#play that should be me by justin bieber

[formulaforza]

[[ image description: auds when she sees the mess i made over this in her dms ]]

hi, could you please do the five confessions prompt with charles?

proving my devotion – cl16

genre: fluff, sry charles is a pining yearning mess, title from this

send for five times the receiver almost says ‘i love you’ and the one time they do.

The plates clack against each other, dissonant in the otherwise still evening. Charles stacks one atop the other, awaits his mother’s nosy questioning—the inevitable gamble, every time he brings a girl home—but she’s quiet, humming a song under her breath, the one she always sings when she’s doing the dishes. Something’s different tonight, a slight change he can’t name.

“So,” he starts, because she won’t and the curiosity kills him. His eyes find you, with the ease he’s adopted in the months of knowing you, dancing with Lorenzo on the patio to a Luther Vandross song. “Thoughts?”

“Hmm. Tu es fouineur.” She teases, a glint in her eye. How the tables have turned, she seems to say.

Silently, over the dirty dishes, they both recount the day gone: the lunch moved from noon to half-past-three because Arthur burned the turkey, the dropped bottle of wine you’d gifted because one of Charles’ uncles accidentally let it slip from his hand (you said it was okay, it was just a hundred euros when it was closer to one grand), the guitar performance from Charles.

The way the sun had drowned in a sea of Monaco orange, and with it the stories of weddings, Jules, and Hervé, and the affair moved outside to the patio so Lorenzo could boast his brand new speaker that was so worth the many zeroes on the price tag, maman! And you had quickly found out Charles’ inability to dance was, in fact, genetic.

It’s a new sensation for Charles, a thrilling one, a frightening one even. He squeezes the sponge and watches soap filter through his fingers. He turns, lets his green eyes meet your soft ones. It’s an exhausting effort but he says it anyway, wrenches it out quietly: “I think… I think I…”

“I know,” Pascale says. She presses a kiss to his shoulder. “I see it.”

—

You’d taken home a frayed copy of The Little Prince you bought at a garage sale.

It’s so old, its pages have long yellowed and there’s evidence of past ownership all over it. Most notable of them is a name on the front page, along with a number that’s probably unused now. Isn’t it so quaint—and the words, babe, you’d said with conviction when he questioned your purchase, the words are in French!

You’ve been trying your luck with the language for a good few weeks, but it’s a brick wall—mur de briques, if you go by the textbook on your bedside table. You huff when you can’t translate the last lines of the passage you’re reading, tossing the book onto the empty space beside you that is quickly occupied by Charles’ bulky figure.

“Stuck again?” He asks, opening the dog-eared pages to find where your bookmark is nestled. Under your palms, you groan and nod with frustration.

“Don’t try me,” you say, voice gravelly. “I can’t translate it.”

The rough pad of his index finger traces the yellowed page, and he smiles softly at your many annotations. Verb conjugation, words you found easy, words you still forget now.

His eyes flicker up, to your lying figure, the freckles on your arms, the mole on your hip he can only see because your shorts have ridden down low. His heart swells, seizes, his mind rampant with thoughts of you. Please tell her, he says to himself. Tell her everything. Tell her how you find her in all the passages, in all the French words, in all the books, in all the times she says your name. She’s everywhere, she’s everything. Tell her tell her tell her you lo—

But the realness of it all chokes him, and he says instead, placing a big palm on your abdomen, “I’ll read it for you.”

—

There are few sentences considered odd on a paddock. People say anything on it—driver gossip, car gossip, celebrity gossip, engineer gossip. Charles can guarantee he’s heard some of the weirdest statements and Freudian slips (the one time Christian Horner called Toto ‘dad’) on a paddock. 

“Carlos—pshhfhf—sprayed—pfffsh—whip cream—on my face!” …Okay, that’s. That’s different.

He turns, eyes wide. “What?!”

You stand in the doorway, frozen.

Your face is almost completely covered in white, and bits of your hair have fallen victim to the sweet spray of whip, too. You look frazzled and freaked. “I just got my hair blown out. I did my makeup. Dude. I look like a clown.”

“Oh, my God,” he says, already unable to contain his laughter. “I love you—!”

A millisecond passes him by like an hour. “—r uh, your new makeup hairdo, thing, a-ling. Thing-a-ling. Makeup. Your new makeup.” 

—

There is an angel in Charles’ bed. She leaves a lovebite on his neck.

“Good morning,” he says, gruff. I love— but it stops himself before he can even open his mouth.

—

Your get into a minor fight about cooking music.

Charles waves the whisk in the air, claims he will die on the hill of cooking to French jazz. You call it pretentious and crank up the Stevie Wonder. Eventually you fall into a repeated pattern of songs that satisfy the both of you.

“I read somewhere that if you roll basil up,” you say, chewing on a rogue leaf of mint from your pre-dinner mojito and walking up to him, “and chop it, it saves time trying to cut it up by itself.”

“Does it?” Charles asks, entertaining you. You roll your eyes and shove him lightly. He raises the knife in his hand, mumbles careful, baby under his breath. You insist he try, so he rolls up two leaves. Unfortunately, you’re right.

“So now we get to have pesto in five minutes instead of five hours,” you tease, kissing him. It’s minty, there’s French jazz in the background, and you’ve taught him to chop basil in the most affectionate soft-spoken way possible. It’s sacred. He’s afraid, he’s always been, that he would never be able to say it, that it would always be a losing game of wrestling words out of his throat—but now he’s not. 

“I love you,” he mutters. It’s easy, unforced, natural. The words find solace, find home in the warm kitchen. He refuses to open his eyes because God knows what you’ll say then. Run away maybe? Throw all the basil to the ground? Down the entire cooler of mojito?

Your silence is deafening. “Did you hear me?” He opens his eyes.

A foolishly pretty smile greets him. “I got it the first five times.”

[heich0e]

look me in my eyes and tell me i wasn't on to something w shouto being jealous of cooling patches. you can't

[thegayestdiaz]

if they break up the 118 in the finale imagine buck and eddie ending up at different stations and when their teams end up on overlapping calls they just stare at each other painfully and longingly from a distance

[crypticreid]

matthew gray gubler kisses like he needs the other person's breath for his own survival. and i mean that in the best way possible.

[static-radio-ao3]

@jegulus-microfic // december 7 // prompt: beloved // words: 690

"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today in the presence of these witnesses to join together these two people in Holy Matrimony.”

James hears the officiant talk, faintly, but the buzzing in his ears is steadily getting louder until it’s all he hears. His heart thuds so loudly that he’s surprised Remus can’t hear it where he’s next to Sirius on the first row, because that’s where the groom’s family usually sits.

He drags his sweaty palms along his thighs. The fabric of the trousers feels far too expensive to be used to dry his clammy hands.

“If anyone objects to this union, let them speak now or forever hold their peace.” The words register with a startling clarity. James blinks, eyes trained on Regulus.

Regulus, with eyes the shade of almost winter, but still so warm. Regulus, with his sharp gaze and sharp tongue, but always softening under James’ hands. Regulus, from his nightmares and his daydreams and his wildest fantasies.

Regulus, who is standing at the front of the room, calmly skipping over James as he looks out at his guests. Regulus, who is standing next to his fiancée.

And the girl is lovely, James is sure, but the main issue is that she isn’t him. Because it should be James up by the altar, hand in hand with Regulus, tears in his eyes as he reads him his vows. As he promises to love and cherish him until the end of time.

“I—”

All heads swivel to face him, jolting James into standing up. He hadn’t meant to speak, really. Had resigned himself to watching Regulus get married to someone else and get drunk at the reception until his knees found tiled floor and his head ended up in the toilet.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—” But didn’t he? In for a penny, in for a pound, or whatever. “I didn’t mean to do this now, here, in the middle of your wedding, and I’m sorry, but I can’t let you do this.”

“James,” Sirius hisses. James sees how he moves to stand from his periphery, but is sharply tugged down again by Remus.

“I love you, Regulus. I love you on Sunday mornings, before you've had your coffee and you can barely string a sentence together. I love you when you're drunk and when you're sober and when you're mean. God, I love when you're mean,” he says on a laugh, “because it means you're being yourself. And I'm so tired of thinking of reasons for why I love you. I just do. I don't love you because. I don't love you despite, or until. I love you. Plain and simple. And I know that last time we spoke you said nothing about this is simple, but it is to me.”

James thinks he might have sweated through his shirt and his jacket by the time he's done speaking. His hands are shaking, knees weak.

Regulus stares at him, mouth agape and eyes watery. “I'm sorry,” he says and James dies a little.

Embarrassment and shame settle in his stomach so rapidly he thinks he might be sick, right here down the aisle. He hopes Regulus doesn't slip on it when he walks his wife down it in a few minutes. Wonders if they'll have to step over his prone body.

But then Regulus says, “Really, I— I'm so sorry.” And then he's running. To James. Grabbing his hand and running some more, straight for the door.

James isn't sure how long or far they run, even thinks he could keep running until they reach tomorrow, but Regulus pulls them to a stop eventually.

And then he's being kissed, like the air in his lungs is the only thing keeping Regulus alive and James quite agrees because he thinks he still might die if Regulus pulls away. Thinks he could sustain himself forever on the taste of Regulus' tongue, and the feeling of Regulus' hands in his hair and of Regulus' skin under his.

“You're ridiculous, James Potter,” Regulus says, punched out and breathless, lips slick and bitten.

“And you're beautiful, Regulus Black. Marry me.”

[gargle-mah-balls]

watching bridgerton 3 episode 5 for great plot (nicola coughlan's tits)

[golden-rolling-hills]

i’m begging the universe to let me switch places with sky 😭😭😭

[theostrophywife]

i’m watching baby and lorenzo is smashing up a bunch of shit and all I can think is…damn I wish that was me

[chryblossomjjk]

no bc he deserves someone who holds him close at night and listens to his little rambles even though he said he was going to try to sleep five minutes ago and traces his tattoos with their finger and kisses his forehead and the lil moles on his face and makes him feel loved

[taemins-toothbrush]

alright.

[urdadsnewgiirlfriend]

the kissing video POV when seeing me pressing the play button again

[justinherbertobsessed]

Whenever he hugs anyone I can’t help but get a little jealous 😮‍💨🥵

[ro-sham-no]

sam has intrusive thoughts. he knows what they are, and he knows that they happen to him. what he doesn't know is if his... less than brotherly thoughts about dean are just of the same ilk, or if they stem from his actual desires.

maybe it's just his brain jolting through potholes of its own making; maybe. or maybe it's his own sickness, his own wanton wanting, because he was born wrong. born twisted, dirty. inundated with sin, forever trying to taint those he loves most.

cw: violent & graphic intrusive thoughts; softcore car-wash p*rn starring dean from teen!sam's perspective (a.k.a. underage sam being gay & horny)

sam winchester experiences intrusive thoughts. he knows this. they spring unbidden into his mind, always with such startling clarity,

i should stab this toothbrush through the back of my throat. maybe i'll suffocate; drown in my own blood, spit, and vomit

or,

i'll gouge out the flesh on my arms with my nails if i just accidentally scratch them. wet flesh under my nails. trails of skin and tissue being flayed everywhere. quivering muscles underneath on display

or,

we have a pair of pliers in the toolkit in the back. if i just go and get them, i can rip all my teeth out from the root

... and so on. intrusive thoughts: sometimes violent, sometimes just disturbing, but always revolting- or at least, it's supposed to be always. sam knows he should be disgusted, horrified by all of them. and he is, the thoughts often eliciting a physical reaction, like a wince or a shudder, shaking his head, hitting it, pulling his hair. anything to derail his brain for just a second to reset. all of his brain's misfired urges and impulses completely disgust him.

all of them, that is, except one, which has reoccurred unfailingly but in varying forms since about the 9th grade.

it was 1997, and dean got the impala from dad for his 18th birthday. ever the faithful caretaker, he started tuning it up on his own and washing it, even more regular than john ever had. if they were set up in a motel, that meant dean would do maintenance in some empty parking lot and then go to a car wash joint, usually alone, after work at whatever inane local job he'd gotten. but sometimes, when they would squat in rent a house, dean would use the driveway and a good ol' fashioned bucket & sponge to give baby a rubdown on his own, pulling out special polishing wax for her chrome accents and everything.

so, it was 1997, sam was two months into being 14, and it was the middle of summer. they were posing as a happy family somewhere in the American Suburb. it was sweltering, and school had long been let out, so sam was inside reading in the living room. the window-shades were fully open to let in the cozy sunlight while he shamelessly took advantage of the non-faulty air conditioning. dean was outside washing baby after changing her oil, as per usual.

the loud clunk of dean shutting off the house's hose spigot made sam look up, unconsciously observing his brother, who'd donned the one ratty pair of swimming trunks he owned and a once-white, now oil-stained tank top for the occasion. he was drenched- though whether it was sweat or hose water, sam couldn't quite tell. dean fiddled some more with the spigot just next to the window, allowing sam to gaze on unfettered. sam didn't even realize he was doing it, relaxed and unaware as his hindbrain continued to make more and more detailed observations,

like how the angle of dean's jaw was set off just-so in the sun. or the way the firm, rounded definition of his bare shoulders shifted and rippled as he messed with the hose and bucket. or the way his wet tank top clung to his chest and stomach, slipping up just enough on one side to show the pronounced curve of his obliques. or how a wedge of un-tanned skin was revealed on the opposite side of his waist as his threadbare swim trunks were tugged down from the weight of the water they were soaked in. or even, just a small eye-stray further inward, how the same heavily soaked garment sunk in and scrunched up at his hip crease, first, and then swelled back out sharply towards the middle as it clung oh-so-tellingly to dean's-

sam's eyes snapped away quickly (why did he feel guilty?) as dean picked up the bucket by the handle he had finally fixed and turned away to bring it to the car. the younger boy, still unaware of his own mind's machinations, didn't even resist as his eyes and thoughts continued to stray, once again unbeknownst to him.

he must've dropped the bucket of water on himself when the handle popped out of place. maybe he let the spigot run a little longer, too, and let it get him wet and glistening all over, because no way had a singular bucket of water gotten dean that wet. not with the way he was so clearly soaked down his entire backside, causing the back of his tank, too, to cling to his torso.

sam idly noted that dean was starting to spread soapy water over the impala which was facing towards the house, tilted up on the driveway. dean had to bend and stretch himself out over baby's front to sponge at the crease where her windshield met her hood.

see, he must've gotten himself more wet, since his swimming trunks, again, were struggling to stay up. they worked in tandem with his clinging tank top which had continued to ride up, revealing dean's back dimples. two innocuous indentations of flesh, sitting atop his waistband and pointing downward to the once again un-tanned skin sloping across the sinful curve of dean's... assets. the beginning hints of his firm curves were just barely peeking out to join his back dimples, showing the delta of skin that led down into a dark crevice, so cruelly hidden from view by the swim trunks, still unfortunately hanging on for all they were worth.

even sam's subconscious hesitated at this, beginning to wake up the boy in question to his own internal monologue, but he still wasn't fully cognizant.

he gazed on as dean squeezed out the last bit of soapy water from the sponge, turning to grab the empty bucket as well and trek back up to the water spigot to rinse them out. as he walked up to the house with his hands full, he wiped his face against the inside of his arm, possibly to scratch an itch or wipe away sweat- sam didn't have the bandwidth to decide which it was as his brain fired up once again.

dean's lips dragged against the inside of his arm, catching with friction and then releasing so elegantly. can lips be considered elegant? maybe not. maybe dean's lips were just... red, and plump, and crested, ever-so-perfectly. they looked warm, heated by the sun and the scrape of dean's teeth as he periodically bit them raw.

sam's thoughts started to organize themselves,

it should be me making dean's lips warm, instead. only i should have the right.

i should be the one biting dean's lips raw; biting them until they bleed, all for me.

it should be me clinging wetly to dean's torso, riding up on his back.

i should be the one holding onto dean's waist, letting gravity incessantly tug my hands lower and lower until i dig into his back dimples.

it should be me who drags even lower still, until i clutch my fingertips where the sun isn't privileged enough to touch- where no one should be privileged enough to touch. no one except me.

i should be the one grasping his innermost vulnerability in my hands. i'll treat it better than anyone else could.

it should be me. i should be the one.

sam's hindbrain finally catapulted into complete awareness,

it should be me, kissing dean. i should be the one kissing him, holding- loving- fu-

sam's eyes widen and he flinches away from the window as the thought fully registers, stumbling off of the couch and back towards his room that he shared with dean on shaking legs, a previously unnoticed throbbing between them taking a sudden precedence in the priority of his blood flow.

it's fine.

just another weirdly desirable, actually alluring intrusive thought.

it's fine.

[ox1-lovesick]

the girl Jun is kissing is actually me in disguise guys so sorry you had to find out like this

[heich0e]

touya just deserves a sweet partner who loves him a lot I think

[burninlovebutler]

Mel do you think Austin has ever worn an underwear in his life? 🤔 lmao sorry 😂

LMAO

that’s a lovely question camila, i have some thoughts…

well i know he has at least ONCE

exhibit A:

tho now i’d like to show some examples of times where it wasn’t even a thought:

exhibit A:

and my personal favorite…

exhibit B:

🫠🫠