#worth all the tinnitus

[himbosandhardwear]

😭😭😭😭😭

[joyridingmp3]

so i don't actually suck at solo/lead guitar stuff it's just that my strings were in the way that whole time

[samwisefamgee]

how does this week keep getting worse wtf

[lookinghalfacorpse]

dreamzablade where they get caught in an explosion and cTechno only has a moment grab the nearest bf and shield him bc humans are so, so fragile, and cTechno isn’t sure he’s big enough to protect them both :(

/dsmp /rp tw for descriptions of injury, blood, concussions, explosions, tinnitus

“Well, I guess it depends on what you consider ‘safer.’  Is it safer to be out of sight but crammed in a… in a little space like this?” Dream said, being a bit of a contrarian.  He liked to play devil’s advocate.  “Or is it safer to be out in the open, but able to move freely?  It’s a trade-off.”

“Bruh, I dug this tunnel specifically to keep us hidden, and I’d appreciate a bit of gratefulness, alright?”  Techno joked.

Technoblade, Dream, and Philza had been walking through this tunnel for at least twenty minutes.  It was connected to a mine that Phil started many years ago, so it didn’t look too suspicious for all three of them to enter at once, but its long and winding path eventually led to the Syndicate meeting room.  Despite its tactical advantage, it wasn’t the most comfortable travel.  Techno had to duck his head through some sections, and they had to pass single-file through the support beams.  Not to mention that it was cold, damp, and drafty.

“I’m just saying,” came Dream’s reply, his face briefly illuminated as he walked past a torch, only to be cast in shadow again moments later.

Phil chuckled, casting a glance over his shoulder.  He walked in front, his wings scraping against the walls.  Techno, directly behind him, was slightly hunched.  Dream trailed behind, still bearing a slight limp from his time in the Vault.  This would be Dream’s first time at the Syndicate meeting room, and Techno went all-out to ensure he’d be safe for the journey.

“This cold is brutal,” Phil complained.  “It’ll take a while to warm the meeting room up.  Hope you both dressed well.”

“We still have blankets, right?” Techno asked.

“We should.  So long as Niki didn’t steal them all.”

“I will not be sitting on my first Syndicate meeting with a blanket on,” Dream mused from behind them.

“Right, so lesson number one about the Syndicate is that we’re all friends, and we treat each other like friends,” Techno said, “Now, I know this is kind of a foreign concept to you, but friends normally don’t act like business partners.  If you’re cold, you’re wearin’ a blanket, no matter how–”

Upon Philza’s next footstep, Techno heard an observer click.  Faint and muffled– imbedded somewhere in the tunnel wall, perhaps– following by an even quieter but distinct buzz as a TNT fuse was lit.

“Phil, to me!” Techno bellowed, already turning around and taking Dream into his arms.  He lifted the human easily and pressed him into the bulk of his chest.  Dream’s breath left him on the impact, but with his limp, Techno worried about the boy’s ability to get out of harm’s way quickly.  He extended a hand towards Philza– his lifelong partner, his most trusted friend– and snatched his wrist, pulling him quickly into himself.

Techno remembered feeling the rush of adrenaline through his torso, his muscles seizing and stiffening as he turned himself into a shield for his partners.  He saw a flash of fear on Dream’s delicate, sharp features, his eyes lighting with concern.  He saw Phil’s hair flash like a flag as he rushed to them, and Techno put an arm around his wing to prevent him from wrapping it around them.  He worried about hurting them, but he determined it was worth the risk.  They were both too small, too fragile, too painfully shatterable to survive a blast at this range.  He pressed them into his stomach and prayed his size would be enough.

He remembered feeling an intense pressure at his back, a ringing in his ears, and blackness.

—

When Techno was next aware of himself, he was laying facedown on the muddy floor of the tunnel.  The blast had pushed him a notable distance.

The pain only hit when he tried to move.  His back was torn to shreds; he was grateful he wasn’t able to see it, but the hot pain (like the whips and flogs of the arena– how long has it been since he knew this pain?) gathered where his muscles flexed.  The ringing in his ears persisted as he raised himself from the ground.

Dream was pinned beneath him, eyes open but unseeing.  Philza, only half-tucked beneath Techno’s shoulder and arms, began to writhe.

“No, no no,” Techno started, finding his voice quiet compared to the tinnitus, “Hey.”

With a hand under Dream’s jaw, he discovered that the young human must’ve hit his head when they were flung, and his forearms were scorched and bruised.  He might’ve wrapped his arms around Techno at the last second.  Philza’s shoulder and neck were covered in burns, and his neck was bleeding badly.  Despite his initial writhing, his mumbles were unintelligible and his movements slow.  He was pale.

“No, no.” Techno scrambled for the remains of his cape, his hands searching along the ground for anything he could use to stop the bleeding.  It was burned off his back, but a few scraps of it remained a few feet in front of them.  He grabbed it and pressed it, desperately, into Phil’s neck.

Phil almost appeared to make eye contact, but his eyes held little intelligence.

“Don’t die, okay?  Don’t die,” Techno told him.  The tinnitus blocked out the voices of his Chat– a small blessing.  “Tell Kristin that it’s still my turn with you.”

Dream whined– a high-pitched sound from somewhere in his throat– and began to stir.  Techno placed his open hand flat on the boy’s chest.  “Hey, Dream.  Don’t move too much.”

“Wha–” Dream started.  He’d just began to recover from the head trauma Quackity inflicted on him, and Techno feared long-term repercussions.  “Techno.  Techno.  You’re bleeding.”

“We’re all bleedin’, dude.  You gotta take it easy.”

“No, Techno, you’re bleeding.”  

Technoblade was distantly aware that the blood on his back was seeping forward, drenching his white shirt with a maroon shade.  He was distantly aware that the string at his collar was dripping blood onto Dream.  He could think of nothing besides the fact that his two most beloveds were dying in front of him.

“It’s cool, it’s cool.  I’m fine.”  Techno leaned forward until he could press his forehead against Dream’s, just for a second, hoping to comfort him.  “You have anythin’ in your inventory?  Health pots, gapples?”

“Y.. Yeah, I… I do, I–” Dream tried to sit as he moved into action, and Techno gently pushed him back to the ground.

“Don’t move, dude.”

“Techno…” “Health pots, Dream,” The piglin reminded him, noting that the concussed boy seemed to have already forgotten his request.  Dream pulled up his inventory from his position on his back, clumsily sorting through the many items he carried with him.  Techno watched him, guiltily.  Phil’s hands roamed aimlessly around his own upper body, trying to clutch at the places that hurt him.  He found Techno’s fingers and clawed at them with his fingernails.  “Look, I’m so sorry,” Techno said, addressing both of them but knowing his words may not reach them, or may be forgotten, “I tried to protect both of you and I think I did a pretty bad job of it.  You both gotta live, okay?”

Dream’s head momentarily lulled to the side as he lost consciousness again, but he recovered quickly.  His green eyes wandered fearfully over Philza, lying half-dead beside him, before landing again on the spots of Techno's blood that landed on his shirt.

Techno felt his vision fade, and he was gone before he had the chance to warn them.

—

He’d wake on Philza’s living room floor, laying on his stomach.

Someone must’ve transformed the living room into a giant nest.  He was lying on a mattress that was a little bit too small for him– one of the human mattresses, surely– and his limbs hung ungracefully off its edges, but a few layers of blankets separated his fur from the cold wooden floor.  He noticed a tight weight around his whole torso.  He was wrapped in bandages from naval to collar, with some smaller bandages adhered to his long ears and neck, and the scent of burnt fur filled his nostrils.  The small hand of a human rested, comfortable and limp, in the palm of his hand.

Disoriented, he wondered for a moment why they chose to nap in such an odd spot.  Remembering the blast, he nearly leaped from the mattress, but the pain stopped him.

“Whoa, Techno.  Not so fast, alright?” came Philza’s warm voice.  

Techno never felt so relieved to hear him.  He lifted his head until he could face the direction of the fireplace, and there he found the beautiful sight of Philza and Dream cuddling together, Dream fully asleep with his face resting on Phil’s diaphragm.  It was Dream’s hand that was placed neatly in Techno’s, outstretched towards him as he slept.

Both of them were wrapped in bandages, their hair tousled and messy.  But they were alive.

“You saved us, love,” Phil continued, “I just wish you didn’t hurt yourself so badly in the process.”

“Worth it.”  Techno squeezed his hand around Dream’s.  “How’d we get home?”

“Not sure.  I think Dream did a lot of it.  And he hurt himself doing it, too.  He’s all bruised, and I think he pulled something in his shoulder.”  Phil ran a hand through Dream’s long hair.  “You two have that in common.  Self-sacrifice.”

An ironic statement from a man who lost a wing to protect his son.  Techno didn’t argue with it.  “Who would trap the tunnel?”

“Don’t know.  But I’m worried they know about the meeting room.  When we’re healthy, we should go check on it.”

“Or ask Niki to.  I don’t want either of you near it right now.”

“We could ask Connor.”

Techno snorted.  “We could ask Connor.”

In his sleep, Dream nuzzled into Phil and sighed.  Techno got accustomed to Dream sleeping constantly as he recovered from the last concussion, and he supposed he’d have to prepare himself for a similar recovery.  Techno imagined Dream dragging his giant piglin body through that tiny tunnel while his head injury raged, his thin body straining, his shoulder popping out of place.  But at least they were all alive.  So long as they lived, they would be okay.

But Technoblade has destroyed nations over smaller offenses than this. The moment he healed, he would solve this, and he wouldn't use cowardly tactics like traps.

[sleepanonymous]

I was just gonna reblog the original "hey look I am toe-to-toe with this tiny ass stage" post I made, but I have a Mother Token face reveal + marriage proposal video to share with you all below the cut 👇

So some good news first, my ears are fine. Zeal & Ardor got a little loud near the end but, I had no ringing or tinnitus and no noticeable hearing loss. I had watched some videos of Zeal & Ardor and Gaerea on the East Coast from earlier on this tour, and the videos seemed fucking loud 🤷‍♀️ Not complaining, it was still great.

Backing up a few hours: my original plan was to get to the venue around 2-2:30 pm. I started getting ready around 1 pm, thinking that should give me enough time (venue was a 4 minute walk from my hotel). Turns out faking a '90s-style blow-out with a flat iron takes 3 times longer than just straightening your hair 🤷‍♀️ Who would have guessed? Anyway, after that and makeup and having a mini crisis about my outfit, I ended up going to the venue around 4 pm; 2 hours before doors. I must have PTSD from Sleep Token or something because I was expecting a full line but I ended up being #9.

Two Sleep Token girlies got in line behind me, but I was too shy to try talking to them really until later on. One of them, plus about three or four people in front of me, had a VIP meet/greet with Gaerea. About an hour before doors, a rep for that band came out and collected the people with those tickets and got shirt sizes and all that and I figured "okay, cool, he's gonna bring them into the venue an hour early." NOPE. Senhor Vocalist just fuckin waltzes out two minutes later to meet everyone. Like, I can't explain it because I haven't seen his face before but I recognized him instantly by his shoulders (then later by his tattoos). I made really fucking awkward eye contact with him and then decided the only safe place to look was the railing outside the venue. Anyway he greeted everyone really quick, then walked back inside for a minute, came back with the guitarist, and then the rest of the band joined them after another moment. Then the band just walked off with the VIPers and those fans didn't come back until doors already opened.

After the ID/ticket check, we lined up on the opposite side of the venue and I ended up at #5 in line (after letting the remaining Sleep Token girlie cut me, since she went in to use the restroom). They let us in right at 6 pm and I was the second one to the stage, standing right next to the first guy in line at center stage, which was literally only 2 feet tall btw. I had looked up photos of the venue online and it's literally worse (or better depending on personal perspective) in person.

The first band, Zetra, played us about an hour's worth of Mortiis music between doors and their set, which quite literally is DnD dungeon music. 10/10 do recommend, very vibes, much atmosphere. The duo themselves were amazing, and I realized after the fact that Sleep Token's manager plus Lyns (Espera) follow them so 👀

Halfway through Zetra's set, I realized the guy next to me was taking photos, so I worked up the courage to film two of their songs. I felt super awkward about it because I was three feet away from the guitarist. Afterward, he came out in a jumpsuit after the set to help break down, but was still in full corpse paint and had his hair stuffed into a baseball cap. He chatted with the front row a tiny bit as he worked and he’s super nice and funny 🥹

Right before Gaerea went on, a girl with a media badge squeezed in between me and the other guy at center stage for the first two songs. I'm still trying to find her social media because she got tons of great shots and some footage. Meanwhile, me on the other hand, got three and a half chaotic videos that consist mostly of Senhor Vocalist's groin 😭 Like, ISTG Senhor, I'm not trying to film your crotch, its just that I cannot hold my phone any higher (would literally be shoved in his face) or lower (I wouldn't be able to see my phone screen) 😭😭 About 75% of the time this happened I would panic and film the guitarists and bassist or the drummer. Aaand then the video below happened 🤩

I guess we are legally married now 🤷‍♀️ idk I don't make the rules. Anyway, hi, that's me, making major heart eyes for like 3 frames. You can also see the Sleep Token girlies right behind me. In my search for the media girl's profile, I actually found one of their TikToks instead: thecottagecorehore

Even though I was in the front row (I keep wanting to say barricade but there was no barricade lol) it got really hot between Gaerea and Zeal & Ardor. Like I was regretting wearing a turtleneck sweater (Yeah that was my panic outfit, black turtleneck + 90’s hair + ripped skinny jeans + platform oxford shoes because I am insane). It didn't cool down either, half the guys around me plus Zeal & Ardor were drenched in sweat halfway through. Didn't affect their stage presence at all though; Manuel is actually very smiley/giggly and it made everything a million times better. Actually, the fake setlist gives you a pretty good idea of the vibes:

Wake of a Nation Götterdämmerung So yeah this is a fake setlist And if you're reading it and we will play some songs you like it Thanks for coming to the show ☠️WOW NEAT☠️ We like to call the song To My Ilk Turbo Milk Do you like our joke Encore Garbage Thanks Phoenix Love Zeal and Ardor Clawing Out

Vessel should take notes 😂 I appreciate Sleep Token being upfront about the Teeth of God setlist and not trying to hide it from the fans on the barricade, but imagine if we got something like : "Oh bugger, this is a fake setlist. Cheers!"

Also Manuel's water bottle sticker says Defend Equality 🖤

I uploaded a few videos to YouTube already. Depending on my data usage, I might upload a few more at the end of the month/next month.

[mejomonster]

Some of my favorite writing tools

Just Write: a website, or an app you can download. My favorite thing about Just Write is it only lets you backspace a few spaces. So if you need that motivation to just KEEP writing, to not edit until you're done, Just Write is perfect. It's just text, limited backspace, no distractions. You can copy-paste text when you're done writing or download it as a txt file. I usually type // after I make an error that I want to edit later, since there's limited backspace. I bookmarked this on my phone's Home screen, so it looks like an 'app' and I can just click to open the site.

My Noise: this is a website and app too, I just use the website version. Like with Just Write, I bookmarked this website to my phone's Home screen so I can just click to open the site. It has a ton of sounds you can play, I find many of them help with focus: there's classical music, the sound of water, white noise, adhd focus sounds, coffee shop ambience, binaural beats, tinnitus relief, Dark Dungeon (noises of fictional settings), and all of their sounds are customizable. I usually use Irish Coast or 88 Keys just because the sounds of water and pianos tend to help me focus most. There's a ton of sound options on here. Good for if you haven't already made a focus-music playlist, or if making such a playlist would distract you from writing, or if you just need to pull up a noise quickly.

Lite Writer: an app. I write on my phone a lot, so this is the app I organize everything in. It lets you import fonts, so I can use a font that's difficult to read (to prevent myself from going back and editing/re-reading while writing), and then use an easy to read font when I edit. It has customizable colors (I just use regular dark mode). It lets you make project folders, and then txt files inside each project folder, and number the chapter txt files so they're listed in order. It lets you export project folders as txt files (or other types of files), so I can write a book chapter by chapter in 1 project folder, then export the whole book to edit in a different program. It lets you upload cover images for each project folder (which visually helps me), it's layout is very minimalist (which helps me focus - I get distracted so easily I can't write in something like Google Docs because there's too many non-writing-area things to look at). It also counts how many words you've written each week/month, and in which project and which individual txt file. So you can see how many total words are in a project folder, what the individual chapter word counts are, and how many words you've written total. The app also lets you search for a word within an individual text file or a whole project folder, so if I change a character's name (for example from Varric to Varris) I can just use the search tool to search 'Varric' in my entire story, and then use the replace tool to put 'Varris'. I know you can do this easily in a Word processor program on a computer, but it's nice to be able to do it in Lite Writer while all my chapter files are still separate txt files. Lite Writer also lets you set up an auto backup to locations of your choice, and auto saves, so you can get backups of everything you wrote in multiple places even if you're not actively remembering to back up your writing regularly. The app is free, I believe I paid a one time fee so that I could use a few optional features (like text to speech audio file export, more visual options), but it was a ONE time fee. I paid once for additional features (I think maybe 5 dollars) and then never had to pay again. Which is worth noting, since I hate monthly subscription models. I think the app is useful if you write on your phone or a tablet, not so useful if you don't. I use the app for pasting in writing I've done online (on Just Write) so that all my writing is saved in one central place, and to re-order chapters, to add story notes within the project folder, so for organizational purposes. It's my favorite organizational writing app for the phone.

[goldenlikedayl1ght]

‎‧₊˚✧{danny's masterlist}✧˚₊‧

ok it's finally here, i have been meaning to make a masterlist for so long and now it's happening. also note that this masterlist is only gonna be fandoms and characters i have already written for! you can send me a quick ask to see if i write for a particular fandom!

Marvel Cinematic Universe

Matthew Murdock

delicate - t. swift “is it cool that I said all that? / is it chill that you’re in my head?"' notes: my first ever fic! risque but not smutty

dress - t. swift "say my name and everything just stops/i dont want you like a best friend/only bought this dress so you could take it off." summary: ten months of yearning wears you and matt down to desperation. notes: smut, fem!reader (head warnings)

blank space - t. swift "so it's gonna be forever/or it's gonna go down in flames?/you can tell me when it's over/if the high was worth the pain" summary: your dad makes your life horrible. matt can make it worse. notes: angst, fem!reader, dead dove: do not eat (head warnings)

the lakes - t. swift "take me to the lakes/where all the poets went to die/i don't belong/but my beloved, neither do you." summary: your hearing aids run out of battery, and you're forced to struggle through a day of ringing ears and being deaf. matt helps, as he always does. notes: comfort, hoh!reader

moon song - p. bridgers "and if i could give you the moon/i would give you the moon/you are sick/ and you're married/and you might be dying/but you're holding me like water in your hands" summary: you hate that elektra and matt are getting married. will you convince him not to go through with it? can you? notes: angst, male!reader

born to die - l.d. rey "choose your last words, this is the last time/'cause you and i, we were born to die" summary: as matt murdock's wife, your life is rather full of surprises. getting kidnapped by wilson fisk takes the cake as the worst one. notes: angst, wife!reader, HEAD WARNINGS!

black friday - t. odell "i wanna go party/i wanna have fun/wanna be happy/could you show me how it's done?/ you look so pretty/pretty like the sun" summary: you have a list of things to do within a year of living in new york. matt helps you check everything off- oh, and you fall in love with him, too. it's not on the list, but you do it anyways. notes: fluff, fem!reader

false god - t. swift "but we might just get away with it/religion's in your lips/even if it's a false god/we'd still worship/we might just get away with it/the altar is my hips" summary: the night before your wedding, you and matt are starving. you want to order room service, matt wants to eat out. notes: smut, hoh!reader

we're in love - boygenius "will you still love me if it turns out i'm insane?/i know what you'll say/but it helps to hear you say it anyway." summary: when your past finally catches up to you, matt truly learns what 'in sickness and in health' means notes: angst, hurt/comfort, fem!reader

peace - taylor swift "the devils in the details/but you got a friend in me/would it be enough if i could never give you peace?" summary: tinnitus, buffalo chicken pizza, and objections. what more can you ask for from matt murdock? notes: fluff, hoh!reader

enter sandman - metallica "exit light/enter night/take my hand/we're off to never-never land" summary: you have a hard time sleeping. the devil has a few games in mind to tire you out. notes: SMUT!, fem!reader

•☽────✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧────☾•

Mortal Kombat 1

Johnathan Cage

you're the one - greta van fleet "you're the one i want/you're the one i need/you're the one i had/come on back to me" summary: you're johnny cage's assistant babysitter agent, and you're his opposite. and yet, he finds himself unapologetically into you. notes: fluff, gn!reader

•☽────✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧────☾•

The Last Of Us

Joel Miller

season of the witch - donavan "you've got to pick up every stich/oh no, must be the season of the witch" summary: you've lived in the small town of everbrook for a while now, and you thought nothing could shock you anymore. you're wrong. notes: fluff, witch!reader, monster hunter!joel

•☽────✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧────☾•

Five Nights At Freddy's

Mike Schmidt

lover, you should've come over - jeff buckley "my body turns and yearns/for a sleep that won't ever come/it's never over/my kingdom for a kiss upon her shoulder." summary: you get a tattoo, and it terrifies mike. mostly because he realizes how much you love him. notes: angst, gn!reader

•☽────✧˖°˖☆˖°˖✧────☾•

Greta Van Fleet

Danny Wagner

fearless - taylor swift "run your hands through your hair/absentmindedly making me want you/and i don't know how it gets better than this/you take my hand and drag me head first, fearless" summary: daniel has been acting awfully weird lately. luckily, the kiszka brothers are on the case! notes: fluff, fem!reader

silver springs - fleetwood mac "i follow you down/till the sound of my voice will haunt you/you'll never get away from the sound/of the woman that loves you" summary: the three times daniel wants you, and the one time he gets you. notes: right person, wrong time trope, gn!reader

scott street - phoebe bridgers "do you feel ashamed/when you hear my name?" summary: he's your danny, even while putting the pieces back together. notes: hurt/comfort, gn!fiance!reader

Josh Kiszka

timeless - taylor swift "and sometimes there's no proof, you just know/you're always gonna be mine/we're gonna be/i'm gonna love you when our hair is turnin' gray" summary: you decide to be kind after being cheated on. it spirals out of control, thanks to josh kiszka. notes: fluff, fem!reader

Misc.

question..? - taylor swift "can i ask you a question?" summary: you ask your boys the burning question-- the question you don’t know if you can live without the answer to. notes: fluff, prefrences

bound for n.y.c. - greta van fleet summary: as tour manager, it's your job to get the boys to new york city, your home town. just don't fall in love with them, or anything. notes: fluff, an experimental fic where i explored poly dynamics lol i hate this now i don't think its very good but oh well

To Be Continued....

[manicsystemic]

Transfem621 that can see Ayre's red spindley network course through her arms when they synchronize closely. That can see red sinewaves take over her HUD displays and cybereye output while communicating. That can feel electrical humming from the AC feedback when Ayre is autopiloting the mech homeward. That can feel irregular clicking noises in the back of her skull while Ayre pipes through the ACs systems to hack something for her.

She can feel Ayre's frequency humming in her head when they're together, Ayre pinging about a missile coming in from the left, a new hostile on the right, and it leaves a hollow ringing tinnitus feeling in her head when she has to leave the AC to get food in her. Like a gaping hole that is empty.

Walter notices she's spending all of her break time in the AC now, and tries to remind her to go on walks even if she has to use prosthetics in order to walk outside of the armored core, its still healthy exercise. She tries to slink back into the cockpit whenever he's not watching.

She doesn't know if Ayre is a waveform parasite trying to find a way to bond with her body permenantly, if Ayre is a genuine lonely loving soul trying to seek out her companionship, or if Ayre is a natural phenomenon that doesn't adhere to human ideas of intelligence, and the voice and actions are just her brain rationalizing it as such, and at this point she doesn't care. It's more worth believing in than the reality she was living in day-to-day.

She never got to enjoy her body after transition, being a mercenary is dangerous, but the only way to get stuff like healthcare, clean showers and a bed, three meals a day easily, considering the poverty she came from, she got bullet wounds, electric burns and shrapnel shards, the limbs you'd normally have to augment to pilot an AC got amputated and sold years ago. The world didn't like her body anyway, said it was weird, a mockery, a fetish, perverted, a joke, but without it she felt wrong. And now most of it is gone anyway, to battles and augments, but at least the small boobs got to stay.

But Ayre... makes her feel whole again. Ayre sees her beyond the surgery scars. The nutrient and cybernetic ports. Beyond the stigma. She sees inside. And she doesn't leave her side. So whatever strange and different world lies beyond the convergence... if it means being with her even closer, forever... it doesn't matter what happens to the rest of the world. She'll be there.

[bunieluv]

ᰔ minecraft story mode deaf jesse au ᰔ

pairing || male jesse x lukas (jesskas)

content warnings || inspiration somewhat taken from a silent voice, this au has themes of bullying, child abuse, self worth issues, and the general undertones of the ‘perfect child’ syndrome.

summary || a love story about independence vs interdependence, and battling self-worth issues as the top student is framed for bullying his deaf classmate, and must find a way to overcome his flaws in order to prove that he is not a bad person. based off of the hc that jesse lost some of his hearing after the formidi-bombs explosion.

information under the cut!

World

Beacon High School is a school filled with students of all different ability and culture. The students of Beacon High School are full of life and believe that everyone should be given equal opportunity, regardless of their backstory.

In this AU, characters from Minecraft: Story Mode take the roles of teachers and students attending this school. Romeo is the headmaster, Xara is the deputy head, Gordon/The Warden is the school secretary, and the Old Order of the Stone are teachers of the different subjects. The new Order of the Stone, the Blaze Rods, the Beacontown townsfolk will be taking the role of the students. The main cast are in Year 12/11th grade, making them 16-17 years old.

In this AU, female Jesse and male Jesse are twin siblings rather than gendered counterparts. Female Jesse is referred to as ‘Jessica’ while male Jesse keeps his name. Ivor and Harper serve as the twins’ father and step mother respectively. Additionally, Jack and Nurm serve as Petra’s adoptive fathers and Soren is a father figure to the Jesse twins, as the ex-husband of their father and one of their primary carers during their childhood.

The plot of this AU focusses on the undertones of the perfect child, Lukas, and how the maltreatment of a child detriments them in their later lives. In the beginning of their academic year these unlikely group of students are sardined together into Mr. Soren’s form group, and then Jesse becomes the target of the Ocelot’s bullying. Lukas’ reputation, despite being the only one who spited the idea of bullying Jesse and abstained, takes the hit for it, and Lukas resolves to regain the trust of Jesse, who had captured his attention. However, now people are standing in his way, and he must face all the worst things about himself for Jesse’s sake.

Jesse’s information

Aged 16. When Jesse was a child, he was involved in a freak accident which damaged his ears and is now medically recognised as deaf, meaning that he has little hearing ability. Jesse was left with some residual hearing after his accident, however this is not a lot and is severely muffled by white noise and tinnitus. It has to be a pretty loud sound in order for Jesse to interpret it, which is why Jesse uses hearing aids to amplify these sound waves to interpret them easier. As a statement yes these hearing aids are worn on his own volition, and in no way a refusal of his right to exist as a deaf person.

Jesse has the ability to speak, as he had learnt how to speak fluently prior to the accident. However, he often prefers non-verbal communication in sign language (most likely to be ASL considering MC:SM would probably be produced somewhere near the USA) as reading lips is only about 30% successful and with the amount of straining he has to do to hear often leaves him feeling fatigued. He feels he is only able to hold conversations with two people max, ergo he tends to hang out in small groups. When Jesse does speak, it is comprehensible and near perfect, though very soft and uncertain.

Jesse’s deafness is not exclusively limited to his hearing loss. There are other side effect that come with his deafness due to the injury in his middle and inner ear. Jesse is constantly seen tripping over, and this is for two reasons; the first reason being that the inner ear damage has caused problems with his balance, and the second is that having to focus so intently on the sounds around him interfered with his ability to walk around carefully. He is also more prone to headaches as a result of his chronic tinnitus, which makes getting rest significantly harder for him than for others.

Jesse reacts more violently to his other senses as a result of losing his sense of hearing. This is why Jesse is often more uncomfortable to scents, and responds to touch more than the average person might.

Jesse’s auditorial challenge posed him some troubles in his life, as it interfered with his way to communicate with a hearing world. Because of this, Jesse was frequently misinterpreted by his classmates and became a victim of ostracism and bullying. Despite this, Jesse has always kept a positive outlook on life, happy to be alive and accepting that his deafness is a part of who he is, and it’s other people that are the problem. Even if his immediate family does not agree with this way of thinking, and are very protective of him and how others treat him.

Jesse is a sweet and compassionate person with an easy going attitude. He is shown to be very forgiving even if it other people would have refused their apology, if they are expressing sincere regret towards their actions. He doesn’t feel that it is necessary for people to treat him differently to others because of his auditorial challenge since he is just as well off as everyone else- his grades are decent and he is able to fluently understand 3 languages (English, Spanish and ASL), so he is quick to dismiss any feelings of pity or concern towards him by projecting the more positive parts of his personality. 

Lukas’ information

Aged 16.

Lukas is the concept of a perfect child. He is polite, respectful and selfless, and is often relied on by students and teachers with his willing he is to help them in his own free time. Additionally, he is academically smart and athletic (notably strong considering he practices archery) which emphasises the positive traits about himself. He is very diplomatic and does not hold people to their old selves, believing that everyone deserves a chance to be happy.

Because of these high expectations placed upon him by other people, Lukas often does not think he is good enough. In his eyes, he is inadequate, and thus he often does not do good things for himself and busies himself with the wellbeing of others, making him very generous. Much unlike Jesse, he internalises and blames himself for the things that happen to himself, rationalising it saying ‘if I had done…instead’. Lukas does not hold grudges towards people, most notably his mother, who he loves quite dearly despite Petra’s family thinking she is cruel. His perfect façade seems to hide his deep insecurities, and it means he treats people politely even if they don’t deserve it.

Lukas was born into a wealthy family, and he really didn’t enjoy it. His father was frequently working and so his mother was the primary carer of him, and she had her twisted beliefs on life. Despite being supportive and nurturing his academic life, Lukas’ mother is manipulative and controlling, and Lukas often feels guilted into abiding by what she wants for him, micromanaging his life and being told that some harmless things he wants to do are way worse comparatively given who he is. This conditioning meant that Lukas had felt powerless and without a sense of self, following what his family wanted for him.

Throughout his life, Lukas has always been academically gifted. He had been moulded into a perfectionistic child, which is why his feelings of inadequacy hit so much harder. Lukas had began to push himself beyond his limits just because his mother was compelling him to, even if she had a pretence of worry towards his health. For a while he had been feeling completely isolated, even if he was the boy that everyone wished they could be.

Lukas didn’t want any of that. He didn’t care about being popular or desirable, he wanted to be a writer. But other plans had been put in place for his future.

Lukas had befriended the Ocelots after saving them from their bullies. He had been surprised when they had looked up to him like a leader— in the most sense, he wanted to be their equal and he wanted to be their friend. Although he did take on a lot of leader like qualities, teaching them alternatives to coping with their stress which are not harmful to themselves. Despite Lukas convincing his mother that the Ocelots were good people, she was still hesitant and suspicious of them, wanting rid of them but having no reason to remove them from Lukas’ life at that moment.

[goldsbitch]

Twelve Grapes

-chapter 5 - Beautiful Eyes

"Chéri," he says almost condescendingly, "there is my dried cum in your hair and if you think I'm letting you go to see my mama like this, we need to have another serious talk."

10k words warning: mentions of oral sex, typos

There are moments in life which are a clear before and after divider. Max did not expect one of those to happen on a random Thursday morning, he also did not anticipate those moments to take place in his bed. These things were reserved for the podiums and tracks. 

Alas - not when someone like Charles Leclerc has the audacity to turn over and give him a look, which, if described as sheepish, would be doing it great injustice.

Just how does somebody manage to look so innocent, yet stern and strong? He looks at Max who, probably for the first time in his life, does not know how to cope with other person looking at him. Charles battles his lashes, as if his mesmerizing eyes needed to draw more attention to them. Like the never-ending, dirty green was not enough on its own. There is something calming about his morning gaze. Like he had just come back from a nightly meeting in heaven, a place where he must have come from in the first place, because Max was getting convinced this is beyond human. His skin somehow softer than usual, chocolate hair mercilessly defying gravity and lips parted - slightly chapped and dry. Before Charles licks them lightly, effectively signing Max’s death sentence. Unlike Max, who does not have any capacity for another type of emotion, Charles appears to be confused. Just when Max thinks he has cracked this situation, at least a little bit, he has to add another word to his current vocabulary - adorable. 

"Can you turn the thing off," he complains like a little child and returns back to his original position. Head rested on Max's chest, arms casually thrown over him, like it was the most normal thing ever. Max's notoriously loud and obnoxious alarm woke them both up too early for their liking. Mindlessly, Max reaches over to his nightstand to grab his phone and turn it off. He earns an approving puff from the other driver. Charles settles in his position even more, hugged up on Max and ready to go back to slumber. Max takes a minute to take it all in. Tries to get his heartbeat under control, because he is pretty sure Charles is about get tinnitus, with his ear being places just above his heart. But how does one do that, when you wake next to Charles, the morning light complimenting his already glorious post-waking up state? It is completely out of question for Max to return back to sleep. Stress - the good kind, the best kind actually - keeping him fully awake. He recalls the surprising shift of events from last night and wonders just how comically lame it is, that he is afraid to move. As if it wasn't clear, that they are way past the point of being shy when laying on top of each other. Putting his hand over Charles and drawing small circles on his naked back feels like the bravest thing Max has ever done. Is this what all of the people talk about when they're describing a good hook up? The fact that kicking the other person out first thing in the morning is not how you want the encounter to end? It's impossible to keep a straight face with all the images from yesterday flashing from his memory. It's only the weight of Charles's body, the obvious change of temperature in the bed when he is lying in it, that makes Max grounded enough to actually believe it was all true. Had he woken up in an empty bed, he'd probably have a hard time believing it all. Max is not a morning person, but he could make an exception for these kind of mornings. It's hard to admit, but he is very happy that Charles decided to stay over. His messy curls ticking Max's neck are worth it.

Messy curls. Oh, fuck. Charles is not the only Leclerc he is suppose see today.

Panic rushes through his veins and he reaches for the phone again, disrupting Charles's peace in doing so. Shit. He is suppose to be at his mom's salon in like fifteen minutes.

"Charles," Max says urgently, shaking him lightly.

There is a loud groan that speaks for itself. But, the ever-so-chatty man can apparently speak in his sleep as well. "Why are you awake," Charles complains without opening his eyes, snuggling closer into Max like he’s decided he’s part of the mattress. Max tries to push all the warm feelings rising in his chest back down.

"I’m supposed to be at your mom’s salon in fifteen minutes," Max says in a panic induced tone.

This information seems to get through with the Monegasque. Then he groans even louder. "Max, it’s-" he lifts his head slightly, squinting at the phone in Max's hands. He falls back on his chest, obviously not worried about potentially breaking his ribs. "It’s 8:45. Why are you like this?"

Max figures this is going to be harder than expected and he shakes Charles once again. "Come on, we gotta go."

"Whyyy," he literally whines into Max's chest.

Max can't help but chuckle. "Because I have a haircut appointment? Which I’ll miss if I don’t leave, like ten minutes ago?"

There is zero movement on Charles's part. "Cancel it. Reschedule. Tell her you’re sick. I don’t care. Just stop talking and let me sleep."

"I can’t cancel," Max protests and absentmindedly runs his hands through Charles's hair. "She’s expecting me..."

The man (strongly resembling an adorable spoiled brat right now) lying on him lifts his head up slightly. "She’s definitely not expecting you to wake up next to her son, but would you look at that, here we are," Charles states and their looks meet again.

Max is trying to calculate the combination of words that would make this man move. The last thing he wants, especially after last night, is to be late. What if his mom forms a poor opinion of him?

Charles continues fighting for his cause. "You cannot just walk into her salon after last night like nothing happened. I know you're insane, but there has to be a limit somewhere?"

"It’s a haircut, Charles, not a confession," Max says, exasperated. The only thing they're doing right now is wasting time. "She doesn’t know anything."

Charles narrows his eyes. "You don’t know my mother. She doesn’t have to know, she just...knows. She’s like a witch, Max."

Max snorts. "A witch?"

"Yes," Charles says, sitting up slightly, his hair sticking up at odd angles. "She’ll look at you, say something strange like, ‘You look tired,’ and then suddenly I’m getting interrogated about my love life during Sunday dinner."

Max bites back a laugh, trying to look serious. "Well, then maybe I should just tell her. Get ahead of the woodoo," he mocks, failing at the whole serious part of this conversation.

Charles groans again and collapses back onto the bed, throwing an arm over his face. "Out of all the people, I had to end up in your bed."

Max smirks and decides to stop fighting the urge he feels since the alarm ringing, and leans to kiss Charles on the cheek. "I’ll take that as a compliment."

"Don’t," Charles mumbles. "And don’t wake me up again unless the apartment is on fire. Or my mom is at the door. Actually, no, especially not then."

Max laughs, pulling himself out of bed. "I’ll let her know you’re busy...Sleeping through the consequences of your actions."

Charles throws a pillow at him, missing entirely, and buries himself back under the covers. "I hate you," he grumbles, his voice muted by the duvet. No, you don't.

Max has to stop and take in the sight of him. He just has to. It's impossible not to. His limbs are all tangled up in the messy bed, stains reminding him of the things they did in the dark. Sorry, not in the dark, in the dimly lit bedroom.

And it's like he feels his gaze. There is one final master groan and Charles lifts himself up. "Okay. Fine. Let's do this your way. So that you have some mistakes to learn from."

"Attaboy," Max says as he walks over to the dresser.

Charles is behind him in a fraction of a second. Hand casually placed on his back as he goes and yankes Max's head left, then right.

"What the fuck are you doing now," Max complains, once again encountered with the inexplicable behavior, so characteristic to Charles.

"I'm looking for any hickeys," he says, highlighting the importance of this topic. "I think you're fine," he concludes and brushes his finger over a red spot above Max's collarbone. Shiver runs through the whole of Max. "This can be covered by a t-shirt, that's fine."

He spins him around, as if he's a mere doll, and shamelessly studies his face. Max is not used to think kind of look and has trouble picking out an appropriate reaction.

"Okay, you're allowed to go," Charles remarks, like the most important person on the planet he is, "Hop in to the shower real quick and let's get going."

Max casually shakes his head. "No time for shower, I'll just have to use a lot of deodorant," he dismissed, but does not move.

The look Charles gives him is one he has never seen on his face. A mixture of amusement, disbelief and coldness, giving away that there is no way this is going to go in any other direction than his. Then he speaks again, after a dramatic pause he spends studying Max's face.

"Chéri," he says almost condescendingly, "there is my dried cum in your hair and if you think I'm letting you go to see my mama like this, we need to have another serious talk."

It's said as a joke, because this time Charles's confidence in his truth, is on point. Max's eyes shoot wide, horrified expression on. He does not say anything and just nods. Charles nods right back at him, but with eyebrows shot up and the corners of his lips turned.

"Be quick, she hates when people are late."

//

Max steps out of the shower, towel hanging low - two can go about playing mind games here - only to find Charles pacing the living room with his phone pressed to his ear. He is dressed what Max recognizes as one of his t-shirts, little too big for Charles, hanging off one shoulder like some kind of stupid fashion statement. Charles spots him and mutes the call.

“We’re leaving together,” Charles declares, cutting off any protests with a raised hand. Well, that is a shift of attitude over there.

“You’re coming to your mom’s salon with me?”

“No,” Charles whispers, like the idea is preposterous and follows it up with an eye roll. “I’m coming with you because I will navigate you."

Max is slightly offended. “I’ve been there six times.”

"Like that would make any difference. I know a shortcut. Get dressed, now!" he spares him one look before getting back to his phone call. "Yes, yes, that's a good tip." His speech is frantic and Max does not bother trying to figure what this drama queen is up to now. His goal is to get dressed and get going. Simple man, remember?

"Mama, what’s your stance on fresh herbs? Do they really make a difference?” echoes from the living room. Max raises an eyebrow, leaning against the doorframe to observe this circus. Charles spots him, eyes narrowing into a silent don’t even think about it. Max raises his hands in surrender and mouths a silent "What are you doing?" He is met with a pair of crazy eyes. "Stalling," Charles whispers and looks at him like it's the most obvious thing ever.

Max is still not up to speed. “Stalling what?”

Charles ignores him, focused on the phone and plastering on his best innocent tone. “I mean, would it be better to make the toast in the pan? You always said buttering it first is key, but Pierre’s...What’s the word? Picky. Very picky.”

It is too early for this amount of unhinged in the morning, he thinks, as he leans back to observe Charles. Being late to his appointment seems like small price.

Charles glares at him, eyes narrowing into a warning. He mutes the phone. "I’m buying you time," he hisses. "If you show up late, she’ll know something is off."

"Why would she think that?" Max whispers back, astonished. “She has no reason to!”

"She’s my mother!" Charles retorts like that explains everything. "She doesn’t need a reason."

Max tries not to laugh as Charles un-mutes the phone yet again, turning his back like it’ll somehow help him focus. "Okay, so what about butter? Should it be room temperature?"

Max decides to just comply, dressing up as quickly as possible. He spares one look into the mirror, to check for anything suspicious while he listens to the frantic cooking questions Charles keeps throwing at his poor mother. If there is ever a reason not have children, it's because they might grow up into this kind of a lunatic.

"I'm ready to leave now, if you're done with your recipes," he says quietly, walking into the living room and looking for his keys. This earns him thumbs up from the man leaning over his kitchen counter.

Charles mutters something under his breath and then, louder, says into the phone, “Okay, mama, I have to go now. Thank you for the advice. Love you.” And hangs up before waiting for the answer. Max has so many questions. He puts them in the "WTF" drawer in his brain, along with the rest of information he has about Charles Leclerc.

//

"No, I said, take a left on the next street, not this one," Charles throws his hands in the air for what seems like the fifth time.

"Remind me never to pick you as a co-driver for anything more dangerous that a commute drive," Max comments, because Charles giving vague instructions and then getting mad when he does not do what Charles had envisioned, is starting to seriously piss Max off. He makes a big mental note not to allow Charles to ever enter the world of endurance driving.

Monaco is tiny, it takes him like seven minutes to get there. He is pretty sure they are just adding time up by choosing the small streets instead of he usual way, like a normal person would. Then again - this is Charles. Normal does not cover it. Even though Max is nearing furious, there is still something exciting and warming about this experience. He is playing along thought, driving like a maniac, passing cars easily left and right, pretty sure that his tickets are pilling up. Small price for having a little fun morning with Charles.

"No! Now go left!" he yells and were it not for the years spent driving F1 cars, they'd be crashed in some wall right now. But, this is Max Verstappen. So he drift into the left turn that Charles is so hung up on. He is rewarded by a laugh of approval as he avoids the traffic.

//

Max pulls the car into a quiet street, parallel to where Pascale's salon sits in its picturesque charm. He kills the engine and settles down, his built up heart rate going down again. He awaits instructions. This is Charles's territory.

Charles fidgets with the hem of Max’s t-shirt and glances at the street in front of them, eyeing for any witnesses. “Okay, I’ll go first,” he says. "You stay in for two minutes." He looks at him, searching for a hint of agreement. Max does nothing but nod.

He gulps, his tone serious for the first time this day. "Please don't tell my mom anything, I'm-"

Max does not want to hear the rest of the sentence. Not right now. Not when he's still in the haze of what is waking up next to Charles. He wants to keep the illusion of perfection up for just a little while.

“Charles,” Max interrupts, leaning forward slightly. His voice is softer now, grounding. “She doesn’t know anything.”

Charles bites the inside of his cheek, his eyes flickering to Max’s. “She doesn’t, yet.”

This is the moment when you give me a goodbye kiss, Max thinks and lingers. But Charles is too distracted, caught up in his own thoughts and visibly lost in them. "Good. Um, see you," he says and briskly gets out of the car.

The space Charles left behind feels heavier than it should, and Max can’t help but stare at the spot where he disappeared. He left just like he entered his apartment yesterday. Like a sudden, unexpected summer rain. He waits the two minutes. Making sure he's not watching Charles leave, because it it too hard to consume that image right now.

//

He's got to give it to Charles, his schemes, however weird and over-the-top, seem to work. Max is standing in front of the salon, waiting on Pascale, who is late.

It dawns on him the moment he sees her coming. She has the same frantic walk as her son. The lines around her eyes curling in a similar way. Her smile, calming and inviting. Max shifts awkwardly from foot to foot, his nerves bubbling over as Pascale strides toward him with the unmistakable Leclerc determination. He doesn’t even know what, but Charles’s paranoia has taken root in his brain, and now he’s convinced he’ll somehow screw this up. He should have cancelled. Oh, God. How is he going to pull this off? This is all too stressful for what is suppose to be downtime. His team thinks he's relaxing, working out and getting ready for the next races. Not that he's checking his pulse every five seconds to see if this is a heart attack, or if the Leclerc's still have more room to play with him.

Pascale Leclerc, the elegant woman she is, greets him in the usual sweet voice that keeps him coming back. Her mom energy is strong. "Hello Max! I am terribly sorry to be late - I'll make it up to you with the tea you seem to love so much!" she says as she opens the door without even looking at it.

"No worries, I am in no rush, Mrs. Leclerc," he replies, trying to come off as casual as possible.

He receives a smile. Maybe this will all work out just fine.

//

He scrolls mindlessly on his phone while he waits for her to set her gear up. His goal is to appear busy and unapproachable. Also, what else is he suppose to do with his hands? He gives her a weak smile as she comes over to him with a tea in her hand and scissors in another. She asks him few questions about his desired haircut and he gives her complete freedom. At least like this, Charles won't be able to tease him about his hair ever again. Things are calm, she tells him about the new Monaco bakery and it seems like he might just pull it all off.

"Next time you come in, you don't have to wash your hair beforehand. That's what I am here for, sweetheart," he proclaims as she examines his damp hair. His stomach turns three times, he stiffs up completely and there is unmistakable redness in his cheeks, staring at him back in the mirror. Oh, Jesus. This is all so wrong. The word shame does not cover it. He jerked her son off. Charles sucked his dick last night. He feels so incredibly dirty and somewhat guilty. And she has no idea, blissfully unaware her son's fingers left the places she is now touching barely minutes ago.

"I'm sorry..." he manages to roll out an apology from the deepest part of his soul.

She smiles, like the morning treated her well and like she slept soundly. "No worries, I'm just saying it so that you know."

Max is happy to keep her thinking he is just stupid. Rather than suspecting anything else. He did make sure to wash his hair clean, his goal being to scrub it all off any remains of last night. Oh, God. How did he get into this mess in the first place?

"I told Charles you were coming in today," she says casually, unknowingly torturing her customer. The red does not go away and Max wonders if make up is something he should be looking into from now on, because this is unbearable. "He mentioned something about a party last night? On a yacht?"

There it was. Charles warned him. He's got to prove himself. He puts on a PR smile and looks at her reflection in the mirror. "Oh, I was too tired. Didn't go and stayed home." This is safe answer, he thinks. Does not offer room for any follow up.

She frowns and continues. "You're kind of quiet today, is everything alright with you?" This woman has laser eyes.

"Yeah, all good! Everything is great, just the season is tough this year," he says, managing to sound quite convincing.

The answer seems to satisfy her and she smiles again. "You tell me, I have no idea where Charles gets his energy to party all night. Didn't even come home. Then he calls me to ask questions about how to cook a celebratory breakfast for Pierre. He's such a good friend to him, don't you think?"

Somehow, especially after knowing Charles and the fact this woman raised him, he does not buy this at all. But, this realization does not shake him. On the contrary, it adds him some flare he lacked until now.

"Pierre is a great guy to be friends with. To be honest, I don't know Charles that well, but Pierre seems to keep him in check and helps him in the world of F1." Lies. Pierre is an enabler, someone who Max will keep a closer eye on from now on.

She hums, clearly unimpressed with his vague answers, and pats the salon chair. “Sit still. Let’s see what we’re working with today.” It sounds like a threat.

Max obeys, sinking into the chair as she moves around him, strangely resembling a vulture. It's amazing how someone can oscillate between innocent mom energy and interrogation vibe. His pulse is pounding so loudly he wonders if she can hear it. Her hands move quickly and efficiently.

“Charles said you two went on some drive through the woods recently,” she asks conversationally, combing through his hair. “Something about smashing a car?”

His lip roll into a thin line. Well, wouldn't it be nice to know this beforehand, Charles. Thanks for letting me know, dumbass.

He curses Charles in his mind with every Dutch insult he's ever heard. Then goes onto German and when he runs out, ends up with English. For all the talking Charles does, he surely knows what information to leave out.

He coughs, breath stuck in his throat. He quickly apologized, blaming it on the tea. Pull it together Max, Jesus.

"Yeah. I took him to our cottage. He looked like he needed to blow some steam off," he speaks and immediately slaps himself internally for using the word blow. Pascale, do you wanna know how good your son's mouth is? He is mortified by his own thoughts. "I hope you don't mind, it was my old car and I need to get rid of it, I am never going to repair it and-" he blabbers on, and would be ready to talk for good fifteen minutes to divert the attention, but she stops him.

"Max - All good. I'm happy Charles is fitting in F1 and that he does things other than driving and sitting alone reading all the reports. He can get so lost in it sometimes and this...However strange I might find that activity, it is one day going to be a fun memory. And it's important to have those," she smiles and cuts away, like this is all just another typical session.

Max is taken back by that sentiment. He is not used to this, does not know how to absorb it without making sarcastic comments.

He swallows and replies the only thing he can think of. "Thanks."

“Oh, don’t look so worried,” she teases, patting his shoulder. “He speaks very highly of you. Said you’re… what was the word? Determined. Yes, that was it. He admires that about you. Apparently, it's a hard pill to swallow just how good your driving is sometimes."

Max’s stomach flips, again, so violently he’s sure it’s going to come out of his mouth. Swallow. Uhm. Great. Good to know there is something in in the world that Charles finds hard to swallow. Max really should have cancelled, stay in bed with Charles and bicker until the end of time. He doesn’t want to say anything, but he knows silence is worse. He has to stop this now.

"I'm sure he wouldn't like me knowing that," he fakes a laugh and digs his nail into his jeans. Thankfully, the questions stops, because she is about to turn on an electric razor. Max swears on one day becoming an ambassador for the brand. For free. Because, the safety the loud sound provides, is truly priceless. Few minutes of peace. Max is grateful. But, everything good ends eventually and soon there is silence again.

Pascale starts combing through his hair, and the rhythmic motion is almost calming. Almost. Because just when it looks like they got over the topic of her son, certain someone decides to grace the room with his presence.

The door opens, and none other that Charles enters.

"Hi, mama!" he greets his mother cheerfully. She stops her movements, gives Max one quick apologetic look and goes into hugging her son. As his own reflection burns back right at him, he wonders what bad thing had Max done in his previous life to end up in this mortifying scenario. He uses this split second of opportunity and flips his phone out.

"This is a mistake" he manages to type a text super quickly to the brown haired menace of a man, hoping he reads it asap. He doesn't. Of course. His phone most likely on silent mode. Why would the world make anything easier for Max, ever. No, Charles is busy running for the Son of the Year, apparently.

"Mama, I brought you some pastries, from the shop you love so much," he says after she releases him from her embrace. "Figured you might be hungry."

Max sees in the reflection that she smiles and it does look like an innocent family moment. But, he knows Charles. He probably has fireworks stacked in his pockets and is not afraid to use them to distract his mom. Ugh.

His mom is smitten, they exchange few more pleasantries and she returns back to her job, while her son strolls into the backside and helps himself to some tea.

"Oh, hi Max. Forgot you'd be here today. I'd have brought you something too," he says oh-so-casually.

"Hi, Charles," he retorts, appreciating the fact Charles managed to at least go home and dress into something other than Max's t-shirt. Life is a real bitch lately, he has to look for the positives somewhere. Max tenses, bracing for whatever fresh chaos Charles is about to unleash.

Charles walks back into the room with his cup of tea, exuding a breezy confidence that Max has only seen in people who’ve never accidentally dug their own graves. Max shifts in his chair, suddenly feeling like he’s under a spotlight. Pascale's attention flicks to Max, as she continues her job, her expression as composed as ever, though Max swears there’s a glimmer of something sharper in her gaze. He swallows.

“So,” Charles begins, sitting casually in one of the vacant hairdresser chairs, “the party last night? Amazing. I have so many great friends, mama.”

Max decides to focus his gaze on a random spot on the wall, desperately hoping for Charles to pick a safer topic.

“It was classic Pierre. Total chaos, but fun. Oh, and Max!” Charles laughs, pointing vaguely in his direction. “You should’ve seen him, mama. He got so drunk. I’ve never seen him like that.”

No.

It's like somebody drops a stone on his head. He risks a glance at Pascale, who is now looking at him with raised eyebrows, her smile soft but distinctly knowing. Max closes his eyes for three seconds. How does one stop this train from crashing? Just how stupid Charles is being is beyond him. To blame sleep-deprivation would be unfair to sleep-deprivation.

“Max got drunk?” Pascale says, her tone warm but laced with curiosity. “At the party?”

"Charles..." he says, trying to fit too much into this one word. Stop. Please stop talking. Look at your mother, she is getting suspicious. Max can see she that she is pretending to work on his hair, when in fact, she is merely brushing through. Like mother, like son.

“Yeah!” Charles continues enthusiastically, completely missing the tone of Max's plea. “He was dancing like...well, you’d have to see it to believe it.” He adds few obscure moves with his hands to make it "believable".

Max opens his mouth again, but no sound comes out. Pascale’s gaze is laser-focused on him now, quiet and steady. It’s not accusatory. More like she’s waiting for him to slip up.

“Hmm,” Pascale hums lightly, sipping her tea now, her expression neutral but her eyes still locked on Max.

Charles barrels on, completely oblivious. “Anyway, the chef Pierre hired? Incredible. He made this truffle thing...”

Max isn’t paying attention anymore. Pascale’s gaze hasn’t left his face, and in it, he sees everything. The quiet assessment, the sharp intuition, the undeniable knowing. It’s not about the supposed drunken party, it’s about something else entirely. Something unspoken.

Max manages to keep his face carefully blank. Pascale doesn’t say a word. She doesn’t have to. There’s a silent conversation happening between them, one Max isn’t sure he’s winning.

Charles continues his story, gesturing animatedly about the food, unaware as they come. Pascale tilts her head slightly, her lips twitching in a way that could almost be a smile.

She sips her tea again, finally breaking eye contact to look at Charles. “Sounds like quite the party,” she says simply, her tone light and amused.

Max exhales slowly, the tension in his chest easing ever so slightly. But when Pascale glances at him again, her eyes glinting with quiet amusement, he knows this isn’t over. Not by a long shot.

//

After his five minute long monologue it's actually Pascale, that kindly orders Charles to leave her shop, because other customers were coming in and his speech was drawing too much attention.

And now here he is, sitting in his mother’s salon, trying not to fall apart under the weight of it all.

There is a scary silence as she does some final touch ups. "There, all done. Do you like it?" she asks, making it obvious that she has the upper hand. "It's perfect, as always," he mutters and scrapes up all of the courage left over in his bones. "I didn't want you to think I'm some sort of drunk," he adds, knowing the hole is so deep at this point that to dig a little further does not make any difference whatsoever. She smirks, nods and makes sure to let him know that she does not judge him at all. Max leaves a tip a little too big for someone who's "not hiding anything". He is not sure whether he should feel guilty. As he if he defiled the family’s honor by spending last night worshipping her son. 

//

He walks home, trying to wrap his head around what has happened in the part twelve hours. Yesterday, he woke up thinking his biggest problem would be the unanswered email from the development department, that was sitting at the top of his inbox. Now, apparently, it's Charles, his mom and by the extension anyone that has the fortune of running into Charles in Monaco, because the man is unpredictable as they possibly come.

But, in all of the stomach rolling Max experienced in the past few hours, there is also something completely, utterly soothing. In amidst of all the chaos, there are the small little moments him and Charles shared. The whole time, he can’t stop thinking about him. About the way he looked last night, the way he said Max’s name like it meant something. After walking for few minutes, he remembers that he actually drove there and forgot about his car.

As he sits in the driver seat, he can still feel the reminisce of Charles's presence. He wonders what he's up to now.

The phone in his hand absentmindedly opens up at the text chain with him. The "this is a mistake" text marked as read, ten minutes ago. He mutters few curse words under his breath. Given the time this text was seen - and not responded to - he could only imagine where Charles's wild imagination took him. Max is too tired to overthink this. Unlike Charles, he's not afraid to call him and clarify the situation, before it escalates and Charles gets the wrong idea. He dials his number immediately. It gets picked after few long dials.

"Hey," he hears on the other line. Tone neutral, flat and with no sign of emotion. Okay, damage has been done apparently. So he gets talking before it goes further.

"Hi, so...Got a nice haircut from your mom," he sighs, trying not to overthink this. Deep breath in. "Um, the last text I sent you was intended as a warning when you walked in the door." Max swallows, trying not to imagine how lame he sounds right now. He just does not want Charles to get the wrong idea. He is squeezing the hand that's not holding the phone. "It's not like....referred to anything else. Just so we're clear." He pauses, giving him some space for a reaction. His nose flinches as nothing comes for few seconds.

"Charles?" he tries, biting his cheek.

There is a light cough at the other, as if Charles was cleaning his throat. "No, yeah. I figured. That's what I thought. But, thanks for telling me," he skips one word over another and Max bites his lip, knowing that he is definitely lying. He's not going to tease him about it today. Gotta save something for a rainy day.

"Right," he concludes and another silence follows before he speaks again. Max watches people walk by, all of them beautifully unaware of what his day entailed so far. In a split second, he finds himself wishing it stays that way. For safety. So that they have some freedom to figure shit out. "Good job at your mom's. Real good story," he says sarcastically, to keep the conversation flowing.

There is a notable shift in Charles's tone, more excited and relaxed. "Right?," he says, proudly, either missing or ignoring the sarcasm. "I had to go and save you, mama is too good at this game. Distracting her is the best way to go about it." Max fights a laugh, amused by Charles's delusions. But it is so nice to hear him so sure of himself and happy. He does not want to destroy that. "Yeah, good job. It's just..."

"What?" Charles asks, suddenly worried.

Max calculates. "No, I fumbled up before you came and told her I wasn't at the party."

"Ah."

He is quick to speak before Charles has the chance. "No, but what you said was good, when you left, I told her I was embarrassed about getting so drunk," he leans against the head rest and thinks that the only thing that's embarrassing is the way he can see himself grinning in the mirror.

"Okay, okay..." Charles pauses and thinks for a moment. "That's good, makes it believable."

Maybe one day he will understand just how Charles's brain works. But for now, it's an exciting, unpredictable journey he's enjoyed so far.

"It's my mother, I know her the best. She is not suspecting a thing!" Max does not fight him on that - no point, because the damage has been done and it's probably just a matter of time before Pascale figured the truth out. He is fine with that.

"It's your family, your fight. I just..." he pauses before getting the harder part of the sentence out.

"Tell me, Max," Charles encourages.

"Please don't do this, or any other unpredictable things in front of my family. It's a bit more difficult situation with them." Hearing his biggest worry said out loud works in the exact opposite as psychology books would suggest. Saying it means it's real. And Max is not ready for that. He pushes it down as deep as possible.

"Of course," Charles reacts, his tone soft. "I totally understand." Max can only hope he does. He prays for it.

"Thank you. I hope we can keep this between ourselves...There is a lot to think about," he says pragmatically. It's all fun and games with Charles, but it could very quickly escalate to something career-ending, and for some reason, Max thinks he's the more rational one about this whole thing.

"No, that's for sure. Thank you for saying it, it's good to clear that out." Maybe, just maybe, there is a chance this all does not blow up in their faces.

"Good," Max confirms and fiddles with his t-shirt.

"Um, so, me and my little brother are gonna play some football later today...If you want to join," Charles asks carefully. Max's first instinct is to say yes. However, on second thought, meeting his brother, after the fiasco with his mother...That's a whole lot of Leclerc for one day. Max needs some time to process things. Some breath of fresh air, before they embark on racing again in few days.

"Thanks, but I got shit tone of prep to do for Singapore. But, next time, definitely."

"Of course, I'm sure the data is as much excited to see you as I am," Charles flirts and it does work on Max, maybe a little too much.

"You're insane," he says, affectionately.

"And yet, you're the one who called," Charles react with a "right back at ya" undertone.

"I'm hanging up now, Charles."

"I'm not playing this game with you," he laughs and actually hungs up.

Maybe one day, Max will be able to predict Charles's next move. One day. It's definitely not going to happen any time soon. But, for all the silent inner monologue, calling him crazy or reckless, he is glad that Charles is doing things that way. Because, if they were both like Max, they'd both be sitting home. In a calm, but lonely peace.

//

He watches from afar, cosmic energy surrounding Charles the following days. His new contract announcement breaks the news and his face is everywhere. When he finally gets a glimpse of him at the paddock, t's like someone finally painted Charles in colors, instead of the black and white ghost that roamed around this summer. Max recalls when he got pushed into the top team. How thrilling those days were. He figures this happens only once in one's life. When you finally achieve what you've dreamt of for years, decades maybe. And before you have yet to discover all the dark sides of the dream, all the things you either didn't anticipate or purposefully ignored, to keep yourself pushing. It's an ugly industry they picked. Merciless, cruel, unjust and cutthroat. Bleeds you dry and leaves you, when you need help the most. But, the highs are indescribable. He knows it, Charles knows it, they share the urge to fight, win and keep fighting. There is nothing like getting the overtake done. No comparison to finally getting the promise of a top team car after years of sacrificing. He does not want to taint those days. No matter how much he'd like to share the joy Charles must be feeling, he can't trust himself around him at the moment. He wants to talk to him, touch his body and drive around in circles around every city they end up in. The door is not fully open yet, but Max has a feeling, deep down in his bones, that it won't be just another hook up for him. It is entirely possible, that Max is using the excuse of Charles's post-signing days as an excuse. To allow himself to hang on the few moments when he is free of anyone else living in his head rent free. Entirely possible. There is no way of knowing.

Singapore is one of Max's favorite places. Not necessarily for the track, but the city hums and shines, everyone is a visitor and rarely anyone is a local. He had been on the road so much that a concept of a home, a place he's from, is sort of foreign. If you'd ask him that question, he'd probably reply that his home is his car. It is also the fact the jet-lag works somewhat to his favor, he had always liked the nights more anyway. Things roll in the same way as they always do. The familiarity is cut by the few texts him and Charles share, random updates from their day. That is entirely new. Anytime his phone dings, it's like a line of cocaine shot directly into his brain. He often thinks about their night. Explores the new world of sex Charles introduced. This is probably not the first time in history someone justifies watching gay porn as "study material".

//

It's not unusual for Max to get stuck at a some semi-official dinner. He understands the importance of it, when it's a sponsor or charity thing. But, as he finds himself sitting at another table shared with his father and Christian Horner only, he figures he needs to get better at making up excuses. Jos always put made a great deal of any opportunity he got to spend with someone like a team principle and would not back down even after the achieved the goal of getting Max signed. Max has the sentence "building connections" burned into his memory and it works almost Pavlovian. Unless there is a clear clash in his calendar, he gets up and goes to whoever his father need him to parade to. He considers it a small price for all the things he had done to help him where he is now.

One day, one day he will say no to a dinner with only him and Christian. One day.

It always goes the same. On testing days, the less prominent ones, they get a table at the nearest steak house and the two older men feast, while Max tries to find an option suitable to his diet. He is way past by using up his cheat meals with these two. He likes them, he really does. Both men have something interesting to say and he tries to learn from their conversations. Not really minding the way how he feels more like a decorative piece, than a real participant. It's when they overdo it too much with the whiskey and get onto more lenient topics when it starts to become unbearable.

Max shifts uncomfortably in his chair, his half-eaten chicken breast pushed to the side of his plate. Across from him, Christian and Jos are deep into their conversation, which feels more like series of monologues, than an actual dialogue. Max just wants to leave.

"It's not getting any easier, Jos, let me tell you. Not with all the initiative to get more women on the road," Christian mumbles, pleased with himself as he waves over for another round of drinks. "The path to hell is paved with good intentions. I'm all for equality," he says like means it, but both Verstappens know that is not the case, "But nobody has balls big enough to address the obvious effect this is going to have," he comments and looks at Jos for support.

"What happens on the road, stays on the road," Jos concurs the infamous phrase uttered usually right before marriage vows are about to get broken. "It was always like that and it's going to stay that way. People will just have to be more careful, now that everyone carries a professional camera in their pocket. Thank fuck that was not the case in my old days." The two men share knowing smiles, heavily implying they'd seen their fare share of unplanned love affairs. Max's heart sinks in. He's heard that one line countless of times. This is the part of the evening when Max usually tunes out. When he was a teenager, he would laugh with along side, finding it all exciting and a nice perk of this lifestyle. People slip up when they spend most of their days and nights away from home. And the paddock community allows that, unwritten rules making sure the families, wives, girlfriends or partners don't find out from other people. The older Max gets, the more sick this all feels. Yes, it is hard, but some people don't seem to try at all. He tries to forget the moments his dad left him alone to get his midnight fix. Still does not know if he did the right thing by covering for him, be it that from his own mother or whichever girlfriend came after her.

He's not going to sit and argue, judge his father or his team principal. After all, they'd done this far longer than him and who knows - maybe it is impossible not to at least slip up. What happens on the road, stays on the road. That sentence fills him with ever-present dread. The hopelessness and nihilism of it all rings bitterly in his ears. No, it does not stay on the road. I had to look my mother in the eyes and pretend like I don't know anything.

He thinks of Charles and imagines him saying these words to his peers. It makes it all so much worse, but this is typical Max. When he'd down, he tends to give into it and go forward to the despair. He fantasizes about Charles hiding things from him, clandestine meetings with other people and inevitably turning into the same type of person like his current dinner partners are. Misery loves company could be Max's motto.

He sits there in silence, trying not to absorb the story Christian is telling about a woman he hooked up with three races ago. It is a particularly uninteresting story, if you take the infidelity out of it. Max thinks of his wife and how sincerely she hugged him four races ago. Apparently, it only takes missing one race to get forgotten.

A text dings on his phone. Maybe it will release him from this misery. "Is your dinner over? Wanna meet up?"

He hasn't seen Charles since his stand-up at the hair salon. The memory is a total contrast to what ever he had been imagining the past few minutes.

He hovers his fingers over the screen, debating which direction to take this. It's rude to leave the dinner early. But the two men haven't even addressed him since their third glass. He would absolutely love to see Charles and run away from this all. However, he knows how he gets when he's in this mood. Silent and mercurial. Twisting his thumbs, he decides to just type. Charles does not seem to filter anything out ever, so maybe that's the way to go about it. Anything but whatever his father is doing. "Still at the dinner, I'd kill for a save out of it. But a warning. I'm feeling a bit weird. So like...I'm probably not the best company today"

He hits send before he can rethink this decision. With his lips turned down, he returns his attention to the conversation. The topic seems to be one of the female logistics manager from Williams. And her physical qualities. It's exhausting to witness this.

Max exhales, the tension in his chest making his voice sharper than he intended. “Maybe it’s not the road. Maybe it’s just you," he whispers, not sure if he want that to go noticed or not. It doesn't.

A ding. "I can handle grumpy Max. Share me your location. I'm going on a run. We can go for a walk to get you out of your head, hm?"

This is when Max is glad that his father is too lazy to pick a place further than ten minutes away from the hotel. He does as Charles asks and puts his phone away. He is utterly doomed. Smile already creeping into his face as he watches the men, who are looking uglier every minute. The idea of joking around with Charles is an addictive one. Which precisely what makes this all so much worse. It's a quick fix, that he can't imagine won't cash its price in the future. But, he can't help himself. He counts the minutes, hoping each one is the last one.

//

In the end, it's very easy to get out of the dinner. Both of them understanding that racing comes first. They don't need to know the truth (Jos' words anyway).

Rush washes over Max as he walks out and heads over an alleyway two streets away where, supposedly, Charles is waiting on him.

It feels all the best kinds of wrong, and yet pure and innocent. He keeps looking around, trying to see if anyone recognizes him, so that he could get ahead of that situation. Seems like luck is on his side this time. The dim alley feels like world apart from the lively street he left behind. Charles doesn’t move, his posture relaxed, his hood pulled low enough to cover most of his face in the shadow. Yet, Max knows it’s him. He could pick out Charles in a crowd of thousands. Max slows down, looking over his shoulder once more time. Charles stays in the dark and waits for Max to walk towards him.

“Max,” Charles says, his voice low, quiet enough that it feels like the name is meant just for him. Then he finally walks one step closer, letting the light into his face.

Charles looks like something too elegant for this setting. His lips curled up, patches of light stubble mapping his youthful features. The hoodie drowns his body, yet he can make it all work. His eyes shine and one would easily believe he is glad to see him. Max stops and smiles back at him. He is fully aware of his own insecurity about what happens next. Nobody gives you a protocol about these situations.

Charles shakes his head, biting his smile down. "Na-ah. Closer," he orders and it sounds like an invitation.

Eyes glued at him, Max does one, comically small step and grins back at him.

Without a blink, Charles repeats. "Closer."

Max also repeats his moves, stopping just shy of brushing against Charles. The distance between them is barely a breath, one arm’s length, close enough that he could touch him without even reaching. His fingers twitch at his sides, aware of how little space there is now, how easily that space could disappear. Chills running down his spine.

Charles, obviously amused, continues. "Closer," he dares him and Max is sure that even a dead person wouldn't be able to defy this command.

He kills any notion of a space between them, reaches to tangle their fingertips and painfully slowly leans over to connect their lips together. Immediately upon feeling his soft lips, butterflies fill up every possible space in Max's body. The touch is light, intoxicating in just how casual and easy it all feels. Few more brushes before Charles smiles into the kiss and pulls away, to Max's dislike.

"Slow down, lover boy," he murmurs, still staying impossibly close. "We're still in public," he reminds Max, who's rational part of brain is grateful for this.

Max nods and licks his lips, taking in any residue of Charles. He watches him, expression changing from simply flirtatious to something more serious. He looks at him, like he is a code he needs to decipher.

"Let's go, Max Emilian. There's this jelly tea thing I really want to try," he announces and gestures at him to get going the same way he came. There's something about the specific blend of accent this man has that is music to Max's ears. Also, he really likes this new way of greeting Charles.

//

Max is led by Charles through number of buzzing streets, narrow and wide and it would almost fool you into thinking this isn't the first time Charles is in the city. Just when Max is getting progressively more certain they are lost, a lively corner reveals a street full of small food stands, eclectic shops and little tables set up for those wanting to sit down for a moment.

Charles is his usual cheerful self, carefree and talkative. He asks Max if he wants to hear few crazy things from the first days of him being publicly Ferrari and only starts to blabber once Max assures him that he really wants to hear it. It seems like Charles took the text about his mood more seriously than Max would expect him to. He is careful in his actions and more aware of the surrounding world outside his own existence. Max is happy to get distracted by his stories. Many of them remind him of his early days at Red Bull, though a few highlight just how different the scarlet team’s philosophy is from his own home garage.

"We absolutely have to get you a hat," Charles interrupts his own story in the middle and seemingly abandons it completely. He jogs to the nearest shop with some obscure hats and caps on display and waves at Max, encouraging him to come over with a smile suggests there is little to no room for him to protest.

Max approaches the shop slowly, but it looks like the door for contributing to that decision has closed. Charles holds up a straw hat adorned with a blue feather, his face lighting up with a look of approval.

"Perfect. This will work," he says and puts the hat on Max. It feels like something out of a youtube challenge video.

"Why do we need this?" Max asks conversationally, having quickly accepted that this is going to happen. It's Charles. He runs on different fuel than the rest of the world and Max would do almost anything just to see him smile.

Charles has his proud face on. "We need to hide you a bit. You are too obvious." The happy show assistant accepts Charles bit tip.

"And this big hat is going to help how?" he wonders out loud as they keep walking down the street. Charles's fingers brush gently over Max's as he walks past him - and he knows that's not accidental.

He turns his head and his lips are forming a cunning smile. "Max Verstappen would never wear something like that without being forced to."

"Well, I am being forced to!"

"See? Everything I say is true."

//

Max stares at his cup skeptically. “You’re sure this isn’t just sugar water?”

“Chin chaw,” Charles educates him.

“Chin what?” Max asks, observing the contents of the drink with visible suspicion.

“Chin chaw,” Charles repeats, grinning. “Grass jelly drink. It’s refreshing. Trust me.” Max realizes that he looks utterly ridiculous with the hat already, but his concerned expression must be adding a new dimension to his look. Charles laughs, already taking a sip. “Try it. It’s good.”

Max hesitates but takes a sip. The drink is sweet, herbal, and oddly pleasant. The jelly slides through the straw with an unexpected texture that’s not entirely unpleasant.

“See? Not bad, right?” Charles beams.

Max shrugs, taking another sip. “It’s... okay.”

They find a quiet spot at the edge of the bustling street, leaning against a low wall as the crowd flows around them. Charles takes another sip, his gaze fixed on Max.

“Alright,” Charles says, breaking the silence. His tone is softer now, curious but firm. “Why are you in such a mood tonight? What happened?”

Max stiffens, his eyes darting away. It was nice to be distracted. To not think for a moment. "What mood?"

Charles keeps his gaze no matter how much Max tries to avoid it. "It's like you have this dark cloud following you. I'm not going to push you, if you don't want to tell me, but I just wonder what made you this upset."

Max sighs, running a hand through his hair, forgetting the damn hat. He takes it off and shoots Charles a semi-apologetic look. "I’m not upset."

“Okay.” Charles’s voice drops, gentler but insistent. “You are. But I'm happy to see you either way." His smile is soft and innocent.

Max doesn’t speak right away, swirling the straw in his drink as if it holds the answer. He finds it strange how Charles sees through him. He tried to so hard to push it all inside.

"It’s nothing," Max finally mutters, his tone unconvincing. "Just tired."

Charles leans closer, his shoulder brushing Max’s. "No. This is more than that. I’ve seen you tired. This is... something else."

Max exhales sharply, avoiding Charles’s gaze. The words on his mind beg to get out. He stares into the busy street. All the normal people, who don't get to race a formula 1 car mingling around, unburdened.

"Do you ever think how your life would look without racing?" he opens up and immediately feels like an idiot. Charles is still his rival, this is not something he should be hearing.

But there is no lightness in Charles's tone as he speaks. "Sometimes. It's a strange life. So far though, it seems like the right path."

He leaves space for Max to follow up. "I just...Sometimes I look at the people in the industry, especially those who had been in it for decades...And they sort of scare me," he admits for the first time. It feels strange to say it like that. But, it's the truth. "They have this weird look in their eyes, cynical and it feels like they become slaves of the lifestyle."

Charles thinks for a moment. "It's an addiction, this job and this world. Especially as drivers, we get so used to the adrenaline, the constant travel, never in one place for more than few weeks...It's why I love Monaco so much. It keeps me grounded," Charles tilts his head slightly, eyes narrowing in thought as his fingers absently trace the rim of his cup. "What's the thing that scares you the most?"

"I guess the whole family and inner circle aspect. It's so hard to keep in touch with people outside of racing. And every year, or few years, you're facing the threat of getting dropped by your team and then what? The longer you're on the grid, the more your life becomes the people surrounding you. I have to say. I don't like many of them."

Charles studies him so intensely, Max has to avert his eyes to the crowds again. The Monegasque reaches for his leg with his heel and entangles then, probably instead of reaching over with his hand, for anyone to see. His movement is subtle but deliberate, his heel brushing against Max’s ankle before hooking gently around his leg. Max can't help but appreciate the nice intimate gesture. "We're so focused with this specific vision," his hands mimic the shape of a tunnel, "that I'm worried I might get lost in it. Missing out on so many other things in life."

"Like what?"

"I don't know, family celebrations, studying university, having a successful marriage." It feels extremely strange to dump this out on the guy who sucked his dick last time they saw each other. But, Max is in a mood today. "If you want to survive in this world, you have to be super focused and sacrifice everything."

There's a glint in Charles's eyes. A wondering look, the unknown. He takes his time responding.

"You really think you have to give it up all to win?" he speaks with certainty that Max finds almost odd.

The pit in Max's chest does not stop growing. "That's all I've ever heard from everyone. It’s not just a job. It’s our whole existence."

"Maybe you're listening to the wrong people," Charles says, his voice sounding like he's not sure where his response it going to end up. "It’s true, this world can eat you alive. But it doesn’t have to. There’s still room for joy, for the small things that remind you why you wanted this in the first place. I think the trick is holding onto those moments before they slip away," he wonders, sounding remarkably like his mother. "However, and you might know something about this," he teases, "The cliché thing about losing automatically when you give up trying, is nothing but true. I'm sure that many people had told you that it's impossible to get into F1. And yet, look at where you're sitting."

It does make sense, in fact it's so obvious it makes Max feel almost foolish. It's hard to convince yourself to believe in this when all you ever hear in bitter comments from those who walked this path before you. He's still not entirely convinced it's not just another delusional hope.

"So yeah. Give up before the fight. It's probably going to be easier," Charles notes and slurps on a particularly big peace of his tea jelly.

Max sighs loudly. If Charles thinks he does not know what game he's playing here, he is seriously mistaken. "I don't know what your goal is, but I know exactly what you're doing."

"Really? What do you think I'm doing," his lips curl into a sly smile, and he glances at Max from beneath his lashes.

"Provoking me into trying to prove you wrong."

"Maybe. You're like me, the best strategy to get you to do something is to challenge you or suggest you can't do it."

"Uhm." Max has an inkling this speaks more about Charles rather than himself. "So what's your goal?"

"Gotta keep you in F1."

"Why?! No offense, but it would be quite good for you if I just decide to say fuck it all and flip my entire life upside down."

Charles shakes his head, mischief written all over his face. "I have to beat you on track again."

Max scoffs. Of course.

Charles speaks loudly again, his tone more at ease. "I won't be sitting here in twenty years, listening to you bitching and saying the only reason I'm winning is because you've retired and gone off organizing some family celebrations. It's you or me."

No, Max thinks. There is only one way this is heading. And it's getting more obvious with each day. It's you and me.

Images of the dinner, his father, Christian and all those unpleasant moments spent with them flash in front of his eyes. Soon, it's going to happen all over again. He's already dreading it.

There’s something about the way Charles speaks tonight, his voice steady but gentle, his answers so sure, him leaving no room for any doubts. For a moment, Max can’t breathe. It's a whole dance of words that are being said and the undertones hidden in between. He sits there, his legs now crossed and he looks so unburdened. Steady, calm and it seems to be working on steering Max's gloom back to normal.

This isn’t just a conversation. It’s a lifeline, a reminder that there’s something more than the dread of the cynics around him. And it hits him, sharp and undeniable: it’s Charles. It’s always been Charles. He's the one who understands. Still naive and seemingly immune to the bitterness of others.

"You’re staring, Max. Should I be flattered or worried?"

You be whatever, I am terrified - he wants to say, but doesn't. "Neither. You just... We can stop saying stupid things now," he tries to undermine the conversation, because the worry that he is reading too much into this whole thing is starting to get to him.

Charles laughs, rolls his eyes, but the tone he speaks in is inviting. "Right. Stupid. Glad to see the usual Max back."

Max chuckles and inspects the strange drink that's getting warmer with every minute.

"Can we just stay here?" he pleas quietly, more to the heavens than Charles.

"What, in Singapore?" Charles turns around, as if he's searching for something that particularly catches Max's eye to make a statement like that.

He just smiles, observing him instead. "No."

Because, what if what happens on the road, stays on the road.

Charles does not reply, but he takes a hard look around the street, looking for anyone who might have recognized them and when he start looking sure of their anonymity being protected, he picks up the ugly hat. He has his cheek expression on as he shields his face from the main street, leans in and places a small, quick kiss on Max's lips.

chapter 6

------- @chezmardybum

[didoldacc]

(english is not my first language, sorry)

soo, thinking about the demo of tinnitus, imagine them saying the lyrics right in your ear while having sex, the demo is all about sex, I-

I really love your post, love u😿

MDNI!

hehe dw it is not my native language either i just learned it from the internet too. and i am glad that you like my posts it means a lot and also sorry for the late reply the inspo didn't come so i waited 🕴 also studied for midterms(everyone is having their finals and we just started midterms wtf) so i hope it is worth the wait. and i choose taehyun to write the fic since tinnitus is just his song in the album imo. (you did not member specify so picked tyun and he just owns the song) AND THE DEMO HAD ME CHOKING IN SHOCK LIKE I- I MEAN I PREFER THE THE MISERY LYRICS BUT IMAGINE THEY SANG A SONG LIKE THAT- anyways here's the drabble love you too so much

warnings: basically lyrics of tinnitus demo version, dirty talk, slightly dom!taehyun, taehyun is wicked but soft, petnames(baby, pretty), reader having a tiny bit insecurity(not body related don't worry), no one is virgin but it's their first time, manhandling, cunnilingus, no essence of good writing (let me know if there is any that i've missed)

taehyun smiled to your pleas. you had no idea what you were asking for. you kept insisting that he let you listen the demo version of your favorite song. you knew it wasn't going to be innocent since you heard him saying that all the members were shirtless while recording. and the song had that vibe about it even with the sad lyrics they came up with.

taehyun knew better than letting his pretty girl down so he agreed. while he was opening his laptop, you patiently waited. you were so going to make fun of it for the rest of your life, you thought.

after bringing his laptop to the table, he gave you his headset. you gently took it from his hands and positioned the headset to your ears. he gave you a look that implied if he could start playing after you nodded, he started to play the song. it took you while to give a reaction to it and he couldn't wait to witness it. but you were trying your best to keep it cool. it was supposed to be a song about sex, you expected that. yet the whole song straight up felt like dirty talk rather than a song. you just gulped when the song finished. you avoided looking his face and gave a little laughter.

"so this is the demo, huh?" he nodded with disappointment. he was expecting more. his wishes of you being turned into red from embarrassment did not come true. but little did he know that you were struggling to keep your poker face.

you decided to end your stubbornness and blurted out the fact that you wished he had a recording of him singing the demo version and right there you had fallen into his trap. "well, maybe you can hear it in other ways, not necessarily singing." he said while grinning.

---------------------------------------------------

the next thing you know, your naked form was laying in his bed. him not letting go his risus just made you want to hide under the duvet. just when you were going to cover your face with your hands, he stopped you and instead kept your hands above your head.

he leaned towards your ear "baby can't you give it to me right now?" you low-key cringed but couldn't help but get aroused with the action. "pretty, i got no time to waste, give me answer." the minute you whined a yes, you felt his lips devouring yours.

"do what i say, if you want to learn more. is that okay?" you just nod and let him take control. "i wasted enough time with preparing you but you don't look ready for me yet. what a shame. but lucky for you you can sit on my face." your eyes went wider with his demand. you weren't sure about that since it was your first time with taehyun. it was not like neither of you lacked experience but you did not want your first time with him to be an experience where you chased your own pleasure. what if it would make him not want to do it again with you?

your concerns were nonsense in his eyes and he did not hesitate to let you know. he clawed a hold of your hips and positioned you where he wated. "i want you to keep repeating 'want it', is that clear?" you wasted no time to answer.

when he heard your yes, he started to give small kisses to your clit. every time you felt the sensation little whimpers left your mouth. "want it. i want it" you repeated which made taehyun pleased. his tongue knew exactly what to do to make you cry from pleasure. you were about to cum from slight stimulation yet he was going to let you. "just hang in there a little baby, we are not done." he said. but there was no way you could hold it any longer.

you shut your eyes from the pleasure and couldn't open it and put your hands to nearest surface to keep yourself stable. his making out with your pussy got rougher. and all you could do was to curse. "fuck, tae. please baby i can't anymore" you managed to say before your orgasm hit you. his grip on your tights got more stern. and when you came undone he lifted you up. he gave you a warm smile before getting up to kiss you.

"can you return the favor?"

[themonotonysyndrome]

Mating Dance

Fic is based on this TikTok video.

Summary: Bright Eyes can't sleep and thus, makes it Vincent and Lovely problem.

-

It's a beautiful evening and at long last, Vincent and his Lovely are settling in for bed in their brand new house.

Dinner was most excellent - perfectly cooked wagyu steaks prepared by Vincent that's paired with a glass of blood from a content 40-year-old. Lovely's favourite type. Their lover boy does so love spoiling them and they sure do love counting their blessing...

And reward said lover boy. But that's a story for another beautiful evening.

After the couple is all snug in bed tonight and Lovely is warm in Vincent's embrace, the Vampires suddenly hear a voice outside the master bedroom.

"I need to practice my dance for the ladies... I need to do my warm ups."

The couple freezes for a split second before -

"1...2...3..."

Lovely slowly tilt their chin up to look at their boyfriend. "Wait. Is that - "

Before Vincent could even open his mouth, that familiar voice became louder.

"1... 2... & 1... 2... hooooooooooold."

Then, absolute silence. Despite being a pair of undead, Vincent and Lovely held their breaths.

And then -

"Ladiiiiiiies! Hello! I see you looking for... a MALE!"

"I'm gonna tie that brat up and throw them in our store room." Vincent curses and immediately launches himself out of the bed. He then stomps to the window, leaving Lovely cackling.

The window shoves open. Vincent thrust his head outside to see Bright Eyes below, in their backyard, wearing pajamas which essentially comprise of Frederick's D.A.M.N hoodie, worn-out underwear AND NOTHING ELSE. NOT EVEN A PAIR OF SHOES. WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH THEM!?

"Bright! We are trying to sleep here!" Vincent howls just like Asher when he stubs his toe in wolf form with bits of cake all over his face. That's also a story for another beautiful evening. One with lots of alcohol needed.

"It is I!" Bright Eyes proclaimed with spread arms and uh, spread legs. Lovely gives them 7 out of 10 for their pose. Yeah, they couldn't deny their curiosity any longer and squeeze beside Vincent at the window to see the show.

"Oh, wow." Lovely giggles and clap their hands in applause.

"Don't entertain them, Lovely." Vincent whines; a headache is already pounding in his head. "That's how they keep coming back."

Merciless to his plight, Bright Eyes continues with their mating dance.

"I am... ADEQUAAAAAAATE."

"Interesting... interesting words there."

"And most likelyyyyyy... FERTILE!"

"Just what the ladies want."

"I have my own place and I keep it... TIIIDYYYYY!"

"You can't evict Sam from his own house, Bright!" Vincent hollers, forgetting that all 3 of them are Vampires with superhuman hearing. It's a good thing that they don't have any neighbours, or someone would've already called the cops. "Frederick would cry if he finds Sam tied up in Darlin' truck again!"

"I can't sleep!" Bright Eyes just screams in reply. "And that wasn't me this time!"

"Oh my god. I can't - I seriously can't deal with this, Lovely. I just want to go to bed." Vincent laments, trying and failing to massage the headache away. Do Sam and Frederick even know that Bright's here? Is it worth the effort to call them? Would they even pick up their phones?

Lovely just nudges their elbow lightly to his side. Their lips tug into a sweet smile. "C'mon, Vince. Are you seriously not gonna accept Bright's mating dance? Adequate. Fertile. A place of their own? I'm charmed!"

Poor Vincent looks like he's constipating. So Lovely takes over.

"Bright, honey, your insomnia acting up again?"

"I do not care who is gangstalking me. I will NOT take my meds!"

Lovely snorts while Vincent groans into his hands. "I take that as a yes. Do you want to sleep with us tonight?"

Bright Eyes pause to think the offer seriously. "Yeah, it's better than watching those dancing fruit videos and listen to Tinnitus National Anthem. I got that dog in me that Sam is trying to euthanize. It's getting old!"

"I don't even know what that means!" Vincent snaps. Still, he turns around to prepare some extra pillows, toiletries, and, most importantly, slippers.

Now it's Lovely's turn to coax Bright Eyes inside like a civilised being rather than through the window like a cat.

"What hate crimes that stairs committed?" Bright Eyes ask as they scowl at the smooth wall outside of the house. "Where the drain pipe? OSHA is gonna have an aneurysm."

"That's because the stairs are inside of the house, Bright." Lovely teases. "C'mon, through the front door we go."

Bright Eyes just grumbled but did as told.

The moment they entered the house, they screamed as Vincent carried them into his arms and ran to the bathroom so he could wash them. Like hell would he let their biblically accurate feet into his new floor and bed. Once clean and in Lovely's spare pajamas (Vincent is seriously contemplating burning Bright's underwear), it's Lovely's turn to carry a surly Bright into their bed.

"You need anything? Plushie? Softer pillows? Screaming Victorian landlords ambience with sounds of revolution for sleeping, relaxing and studying background?" Lovely cheerfully asks, busy tucking Bright in between them and Vincent. Impromptu sleepovers are so much fun!

"I need - "

"Here, have this McDonald Happy Meal toy that I got when I was 12." Vincent interrupts and attacks Bright with a cheap plastic toy called Shadow the Hedgehog. They squawked unattractively when it landed on their face.

The trio settled down, and the evening quieted down once more. Lovely and Vincent made sure to only fall asleep once Bright drifted off to the realm of dreams and Fortnite dancers. Warm and safe between those who only want them to be happy, whether Bright realises or not.

"Rest easy, Bright Eyes..."

[charleslee-valentine]

Chance

For the Texas Chainsaw Massacre Disability Pride Month Event: Day Five- Victims

Word Count: ~1,600

Warnings: Death mention, mild internalized ableism, grief and anxiety.

_________

Turns out a giant grenade blast echoing around cave tunnels could do some pretty serious damage to the ear drums. Also turns out hearing aids ain’t some magical fix for hearing loss like Stretch might’ve once thought. Curse her former self for being so clueless about this way of life. Privileged little lady she used to be.

Bopping her head to music of any quality, let alone the shitty radio approved stuff, ain’t an option any more, took it for granted while it lasted. Hated that job and loved it at the same time, but she was too hard on it all. Only way they’re getting any of her ears back to working is surgery and tapping into bone, which Stretch ain’t willing to allow. Stitches and blood and metal in her head, just seems like a bad omen still.

Losing Lg would always be the worst part though. Take all her hearing, take her vision and her tongue and her spine, none of that would matter if sweet Lg hadn’t been taken down as a pawn.

They’d’ve found a way to talk without words and deafness getting in the way. Lg would’ve been patient and calm when she had her fits of frustration over the tinnitus making the inside of her head ring like a church bell.

She wears his keys on a necklace chain and as many of his clothes she could track down on her back. Keeping at least his memory close if he can’t be there in person. Guilt and regret and all can’t last forever when they were the sacrifices. The fault, if they’re really gonna place it, can only go to Lefty Enright, but he’s dead too. Checked to be sure when they were investigating that damned explosion and started pulling bodies out. He’s still legally a John Doe, but she recognized his mangled face.

Three hundred and eleven unique sets of bones were recovered from that place alongside him. Almost none of them complete, maybe being just a finger or two that didn’t belong to one of the more full bodies they were finding and had to be classed on its own. Among them, most of Lg was recovered and buried, gratefully including his face and his hat. That meant her business was done.

That’s her reason for stayin’ inside so much now. Her mama calls and she screens it right away. Writes a letter or a card instead that never gets a response. Doesn’t leave the house except for to restock on supplies. Food, hygiene, bullets. That kind of thing.

Against her better judgment she has a television in her kitchen, watching adverts for things to grab on her trips instead of browsing the shelves. Tries new things and usually hates them so bad she reverts right back to the routine that’s keepin’ her living. Stretch won’t stay out in the world a second longer than she has to.

Unless it’s to drop by the bulletin boards.

Stretch keeps track of the missing posters. The immortalized ink-blot faces she hopes she doesn’t ever have to recognize. When new ones appear, that’s her sign to make herself scarce again until it feels safe, and even then she’s got her pistol in her purse and a knife in each pocket. Never too careful. No such thing.

But nothing could prepare her for the day Lefty’s face joins the sea of forgotten souls.

“Enright, Boude AKA Lefty. Last seen in October of 1986. The missing person suffers from schizophrenia and is likely off of medications. He may be confused and in need of medical attention. We ask if you see him not to confront him. Contact The Hardesty family investigation in cooperation with Fort Worth police.”

The phone numbers listed included the police station, the sheriff's personal line, and one Sally Hardesty.

The last time Stretch saw that name she was readin’ in the paper that Sally’s tormentors had struck again killin’ those two kids on that bridge. Following that lead had doomed her to a similar fate. Similar losses. Everyday she regrets being stupid enough to play that tape and believe Lefty was going to call in backup and help. Turns out he wasn’t even a ranger anymore when she met him, but it’s too late to stay furious.

Stretch scrawls the numbers on the back of a receipt and gets the hell out of there before she breaks down inside a super store. Might be a hell of a sight to take her little ass to the garden section and wield a hedge trimmer like a saw against imaginary threats. Could go down in flames like the man ‘ come before her.

Instead she goes home and cries into her couch pillow ‘til she can’t breathe through her nose and passes out into a feverish sleep. Real badass now, huh. Sometimes she wonders how she even survived. If all of her did.

All by herself she crawled on her belly through Hell and she’d be damned if she just laid down and died after all of that. So why is she so nervous to just dial the phone and tell Miss Sally Hardesty the truth and the full one at that.

Well, maybe she wouldn’t have the heart to tell her the kind of man her uncle was. Sacrificing her and Lg when he knew better than most the brutality of that family. At this point it’s not even a complicated ordeal. She doesn’t forgive Lefty, even dead and gone. Why should she? She hasn’t just stopped loving poor Lg.

Still Sally deserves to know he’s dead. Closure and all. There’s just the problem or Stretch’s ears. Phone calls don’t work for her, the fuzz of traveling voices blocking out just about anything she might’ve been able to hear in the muffled way she does.

To the library it is. Computer records, phone books, she’ll be able to get an address for Sally off of that phone number and send her a letter.

It takes two trips, but she succeeds, her letter already written between all her frantic digging. The chase, the investigation, it makes her heart race and catch in her throat and she struggles to breathe. Actions like scrolling, filing, flipping through pages, it all reminds her of her job at the radio station. Of the beau who was by her side back then. Has to shake off the nostalgiac haze when she leaves.

Stretch is grateful once she can just mail the letter informing Sally her posters are futile, then maybe take her mind off it for a while.

The response comes only about half a week later, a good sign for their proximity and ability to meet up. Because that’s all Sally asked for actually. She wasn’t disturbed, didn’t call the police like Stretch might’ve if someone admitted to finding her address as public information.

Sally’s letter reads:

“Miss Brock.

I heard your situation down the grapevine. I wondered myself if I should reach out. I’m grateful you did first. My worried heart couldn’t decide one way or the other.

How can I begin this? Maybe with ‘I’m sorry.’ I’m sorry that I couldn’t convince them that Hell on earth was real in time. I’m sorry you got dragged into it and further down by my uncle. He’d always been that way, too headstrong for his own good. I guess I suspected all along he was dead. Two years is a long time to be on his own somewhere.

I hope it’s been long enough for you to heal somewhat. At least physically. I haven’t been quite the same since my survival and it’s been sixteen years for me. Please pardon the wobbly handwriting, my hands still shake. If it’s alright, I’ll pray for you. That the doctors may find a way to help your hearing, or better, that inventors might create a way to make the world easier without having to change you. It would be nice if the world could change for us once.

Miss Brock, it would mean a lot if we could meet in person. I trust you’ll bring protection and I will too. I carry a Cobra everywhere I go. Together I think we’d be safe enough to at least grab a coffee. I know a place. Write me back if you’d like, or don’t. I’m grateful for having the chance to have ever written you either way.

Thank you for sharing the news about my uncle, and for bringing some light back to this broken old wench’s day. I’ll get over my heartbreak eventually.

-Sally Ann.”

Stretch reads it over and over, like if she does it enough times the letter might reveal itself to be a trick or trap of sorts. Nothing stands out. Really, she figures their mutual tormentors likely wouldn’t even be able to spell well enough to write a letter like that. Or mail it in a darling pink envelope.

Scared as she might be, to accept leaving the house, and communication with a stranger she had to essentially stalk to find and the moral qualms of all that, on top of struggling to communicate at all with her deafness- Stretch finds this is the first time in two years she’s had something to look forward to.

She cries again, not ashamed of al the tears that fall by this point, gettin’ little wet splotches all over her page while scrawling her confirmation. Sally will likely understand.

“Blessed Miss Hardesty.

I’m there. Let’s do this next week sometime. I won’t go out ‘til after Friday, the 13th. Is that alright?

-Vanita Brock, but you miss, can call me Stretch.”

[kiwiaok]

one more bit from “my love mine all mine” bc I’m actually kinda proud of how I captured drugged andrew’s thought process:

Everything's so damn funny lately. Kevin's desperation to get him to care about exy, the scarecrow of the man that hides under the name Neil, Wymack looking at him like he might be worth something more than the knives hidden under his armbands. And the pills, especially those little bastards. They're so funny they squeeze involuntary giggles through his teeth all the time.

It's truly hilarious that after so many survived years, Andrew is still just a naïve little kid on the inside. That all his truths still crumble when faced with reality. Andrew thought that even if his choices and body were never his, at least his mind was his own. That he could always take shelter in the privacy of his own head, that this was the one thing he would always have control over. And he fought for it, too. It's why he actually cooperated with Bee - he decided that he wouldn't allow anything, not memories and not past experiences to take control over his thoughts. Now, the pills laugh at him from where he sees them out of the corner of his eye.

Andrew laughs right back at them, dizzy and nauseous. It's like he has been spinning for a long time, and he can't stop. His thoughts cycle constantly, wildly; blue pills, blue eyes, blue like cyan, that's like cyanide, one of the symptoms of the poisoning is shortness of breath and tinnitus, tinnitus, there is always ringing in his ears but he doesn't know if it's from screaming or laughing and he doesn't know if it's coming from his own mouth or from other's and he doesn't know when was the last time he could take a full breath and there are maggots crawling under his skin, and he wants to cut himself open and pluck them out one by one, but he's not allowed, and he's not allowed to stop either, to pause, to breathe, to think.

Frankly, it's exhausting. Constant racing thoughts, a constant stream of feelings fabricated entirely from those funny little pills. Every time he's fed one of those, on a schedule, like a fucking dog, he obediently swallows and then imagines little blue, cyan pills dancing around in his brain. Andrew doesn't think that's the drugs' desired effect, but he doesn't say anything. Enough words fall unbidden from his mouth these days.

He stays quiet and never alone and never in control, just him and the dancing pills, spinning, spinning like on a carousel, and oh he was on a carousel once with Cass, Cass like Cassandra, that database management system that supports computer clusters, Andrew knows because he read about it once and now his mind will never let him forget and Andrew thinks he needs a Cassandra for his brain to manage all clusters of his memories and then he remembers that he needed Cass too, not that long ago, Cass the person, not the database system and he wanted her to stay but where Cass was there was Drake and there were hands dancing on his skin, dancing just like those little pills and isn't that so funny? It seems funny. Everything's so damn funny lately.

[slavghoul]

Slav! You've been to a lot of shows, do you have any advice for how early we should queue up for the show if we want to be in the front? ie how many hours before doors, in your experience?

I usually come at around 9. Sometimes there are plenty of people there already, sometimes just a few, sometimes none. It really depends on the place/country, so it's hard to say. The worst spot I had in the pit was the second row, so not bad by any standards.

If you plan on queueing for a long time, PLEASE drink water and eat something throughout the day!!! If possible something filling. No alcohol. It can get very hot inside the venue (or outside if it's summer) and if you're dehydrated and hungry, there's the risk you may faint and end up in the back. Having an energy gel/bar right before the show is a great booster, but make sure you can bring them inside cause not all venues allow food items.

Also, keep in mind that some people are selfish cunts. There are people who will do anything to get to the first row, they will push, they will shove, they will cut in line, or simply just run faster than you. Queueing etiquette is nice in theory, in practice people are very selfish. This isn't anything new - I've seen comments blaming new fans, which I think are greatly exaggerated. I think it's due to this weird old sentiment that Ghost fans are like a big family and it's all peace and love and good times, which always made me roll my eyes cause that's not really my experience neither now nor in the past, but whatever. Yes, vast majority of the people ARE cool and there to have a good time, but don't ever let your guard down cause there can be that *one* person out of a hundred that will ruin someone's day. It's dog-eat-dog world out there once the gates open. These are very big shows. So be aware of your surroundings, look out for yourselves and others too if possible, and if you see any shady behavior (pushing, fighting, drunk people, inappropriate touching) don't be afraid to let security know.

I realize all this sounds very doomy 💀 So I'd like to emphasise that what I described above is *not* the norm at every show (all my experiences have been mostly positive), but it *can* happen, therefore be cautious and make your safety and safety of others the priority!

Oh and bring earplugs! Seriously. The sound is a lot clearer, the bass doesn't hurt, and you're saving your ears. Tinnitus is no joke. Even cheap ones are better than none, but if you're going to a lot of shows it's worth splurging on something made specifically for concerts.

[brightside-of-the-upsidedown]

Baby, I Got Sick This Morning

Chapter 9: You're My Medicine (Open Up and Let Me In)

Rating: Explicit

Ships: Harringroveson, Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson

Word Count: 50,890

Status: On Going

Chapter Summary: An explanation, an understanding, accidental art, and Steve gets a lot closer with Billy. Literally. They bone ❤

Chapter Notes: I wasn't sure I would make this scheduled update but the muse was on my side! If my health gets worse, I might update every 3 weeks, but otherwise I will keep to the 2 week schedule. Thank you all so much for being here and coming by every chapter ❤

Your comments and kudos mean everything to me, so thank you so much. I write a lot but I don't always post much, due to health and straying attention. But knowing you're all here and love this story as much as I do makes posting worth it.

Summary: Steve is dying, but what hurts the most is watching how it's affecting his family, his friends, everyone around him.

Nothing seems to be helping - not his community rallying around him, not magic itself, and not the devoted attention of Eddie Munson. Eddie is a rock and a hurricane in Steve's life. Steve might also be a little bit in love with him.

Then, one day when all other options run out, Eddie introduces him to one Billy Hargrove, and Steve's already-screwed-up life might be taking a turn. But is it for the better or for the more dangerous?

Notes: not all of Steve's chronic issues will be healed. He will always have some disabilities because I ain't about about that 'cure all' shit. They're just saving his life here.

As for the magical pregnancy: it will be in the sequel, so you'll be able to read this as a stand alone if it's a squick for you. I gotchu buddies ❤

Tags: Terminal Illnesses, Chronic Illness, Fantasy, What If Stranger Things Was More Like Buffy The Vampire Slayer?, Magic Shit, Mentioned Malpractice, Magic Practice, Magical Healing Cock, Future Magical Pregnancy? It's all complicated and Fairy Tale Rumplestiltskin bullshit, Magical Creatures, Demodogs are Hellhounds, Steve is bad sick from an injury, head injuries, Head Injury, Past Torture, Past Relationship(s), past Stancy, Tinnitus, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Chrissy lived and is living her best life somewhere, mention of cults, Steve's having a bad time but it improves, Steve Needs a Hug, he's gonna get one and more, Billy Hargrove is Bad at Feelings, Eddie Munson Has a Crush on Steve Harrington, Steve with long hair, I'm running out of ideas for tags so I'll add more later, please suggest tags if you like, slow updates but please comment it helps so much