#some kid said london was just like the city here

[yippie-madness]

maybe i wont have to kill myself. dads talking about moving to Ireland (or maybe canada but visas are hard) if it gets bad. we live in a good state but still. they don't want us alive. mum fucked off to go an a hike and isnt coming back till thursday. she doesn't care. i hate it here. the type of transphbic where they dont even call you a tranny, they just dont see you as trans and kids talk about how i shouldn't exist without even noticing

[leclsrc]

in so deep ✴︎ cl16

genre: friends to lovers, charles has a huge crush and is a lovesick bloke, smut, humor, Fluff 

word count: 13.1k  

It takes you many cities, a botched Halloween costume and a failed break-in to realize how much Charles likes you. It takes Charles several years to realize he doesn’t need to do much to have you like him back. title from this

nsfw warnings under the cut!

18+ because... penetrative sex, praise central, size kink, unprotected sex

auds here… thank u for all ur love during my periods of being awol .... i wrote this over the course of a week and i hope u all like it!!! its very much a self indulgent thing... :P

The first time Charles realized he liked you, you were both posed for a picture.

It happened at a dinner party in London, in late autumn, thrown by you to celebrate your first year on the paddock as a reporter. Few friends had been invited but, with how noisy everyone was and with the ease of conversation, it felt like a houseful of people in your narrow dining area. Lando was in front of the mirror, tipsy, demonstrating his best rendition of an Irish accent to a genuinely interested Alex and Lily. 

Max was playing with your pet cat, Gene Kelly, and mentally plotting a heist to sneak him out with Pierre’s help. Your boyfriend, Liam, was making himself a cocktail. And Lewis had been roaming around with a glass of dry wine and his brand new film camera to document the night’s festivities—but the host was nowhere to be found. Unbeknownst to everyone, full off dinner and tipsy off cocktails, you’d ducked into the balcony to find where Charles had run off to for the night.

The music was muffled when you shut the door, leaving it ajar just a little bit. Lissie had played Cocteau Twins and was singing whatever gibberish lyrics played, fully drunk off a bottle of Tito’s. Still laughing over her predicament, you turned to Charles and refocused your attention on him. Is it boring?

What w… what is? He asked, turning to you. Briefly his eyes flitted to your hand, the bracelets clasped onto your wrist. He noticed you held matching bottles of beer but yours remained full, nail tapping idly on the semi-opaque glass.

My party, you responded wryly, cocking your head to the side. A loose tendril of hair fell over your eye and he itched to tuck it back in place, thumb over your ear. You continued, still pressing for an answer. You left to smoke but you didn’t come back. 

I like the view. A half-lie but truthful in some way. He squinted to try and make out blurry, faraway signage. I should move here. Monaco makes me sick. He tried to say it jokingly, but was betrayed by the raw tone of his voice. You hummed quietly, to signify you were listening.

So move. Who’s stopping you? You smiled slightly. Aside from your ludicrous career, of course. 

You had a natural disposition of—something. He didn’t quite know how to describe it, almost like the rest of him had yet to catch up with something only his heart was already decided on. You spoke and acted with some kind of smoothness that only the most popular kids in secondary school could have reins over, but you always claimed you weren’t very popular in your teenage years. He just knew he liked hearing you talk, watching you smile. He felt something—but he didn’t want to name it even if he knew exactly what it was. Instead he played into your joke. Yeah, I’ve been told I should move to Dubai instead, become a prince.

You laughed aloud. You are terribly unfunny, you know that?

Am I? He asked. Just then, as the cotton of his tee brushed against your bare shoulder, Liam brashly tugged the balcony door open to find you. He had this drunk smile on his face, brushing his blond hair out of the way and raising a Leica to the two of you.

Hey, I got Lewis’ camera. Smile, Liam had said, eyes squinted behind it. You remained still, half-turned to the camera, and Charles gave a smile whereas you remained in a neutral, half-smiling pose. And right there, at that very moment, as a giggle escaped your lips from having to pose so quickly and even awkwardly, Charles realized with a damning force that he had a massive crush on you.

Liam had left shortly after to resume taking pictures, but would later confront you over your “weird, odd, fucking closeness with the Monegasque bloke” that you would vehemently deny despite a gut-churning feeling boiling low in your stomach. But that’s later. Your conversation continued calmly, along the passive whir of London and the streets below. You both people-watched as you thought of things to say—finally Charles said, Are you interviewing me next weekend?

I always try to get out of it when it’s with you. You rolled your eyes, feigning irritance, then smiled to break the illusion. I think so.

I’ll make sure I have good answers. You’re too smart. Hurts to be in the same room. 

Like you aren’t, you said back, but the rebuttal is shy in nature, like he struck you with a compliment so high you couldn’t bear to return it. He felt then like this was the kind of moment where you would start holding hands any minute, timid touches between clinks of bottles. He remembered Liam existed and screwed his eyes shut. He wished so hard to be able to kiss you. Abandon all sense and just kiss you.

—

“It’s 2023 and still London has the most rubbish ass, fucking cunt, stupid wanker stoplights,” Lissie huffs beside you, checking her watch. “Right then. We’re going to be late. You know how Lando is when people are late. Especially because this is his event.”

“We’re not people to Lando,” you reason, tapping the steering wheel. The ETA on your navigation app tells you you’re still twenty minutes away. “We’re his best friends. If he can’t forgive us, we should kick him out of the group chat.”

“Ooh, and add Alex,” Lily pipes up from the backseat, where she’s redoing her eyeshadow to pass the time. “I keep telling you guys he’s funnier than Lando.” Both you and Lissie make faint, vague sounds of dissent and she grunts again, deflating.

“No boyfriends in the group chat,” Lissie repeats an age-old rule that’s been around for as long as you three (four, including Lando) have been friends. “Or girlfriends, in Lando’s case, but we haven’t worried about that much, have we?”

You’re all en route to watch Lando crank out a brand-new deejay set, one he’s spent the summer break working on. It’s all house and inspired by beach music, and he’s very proud of it, so of course you’re all showing up to laud him. You’re not the only ones, though, apparently—whoever’s in the city is showing up to show their support, which includes a whole stretch of drivers.

“Oh, my God!” Lily says all of a sudden, eyes wide at something on her phone; you both gesture for her to show you and she does with speed. “Do you guys remember this? God, Instagram archives are a godsend.”

“Your dinner party in Chelsea!” Lissie coos, immediately sidling into a fond awwww! You tap at the story Lily had then posted: a video of everybody eating. You tap again to view the one she posted a few days later, which was a collage of Lewis’ camera scans he’d gotten developed overnight. There in the upper right corner, you almost immediately spot your photo with Charles.

“Oh, Christ, that picture.” Memories of your subsequent arguments with Liam flash past your head. Playfully, all you say is, “And I never had a boyfriend again.”

“Liam was an Irish arse, anyway.” Lissie scoffs. “Nobody liked him. Lewis joked about cleaning his camera after he used it that night. Plus, you actively avoid dating, so don’t complain.”

“Fair,” you say with a slight smile. Your mind lingers on the picture, the imprint of it burned fresh into your mind. 

“You—it’s also because you can’t take a hint, babe.” Lily says matter-of-factly. “Who knows how many guys have, you know… fancied, or, like, had crushes on you, and you just never knew?”

“Are you saying somebody fancies me?” You ask, voice whittling out playfully as your eyes count down the seconds to the green light.

Funnily, silence is all that answers. Beside you, Lily and Lissie exchange a look—one that communicates their years-long amusement over your cluelessness. You whirl back to them, eyebrows raised, and double down: “Wait. Does somebody fancy me?”

“No!” Lily ekes out; you don’t miss Lissie’s poorly-hidden laugh. “No. I’m just—it’s just—no.” 

Truth is, it truly seems like the only person in the entire paddock (team and Sky Sports staff included) who hasn’t caught on to a certain somebody’s boyish crush is the crush herself, oblivious as ever, even years and years later. One might think you’d have realized eventually, but perhaps owed to your type A personality and immersion with work, and Charles’ pathetic and total inability to express how much he likes you, the crush has always remained just that, despite your two friend groups’ best efforts to hint at it.

It wasn’t to say, though, that you didn’t sometimes entertain the idea of liking him, too. On that one rainy race weekend when he’d brought you a plastic cup of soup, and embarrassed, laughed sheepishly at Lissie’s joking request for one; then returned twenty minutes later with soup for everyone in the media pen. Or that time in Monaco where he’d pretended to be your boyfriend at a bar to ward off a creepo from hitting on you any further. Or another time, in Budapest, when he’d drank half his body weight in jello shots and slurred out a goofy, heavy I’m soooo sorry, baby while you helped him into the passenger seat of his car.

That one, singular time in Cancun you told your friends once and never again.

But those are isolated incidents, you suppose; plus, dating someone you work with has never seemed like a remotely good idea to you, and you don’t think it ever will.

For all your thinking on the topic, you fail to realize that you don’t know much at all—you don’t know the fact that Charles has liked you for years, after getting to know just how charming and funny you were as a friend. You don’t know that he still gets gut-churning butterflies when he sees you, hands shaky and face tinged pink. You miss the fact that he’s not had any long-term partners in the years of his liking you. You don’t know anything. 

“Don’t lie.” You narrow your eyes as you rev the car and continue the trip. 

“We’re not,” Lily says loudly and a touch too defensively, crossing her fingers. Quietly, she continues, “You should just pay more attention.”

Whatever she meant to say is lost on you as soon as you make a left and spot the club Lando’s at, already teeming with high-profile guests and their high-profile cars. Half an hour later you’re in—valet and being on the guest list effectively cuts your entrance time in half. You separate at the entrance—you, to find Lando; your two girls, to find your reserved table. You find him eventually, busy behind the booth churning out high-frequency tropical music; he pauses for half a beat to flash a huge grin and a thumbs-up before redirecting his attention to the knobs and sliders you can’t seem to guess the functions of.

These kinds of parties are affairs in and of themselves. They mimic the afterparties during the season—nothing if not shows of opulence and networking: champagne paid for by business magnates, yachts that barely make dents in anybody’s wallets, thick CVs, fruity cocktails spilled on pieces of clothing that cost upward of 3000 pounds. You make eye contact with at least seven skeevy businessmen before you spot your friends, but only because you hear them first—by them you mean Lissie, her loud voice raised even more to match the noise at this club.

“I said I didn’t fu—ugh—I don’t want ye fahkin’ champagne,” she slurs out to an old man in a pressed suit, eyebrows knitted angrily. “Got it?!” Behind her, Lily and Alex (who’s arrived now, apparently) watch, concerned and helpless to stop her but equally (perhaps more) entertained.

You step closer and make a move to calm down the exchange taking place, but somebody whispers a “hey” in your ear and startles you. You turn, and come face to face with Charles. His black tee accentuates the breadth of his shoulders, which you connect to his crossed arms; there’s a shy, boyish grin playing on his face. “Oh, Charles!” You smile. “Hey! Haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Thanks,” he says with a grin, straining to raise his voice. “You look—you look well. Are you alone?”

“No, I’m—” You turn to your three friends nearby, and to Lissie’s argument heating up. “I actually have to go.” You raise your thumb, jabbing it toward them. “But hi again… again!” You both laugh, but he laughs much louder. “I’ll see you around.”

“I jus—” He says, and you stick around for a second to hear him say what he has to say.

“Yeah?”

He clears his throat and laughs stiffly, abandoning his previous statement in favor of a new one. “I just…. want… to have a great time.”

“Ohhhh,” you holler, nodding, clearly trying to mask your extreme confusion under a polite smile. “Okay, well… go ahead!”

You smooth down your dress and laugh again, evidently more forced but, unfortunately for Charles, not any less pretty.

You carry yourself in a very pretty, graceful way, loud and quiet at the same time, like your confident voice when you’re holding the mic and asking questions or making drivers laugh. He might sound creepy, though, a touch too observant, if he tells you so. He observes you instead, for a second, the low cut of your dress and the way the red overhead light shines on your exposed collarbones—and then you’re leaving. He watches you walk over to hug Lily, realizes how stupid he’s sounded, and smothers a hand over his face, humiliated. 

—

“I just want to have a great time?” Max’s jaw drops and he shakes his head, disappointed above all else. “Charles, what the actual. Like…. fuck?” They’re all camped out at the latter’s hotel room, around the dining table, in varying states of sober and doing different things to wear off the last hour of the night before they’re all due to train or debrief again in the morning. Charles had relayed the disaster of the night to everyone at some point, but Max is the last to hear of it; this, unfortunately, does not inoculate him from the shock and secondhand embarrassment.

“Pierre told me to—” Charles starts, forlorn.

“Oi, no. I told you to say something like I just wish… I’d seen you sooner,” interjects the Frenchman with a tut. “You know, flirting? Not… whatever the fuck you said.”

“I didn’t—I was—I lost my mind,” he groans, burying his head in his hands. It couldn’t possibly be entirely his fault when you looked so pretty tonight, hair down and a wash of glitter on your eyelids. Just subtle little flecks of them. They brought out your eyes, too. And your blush, the pink flush of it that sat high on your cheekbones.

“…llo? Charles.” He blinks and sees Carlos’ deep eyes, wide and staring right at him, so pointedly he’s genuinely startled.

“Jeeesus fucking Christ. What?” He places a melodramatic hand over his chest. “Yeah?”

“What do you mean with the”—Carlos mimics his confused expression—“I asked you a question, tonto.” 

“Don’t bother with him,” chimes in Pierre, half-distracted by his phone. He looks up with a devious smile and continues. “He’s still thinking of Miss Reporter of the Year.” A round of loud, jovial laughter makes its way across the table, a few teasing quips being chimed in here and there.

“I just,” mocks Pierre from across the table, adopting a sing-songy tone as he bumps his shoulder to Carlos’ with a mocking laugh. “Wanna have a great time.” His voice is much higher and more mocking, which is enough to send Charles into a fit of petulant embarrassment.

“This isn’t sixth year,” he grits out quietly, but the blush on his face could just as well be plastered on the cheeks of a twelve-year-old. “Give it a rest.” 

“Mate.” Pierre’s voice mellows into something more austere. “You do know she’s leaving the reporters’ job at the end of the season? She’s going to London full-time. No more seeing her all year round. You know this. And I keep telling you. If you are really, and I mean really, interested, I say go for it. C’est la fucking vie, yeah?”

“Plus, if she says no, you can go for pretty much anyone else, anyway,” concludes Max with a convinced smile.

“It’s not the same,” he admits helplessly, smothering his hands over his face in bleak frustration. Behind his eyelids he sees you still, beautiful and smiling and funny—he seriously needs to institutionalise himself before he goes even more mad with the years-long malady he’s called a crush. And seriously, for a twenty-something to have something he calls a crush is despicable in itself. He feels juvenile.

“I can’t tell her. She’s always told people that dating coworkers is a bad idea.”

“You’re not coworkers.”

“We’re—well, we still work closely together. It is the same.” He groans. “It’s just… I’ve said it before. If I admit I like her, things will become awkward. I’d rather we remain friends.”

“Well… see, nobody said you needed to tell her,” begins Pierre schemingly, eyebrows raising. Around them, everybody groans at the birth of another Pierre-brained scheme that will, no doubt, need the enlistment of everyone’s help and will likely end in disaster. “What?! I’m just offering… I’m just saying, mate—you’ve liked her since forever. Why not make a move?”

“—I can’t—”

“Without telling her?” 

“Pierre,” groans Carlos, ever the voice of reason, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I don’t—whatever this is you’re planning, it’s going to go to shit. I swear.”

“You are acting like I plan to take somebody hostage.” Pierre shrugs. “You know, girls like when you don’t tell them straight up. You have to show you like them. You know, be interested in the things they’re interested in, compliment them, make them laugh. And then they think, oh, how thoughtful, oh, how adorable, and before you know it, they like you. And you’ve got yourself a girlfriend.”

“Mmm. Uh-uh. Untrue.” Max says decisively, shaking his head. “I told Kelly I liked her.”

“Yeah, sí. I told Isa I liked her, too.”

“Will you two—just—” Pierre gesticulates and makes a funny noise that insinuates just go with it. “Okay?” he points out to the latter, rolling his eyes. He turns back to Charles with a ready, dazzling, so-French-it’s-scary grin and continues. “I suggest you let us be your wingmen and help you charm her.”

“Whoa, whoa, wh—us? You’re on your own here,” Max quips with a laugh. “It’s your stupid idea.”

“It’s not stupid, and it’s going to work. She probably likes you already.” His confidence carries the lie with gusto. “We just need—you just need to show her instead of saying the dumbest shit to her face.” Pierre leans back into his chair and shrugs matter-of-factly. “Max and I will be regular wingmen, but we have a secret weapon.”

“Don’t—” Carlos starts with a sigh.

“Yes. Lando, Lily, and Lissie are all close to her, eh? Well, perfect—Carlos will get information from Lando about things she likes, you gift her those things or talk to her about them, bam she’s in love. It’s literally a perfect plan.”

Maybe it’s worth it. Maybe—

“No.” Charles shakes his head firmly, setting the record straight. “This will not work. Who’s to say she even needs a boyfriend?”

—

Despite what his best and closest friends—on and off the paddock—might have you believe, Charles hasn’t always been so hopeless when it came to trying to catch your heart. His closest call came in Cancun, after a long weekend of racing and a flight to the area, early into the night where he thought he was the only one who decided to opt out of partying.

Your skin’s peeling. You turned from where you sat on a barstool observing the shore, startled, immediately relaxing when you found him standing there eyeing you. Your hair was still damp, crunchy with saltwater, and your skin had tanned considerably, a sunburn sitting on the bridge of your nose. You stuck your tongue out.

I spent the whole day swimming. He observed your bikini, yellow and green contrasting the colour of your skin. He blinked slowly, ordering himself a drink to hopefully pass the thoughts away. His eyes couldn’t stop, though, wandering, the translucent material of the scarf you’d tied loosely around your hips, the tinge of heat on your shoulders and nose. I’m burnt everywhere.

There are remedies for that. He smiled around his glass.

I’m aware, you said lightly, crossing your legs and sliding your finger along the salt rim of yours. But just in case I forgot, maybe you could refresh my memory.

Your voice was so sweet, so low, so tempting. Already he knew he was wrapped around your finger, the same finger picking up grains of salt to press on your tongue peeking between your smiling lips. You brought your glass to your lips. It had been some time since the dinner in London so he pressed, his voice deep and a little rough, Liam can do that for you, I’m sure.

Pity, you said meekly as you set your glass down and looked back at him. He’s not my boyfriend anymore.

Out of eyeline, the bartender’s eyes widened at the exchange he was overhearing. 

Is it a pity? He asked, leaning backwards and cocking his head to the side. It’s easy, an easy glide of conversation, flirt, something he’s wanted for a while now. To have you playing into him, and have himself playing into you, just like this. It was naturally easy in a foreign city where nobody knew who either of you were, where you were just two strangers flirting at a beachside bar.

Two strangers laughing while they dug their toes into the sand. Two strangers basking in the water, tinted orange by the sun dipping below the horizon, scarf untied in favor of one last swim before night fell. There was nothing keeping either of you from doing whatever you wanted. Nothing keeping Charles from finally acting on the attraction that honest to God crushed him.

You ended up leaning on the door of your hotel room, keycard fiddled in-between your sandy fingers. You combed a hand through your hair and offered a shy smile. So. 

So, he replied, leaning closer. So.

Sooo. You were laughing and your breath smelled like a mint leaf and vodka. You looked up at him, blinking slowly. I have a rule.

What rule is that?

I don’t date coworkers. He wanted to dip down, place a hand on the dip of your waist, and kiss you.

Pity, he said gruffly instead, a smile forming on his face.

Is it a pity? You chewed on your lip and looked at his barely parted ones, pink and pretty. When I’m about to break it? He was about to help you do just that—eyes fluttered shut already—when a crash resounded from down the hall and you both turned to find the culprit. You broke apart and with your separation, whatever atmosphere of tension you’d built up popped, too, leaving you awkwardly standing beside each other.

Oh m… Lissie? You asked, leaning closer as you recognized your friend more and more. You narrowed your eyes, watching the girl crawl her way through the carpeted floor. Oh, Jesus—let’s—get you—

You both hauled her up and wrapped either arm around your shoulders, unlocking her hotel room with great effort and tossing her onto the bed. You stood back and sighed at her half-blacked out state, slightly amused but ultimately relieved she ended her night unscathed.

She pried one eye open and sleepily, she groaned out, what were… you two… doing together outside your room?

Nothing, you said quickly, face warm and eyes wide.

Because you—Lissie raised a lazy finger in your direction—don’t date coworkers. 

I wasn’t—it wasn’t—goodnight, you spluttered, eyes refusing to meet Charles’ even as you both exited the room, paying him quiet thanks as he pulled the door back closed.

Sorry, you said, pretty as ever. The light shone on the red splotch on your nose. Goodnight.

And so he went to his room that night, bummed out and still high off your scent.

—

“You’re staring again.”

“I’m not,” he lies through his teeth, averting his eyes away from your figure by the shore. Sue him if he was staring (which he wasn’t… but most definitely was) but he finds you much too pretty. After the disaster that was the Mexican GP, he figures he could use some sort of stress reliever. Apparently he was not alone in thinking this, considering half the paddock hauled ass to Cancun and prompty partied.

Across Charles, Joris and Pierre share a knowing look that doesn’t go unnoticed.

“I said I’m not!”

“So you are not staring at her blue swimsuit then?” Joris tests, mouth twisted into a devious smirk. “It’s black,” Charles says matter-of-factly before catching sight of his friends’ smug expressions and realizing he’s implicated himself. He rolls his eyes and crosses his arms, petulantly almost. “And I wasn’t. Can you fucking—fuck off?”

“Just ask her out already,” Pierre groans, nodding when Joris chimes in with agreement of his own. “I seriously can-not handle another bar of this shit. It’s been years.”

“I don’t know how to,” he laments. “It’s going to be awkward if I do it all formal, and she’s going—she’ll laugh at me, and it’s…” He blows a raspberry. “Non. Pointless.”

“Just kiss her at the party,” reasons Joris with an easy attitude, shrugging. 

“Joris! Charles didn’t know about that,” Pierre says, trying to lower his volume, but it’s pointless since they’re barely a metre apart. “Fucking tattletale.”

“Party?!” Charles repeats, eyes wide. “Why don’t I know about a party?!”

“It’s a Halloween party,” Joris says, a wacky grin on his face. “And you said it yourself, didn’t ‘cha? You told us not to tell you if any functions were happening because you’re too tired to go to any. Too… too wrapped up racing.” He laughs. “Or something of the sort.”

“Well the season’s ending,” he huffs, wringing firm fingers over his face, his shut eyes, “and I still fucking haven’t… so I think I’m afforded a party.”

“Alright, then come to the party! Dress code, Halloween. Sexy Halloween.” Pierre wiggles his eyebrows. “You know, speaking of our plan, Carlos overheard Lissie and Lily talking about what your girl’s costume is going to be.” He leans in closer and laces his fingers together. “She’s going as a… Christina.”

“Christina?” The other two echo, confused. 

“Christina. I did some digging, and I think it’s this.” Pierre scrolls and dicks around on his phone for a minute before turning it back around to Joris and Charles, who peek with great interest. They seem to be looking at an outdated movie poster of—

“Cas-per the friendly ghost,” Charles reads aloud, trying to get his accent to dissipate. “Huh. What the fuck is that?”

“It’s a movie, idiot.” Pierre shuts his phone off. “Starring who? Christina Ricci.”

“Vraiment? You think his crush is going to show up wearing… a white gown?” Joris asks, his mind stuck on the outfit he’d seen just seconds ago. “This doesn’t make sense.”

“Well Carlos and I agreed, so. Two to two. And Carlos says she and her friends always wear silly costumes like these. So if she shows up as Christina, what better way to start conversation than to dress up as Casper?”

Charles’ eyes widen with comical horror. “No. No, no, no. Did the ghost and the kid fuck?”

“No!” The two men across him yell in unison.

“Right!” He gesticulates. “So it’s not a couples’ costume!”

“But it’s still—” Pierre pauses. “It still matches. Trust me on this one, mate.” He smiles. “We even brought the supplies.”

—

The party is a hit as soon as Charles and his group enter. The former finds refuge at the table, unwilling to socialize. Pierre roams for a bit and ends up finding you almost immediately—you’re wearing low-waisted pants, a strappy top, and you sport alternating streaks of blond and black in your hair.

“Hey!” He calls, jogging up to you. “I heard you were coming as a Christina. Guess who I am?”

You rake a hand through the streaks in your hair and smile. “Not just any Christina. The artist. Xtina? You know?” You twirl a bit, the dark material of your strappy pants swishing as you go, as if the movement will help Pierre deduce the costume’s identity. “Whatever. You’ll get it. Lando is—we’re matching tonight, but I g—it wouldn’t make any more sense if you don’t understand it.” You sigh a bit and gesture vaguely to the crowd behind you, referring to the Eminem-dressed Lando, who you guess is currently caught in the thick of.

“Xtina?” Iks-tina, he repeats, clearly confused. “I remember hearing… somebody saying you were going as a… a Christina.”

“Chris-tina, Xtina, yeah. Christina Aguilera.” You smile, fingers pinching at the material of your belt. “Anyway—where is everyone? I’ve only seen Daniel’s costume and then yours.” The recent memory of Danny’s neon orange traffic cone costume bumping into everybody flashes in your mind.

“Save yourself,” he huffs, smoothing calloused hands over the denim of his jeans. “Zhou and Esteban came as Bella and Jacob, Max as a Tifosi. Anyway”—he points to his ensemble—“guess yet?”

Your mental images of each cited costume are cut short. “Aha! You’re, um. Yes! You’re Ken from the Barbie movie,” you crack finally, remembering the revealing denim vest and jeans combo from the film you’d watched four times over in theaters a few months ago. “Wow, even your briefs say Ken. Very accurate. Minus the non-bleached hair.”

He tuts and shrugs. “I’m no Alex. What’d he come as?”

“He and Lily matched—Sonny and Cher.”

“Let me guess,” Pierre starts, and already you’re nodding because you can tell he’s going to predict exactly how the night has turned out, “Alex is Cher?”

“Wig and sequined dress and all.” You nod, laughing and squinting; Alex’s tall figure, head clad in a long, fringey, black wig, stands out above the rest. “Oh, I did see Carlos at the bar. Ricky Martin?”

Pierre really laughs at that, a loud, distinctly French guffaw involuntarily forced past his lip glossed mouth. “What the fuck, mate! Ricky Martin?! He’s El Profesor from La Casa de Papel. You know, Money Heist? Bella ciao? Oh, my God, he’s going to fucking freak if he hears—heard you said that.”

“He seriously gave off Ricky Martin vibes,” you defend in-between laughs of your own. “So that’s everyone? Oh—oh. Charles! What did… I never saw him! He kept telling me how excited he was for his costume, too…” Just a few hours ago, at that—a boisterous voice honing into the your voicemail inbox, boasting about a costume while you prepped for the party with Lissie and Lily. Your eyes peruse the room, but the lighting is too dark and vague for you to make out anything you haven’t already seen.

“Oh. Charles?” Pierre’s voice lilts higher. “Um. Yeaaah. Um.”

You, however, are sufficiently distracted by your own search for him, and you fail to notice Pierre’s clear scrambling attempt to stall you. He takes a long swig of beer and clears his throat. “He’s just, well, around. I should actually—excuse me, I need to actually go look for him. I owe him a drink.”

“Oh? Oh, okay. Well—be careful?”

You’re a bit surprised by his sudden, jolted departure, but bid him a rushed goodbye anyway. He waves back vaguely, his eyebrows furrowed into an expression of worry as he shoves his way back into the crowd and toward the area littered with tables. It’s only then that Lissie surfaces from the crowd, scratching absently at her nose as she crashes into you with a floaty giggle.

“Lis, you’re all sticky.” You place two palms flat against her shoulders and push her off. “Are you high?” 

“Yes but not drunk.” She giggles again, eyes fluttering.

“Oh—that’s not. Whatever, I guess.” You exhale and cross your arms over your chest. “Who’ve you been with?” She listens, plays with the braid in her hair, matching her getup as Lara Croft. 

“Um, the deejay. I gave him my number, but he’s actually pretty fucking weird. Come on, I want to pee.” As always, her speech quickens to something inhuman, an effect elicited by alcohol; giving you essentially zero time to react, she loops a hand around yours and drags you with ferocity to the nearest restroom. She moves so aggressively through the thickly-packed crowd you barely have time to react or say hi to people you’re acquainted with en route.

You whiz by the door, and in the rush, you notice Pierre entering the one adjacent with a worried expression etched onto his face. Just minutes ago you’d been conversing—you wonder why he’s suddenly become privy to worries.

“So the deejay,” says Lissie, effectively distracting you for the time being. You hum to signify you’re listening, fixing bits of your outfit in the mirror as she kicks different stalls open to judge their cleanliness. “One, he was dressed up as James Bond. Which is just about the most fucking pretentious thing ever. Two, all he played was Chainsmokers. You’re telling me this pub—club—whatever—in Mexico could only afford to commission this guy? Three, he was”—she kicks the last door open and a gasp escapes her and morphs into a semi-shriek—“a ghost?!”

“Ghosted you? Already?” Your eyes, focused previously on re-lining your lips, flits to Lissie’s in the reflection. She’s distracted, staring at the contents of a stall with comically wide eyes. “What’s up? S’that a fucking glory hole or something?”

“No!” She yells when you approach, immediately lunging forward to pull it shut. “No. It’s—I saw a roach. Serves us for going to a fucking… pub. Don’t go in there, it’s…” She exhales a long breath. “It was a mama roach and… with eggs.”

“What are you talking about?” This isn’t even a pub, it’s a nightclub—one with a door fee that definitely did not warrant rogue cockroaches in the water closet. “Lis, you’re drunk-hallucinating.” You’re not even sure if that’s a thing, but you shove past her and push the stall door open again, ready to come face-to-face with, maybe, a sleeping Tinkerbell or a puking black cat. Worst case scenario, shit on the floor; worst-er case scenario, Lissie is right and you’ve stepped into a den of roaches.

Weirdest case scenario, though, if that’s an actual thing: Charles Leclerc seated on the closed toilet seat, face painted white, wearing an all-white ensemble of a large white shirt, shorts, high socks, and sneakers. He’s got two hands on either side of the wall, as if he’d been preparing to escape; how or to where, you’re clueless. Why he’s here, you’re even more stumped.

His entire face is a stark white, with black smudges of face paint on his forehead (eyebrows, you’re guessing); his hair’s been curled by the humid air at this club, and he looks like himself in all the ways he totally does not, eyes big and caught when yours click onto them. 

Despite confusion, you chalk it up, as one would rationally do at a party, to intoxication. You spend a few bated breaths staring at him staring at you, his face of pure shock and embarrassment enough to sober up a drunk for a few days. “Hi.” You can hear yourself say it, but you’re so caught off-guard and full of confusion it feels alien.

“Hey,” he says, wiping four fingers over his stubborn face paint with a smile. The smile and the paint barely fade. “I’m a ghost.”

“I see. Classic.” You pause. “I’m Chr… nevermind. Um—are you okay?”

“A bit, uh—a tad bit drunk. I seem to be in the ladies’ room.”

“Yeah, you seem to be,” you recite back to him, amusement quickly overtaking confusion. “I think Pierre was looking for you. Let me go get him. Lis, make sure he doesn’t…” You gesture a puking movement, and the pair watch and listen to your shoes click against the tile, before the door swings open and then shut again.

“Coast is clear.” Lissie’s voice has been lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. “I reckon everyone you know is already looking for you?”

“This is a disaster.” He rubs frantically at the face paint, but it’s horribly futile. “You know, I didn’t even realize I was in the ladies’ room until you two came in. She cannot see me like this.”

“She already fucking has, mate.” Lissie sounds exasperated. “Whose idea was this? If you say Pierre I swe—”

“—Pierre—”

“—ar to Jesus fucking Christ, Charles—I can’t keep saving you from Pierre’s antics.” She grumbles out a sigh. “What are you supposed to be, even? Have you—did you see how hot she looks? This is like… you look like a… I can’t—” She lets herself taper off, so disbelievingly shocked at his odd costume.

“I’m Casper the Ghost!” Lissie mentally forms a crude picture of the kid ghost, which looks absolutely nothing like what’s in front of her. “Casper was opposite Christina Ricci. Pierre told me so.”

“That’s the dumbest analogy ever, holy Christ. You look like a poster child for some…” She regards him for a moment. “Anemia advert.”

“Take that back.”

“You don’t really have the upper hand here, Charles,” says Lissie with a grimace. “I’m texting Pierre. Are you—did you even get drunk?”

“No,” he woes. “I am totally sober. I had to lie. Pierre went to the table and told me that my—that the costume we planned—it was wrong, and I just—I ran to the bathroom.” Lissie can’t help but laugh at the story, raising her camera to record the incriminating evidence.

Mid-video, Charles’ white face droops and his painted lips part to ask: “You think she found me cute?”

—

Charles likes finding things about you. He supposes the first time he realized just how much he liked hearing you talk about yourself—which you rarely did—happened in São Paulo. He’d been stressing over a spiel to recite in front of a camera, rewriting over words for hours to make everything sound more natural.

Each margin had been hastily written on with pencil, run-on sentences with semicolons in the place of periods. The team scriptwriter didn’t do much to make his lines sound more natural and less like they’d just been spat out of an online translator. You peeked into the media pen and coughed. You don’t belong here, do you?

Tch, he clicked his tongue, turning to offer a smile. I’m working on a script for Sunday. Portugese stuff.

I can help, you responded, walking slowly over toward him. You smiled quietly, approaching slowly like you were waiting for him to greenlight your offer. He did so by pulling a chair out for you, and once you sat you traced a nail over each line, murmuring them under your breath.

You speak Portugese?

You looked up and gave a half-shrug, laughing like you were amused with yourself. Kind of. It’s not very good, but it’s enough. You resumed your editing and he felt content to stare, admire, watch every movement of your lips align with the syllables of the words. You asked for a pencil and began writing something much cleaner. He couldn’t help but let himself be in awe of your intelligence.

You read over the last few lines and turned to face him. Let me guess, you said. You want to make a pun on Ferrari before you say bye.

Ah, he laughs. Yeah.

See, I know you so well, you half-joked, scrawling idle edits on the margins of his script.

He was already looking at you when you turned back to him, seeking his response, agreement, anything. When your eyes met, something caught at your chest—it tugged, tugged, then tugged again, a dull feeling burrowed deep in you. Words failed to wrench themselves free, but once they did, all you could manage was a faint—What?

Nothing. He smiled and shook his head, like he was waiting for you to figure it out. You know… sometimes, I wish I met you sooner. He does. He wishes he knew you back then, when you first learned Portugese. Or when you were in high school, so you could see just how exponentially awkward he was in his own teenage years. He thinks sometimes that he’s lost too much time, met and liked you too late.

Hm, you breathed out, because you didn't know what else to. I know why—so you could always have me. As a proofreader. Right?

Hah. The tilt of his laugh was high and mocking, and he stuck his tongue out, as if to punctuate that. He looked away then, like he wasn’t ready to say certain things to your face just yet. Quietly he added, Always have you… something like that.

—

If you ask Charles what he’s doing hiding in a laundry basket of a luxury hotel in São Paulo, he wouldn’t be able to answer you, either. It’s been some time since the disaster that was Caspergate Cancun 2023, and if he’s perfectly honest, he doesn’t feel like facing you again for the rest of his life. Pierre, of course, has other plans. 

All he knows is last night, Pierre suggested he leave a huge vase of roses for you to arrive to in the living room of your hotel; as he planted it in said room, the door’s lock turned, and he sought a hiding place in the adjacent bedroom. Judging by the prevalent scent of Dior Sauvage, this is Lando Norris’ room.

Did u get to escape??? Pierre’s text irritates him. At the same time, the light flips on; Charles curls in on himself, remaining perfectly still. Lando’s voice trills through the room. “I didn’t leave those roses for either of you,” he’s saying to you and Lissie.

Charles hears you hum. “They’re so beautiful.” His heart swells. “I gotta run for a sec, pick up something from Will’s room.” A few seconds pass and the door opens and shuts, which means Charles is currently alone with Lando and Lissie. Which means he needs to plot his escape as soon as he can. Otherwise he’ll be caught in the crossfire and much too embarrassed to—

A foot meets his concealed body and he lets out an oof! as he’s sent flying out of the hamper, along with strewn-around clothes. He keeps his eyes screwed shut, scared shitless and in a fetal position; he only unfurls when a socked foot kicks at his ass. Above him are Lando and Lissie, both extremely confused. 

“How did you know I was…?!” He asks, aghast.

“My fucking laundry was breathing, mate, s’not that hard to leave alone,” Lando retorts sharply. “What are you doing?!”

“I left roses for her,” he explains fruitlessly, gesturing to the vase outside. “But you came in, and this was the closest hiding place. I was told this would be a great gesture.”

“Right. Where did you even get that advice?” Lando tries to suppress the critical tone in his voice, but judging by Charles’ embarrassed grimace, he’s failed. Beside him, Lissie makes a hm? noise, goading Charles to answer quicker.

“I got it from.” Charles pauses. “A friend,” he ekes out vaguely.

“No shit. Who?”

“Um—” Charles’ eyes are shut. “Pierre.”

In unison, Lissie and Lando both release incredulous gasps, throwing their hands up in the air. Lissie points at the mess of clothes in the corner of the room to emphasize her point and asks loudly, with comical cynicism: “This seemed like proper romantic advice to you?”

“Scratch that. Pierre’s words seemed like proper romantic advice to you? His girlfriend is—!” Lando places a flat palm a few inches off the floor and shakes it a few times to insinuate Kika’s age, his disbelieving expression growing funnier by the second. “Mate!” His voice cracks mid-syllable, though even this mishap seems to be the least crazy thing about tonight.

Charles, burning with humiliation, releases a shaky sigh. “I know! I know!”

“You don’t know!” They shout simultaneously in response, disappointed if anything. Just then the door opens again and your two best friends hurry to throw assorted pieces of laundry on the lying Charles, exiting to make sure you don’t suspect anything. 

“Hey,” you say slowly, because they’re both posed the exact same. “Am I… missing something?”

“A shower, girl,” Lando says, and you flip him off before retreating into your room.

Belatedly you ask, “Did you find out who sent those flowers?”

“Some loser, probably,” he calls right back. Charles emerges to poke him accusatorily, but Lando just shrugs. Charles definitely does not have the upper hand here, anyway. 

“Just get out,” Lissie says, completely done with Charles’ antics. “And stop. Listening. To Pierre.” 

He rinses the odor of laundry off him once he’s at his room, but thinks, despite himself, that you called the flowers beautiful.

—

Are you—

—no. I’m not. You wiped a hand over your face and caught mascara along with it. I’m fine, it’s fine.

What he said, it wasn’t…

I said, you turned to face him, eyes rimmed and mouth trembling. You didn’t finish your sentence, just tore the microphone off your lapel and buried your face in your hands. There was always going to be a first time. Your first time insulted on a live feed, after the Abu Dhabi weekend, was not any less shocking. You felt small. You felt humiliated.

You didn’t want to show Charles any of it. You moved around the green room, picking up shit to throw into your bag. Thank God the season was fucking over, you kept thinking. I feel so, you said, still failing to finish anything you started to say. You’d been called an annoying bitch by a fan of one of the drivers—to your face, as you exited the paddock.

He moved nearer. Charles, you said, a half-sob, and then you were allowing him to crash, allowing him to hug you. Your arms were weak when they wrapped back around him, linking softly in the small of his back. You sobbed hard into his chest until his grey tee was dark with tears. I want out, I just want out.

You’ll lord your career over that prick when you’ve made a million dollars doing this, he said. You do it too well to want out. You’re too smart. You’re too good. You cried harder, your face hurt and every word felt wrestled unintentionally, like it took too much work to say much at all. I’m sorry, you said. You should go. 

No, he said. He held you closer. Not until you feel better.

—

He cries after Abu Dhabi. Bad season, everyone’s said. You snap a few smiling pictures with Max, who wins, and Lily and Lissie and the lot of them, the people who made the year so great. You notice an absence in all the pictures and you find it in a room in the Ferrari motorhome.

You’ve found you both find solace in words. In reassurance. But you’ve also found that your connection enables you both to reassure without having to say anything at all. You sit beside him, lean your head on his shaky shoulder, and wait.

“I was waiting for you to come,” he admits brokenly. “I was just not feeling good.”

“I know,” you respond. “It was a bad race. Shit strat.”

He’s quiet. His breaths are ragged and wet and shaky. “Will you stay? Until I feel better?”

You don’t move. “I’ll stay for longer.”

—

In the kitchen Charles unscrews himself a beer. The sky outside is pink and the sun hides behind faraway mountains, gradually darkening the entire atmosphere, save for the few woolly clouds. He’s by the patio door so he can spot people in the wide yard: Pierre, exchanging a Frisbee with Lando. Max, Alex, and Lissie engaged in an intense match of Uno.

They’re all gathered here in Spain at Carlos’ behest to celebrate the dawn of winter, and the end of the season, Max’s third championship.

He’s yet to spot you—he’d been told earlier you’d be late—but it doesn’t matter. He’s been feeling uncharacteristically himself all day anyway. He wrote that on his notebook this morning, on the flight here, verbatim. Looked up the word to spell it right and everything. He remembers you saying it, that time in London where you and Lando took him around and annihilated Borough Market before lounging on the grassy knoll of a nearby park. I feel so uncharacteristically happy, you’d joked. The syllables were too stunted and too fast for Charles to nail it. But he feels it now. Uncharacteristic.

He tells everyone he’s fine, though, and does a good job of it. Three beers in and he’s beginning to trick himself into thinking he actually is doing fine. Nobody suspects he’s been feeling empty from such a bad finish to the season—the season that was already bad in itself. He hasn’t been feeling his usual drive, his usual appetite. He doesn’t know when it will return.

“Here you are.” Carlos has this goofy smile on his face when he bounds into the kitchen, depositing empty dishes at the sink. “Listen, I have to tell you something.”

Charles and Carlos have always shared an easy dynamic—they’ve both always wanted the same thing. Racing has always been at the forefront of their minds. It makes conversation passionate, easy, fun; it was what helped build their now-natural rapport in the first place. “Yeah?” He prods, leaning against the counter and tipping fizz into his mouth.

“I invited everyone here to announce… something important.” Carlos crosses his arms. “But I wanted you to be the first to know.”

“Me?” Charles knits his eyebrows and smiles. “Wow.” He gulps, cocks his head. “What is it, then? Are you switching teams?”

Carlos’ goofy smile grows. “Isa and I are engaged. I’m retiring next year.”

“You—you’re—” Charles laughs and shuts his eyes all at once. “Oh, my God, mate! Congratulations!” The overload of information isn’t lost on him, but he channels it all into a hug. “Are you really retiring, though? I mean. Wow, this is amazing news—but—”

“I was sure as soon as I asked,” Carlos says squarely, smiling as if he’s conjured an image of Isa’s smiling face (which is likely the case). “As soon as she said yes. As soon as I bought the ring!” He laughs aloud, so overwhelmed with happiness of recalling everything. “I’m so glad you were the first person I told.”

“Besides Lando,” Charles says, because he knows it’s true.

“Besides Lando.” Carlos smiles. “I’m… dios, I’m happy. I always knew I’d have something to look forward to after racing.” They hug again, and then he clambers past Charles and into the patio, where he resumes the façade of being unengaged and still a driver. Left behind, Charles thinks over it himself. What does he have to look forward to after racing? All his life, racing is all that ever existed to him. 

The announcement comes eventually—when it’s dark out, intermittent stars white and twinkly against the black above. Charles has once again turned into a blushy mess because you arrived a few hours prior, wearing a lovely dress and with your hair down in messy waves and you said hi to him earlier without him approaching first. They present a stupid, but very Carlos-and-Isa ring-shaped cake to announce it, and somebody queues up music and everyone’s cheering. Of course everyone’s cheering—it’d be impossible for this announcement to not come with bouts of yelling and cheering and goodbyes to Carlos, who accepts them with glee and—dare he say—excitement.

Charles remembers their first year as teammates, the jokes they’d made about needing to beat the other out. For both of them, he recalls, it’s only ever been the drive to race. He didn’t think Carlos would even entertain the idea of retiring yet. He wonders when he will. The thought of it alone is enough to send a well of anxiety run deep into him—which happens after he congratulates the couple, so he excuses himself to the empty outdoors area to get fresh air back into him.

He didn’t mean it, but he finds you already there. “Hi,” you say when he slides the door shut. “You okay?”

“Just… yeah, I’m fine.” You smell faintly like smoke. “It’s crazy, huh. Everyone’s… moving on.”

“So Carlos told everyone, then,” you say, pursing your lips and waiting for his response. He closes his eyes and lets a soft exhale escape him, warm air out and fresh air in, a welcome change from the heady atmosphere in the party. “I knew. I bought that God awful cake. I kept saying get a normal one but they both wanted it to be shaped like a ring.” You punctuate your sentence with a crisp laugh, a stunted exhale of air to break the tension.

You have a natural sway over words, graceful and beautiful and commanding, something he only wishes he could be. For so long he’d been told the feedback loop of one and the same thing: you’re good. You’re the best. You’re going to be the next big thing. And this season had just… aggravated every single insecurity he’s picked up in his years of racing. He wishes sometimes he’d been told something else: you suck. You’re normal. You’re irrelevant. Then at least he wouldn’t exist in some odd panopticon of feeling on top of the world and yet looking at it from the bottom of a pitch black abyss.

“Yeah,” he says instead, wringing his hands. He mimics the wrist movements he’s made to do during gym hours. “It’s wild how—I mean, not really wild, but. I just can’t… even picture my life after racing.”

“You’re young, that’s warranted,” you laugh. “You’re also… I mean, even if you drop out of racing tonight, it’s not like you’re going to become dirt poor or anything. You could become a bloody orthodontist and people will still love you.”

“Will they?”

He didn’t mean to say it aloud but out it comes, garbled and rushed and he’s a bit embarrassed for sounding like a child in front of somebody he finds so beautiful. The silence is suspended and dry, and for a minute all he hears and feels is the slow rise and fall of his chest. To somehow mend the vulnerability, he tries again. “It’s not—I just think I’ll be lonely if I decide to stop racing.”

The fact that Carlos can say with so much ease that he’s willing to drop his career to ensure his pending marriage lasts is almost terrifying, because Charles knows he wants that. He knows—he’s always known—that he wants that intimacy, that realness, but for it to come at the cost of something he’s known for so long is so scary it’s almost a dealbreaker.

“Lonely?” You echo, voice tinged with concern. “Charles—”

“Lonely.”

He says it with an edge to his voice, so final, so steadfast. Loneliness is what he’s always feared and he knows, with a deep drawling punch to his gut, that loneliness is what will come if he decides to stop racing. Even if he’s tired. Even if he’s so pent up with frustration and loss and anger. Racing is all he’s ever known, it’s all he is—when he’s not tied to it, who is he? “Like no one… like I’m just standing in front of what I’m supposed to be, and when people see me, that’s all they see—what’s behind me. Right through me.”

“Well, you’re off racing right now,” you respond, trodding carefully. “So, well. Do you feel that way?”

He knows what you mean: it’s winter break, so he’s not driving or doing some form of it every single day. And he knows in turn what to answer: no, not really, he doesn’t really feel detached from it because there’s a low anticipation in his belly that tells him he’ll be doing it all again soon. But he chooses to interpret it differently; differently, but not falsely.

“I th… I don’t feel lonely,” he says, “when I talk to you. You see me.” 

Your stomach drops and your heart begins to pulse a mile a minute, knuckles tightening where they’ve gripped onto the wooden post of the patio. You can feel the air in your lungs pass through every divot of your body as it escapes and arrives in long, shaky breaths. He’s looking at you, his eyebrows knitted like he wants—needs an answer, if you’d be kind enough to please give him one. 

“I…” You bite your lip, every thought in your head at odds with the other.

Time feels like rubber, like it’s been stretched and manipulated and Carlos is ducking out to announce that it’s time to blow out candles on the stupid ring-shaped cake and you’ve taken too long to respond and your body feels too heavy but your heart feels too light and your eyes are blinking, open and shut and open again, and you feel like the wind could honestly blow you away now because Charles has given you a neutral nod and left you alone again, to contemplate the weight of what he’s finally, finally admitted, tonight here under the sky of Spain.

You move a hand over your hair, watch him walk away. The words lodge themselves in your throat, but they’re there.

—

One minute after  you realized you liked Charles, you swallowed the feelings until they were barely decipherable.

In happened in Dublin, at a pub on St. Paddy’s Day, when you’d emerged fresh out of a breakup with the most arseholic Irishman you’d ever had the displeasure of meeting. And funnily enough, it happened without Charles’ presence. You’d spent the day at Liam’s, hours of fighting over so many things—the growth of your career and the decimation of his, where your relationship had soured, why you never came to visit him, Charles, the sodding bloke you like so much—until finally, you took your things and left.

Wise, because you might’ve honestly gone insane if you stayed a minute longer, attuning your ears to the deafening feedback loop of his voice. Also decidedly unwise, because you had a piece of luggage and barely any battery, in a full city of people you didn’t know at all.

There was no chance Liam would let you return, and no chance you wanted to, for that matter—the fact still stood, though, that you needed to kill the night before your flight to France left at 6AM. You entered the first pub you heard, deposited your bag at the coat check for an extra couple of euros, and accepted the first pint thrust into your hand and first leprechaun hat plopped atop your head.

In between watching people compare how they poured Guinness pints, Sinead O’Connor songs, and exchanging headdresses with a random stranger, you found yourself impressingly drunk. The Irish did it too well.

A university student stumbled past your stool, tears in her eyes; she stopped to steal a shot of whiskey lying unattended on the bar. You looped a hand around her wrist and stared at her menacingly. Manners?!

Fuck manners, she said wetly, wrenching every word out with great effort. Nobody paid either of you any attention. I just caught my best friend and boyfriend kissing. Her accent was unmistakably Irish and was stronger with the tears.

Oh, you said, loosening your threatening grip. Sorry.

Don’t be. I’m sorry I could ever be so stupid, she said, aghast, before finally stalking outside the pub. Half an hour later, you wound up at a table of thirty-somethings, all belting along to a folky sounding song.

Drunkenly you slurred out, I thought it was a stereotype.

What was, love? One of them paused her singing, dipping down to listen to you properly. Your cheek was smushed against the varnished wood, moving with every syllable you eked out.

The songs. You sound like… you belong in the 19th century.

She laughed at that, surfacing and yelling something to the band onstage you couldn’t quite decipher. The song reached its peak, loud and getting the whole crowd singing along, before fading into a familiar opening. S’this better? She asked, her voice slightly raised above the guitar.

You looked up. I liked the other one too, to be fair. M’not a fucking anti-Irish.

Nobody said that, love. Come sing. She hauled you upward, exaggerating her arm swinging in the air so you’d follow suit, which you did. You hummed the opening, eyes fluttering open and closed. You imagined opening them again and finding Charles across the room, already looking, with the same charming, boyish smile on his face that came to you as comfort.

You thought back to the dinner in London, the feeling of his shirt against your shoulder, the way he’d gotten you so easy and laughing and babbly, something you never got with Liam. You squeezed your eyes shut and exhaled raggedly. Fuck.

Linger’ll do that to you, your companion mused. Around you, the entire pub sang along to the song that served as the backdrop to your all-encompassing romantic epiphany. Missing a lover, huh?

No, just… You opened your eyes, watched the band sing out the rest of the prechorus before they slid into the next verse. A new kind of air had crept over the pub, one that exemplified just how much this song could mean to anyone, no matter who. You shut them again and saw Charles. The green of his eyes, mossy on some days and bright on others. The moles on his face. The grooves of his hand, the way it wrapped around things like pens, mics, bottles, your fingers. His voice, how he curved around words. He always knew exactly what you meant even if it took you ages to get to the point, even if you felt like you didn’t know what you meant exactly. 

You opened your eyes. Suddenly fights with Liam didn’t matter. Whatever little sympathy you had left evaporated as you listened to the lyrics and realized, with a damning force, that you were thinking of Charles. And this was not weak, this was not vague, this was a strong thing that took you off your feet like a gust of wind, hurtling you out of the pub. You thought of every time your eyes met his, both of you already laughing at something else present. Every time he saw you at the end of a busy work day and asked if you were doing alright.

Just this guy, I suppose. His name’s… yeah. We’ve been friends for ages. He’s really very talented. Very kind. Your voice was drowned out by the music but you didn’t intend for anything to be heard, anyway. And he’s the smartest person I’ve ever met. He always knows what to say. He’s not in Dublin tonight, not even in Ireland, for God’s sake. 

He’s your boyfriend, then?

You closed them slowly. No. T’wouldn’t be very smart to date him.

Is he an arse?

No either. It’s just too late.

I’m sorry, love.

Don’t be, you mused, eyes still shut as Linger came to a close. I’m sorry I could ever be so stupid.

—

Charles should be in Monaco. You should be in London. But at four-thirty PM, leaning against the counter of a tiny café in Dublin, you cross paths for the first time in weeks, and everything tilts on its axis.

He notices you first, because he hears you thank the barista quietly. It’s not your reporter voice, not the one you put one when you’re interviewing him or his teammate or his fellow athletes. But it’s your real one, and it’s the one he thinks he could hear through a snowstorm.

A tuxedo-clad man exits and suddenly you’re there. You’re wearing a white top, low neck and thin straps covered by a cardigan. You’re sliding coins into the pocket of your jeans and he watches your hand freeze, drags his eyes back up to you, finds you’re already looking.

You look beautiful, he thinks. You put on a lot of makeup for the cameras, and you looked gorgeous, but seeing you like this—caught, almost, in a moment you didn’t expect to see him—you look unbelievably beautiful. He aches with it. 

“You look well,” he says first when he opens the café door for you. “What’s your business in Ireland?”

“Acquainting myself with my new coworker.” You wait for him to follow and squint when the sun hits your eye. “We’ve been here three weeks, fly back to London next Monday. You?”

“It does seem weird for me to be here,” he observes absently. “I needed a change of pace, I think. Gear up for the season.” He shakes his half-full cup of coffee. “Where are you staying?”

“Just up ahead.” A slow silence overcomes you both. “Come over. I have beer. I know you can’t be fucked to have coffee.” He laughs and nods, following you through the road and up into a flat—a BNB, if he’s guessing. There’s a tiny landing and then stairs to a wider living area, where you proceed to unwrap the croissant you’d gotten a few minutes earlier. You chuck it into the fridge and produce two bottles of beer in one go.

“Sit,” you gesture to the spot beside you, and he sits himself there. “We can talk. We should.”

You’ve shrugged your cardigan off, and he observes every detail of your exposed skin, the way your hair layers atop it. Right as he opens his mouth to respond, a blond girl enters, rings of mascara caking her eyes and a wine glass twiddled in-between thumbs. She’s talking her head off and only pauses when she spots Charles.

“Hhhh…iiii.”

“Salut.” 

“You’re Charles?” She notices how close the two of you are seated together.

“Yes,” he says. 

“Charles, this is Robyn—my coworker’s friend. And by extension my friend.” You pat her knee and point to Charles to get them properly introduced. “She leeches off the apartment.” 

“You love me,” she retorts, mockingly—but sweetly. “Anyway, sorry to intrude. I was just on the phone with my situationship.” She rolls her eyes. “Does he think I give two shits about goodnight texts? It feels impossible to be romantically satisfied these days.”

Charles grunts. “I hear that,” he says, just to make Robyn feel less excluded. You get up then, to fuck around at the kitchen sink—he suspects you’re not actually doing chores—but you come back with wet hands and you sit yourself across Charles, on the loveseat, instead of next to him. 

“The thing is, right,” she gulps wine, “there’s such a thing with dating now,” Robyn says, not missing a beat, her Geordie accent curving round the syllables with a distinctive twang. She stares at the opaque red liquid in her glass, like that will supplement her with more words. “Like a deal. A big deal. Everyone’s making this huge thing out of it, and it’s like, can’t we be in our twenties and fuck around occasionally?” She laughs, a high-pitched, tapered noise.

You shift from where you’re seated, buried into the material of the seat. It’s quiet and beginning to touch awkward, so you speak in a rough voice: “I dunno, I kind of… get it.”

“Oh do you, now,” she responds, voice saturated with wine. “No, it’s—I was joking. Of course you would, you’re absolutely fucking gorgeous, is all.”

Suddenly you feel all too seen and inclined to touch a fingertip to your cheek, feather light. You blink so you won’t feel tempted to meet Charles’ eyes, because you feel them on you. “It’s—thank you, I mean. It’s nothing to do with that. I just always feel it’s impossible to find someone who loves you. I feel like I’m not very lovable.”

“You? You’re bloody fucking likable!” Robyn’s laugh is so disbelieving you find yourself semi-convinced. “You’re a bit intimidating, yeah, but you’re lovable as fuck, babe.”

You double down anyway, voice thin. “Right. I don’t think I’m very good at being… affectionate.”

“Hah. Bull. You’re affectionate with… with Charles! I’ve heard you talk about him to Jane.”

She turns to Charles before you have the chance to defend yourself. To him she asks: “Is she affectionate with you?”

But it’s basically rhetorical. Everyone speculates, sees the way you two bend the line between friendship and romance, the care with which you treat Charles, the way you two understand each other in ways impossible for anyone else in your orbit. Fuck if it’s not overtly physical. Robyn’s known you three weeks and has never even met Charles until seven minutes ago and already she’s sensed the energy, the difference, even if she hasn’t seen you do so much as embrace.

“It’s—” You say and say too quickly. You wind up slowing your speech so you don’t sound too defiant and lean backwards, willing yourself to relax. “It’s… different with Charles.”

“Different?” She repeats, miming every dip and rise of your voice. “Why?”

“We’re close.” You refuse to meet his eyes. “Be—because we’re good friends. I feel… things are… just. They’re different. That’s all, really.” Barely satisfied with the answer you eked out, you cross your arms over your torso like it’ll help shield you from the interrogation going on. Briefly you let your eyes fall on Charles; he’s reclined, eyes all over the place, blinking in quick flashes.

“But you admit it, at least?” She smiles. “That you’re affectionate, I mean.”

“Only with…” you taper off, unwanting to dig yourself a deeper hole. “Right. Sure, yeah.”

“Well then,” she says, eyebrows raising as she dows the rest of her glass. She sets it down on the low wooden table with a clink. “I’ll get going. Don’t let me keep you two from shagging or whatever.”

“We don’t f—shag,” you interrupt, voice sharp. “And you’re not keeping us at all. Me, at all.”

Us sounds so exclusive, you realize as it leaves your lips. Us. It tastes like sour cherries on your tongue, bleeds all over. Robyn gives you a look. In response, you insist on seeing her out, leaving Charles at the sofa, elbows on his knees, hands toying with the neck of the beer bottle. He can make out faint words but he doesn’t try translating or deciphering them, just listens to your muffled voice peek through every few words. You sound amused, also accused, also endeared—a bit irritated. You end it with a laugh.

You clamber back in after a few minutes and find him at the top of the stairs.

“Sorry,” you wave off, rolling your eyes to fend Robyn’s earlier interrogation efforts of. “She’s very strong-willed.” You climb the stairs, your striped linen shorts folding with every movement of your legs. Finally you make it to the top, on the second-to-the-last stair, staring up at him.

“You know,” he says, watching you ascend to the top finally, but you’re still staring upward. “You should know.”

“Should know what?”

“I missed you.”

You inhale and are grateful to find the air is all him. “I missed you, too.”

“In a different way.”

“Me, too,” you echo again, voice quiet. “I missed you. It feels like I’ve missed you all my life.”

He can hear your still, controlled breathing. “Thank you for seeing me. Even when, you know, it’s… hard. You know what I mean.”

“I do,” you say. “It’s never difficult, not…” With you.

He leans down and captures your mouth in his then, like it’s a thirst he’s always needed quenched. You allow it, kiss him back like you’ve needed this your entire life. His lips are chapped, but you don’t mind—Dublin’s cold. He kisses like he’s smiling, like he’s happy, and you think maybe that’s not far off. He moves downward, to your jaw; lower, along the column of your throat, around your collarbones, cornering you against the wall, letting you lean against it.

Charles’ kisses are light and soft, but also heavy, like he’s trying to waste as little time as possible. You sigh, feeling light, feeling ecstatic. He puts two hands on either side of your face, presses your foreheads together, and shuts his eyes. 

You feel the divots of his fingers on your hip, your waist, places he’s never touched before. “I’m sorry I left,” you breathe into him. “Back in Spain. In Madrid. I wanted to think about it. About what you said. About everything, about you.”

“I’m glad I found you here, then.”

You tiptoe to kiss him again, because now that you’ve had it once you’re terrified you won’t have it again. In-between kisses he picks you up, cages you fully against the wall, and you breathe shaky little exhales. It builds up quicker and harder; you feel his cock at your hip and shiver, eyelashes fluttering. “Upstairs,” you say breathlessly.

He likes knowing you want this, because he’ll give you whatever you want. He’d fuck you for hours. Have you shaking, eking out moans of his name. He’d whisper praise up and down your ear. He wants this just as much, if not more.

“I want you, so much,” you exhale when he lies you both down on your bed. “So much.”

He tugs your shorts off, then your panties. He doesn’t usually lack self-restraint, but he thinks he’s never felt this much temptation in his life. He’s so hard. He brings one hand to his thigh and squeezes his dick through his pants, but it doesn’t provide him with any kind of relief. You’re needy already, whimpering, mind dizzy. He slides a finger up your slit and watches you screw your eyes shut.

Slowly he sinks in, watches you accustom to the stretch. “Wanted this,” you breathe out.

He thrusts in further, feels your warm cunt stretch around him, feels your breaths get hotter and quicker against his lips. But he takes it nice and slow, so he can feel every little ridge inside of you as you take all of him. “You like it?”

You nod, too dumbed down to speak. “Good girl. Pretty, pretty girl.”

He’s wanted this for so long, fucking you deep and slow and desperate. He thrusts harder, watches you unravel and your hot breaths pick up in pace. He reaches down, smears wetness around your clit as your thighs begin to shake. Your pretty, flushed face is enough to send him into overdrive, your eyes rolling back as he goads you into orgasm.

You’re still cumming around him when he takes a shaky breath, pulls you tightly back against him, and lets the pleasure take over. He fucks you full, rides his orgasm out while you ride yours out—buries his dick all the way inside, so each spurt fills your contracting pussy up.

He pulls out and collapses beside you, pressing his lips to your shoulder before lying on his back. “I’ll clean you up in a minute.” It’s quiet for a second, just you two breathing.

Then: “I did, I did think about it,” you say, voice reedy. “I thought about you.”

“Yeah?” He watches you blink at the ceiling, lets you clasp your hands onto his.

“About me, too.” You open your eyes and stare into the green.

“D’you want this?”

“Believe me,” you say, threading your fingers into his tightly. Your hair’s fussed from the sex. “I do. But—”

His heart drops.

“I don’t want to… I want you to not…” You sigh. “You know, I like seeing you. I like being that. I like knowing I make you feel good. And I want you to know you… you make me feel amazing. Like you and I… we understand each other.” You pause. “Sometimes I feel like you’re the only person who understands every inch of me.”

“Ditto,” he says, and you smile.

“I look up to you, you know? I don’t want you to anchor yourself onto me. I want you to realize that on your own. You’re smart. You’re a great driver with a shitty fucking team I hated reporting on last season.” He laughs shakily. “You know I look up to you. You know… you know I love you.”

“I do. I love you.”

“I always have. It wasn’t… it didn’t always make itself clear, but I always have. And I know I always will.” You smile. “We’ll be in different cities, in separate timezones, but if we survived the years of not telling each other how bloody fucking much we liked each other, this is nothing. When we’ve sorted ourselves out, we’ll know the right time to finally call this what it is.”

He’s never thought of himself as a writer, but his notebooks might beg to differ. Many times you’ve told him yourself that he has an affinity for describing things, especially when he lets go of language as a limitation. He wonders what you’d say if you knew the amount of times he’s tried to write about you. Careful letters or typefaces, in an effort to form a coherent picture of you, the way he sees you, the way he loves you. But he’s so scared he tears the pages off before they get too intimate, too personal, crossing the border from having a crush on you to being in love with you.

For once he’s not. He nods. It’s bittersweet, but it’s a segue to a better ending. He moves a hand over your hair and holds you close.

“You could never be unlovable,” he says, pressing a kiss to your forehead because finally, he can. “I mean it.”

[sentientcave]

Retirement Party

Chapter 5 - Wouldn't It Be Nice?

<<First Chapter - < Prev Chapter - Next Chapter >

Contains: No Y/N, Kidnapping, Forcible relocation, Dubcon, Plus-sized Reader/OC, female Reader/OC, John introduces Doll to some normal people, Everyone learns new things about each other, Manipulation, PTSD, Doll has a tragic backstory, Doll is kinda sorta Catholic? Who knew (me I knew)

~3.8k - MDNI - Dark fic! Please mind the content warning above but honestly this chapter is pretty mild all considered.

Ghost, Soap and Gaz come back a few hours later with the blue sports car (a bit scratched up, but tail-light repaired) and a pick up truck that looks a lot like the one John had before, but a generation older, and green instead of gray. John speaks to them briefly before he coaxes you into the truck and drives off, promising that the others will be gone before you get back.

He drives a few miles down the road, and pulls up in front of a little farmhouse. It looks idyllic, children and a dog playing in the yard. Two people on the porch wave, and John hops out and circles around right quick to open your door and help you down.

The couple trots up to greet you both. "Who's this?" The woman asks, looking at you and beaming. "You finally introducing us to a girlfriend?"

"Doesn't feel like the right word, does it, doll?" John winks at you, like your circumstances are all just a funny little blip, nothing nefarious or terrifying about it.

"No, it doesn't," you agree, keeping your face carefully neutral. "I'm Dalisay. Nice to meet you, um, Melissa, right?" You stick your hand out and shake hers. There’s no sense in being rude to them, just because they know John. He’s probably smart enough to keep his old life, and his boys away from his new one as much as possible.

"The very same! We were a bit worried John was going to be an eternal bachelor. Nice to see he's found someone." She introduces her husband, Rob, and her kids, Hannah, Haley and Jackson, who are ten, seven and five, respectively.

"Do you want to see the puppies?" Haley asks, grabbing your hand. Jackson grabs the other one and they pull you along to the garage, not waiting for an answer. You very deliberately don’t look over your shoulder at John, because you’re fairly sure that he’ll be looking back at you with a sickeningly hopeful expression. His comments from last night still ring in your ears, and you’re not willing to indulge that foolish fantasy of his.

The puppies are in a play pen with high enough walls to contain them, but still allow their mother to hop in and out. She hops out to inspect you, sniffing your outstretched hands warily. Her tail starts to wag after a moment, and you give her a proper pat, smiling. The dog has soft ears and a silky, black and tan coat, but you're not sure what type of dog she is.

"What's her name?" you ask, kneeling down.

"Bonnie-bell," Hannah says. "And our other dog is Charaid."

"Proper Scottish names," you say. The kids all have a slight burr, and although Melissa sounds scouse, it's the first hint as to where you are.

"Da said we was gettin' too English, livin' in London," Haley says. "I like it better here anyway. Mum says maybe we can get some coos. "

"I grew up near Aberdeen," you say. "But I've lived in Manchester too long. Lost my accent."

"No' far off, then, aye? We're only about an hour and a bit south and west," Rob says, appearing at the open garage door to supervise. His stern face looks friendlier now that he knows you're not proper English. "Was worried John dragged some poor city girl out'f England to live out here."

You hum. "Well, I am something of a city girl now. Been in Manchester since I was seventeen."

"Weel, welcome home then," Rob says with a wink. "We'll get ye proper re-acclimated soon enough." He leans over and plucks a puppy out of the sleeping pile inside the pen, and hands it to you. The pup is at the age where its somewhere between looking like a potato and a proper dog, maybe six or seven weeks old. "Gordon setter, by the by," he says. "Good dogs."

"Cute too." You settle the puppy in your lap, petting its soft little head. Bonnie-bell licks your wrist and hops back into the pen to lay down next to the others.

"Ye want one? This girl's no' spoken for yet. John's been hemmin' and hawin' about it, but I figure he wouldna want ta leave ye home alone, neither."

"Oh, I'm not sure I'll be staying that long. I'm only here because there was an incident at my apartment and John wouldn't hear of me staying anywhere else." You're not certain why you're stretching the truth to fit around what he and his wife think is happening, but you have no idea what John would do if you did say something. Maybe he would laugh it off like you were making a joke, or maybe he would snap. You don't really think he would hurt these people, but there's a wide-eyed prey animal in the back of your mind that warns you to be cautious, to be careful.

"We'll talk about it," John says from behind you. You hadn't even noticed his approach, with the noise the kids had made when they dashed back outside. "I'm trying to convince her to stay."

"Ye've gotta buy her a ring, ye daft bastard," Rob says, laughing. "A good catholic girl isna goin' ta wait for you ta get yer head out'f yer arse."

"If you don't, I'll introduce her to some lads in town that will," Melissa threatens. "Pretty girl like her has better options than you, old man. Better make your move before she realizes it." She swats John on the arm playfully.

You laugh nervously, touching the little cross around your neck absently. The puppy in your lap seems to sense your discomfort, because she starts wiggling in your arms and trying to lick your chin, little tail wagging. John kneels down beside you so he can pet the puppy too, eyes creased with a smile. "Is that it, doll? You need me to buy you a ring?"

"John," you say warningly. "We don't need to talk about this right now."

"No, I suppose you've had a rough morning. I'll try again later."

"You're impossible."

"Think you might kind of like that about me," he says.

"Not remotely. I think you're an awful, stubborn man," you tell him. Your voice comes out softer and sweeter than you intend, like you don't really mean it, even though it's true. The smile around his eyes grows deeper.

"I am." He picks up the puppy and holds her up in front of his face. "What do you think, girl?" he asks. The little dog's tail wags furiously, and she answers with a high pitched yip. And then she endears herself to you by trying to bite John’s nose. He looks stunned for a moment, but he grins when you start laughing. “Guess we’re all in agreement then,” he says, setting her down in the pen and standing up.

You accept his hand up, and quickly put a little distance between the two of you, before he anchors you to his side with a solid arm, or tries to reel you in close for a kiss. Rob and Melissa invite you in for a cup of tea, and somehow you end up sitting at a dining room table that’s obviously mostly used for crafts, and handed a piece of blank printer paper by Haley, and told by Jackson that you should draw dragons with them. The walls of the dining room are filled with tacked up juvenile masterpieces— Dragons seem to be a particular fixation of Jackson’s, whereas Hannah and Haley have more varied portfolios.

John stands leaning in the door to the kitchen, talking to Rob and Melissa quietly enough that you can’t quite pick up his words over the children’s chatter. You hate him a little for this, dangling Rob and Melissa’s idyllic little life in front of you. The implication is obvious. We could have this, his blue eyes seem to say when you look his way. Wouldn’t that be nice?

It’s frustrating, and confusing. You want to keep him at arms length for your own safety, but he’s already doing his best to roll right past your doubts and better judgment, like they’re just silly barriers between now and the future he’s dreamed up for the two of you.

And worse, you do want it.

“Didn’t know you were an artist,” he says on the drive back. Jackson had been so excited about the dragon that you drew for him that he’d shown his parents and John.

“There’s a long list of things you don’t know about me,” you say.

"For now. We'll get there, sweetheart."

You hum, looking out the window. Spending time with the Stuarts has you wistful and homesick for something you can't get back. Days like this, you'd usually pour yourself a glass of wine, look through your family photo albums and have a good cry before going to bed early. It's been a while since it's caught up with you like this, but you'd always been reliant on your routine, burying grief in structure and familiarity. "Do we need to?"

"I'd like to."

"I'm not going to be what you want me to be."

John drums his fingers against the steering wheel. "What is it that you think I want?"

"Some little housewife. Someone soft and sweet to come home to."

"You seem plenty soft and sweet to me."

You sigh, pulling your arms around yourself. "I'm not consistent. I don't know what Johnny told you I was like, but he only knows me from work. I'm not like that all the time."

"I don't expect you to be."

"You say that now, but you'll change your mind."

"I'm not stupid enough to change my mind based on a bad day or two, doll. You're allowed to be upset. I wouldn't blame you if you spend the next week slamming doors and snapping at me. I'm still going to like you." He puts a hand on your knee and squeezes gently. Men like him shouldn't be allowed to have such attractive hands, and you shouldn't be attracted to hands like his, scarred knuckles, a few fingers broken and healed crooked. You know he's killed people, know it would be so easy for him to kill you. It turns your stomach that you feel any kind of desire for him at all.

Men like him are no different than the ones that killed your parents. Dealing death is not a noble trade, there's nothing honourable about exporting violence.

You push his hand away, and keep your eyes trained on the window.

He sighs, but he doesn't press the issue, just clicks on the radio to fill the silence.

When you get back to his house he sets you up in a cozy room down the hall from the more open main space where the kitchen is, an office of some kind with a couple of arm chairs and a desk with a clunky looking laptop set on top. The room smells kind of smoky, but you're just glad to have a door you can close while he "moves some things around". He opens the laptop up so you can watch something, but you just curl up in one of the armchairs and fall asleep.

When you wake, the door is open, one of your blankets is draped over you, and there's a mug of tea sitting on the desk, alongside a couple biscuits. You uncurl, your muscles stiff and joints cracking from not moving for too long, and pick up the tea. It's cold, like it had been left a while ago, but you drink it anyway, and eat the biscuits. There's a note underneath, explaining that John had run out to the shops, and that he'd be back by 18:00. You shake your head, and check the time on the laptop. 18:00 exactly.

Military habits must die hard. You imagine he’s usually prompt too, so you wander out into the main room, and put the clean dishes in the rack away. You realize that the living room side has been rearranged, condensed to a slightly smaller footprint, with some open space left by the far corner behind the bigger couch. The smaller leather sofa has been replaced with the little red love-seat from your apartment, and your T.V. is sitting on it’s familiar perch on the refinished credenza that you’d painted twining vines and little red flowers up the side of. You’d found it on by the curb on the Kinsey’s street a few years ago, and your friend Ripley had bused over and helped you carry it all the way back to your apartment.

You’re not sure you like seeing more of your things merging into John’s house, like any of it belongs there when you still want to insist that you’ll be leaving soon. You hate him for being presumptuous, but you can’t help but think it’s sweet, too, that he makes space for you so readily, that he’ll happily include your painted flowers and colourful blankets and bright red couch into space that was all his just twenty four hours ago. That he would leave you tea and biscuits for when you woke up, that he would tuck a blanket around you while you slept. You’re not used to someone wanting to take care of you, and it feels strange.

Strange, but nice too.

You glance at the clock on the wall, realizing that it’s twenty past six, and John still isn’t back. It’s getting darker out there, the sun nearly setting, and as much as you try to tell yourself that you’re not worried, it’s hard to deny the stab of relief when you finally see the truck's lights pull up the wooded drive.

You slip on your trainers and step outside as he parks. He grins at you around a lit cigar as he hops out. “Did you miss me, doll?” he asks, insufferably smug.

“Your note said you’d be back at six,” you say lamely. “I just wasn’t sure if you’re usually on time.”

“Usually am. Got caught talking to Wells, down on the corner. Seems someone drove right through his fence last night. Teenagers, like as not. I’m goin’ to help him fix it tomorrow.”

“Oh.” You grimace. He must know it was really you. “Sorry about that.”

“No harm. By the sounds of it, you’re quite the driver. Soap said you nearly ran him off the road. That what they teach these days?”

“Defensive driving is well and good, but offensive driving gets you the last good spot in the lot,” you say.

He laughs out loud at that, and leans over to pick up a big paper bag from the passenger side. “Here, can you take this in while I grab the groceries?”

You take the bag (which is slightly greasy and smells like curry), and shift it to one hip. “Can I take anything else?”

He nods and hands you a second paper bag, this one with two wine bottles inside. “Wasn’t sure if you liked red or white, so I got both.”

You settle the bags in your arms and turn to walk away. “Bad time to tell you I like rosé hm?” you tease, glancing over your shoulder.

“Terrible timing. But that’s alright. One more thing, doll.”

You turn back toward him, and he’s right there. One big hand cups your jaw and then his lips are on yours, pressing a kiss that tastes like smoke against you. You stand frozen, holding onto your cargo for dear life, too surprised to do anything. It’s just as well, because in that moment you’re not sure if you’d slap him or pull him closer.

He pulls away without trying to deepen the kiss, which is a relief. You’re certain that you’d drop dinner and the wine.

“John, that wasn’t fair.” Your feet are still frozen in place, and his hand is still on your cheek, his fingers threaded into your hair.

His eyes practically sparkle. He’s entirely too pleased with himself. “Not fair because I kissed you, or not fair because I stopped before we got to the best part?”

Your cheeks flame hot, and you pray that he can’t feel it. “You can’t just— You’re impossible.” It takes concentrated effort to take ordinary, measured steps to the door instead of running. The effect he has on you is apparently very obvious. He never would have tried it if he didn’t know you were teetering on the edge of giving in already.

Boundaries need to be set-- Set and followed-- before you can really even contemplate letting this get any further. Unchecked, you have no doubt that John will have you underneath him in a matter of days. Once that happens you know he'll never let you go, and you'll never have peace of mind if you don't really get to know him first. You know he's not as good as he makes himself out to be, but you suspect he's a better man than your deepest fears might whisper to you. He's genuine about his wants, but that's not enough. You need to know him before you can trust him.

You set your packages down on the table and turn to open the door wide for John as he carries a tote full of groceries into the house. “Thanks, doll.”

The paper bag rips when you open it to pull take-out containers out, setting them on the table neatly. "John, can we talk?" You ask, glancing at him as he stows things in the fridge.

"Course, doll. What's on your mind?"

Nerves threaten to choke you, so you take a steadying breath, in and out, trying to quiet the sea of dread that pitches back and forth in your stomach. “You can’t just take what you want from me. Not if you’re serious about wanting this to be something. I’m afraid of you, John, and I’m not going to fight you. If you push me, I’ll fold, and I’ll hate you for it.”

He pauses, holding a box halfway lifted to the cupboard. It takes a moment before he moves again, setting the box on the shelf slowly. The silence is palpable in the room, settling across both of you like a thick blanket of snow. You fold the ripped takeout bag flat, nervous, the crinkle of heavy paper hardly breaking through the rush of blood in your ears, the panic that grips you by the throat. It’s as though the admission has given your body the chance to catch up with everything that’s happened in the last two days.

You’d been drugged and taken from your home, you’d been handed off to someone you didn’t know, with no clear indication if you’re free to leave or not, you’ve been picked up and manhandled and shot at.

Darkness flickers in the corners of your vision. All you can hear is the pounding of your own heart, the sick, dizzying drums of war, and high pitched ringing like a flat-lining hospital monitor, and screaming, and the rapid burst of machine gun fire. No. The screaming you hear is just in your head, the gunshots aren’t real, they can’t be. It’s not happening, it’s over, it’s been over for a decade, you’re safe.

Except you’re not safe.

Hands land on your shoulders. You lash out, fists striking something solid, knocking the hands away. You have to get away, you have to hide until it goes quiet again. Arms wrap around you in a tight hug, stilling your thrashing limbs and bringing you down to the floor gently.

“Doll! Dalisay, sweetheart, you’re alright, come back.” The voice has authority. You know that voice. It rumbles, shaking loose memory. “Come on, love, breathe slow. You’re okay.” You breathe in, warm spice and tobacco smoke, not burning petrol, not scorched flesh. You’re kneeling on the floor, and John is holding you tight, thighs bracketing yours.

The fight melts out of your limbs.

You’re not safe, but you’re not in danger either. John loosens his hold on you and cups your face, his worried face eclipsing all else. “Doll, where’d you go?” he asks. “What happened?”

“Panic attack,” you lie, because that’s easier to say than My parents were killed in a terrorist attack while we were visiting London ten years ago and sometimes I get so stressed out that I forget it’s not still happening. “I’m fine, I’m sorry.”

“That wasn’t a panic attack, doll. Worked with Simon long enough to recognize PTSD. You were somewhere else.”

It’s hard to imagine that Ghost is as fallible, as human as you are, but you suppose there’s no shortage of opportunities for even the the biggest, toughest military men to to wade hip deep in trauma. The worst day of your life would be just another mission for them. The worst day of their lives would probably kill you outright.

"Yeah, I guess it was," you admit haltingly. "Everything just caught up with me. I won't let it happen again."

He shakes his head. "Did I set it off? I need to know— I don’t want to hurt you, sweetheart.”

"No, it's not like that. It’s just stress. It's been building since I got here."

"I guess that's what you meant in the truck, huh?"

You nod weakly. "I don't think I can explain it any better right now. But maybe tomorrow."

"Alright." John sighs, some of the tension in his shoulders releasing. " I don't want you to be afraid of me, doll."

"Then you're going to have to give me time, and space. I need to know what kind of man you are. And you should get to know who I am too.” There’s a wrinkle in his shirt, so you fixate on that rather than look right at him, smoothing it out with your fingers. “Let’s worry about becoming friends, for now. And then we can see if there’s something more.”

He doesn’t like that, you can tell by the way he pulls his hands back, reluctant to let go of you. But still, he nods, and smiles ruefully after a moment. “Guess I’m not as patient as I think I am. Too eager to get to the good part.”

You laugh lightly, the sound shaky from frayed nerves. “John, if we can be kind to each other, and come to an understanding, then it’s all the good part. You can’t build the things you want on foundations like this and hold it all together with sheer force of will.”

“You sure about that?" he jokes, trying to lighten the mood. "I’ve heard I’m pretty stubborn.”

Your eyes flick up to meet his. You still feel unsettled, your heart still pounding, your stomach still roiling with anxiety. The emotion in those blue eyes is something you can't identify, something fathomless that strikes you with a foreign kind of fear, the kind that's shot through with hope that you shouldn't feel.

“You don’t know me too well yet, John,” you say gently, “but so am I.”

Image Credits: Banner

Dividers: 1 - 2 - 3 by @/Cafekitsune

[its-time-to-write]

masterlist

i figured it was time to make one. it's in order based on when i wrote it. please, please let me know if a link is broken/mislabeled!!

*82 fics*

All of these are Jamie Tartt x reader

dress

Jamie and Keeley buy you a dress for the benefit gala

three times 'cause i've waited my whole life

secret relationship to engagement

you're losing me

first kid

don't make this any harder

Jamie wants to take you to Brazil, you’re both idiots

would hit him in a heartbeat now

Your ex boyfriend is a footballer and also a douche

silent sleepers

Jamie contemplates your relationship on the team bus

what it is

Jamie is sick ft. Roy

don't go wasting your emotion

Secret relationship + you own a bookshop! Ft. Roy and Keeley

you know, you'll always know me

You’re a famous singer! Congrats!

i don't know how you keep smiling/i'm just choking almost constantly

Jamie’s dad is a douche

i'll still be right next to you my dear

Jamie is a dad

can't really say i'm enjoying it now

Yikes it’s a breakup fic, but happy endings only in this house

mine of you with me

Reader and Jamie go semi-public with their relationship

today's a day like any other

The Tartt family thru the years

there's orange juice in the kitchen

Oof ouch period cramps

i can't breathe without you

Nate kisses you w/o consent

damned if i do give a damn what people say

You’re a theater actress! How exciting!

island made of faith

People think Jamie’s dumb, and he’s not

take your time while you're mine

You’re Roy’s other sister ft. all the Kents

honey, i'll give you all my time

Vienna. Enough said.

feeling fragile can't you tell

Jamie gets hurt

wrote all your lines in the script in my mind

Oh no! Some girl kissed Jamie and it wasn’t you! + Colin as the bff

stick together like glitter

Babysitting Phoebe + angst

your mind is not your friend

Angst + comfort after you have a bad hookup

chasing shadows in a grocery line

You’re pretty sure you have a hot stalker

don’t go yet

Tee hee protective Jamie at a club

kicking myself to keep from crying

The morning after your mind is not your friend

i think we could do it if we tried

High school sweethearts reunited after 6 years🥺

i’m glad you exist

You and Jamie go to a wedding

send for me

BREAKING: shit day at work made better by local boyfriend

tell me where to put my love

day off = food + snuggles

bored

The longest angst I’ve ever written. Def not the best angst I’ve ever written.

would it be enough if i never gave you peace

you’ve got baby fever and your pretty sure it’s going to kill your brother

wishing on every one

You own a flower shop. It’s adorable.

lyrical eyes, indigo smile

Bea meets the team for the first time!

something to rely on

You storm the pitch and smooch your bf

flipped the script

Enemies to lovers slow burn (or maybe fast burn, idk)

i fancy you

London Boy by ms. T. Swift

you don’t want to know me

Jamie shows up at your door after s.1 Man City

you’re in the kitchen humming

Post-Mom City

family that i chose

For the child-free girlies!

never wanted you to hate me

Pt. 2 of you don’t want to know me

wonderstruck

BFF Keeley tells you to give her awful ex a chance

in love with an idea

idk it’s like a confession of love? kinda cute

sinking into your worn-out mattress

Touch-deprived therapist! reader

you’re a mansion with a view

just two footballers doing an England promo, nothing to see here

i know what i’m doing

Post-Roy/Jamie locker room hug after Man City

wonder what it’d be like

Jamie tries to win you back

if only love were true

You’re a single mom in dire need of a plus-one

i know now it’ll pass

It’s hard to love someone when you’ve been told you don’t deserve it

the way it goes

The Greyhounds are protective of Jamie

how to love being alive

Idk this one’s like whatever and also supes long

there is happiness

GEORGIE GEORGIE GEORGIE

it’s just wanderlust

Relationship soft launch

glitter on the floor

You like to knit. You also think you’re a comedian.

maybe tomorrow you’ll know

The “he’s a prick to everyone but her” trope

hustling for the good life

I swear this is my last chaptered fic

let’s fall in love for the night

Kent!reader is having a baby

soft hands hit the jagged ground

friends w/benefits

for you, there’ll be no more crying

anxiety at work + bf jamie

smile at me

there was only one bed!!!!

slow motion double vision in rose blush

happy b-day Jamie Tartt

half-moon eyes

it’s just a question!

can’t hear my thoughts (i cannot hear my thoughts)

I’m allowed to write what i want, ok???

here in my arms

more Kent!reader + a baby named George

coffee at midnight

prick coach wakes you up bc of your prick boyfriend

healing me fine

Just a lil engagement fic for ya

i don’t know anything

if you’re interested in Bea

right words at the right time

It’s a wedding fic

move fast and keep quiet

boxer!reader + smitten Jamie

not saying you’re in love with me

You meet over Bantr!!!

we could be so good

Jamie comforts you after a bad date

i hold it like a grudge

i don’t even know how to describe this one but u might cry

there for you

sick fic

before you go

physio!reader

you’ll probably date her

chronic illness + childhood friends. gotta love it

feel it burn

Gym anxiety

play it back

Old movies of bb Jamie

ours

Thanksgivinggggg

light in the hallway

MORE Kent!reader

stuck by you

Bad family + good Jamie = fic

please don’t be

five chapters of sadness that definitely isn’t based on personal experience

[moirindeclermont]

Bridgerton folks, thank you for the warm reception of my new story.

This is "5 times Colin was Pen's first + 1 she was his", second episode. Here you'll find the first episode.

Today episode may also be titled "Pen meets Mr. Fingerton" 🔥🥵

***

Pen thought she might have dreamed the whole night.

No way Colin declared he wanted her and proceed to give her the best first kiss ever, and while she had not experienced it before, she knew the stories... Usually a first kiss was not all of that magical. Maybe it was because it was her and it was Colin. Everything they did seem kinda magical to her.

She was, again, at the door of his apartment and she was almost waiting for the moment he would start to treat her as a friend.

Instead, what happened, was that Colin opened the door, gave her his brightest smile and then a light kiss on her lips. So, maybe it was real.

"Sorry, I should have asked, I didn't know if you wanted-" he was adorable when he rumbled, Pen observed.

"Don't worry Colin. It's just, unexpected. I love welcoming you like this. Every day for the rest of my days".

She didn't have to worry about waiting for such declarations. Yesterday they talked at length about the future and them as a couple.

They both confessed they were yearning for this for quite some time, and they both laugh at their idiocy. But they were on the same page now. And they both know this was not a phase or temporary. They both were fully invested since the beginning.

That was the reason for seeing each other tonight. Well, that... And other reasons, at least Pen was hoping there were also other reasons.

She waited to damn long and she was ready. Possibly in that moment.

They ate and talk, laying out plans for their announcement as a couple (next Sunday on the bridgerton brunch). Pen was to ask her boss if she could do all remote (so she could come with Colin on his travels, as by his ask) and Colin was looking for a permanent place in London, so they could have a home base to stay when they were in the city (and eventually, when they were going to have kids).

Then, they looked at each other and it was like a magnet was at work.

They find themselves on the sofa, Pen on Colin's lap, kissing and touching every part they could reach.

Colin nibbled on her neck, before asking in a very deep voice "can I try something, Pen?"

She nodded. She wanted to try everything with him.

Colin flipped their position, then threw a pillow on the floor and knelt in front of her. She had a camisole and her lacy bra was barely visible. He took his time to unbutton her slowly, and Pen gulped when he was done. "Beautiful," he whispered.

Colin cupped her through the bra, teasing her. "May I?" He asked again and she responded by unclasping her bra herself. "Wow, Pen" Colin exhaled as his fingers were tracing her areola lightly. Her nipple was fastly caught it n between his fingers, making her moan. Colin looked at her with a wicked and deeply erotic smile, as he lowered his head to touch the sensitive skin with his tongue. "Ohh," his were the only fingers outside of her own that played with her breasts, and it felt marvelous.

Colin seemed obsessed by her neck and her cleavage. Pen was on fire, but she needed more. When his hand found hers, she rather directly pointed him towards where she was aching to be touched.

He looked at her. "Sure?"

"Never been more sure in my life," and Colin kissed her again, before finding her thigh and sliding his hand. He found her bare, much to his surprise.

"Miss Featherington!"

She was a bit embarrassed. "I had them on before. But then I thought why not and asked to use the bath."

His eyes were dark with desire. "Oh I do understand. You're an eager little thing, aren't you?"

Speechless. This was a new side of Colin she could not wait to explore. She just nodded as he skimmed over her auburn curls, "yup, eager and wet," he said as he went to touch her folds, using her wetness to lube his fingers.

He touched her lightly at first, watching her reactions, sometimes teasing her nipple s again, sometimes giving her little kisses.

"I can't believe I get to see you like this, Pen" and she wanted to respond but Colin choose that moment to slowly enter her with just the tip of his middle finger. "I can't believe I get to touch you like this," as his finger slide in deeper. Her mouth opened, the sensation so different from the one she was used too when she touched herself. A loud moan escaped her lips and he started a slow rhythm that made her tingle all over.

"Yes, like that love," he told her as he begin to touch with his thumb her clït, adding another level of pleasure. After some time he asked "another?" And she nodded her consent, feeling how herself was responding to his second finger inside her.

"I want to make you come on my fingers, is that okay Pen?"

Dear God in heaven. She might as well be in paradise. "Yes, Colin. Please!" She told him and then her brain went out of service as Colin kissed her.

It was clear he knew what he was doing, as he moved his fingers inside her with a motion that was working very fast for her. That and the light touch on her nub left her breathless, as Colin watched her again. That was the hottest thing. His look on her, as she was breaking into pieces under his touch. Pen used his arms to steady herself as Colin increased his rhythm until suddenly she was on the precipe and Colin remained steady in his movements.

She moaned a loud "Colin" a moment after, coming on his fingers. She moaned when she saw him sucking on his fingers like a it was his favorite dessert. "Next time," he said to her and she trembled.

Colin sat next to her, holding her steady. "That was... Incredible!" He looked smug, and Pen was looking at his very visible erection. "Do you want to?"

He looked at her. "I want to. But I also want to wait. Just a bit longer. It's weird to explain." But she understood.

"it's not. These are our firsts. We might have some in the future, but after so long waiting for each other, pacing these experiences makes them more meaningful."

He looked at her. "You nailed it."

She grinned. "Nope, you did."

Colin laughed loudly. "Not yet, love. Not yet." As he settled her on his side, kissing the top of her head sweetly.

She always imagined cuddle was as good as people told her, but somehow, it was even better than her imagination. These days everything was.

[paddockletters]

our place | trent alexander-arnold

pairing: trent alexander-arnold x reader summary: just a peaceful drive along the coast, enjoying each other's company author's note: as I always say... english is not my first language so sorry me if there are mistakes —feel free to tell me— and my requests are open!👀

The car hummed steadily along the coast, the sky a soft wash of pinks and oranges as the sun set in the distance. Trent’s hand rested casually on the gear shift, the other holding mine. We weren’t saying much—just enjoying the simplicity of being together. The wind blew through the open windows, filling the car with the salty sea air, and I couldn’t help but smile at how peaceful it all felt.

“You’re quiet,” Trent said, glancing over at me with a teasing smirk. “Planning your next move in case I make you drive?”

I rolled my eyes, but I couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped. “If you’re expecting me to take the wheel, you’re dreaming. I know my strengths and driving isn’t one of them.”

Trent chuckled, giving my hand a small squeeze. “You’re just scared because you know I’ll be an annoying teacher.”

“You? Annoying? Never,” I replied sarcastically, though my grin gave me away.

He glanced over, a playful glint in his eyes. “You think I’m kidding, but one day I’ll get you behind the wheel. Mark my words.”

The drive continued in comfortable silence, the kind of silence that only came after spending years together. We didn’t need to fill every moment with words, and sometimes, that’s what I loved most about us—how easy it was. How natural.

I remember the first time we met, on that cold, rainy afternoon in London. I had just moved into the city, lost and carrying boxes up a flight of stairs that seemed never-ending. Trent had appeared out of nowhere, offering to help, his lopsided grin catching me off guard. He was polite, too polite even, and his easy charm was disarming. I didn’t realize until hours later that he was that Trent Alexander-Arnold—the rising star of English football. But at that moment, he was just a boy who helped a stranger carry boxes in the rain.

“You look like you could use some help,” he had said, his voice warm despite the rain pouring down around us.

I had laughed, wiping the raindrops from my face. “Is it that obvious?”

He had grinned, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “A little. Let me take that for you.”

“Thanks for the help,” I had said, extending my hand. “I’m—”

“Exhausted?” he had joked, cutting me off. “I can tell.”

I had laughed again, feeling an instant connection. “Yeah, pretty much.”

“I’m Trent, by the way,” he had said, extending his hand once we had finished unpacking.

““y/n, I’m completely exhausted,” I had joked, wiping the rain from my face. “But it’s nice to meet you too.”

That had been the beginning. From that moment on, our lives became intertwined—late-night conversations, spontaneous coffee runs, long drives through the countryside when we needed to escape the city. Everything with Trent felt easy, natural, like he had always been a part of my life.

We started dating 9 months later and moved in together 1 year before. Our flat was small, but it was ours, filled with mismatched furniture, memories of trips we’d taken, and the kind of love that felt like home. Every corner of that space held a memory—a favorite song hummed in the kitchen, late-night dancing in the living room, lazy Sundays spent tangled in each other’s arms and now.

Now, here we were, 3 years later, driving down the coast, just the two of us, no destination in mind. Trent had always been spontaneous—he’d wake up one day with an idea, and before I could blink, we’d be off on some adventure. I wasn’t like that by nature, but being with him had made me appreciate these unplanned moments.

As we neared a little seaside town, Trent slowed the car down, pulling into a parking spot near the beach.

“Let’s get out,” he said, turning off the engine.

I followed him out of the car, the sound of waves crashing in the distance and the faint chatter of people walking along the boardwalk filling the air. Trent slipped his hand into mine, leading me toward the sand.

“What’s the plan?” I asked, smiling up at him.

“No plan,” he said with a grin. “Just thought we could walk a bit.”

We strolled down the beach, our feet sinking into the cool sand as the last rays of sunlight faded below the horizon. It was the kind of evening that felt like it could stretch on forever—quiet, peaceful, but full of unspoken things.

“Do you remember the time we got caught in the rain?” Trent asked.

I laughed, nodding. “Which time? There’s been more than one.”

“The first time,” he said, grinning. “When we were moving your stuff into your flat.”

“Oh, yeah,” I chuckled. “I thought you were just being polite, helping me out. Had no idea you were this big football star.”

He shrugged, a playful glint in his eyes. “I wasn’t that big back then. You were the one who caught my attention, not the other way around.”

“Smooth,” I teased, leaning up to kiss him softly.

He smiled against my lips. “I mean it, though. I’ve always been yours, you know that, right?”

I felt my heart swell at his words. I knew. I had always known. “And I’ve always been yours.”

“Do you ever think about the future?” Trent asked, his voice breaking through the soft lull of the ocean.

I looked at him, surprised by the question.

“Of course. I mean, I think about it all the time. Why?”

He shrugged, his eyes focused on the horizon.

“I don’t know. Lately, I’ve been thinking about it a lot. Us, I mean.”

I smiled softly, watching the way the fading light danced across his face. “You’ve always been the future-planner between us.”

He turned to face me, his expression more serious than before.

“Yeah, but this feels different. I’ve been thinking about what it’d be like to marry you.”

My breath caught in my throat for a moment, and I stopped walking, letting his words sink in. We’d joked about marriage before, in passing, but this felt different. The way he said it, the way he looked at me—it wasn’t just a casual idea anymore.

“Are you serious?” I asked, my voice softer than I intended.

Trent smiled, taking both my hands in his. “I’m always serious when it comes to you.”

I let out a shaky laugh, feeling a mix of excitement and nervousness bubbling up inside me.

“We’re really doing this, aren’t we?”

He nodded, his thumb gently brushing over my knuckles.

“Yeah. I mean, I don’t see why not. I’ve known for a while now that you’re the one.”

I bit my lip, trying to keep my emotions in check, but it was impossible not to feel overwhelmed by how much I loved him in that moment. Trent had always been good at making me feel loved, but this was different. This was him laying everything on the line, telling me he wanted a future together, and I knew without a doubt that I wanted the same.

“I love you,” I whispered, stepping closer to him.

He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to my forehead. “I love you too. And you know what?”

“What?”

“This will be our place,” he said, motioning to the beach around us. “The place where we decide to spend forever together.”

Later that evening, after grabbing some food from a local spot, we found ourselves sitting on the sand, wrapped up in blankets, watching the stars as the waves rolled in. It was one of those perfect nights where everything felt right.

Trent nudged me with his elbow.

“You know we’re going to have to tell people eventually, right?”

I groaned, burying my face on his chest. “Do we have to?”

He laughed, pulling me into his side. “Yes, we do. But... let’s keep it between us for a little while longer. Just you and me.”

I smiled, leaning into him. “Yeah. Just us.”

For now, that was all we needed.

[ingravinoveritas]

Have you seen this? I head "Michael got excited about being connected through matching bracelets" and immediately thought that you're going to have some thoughts.

https://vm.tiktok.com/ZGeQE7KSk/

Oh my god. No, I hadn't seen this video until now, but thank you SO much for sending it to me! I'll post a clip of the most pertinent part about what Michael said below, but I urge folks to check out the whole thing on Tiktok, as this is the woman who made the bracelets we saw David wearing at the Proud Nerd Con last weekend:

My first immediate reaction after seeing/hearing this was utter disbelief and delight, coupled with a complete lack of surprise because...Michael. If there is anyone who could channel "15-year-old girl during the last week of summer camp" energy, it is Michael. It's also terribly bittersweet and yet somehow fitting knowing that we're nearing the end of Michael's time in London--which I think we can now refer to as Shennant Summer, at least in Australia, though the last six months were technically the winter here.

(My second thought was that I feel like we're a hell of a lot closer than ever before to my imaginings of Michael and David getting complementing tattoos somehow manifesting into reality...)

But...my god. I don't think any of us could picture Michael and David not being connected in some way, even if/when they're not in the same city, and yet the thought of Michael wanting to have some tangible reminder of David with him always is doing things to my heart that may necessitate the use of defibrillators. I feel like this is some kind of reverse Parent Trap situation where Michael is going to "accidentally" pack one of the Tennant kids in his suitcase, which will mean David will have to go to Wales to collect his wayward offspring, and then the next thing you know they're on a yacht drinking Champagne while "I Love You (For Sentimental Reasons)" plays in the background.

I think what is so incredible to me is that we know how soft (in the best way possible) Michael is, but to know that he's specifically gotten that way over David--that he holds David in that deep heart space--is achingly beautiful. I know a lot of folks will say that this is giving all of the "friendship bracelet" and "besties" vibes, but I really don't think it's much of a stretch to think that it could be something more. Everything about this just feels so romantic at this point that, in my opinion, it would seem almost ludicrous to not consider it a possibility. Because right now, neither Michael nor David appear to be holding back, and I'm so here for it.

Thank you again so much for sending this my way. I'd love to hear what everyone else thinks, so please feel free to add your thoughts in the comments. Thanks for writing in! x

[viscaaelbarcaaa]

SOULS DON’T MEET BY ACCIDENT

Warning: fluff

Pairing: Marc Guiu x Fem!reader

❤️💙❤️💙❤️💙❤️💙❤️💙❤️

Being a exchance student in London was never easy. Big city, bunch of trafic, new language, new school system..and much more

You are working as a student in a nice, cozy caffe near the center of the city where its always crowded. Meeting a bunch of tourists and hearing some new languages. But you never expected to meet a famous footballer.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

It was a nice sunny morning. The caffe sign turned to “open” and people already enjoying their morning coffee.

“Y/n can you go get table 9 please?” One of your coworkers asked

“Yeah, right away!” You answered and walked towards table 9

“Hello, how may i hel-“ you froze in place realising who you just met. It was the one and only Marc Guiu, you didn’t really have time to read news about football because of work and school but you did came across a news page where it mentioned a famous Spanish footballer transfering to Chelsea, but you would have never thought that you’ll meet him

“You okay ma’am?” He chuckled

“Yes, sorry…how may i help you today?” You gather your composure

“I’ll just have a Espesso” he answered looking at the menu

“Alright will be right up!” You wrote down his order and walked back to the counter

“Girl, you wont believe who i just met!” You whisper-yelled at your best friend, who happens to be a regular costumer

“Who?!” Her eyes widened with curiosity

“Shh, keep it down he might hear you” you scolded her while preparing his Espresso “You know the footballer whos meant to move here?”

“Yeah, what about him?” she answered with a curious voice while sipping on her own drink

“He is sitting right there!” You point at the table. What you didn’t notice was him literally looking straight at you, he smirks at you

You smile back nervously

“Oh girl he wants you” you best friend said

“No he doesn’t, he doesn’t even know me, we just meet!” You explain

“Oh but he does, smirking and staring at you, girl you got yourself a husband” she laughed

“Shut up” you place the espresso on the tray and add a little muffin on the side

While carrying the tray, you cant help yourself but steal a couple of glances of the footballer

“Here you go, sir” placing the espresso and the plate on the table infront of him

“Thank you” he thanks you with a smile, appreciation evident in it

God, that man just took your breath away, you just stand there staring at his gorgeous smile that could make the whole London shimmer and his dimples.

You snap out of it and return the smile

“Sorry, dont wanna sound weird but i just transfered here and dont know much about the city..maybe you could give me a little tour?” He offered

“Absolutely!” You agreed

“Alright, perfect..will Saturday do for you?” he asked

“Yeah sure..but can i you know get your number so we could text where we meet and if theres any change of plans?” You hesitated abit

“Oh yeah right” you exchange numbers

You walk back to the counter, grinning like a kid when they get a new toy

Authors note: kinda rushed so sorry hope you like it and also apologising for any grammar issues, spelling mistakes

Made this cuz of Marc’s transfer to Chelsea which literally broke me to pieces but oh well

[briarpotter]

Happy Birthday Harry!

It's Harry's birthday! My sweet, sweet, perfect guy (who is already married and has kids)

Reflections of Courage

Harry Potter stood in front of the mirror in his cozy, dare he say big, manor in London. The soft morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a gentle glow on his reflection. It had been two years since the Battle of Hogwarts, and life had settled into a new kind of normal. Yet, some mornings, he still found it hard to believe that the war was truly over.

As he adjusted his Auror robes, Harry's thoughts drifted to the past. He saw the faces of friends and mentors, both living and lost, flash before his eyes. Sirius, Dumbledore, Lupin, Tonks, Fred—each one a reminder of the sacrifices made and the price of peace. 

A soft knock on the door pulled him from his reverie. He turned to see Ginny standing there, her eyes warm with understanding. “Ready for your first day back?” she asked, stepping into the room. Harry smiled, the sight of her comforting him. “As ready as I'll ever be. It feels strange, going back to work after everything.”

Ginny walked over and wrapped her arms around him, resting her head on his shoulder. “You'll be brilliant, Harry. You've faced worse than this, and come out stronger every time.” He held her close, drawing strength from her presence. “Thanks, Gin. I just… I want to make sure I'm doing the right thing.”

Ginny pulled back slightly, looking into his eyes. “You are. You're helping to build a better world, the one you fought so hard for. Don't doubt yourself.” Her words resonated with him, and he nodded, feeling a renewed sense of purpose. “You're right. It's just… sometimes it feels like there's so much left to do.”

“There always will be,” she said softly. “But you're not alone in this. We're all in it together.” With a final kiss for luck, Harry left the house and made his way to the Ministry of Magic. The familiar bustle of the atrium greeted him, and he was struck by how different it felt now that he was part of the Auror Department. No longer the hunted, he was now the protector. His first day back was filled with meetings and briefings.

Yet, as he moved through the corridors, he noticed the respect in the eyes of his colleagues. It wasn't the awe or fear he had once encountered, but genuine respect for his courage and determination. During a break, Harry found himself in front of a window, looking out at the bustling city below. He thought about the journey that had brought him here, the trials and triumphs that had shaped him.

He realized that each step, no matter how difficult, no matter how hard, had led him to this moment. A voice interrupted his thoughts. “Harry, mate, ready for the next briefing?” He turned to see Ron, his best friend and partner, standing there with a grin. Harry grinned back, feeling a surge of confidence. “Yeah, let's go.”

As they walked down the hallway, Harry felt a sense of peace settle over him. He was where he was meant to be, doing the work he believed in, surrounded by those who mattered most. And with Ginny by his side, he knew he could face whatever challenges lay ahead.

That evening, back in their house, Harry and Ginny cuddled together, the warmth of the crackling fire filling the room. Harry took her hand, feeling the steady beat of her heart. “Today was good,” he said softly. “I think we're going to make a real difference.” Ginny squeezed his hand, her eyes shining. “I never doubted it for a second.” In that moment, Harry felt the weight of his past lift, replaced by the hope of the future. He had faced the darkness and emerged into the light, ready to build a world worth fighting for, with the people he loved beside him.

[lmfaohader]

"Oh really?"

"Yeah. Same as always. A little mouse standing under a light post. It's snowing, and he's always carrying an umbrella."

"Did he say anything to you in this one?"

"No. He just seemed very scared, and a little sad."

"Well give me the details and I'll add it to the drawing"

I retrieved my sketch book from my bag and turned to the ever familiar page I had been working on for a couple of days. In the middle of the page, a mouse. Oversized yellow clogs, red linen pants, and large black ears on the top of his head. Just as my friend, Jo, always described him. Cheery eyes that she normally described as "oddly sad for such a happy little mouse" and rosy plump cheeks. Beside him, a lamp post, that once I can get to painting (and get the right color), burning with a bright orange light. A pile of snow settled at its base. I took out my pencils, erasers, and blending stump as Jo described the mouse with more details. Today, his umbrella was black but seemingly used very often and the snow glittered when the moon rose above it.

Joanna is an extremely vivid dreamer. I've known her essentially my whole life and have listened to every dream she could ever recount, but lately they've been more and more life-like. It's almost as if she actually goes to wherever it is she's dreaming. Maybe it's her younger mind trying to escape from our reality. We are from the same town in London, and when my parents were called to defend our nation, Jo's mother offered to take me in until they returned. Things only got worse from there. The air raids and constant threats kept flooding into the city. After some time, Jo's mom believed that the city was no longer safe for us. She called upon an old college professor who she had remained in friendly contact with over the years who lived far off in the countryside. He gladly took us in. Jo was extremely upset about leaving, so to help her keep going I told her I would draw whatever she wanted. Now, I have half of a sketchbook filled with her dreams. They're always in immense detail, and are only finished when Jo gives it a seal of approval. They started off really normal. Her house, the view outside of the train window, a field of wildflowers, but the longer we're here the more she dreams of his made up land. A land where a talking lion is supposed to rule, but is being hunted and thwarted by an evil, ice witch. A little mouse who hides from the secret wolf police. A winter that has lasted for over a hundred years. That's the part of it that feels like she actually goes there, she knows some of the history. How the people are waiting for a prophecy to be fulfilled to end the long lasting winter and to find the lion who once ruled over the land.

I looked up to see the sun lowering over the countryside. Jo sat on the tree limb above me. Watching as the colors of the sky change.

"That's it" she said softly

"That's what?" I tried to follow her eyeline to see what she was seeing

"That's the color orange"

She was right. As the sun dipped below, the sky became a bright, burning orange. I tried to think of the time to try and return to this hour tomorrow to mix paints as Jo climbed down from the tree and sat beside me. She scanned my drawing. Ensuring that every detail matched precisely. I lifted the drawing a bit more so she could see.

"How's it looking?" I asked as eraser shavings fell off into the lawn

"It looks good. I think you've perfectly drawn him." she placed her hands against the ground and raised to her feet. "I'm excited to see this one painted. I think it'll be your best yet."

"My best yet huh?"

I closed the book and gathered my materials as we both made our way inside. It was always so quiet in the mansion. As big as it is, the only inhabitants are us, Ms. Macready, and Professor Kirke. It wasn't exactly kid friendly. The halls were lined with perfectly polished artifacts and antiques. An expensive seeming painting hung from nearly every wall. Precisely placed hall runners covering much of the hardwood surface. As soon as we came inside, we took off our shoes and made our way to our room. There were so many doors, and we didn't know what was inside most of them. We were only certain of where our room was and where the Professor's office was.

Professor Kirke was a kind man. Mostly enthusiastic, and extremely excited to have visitors. On the first few days we were here, he noticed our sadness and brought us into his office to tell us some stories from his youth about him and a friend. They seemed to cheer up Jo, for the most part. I just enjoy shutting my brain off and sitting in the comfort of his company. For whatever reason, Ms. Macready (Professor Kirke's housemaid) refuses to let us speak to him without being specifically requested. She says that his work is extremely important and he cannot be disrupted. So, the times we have gotten to speak to him have been scarce.

As we were approaching our room, a stern voice called to us.

"Girls, Professor Kirke would like to see you"

Appearing, seemingly out of nowhere, Ms. Macready stood at the top of the stairs leading to our room. Jo and I traded a knowing look, thanked her and made our way to the Professor's office. Upon arrival, I knocked on the door as Jo waited patiently behind me.

"Oh! Come in! It's open!"

We pushed open the door and entered the pristinely kept office. Neatly dusted, books alphabetized, pencils sharpened in their cup, leather chair shining from a real good polish. Professor Kirke smiled as we entered and gestured for us to take a seat in the brown plush chairs in front of his desk.

"I hope I have not disturbed your evening" he said as he closed the book he was studying and pushed it back into its spot. "But I had some news that pertained to the both of you since you bot-"

His sentence was cut short as his eyes landed on the sketchbook in my arms. I could feel my face get a bit hot. I had never really shown an adult my drawings. Only Jo had seen the contents of these pages before.

"Oh my, it seems we have an artist on our hands. May I?"

"Oh, yes you may" I spoke through a knot in my throat as I placed the book into his outstretched hand and felt suddenly as if my stomach plummeted.

Professor Kirke smiled gently at me as he placed the book onto his desk. He flipped to the first page. He studied it for a moment, then nodded and flipped onwards. With every page his smile grew. You could feel the child-like giddy as he moved onwards. My nervousness seemed to fade and become replaced with pride. I thought they were good, but it was really nice to see it written on someone's face.

"Lacey, these drawings ar-"

Professor Kirke's voice stopped abruptly. There was a sudden shift in his demeanor. The always happy and smiling professor was replaced with a shell. His eyes filled with a mixture of fear and sadness. His mouth slightly agape, as if frozen in place from speaking to me before. My mind raced to think of what drawing could possibly cause this reaction, but they were mostly buildings and scenescapes. He turned the book towards us and pushed it to where we could see it.

"How do you know of this place?" He asked as he pointed to a scenescape of a dark, frozen castle, covered in snow with icicles dripping from every ledge and a pack of wolves surrounding the drawbridge. Sculptures of animals made of ice sat right inside the front gate.

"Jo dreamed of it. She said it was the castle of the evil, ice witch. Right?" I looked to her for an explanation as Professor Kirke's head snapped in her direction.

"Elsa the White Witch" Jo responded, bringing the page closer to her, "she created the everlasting winter. She is their self proclaimed ruler, but they're just waiting for the prophecy to happen."

"You never said she had a name" I wracked my brain for any mention of this name before, but came up with nothing.

"I didn't learn it until recently," Jo shrugged and followed very matter of factly. "Or you would've"

"Did you say you learned this recently?" The Professor asked

"Yeah. Maybe a few nights ago."

"But where?"

"I go there in my dreams. That world needs help, and I've been trying to understand what's going on so that maybe I can help." she explained as she flipped through the sketchbook. "Lacey's drawings help me remember so I'm really starting to put it together now"

"How can you help a dreamland Jo?" I asked

"Don't sell her so short" Professor Kirke responded softly as he poured over the drawing. His sadness seemed to grow as he did.

"Just because you've never seen it doesn't mean it isn't real," Jo said. "I don't just make things up you know"

"I didn't mean it that way" I announced as I closed the book and took it back in my arms. "I don't think you make things up, but you yourself have to admit that it is extremely far-fetched."

"I don't admit anything" Jo snapped, crossing her arms in front of her chest. "I know what's real and what isn't Lacey. That place is real. I can feel it."

"She does explain it with great detail" the Professor chimed in motioning towards the book in my arms. "Otherwise you could not have such detailed drawings. Down to the color of the ice sculptures and the way the stars align in the sky."

I stared blankly at him. He spoke with confidence. Almost as if he understood her.

"Professor Kirke," I said, "do you believe this land exists?"

He stared back at me. His round spectacles dramatize his very determined look. I could see the spark in his eyes. As if hearing a call to action. He looked down at the sketchbook once more then shook his head slightly as if to awaken himself from whatever came over him. Jo sighed and I could feel her disappointment from the response. I sighed as well and began to rise from my seat to leave when Professor Kirke spoke again.

"There is another family coming to stay with us until everything in London calms down"

"Another family?" Jo asked, seeming to pep up a bit from her disappointment.

"Yes Jo" he replied, "Four children. Two older siblings more Lacey's age, and two younger children more your age. They should be here within the next few days. Perhaps, you both could make a friend or two."

I nodded to him, and then left for Jo and I's room. It wasn't much. Two twin beds, decorated with the same bland sheets. Jo's books sat on her bedside table, and a desk under the window overlooking the front of the mansion held many different colors of paint along with a couple of pencils and a clock. How else was I to make the color of the sky if I couldn't look at it? I slammed down into the chair and flipped through the sketchbook. Hoping anything would seem to line up. To tell a story. To help me understand what was going on. But I could find nothing in these scenescapes to give me answers. If only I could draw people, I thought to myself, maybe it'd be easier to understand. Maybe I could see what they see. After minutes of examining every page, every rock, every stream, every flake of snow I closed the book defeated. I looked out to the sky made navy blue in the light of the moon. Almost, like the sky above that little mouse.

-Lacey

You can find the rest of this story on my Wattpad @ stfumendes it’s titled Disnia. There will be three books and love interest for both boys. 💕

[sweetbillwriting]

In The Dead of Night

TWO

Description: Delilah is on sick leave from her job and doesn't have much to do in the days. Her life has always been safe and a bit boring but everything changes when she falls in love with her best friend's dead brother.

Characters: AU Eric played by Bill Skarsgård from The Crow (2024)

Setting: This story is set in A WHOLE OTHER WORLD than the movie. Shelley isn't a part of this story. Eric will be different from the movie, especially because I haven't seen the movie.

Warnings: 18+, NSFW, heavy themes.

Notes: It's not so easy being a writer in the Bill fandom so I'm greatful for every comment, like and reblog 🤍

I've made a post with what songs I imagine them listening to.

My masterlist

We walk in silence at first, looking at family homes with their lights off and no cars on the driveway. It was a ghostly version of the street I knew, but I didn't care because I could feel Eric's presence next to me. His towering height and broad shoulders made him take up most of my left side’s visual field. I saw him in the corner of my eye, felt his looming presence, but also knew I would be able to touch him if I just put out my hand to the side. He walked so close, even if he was dead.

“You lived here when you were little?” He suddenly asked with a soft voice. I smiled a little and looked at the third house in front of us.

“Yeah, in the third one. With my parents and my three siblings. It was nice; it was just nice people living here. Where did you live as a kid? I know you had two homes…”

I asked my question carefully. I had tossed the thing about him being dead to the side and instead dived into our date completely. He made me relaxed and warm, and I felt safe asking him private questions. I looked up at his profile, meeting the “Lullaby” tattoo instead of his eyes, but he smiled a little while looking down at Odin, who walked calmly on his other side.

“I don't know what Robin told you, but we lived in this small little village when we were kids, like until I was 10? And he was 13. It was picturesque as fuck….” He smiled a little to himself. There was something so calm and sweet in his way of talking, like he lacked the ability to cover up his emotions. His soul felt completely exposed, but not in a weak way, just in a way that gave him strength and sincerity.

“But I also lived with my biological mom one weekend a month…”

He didn't go into details but told me about his mother's apartment in the big city. The contrast between being with Lotti and Eric, who put on his bike helmet for him and didn't let him leave the neighborhood alone while his biological mother, Linda, let him go out to play on the streets of the big city in the middle of the night.

“I know today she let me do that so she could have some privacy while she shot up. She couldn't even stop for a weekend…” He said with a shoulder shrug.

I nodded with big eyes. My own life felt weird to talk about now, when I knew my life would sound like a children's book without a plot.

“Are you close with your siblings?” He asked, and we turned back to the playground again. It didn't feel like we had walked in another direction other than forward, but now we were back in the same place we had started.

“Sure, or… Yeah, but things change, I guess? My little brother is doing his own thing in London—some computer thing bullshit, I don't know. He earns money, that I know. My oldest has kids and lives a suburban life. My other sister is my boss, and…” I made a doubting sound and breathed out. I didn't feel the need to lie to Eric; I just didn't know how to phrase it.

“It's weird having your sister as a boss?” Eric asked, and he let Odin's leash go. I didn't react at first to his careless action, and when I finally realized that the leash was lying on the ground, I also realized that Odin stood still, watching Eric with big eyes. I thought about taking the leash, but something in me told me I could trust Eric with him.

“I hate it. I hate it so much, and... Then I got this problem with my shoulder after a gym session, and..."

Eric smirked a little and gave me a pointed, teasing smile.

“Shut up!” I said it with a laugh and hit his chest.

“I didn't even say anything,” he said, amused, and pretended to duck away from my pats.

"Yes, you did! With your eyes!”

“Can I talk with my eyes?” He acted astonished and dropped his jaw.

“Yes! Yes, you can!”

“How do they sound?”

We both laughed, and after we calmed down and I had stopped pretending to hit him, I dared to stay close to him. I tilted my face back to see him, and he looked down at me with big eyes and a dimpled smile.

“You don't really have so much trouble with your shoulder, as you say?” He said with a kind smirk. I furrowed my nose in distaste, appalled by myself.

“I can't stand being in her shadow, and... Your brother is a pain in the ass too!”

Eric laughed, and like it was the most natural thing, he laid his arms around me and pulled me closer to his body. He was warm and smelled like expensive cologne. Nothing like a dead body. I giggled at my thought, and I think it made Eric embarrassed because he looked down at the ground with the same dimpled smile.

“Ehm,” he walked up to the swings and took a hold of one. Odin walked close to him, and I got used to it fast. My dog had a new master.

“Your seat, ma’am?” He said it politely and gestured toward the swing. I didn't know I could smile bigger than I already did, but I did when I sat down on the swing. Eric took the one next to me but stood on it, and started to swing with power. I just let mine sway under me. Odin lied down in front of us, pleased, and closed his eyes. It seemed like both he and I liked our strange company a bit too much.

“Your mom misses you so much,” I said when Eric slowed down his swing and stood towards me. He smiled a little sadly, and nodded.

“I never wanted to hurt her... But I did. They did everything for me, but I… I wasn't capable of taking their gifts.They gave me everything… Really everything..”

We were both quiet and took in what he had said. Maybe it became too sad for Eric because suddenly he had started to climb on the swing set to reach the highest point. He did it so easily, like his body weighed nothing, but the pained sounds from the poles told me something else. He laughed a little when he was up, and so did I. He looked at me almost proudly for his accomplishment.

“Now you will never come down from there. Now you're stuck,” said I, like a teasing mom, and stood up with one hand around the pole. I did a lazy spin around it, and just when I was back with my face towards him, he leaned back on the pole and let himself fall. Once again, I acted like a mother and ran up to him, believing in my panic that I would be able to catch the tall man, but I didn't need to do that. Eric hung over the horizontal pole by his bent knees and giggled at me boyishly.

“Did you think you needed to catch me?”

I feigned an irritated smirk and moved up to him. His upside-down face was at the same level as mine.

“No…” His hoodie and the white garment under it had moved a bit down by gravity and I could see an Adonis belt carved into his hips and scribbled tattoos. The pants sat so low that I could also see veins crawling down to his crotch. I swallowed dryly, especially because he didn't seem to acknowledge my view. In my dreamlike state, I dared to walk up to him, stand close to him, and meet his upside-down eyes. The big green eyes. There were secrets in them. Dark, heavy secrets and history, even if they smiled.

“You know this reminds me of something,” he said with a teasing voice, and I knew exactly what he meant. Everyone knew about that pop culture moment.

“Fuck you!” I said it with a laugh, and he smiled big, so I saw his dimple again. When both his and my eyes softened and we looked at each other in a more intimate way, I dared to drag my hands through his mullet and touch the tattoos by his hairline.

“So the spider web is a tribute to Spiderman?” My flirty way was back, but in a calmer way.

"Yeah, I did it when I was ten. Nah, it's actually a Russian prison tattoo. It shows how many people you have killed… Ehm,” he laughed, embarrassed, and then he showed me he wanted to jump down from the swing set. I moved a little, and just as easily, he pulled himself up and then jumped down on the ground.

“You mean you killed-”

“No, no! I was sixteen and thought it was cool. I added the spider a few years later so it would have another meaning.” He moved up to me, so we stood close together again. It felt natural to lay my arms around his neck, so I did. He answered by laying his arms around my waist. I looked at his face, took in everything about him, and I knew I was already falling in love with the man standing in front of me.

Eric's eyes shifted between my eyes and lips. I knew what he was thinking, and smoothly, I stood up on my toes so he would reach my lips.

He kissed me so softly that it felt like a plush, silk pillow was pressed to my lips. So softly that when he moved away, it felt like one of the butterflies had left my belly to touch my lips with its delicate wings.

×××

I was woken up by someone’s crying, but then also by Odin, who jumped up in my bed and attacked my face with his wet tongue. It made me sit up fast and push him away, and then I also saw Robin in the doorway to my bedroom. He had the key to my apartment, so that he was there didn't surprise me, but his loud crying did.

“Hey…” I stood up and moved close to him, even though I was just dressed in panties, and he hugged me hard, pushing me against his chest.

“It's my uncle... He's in the hospital.”

I looked up at him with worry. Would he lose his uncle too now?

“No.. What? Oh, my god. Robin… Will you go there?”

His uncle lived in the town where he had spent the most of his teens and adult life. I knew Robin didn't really like that town, but he nodded anyway.

“Yeah. Can you take Odin?”

He tried to calm down and wipe away his tears, but then he started to cry hysterically again. I laid his head on my shoulder.

“Yes, of course!”

I followed him home, together with Odin, and provided emotional support while he was packing. He calmed down slowly, and then, when it was time for him to go, he was calm and able to drive the car.

I had mixed feelings about having Odin again. He was my baby. I loved him so much, but I also felt quite restrained by him. Not that I had so much to do, but if something showed up, I wouldn't have anyone who could take him.

When I came home, I made some coffee, and while the brewer did its job, I looked at the photos lying on the kitchen table. Luckily for me, Robin hadn't seen the pictures of his brother. It was one of him in profile, sitting on a couch. There was one of him, maybe just seconds after he had turned to the photographer, his arm resting on his head and a big contagious smile on his lips. The last one was one of the more exposing pictures. He was lying against the headboard of the bed, showing off his body in black silk boxer shorts. His eyes were intense, and he looked at you in a magnetic way that made it almost impossible to look away. I sighed to myself, thinking back on my dream. It felt like I could still feel his kiss on my lips, and his voice was carved into me even if I hadn't heard it for real.

I wished I could have stayed there with him. In a world where the dead were walking.

×××

I walked around and around my apartment until the afternoon. There were so many thoughts and feelings in me, and I didn't know what to do with them. I worried a lot for Robin. He had lost his dad and his younger brother, and his mother had a brain injury. Would he now also lose his uncle? It would be tragic, and I thought to myself that I would do everything in my power to be the family he needed.

I thought about Lotti. She was also lonely. She had lost her husband and one of her sons and was now in an elderly home alone. A mother should never outlive her own child, and even if Eric was just a foster kid, he had become her son.

I also thought about my own situation. I was home for an injury that wasn't as serious as I pretended. I hated my job and my boss, even if it was my own sister. I loved her, Desiree, but I hated her as a boss. Sometimes I dreamed about just running away.

But I must think about my dream. It felt so real. It had really felt like I met him and were close to him, but waking up in my bed alone made me realize Eric was just an imagination. I would do anything to dream about him again, kiss his lips, and hear the stories about his tattoos.

I sat and looked at Odin destroying one of my socks until I decided to walk to the bedroom, crawl down in bed, and shut my eyes.

Please, please, please. Let me meet Eric again!

×××

It didn't work, no matter how much I tried. Odin even laid down next to me in bed, and it could have worked so well, but I just slept twenty minutes without dreaming of anything.

I knew the disappointment would just make me restless and, yet again, make me walk round and round in my apartment. I needed to do something and found myself outside of my workplace. The hair salon. I looked in through the window carefully because Odin was with me, and some of my colleagues waved to me. It wasn't that long ago that I visited them, so I didn't think they would come out to say hello; most of them also had a customer in their chair. My sister also had a customer and gave me just an irritated look. I nodded towards a bench standing by a tree on the other side of the road, and she gave me a nod. We had been sitting there several times during the three months I had been home from work.

Me and Odin sat down on the bench. He was busy watching the doves and flirting with people walking by. I just sat and illuminated my phone screen over and over and looked towards the salon. I waited there for fifteen minutes until my sister came out with furrowed brows and crossed arms. Sometimes it felt like she knew I exaggerated my injury, but I also knew she would have said something then.

“I just want to talk about Robin…” I said carefully and played with Odin's leash while he and Desiree said hello to each other. She sighed and sat down on the bench.

“Okay, but do you have to look like a hobo when you come here? You’ve always looked so good; now you look…” She shrugged her shoulders. I looked down at my gray sweatpants, chopped at the knee, and my pink tank top. When I worked, I was really into vintage, but now it felt quite unnecessary to dress up. I cleared my throat, avoiding her question, and looked down at Odin while I continued to talk.

“So you know about his uncle… I'm worried about him. He will be so alone.”

Desiree looked at me with empathetic eyes and took my hand in hers. She knew how important Robin was to me, even if she had known him longer than I had. He worked at the salon when I started to work there.

“Yeah… But he has us,” she said with a nod and moved closer to me.

“Of course… Did you know he had a younger brother? Who died?”

It wasn't my thing to tell my sister about, but I was too curious. Even if I was really worried for Robin, for real, I also couldn't stop my fascination for his dead brother. My sister nodded a little.

“You mean the foster kid? Yeah, I heard about him from Georgia. Shit, so fucking weird, Robin of all people had such a foster kid in his family.”

“What do you mean?” Something stabbed me in the chest when she talked so harshly about Eric.

“He was such a fucking junkie. Like, he sold drugs, had an overdose, and looked like a gulag prisoner. He was a criminal in more ways, too. Like fuck, complete opposite of Robin!”

Desiree looked at me with big eyes; her empathy felt a bit forced now, and the gossip devil in her peaked out through her eyes. I felt weird about what she said about Eric. In a way, it felt like I knew him and wanted to protest, but I didn't know a thing. I didn't know who Eric actually was.

“Robin's family seems to have been that perfect little suburban family; that guy couldn’t have fit in at all... But Georgia said it's a super sensitive subject for Robin. Even if he was just a foster kid.”

I looked away, towards a playground close by. I felt sick by what my sister said, and in some ways, I wished she had never told me. I didn't want to judge Eric, but drugs for me were disgusting, and I felt pain in my whole body thinking about it. I didn't want to see Eric like one of those people lying unconscious on drugs on a stranger's couch or snorting powder in a public bathroom. I wanted him to be that cute guy he was in my dream, but that started to feel like an impossibility now that I knew on what level he used drugs.

×××

Blue light blinked above me and made my sequin top glitter. It was a halterneck top I had bought in a vintage shop in Milano two years ago, but I had never had the opportunity to wear it. I loved the purple sequin pattern and looked at the top with a smile. I wore it with a pair of dark flared jeans. In my admiration for my outfit, I forgot to look around but had then seen that I stood completely alone in a club, in the middle of the dance floor, but I wasn't alone for long.

"Hey, beautiful,” said a smooth voice I recognized behind me. I looked back and met the big green eyes I had fantasized about since I saw them in a photo. I shone up with a bright smile. My dream self wasn't at all as reserved, and I ran up to him, and he caught me in his open arms. Both of us laughed softly and looked at each other with a warm gaze.

Eric was dressed in a big black t-shirt with a wide collar that showed off collarbones and tattoos. It was matched with bleached, trashed jeans with a studded belt, and in his left ear he had a small dagger earring. The outfit was nothing I would have wanted to see a guy in, but on him, it was something else. It was a bit trashy, but in a sexy way.

With a shy smile, he put my hair behind my ear with delicate fingers. I wanted so badly to kiss him. Because of his boyish ways, sexy eyes framed with eyeliner, and manly body, but especially because he seemed so kind and lovable.

So I did. I stood up on my toes and kissed his warm lips, and he kissed back at once, so I never needed to wonder if I did the right thing. He stayed close after, with his forehead against mine, and we laughed again.

“Hi,” I said in a giggle.

“Hey,” he said with a blushy smirk. I dragged my hands over his silly mullet and down over his eyebrow tattoo.

“Hi,” I said again, and I felt my cheeks glow in the same color as my newly kissed lips.

×××

We danced to non-existent music on an empty dance floor. Eric kissed me softly over and over until it became a deep make-out session. He was soft and sensual in every kiss and succeeded in making every hair stand up on my body. It was a beautiful contrast—his romantic ways against his hard look. I had really thought he would be a heartbreaker, or rather, a douchebag, an asshole, but his sweet ways couldn't belong to such a guy. Eric was a good boy, just like his mother had said.

“Where is the music?” Eric asked suddenly and looked around the dance floor.

“What do you mean? There hasn't been any music?”

Eric gave me a confused smirk and dragged a hand over the side of his face.

“Seriously? I thought it was…” He laughed a little but then took a fast sprint towards the DJ’s podium. He climbed it just as easily as he had climbed the swing set and gave the electronics a look.

“Do you know such things?” I asked and moved close to the podium.

“I've worked in clubs... Even as a DJ,” he smirked a little embarrassed and started to plug in the cords.

“Is this a club you've worked at, maybe?

I made a little spin on the dance floor when System of a Down’s Radio/Video streamed out from the speakers. It was probably nostalgic for both of us, even if I've been just a wannabe alternative while he was the real deal.

“No, I was here a lot when I was, like 18? It was the only bit more alternative place, so me and my fellow... depressed friends came here to do MDMA.”

He jumped down the podium and spinned me in, close to his body. He gave me a searching look when I looked down on the floor. The drugs made me uncomfortable, even if I wanted to be such a person who could be chill around drugs and not be a prude, but I was. I had never had any contact with drugs and didn't even know what MDMA was, really.

“It’s nothing serious. Ecstasy, you know?” He said it carefully and dragged his hands over my waist. “It's just a party drug…”

I dragged my hands over his neck but continued to look down, not because I judged him but because my eyes had become shiny. I couldn't stop thinking about what Desiree told me.

“What drugs have you taken?” I asked quietly, and I could feel his hands stiffen on my waist. He had probably understood I hadn't done any, and he would sound like a junkie whatever he said. He breathed out deeply.

“I think the better question would be what haven't I tried.”

I looked up at him with tear-filled eyes, and he looked back. I could see he was ashamed, even if he didn't want to hide anything from me.

“Heroin?”

“That too. It's so much cheaper…”

The tears in my eyes streamed down my cheeks now.

“Oh my god… Eric… Why… Why did you do that to yourself?” I dragged my hands over his cheeks and neck, both admiring his face and letting my heart break at the thought of what he had done to himself—how he had killed himself.

Eric didn't say anything; instead, he leaned down and pushed his nose against my neck. I dragged my hands over his broad back, up in his hair, and out over his shoulders. He cried without any sound, and I just continued to let him break down in my arms.

×××

We had moved to one of the couches in the seating area, a stairway up. It was just as empty there, and the music wasn't so loud that we needed to shout to one another, as it usually would be in a club. Eric had put on one of his own Spotify playlists that rolled in the background, and I was a bit surprised he could even do such a thing in this dreamworld. He even gave me his username, and I wrote a note mentally to search for it. We listen to nostalgic music that made us laugh: Offspring, Blink-182, and Snoop Dogg, but also nostalgic music that is still his favorites: Bauhaus, Public Enemy, and Joy Division. First, I didn't dare to say what I listened to, but when I confessed my deep love for Lana Del Rey, he just smiled and agreed with me. He didn't seem to be the judgmental type.

We talked about classical date subjects. Interests (he worked out as often as he could but had played the guitar and drawn comics when he was younger), food (he tried to be a vegan but felt he lost muscle mass by it and he just LOVED meat), clothes (he liked thrift stores but also luxury brands because the quality was nice against his skin), and work (he had a hard time keeping a job so he had tried many things but most often came back to being a bartender). He was an open book and asked me just as many questions as I asked him. He was the perfect date.

He sat with his feet up on the table in front of him and his legs spread. I could see skin in the many holes in his light jeans and had laid my cheek against his chest to look at them. He played with my hair between his fingers, and I could feel his smile against my head.

“Can you tell me a bit about your tattoos? How many have you?”

Eric laughed, and I could feel how he leaned his head back. I looked up at him and saw a smile so wide it caused creases around his eyes.

“Do you think I know that?” He looked down at his muscular arms, covered in tattoos, then pulled up his t-shirt and showed even more tattoos, but also those defined abs. I didn't know if he showed them on purpose, to let me see, but I got that feeling when I dragged a fingertip over his stomach and felt him flex. I had never touched a guy that ripped and took the opportunity to drag my hand from his sternum to the elastic of his Saint Laurent underwear. God, I wanted to lick every bit of exposed skin, but that would probably be too much for now.

“You're so fucking hot,” I said instead, lifting my head up so I could look at him properly but also try to get a kiss. He gave me a dark smile and put his fingertip against my chin.

“So are you.”

He kissed me softly at first, but it just took seconds before we made out deeply. Our tongues danced well together, like a heated tango. I drew back not only because I needed to breathe but also because I could feel my cheeks warm.

“You were a bartender?” I asked teasingly and put a finger against his chest. “Shouldn't you take my order?”

Eric laughed a little, but then looked uncomfortable.

“I can't. Drink, I mean. But I can see if I can find something for you.” He stood up, and I sat up better. His energy had changed drastically.

“Oh… You… Is... Alcohol is that like, because... Your addiction?”

“No, no. Ehm…” He stuffed his hands deep in the front pocket of his jeans and looked around. “I can't do it because... I don't really know, but something tells me I can't drink in my state. You know, I'm dead.”

He continued to look at everything other than me, and, for a moment, I felt the same thing as he. He was dead and would never be a part of the real world ever again. We were silent, but after a while, I felt a need to break the tragic moment and enjoy the time we had together.

“I'm just so fucking hot. Can you help me with that?”

Eric looked at me now, first like he didn't understand what I said, but then he smirked. Big.

“Oh, I can help you with that.”

With fast feet and a hard grip on my hand, he pulled me out of the empty club and out to a dark street. It was in the middle of the night, completely dark but also completely silent. I couldn't see a car or a window with the lights turned on. It was just dark, with only the full moon illuminating the world for us. We ran over the streets in a giggle while street lights blinked by our presence. It was magical. If I didn't have Eric, I would have been scared and stressed, but holding his big, warm hand and seeing his playful smile made it all just exciting.

He took me to an open space between high buildings. First, it looked completely empty until I saw a pattern in the middle, small metallic openings. Eric moved away to a bench, and behind it was a locked fuse box. It didn't look much to the world, and it probably wasn't because Eric started to kick it harshly. I watched him silently, confused, but didn't feel worried. It didn't seem like cops existed in this world.

“It's such fucking cheap shit, so you can just kick and pull the hatch open,” he said before continuing to kick. After a while, he had kicked it hard enough with his black vans to get his fingers in the hatch and pull it up. He gave me a little smirk before looking towards the pattern in the ground and clicking some buttons. It was a fountain hidden in the paving stones.

He smiled proudly but also looked a bit blushy when I laughed and kicked off my Converse. I ran out in the fountain without any doubt and let the hard beams hit my body. The water was cold against my warm skin, but I didn't freeze, especially not when Eric joined me, without his shoes and without his shirt. I laughed and threw myself around his neck. I felt so free, and my chest glowed with love and euphoria.

Eric laughed too and spinned me around in his strong arms before kissing me again. I dragged my hands over his naked skin, enjoying every muscle and every line. The broad shoulders, the strong arms, and the muscular chest. I was so horny, I felt my sex ache. It didn't feel like there were any rules anymore, and I pulled off my halterneck top so my chest was as bare as Eric's. I dragged my fingers through my wet hair, pushed it back, and wiped away some smudged mascara. I looked up at Eric, who was also black around his eyes with watery black eyeliner. His big green eyes looked at my chest, then up to my face. With a shy little smile, he asked for permission to touch my breasts, and I helped by laying one of his big hands on my tits so he could give it a squeeze.

“These are some beautiful fucking boobs,” he said, and I laughed. He embraced me from behind and played with my breasts in his hands. The fountain continued to spray us with water, but we almost didn't notice anymore. I had taken one of Eric's fingers and sucked it down to his knuckle while he kissed my neck. I had never been so horny.

“Please just fuck me,” I whined, pushing my ass against his crotch. He groaned, and I could feel a hint of an erection. I spun around so I could explore what was hiding behind bleached denim and Saint Laurent cotton, but Eric had taken his own initiative and opened his studded belt with a jiggle. He unbuttoned his jeans, and at the same time he looked at me, he started to pull them down with his boxers. I could see shortly trimmed, dark pubic hair, and then I almost held my breath when I saw the hilt of his cock-

×××

The image of a wet, shirtless Eric disappeared, and instead I saw more and more of the light coming from my window. I had forgotten to pull down the blinds, and the bright May sun had woken me up from my perfect dream.

What the fuck?

×

[redrosyrose]

determination - August 19th - @wolfstarmicrofic - word count: 323

Remus slowly pacing on the slippery cobblestone in London as Sirius hurriedly dragging him around and promised there'll be a surprise.He's never seen his Siri delighted like tonight,Remus can even spot his grey pupils sometimes shimmered

He let his eyes wandering around.The shining rays of moonlight reflexed itself with the flows of Thames,created those little sparkles seems like magic floating in the air.Some flickers of street light striking his attention to narrow alleys,which are faintly enlightened with neon signboard.His nostril are filled with thrash of different smells, wrenched rain boots to delicious butter from some bakery.

Remus has been here many times before with Lyall.But this city just really catches his attention since he met Sirius.Their dates peppered all over this city,now whenever he passed any alleyway,Remus can see them were sharing a fag of snogging passionately.

Suddenly their steps falter,as he can hear Sirius whispers from behind "Now Moony,close your eyes,you'll see the surprise in a few minutes."Remus swears if there is a kind of drug,it must be Sirius' voice,he can bask himself in the soft,seductive of its forever.

He can feel Sirius' slender fingers entangled with him,then slightly pull Remus into a slow pace."You can open your eyes now"as his eyes slowly parted,Remus can see a cosy bookstore filled with warmth infront of his eyes.

"Love,what is this"he said incredulously.

"It's your dream you told me.You said that you wanted to own a bookstore one day and you'd imagined it since you'd been a kid."

"But it's-

"Yes,no but."Sirius sternly corrects him."You've loved me ever since now let me love you properly and don't underestimate my determination."Before Sirius can said any Remus has gently slipped their lips together.But one thing Sirius hasn't known that the moment he noticed him weeping in that alley,Remus doesn't need Sirius to love him back,his heart is all Sirius'.

[notsoblackandwhite101]

Na'lright, so that last ask made me lose my damn mind. Spent the last few hours doing this! Behold, Fergus's family tree... currently. I may tweek it down the line. I previously said in past asks that Fergus was being raised by his parents and siblings in London, but I'm altering that!

Fergus's mum, Vivienne, was born and raised in Ireland, youngest of three pups. Her family were hardcore wild foxes, who rejected all facets of 'civilized' society. They hunted for their food, lived in burrows, ect ect. Only Vivi didn't vibe with that. She was a bit more lazy. It was so much easier to steal from dumpsters than it was to hunt. There were less hunting dogs in the towns and cities to! This started a big row with her folks and her brother Aidan, until she decided to leave. London was the biggest city around, so she snuck on a ship and made her way over. She enjoyed living in London, away from her traditional parents and brother. Things got a little harder when a one night stand unexpectedly left her expectant, but she raised Fergus the best she could. She taught him all about living in the city and while Fergus is a bit of a runt due to a lack of good food in his kit years, Vivi thinks she did alright! (Extra fun note, Vivienne is based on Fergus's design in the pilot!)

Of course, even if the family had a bit of a fight, they never really leave each other alone. Aidan and his wife would come to visit when they could. Aidan was intent on making his nephew appreciate his wild heritage, and maybe try to turn his life around, unlike his mother. Aunt Keeley is just a soft, go with the flow fox who tried to make peace more than anything, and Findlay is very chatty, though he mostly speaks Gaelic, like most of the family can . (Fergus only knows bits and pieces as his mum raised him in England. Findlay is also still learning English so communication can be tough.) Findlay is also very good at hunting, which can be awkward in London, as Fergus is friends with plenty of the 'Prey' around. (Findlay also has siblings, but I'm too tired to think of them now.)

AND FINALLY Aunt Muriel. Eldest of the three. She moved to a nature preserve in Ireland after her leg was injured. She's a 'Species Representative' who teaches other creatures about Foxes and how they live. Aunt Muriel is rather flat and unenthusiastic. She never wanted kid or to get married. She just dose as she pleases without hurting anyone and expects the same as everyone else. She also has a very sharp wit and tongue to match. Aidan and Vivienne both keep their fighting to a minimum around her, as Muriel tends to put them in their place easily enough.

Oh and Aunt Muriel is literally just Sister Michael from 'Dairy Girls' if you want to see what she's like.

Now these names aren't set in stone yet. I was hoping to find some more traditional Irish names but I'm very tired, so feel free to suggest some! (Also sorry for any spelling errors. Its very late at night/ early in the morning here.)

[seeminglyranch87]

Taylor & Travis Timeline

July 2024 - Part 1

July 3 - New Heights Ep. 97 airs, season 2 finale. Jason & Travis Kelce discuss Travis' debut on the Eras Tour stage (x) (x 48:30)

Kelce said it was initially his idea to join the show at Wembley Stadium, recalling that he told Swift it would be “funny” if he “rolled out on one of the bikes” that dancers typically ride on stage during the 1989 portion of the show.

Kelce said Swift laughed, but then asked him, “Would you seriously be up for doing something like that?”

“I was just like, ‘What? I would love to do that. Are you kidding me? I’ve seen the show enough — might as well put me to work here,’” he recalled. “And sure enough, she found the perfect part of the show for me to come in.”

Kelce surprised the crowd in London last week when he appeared on stage in a tuxedo and top hat carrying Swift onstage in “The Tortured Poets Department” era of the show.

It happened on the third night of the London stops, after the brothers attended Swift’s first two shows there.

“There was no bike in case I ran into somebody else or hit one of the dancers or anything,” Kelce said. “It was the safest option.”

Kelce said his silly dance on stage was inspired by one Jim Carey does in the movie “Dumb and Dumber.”

“I always wanted to pull out this move, but I never knew like when I should pull it out where it made sense,” he said. “That’s one of my favorite moves of all time!”

All said, Kelce called it an “honor” being on the stage with Swift and her dancers.

“It was an absolute blast,” he shared. “It was such a fun, playful part of the show and it was like the perfect time for me to go up there, just be a ham and have some fun, not only with [Swift]… but the crowd and really try and get everybody excited for the rest of the show. It was awesome.”

“I didn’t disappoint Taylor, so that’s all that really matters,” he added, saying his only rule was “do not drop the baby.”

“The golden rule was ‘Do not drop Taylor. Get her to the couch safe,’” Kelce said.

His brother and co-host Jason Kelce laughed, adding: “No fumbles.”

A little serendipitous don't you think...?

July 4 - The Eras Tour, Johan Cruijff Arena, Amsterdam, Netherlands N1

Guilty As Sin x Untouchable (guitar) The Archer x Question…? (Piano)

“I’ve been the Archer, I’ve been the prey, who could ever leave me darling? Who could stay? It’s just a question….”

And if you want to stay what do you ask the other person?

Taylor Nation reposting…. They are so unserious!

July 5 - The Eras Tour, Johan Cruijff Arena, Amsterdam, Netherlands N2

Imgonnagetyouback x Dress (guitar) & You Are In Love x Cowboy Like Me (piano)

Our girl is in love!

Taylor mimics a Travis move during Midnight Rain

Taylor sang “Karma is the guy on the Chiefs” with Travis in attendance.

Taylor Nation are riding the Tayvis train - are they hinting at a 2nd appearance on stage for Travis tomorrow for Amsterdam N3?

July 6 - The Eras Tour, Johan Cruijff Arena, Amsterdam, Netherlands N3

Travis, Patrick & Brittany Mahomes are in attendance (in suite) and sing their hearts out 🫶

Sweeter Than Fiction x Holy Ground (guitar) & Mary’s Song (Oh My My My) x So High School x Everything Has Changed (piano)

"all I know since yesterday is everything has changed and in a blink of a crinkling eye, everything has changed and I'll be 87, you'll be 89, I'll still look at you like the stars that shine in my sky, oh my my my"

Note that the secret message in the lyric booklet for Mary's Song is Sometimes love is forever. This was a love letter to Travis. Travis got a little emotional during the 2nd mashup and was seen wiping away tears.

Taylor & Travis leave the stadium together (x x)

Taylor & Travis head out with Patrick & Brittany Mahomes & Summitt & Miranda Hogue in Amsterdam post performance.

Pics posted to IG July 15 (x x)

July 8 - It is one year today since Travis Kelce went to night 2 of the Eras Tour in Kansas City wanting to shoot his shot and give Taylor Swift a friendship bracelet with his number on it. News agency's jumping the gun on Taylor & Travis' anniversary releasing articles and timelines. Remember they had not met or had contact yet.

ET timeline (x)

CNN (x x)

July 9 - The Eras Tour, Station Letzigrund, Zurich, Switzerland N1

📸 Noam Galai, 9 July 2024

Right Where You Left me x All You Had To Do Was Stay (guitar)

“Happy 9th July to those who celebrate” says Taylor before belting out

Last Kiss x Sad Beautiful Tragic (piano)

July 10 - Travis finishes filming Grotesquerie, seen with Larry McGee and crew.

The Eras Tour, Station Letzigrund, Zurich, Switzerland N2

Closure x A Perfectly Good Heart (guitar) & Peter x Never Grow Up (piano)

July 11 - Travis films advertisement for Lowe's in Long Beach, California.

Travis participates in the American Century Championship charity golf tournament's karaoke competition in Lake Tahoe, Nevada. Travis sings belts out Whitesnake's 1982 hit "Here I Go Again." (x) Travis is awarded first place!!! He accepts his award (x)

“This is the greatest thing that’s happened this year. Taylor this is for you!”

Not sure how many drinks Travis has consumed but glad to know Taylor is on his mind!!! ; )

July 12 - Travis competing in the American Century Golf Championship with his brother Jason, Lake Tahoe, Nevada.

Travis Kelce is announced as the #1 Tight End in the NFL 2024. Taylor shows her support liking 3 IG posts below.

Go to previous update -> June part 3

Go to next update -> July part 2

Return to the timeline

[sweetprfct]

Written in the Stars

Joseph Quinn x Fem!Reader

Summary: You are a believer in fate but after getting your heart broken, you had stopped believing it. Until you met Joe. Suddenly, it got you questioning if fate is real or not.

Author's Note: I truly enjoyed going back and re-editing this story and re-publishing it. As per requested by everyone, I will be re-publishing Permanent December. It's my very first Joe fic series, so it's very special to me. Anyway, thank you for the support with this series! :)

Wordcount: 2.2K

part one - part two - part three - part four - part five - part six - part seven - part eight - part nine - part ten - epilogue

London, United Kingdom.

“Sofia? That’s the same name as Sofia!” 

Sara chuckled softly, pulling her ten year old daughter closed to her side. She brushed her brunette hair softly as Sofia said, “It is me.”

Sara chuckled again as she heard that small gasp, making Sofia giggle quietly too. 

“But what happened to the Prince and the Princess?” 

“Rosie, don’t be dumb. Isn’t it obvious? The story is about mum and dad.” 

Rosie pouted at her older brother as her warm brown eyes turned into puppy dog ones before burying her face on Joe’s chest. She sobbed quietly as Joe cooed her and pulled her close in his arms and brushed her brown curly hair. 

“Francis, what did I tell you about being mean to your little sister, and we don’t call anyone that word.” You told your six your old son, who was sitting next to you.

Francis hung his head low, his curls falling down his forehead as he let out a sigh. “I’m sorry, Rosie.” 

The fireplace warmed the living room that all of you were sitting in. Snow was falling outside as Christmas approached the city of London in just a few days. The kids had been wanting to hear a story before bed and all night long, your four year old daughter had been repeatedly asking you to tell her a nice love story about a Prince and a Princess. Wes and Sara had dropped Sofia off at your house for the weekend since they wanted to go on a nice weekend getaway alone. You honestly didn’t mind since Sofia was such a sweetheart and very mature for her age. She loved to help you bake in the kitchen with Rosie, while Joe would watch television with Francis or play video games in the living room. 

“It’s okay.” Rosie pouted as Joe smiled down at his daughter, who was sitting on his lap. 

Rosie was a Daddy’s girl. Always had been since she was born. You always wondered why she was so attached to Joe even when she was just a few months old. As she grew older, you could see why. She looked like her father with those brunette curly hair and big chocolate button eyes, and she was starting to be like him too. Everywhere Joe went, she would instantly follow him, ask him questions about his job and how she could also be in the movies. When she was around two, she had given you the hardest time every time Joe had to fly to the States to do some interview or shoot a movie. Rosie would always stay by the window and wait for Joe. She would ask you a million times every day when Joe would come home. 

“Sweetheart, he’s gonna be here by Friday.” You would tell her. “In the meantime, why don’t you help mum bake some cookies, yeah?”

That was how you and Rosie had gotten closer. Through baking. She certainly still chose to hang out with Joe most of the time and even go with him on movie sets, so she could see how his movies were made. But you were glad that you had found something that you and your daughter could do together. Francis, on the other hand, was always next to you. He was always interested in what you do at work, asks you questions about how to make friends at school because he was a shy kid and sometimes, he would even ask if he could just stay home instead. You worry about Francis sometimes because he always had a hard time making friends at school. So, you always tried to understand him, but you also wanted your two children to get along since Francis always loved to tease Rosie. 

“Mum, what happened next?” Rosie asked again, her eyes then turned to gazed up at Joe.

Joe cleared his throat and said, “Well, one year later, they got married and then after that, they moved to London with your Uncle Wes, Aunt Sara and Sofia.” 

“Your mum was pregnant at that time with Francis.” Sara added. “She had the hardest time in the hospital.”

Francis gazed up at you and asked, “How come?”

“You just wouldn’t get out.” You chuckled, poking the tip of his nose lightly. 

“She was in the hospital for 18 hours.” Joe continued. 

“And you, my darling…” Joe tickled Rosie on her side, making her giggle and held onto Joe’s hand. “You were just too excited to get out that you were two days early.” 

Rosie clenched her small fist into Joe’s shirt as she tried to stand up on his lap. Rosie wrapped her tiny arms around Joe and hugged him tightly, making Joe smile and held her in his arms and softly rubbed her back. 

“Such a Daddy’s girl.” Wes commented, making everyone chuckle softly. 

“I love mum too.” Rosie pouted, laying her head on Joe’s shoulder as she yawned.

“I think it’s time for bedtime.” Sara got up from the sofa. 

“Yeah, I’ll put her to bed.” Joe got up from where he was sitting and went down the hall to set Rosie down for sleep. 

Joe set Rosie on her bed gently and pulled the covers over her, tucking her in as Rosie gave him a sweet smile and said, “One day, I want to have my soulmate.”

Joe laughed softly, kissing her forehead. “Not until when you’re 40.”

Rosie pouted at Joe’s little tease. “Goodnight, sweetheart. I love you.”

“Goodnight. I love you too, Dad.” Rosie smiled, closing her eyes and hugging her little stuffed teddy bear that was next to her. 

Joe stared at his daughter for a moment, brushing her hair softly. Tonight, looking back at his journey with you, he couldn’t help but think about something he read the other day in Sara’s bookshop. Sometimes, he still couldn’t wrap his mind that he has this family. That he has his beautiful family with you. It made all the wait and the complicated situations before seemed all worth it. 

“Dad?” Francis appeared at the doorway in his pajamas. 

Joe looked over his shoulder and got up from where he was kneeling. “Hey.”

“Mum said it’s bedtime.” Francis reached for his hand. “D… Do you think you could tuck me in?”

“I thought you said you were getting too old for that?” Joe raised his brow. 

Francis shrugged his shoulders and looked down at his feet. “Maybe… not.”

A small smile slowly tugged on Joe’s face as he picked up his son. Francis laid his head on Joe’s shoulder and said, “Dad?”

“Yeah?” Joe set Francis down on his bed and tucked him in. 

“Do you think… Will I ever make friends?” 

Joe looked down at his son. You and Joe had talked about this, and Joe knew how worried you were that Francis felt lonely at school. Joe could see it in Francis’ eyes too that he felt lonely and insecure over the fact that he was the only one who was always left out in school, especially during team activities because no one would pick him to join the group.

“Of course.” Joe reassured him. “You’re a wonderful person, and I know someone will see that. You know I was the same way before? Then, I met your Uncle Wes and ever since then, we were inseparable. Just like your mum and your Aunt Sara.” 

Francis’ expression suddenly lightened as he gave Joe a small smile. “Thanks Dad. I love you.”

“I love you too.” Joe leaned down to kiss Francis’ forehead before making his way to the door. “Oh, and if they don’t want to play with you, you always have me.” 

Francis smiled at his father before closing his eyes and went to sleep. Joe quietly closed the door behind him and made his way back to the living room, finding you and Sara talking to each other. 

“That sounds heavenly.” Joe heard you murmur to Sara. “I’m sure you two will have so much fun.” 

“Yeah, I think we kinda need it, you know?” Sara grinned. 

“Maybe you two will have too much fun.” You nudged Sara, teasing her as she felt her cheeks heat up. 

“Please.” Sara laughed softly. “Maybe.”

You gasped softly, surprised that she actually agreed. Your eyes widened in surprise. “Really?”

“Yeah, I think it’s time.”

You let out a small squeal as you pulled her into a hug. “Then, definitely have so much fun.”

Sara laughed and turned to where Sofia was sitting on the sofa. “My sweet, come here.”

Sofia put her book down and walked over to where you and Sara were. You watched as Sara kneeled down in front of her and smiled. 

“We’ll be back in two days. Be good to your Aunt and Uncle, okay?” 

“Of course, mum. I love you.” Sofia smiled, giving her a hug. “I’ll miss you and dad.” 

Sara smiled, hugging her daughter. “We’ll miss you too.” 

“Okay, I think we have to go, darling.” Wes chimed in as he knelt down in front of Sofia also and pulled her into a hug. “I love you, darling.”

“I love you too, Dad.” Sofia smiled, giving both of her parents kisses on the cheek. 

“C’mon. I’ll put you to bed.”  You reached for Sofia’s hand. 

“It’s okay, Auntie. I can do it myself.” 

You raised your brows at Sara as she looked at her daughter proudly. You couldn’t help but chuckle and nodded your head. Sofia truly was so mature for her age, and Sara and Wes did raise her very well. You felt Joe’s hand on the small of your back as you both walked Sara and Wes out the door. 

“Well, you two have so much fun.” You gave them both a hug. 

“Thank you.” Wes smiled. “And thank you for taking care of Sofia.”

“Of course. She is so precious, and the kids love her when she’s around.” You said.

“Okay, well, we gotta go.” Sara and Wes gave the both of you one last hug before making their way to their car. 

You took a deep breath and closed the door behind you. You raised your brow at Joe when you saw him looking at you with his adoring eyes. 

“Come here.” Joe reached for your hand. 

“Why?” You laughed, sliding your hand in his. 

“Just come on.” Joe nodded his head towards the direction of the kitchen. 

You watched as he stopped in the middle of the kitchen and left you there as he walked over to the speaker and played a slow song for the both of you in a low volume.  

“Can I have this dance, miss?” Joe bowed his head at you with one hand reaching for yours. 

You laughed, shaking your head as you took his hand. You gazed up at him with a smile on your face, your eyes locking with his chocolate button ones. 

“That story was romantic, wasn't it?” Joe asked you the same question he had asked you back in New York when you heard Mr. Cheng’s story but this time, he was referring to your story with him.

You hummed softly and said, “It really was.” 

“You know I remembered something earlier. Something I read at the bookshop.” Joe murmured. 

“Yeah?”

“Did you know in Korea, there’s this thing called “In-Yun,” which means fate.”

“Oh god, Joe.” You laughed softly, shaking your head as the both of you continued to dance. 

“No, hear me out.” Joe chuckled. “They said that In-Yun is fated paths that entwine two people together throughout their past and future lives and they said even just a brush of a shoulder with a stranger, they said that it must mean they mean something to each other in their past lives. Then, they said that if you had married your soulmate, it’s said to be the result of 80,000 layers of In-Yun in over 80,000 lifetimes.”

You grinned, shaking your head. It had been so long since you and Joe talked about the whole “fate” thing. It also had been a while since you thought about it. You were just surprised that Joe still thought about it until now, especially that you were the one who loved to believe in those things before. 

“So, do you think we have 80,000 layers of In-Yun because we’re married?” You asked.

“I told you once that every path I tried to go to away from you, it always leads to you no matter what.” Joe murmured, the expression on his face turned into something serious. “Whether that’s in our past lives or in the future lives, I know no matter what the situation was, my heart will always lead back to you.” 

You smiled, stopping on your feet for a moment and leaned in to kiss him softly. “80,000 lifetimes.” You grinned. “That’s a lot.”

“Yeah.” Joe grinned. 

“I believe it too.” You replied. “I always have.”

“I love you so much.” Joe whispered.

“I love you too.” 

You grinned as he leaned down to kiss you deeply. You smiled through the kiss as he pulled you close to him, wrapping your arms around his neck. Whether that was an invisible red string that connected you and Joe together or because you two have 80,000 layers of In-Yun in over 80,000 lifetimes, you knew that your path always had led back to his heart too. Pulling away from the kiss, Joe set his forehead on yours as you both continued to slow dance blissfully in the middle of your kitchen. 

“Your past and mine are parallel lines. Stars all aligned and they intertwined.” -Taylor Swift, All of the Girls You Loved Before

The End. 

********

Taglist:

@palomahasenteredthechat @sunvick @eddies-acousticguitar @demonsanddemogorgons @joesquinns @mmunson86 @ghostinthebackofyourhead @corrodedcoffincumslut @figmentofquinn @tlclick73 @browneyes8288 @munsonluvrr @ali-r3n @ficsbypix @capricornrisingsstuff @missonlypost @ali-in-w0nderland @amberolivia666 @lalalala-melmosworld @niallersfreckles @nanas-lasagna @emma77645 @indulgence-be-thy-name @readergf @ladamari68 @1paire2vans @d4rk4ng3l86 @paleidiot @josephquinnsfreckles @readergf

[timoswerner]

Something I’ve been wondering about since the days you were the only person slating Hojbjerg every match. You’re a STH and match going fan where the majority of people on here aren’t- how do you think that changes things? Have you got a different perspective, different priorities?

firstly, i love that my legacy is being the original hojbjerg hater. secondly this is going to be quite long and rambley...

i think sometimes it's a simple as it comes down to different angles. when you're watching the game from home you can't see the whole pitch for the whole time, but actually at the game, and particularly if you're high up, you can see the whole pitch the whole game. so i could see when he wasn't doing his defensive duties, when he switched off, when he was just standing there flapping his arms about, but you couldn't see it on the tv because the camera would be elsewhere. also when you're at games you don't hear the commentary or the pundits so i'm not going to be swayed by their narratives or anything like that. like i'm just seeing the game as it is right in front of me. but yeah quite often i go on twitter or here and people have a completely opposite opinion on a players performance to what i've seen.

also kind of ties in with something i've said before about twitter tacticos or people with podcasts... they're not always watching football for what it is, a football game? i don't know how to explain it but when you're at the game you're not over thinking the tactics or positions of the players. you're in the moment! like after the north london derby last season, i went on twitter and certain set of people were fuming and saying it was embarrassing and the players let us down - but that wasn't what i saw or pretty much anyone else in the stadium. we all saw a team that gave their all and the atmosphere in the stadium was good! loads of people hanging around after, having a laugh. no one was depressed as they were on twitter. i feel like sometimes those types are sucking the fun and the general essence out of football. or sometimes on twitter you see fans who only want big signings and 'fancy' names in their team over bringing through youth and academy kids but for me watching local lads come through is one of the best parts of football to me!

something else though is sometimes things like rivalries gets missed by people who are 'online' supporters- i remember someone on here did a survey that was like 'as a spurs fan what other team do you hate the most' and a fair few people said liverpool.... blew my mind! what do you mean it's not arsenal or chelsea?! no one who's been brought up around spurs, or goes to games is going to say liverpool but i guess if you've not been brought up with those rivalries then you wouldn't 'get it' in the same way and that's fine, i'm just never going to understand that personally and a lot of other people won't understand it either! same with some of the discourse around spurs fans wanting to lose to city last year - i was flabbergasted that anyone would be okay with us winning and handing the title to arsenal. it's fucking arsenal! i don't have any particularly bad feelings towards city either, but again it's probably just where people have come in to football at different times. people coming in to football now probably feel about city how i do about growing up with united dominating. speaking of- seeing liverpool fans say they feel bad for man united on twitter - sorry what?! can't have been around when united were winning everything hahahaha. but as i'm typing think i think that's more about being brought up around football and getting in to it at different points in time. and that's fine! footballs too big now to just be fans that were born in to a family that have always supported one team!

i do also think football is consumed on here a bit differently to how i was brought up or how i experience it in real life. it's quite fandomised on here? when i first came across football blogs on here i was like what the fuck is going on hahahahaha. and that's fine! it's just not how football is for the general population. and occasionally i have felt like... some people have missed the football part of it all. like to me people get caught up in the fandom side a bit much - i think we've all encountered the mason mount girlies who don't seem to actually understand football, or at one point the deledier girls were doing my head in because i felt like they weren't actually seeing what was going on the pitch? but at the same time and for the most part i think on here is quite fun and in general less serious than other parts of the football world and i like that! it's nice to come on here and have fun with everyone in a way i can't when talking about football with my parents or people i know irl. definitely prefer here to football twitter.

but yeah i think some of it is just different. i think going to games can give you a different view on players, or the team, or rivalries and stuff. i do feel like some people who don't go to games miss things that make football so great for me. but at the end of the day it's just different opinions innit :)