his car. You had sent a simple text to your friend-‘ i’m going out, don’t wait for me <3’

————————-

Vinnie treated you to McDonalds, once again and took you to a look out, the city of angels to stare at whilst you both ate. His shoulder touched yours as you sat on the picnic blanket filled to the brim with greasy and mouth watering food.

“So tell me, how come I can’t find you anywhere?” He asked, his hand playing with yours, twisting your rings. It created a warm feeling in your stomach.

“I’m a private person,” you began, hearing Vinnie murmuring a ‘couldn’t have guessed,’ and you nudged your shoulder into his playfully, drawing a laugh from his lips. “I guess, uhm I don’t see myself in the spotlight, having people constantly judging my every move.” He nodded in agreement, looking lost in thought.

“I can understand that, it’s just unusual to see someone not famous in parties held by influencers.” You nodded, agreeing with him. “My friend is pretty famous and always makes me her plus one.”

“I like it though,” you stared at him confused whilst he stared at you with a small smile on his lips, almost looking shy. “Like what?”

“I don’t know, it’s hard to explain…” he looked lost in his thoughts.

“Try,” you pushed, his hand tightening around yours.

“I like that I can pursue this,” he gestured whilst you stared at him with wide eyes. “That you’ll be somewhat safe from the onslaught of comments you would’ve gotten if you were a public figure. This feels normal to me, y’know. Like it’s not for show, it’s just me and you.”

“Me and you?” You asked with a grin, his smile grew and he gave you a wink, “of course, this is our second date after all.”

“Is that so?” You bit your lip when he leaned towards you, his lips so close to touching yours, before he planted a small, almost phantom-like kiss on them. “It is so,” he gauged your expression before ultimately seeing the contentment in your eyes, and pressed his lips to yours firmly. You felt his hand grasp your cheek as he tilted his head to gain more access.

You were both breathing heavily before you disconnected your lips, but Vinnie took it upon himself to kiss your cheeks before traveling down your neck, leaving you even more breathless.

“I’m taking you on dates everyday this week,” he breathed into your neck and you felt your eyes roll back from the sensation and his sultry voice.

“I expect you to-“ he stopped you from talking with another kiss. “Shut up and kiss me,” he ordered and you did, for several hours, the once bright sun in the middle of sky, now dipping down on the horizon covered by the Los Angeles skyline.

[princessfbi]

48?

48. Rampage

Evan Buckley was on a rampage. A stress, anxiety fueled, chronic overthinking headache, probably hangry induced rampage. Not to mention exhausted.

Eddie was just waiting for the inevitable crash to come. He had money on it being in the middle of reorganizing their closet or when he decided to change out the bedding in their guest bedroom for the third time.

The strong arm that curled around his shoulders didn’t have to work very hard to get him to move and he sighed as he let Tommy pull him down until Eddie’s back was pressed to his chest and his arms were wrapped around his middle.

“Should we be concerned yet?” Tommy asked as he pressed a kiss to Eddie’s temple.

The vacuum cleaner blared on again with a whine.

“Not yet. But if he starts muttering about making another trip to IKEA, I get his arms and you get his legs!”

Eddie felt the huff of Tommy’s laugh and sank into his embrace as their legs tangled together.

“When I told you two to make the house your own, I don’t think I was expecting quite so many designs of cutlery.”

That had been an adorable if not mildly frustrating meltdown to watch from Buck as he stressed over which of their silverware to use for dinner as if anyone would be looking. But whenever either one of them tried to mention it, a spoon was wielded at them while red rimmed eyes begged them to be serious. It wasn’t until Tommy had thrown Buck over his shoulder and carried him up the stairs to their bedroom that he managed to get any sleep.

Of course that had been after they’d both taken their turns with him with the mission to make Buck forget the entire English language let alone the word salad fork but the point was he got some sleep.

Eddie would just be glad when the stupid holiday was over.

“I’m surprised you’re not more stressed out,” Tommy murmured in his ear and Eddie drummed his finger on Tommy’s forearm.

“My parents aren’t…” Eddie breathed out a sigh. “I never once questioned if they loved me. My pops and I could scream at each other until we were hoarse and my mom really knows how to just take you out at the knees. But I knew they loved me.”

The figure of his stressed out boyfriend passed the doorway as Buck obsessively vacuumed behind the cabinets.

“He didn’t have that. It was always a question for him. This is the first time he’s going to be the center of attention with them.”

Which was why they were in the middle of an Evan Buckley hurricane. One dinner. One Thanksgiving. One meal where Buck and his parents are sitting down without Maddie as a buffer and they were there for Buck. To see his new home, his new life, his new everything.

Same for Eddie.

It just made sense to get the holiday and the introduction to their new life to their parents. Surprisingly, neither of their parents seemed surprised when they told them about each other and Tommy; about how they were incomplete without the other and it just… made sense. Eddie flat out refused to call them a throuple. It sounded like a stupid Instagram trend. Buck was his boyfriend. Tommy was his boyfriend. Eddie was theirs. Boyfriends. A family, Buck had suggested and neither of them let go of Tommy until that wet sheen over his eyes went away.

Still, Eddie couldn’t help but feel a little bad that his and Buck’s folks were getting special treatment while none of Tommy’s family would be in attendance.

“I am not subjecting either of you to any of the Kinard clan ever if I can help it.” Tommy had said when they’d brought it up and that had been the end of that discussion.

Still, it had been Tommy’s house first. He probably hadn’t meant to invite Buck and Eddie’s familial drama along with their furniture when he asked them to move in with him.

Tommy made a noise that Eddie couldn’t quite place even as his arms tightened around Eddie’s middle.

“He says they’re trying,” Tommy said and Eddie forced himself to push down his own feelings so he didn’t color Tommy’s experience with the Buckley’s.

He deserved to make his own opinions.

“They are… in their own way.”

Still, Eddie had been the one who had seen the way their secret had gutted Buck from the inside out and made him question everything he’d ever known. Eddie had been the one who had heard Margaret tear the nursing staff and Philip into a new one when they suggested she rest while Buck had been in the coma. Eddie had been the one to bite his tongue instead of asking her why suddenly she could care now and not when Buck was conscious and needed to hear it. Eddie had been the one to see Buck question over and over again why he was the one who lived, why he deserved to be there, and all those moments of doubts stemmed from them.

They were trying but Eddie wasn’t sure he was quite ready to forgive yet.

[lewismcqueen]

work husband.

lh44 x black!reader

02 wc: 1,942 summary: Lewis is one of your closest co-workers, but how close is he, exactly? a/n: hiii i came up with this drabble really quickly because i wanted to put smth out in between fics hope that's alright! cheesy fluff with a sprinkling of angst :) psst - my requests are open! got a request but can't think of anything? send me a prompt from this list + a genre! check pinned for guidelines.

You massaged your temples in an attempt to soothe the slowly-developing headache induced by staring at Excel sheets all day. 

Finally, you tore your eyes away from your laptop screen, leaving a white rectangle burned into your retinas when you screwed your eyes shut. 

“Uh-oh, are we slacking on the job now? That's unlike you, Y/N.”

“Fuck off, Lewis,” you replied, but a smile creeping across your lips gave you away. 

“That's no way to speak to an esteemed co-worker,” came the same light, cheery voice but from above this time. “Might have to take that one to HR.”

Your eyes snapped open, revealing the face of the co-worker in question—Lewis—staring down at you with a teasing grin. His braids were tied back today, and he had gotten yet another tie. It was a dark forest green with a yellow plaid print. Every Monday morning, you'd try to guess in your head what kind of gaudy pattern he would introduce to your dreary white office cubicles that week. This time, you were right on the money.

“You wouldn't, Forehead. Nice tie.”

You rose from your seat to grab a small plastic cup from the water cooler that had just been stationed nearby next to a sad-looking potted plant. 

“Thanks Kerry Washington,” Lewis parried back. 

The comment was in reference to your own fashion choices during your first week on the job: head-to-toe matching pantsuits in various bright colors. You explained that they “lifted your mood” when you first met, but he never let you live it down.

You lifted the little lever above the spout and waited for your cup to fill about three quarters of the way before flipping it back down and taking a sip.

“You're never gonna let that one go, are you?”

“Not for as long as I live.”

As you made your way back to your respective desks, he asked, “Say, you were at Friday's Zoom meeting, right?”

You gave him an unimpressed look.

“You literally waved at me on camera.”

Lewis leaned on the divider separating the two cubicles and crossed his arms, revealing the outline of toned muscle beneath his black shirt.

“One: not the point. Two: I was waving at everyone, because I am a pleasant and upstanding fellow.”

“And is that why you're about to ask for my notes from a meeting that you were definitely paying attention to? Again?”

“Will you let me see them if I ask nicely? Do I have to beg?”

You tapped your chin, fake-thinking.

“Hmmm. I'll consider.”

In his usual theatrical fashion, the man got up off the divider and sank to his haunches next to your swivel chair, hands clasped together. 

“Please? I'll buy you so many drinks tonight.”

You tilted your head in amusement as Lewis poked out his bottom lip in a pout. Combined with clear dark eyes that sparkled beneath the fluorescent office lighting, you almost told him he was cute out loud. You sighed dramatically. 

“Fine. I'll pull them up, but I won't forget about that promise.”

He shot back up to his feet.

“You're a life-saver.”

-

That evening found you and a few other close co-workers at the local bar. It was a relatively clean spot with cutesy bright neon signs on the wall that made it look “Instagrammable”, as you had once remarked to Lewis. They cast a pink glow onto the right side of his face as he sat across from you at your designated booth, watching you enjoy your free beverage.

“You've nearly finished your third glass,” he remarked with a laugh, looking partially impressed. “I know I said it was on me, but you're draining my wallet here.”

Your other co-worker, a tall woman named Naomi, chimed in with a smirk.

“Hold up, you've been paying for her drinks this whole time? Why not all of us? What'd we do to you?”

“He only buys them for his lover, right?” added Lewis’ friend Charles. 

He rolled his eyes as the Frenchman elbowed him with a wink.

“Guys, he's married,” you tried to clarify, the alcohol beginning to make you slur a couple of words. “And he promised me free drinks if I showed him my notes from last week. He owes me.”

You turned to Lewis for confirmation, who furrowed his brows in confusion.

“Well you've gotten the second bit right. Who told you I was married?”

Your eyes widened as Naomi and Charles burst into laughter as if you had just told them a ridiculous conspiracy theory.

“But you have a ring on the ‘I'm Married’ finger.”

Lewis looked down at the small silver band on his ring finger. 

“See? I told you that it makes it look like you are taken!” Charles remarked.

Lewis chuckled and shook his head.

“Nah, I'm still on the market. I just can't walk around the office with my usual pieces, much as I'd like to.”

You gazed at his fingers, trying to imagine larger, more fashionable jewelry on them. They'd match his elaborate hand tattoos—not that you'd ever seen him outside of work to ever know for sure. Your teeth caught on your bottom lip for a second before Naomi’s voice snapped you out of your reverie.

“You're such a fashion nerd, talking about some ‘pieces’. I bet you wear, like, Rick Owens or some shit just to go grocery shopping.”

“What's wrong with Rick Owens? I think their garments are pretty well-constructed.”

“See?”

The table erupted into laughter so loud that it got the attention from nearby booths. You downed the rest of your drink at an impressive speed, clearing your throat right after. Lewis snorted as he watched.

“You should really slow down, seriously.”

You gave him a half-smile. 

“Chill out, dude, you're not my husband. You don't have to watch me.”

"He's kinda your work husband though, right?”

You hummed thoughtfully. “My…work husband?”

Lewis had always alerted you whenever management came lurking around the office so that you didn't get caught slacking. Every Valentine's Day saw him leaving chocolates at your desk, and he asked about you whenever you called in sick.

“I guess you could say that.”

-

Naomi and Charles eventually left, bidding the both of you good night. You ordered just one more glass before stopping for the night; you weren't trying to get too hammered.

Peering over the rim, you noticed Lewis studying you with an unreadable expression on his face. His nose and cheeks were slightly reddened after he'd ordered his own drinks.

“What?” You grinned, setting the glass down in front of you with your arms folded on the table.

A smile—no, a smirk?—tugged at the corner of his lips.

“Nothing.”

“C'mon, it can't be nothing. You're staring at me somethin’ fierce right now.”

He laughed at your bluntness, his lips parting to reveal his signature gap-toothed smile. The sight made your stomach flip. Cutting yourself off at four glasses was a good call.

He gestured in your direction. “Can I not look at you?” 

“You can, but there's gotta be a reason.”

Lewis tilted his head, his expression settling into something thoughtful.

“Have you ever…thought about bringing back the fun pantsuits?”

You gave him a weird look.

“What does that have to do with—”

“You looked really pretty in them. Happier, too.”

His observation was correct; you were happier as a fresh recruit that no longer needed to desperately search for a job or internship. Then the work piled up, the days began to feel like an endless time loop, and suddenly you didn't see the point in all the crazy colors anymore…

Wait.

“Pretty?”

You blinked, only now registering what was said. You wished Lewis wouldn't smile at you like that a second time.

“I'm being honest. Y’know, as your ‘work husband’,” he added air quotes as he spoke. 

You stared at him for a few moments, saying nothing. Then:

“We're both a little drunk at this point. I think I'm gonna call an Uber.”

Lewis nodded, awkwardly glancing elsewhere. “Probably right.”

After he paid the bill (and winced while doing so), you followed him outside, where the two of you stood by the curb in front of the bar. At some point, you found yourself shivering as the brisk evening air nipped at you through your thin white blouse. Lewis had had the foresight to at least bring a brown leather bomber jacket with him to go over his blazer. It made him look like a handsome pilot when he zipped it up all the way, but you'd never tell him that.

He caught you looking and asked, “You cold?”

You almost refused out of some vague sense of pride, but it'd be good twenty minutes before your Uber arrived. So you just nodded.

Just as expected, Lewis unzipped his jacket and draped it over your shoulders. Like in the movies, you scoffed internally.

“You can borrow it until we get dropped off.”

You raised an eyebrow. 

“What about you?”

He shrugged, “I run hot. I'll survive.”

-

The ride home was mostly silent, save for the soft jazz music that your driver had (thankfully) decided to turn on. 

You've had to deal with far worse music taste than this. 

Lewis snuck glances at you the entire time, thinking you wouldn't notice until he accidentally caught your eye. He broke the silence first.

“Can I ask you something?”

You gave him a tiny smile.

“You're already asking me something.”

“Walked right into that one,” he replied. “Look, did I make things…awkward back there?”

You messed with the zipper on his jacket for a bit before answering.

“What makes you say that?”

“I dunno,” he tugged at his earlobe, where he had gotten a pair of silver piercings ever since he found out that they were allowed at work. “You just…you kinda looked at me weird, so I thought maybe I'd crossed a line.”

When you looked up and met his eyes, his features were tense with concern, eyes just slightly glazed over from all the alcohol. You felt a pang in your chest.

“I was just a little caught off-guard,” you reassured him, trying to keep your tone casual. “You're good.”

This answer seemed to satisfy him, and he relaxed, leaning back into his seat with a sigh.

“Good.”

Your address was the first stop, and you reached for the car door handle before stopping short. 

“Almost took your jacket,” you smiled back at Lewis as you unzipped and handed it over to him. “See you Tuesday?”

His fingers brushed against yours as he took it gingerly, looking as if he didn't want to have to take it back.

“...Yeah. Goodnight.”

“ ‘Night.”

Luckily, the car had stopped right in front of your door, so you only had to rub your arms for a few seconds before rummaging through your purse for your keys. You flipped on the light switch as the warmth of your own home relieved you. The lavender scent packets you had scattered around the house seemed to be doing their job, the scent of which made you drowsy. 

As you kicked off your heels, another smell caught your attention. It seemed to be wafting off of your clothes. You lifted your collar to your nose to identify the scent: something woody and spicy that you recognized.

Cologne. 

Lewis’ cologne must've transferred from his jacket, and now your work clothes were going to smell of it for the next few days until you did your laundry. But you were too tired to even remove them, and your lids were getting heavier by the second.

You ended up falling asleep on your couch, smelling like him.