#my blurry cat says hi in the mirror

[pinkblondie]

It's ok, I won't mind suffocating you with my boobs

Paypal ♡ Wishtender ♡

#contrary to popular belief I wear black 247 #my blurry cat says hi in the mirror #i call this the t-rex pose #pinkblondie

[leclsrc]

in so deep ✴︎ cl16

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

word count: 13.1k  

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

nsfw warnings under the cut!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah?”

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re not coworkers.”

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

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

“—I can’t—”

“Without telling her?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t—” Carlos starts with a sigh.

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

Maybe it’s worth it. Maybe—

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So, he replied, leaning closer. So.

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

What rule is that?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

“You’re staring again.”

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

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

“I said I’m not!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Christina?” The other two echo, confused. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He and Lily matched—Sonny and Cher.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh? Oh, okay. Well—be careful?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“—Pierre—”

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

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

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

“Take that back.”

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

You speak Portugese?

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

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

Ah, he laughs. Yeah.

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No shit. Who?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

Are you—

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

What he said, it wasn’t…

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Will they?”

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

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

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

“Lonely.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s your boyfriend, then?

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

Is he an arse?

No either. It’s just too late.

I’m sorry, love.

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hhhh…iiii.”

“Salut.” 

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

“Yes,” he says. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Should know what?”

“I missed you.”

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

“In a different way.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m glad I found you here, then.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“D’you want this?”

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

His heart drops.

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

“Ditto,” he says, and you smile.

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

“I do. I love you.”

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

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

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

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

#f1 #charles leclerc #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc imagines #charles leclerc drabble #charles leclerc smut #f1 x reader

[fic-over-cannon]

Words Left Unsaid

jason todd x f!reader

ao3 link

summary: jason todd is your childhood best friend. he dies before his Words come in, the first words his soulmate will say to him, and you have to pick up the pieces.

tags: soulmate au, major character death (temporary), grief

rated mature | wc: 8.8k

a/n: so this monster of a story was based on an ask i sent to @jasonsmirrorball a while back (don’t read for spoilers). it pretty much took on a life of its own, and now here we are nearly 9k later. it does get pretty dark in its exploration of grief, so please take care of yourselves my lovelies.

Everyone’s born with Words somewhere on their body, unreadable at first. The skin is shiny, like an old scar, the words blurry and undefined. One day, you’ll see the first words you’ll ever hear your soulmate say to you, that shiny patch of skin blooming like ink (there’s superstitions about the colour your Words fade into, as popular as astrology). The trick of the thing is, you won’t find out what your Words are until you’ve become the person who is meant to hear them. You could meet your soulmate a hundred times and not know it, not until you’ve both grown into the people you need to be. The youngest person to get their Words was seven, and the oldest 92 years young. Or so the stories go. When you’re young, still poking at your loose front tooth with your tongue, it’s a story that comforts you. It’s the story you beg your parents for before bed every night. It’s the carrot they use to get you to try new things and go new places. What if you meet your soulmate at the new movie theatre downtown? How do you know eating your veggies won’t develop you into who your soulmate needs you to be?

It’s what your mother uses to try and coax you out of the car for your first day at a new school. She’s driven you to school for your first day, a one off so she can finish up your admittance paperwork. In this moment you hate her for it. It’s February and the year is more than halfway over. The snow has melted into dirty grey slush in the streets and the pinching Mary Janes the school mandates as part of the uniform are going to provide no protection. It’s halfway through the year and you’re certain no one is going to be your friend at a new school in a new city. You’re twelve years old and to you this is the end of the world. You’re trying so hard not to cry, hugging yourself together and burying your chin in your chest.

“Come on, honey, this is a school. It’ll help you become who you need to be.”

Your mother’s voice is cajoling, trying to coax you out the same way she coaxed a stray cat into her arms. It worked on the cat, now named Haley after the comet, but it doesn’t work on you. She tries to catch your eye in the rear view mirror but you stubbornly turn your head to look out the window instead.

“Please. Work with me here. We’ll go in together, you’ll have a wonderful day and make so many friends. And after school, I’ll take you out for donuts and you can tell me all about it before your Dad gets home.”

You keep silent, continue to stare out the window at all the other kids walking into the building.

“Honey, please. Can you just do this one thing for me, please.”

She’s almost begging now, and you hate the way it makes her sound. You want to tell her how scared you are, how there’s nothing more you want to do except huddle under your covers in your unfamiliar bed and hold Haley close. But your fear is a hot ball in your chest, choking off any words that might come out. You look at her though, plead with her with your eyes to understand how much you don’t want to do this. She stares back at you, an exhausted slump to her shoulders and lines around her eyes you don’t remember being there. Slowly, you unwrap your arms from around your rib cage. Place a hand on each knobbly knee and slowly curl them into fists before nodding, once, sharply, eyes firmly fixed on the car seat in front of you. Your eyes burn, but the sigh of relief your mother heaves out is worth it.

Gotham Academy is housed in a collection of gothic stone buildings which should have been strange in a large city like Gotham but weirdly works. You just think it’s creepy. Head down, you follow your mother’s back weaving through the crowds of students. You don’t want to see the stares, but you can already feel them boring into you. Sitting in the secretary’s office, you pick at invisible lint on your knitted tights. You know your mother’s having a conversation with the secretary but it all flies over your head in shushing murmurs. Your back aches from the overstuffed chair. The Mary Janes do pinch, makes you worried that you’ve already twisted your ankles from the way they throb.

“I’ve got to get to work now sweet pea, but I just now you’re going to have a great first day. I’ll pick you up at 4:00 and we can go get those donuts okay?”

Your mother’s crouched down in front of you, eyes searching your face for any kind of reaction. She looks worried and that’s what causes you to crack. You fling yourself out of the chair and into her arms, allow yourself one great heaving sob into her shoulder. She strokes your hair and hushes you, squeezes you tight like she could make you part of her.

“Oh honey. Everything’s scary right now but I promise it’s not going to stay that way. I believe in you and you’re going to get through this.”

You draw back from her, scrub at your face with your fists. Heaving breaths don’t help but they don’t make it worse. You go with the secretary, new schedule twisted tight in your hands. She lets you discard your coat and backpack in a locker, before walking you to your new homeroom. You only hope that you’ll remember the locker combination.

You hate the way your new homeroom teacher makes you stand at the front of the room. Mr. Mulligan won’t let you sit down until you introduce yourself to the class, a thing he could have done so easily himself. Pulling at your sleeves and trying not to make eye contact with anyone, you stutter out a few basic facts. Hate the way you can feel the other students catalogue you, the way your hair doesn’t look shiny and straight like its fresh out of a salon, your too small shoes, the unfashionably long length of your skirt and the lack of designer accessories. Your cheeks and eyes are burning by the time you can slide down into your assigned seat near the back of the class. There’s only one other person sitting in your row, a boy with dark curling hair and a shy grin. He leans over to your desk just Mr. Mulligan starts the lecture.

Whispers, “Hi! My name’s Jason. I already know your name, figured if we’re going to be seat mates its only fair you know mine.”

You smile tightly and turn back to the lesson. You’re desperate not to miss anything, already feeling like you’ve been left behind. At your old school, you were in the middle of The Great Gatsby, but Gotham Academy is doing Romeo and Juliet for their seventh grade English class. You don’t have the play book, have no idea what part of the text they’re talking about, and this is the first time you’ve actually heard Shakespeare read out loud. Writing as fast you can, you try to keep up but it doesn’t matter how good your notes are if you don’t understand what the teacher’s talking about.

Usually you love English class, how uncovering symbolism and hidden meanings make you feel like you’re uncovering secret messages sent by the authors years in the past. Now it’s all going over your head and you hate it here so much already. The one class that you might have been looking forward to and you’re overwhelmed by it. You press too hard with your pencil, tear through the sheet of paper in front of you.

A notebook slides across your desk. Messy but legible writing on the first few scenes of the Act are written on it. Looking in the direction it came from, you make eye contact with Jason. He grins toothily before turning back to the front, Mr. Mulligan having moved on to a different quotation. The gesture makes your chest tight.

The rest of the class goes by uneventfully if still a challenge. There’s a short break between classes in which you frantically copy down the notes and slide the notebook back to him before your next teacher arrives. The next class isn’t so bad, still difficult and you’ve never liked math as much as you probably should, but it’s less intimidating than English. Someone must have fiddled with the thermostat during the break because the room feels colder than before. You wish you were on your old school’s schedule with shorter classes and more breaks. Sitting still for so long at your desk is making your back ache and cramp up. Math is almost over, Miss Lewis writing out the assigned homework on the board, when a wave of something comes over you. It’s an effort of will not to curl up on your desk.

The bell rings for lunch break and you just about bolt to the first bathroom you can find. Something’s wrong with you, more than just nerves over the first day. You’re cold but you’re sweating, nausea burning at the back of your throat. The ache in your back and stomach are almost unbearable, makes you want to curl into the fetal position to ward off invisible blows. Rolling down your tights in a hurry, you sit down on the cold toilet as fast as you can. Your hand is wet, and for a moment you worry that you’d lost control of your bladder on the way to the bathroom. But the stain on your hand is dark, matches the blood slick crotch of your panties. You hang your head and can feel the tears you’ve been holding onto all morning drop onto the floor. Just another thing you can’t control in this shitty new town and its stupid new school. Your first period.

The bathroom is cold, hard tile under your feet and wintery sunlight weak through the windows near the ceiling. The blood on your fingers is cold and tacky now. There’s a boundary here, between childhood and being an adult that you aren’t ready to cross yet. I want my mom, you think, only on the edge of hysteria. But she’s at work, wouldn’t be able to come if you called.

So you do what needs to be done, stop your tears as best as you can and sniffle. Wipe your face clean with the back of your sleeve and do your best to dab at your underwear with the single ply toilet paper. Layer sheets of toilet paper between your tights and underwear, build a makeshift pad in your sort-of dry underwear out of toilet paper and hope that it will hold up. Luckily you’ve escaped staining the regulation uniform skirt, so no one should be able to tell what happened. You get transfixed by the swirls of blood washing down the sink drain, hands gone numb under the stream of water. Splash cold water on your face in the vain hope it’ll calm down your puffy eyes. As ready as you can be in this situation, you eye yourself in the mirror and tell yourself to get moving before the bell for third period rings.

The boy from the back row is waiting outside the classroom for you. He looks nervous until he sees you, lights up with that shy smile again.

“Hi! I uh noticed you weren’t at lunch today so I grabbed you an apple in case you didn’t grab anything to eat.”

He’s babbling on about the cafeteria food not being that bad if you’d just try it, even though finding a table the first time can be rough. All you can do is stare at the apple in his hands, transfixed. You’re only shaken out of your stupor by the sound of him calling your name.

“So… are you going to take it? The bell’s going to ring soon and the teachers really don’t like us eating during class.”

“Thank you,” you say, genuinely shocked and touched.

He goes a little bashful at that, looks away as you take the apple from him. The apple’s good, sweet and crisp under your teeth. You make quick work of it in the hallway, finishing it up just as the bell rings. Jason stands right in front of you the whole time, hides you from the penetrating eyes of your classmates.

“All done? We should probably find our seats now. Monty,” and here he adopts a snooty British accent, “Archibald the Third is a real stickler for being on time. He’ll mark you late if you’re not sitting in your seat, even if you’re in the classroom.”

His impression makes you snicker and forget, just for a moment, how miserable you are. Mr. Archibald the Third is just as ridiculous as Jason’s impression of him predicted, but you get through it by making eye contact with Jason over the most ridiculous moments. Mr. Archibald really does have you call him “the Third”. It’s probably got something to do with his Words, a flowing script running vertically down the side of his face reading, “The Third, dear God how many of you are there?”. History with Mr. Archibald manages to be fun despite his absurd demeanor and your own private hurt seeming less terrible for a few scattered moments.

The final class of the day drags on, the pain in your front and back growing. Your hand moves across the page but your mind isn’t really paying attention. There’s a commotion as people gather their things and stand, already streaming out the door. You blink, stupefied, then slowly gather your things.

“Same time, same place tomorrow then?”

“—Yeah. I’ll see you tomorrow Jason.”

Your mother’s waiting for you in front of the school, car idling puffs of smoke into the darkening afternoon. Your backpack lands in the back seat and you crush your face into her coat across the console. Her hands come to your back, patting and rubbing circles until your breath comes in long, even draws.

“Honey I’m so proud of you. Your first day done! Let’s go celebrate, hmm? How was it? Did you make any new friends?”

“Can we get the donuts to go? I— uh, um I— I might have started my period today?”

Your voice lifts on the end of the sentence, suddenly absurdly worried about her reaction. You needn’t have worried though.

“Oh sweet pea, on your first day too? We can go home, get you a bath and something for your cramps.”

“No, I just really want to go get donuts with you because today kind of sucked and I’ll still feel kinda shitty but at least then I get donuts while I feel bad.”

“No more swearing and we’ll get a whole box to go, okay?”

Lying in bed that night, wrapped around a hot water bottle with Haley on your feet, you think that your day wasn’t that bad. It could have been a lot worse, and Jason was surprisingly nice. You stare at the shiny patch of skin on your wrist and hope that one day it will all be worth it. You drift off to the thought of blue eyes.

For the rest of that week you join Jason at his corner in the cafeteria. Between Math and History you slowly start to get to know one another. He offers to let you borrow his notes for the upcoming test in English, gets a little sheepish when he mentions that he practically knows the content by heart anyway. Jason’s sweet and funny and by Friday you two are the best of friends.

Once your mother is confident that you can handle the commute to school on your own, she doesn’t mind if you’re home late as long as you send a text first. Something about socializing with more kids your age being good for you, not that you’re listening too distracted in the haze of victory. So the two of you hang out after school, the city your shared playground. Jason treats you to your first chili dog and laughs when you get some on your nose. In revenge, you dare him to cover his lunch in chili oil at lunch the next day. The way Mr. Archibald threatens you both with detention for being disruptive is so worth it.

It’s not until the middle of April that you get the courage to ask Jason why you. Why out of everyone in the school he chose to reach out to the new kid and make her his friend. It’s probably the most personal thing you’ve asked him yet.

“It’s ‘cause no one else would’ve. Most of the kids here, their families founded Gotham and they’re not keen on outsiders. Most of the scholarship kids, they start at the same time, form a group so the rich kids don’t pick on them so much.” He pauses here, has to look away before he goes on. “Most of the others don’t like me ‘cause I don’t really fit into either category, you know? Like my dad’s a big name in Gotham but he only just adopted me so I’m not really one the rich kids but he’s doing more than just paying my school fees. You looked just as lonely as I was,” here he turns to grin, “and I wasn’t going to give up an opportunity to make someone carry my lunch tray.”

“Hey, idiot, if I remember right it was you bringing me lunch the first time.” You shove at him indignantly, but he dodges too quickly for you.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I can’t remember, on account of me being an idiot.” He flicks you on the tip of the nose and goes running.

And then it’s on. You chase him around the park, laughing and swearing to get your revenge on him. The two of you collapse breathlessly onto a mostly dry patch of dirt under a skeletal tree. Staring up at the sky and trying to catch your breath, you feel Jason nudge at your should beside you.

“So what about you? What brought you to the happiest place on earth?”

“My dad got headhunted for a promotion. He’s researching something for Wayne Industries and all of us had to move here for it. So mom gets a new job and I get transferred to a new school.” You sit up suddenly, look down at Jason lying in the grass. “Promise not to tell anyone?” You wait for him to nod first before continuing. “I only got into Gotham Academy because of my dad. I heard him and my mom arguing about it; he made it part of his contract that I’d get to go to school there if he accepted the job.”

“So? I’m only at GA because of my dad too. You think a kid from Crime Alley gets to go to private school without a little nepotism?”

You slump back down on to the grass, stretch a hand out to the sky and look up at it.

“To nepotism I guess.”

A hand reaches up to the sky next to yours. Slowly, ever so slowly he reaches a pinky out and links it with yours.

“To two misfits only here because of nepotism.”

School lets out in June, the city air ridiculously hot and humid. You can’t say that you’ve made any good friends outside of Jason, but there’s some girls you say hello to in the halls. You mourn not being able to see Jason everyday, but the plans you have to meet up are enough to soothe the ache.

He takes you to an arcade first, the two of you spending hours trying to beat each other at Pac Man. Tired but happy you split a basket of fries at the attached cafeteria. You’re enjoying the greasy fried goodness of the snack but you notice Jason isn’t reaching for the basket as quickly as you are. Looking over at him, you notice him staring at a pair of brothers playing a game. The younger whoops, jumps up and down in excitement. The older one ruffles his brother’s hair and challenges him to a new round. You toss a fry in Jason’s direction, surprised when he actually manages to catch it.

“You good?”

“—Yeah. It’s just, I don’t know if I’ve mentioned it? But I kind of have an older brother and he was supposed to take me to the arcade last weekend but he got in a fight with Dad and just left.”

“That’s a real dick move, ditching you over his issues.” At that, Jason breaks out in hysterical laughter, almost choking on the fry in his mouth. There are tears in his eyes by the time he stops coughing but he looks slightly less like a kicked puppy.

“It really, really was. You don’t know how much it was.”

Happy that the mood has lifted, the two of you finish off the basket of fries. You challenge Jason to Dance Dance Revolution and he wipes the floor with you. He’s way more athletic than you’d expected from him. The two of you part ways happy, already planning your next hang out. It is enough.

You meet up almost every week that summer. Jason shows you the Gotham he knows, little hidden gems only locals know about. A movie theatre that only shows movies made before 1980, a diner with the best milkshakes you’ve ever tasted, the best places in the public library to read undisturbed. Teaches you about the safest places to evacuate when disaster hits, which parts of the city are most dangerous. The park and its chili dog stand quickly become a favourite for you, a place to just hang out without any responsibilities. It also becomes a kind of confessional of sorts, where you end up telling each other your worst fears and secret hopes.

You confess once, after riding out your first Rogue attack with your fingers buried in Jason’s T-shirt, that you’re worried you’ll never feel at home again. That you can never go back now to your old house and feel at home there now, but that Gotham still feels too alien to be called home yet. Your darkest fear, that you’ll end up alone one day, deserted by everyone that you know and love. Jason tells you about his fears that one day all of this, Bruce and Alfred, the manor, school, will disappear one day. That the big brother he looks up to will never start to like him. Every time the two of you bare your souls to each other, Jason will hook his pinky over yours and squeeze. It’s a friendship built on shared secrets, on fears assuaged, and worries made better.

Your last year of middle school is largely uneventful. You got to classes, have lunch with Jason, hang out after class with Jason, text Jason. You get into a routine and that brings you comfort. There’s a slight period of awkwardness right before the 8th grade formal. A weird tension envelopes you both, the nebulous question of if you’re going together hanging over you. You don’t like it, the way Jason seems almost hesitant in all your conversations these days. It sets your teeth to itching and you can’t stand it anymore.

Slamming down your textbook, you say “Okay that’s it. I can’t stand whatever this is. You and I are going to the formal as friends. We’ll get all dressed up and if it’s lame we can ditch and go get Batburgers.”

“Oh thank God. I didn’t want to say anything in case it made it awkward but then it was just getting more awkward and then I just didn’t know what to do.”

The party is lame, but the burgers make up for it. Your dress is nice though. Your mother helped you pick it out, the fitted bodice and loose swing of the skirt making you feel passably pretty. It’s been hard to feel pretty with the way your body’s changed over the year, hips widening and chest starting to grow in ways you can’t predict. Jason cleans up nice, though whoever slicked back his hair went overboard on the gel. You pose for a picture all dressed up together, faces pulled into silly expressions, your burgers held in front of you like trophies. You pin a copy of the photo up in your bedroom. It makes you smile every time you see it, something warm in your chest.

The first day of high school brings back those first day jitters. You’re not even transferring schools, just switching to a different building and still your palms are sweating. It’s not until you see Jason, sitting in the back row with an empty seat behind him that you can release the breath you didn’t realize you were holding. It’s different teachers and different subjects, but in some ways it’s like the day you met again. Scribbling notes until your hands cramp, Jason passing you notes in class, struggling to keep up with what the teachers are saying. At lunch, you and Jason even split an apple between you. It’s terrifying and familiar and all the more bearable because you aren’t going through it alone.

High school is different. Everyone’s more aware of each other in ways they weren’t in middle school. Girls wear brighter lip glosses and flaunt the shiny spaces where their marks will come in. Boys douse themselves in too much body spray and start eyeing up anything that moves. But through out it all, your friendship remains the same. Something about high school solidifies things, has you go from You and Jason to YouandJason. At school you’re a unit, almost impossible to think of you as separate beings. After school, you still spend time together, still explore the city, still message all the time. But you’ve still never been to each other’s houses. Never met each other’s families yet.

Jason offers, once, to have you over to the manor during the winter break, but you’re not keen on it. Crinkle up your nose and ask to think about it.

“It’s not that I don’t want to see you over the holiday, or meet your family Jason. It’s just that I kind of like the way things are? My family knows that you’re my best friend, they’ve seen pictures of us, but the way things are now, you’re still entirely mine. Our friendship’s just for us. Meeting your family kind of changes that.”

“I like us being us. But would it really be that different to come hang out for a few hours? You could come over when Dad’s out and it’d just be me and Alfred.”

Eventually you agree, spend an afternoon with Jason at the manor to cram for your next round of tests. Mr. Pennyworth is lovely, keeps bringing snacks up to the library as an excuse to check up on you. Bent over your books, you miss the significant looks Alfred is sending Jason over your head and the blush that lights up his face in response. Mr. Wayne is thankfully not home. You’re not sure you could have handled meeting Jason’s grandfather and father in the same visit.

Jason makes it over to your apartment a few times over the spring semester. Your father’s always working, but your mother likes him well enough. She makes him stay over for dinner, won’t let him leave without feeding him first. She calls him a nice boy and tells him to come back any time. Still, you two prefer going out to coffee shops or the library to hang out, uninterrupted by well-meaning adults.

It’s on one of those summer nights, the two of you some of the last people in the public library, that the subject of your Words comes up. The skin across your left wrist catches the warm light of the lamps in a way that’s distracting. You’re startled by the feeling of fingers tracing featherlight over still-shiny skin.

“You ever wonder it about it sometimes? What it’ll say or who’ll say it?” The tone is unreadable but Jason’s voice is above the whisper he usually uses in the library, but with so few people around you figure there’s no harm in mimicking his volume.

“I used to. I was obsessed with Words when I was little. Couldn’t go to sleep without hearing about them as a bed time story.”

“Used to?” And Jason’s fingers are still there, drawing maddening little patterns across the thin skin of your wrist.

“Well, I’ve got other things to think about now, things that are actually within my control.”

Jason presses down, gently, with the broad of his thumb on your pulse. You snatch back your wrist, cradle it to your chest, uncertain of how intimate that gesture felt.

“Fair’s fair. I showed you mine, now you’ve gotta show me yours.” Your tone is teasing, trying to capture the earlier lightness of the afternoon.

“Oh I do, do I?”

He reaches for the top button on his uniform button down, starts undoing two more. Horrified, you reach across the table and grab at his hands.

“What are you doing?! You can’t just go around stripping in public!” Your hissed whisper may not have been said at all for all the impact it makes. Jason shakes off your hands and goes back to undoing his shirt.

“Not all of us are blessed with easily accessible Words. Relax, I just have to get the shirt wide enough to show how far the Words will go.”

Across his collarbone is a thin strip of shiny skin, reaching from one side of his neck to the other like a necklace. Whatever it will say looks pretty lengthy for someone’s Words. Mesmerized, you reach out to trace it with your fingertips. Jason shifts back before you can make contact.

“Gotta buy me dinner first sweetheart. I’m a classy lady like that.”

You flush at the term of endearment, but cover it with indignation.

“Hey! What do you call the tacos I bought for us yesterday?”

He laughs it off and the tense moment is broken. You pack up your things, smiling at the ground. You like the way sweetheart sounds coming from Jason, not that you’d give him that to tease you with. Despite how much you tell each other, there’s one secret you haven’t told him yet. That privately you hope your Words will be his. It’s so easy to fall in love with Jason, or at least what passes for love at this age. The light in his eyes when he rants about the latest book he’s read, when he shares the biscuits Alfred packs for him, the way he listens to you so intently even if he doesn’t have all the answers. You can admit to yourself that you’re hopelessly in love with your best friend, but never out loud. Your friendship is one of the most important things in your life and you are terrified of destroying it.

You don’t see Jason much after that, that summer. Your texts and calls still get answered, but he’s frustratingly vague about meeting up. He says that his dad has him in a kind of summer school, wants him to learn from private tutors before school starts up in the Fall again. Asking about what it is that he’s supposed to learn (his marks are already incredibly good) makes him cagey about it. You don’t want to push, but it feels like he’s pulling away from you. Phone calls get shorter, sentences more clipped. Your offers to just drop by the manor to see him get turned down automatically. It’s the longest you’ve gone without seeing him since you’ve met. You’re terrified that he’s done with you. That for some unnameable reason he’s decided to end your years of friendship and there’s nothing you can do to stop it from happening. Gotham seems colder without Jason at your side, the dangers more obvious and your usual haunts less welcoming.

Finally, after nearly two months you manage to pin him down, get him to agree to meet the day after his birthday. Your heart is in your mouth as you wait for him on a bench in the park. There’s a trickle of sweat running down your back. It’s a hot day but the park is a lush green, an after effect from an Ivy attack the night before. You release your grip on your present for Jason, smooth the envelope and hope you didn’t crease it with your sweaty fingers. A voice is calling your name.

Jason’s been changed by the weeks apart. He’s a few inches taller now, filled out in the shoulders more. You have to crane your neck back to see his face. The anxiety in you is reflected in his face, the way he nervously runs his fingers through his hair, his darting eyes. Uncertain how to proceed, you thrust the envelope out between you.

“Happy Birthday.”

“I— thank you.”

There’s silence again, and the awkwardness between you is a tangible thing. It’s worse than it was in eighth grade only this time you don’t know how to bridge the gap. You look down at your shoes, the toes scuffed.

“I’m sorry for ignoring you.” It comes out of him in a rush. “I’ve been a really shitty friend lately. Just, all summer my dad’s been on me about studying with these private tutors except they’re all friends with Dick so nothing I do can ever be good enough in comparison and every day I’ve felt like crap but I didn’t want you to see me like this which only made me feel worse ‘cause then I basically had to avoid you all the time which is the exact opposite of what I wanted to do and all I wanted to do was have you tell me there’s nothing wrong with me and they can all go kick dirt but then I’d have to talk to you about it which I wasn’t ‘cause I was already embarrassed.” He has to pause here to catch his breath, words running together at the speed which he was going.

“You planning to breathe any time soon?”

He deflates, collapses onto the bench next to you, an arm tucked around his right side awkwardly holding the card so it doesn’t get crushed. You sigh, heavily.

“I thought you didn’t want to be friends anymore.” Your confession is barely above a whisper. You can’t even look at him as you say it.

“I didn’t— I wouldn’t. I need you to know that I never, ever don’t want to be your friend okay? I was an idiot. I’m sorry.”

“Promise not to cut me out again and that you won’t take out your own issues on our friendship, and maybe I’ll consider forgiving you.”

“Pinky promise.”

Jason places the card in his lap, goes to link your fingers together, then winces at the movement of his arm. Suddenly sirens are going off in your brain.

“What’s wrong with your side?”

“Nothing, must have just pulled a muscle or something.” He tries to laugh it off nervously, but you can tell when he’s lying. His eyes dart to the left over your head, knee bounces almost imperceptibly. His tongue darts out to wet his lips and you know he’s not telling you the truth.

“You can’t even go a full minute without cutting me out! Jason, I know something is wrong. Now tell me.”

He hesitates, and you’ve had it with the lies and the avoidance and the being kept in the dark. You fingers go to the hem of his shirt and you start tugging.

“Hey! Wh-what are you doing?”

He tries to squirm away, batting at your hands but you get his shirt up far enough to see the bruise on his ribs in the shape of a boot. It’s purple going a sickly yellow, mottled and stark against the dips of his ribs. You can feel all the blood drain from your face. Jason’s pushed up against the far side of the bench, pulling his shirt down with shaking hands.

“Jason. Jason if someone is hurting you, you need to tell someone. If it's your dad or one of the tutors, we can find someone to tell together.”

“No one— no one’s hurting me, all right? I just didn’t get out of the way fast enough during a Rogue attack. I didn’t want to worry you, that’s all. No one’s abusing me, okay?”

“But you’d tell me if they were?”

“I tell you everything important.”

It’s not enough, not nearly for you. From the look in his eyes Jason knows this too, but its all he’s willing to give. There’s a crossroads in your relationship here, a road where you push and push until you get the full story but shatter the tattered strands of your friendship or you accept that you’ll never have all of Jason but maybe your friendship will survive. So you do what needs to be done.

“Okay. If you say that’s what happened then I trust you.”

It’s a low blow, to twist your trust in him like a knife, but it’s your only way to express your frustration with him. You gesture to the envelope, fishing around to change the subject.

“So you going to open that or what?”

And just like that, there’s a new normal. You see Jason everyday in class but he begs off your after school hangouts as often as you two actually spend time together. Conversation is stilted, hidden undercurrents to them of subjects neither one of you wants to address. You’re wary, suspicious of every bump and bruise Jason shows up with. The ease to your friendship has gone, disappeared to the realm of the past.

At the end of October, Jason becomes obsessed with the news. Keeps checking headlines and obituaries, fearful like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. The death of Felipe Garzonas makes the news and the tension in Jason ratchets up. He’s irritable, stops paying attention in classes, blows up when you try to feel out what’s wrong. He’s apologetic every time, promises it won’t happen again until you eventually stop trying to ask questions. Hope that your presence is enough to steady him through whatever it is that is tormenting him.

He asks you once, if you’d believe in his word, no matter what the evidence of something told you otherwise. You tell him you would, always, but that answer doesn’t seem to make a difference.

Winter break comes and goes, without an invitation to visit this time. If anything, Jason comes back more irritable and closed lipped. Mutters something about a fight over Christmas dinner, his brother and Bruce clashing over something. You’re worried about him all the time now. He’s more reckless with himself, won’t look before crossing the road, reacts aggressively to every perceived challenge, throws things when he gets frustrated. He’s changing into someone you don’t recognize in front of your eyes.

April comes and there’s a new light in his eyes. It’s manic and hopeful and the first emotion you’ve seen in him other than fear in months. He won’t tell you what it is, just that there’s something new he’s found out, something about his mother. This time you hope, fingers crossed and a wish on every star that whatever has brought him this hope won’t hurt him.

On Monday, Jason doesn’t come to school. He doesn’t answer your messages or pick up any of your calls. Even when he’s been out sick he at least lets you know. On Tuesday you get called into the office in the middle of first period. You haven’t been back to the secretary’s office since the day you enrolled. The seats are still as overstuffed as you remember. The secretary is the same, a few more grey streaks in her perfectly set hair. Her eyes are red, and she’s got one of those old fashioned handkerchiefs in her hands.

“I’ve got some bad news honey, and I— I think it would be best if you sit down for it.”

“Oh— will this take long? Only I got pulled out of class and we’re reviewing for the exam next week.”

“Oh honey.” She has to pause to dab at her eyes before continuing. “You’re going to be excused from all exams next week, okay? I need you to know that the school will do whatever we can to support you through this.”

Now, now you are scared. “Support me through what? It’s not my mom is it?”

“Honey it’s Jason, Jason Todd. I’m so sorry but he passed away yesterday. I’ve contacted your parents and your mother is on the way to come pick you up.”

Her words don’t make any sense.

“But he can’t be. I saw him on Saturday. There’s been a mistake. He’s not dead.” Your legs don’t work anymore and you hit the couch, hard, sliding off the overstuffed pillows to kneel on the floor. You don’t feel any of it. There’s copper in your mouth, you must have bitten your tongue on the way down but you can’t feel it. There’s movement in your peripheries, and your mother crouches down into your field of vision.

“Mom, mom they made a mistake. She’s— she’s saying that Jason’s dead, but he can’t be. Mom he’s not dead.”

“Sweet pea, I’m so, so sorry. It’s been on the news all morning.”

It rips through you then, grief. Sobs shake your whole body, your mother doing her best to hold you together. There’s a roaring in your ears like you’re caught in a vacuum. You can’t see through the tears. Your body is trembling violently and you can’t care enough to try and stop it. Nothing matters anymore. Jason’s dead.

To get to the car, your mother has to half carry you. There’s no point in moving. You’re not sure how you end up in your bed at home but you do. You don’t sleep but you aren’t really awake either. The tears don’t stop coming. You’re nothing but an open wound, not even really a whole person. The world’s burned down to ash and you’re just floating through it. You know your parents come in to talk to you, can hear the murmur of their voices but you don’t care. There’s food put in front of you but it holds no interest to you. You might have had sips of water, maybe some broth but you don’t remember and you don’t care. The only thing you really register is Haley, nestling up to you and making biscuits with his paws in your blankets.

Jason’s funeral is on Friday and you can’t get out of bed to go. Jason’s not in that coffin, not really. He won’t be there and so you won’t be. Jason’s never coming home. Jason’s dead, Jason’s dead, Jason’s dead plays on a loop. You never got to tell him. He died without knowing you loved him. His death has ripped you open like nothing ever has before, regret a constant salt in the wound. He never told you that he was thinking of leaving, of going anywhere. It feels wrong at this point, to interrupt his family in their grief, another stranger claiming to have known their son. After all, how well did you really know him if you didn’t even know he was going to leave?

Grief swallows you whole, but over time you learn to live with it. Days blur together. The tears dry up but the not caring doesn’t. Inside of your head is a wall, separating you from the reality of a world without Jason. You’re wrapped in wool and safe behind glass, unable to care about anything. It’s easier that way.

The school passes you for the year, citing personal tragedy, and you don’t care. Summer comes and the only difference is that your mother comes in and throws your windows open every morning. It’s Jason’s birthday soon, too soon. He’ll never be sixteen but you will be. He’ll never have his Words come in. He’ll never get the chance to do all the things he talked about, make Gotham a better place, travel the world. But you can.

It makes no sense to live for a dead boy but it’s all you’ve got. So you do what you have to do. It gets you to leave your bed for the first time in months. To start eating again, even if there’s no taste to the food in your mouth. To shower and take care of yourself for the first time in ages. Your room is clean for the first time in months and the first thing you do is take down your photograph from the 8th grade formal and put it away in a desk drawer.

By September, you have gathered yourself enough to return to school despite the worried looks of your family. It is hard, the hardest thing you have ever done but you do it for the boy that will never graduate high school. You sit by yourself at your desk, you eat lunch by yourself, you go straight home after class without any detours. The school play this year is Romeo and Juliet. You take home the sign up flyer and consider it, hard. In the end you decide to leave it. Jason may have always wanted to try out for the play but you won’t survive torturing yourself with this. On opening night you tell your parents you’re going to see it and get drunk on the gymnasium roof.

You make it through your last two years of high school a ghost. Administration tries to pressure you into meeting with a therapist but you refuse. You don’t want to experience your grief at all. Numbness is the only way you are going to survive this, your new reality. You do take them up on their suggestion of volunteering. Working with the Martha Wayne Foundation for Underprivileged Children gives you a sense of purpose. Of helping other Crime Alley kids without the benefit of nepotism to get them into places like Gotham Academy. It stokes the first emotion in you other than numbness, and that’s rage for all the ways in which these kids have been failed.

You accept a full scholarship to Gotham University. Your parents couldn’t be more proud of your achievement but you can barely muster the energy to smile. Keep up the volunteer work while rushing through your degree in two years instead of four. With nothing else to drive you, you’ve got nothing but time for school. The Martha Wayne Foundation offers you a position in fundraising, and you accept. It’s not what you envisioned for yourself, but it’s a path forward with purpose.

You move out, into your own apartment in an area that’s probably too dangerous for a girl of your age but you can’t stand to be at home anymore. The job consumes your life and you are grateful for it. It’s important work, even if some of the policy meetings on accepting donations from the Red Hood make you want to fall asleep. You make use of your Gotham Prep connections, rubbing elbows with the rich for just as long as it takes to pry open their wallets. It’s ridiculous but the higher ups trot you out to entertain at fundraising events, a pretty young face to pull in more donors. Occasionally you see Bruce, or Dick, or the newest ward Tim at functions, always across the room before you quickly excuse yourself. The numbness carries you through your life but there are limits to it and you’re not eager to test them.

Even five years later, you can’t go back to the park. You’ve never had another chili dog, though you’ll hire the vendor to cater community events. You’ve worked your way back into the public library, but still avoid the alcove on the second floor in the encyclopedia section. There’s a handful of arcade tokens in a plastic bag in your apartment still unused. Batburger is still your favourite, but you still can’t set foot in the location nearest to the Academy.

You keep yourself so busy that when your Words come in, “I’m sorry sweetheart, I didn’t know…”, you barely give it a thought, just pulling the cuff of your shirt lower to cover your wrist. Carry on with the rest of your morning routine and head into the office. From that point on, your sleeves are always long and your gala outfits gain elbow length opera gloves. You never bother trying to read the rest of it. It doesn’t matter anymore.

It’s a cold February morning. The bus broke down two stops from the office and now you have to walk the rest of the way in the snow. Standing at a crosswalk waiting for the light to change, you pass the time by scanning the headlines on the nearest newsstand. “Lost Wayne son found alive” screams out at you, tearing into your heart bloody. You lose grip of your work bag, but manage not to lose your mind in the street. Picking your bag up out of the slush, you run into the nearest bodega bathroom and lock the door with trembling hands. Shove a fist into your mouth and scream as the tears pour down your face. You’re shaking, worse than you were all those years ago. Snot blocks your nose and you have to stop screaming to breathe. So you do what needs to be done. Fumbling with your coat pocket, you pull out your phone and call the office, call out sick. It’s the only time you’ve done it in all the time your supervisor has known you but the tremor in your voice and frequent sniffles must alarm her enough.

In a fog, you somehow make it from the bodega bathroom to the front gate of Wayne manor. It doesn’t look like it’s changed at all since your last visit over five years ago, except for the heaving mass of press. You circle round the property and enter through the bushes, the way Jason showed you years ago on a tour of the property. You slip on the snow, fall to your knees but get back up. This is the only thing that matters now. The back door has an elaborate knocker that takes both of your hands to lift. It takes what feels like ages for someone to answer the door. It’s poor Mr. Pennyworth, looking more ruffled than you’ve ever seen him. You’re indescribably rude to the poor man, pushing right past him and into the building. Only one thing matters now and your vision has narrowed out anything outside of achieving your goal.

There’s voices coming from somewhere inside, up the stairs and in the direction of the library. A hand, probably Mr. Pennyworth’s, tries to grab at your wrist but you’re too quick for that. You’re running now, clutching at the bannister as though it will pull you up the stairs faster. A shout from behind and the tone of the voices change, a door slamming in the distance. Finally, finally you reach the library but a body tries to come between you, stopping you in your tracks. Years of grief, anger, and battered hope come roaring through you at the thought of being denied seeing Jason, alive after all this time.

Your voice when it leaves you is dangerously low. “Dick, I presume? You don’t know me, and I’ve heard very little about you from Jason and what I did hear I didn’t like. I’m going to make this simple.” The door behind him cracks open, but you soldier on anyway. “Jason Todd was my best friend and first love.” The body stiffens, but that doesn’t matter in this moment. “You are going to step aside and-” anything else doesn’t matter because a door is thrown open and there is Jason.

Eyes wild, a good deal older and more scarred than before, but he’s alive. And then nothing else matters but the feel of his arms warm around you, the imprint of his jacket on your face, the smell of him largely unchanged. He’s alive and he’s real and you can touch him. You draw back to look at him, drink in the sharpened angle of his jaw, the blue-green of his eyes, the white streak in his hair. He’s grown taller and broader than he had over that wretched summer so many years ago. What catches your eye is the writing at the hollow of his throat, a stark black spreading across his collarbones exposed by the v of his t-shirt. Jason Todd was my best friend and first love, it reads.

“I’m so sorry sweetheart, I didn’t know you felt the same.” He says and your wrist starts to burn.

#jason todd x you #jason todd x reader #jason todd x fem!reader #red hood x you #red hood x reader #jason todd fic #jason todd imagine #jason todd #soulmate au #tw grief #sunnie writes 🌻

[thehollowwriter]

*Skerks down the hallway like a cat coming down with zoomies* I heard you were doing Rollo fluff only requests, so I jumped into your ask box IMMEDIATELY. Do you think you could do some bed-time snuggles with him? I just want to cuddle this obviously touched-starved, emotionally repressed twink so bad you don't even KNOW. He'd probably say he isn't touch starved, that he's only does this because you seem to enjoy it, but then we'd wake up the next morning with half his weight on top of us and him clinging like a desperate koala and refusing to let go. No obsession, no sexual undertones, just a depressed man finding solace in a soft bed, thick blankets, and the warmth of another's arms, finding the peaceful sleep he hasn't know for years.

Aaah this is so cute! Thank you for this anon! ^^

Summary: You convince Rollo to get some well needed sleep. Cuddles ensue.

Warnings: None

(Pls reblog and leave a comment ❤)

In Your Grasp

The first thing that came to your mind when you laid eyes on Rollo Flamme was "wow, he needs some sleep."

It wasn't an unusual conclusion. Many people thought the same. The intense gaze of his dark green eyes were just as tired as it was intense. His posture and mannerisms, slow and lethargic as they were prim and proper.

Now, the both of you were dating. It was many months after the events of the masquerade and that thought hasn't changed.

Still, after all this time, the large bags under Rollo's eyes remained.

Rollo was a hard worker and a busybody who rarely gave himself a break. He often stayed up late or even all night in order to get whatever he wanted done, whether it be studying, homework, paperwork for his fellow students or chores.

You knew that he avoided going to bed because he struggled to sleep. He had told you once, during a quiet moment together, that simply laying there alone with his thoughts and nothing to distract him led to thinking about his brother, which in turn led to nightmares plaguing the few moments of sleep he did experience.

While you did sympathise with this, sitting on the edge of his bed watching him fight to stay awake and complete his work made you decide it was time to stop him.

"Rollo," You said softly, taking the paper from his hands. "Rollo you need to go to bed. It's late."

Your words were met with a huff and a dismissive hand wave. "I'm not tired. You should go to bed now, though."

"Not tired? Rollo, look at yourself. You're about to keel over. You drifted off at least twice."

At Rollo's silent, almost disbelieving stare, you sighed. "Let me stay here with you tonight. We can lie together until you fall asleep."

There was a moment were Rollo didn't react, his tired brain taking a pause to process your words. When it did, his eyes widened and his cheeks turned pink.

"T-Together?" He stammered. "My flame, I-I am not sure about that."

"Don't worry about it," You assured him smiling. "It'll be nice. Besides." You gestured to his large bed tucked into the corner of the room. "There's plenty of space so we won't annoy each other."

Rollo, still pink, looked at you, then at the bed, then his work and then at you again. He gazed at the paper in your hands, squinting.

The words looked blurry. His head was fuzzy. His eyes hurt. He felt heavy.

"Alright," He relented with a sigh. "Let me get ready and I'll... I'll join you in a few minutes."

You, already in your pajamas, sighed in relief and gently kissed his cheek. "I'll be waiting for you." You said, moving to nestle under the blankets.

Rollo set his work aside and and began to get ready for bed, his cheeks burning a much brighter red at the thought of sharing a bed with you.

He blinked, staring to the mirror as he removed his make up, a million flustered thoughts whirling through his mind.

Sleeping... together? In the same bed? Next to you and your warm soft self? You, likely to sleep far more fitfully than he ever would?

Surely, you would rather sleep in your own bed? The one you were familiar with in feeling, scent and comfort? Your room wasn't far from his, it wasn't a long trip and he could walk with you.

Rollo was standing next to his bed in his pajamas before his mind caught up with him and the flustered thoughts began to dissipate.

Still red and unsure, he simply stood there with his hands at his sides and his eyebrows furrowed, looking between you and his bed.

After two excruciating minutes, Rollo carefully lifted the black, royal purple and wine red covers and climbed in next to you. He was stiff and awkward in his movement, biting his lip almost as if he was embarrassed.

He lay in his back, and stared at the dark ceiling with exhausted dark green eyes. Stubbornly, they refused to shut long enough to let him sleep, flying open at the images that would flash behind his eyelids.

It was just like always.

Alone, in the oppressive silence of his room, images of his brother and Rollo's own failure to rip magic from the world dominated his psyche, making his breath catch in his throat and his mouth open in a silent gasp.

No... no that wasn't quite right. He wasn't alone. You were right next to him, huddled under the blankets and facing towards.

"Mon chéri," Rollo began before he could stop himself. "May we... talk? Please?"

Please. Anything to fill the dreadful silence weighing down on him, suffocating him. Please please please please please-

"Sure," You said, and he could hear the smile in your voice. "What do you want to talk about?"

"Anything." It took every bit of willpower Rollo had to avoid sounding as desperate as he felt. "I don't mind."

He could feel your gaze, brimming with concern, burning into you.

"Why don't you tell me about your day?" You asked after a pause. "I remember you looked like you wanted to throttle someone earlier. Who was the poor fool this time?"

Rollo let out a breath and rolled his eyes. "Today was... fine. Things were going smoothly despite that idiot Solomon's best efforts. It's impossible to get anything done when he's always glued to his phone..."

His voice flowed into the silence and was soon joined by yours. You shifted from one topic to another, talking about anything and everything. Rollo hung onto your every word, and you returned the gesture.

Slowly, Rollo shifted closer to you, pressing against you and taking hold of your hand in a tight grip. You wrapped your arm around him and his stiff body relaxed a little, comforted by your touch.

It was late when you realised Rollo had stopped speaking. You looked to your side to find him resting his head on your shoulder, eyes closed and chest gently rising and falling.

You smiled at the sight and gently kissed the top of his head.

"Goodnight, Rollo." You murmured. Your own eyes slid shut and slowly the world began to fade away.

***

Gentle golden beams of sunlight filtering through the curtains caused your eyes to flutter open and blink away the sleep.

Stiff and uncomfortable, you tried to turn over and stretch, only to find you couldn't move. Something heavy was weighing you down.

It took a few moments, but your tired mind eventually registered that it was in fact Rollo keeping you pinned on your side.

Rollo had his face buried in your neck and his arms wrapped around you as tightly as possible. His legs were tangled with yours, the position ensuring he was pressed as tightly against you as possible, holding you as if he were afraid you would disappear.

Despite your discomfort, you hadn't the heart to move him. He looked serene, a rare expression to see on his face. You chuckled and gently threaded your fingers through his short white hair, kissing his temple.

"I love you, Rollo."

......................................

A/N: I hope you enjoyed! I got excited writing this, so it'd about 1k words in length urugututur

Tagging: @distant-velleity

#rollo flamme x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #rollo flamme #twisted wonderland #writing #fluff fic #fluff

[neonblessing]

9.

⚠️ SPOILER ALERT! ⚠️ Click here to read Neon Blessing from the beginning!

“Look, you don’t have to give me a map. Just point me in the right direction.”

“Shiv, kid, I get it. You want revenge. But-”

“I don’t want revenge,” she said. She wasn’t certain if it was a lie.

“Then what do you want?”

“Answers.” Hell, she didn’t even know the finer points of what the two of them had stolen. The house had been full of valuable art, they’d passed a poorly-hidden wall safe on the way to the owner’s office, and they ignored it all in favor of the data drive that had sat atop a messy stack of papers. Ornarch hadn’t told them what was on there, just that it would go for a hundred thousand credits at a minimum, or a million from the right buyer. Most drives its size were just something convenient to hold, with the data itself stored on a chip a few nanometers thick. Whatever was on that drive had been complex enough that the whole damn drive was dedicated to memory. A sphinx glinted darkly on its surface, mirror finish set into matte black. There was something captivating about its sheer scale and the precision of its construction. Something a little sinister, too. Then he had shown up, and the rest of the night was a blurry nightmare of burning, screaming, and blood.

Kooler pursed his lips. “And once you have those answers, what are you going to do?”

“My job. Ornarch wants me to-”

Kooler’s eyes narrowed, and he tilted his head. “Isn’t your job breaking and entering? At least, I think that’s what you told me the first time we met. Forgive an old man’s memory for its failings, but I think I would have remembered hearing a teenager call themself an executioner.” He suddenly sounded very old, and very tired.

“Maybe I’ve changed. Why do you care?” It came out a little colder than she’d intended it to.

“Sorry, sorry. You’re right. None of my business.”

“So you won’t help me?”

“Staying neutral is how I stay alive. Everyone knows old Kooler keeps his mouth shut.”

“That’s a no?” Her heart sank. She’d known it was a long shot, but even still, Kooler was the closest thing she had to a lead.

Whatever he saw in her face gave him pause. “I… offered them ten thousand for the drive. I don’t even have half the hardware it would take to decrypt that… monster. I told them I wasn’t paying a credit more than that for a piece of software I couldn’t validate, no matter what rumors I’d heard. They took their business elsewhere. I don’t know where.”

“Rumors?”

“Have you been online since you stole it?” She hadn’t. “Half of the criminals in the Diluvian District are hunting after that sphinx drive. It’s anyone’s guess what’s on there, but Ebrelurge put a bounty out on it and then a few gang bosses joined the bidding war. As of this morning, the best offer is 1.6 million.”

Lord of birds. One point six fucking million?

He went on. “I don’t know where they went, but I know someone who might. Don’t go telling everyone I lent you a hand, but you’re- you’re a good kid. Just- hear them out when you see them. Don’t rush headlong into being a killer.”

“Yeah.”

Kooler pushed off the counter, sending his chair on a practiced arc towards a shelf of folders in one corner of the shop. He returned bearing a business card, a thin sheet of crisp white plastic stock with “Club RED – 1191-3962” embossed on it in brilliant crimson. The back side of the card was decorated with a staring eye in the same shade. “Kurtz–the owner of Club RED–knows me, and she’s got a panopt. Ask to see Odie. If it can’t help you, no one can.”

Shiv grinned. “Thanks, Kooler.”

“I’d say ‘any time,’ but really I’d rather not stick my neck out again.”

“With any luck, you won’t have to!”

The door squealed as she left.

First Page – Previous Page – Next Page

#9 #neon blessing #shiv #kooler

[jumping-joey1104]

Ej hcs?

Love him, for me EJ is more demonic. I first really started learning about him when people made him more demonic than just a normal grey dude in a mask with bad eating habits.

EJ HEADCANONS

Ok, like I said further up, EJ is more demonic to me. Having Digitrade like legs and more claws. One of my favorite headcanons is that he can be very… uncanny.

EJ himself is uncanny, he gives off human, he looks human, acts human. But there’s just something…. Off yknow? Other than the werewolf legs and razor sharp teeth.

Whenever he isn’t wearing his mask (that thing needs cleaned and fix so often, but it’s still more rare to see him without his mask) he keeps his eyes closed. Without actual eye balls behind his eyelids his eyes are a lot more sunken in. And whenever he opens them that black tar drips out much faster because of build up.

Speaking of his eyes, his vision is there (gods know why??) but it’s very similar to having very bad cataracts. Everything is so blurry for him that he depends on scent and echolocation to find stuff.

With a hand over their mouth they could only pray that their heavy breathing was stifled enough. They didn’t even know who they were praying too, after tonight they didn’t know if there was a god that could hear them. The sound of feet hitting the ground makes them jump as a tall figure appears in front of them with his back turned, sniffing the air before smiling. He could smell them… with a grin under the bloody mask the being makes a clicking noise with his tongue. The blue mask looking around the area before getting closer and closer before it meet the persons face with a final click.

That kinda thing, pretty scary huh?

But one thing this guy is desperate for is something human, not for dinner. He craves his own humanity like a wounded child craves their parents. The thought of even looking in the mirror makes him go into a silent rage.

To EJ he’s still human, all those people he’s eaten and torn apart like paper… those are just bad dream. He forces himself into a delusion that it’s all just a bad dream, even though he remembers every part. He’s just a college kid with bad dreams.

He’s so desperate for that humanity that he’ll grip onto anything that reminds him of that. Normal food makes him sick, too sweet too salty. He can’t eat anything other than meat without wanting to throw up. But he still does it, remembering the morning he’d stop by the local coffee shop before classes for a bagel and coffee as he forces himself to swallow down what tastes like mud and spoiled milk.

Like I said earlier, he’s a very uncanny person. I like to head canon that he can dislocate his jaw if he needs to. Making sickening pops as the victim sees the sharp teeth lining his mouth. Sometimes he’ll hunch over with teeth bared. Not like a dog, but like a cat. While dogs are more prone to pounce and bite, EJ is one to slice people to shreds with his claws.

But he’s still a gentle giant (when he isn’t hungry). Those that he sees as friends quickly become family, even if he doesn’t say it he’ll put his life on the line to give his friends a chance to survive. He has nothing else to live for if he loses them.

He only has a few items he treats the same way, audio books he’s snagged and listened to over and over again. CDs filled with music from god knows where. I like to think that he still likes flowers, the scent of them in spring. He has bundles of dried flowers and weeds in his room. Falling apart with every touch but he keeps them, not wanting to give up that little bit of peace he has.

Everything that he’s had to let go of is covered in claw marks.

#creepypasta #creepypasta headcanon #eyeless jack #joeywrites #I wanted to try something new #so take a little bit of writing #smooch #Eyeless Jack Headcanons #dude is in denial constantly

[idontknowreallywhy]

Estera Ch 6 - Safe

(Prologue, Ch 1, Ch 2, Ch 3, Ch 4, Ch 5)

(Sofasurf’s Recrudescence which is the foundation for all of this)

Scott’s fled for the skies. Estera needs to find someone’s inhaler. But what happens next?

Well. Some details follow.

My usual blend of fluff and “Yikes”…

Confession - this got a teeny bit dark in the last section. If you want to stop reading at the end of the fluffy bit (you’ll know it when you see it) then there is zero judgment from me. I even make myself go “Yikes” with that one…

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

The authorities had called her a cab home, the hired coach having been sent away when all the parents arrived in person to collect their children. Although she had protested at the expense - surely there was a bus route somewhere nearby - she hadn’t had the energy to argue.

Thus she sat alone in the back seat trying to collect her thoughts. They resisted collection in a way that made cat herding look like a relaxing past time. So she fidgeted, putting on her cardigan then removing it again, retying her hair, rearranging the contents of her rucksack. Which she’d already done ten minutes before. She tried to force herself to calm down and turned to look out the window, her forehead meeting the glass with a surprisingly loud clunk.

“There’s a universal charging cable under the seat, Miss, and free WiFi if you’d like to use it.”

Of course there was. Couldn’t escape it these days. She didn’t want to appear rude so she smiled, thanked him and dutifully plugged in her battered mobile.

It flickered to life and within seconds several messages popped up… from her sister, a couple of friends, her elderly neighbour, even her hairdresser - clearly today’s events had hit the news. She drafted a quick reassurance, copied it to everyone and put the device down. She felt weirdly detached. It seemed strange that everyone was freaking out about her having been stuck in a cave when that had paled into utter insignificance compared to the shock she had experienced afterwards.

How could it be possible? He couldn’t have escaped, could he? If it hadn’t been for his reaction she’d have persuaded herself she was imagining things. But his reaction had been… compelling.

She picked up the phone again and opened a browser

‘International Rescue Scott’

An overwhelming plethora of photographs and articles and, wow ok, actual fan pages sprang up.

Most of the photos were distant, or amateur and blurry but his unmistakeable blue eyes shone out at her from the official ones - profile shots for International Rescue, some charity positions and… she gulped… he was the multi-billionaire CEO of one of the biggest companies on the planet. Even she knew of Tracy Industries - they were one of the good ones. A school in one of the more difficult neighbourhoods nearby had just had a complete IT infrastructure upgrade thanks to a grant from them.

His official TI profile confirmed his Air Force background, with honourable discharge after active duty. It didn’t say where that was but she knew.

Oh, she knew.

She skimmed some of the more gushing articles. All fairly light on objective facts but weighty on opinion and that opinion was pretty much universal - he was a hero, beloved by millions, a undoubted force for good in an often cruel and selfish world.

And she’d left him to die.

She closed the browser, no longer able to bear the accusation in his eyes.

“Are you alright, Miss?”

The taxi driver was watching her in the rear view mirror.

“I’m fine. Thank you.“

She let out a breath as his eyes returned to the road ahead. But he wasn’t done:

“Long day was it?”

“Something like that.”

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

For the second time in as many months Virgil vowed to chase Brains up on the speed upgrade to Two. It was absolutely pointless trying to catch up to his brother who could be halfway to anywhere by now. Thankfully, he had John and Five.

“Virgil! He’s heading back your way.”

“What?”

“One just did a U-Turn. She’s heading straight for you.”

“What do you mean “straight”?”

“A collision course. Virgil, I think you should get ready to take evasive action.”

Even at a moderate speed the two birds making any kind of head on contact…even a wing clip, meant mutually assured destruction. Was Two nimble enough to avoid that?

Scott would never risk Virgil being hurt.

But… he remembered the cold, unfamiliar look on the former fighter-pilot’s face as he’d spun to face him not ten minutes before. Was his brother in a state to know who was flying the ship chasing him down?

Virgil bit back a scream.

“Can’t EOS…?”

“No. She can’t. He’s blocked her access.”

Virgil looked down at the Atlantic far below him. Could he drop his ship safely on the surface of the water? He cut his speed.

“I’m tracking her path, I’ll tell you when to move.”

This couldn’t be happening. He tried the comm again, fighting to keep his voice calm and unthreatening:

“Scotty? Can you hear me bro? It’s me, Virgil. Please pick up? Please?”

“25 seconds, Virgil. Start reducing altitude.”

White knuckled, he tipped Two’s nose downwards and went to accelerate.

“Wait!”

“What? What???!”

“It’s ok. It’s ok, he’s adjusted course to pass on your port side. I’m… I misunderstood what… I’m sorry to have worried you.” John sounded almost light headed.

With her familiar crack-boom One shot past in a blur. Virgil flinched as her vapour trail crystallised on her sister’s windscreen for a few moments. He levelled Two off and pulled up the graphical readout of One’s tracker. Scott appeared to have done one of his signature handbrake turns and was heading back towards him at a more sedate pace… the rocket’s trajectory heading safely to the left of Two. Gleaming silver came into view alongside and Scott matched the green ship’s pace, the way he often did on journeys home from the more difficult rescues. Those times when Virgil knew his big brother needed company more than the adrenaline rush of g force and extreme speed.

The comm remained muted, but they were together. And that, until they got home at least, was all that mattered.

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

The lift was broken again and Estera truly empathised with it as she dragged herself to the 5th floor. Her limbs were jelly and once she was on the right side of her front door she considered just lying down in the hall and having done with it. At which point 60 kilos of floof and enthusiasm canonballed into her and she realised with a quiet groan that she had to take him out before he destroyed everything in her apartment. Glancing down at her dusty sleeves as they contrasted with Bez’s snowy fur, she resolved to shower and change first else people would think she’d just escaped from a disaster zone.

Not so different from the state she was in when she first got here come to think of it. The darkness of the following few days in Processing crowded in on her and she didn’t have the energy to push it away. It was all too close to the surface today.

Bez licked the salt off her cheek.

With what felt like superhuman effort she dragged herself upright. At least here she had her own shower. And clean towels. Squeezing past the wall of hair she made it to the kitchen, draped her coat and bag over the back of a chair and spotted the note on the table:

Walked Niebieski. Soup in fridge. Glad you are safe.

Edith & George

She blinked back more tears. The elderly couple next door were an absolute godsend.

Ok. Shower. Soup. Stupid movie to prevent too much thought. Could maybe make some popcorn. That was a plan.

She did like a plan.

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

The pool slid closed overhead and Scott allowed himself a few moments to sit back and breathe before regrouping and running through the comfortingly routine process of post-flight checks. His shoulder twinged sharply and that itchy trickling sensation reminded him that steristrips were no match for the physicality of flying a supersonic jet.

His vision lurched as her voice came back to him and he desperately focussed on grounding himself. He could hear the creaking of cooling engines, feel the harness over his shoulders, the seat beneath and around him. Wait, something else was off too. Something was pressing uncomfortably into his hip… he leaned to the side to extract the item from his baldric. A tiny Thunderbird 2 looked up from his palm, accusingly. His hand shook and the toy dropped, hitting the deck far below with a distant ping.

He stared down into the abyss.

Virgil was right. It wasn’t safe. HE wasn’t safe. If he couldn’t trust his mind to stay on track then he couldn’t be trusted. How could he keep his brothers safe from the world when he couldn’t even keep them safe from himself?

He tightened his fingers around the levers, every inch of the ship’s controls so familiar it was like an extension of his own limbs. Closer to him than his flight suit in a way. One was a part of him. IR was a part of him. Maybe the majority part. Certainly the best part.

If he couldn’t do this… then…

No. He shouldn’t think like that. He just needed more time. He flicked the switch to extend the chair and took a purposeful step down on to the gantry.

He had an apology to deliver.

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

Virgil looked down at his twitching, sleeping brother and fought back the urge to bear hug him and never let go. There had been plenty of those earlier. Scott begging for forgiveness he didn’t need. Virgil and John trying to reassure him, their words seeming so powerless and both desperately hoping that holding him tight could somehow piece their hero back together.

He hadn’t expected the honesty. That was new.

Scott had looked Virgil in the eye and told him he was right. He wasn’t ready, he wasn’t safe, he wasn’t ok. Virgil had shaken his head, denying the words he’d said over and over this last week. He didn’t want to be right. It was too painful. It wasn’t fair.

But Scott had been adamant - he was grounding himself for another fortnight. He needed time to process. Something had triggered him, he acknowledged that much, but he wasn’t ready to talk about it yet. He’d lowered his eyes and quietly asked if they wouldn’t mind staying with him because he didn’t want to be alone.

As if he could stop them.

And so the six of them crowded into the lounge in a nest of blankets, fluffy cushions and rogue bits of popcorn. Scott had sagged against Virgil’s shoulder and passed out not half an hour into the film. John curled on big brother’s other side, if he was asleep it was likely with one eye open. Allie and Gordon were a tangle of limbs on the floor while Kayo dozed with her head atop the pile.

They’d get through this together as they always had. As Virgil watched, Scott sighed in his sleep and his face relaxed. He was here and he was safe. Hopefully tonight the nightmares would leave him in peace.

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

Estera braced her feet and shoulders against the splintering wood and bit through her lip as she tried to remain silent despite the terror of the world tilting and sliding. The rumble of aircraft engines filled her head to the point where she wondered if she could even remember any other sound. But she knew where she was. This was to be expected. It would end soon. It had to.

The unsecured packing crate slammed into something again, her head rebounding painfully off the inside and she was consumed by nausea. The tiniest sob escaped and she froze. With a click the lid was opened and blinding light flooded into her streaming eyes as she tried to focus on the figure leaning towards her. It was him! Was she saved? Was she safe?

No.

Dread filled every cell of her body. Vivid blue eyes looked down at her but they were unseeing. A dark line ran from the corner of his mouth and then red, sickly gleaming red was everywhere. His blood was everywhere and it was her fault. His body fell heavily on top of her and the lid was slammed shut and she screamed for help until her throat burned.

Nobody came.

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds #thunderbirds fanfiction #scott tracy #virgil tracy #john tracy #idontknowreallywhy fanfic #Estera #Tw: ptsd #Tw: implied violence #Tw: mild horror #TB Estera

[worldheadcanons]

☆ miscellaneous stalker au canada headcanons!

starring. . . gender neutral reader and canada. warning for stalking (in general), general violence/murder mentioned, + nsfw in the last four headcanons.

author notes; live laugh love this little freak. he’s literally wild about reader and i ADORE that about him. he’s the type of guy to go “me and my partner don’t argue they bash my head in with a rock and i walk it off like a man.” he’s crazy.

matthew williams!

— matthew spends about an hour every day scrolling on his favorite shopping sites in search of things he thinks you’d like. he’s a smart shopper, if nothing else. he seems to know every secret coupon in the world. he really enjoys buying you cute clothing and trinkets he finds online. plushes, slippers, new satin pajama sets, sexy underwear, cat themed mugs, kitchen supplies to replace your old ones— god, not to mention the glorious food he delivers! it’s never more food than you need. it’s just enough so that you can eat your fill and still have a bit extra for later. it’s like having a sugar daddy, honestly. you occasionally feel bad for him and try to convince him to stop spending so much money on you, but williams manages to dismisse your concerns with ease. he lives and loves to serve you, he says. 

— if you identify with one of the binary genders then he’ll eventually start calling you a ‘good girl’ or ‘good boy’ over the phone. it’s not something he’s stubborn about, so if you ask him to stop he will. it’s nothing really sexual as he mostly uses the pet name to tease you, enjoying the way you roll your eyes or huff at his words. matthew never dishes out something he can’t take, so you deciding to mirror him isn’t an issue. in fact, he takes pleasure in it, grinning to himself in the bushes of your front yard. you’ll tell him to be a ‘good boy’ and turn himself in to the cops and he’ll simply laugh into the phone. “y/n,” he’d coo, “i can’t turn myself in. you know you’d miss your good boy too much if i went to jail.”

— he’ll occasionally show up at your place of work depending on whether or not your job deals with the public. if you’re something like a fast food worker or a cashier, then you’ll definitely be seeing him from time to time. he’s clever enough to not let you hear his voice off the phone. he’ll either avoid speaking entirely or put on a completely different voice to the best of his ability. williams likely won’t even do anything related to your work, mostly sitting or standing around and pretending to be busy on his phone or, if he’s in a store, pretending to browse for something. he watches you, occasionally taking pictures when he can. when he gets home, matthew prints them out, adding them to a physical scrapbook of semi-blurry photos taken of you. pictures from your front yard.. from your back door.. in the store.. in the parking lot.. in your own bedroom…

— one day he actually sends you a text. when you block the first number, williams texts you again through a different one. the text message comes after he sees you going out the house with another person. he takes offense to the mere sight of you with someone else and it’s here where he starts to show his more violent side. it's a jarring wake up call for you. you couldn’t help but begin to think of him as someone different.. someone romantic instead of creepy. someone almost cute instead of murderous. how silly of you. you slid your phone into your pocket but his message continued to echoe softly in the back of your mind. ‘have fun tonight. if i catch their hands anywhere near you, they'll end up in your mailbox by morning ❤️’

— he stalks you on any and every open social media account you have. instagram, twitter (you tweet the strangest things, matthew loves giggling at your musings), tiktok, tumblr, facebook— hell, he’d look through myspace if he had to. whenever he’s bored at work he starts browsing through everything he can. he just wants to feel connected to you. it’s not enough to have a small picture of you taped to the inside of his briefcase. besides, williams wants to stay updated on your life and scrolling through your social media definitely helps with that. 

— on the more sexual side of things, god does he love to masturbate. the mere sound of your voice is enough to make him hump into a pillow like a dog, whining and groaning softly to himself while still trying to seem present on the phone. not to mention the countless blurry pictures of you that are now covered in his cum. he doesn’t want to waste his clear shots of you, matthew would much rather keep those clean. he just wishes he could get his hands on you and show you how much of a degenerate you’ve made him into. it’s a real shame you don’t get to hear the way he groans your name as he cums all over the place. it’s always a messy finish with him, even though he finds the clean up process to be embarrassing. williams never learns his lesson.

— just let him into your house, just once, and he can make your dreams come true. he wouldn’t mind being dominant or submissive, most of the time he just wants to see you get off. he’s the type to kiss the ground you walk on and then fuck you like an animal all in the same night. matthew would be rough with you but still clearly worship you and your body. williams adores giving and receiving praise during sex. he dreams of the day you’ll tell him he’s doing a good job, really, it would mean everything to him to hear that he’s pleasing you. in return, he’d coo into your ear that you’re the only one in the world for him. the only one he’d ever want or need. every inch of your skin would be covered in gentle kisses after he fucks you. he’s a god at aftercare and would make sure you feel like royalty before even thinking of settling into bed beside you. 

— he really wants to see you covered in his cum one day soon. positioning doesn’t matter to him, he just wants to see you completely wrecked. williams wants to see your legs shake and your tight little hole quiver. he wants to see you beg for more even though you’re so fucked out already. god, the things you do to him. you’ve made him into such a sick man.

— matthew enjoys giving and receiving oral sex. he’s great at it and even if you’re not the best he would help you get better. he’d have you cum into his mouth over and over until you’re twitching with ecstasy and he’d never even lift a finger. all williams needs is his mouth. his eyes would look up at you with a mischievous glimmer, almost as if he was wordlessly teasing you for enjoying this so much.

#hetalia #hetalia x reader #hetalia x you #hetalia headcanons #canada x reader #matthew x reader #matthew williams #hws canada #stalker au #stalker au hetalia

[hyunjins-orange-slice-too]

Connected ch2

pairing: chan x reader

genre: hurt/comfort

word count: ~1.5k

warnings: crying, overall sadness, mentions of food

an: this is a repost from my recently deceased blog hyunjins-orange-slice. may she rest in peace.

masterlist * previous chapter * next chapter

today was hard. it seemed like every day had been hard for you recently. and not for any particular reason that you could pinpoint. life just felt.. hard. everything just felt so heavy. all day long your mind is constantly going with ‘you’re so fat’ ‘why did you say that? you’re weird.’ ‘remember that embarrassing thing that happened in 6th grade?’ ‘no one likes you.’ ‘everyone hates you, of course they do.’

“why can’t i just have a good day?” you said aloud to yourself, feeling defeated. all you wanted to do was go home, crawl in bed, put your headphones in and turn on some music. or maybe a comfort audio, though you felt you were a little dependent on those these days. so when the time finally rolled around for you to get off work, that’s exactly what you did. you unlocked the door, not even bothering to say hello to your cat, you headed to the bathroom to change your clothes. you avoided the mirror at all costs, not able to look at yourself. once the comfy clothes were secured, you went to your room and flung yourself on the bed. finally you thought. you curled under the cover, pulling it up to your chin, phone in hand. you slipped your headphones in and opened your music app.

you turned on some stray kids, because of course you did. hearing their voices, especially chan, you immediately felt somewhat soothed. you closed your eyes and let the music take over.

i tried to hide away from all the sorrow and pain

but little did i know that i was going insane

the tears started to gather then, at the corners of your eyes. you squeezed them shut tighter, a few tears slipping past and down to your pillow. you really loved that part of the song. the whole song is so beautiful, but chans voice there really makes you emotional.

you thought back to his messages from the other day. by the other day you meant it had been a few weeks. you had felt down and have had plenty of nightmares, but you never reached out to him again. you felt like you would be bothering him. you would be a burden to him, just like you are to everyone else. he only reached out the first time because he felt bad for you. he only told you to message him just to be nice. he didn’t really mean it. but sometimes, just to soothe yourself, you’ll open the chat and reread the messages he sent. thats what you did now, opening instagram you read through the chat again, smiling at his flirtatious attitude.

•

at some point you must have fallen asleep. you wake with a start from yet another nightmare, covered in sweat, tears streaming down your cheeks. it’s dark outside now, the middle of the night again. you just want one good nights sleep. just one. your phone is still clutched in your hand, instagram chats still open. you go to close the app, but hesitate. maybe you would send him a message. he probably won’t answer, but you thought it was worth a try. you could really use the comfort. but you found yourself struggling again with what to say. you had typed out a few messages, but deleted each one. you sounded too desperate. too annoying. until eventually, you had almost talked yourself out of it altogether. you drafted one last message:

“had another nightmare. came back to reread these messages. they comfort me. thank you again.”

and before you could talk yourself out of it, you hit send. you don’t know how long you sat there, phone in hand, chats open, staring at the screen. but you eventually fell asleep again, not waking up until morning when your alarm started blaring in your ear. you rubbed at your blurry, sleep filled eyes. rolling over, you see your phone. it was still open to instagram, the battery almost dead. you grab for the phone, your chest filled with hope, only to be crushed by the last message you sent. he hadn’t answered you. of course he didn’t, why would he? he’s busy, and you’re a nobody. you plugged the phone in and dragged yourself out of bed to get ready for work.

•

a few days had passed, and things were still the same. every night after work, you went home and crawled into bed. some nights were better than others, those nights where you could actually stomach some food and force yourself to take a shower. and other nights were bad, where you couldn’t do anything but stare at the ceiling and let the dread creep in.

tonight was one of the bad nights. you stared at the ceiling, the same old fan slowly spinning overhead, the same comfort audio you had listened to about a million times played in your ears. you knew you needed to eat something, you hadn’t had anything all day, but you couldn’t bring yourself to move. you just continue to lay there.

suddenly, your audio cut off and a weird ringing filled your ears. a sound you had never heard. you looked down at your phone and you had an incoming call from instagram. who knew you could call someone through instagram. you were more shocked to see who was calling. it was chan. you immediately started to panic. what do you do? was he calling to tell you to stop contacting him? was he mad? why wouldn’t he just block you if that was the case?

with shaky hands you reached out and accepted the call.

“he-hello?” you stuttered.

“hi!” he answered. he sounded a little nervous, but it was clearly chan. there’s no mistaking that voice. “i’m so so sorry i didn’t answer your message. i didn’t see it until just now. i had my notifications on, i promise. but instagram never notified me. i’m sorry. are you okay?”

your brain short circuited. was he just calling to check on you? he didn’t sound mad or annoyed.

“you..” you started your sentence but lost it after only one word.

“you’re upset with me.” he sighed. “i really am sorry, i don’t know why i didn’t get notified of your message.”

his voice sounded sad. you could hear a little commotion in the background, what sounded like playful arguing and laughter. but it was muffled, almost like the rowdiness was in the room next to him, the loud voices traveling through the wall.

“i’m not upset with you.” you told him. “just- just a little surprised is all”

“surprised?” he asks.

“yeah. i never would have thought you would call me.”

“is it okay that i did?” he asks. “i noticed your message and wanted to apologize for not responding. and i felt like it was too important to say over text… so i called.”

“oh. well, i don’t mind. you’re very nice, chan.”

he nervously laughed a little at that, and you could feel the corners of your mouth turn up slightly at the sound.

“you never answered me.” he said. and you were confused. you were pretty sure he was the one who never answered you. that’s why this call was happening, right? “are you okay?”

oh, he meant you didn’t answer his question from before.

“yeah, i’m okay.” you tell him.

“that didn’t sound very convincing.” he says, chuckling.

“no, i’m okay.” you reply. “just, the last little while has been hard. but i’m okay. i promise. you don’t need to worry about me. you’re so busy.”

“but i do worry about you. im always here if you need me, im never too busy for that.” he promises.

“i-i wouldn’t want to bother you.”

“you’re not bothering me. you deserve to be happy. you deserve someone who will listen. and that’s me.” you could tell he was smiling, you could hear it in his voice. you really didn’t know what to say. you didn’t know what you ever did to deserve someone like chan in your life.

“hyung, minhos ready to start practice again.” you faintly heard someone, who sounded a lot like han jisung, say in the background.

“okay, i’m coming. just a sec.” chan answered. “i have to go.” he says to you now, “i’m sorry i couldn’t talk longer. i’ll text you, okay?”

all of this felt so surreal to you. you had to be dreaming right now and it would soon take a turn for the scary and you would wake up screaming.

“uh, yeah, of course.” you say. “only if you have time.”

“i’ll make time.” he tells you. “try to get some rest. and don’t skip meals, yeah?”

you shyly nodded, but then realized he couldn’t see you. “yeah. okay.” you answer.

“okay, bye.” he says, his voice soft, almost like he is sad to be hanging up.

“bye, chan.” and then the line goes silent.

to be added to the taglist for this series, just let me know.

🚨reminder: this blog is 18+ only. i’ve been getting a lot of new followers (which i greatly appreciate) but if there’s no age identifier on your blog, i’m blocking you no questions asked. (for my own sanity and peace of mind.) ik some people don’t actually go to my page to read the warnings, so im going to start attaching a warning at the bottom of all my posts. thanks for understanding. 💕

#bang chan #stray kids #bang chan stray kids #stray kids imagines #stray kids bang chan #bang chan fluff #bang chan hurt/comfort #connected series #hyunjins orange slice too #bang chan x reader

[takeachillpillshawty]

Here's a part 2 with my personal headcannons.

A\n: these are headcannon these are not cannon to the story what so ever. Thanks

Octavinelle

Azul Ashengrotto

Listens to Mitsuki

Loves spongebob, Mr. Crabs made him the man he is today.

Mentally ill gay theatre kid. # 2

When Azul was a first year he researched what people or humans find attractive, and poof! Octavinelle's dorm uniform. But, the funny thing about his glasses, he wore fake glasses to look smart ya know, that backfired quickly.

Jade: hmmm, I didn't know you wore glasses Azul.

Azul: oh, no they are for show. I'll have you know I have great eyesight!

Jade: okay....can you read that poster for me?

Azul:....ok.....

Jade: well?

Azul: ........Jade...don't laugh.

Jade grinning: yes.

Azul: the...the poster is blurry.

Jade: good to know. Booking you an eye appointment now.

Azul: please don't Floyd.

Jade told Floyd.

Floyd never let Azul live it down.

" So...You fucked up you eyes because you wanted to look cool? " " SHUT UP! GET BACK TO WORK! "

Probably sucked in his gut and looked in the mirror flexing his musles. Jade walked in many times.

Azul shirtless looking in the mirror: aww yes. Look at you, sexy. The hoes gonna love this.

Jade walking in: Azul, I got your laundry.

Azul putting his shirt on: GET THE FUCK OUT!

Was disgusted by somethings humans do, especially with their feet.

Probably got asked out for a joke. ( same man)

Leg cramps and toe stubs are the most painful thing he felt having human legs.

After his overbolt Yuu \ Yasty\ MC \ Y\N, being the person they are helped him with his body image.

Yuu(Yasty): Look Azul, you're a good looking guy.

Azul: but.

Yuu( Yasty): Azul let me show you something * pulls out phone*

Azul: what is that?

Yuu(Yasty): In my world, Like how you admire the Great Seven we have our own great seven. They are Sans, Nagito, The Onceler, Ingo, Black hat, Loki, and Bill.

Azul: A human in a suit, a skeleton, a triangle, another human- look what are you trying to say?

Yuu(Yasty): if people could find all of them attractive, there might be people who would find you attractive!

Azul: for my personality right?

Yuu(Yasty): for your overbolt form.

Azul: what. Why!

Yuu(Yasty): have you ever heard of the term, Monster fuckers?

Plays splatoon

C H U B B Y C H E E K S

Can't snap his fingers, how do you humans do it?!

Has fought Ruggie bare fist and knuckles during black friday deals. Update: he won, Jade got his potted mushroom and Floyd got his squishmellows.

Jade Leech

Play cookie run kingdom just for mushroom cookie, was jumping up and down like he won the lottery when mushroom cookie was announced for oven break. Azul and Floyd were low-key scared of his sudden out burst.

Has cursive writing, the one that looks like doctor writing.

Made Floyd and Azul remember the team rocket moto.

Octavinelle student running away from the tweels and Azul.

Student A: good I lost them.

Jade and Azul in team rocket attire.

Azul: prepare for trouble!

Jade: and make it double!

Azul: to protect the world from devastation!

Jade: to unite all people within our nation!

Azul: to denounce the evils of truth and love!

Jade: to extend our reach to the stars above!

Azul: Azul!

Jade: Jade!

Azul: team Octavinelle blast off at the speed of light!

Jade: Surrender now, or prepare to fight!

Floyd in a cat costume : Yeah, that's right!

Azul's therapist #1 ( number two is prefect-)

Also finds human things weird.

A mentally ill theatre kid questioning their sexuality.

Would purposely sneak up behind you and wait for you to turn around, then boom! Jade Jumpscare. Most people think he can teleport, No Jade just like scaring people.

Tried the " which twin is which" with student as a joke, at the end of the day he realise SOME people genuinely don't find a different between the two.

Floyd Leech

Menace, evil man, stinky boi. I love him.

Adhd

Due to his...nature he is banned from the following: every dorm except Diasomnia, Octavinelle, and sometimes Scarabia, school after hours, RSA, McDonald, the state of Florida, Ohio and Twitter.

Banned from playing his playlist on the Monstro lounge speakers, ( the daycare theme from fnaf security breach was funny the two times. PLEASE STOP.)

List of songs he's banned from playing: CPR, Squidward nose, cbat, any song from spattoon, never gonna give you up, world star, gansta paradise, the cursed howl moving castle theme, cpr x misery x Reese puff, baby shark, the lollipop song, welcome to the black parade, any heavy metal, Wii theme, the daycare theme, Monster Inc theme

Spelt his name wrong until he was 12, No Floyd just be cause phone sounds like an f when said doesn't mean your name starts with a P. Now stop spelling it as Ployd.

Low-key wanted a little brother or sister.

Man single handedly made Riddle write more rules for Floyd's bafoonary .

Has delayed reactions, like those babies who falls down takes a few minutes and cry.

Has terrible taste in food and clothing part 2. Got banned from Pomifoire for wearing crocks with socks, with tiger print tights and a Garfield t shirt. Vil died a bit that day.

Has one of the most intense patty cake fight? With Jade.

It was a sunny afternoon in Octavinelle and the tweets were bored business was slow, so that has a patty cake match.

Floyd: aww, common just one match for old time sake.

Jade: Floyd, you know how competitive we can be.

Floyd with puppy eyes: pleasssse.

Jade: fine, you start.

Jade and Floyd prepared their hands as Floyd started

Floyd : mama, mama, I feel sick call the doctor quick quick quick, sister fell down don't show a frown, she'll feel better, but if you laugh you might get a smack, starting right now.

They both kept the rythm, going faster. Not a single word said.

Azul curious walked in seeing the situation.

'Oh no' he thought as he looked at the intense match in front of him, the tweels while bodies frozen of that of a statue arms and hands kept moving at a alarming rate. Not even blinking.

Jamil, soon walked in: hey can I borrow.

Azul covered Jamil's mouth as he points at the twins.

Azul: they are linking their brain cells together for this match.

I will lose it if he doesn't have a Brooklyn or New Yorken accent in the English dub.

Throws a hissy fit if he doesn't get what he want.

Aail tired of Floyd's shit: WHAT IS THE JIGGLE JIGGLE SKIN?!

Floyd being a menace: glizzy~

Azul: that's it! Now I'm not giving it to you for that!

Floyd: give me it. NOW!

Azul: IM NOT GIVING IT TO YOU!

Floyd: you're gonna make me scream loud as fuck!

Azul: I GUESS I AM!

Floyd: grrrrr!

Azul: GET LOUDER!

Floyd: grRRAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH! GIVE IT TO ME NOW!

Azul: I DON'T CARE HOW MUCH YOU SCREAM I'M NOT GIVING IT TO YOU!

Floyd: MEOW!MEOW! AAAAARGHAH!

Jade: * humming to the tune of No surprises while cleaning*

Bit someone.

Can contort his body to do weird shit. Imagine the bitch walking like that girl from the ring to you at full speed! God help you if he on the ceiling.

Kalim Al- Asim

Got to get it off my chest. He counts with his fingers.

Cries when doing math home work with Jamil.

Plays pokemon. Loves hau and hop.

Watched the Pokemon anime with Jade and Idia.

Can sleep through anything but Jamil just saying his name makes him jump out of bed.

Kid with Autism and ADHD.

Please don't sneak up on him, man got reflexes.

Floyd: hey sea otter-

Kalim thinking it's a kidnapper: * Flips Floyd over*

Floyd blinks a few times then cries.

Kalim: OH! GOSH! FLOYD! I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY!

Likes using specific forks and spoons when eating.

Jamil: here you go Kalim.

Kalim: ......

Jamil: What?

Kalim:.... The spoon.

Jamil: what.

Kalim: Jamil! You know I don't use the big spoons for pudding!

Jamil: Ohfortheloveof. Here.

Kamil: yesh!

Either has an accent or not.

ruggies wallet

Sings in the shower.

I love Kalim but he'd be that kid that would always wanted to show you something.

Kalim at a playground approaching Yuu\Y\N: Hey! Hey! Wanna see how fast I can go on the monkey bars?!

* goes on monkey bars and falls off*

Kalim running back: wanna see me do it again?

Squishy cheeks

Not affected by horror movies that much. Will vomit or pass out to gore movies.

Legit cried for five minutes knowing the man isn't real.

Jamil Viper

Help this man. Needs a break.

Has a " tired older brother and annoying little brother" dynamic with Kalim.

Shares cooking tips with Trey.

Has special incense for stress relief he burns in his room.

Drinks black coffee.

Repressed anger issues.

Tired McDonald's employee

" I'm not depressed, but if God says it's my time to go, its my time to go."

The dorm have a code for Jamil, for when there is a bug in a certain room of the dorm, because that bitch will burn all of scarabia down for a spider. ( I mean same)

Hates the " Is it cake?" Show. He can't look at regular food any more.

Doesn't want anyone in the kitchen when he's working.

Insomnia, due to the paranoia of keeping Kalim safe from assassins.

#twisted wonderland shitpost #jamil viper #twisted wonderland #azul ashengrotto #floyd leech #jade leech #scaramouche #octavinelle #kalim al asim

[cosmeww]

Okay so..

I present my addams! Rottmnt au oc

Hides my face in my hoodie anxiously and shakes

waves at @lackablazeical

Okok info dump time

I proofread this multiple times and had both donnie and finn proof read it but we're all super tired so im sorry if theres spelling mistakes or bad wording m(_ _;)m

Im super anxious and embarrased to post this but fuck it we ball!!! B)

BASIC INFO

8/Eight

He + any

17-18

Bi ftm

Turantula mutant

Autism, adhd, and bpd haver

APEARENCE

Eight is a primarily black fluffy spider. He has 6 arms along his torso, at the very begging of each joint theres dark orange fur, this is also applied at the top of his thighs where they connect to his hips. Despite him eating well, he's quite thin and lean, ribs and other bones being very visible under his fur.

He has bright yellow eyes that stand out in the dark, as well as eight of them.

What he wears

In the beggining:

He can be seen wearing absolutely nothing

After Donnie finds him:

A cream colored (why does that sound so weird to say..?????? Cream?? Cream?? Cream????) straight jacket and grey shorts. His arms are broken and cuffed behind his back, as well as a bit roughed up from him clawing at himself, though you can't see this unless his straight jacket was taken off.

ATRIBUTES

Despite his many eyes 8 has less than par eyesight. He is permanently seeing through the equivalent of a foggy mirror. Due to this he relies mainly on his hearing and other senses. He can sense movement and sound and relies on that more than what he actually see's.

Yes he can make webs. Yes he does it frequently. Yes he traps food in them.

Eight is carnivorous and eats small animals ranging from mice, rabbits, rats, squirrels, cats, and more.

He is very flexible, horrifically so, it's quite scary.

Stims a lot, physically and verbally ranging from flapping his arms to nawing on himself or anything around him.

Eight can also climb on walls and ceilings with ease.

His memory is messy and confusing, sometimes coming back to him in random bursts.

No he is not related to Bw at all he has never even heard of her.

He is very good at sewing :)

PERSONALITY

Eight is just a silly goofy little guy. He talks a lot about everything on his mind all the time. If he thinks it he'll say it. Due to his "talk first think later" mentality, he often snaps back with snarky comments unintentionally or is just plain rude without noticing because he's literally just speaking his mind. He's working on it. Despite this he is genuinely very caring and nice and just wants friends to talk to for hours even if all they'll do is just sit and listen.

LIKES AND DISLIKES

Likes:

Small spaces

Other bugs!! Both to eat and play with :)

The dark

Ishida & mona!!!

Sweaters

Climbing, running, just moving around in general

Talking

Making friends :D

Eating

Dislikes:

Wolves cats and coyotes (steal his food)

Quite people

Being hungry

Rain

Being restrained or in any situation where he can't move around

BACKSTORY

Eight remembers nothing from before he was turned or even how he was turned. He woke up in a forest as a spider mutant and just kind of rolled with it, living in the forest for a while before getting bored and lonely, so he decided to explore. In his exploration he came across the turtles massive fucking mansion and was like "OMG SO MANY HIDING SPACES!!!" and pretty much just crawled in through somewhere (maybe an open window or a vent) he wandered around only intending to stay for a bit then head back to where he called "home" until he heard ishida and was in aw "COOL PERSON!!!!! :DDD" so he stuck around to see him again and became the houses unknown pest control, in return for consuming all rodents and other small animals he covered every possible hiding place in webs.

On another day of saying hi to an unknowing ishida (I mean he literally just. Sat in the shadows and waved at ishida or to him a green and white blurry thing. It's like waving at a character on a tv lol) he got distracted and slipped up, not noticing donnie and pretty much unable to see where he was freaked out and got his ass caught.. Oh no... :( BOZO sorry anyways and then starts a new era of being restrained and the looming threat of losing his arms and eyes ^^

It's unsure why he has such an interest in Ishida, maybe it's admiration? Maybe he thinks he's pretty?? Or maybe he's just really fucking hungry and wants to eat him, he does eat rabbits after all.... :/// idc what you interpret it as or whatever!! I'll literally just go with whatever people would want more ><

Haha okay thats all uh yea twirls hair and makes myself sick of anxiety 😞

To whoever see's this i hope u like and don't think im weird :3

#addams! tmnt au #rottmnt au #addams! rottmnt au oc #Oc for au #my art #rottmnt #au oc #digital art #addams!rottmnt au #addams! donnie #addams! ishida #addams! mona #tagging them because i mention them but let me know if i should untag and i will^^ #meows anxiously #art #infodump

[the-creeping-clans]

More Like Your Mother

Dialogue set a bit before the start of the official story. A sweet self discovery piece!

Four Moons before the first moon, on a hazy morning as usual, a lanky built white and gray cat is staring out. A distant green gaze drifting all across the woods before them.

A Forest they would soon be setting themselves out into…

The day was cold, as most were in their territory. But it felt unnerving like it never had before. Like it was creeping up under his skin. Trying to worm itself in.

Treatkit spent his whole kithood begging to finally be seen as older, to finally be on the same level as the larger cats. He felt much bigger despite him being so small. But now he is six moons. It was the night he’d be made an official alumni. Him and his sibling Trickkit.

Yet he still hadn’t spoken the things he thought at all.

While Trickkit found its voice when they were still squeaky and wobbly, he had not.

It was. Scary. Terrifying to face the truth of his heart. Especially as his pops Pumpkinpail had told him so many stories of his real dad. How much they looked alike. He didn’t want to turn from his dad. But he wasn’t like him. Not in every way at least.

He was. Not a he. A she. A molly. How much he wanted to be a sister, to be a granddaughter. He was a mirror of the cat he never got to meet, and he felt so close to his dad when he saw his face in the puddles around camp, to get a glimpse into his lost papas life- to be the reflection of the tom that every cat knew and cared for. A part of him knew that none would be rude or deny him accepting himself. Yet it still felt so selfish. So wasteful. To toss away the scraps he got from his father set in his blood. It was- it was rude. It was practically mocking! He would be spitting on what the stars gave him! He was so. So. So-

“EEP!!” Treatkit cried at the shock of a warm nose nudging his cheek.

The silver speckled senior flinched back from the sudden noise that broke the perfect peace that was the morning. Immediately Treatkit apologized profusely for the shock, even if the other cat was the one to scare him.

Riverwrath muttered his own back and a spark of guilt gripped his stomach at being upset at the mediator for just coming over to him.

A cloud of curiosity misted over the other cats foggy eyes.

“Whatcha thinking bout kid? Nervous for ya ceremony?” His voice was low but clear. With the same cut-off end of words always present in the old cat's speech. Even so it made him want to spill every thought that had stung his mind since he was young. Maybe that’s why he was chosen to be a mediator.

Treatkit realized he was just staring at the speckled tabby tom and had to bite back another apology. Didn’t want to be annoying.

“A little nervous but I’ve always wanted to get out there. To be just like my papa yknow- learn something good.” He said clearly but faltered on his father’s mention.

“Pops tells me all the time about him. Look up to my dad a lot. I have his pelt yknow! I mean of course you know, you knew him- but Pumpkinpail’s alway mentioned it. Spitting image of him…”

Riverwrath let the younger’s words settle for several seconds before looking out where the other was. Out into the blurry forest they’d lived in for so long. While Treatkit couldn’t read his mind he had this twitch in the back of his tongue. As if telling him to say something. Do something besides… stare.

“Yer papa was a selfless soul. See that in ya a lot little look alike-“ the elders' eyes looked at a particular tree, tracing it up and down before continuing to speak. Even as Treatkit waited anxiously to hear anything about his own dad.

“But ya also got yer mother in ya. See it in ya face. The way you’d two listen and latch onta things. Evens when ya was so small. Practically raised that pipsqueak myself with how much she’d stalk me.” He laughed at the memories of the mother he didn’t know much about, clearly seeing the kit that was his mom in his own mind. Or maybe in the spot Treatkit took up.

Treatkit listened harder than he had ever before. His mom. Pops had few stories of her. Apparently she wasn’t too into others' hearts like his dad was. But just like him she had disappeared. Gone into the fog like so many.

“Ya know she’d get so lost in her own shell. I took time trying to crack inta it I’ll tell ya that! She was something special.”

A smile pulled at the usually stoney faced senior and Treatkit ended up leaning closer, just in case the cat whispered.

Good thing he did, as Riverwrath’s gravely tone got much much quieter. “But the cat she became once she spoke startled us all. She was truthful. Her words were practically meals with how much meaning she packed into them. No one would’ve known though.. until she opened up-“

“-What I’m trying to say is, whatever it is, whatever got ya mind in a twist, ya don’t have to unravel it alone. Speaking about yerself will loosen that knot a whole lot trust me kiddo. Did it myself when I was bout yer age. Tacked on the title of a tom and been one since. As did yer mother, though when she was older. She came to me and said she wasn’t no son of mine and we said it to every other cat till they got it right!”

And then back to silence. It wasn’t the tense kind like before. It wasn’t making his stomach turn anymore. Instead it filled him with a kindling that’d he had never felt before those words brought him alive.

With a clearing of his throat,

And a rest of his head against the other cats side,

He said it. Just like his mother had many many moons before.

“I think I’d prefer to be seen as a molly.”

#these twos relationship is my favorite thing ever btw #trick and treat just got two awesome grandpas that’ll fight monsters for them #clangen #clangen story #clan gen game #lanternclan #treatpatch #pumpkinpail #tricktrap #riverwrath #dialogue #before the beginning #side stories #story scenes

[goldenfreddys]

september ‘04, cont.— um, it's kind of a lot

“Well, I have some news. It’s good news for me, but I think maybe mortifying for you.” Nadia grinned, cross legged in bed with a large book in her lap, “I have unearthed an archaeological artifact, courtesy of your mom.”

Jeremy groaned in faux anguish and sat down beside her. It was a photo album, probably filled with various outtake pictures of his youth that his mom didn’t have room to include in her primary album.

Nadia opened it up and immediately started laughing. There was a blurry picture of a newborn baby with adult sized sunglasses positioned on his tiny face, followed by more baby pictures of a similar ilk.

One photo, dated October ‘88, starred a small child wearing a ghostbusters jumpsuit.

Nadia pointed at the kid, “Oh my god, is that you?”

“Nope.” Jeremy guided her finger over to the child situated in the background dressed as a white-sheet ghost, “That’s me.”

“Wait, then…”

“My sister. I was kinda camera shy, so I always got her to stand in front of me for these types of pics.”

Nadia snorted, “Was? You slapped my camera into the lake last time I tried taking a picture of you.”

“You were being sneaky. You spooked me.”

“You’re right, next time I'll hold out a handful of sugar cubes and say ‘easy there’ like you're a horse that saw a scary twig.”

The next page had some pictures of a fishing trip. Nadia paused, frowning.

“Are you crying in this one?”

“Oh… Yeah, I-I didn't realize that in order to cook and eat the fish we also had to kill it. Um, coincidentally, this is also when I lost interest in fishing.”

They continued flipping through the pages.

“... What’s your sister’s name? You didn't say.”

“Charlie. We were pretty close back in the day.”

“Not anymore?”

“We-we um, we haven't really been in touch, given she… Died. Almost ten years ago.”

“Oh…”

Ten years. He began double checking the math in his head, before the train of thought derailed into a pile of blurry, dateless snapshots—questions like ‘do any of these men look like the one you saw that night?’ presented with a lineup of nondescript mugshots he couldn't tell apart, ‘worry tracker’ worksheets, the escalation from school counselors to therapists to adolescent psychopharmacologists, the de-escalation from policemen to detectives to amateur true crime enthusiasts— all of it at once, tangled in a cat's cradle.

Nadia set aside the album and stood up, “We’ll come back to that one. Go take a shower, you smell like job.”

It was true. Freddy’s had that typical unfamiliar place smell, combined with something kind of bitter and industrial, that clung to his clothes. Another wave of dread washed over him just thinking about his shift. If he had a scrapbook of bad first impressions, sleeping through his shift and acting like a complete basket case in front of his supervisor immediately after would need to have its own 2-page spread.

“I’m hearing a lot of silence and not a lot of getting in the wet-box!” Nadia called from the kitchen.

Jeremy took a breath and attempted to reel his focus back to the present. He got up, trying to itemize what needed to be done as he dug through the suitcase of clothes he hadn’t remembered to put away. After showering, he would need to eat, then phone his mom and try to get some actual rest. Alternatively, he could try to figure out where the fabled washer and drier unit was in the apartment.

The buttons on the light purple dress shirt he’d been given as a uniform were stiff and difficult- or maybe they were normal, and Jeremy’s fingers were still a bit jittery. Probably both.

He tried not to get into staring in the mirror. Although, he remembered last week one of Nadia’s new friends admitted she thought he was a butch lesbian when she first saw him, which was oddly comforting. It stuck in his head and gave a nice little rush whenever he had to look at himself- butches were cool, he thought. They performed machismo with grace.

Today was a hot shower day, Jeremy decided. He deserved a treat.

#parmaverse #my writing #fnaf au #nadia knox #<- nadia (main character) cameo #im not tagging jeremy he's a given

[doobea]

dooby, bby, hellow! <3 i am here to gift you the prettiest flowers💐🌹🪷 and wish you the most beautiful time of the day, hope your start to the week was lovely as u r ໒꒰ྀི ∩ ⸝⸝ ∩ ꒱ྀིა 'm leaving snow paw prints all over your pretty blog ⋆˚🐾˖°

i am a nosy bunny so here are some questions for you :3 do you and choso, and you and oliver, like taking pictures? who is the photographer and who is the model in the relationship? and do have a favorite picture of the two of you? ૮꒰ྀི∩´ ᵕ `∩꒱ྀིა

hi angie hehe ໒꒰ྀི´ ˘ ` ꒱ྀིა currently fighting off the flu but i've been feeling much better as of recently!! as for your question hehe

hmm between me and choso i feel like we're both awkward when it comes to taking photos of each other ngl haha a lot of our couple photos together might come off as more of a 'soft launch' dump because the rest of it always ends up with either me blinking, looking too stiff, or him accidentally turning on the flash or moving too fast so the pic ends up blurry ˙◠˙ but i think he enjoys taking pics more!! tries to get candid shots of me or just the scenery around!! the walls and fridge are loaded w photos of stray cats, nature, and our families!! as for favorite photo... i would have to say a simple mirror selfie after our first night together ♡

with oliver its a diff story hehe im always taking the photos duh not because he wants me to, but because if i don't take them then it's just gonna result in another gaudy shirtless mirror selfie for his insta... istg some men dont know how to take photos right so i gotta step in and bark orders around ( `◠´) and because i dont really take photos of myself, sometimes he'll try and sneak some pics of me but it always ends up looking sooo bad like he does it on purpose and posts it on his close friends 😭😭😭 our fav photo together just happens to be him biting my whole cheek after i told him his breath stinks...

#doobea answers⋆˚✿˖° #💭: rinniessance #can u tell who i love more #bc its def not oliver LMAO

[sopejinsunflower]

2022.001.012: Karma and Deja-vu

What in the world is happening?

Yoongi stands in front of the mirror of the vanity desk in his room, turning this way and that, one eyebrow raised while the other pinches down. He stares at his own reflection, pulls a few weird faces just to see if the one in the mirror changes too, and then steps back as he realises that he has a reflection. He stands there for a couple more minutes, hearing the cogs in his brain whirring. Through the window, the sun is warming his back.

The first thing that pops in his mind is that he’s dreaming. He goes closer to the mirror, leaning over the desk to come face to face with himself, his breath fogging up the glass. That should’ve been the first sign but he proceeds to squish his cheeks together with his hands. Then he stands back again. A shadow passes by through the window but when he turns around, whatever it was was gone. He chalks it up to a bird, a crow perhaps from the size of it. The day outside is beautiful.

Next door, Namjoon is peering out his window. Something had just passed by but he had been turned away to see what it was. The shadow casted on the walls was all he noticed. The window isn’t budging, old and rusted on its hinges. He makes a mental note to let Chang know about it. The house needs a bit of fixing up. Also, the flowers in the window box look a little wilted.

He walks back towards the bathroom, needing to empty his bladder, making a mental note to water the flowers. Unlike Yoongi, Namjoon passes by the sink mirror without a glance, his mind buzzing to get to the toilet as fast as he can, eyes cast downward the rest of the way.

On the other side of the wall, Jimin is staring at the cat in the window, eyes still blurry with sleep, sitting up in bed with his hair all mussed up. He blinks and the cat disappears and he doubts that there ever was a cat to begin with. Scratching his belly, Jimin throws the blanket off and shuffles towards the window, standing in front of the pane glass, staring off into space. When he comes to again, he opens the window and sticks his head out, looking left and right but there is no cat to be seen. 

If he had looked down towards the window box, he probably would have seen the paw prints in the dirt there but he closes the window and ambles towards the bathroom.

~~~

“You can see me?!”

I stare at Hoseok, incredulous. 

“Uh, yeah?” I answer hesitantly, not sure if he’s playing some kind of game. The look on his face seems genuine enough and he doesn’t let up, standing there, finger pointing at me, mouth agape. Is he still dreaming? I get out of bed and notice dirt in the shape of paw prints all over the sheet. “Oh, no.” I grab the cat and move him off the bed, chucking him lightly to the floor. 

As I walk around the bed, Hoseok is following me with his eyes, feet still frozen to the spot. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you, Hoseok,” I say as I draw the curtains back to let the sunlight in. That’s when I notice the window being slightly ajar. Did I forget to close it properly?

I push it open further, checking to see if there should be anything worth noting. Paw prints in the dirt of the window flower planter tell me all I need to know. I turn around to find the cat and nearly yelp to see him by my feet, looking up at me. “Did you go outside to the planter?” He blinks, unresponsive. “Because your feet are all dirty and you have a litter box right over there, mister.”

I point to a corner in the room but he just walks off, his tails swishing in the air. Only one night as he’s already being an insolent child. The nerve of him. Now you have to change the sheets.

Hoseok moves towards the vanity desk, peering at his face in the mirror. He tugs at his cheeks and then pinches himself on the arm to which he lets out an audible, “Ow.”

“What are you doing?” He turns around, this time with a confused smile on his face. I’m further weirded out, frowning at him. “You look like you’ve lost your marbles, Hobi.”

His eyes widened at me. “You called me Hobi.”

It’s my turn to be confused, looking at him like he’s grown a second head out of his armpit. 

“You called me Hobi,” he repeats in that same breathless, in-awe tone. 

I think about it, wondering why I did that but coming up blank, only that it sounded…right, like it was used before. “Didn’t you…If you don’t like it-”

“No, no, that’s not what I meant. Just…” he trails off as his face relaxes and a soft, more normal smile breaks over his lips. “I like it.”

My phone vibrates against the side table and I check the messages. The first class has been cancelled. What a good start to the day, I think, grinning to myself. 

Outside in the hallway, I can hear doors opening and feet pounding, running around from door to door. There are muffled voices and I start towards the door. I open it and come face to face with Jimin, his fist raised, ready to knock. 

“Good morning?” I say, an eyebrow raised.

His mouth falls open.

~~~

There are over a hundred times that Jimin has played this situation in his mind where he would knock on your door in the morning and you would answer it all smiles and the two of you would go get breakfast together, arm in arm. So many times that he had role-played the situation by himself from good morning greetings to going down to have breakfast together. 

Yet now he stares at you, brain forgetting how to speak. It’s a mixture of shock and unbelieve, his mind swinging from ‘wait, you can see me?’ to ‘you can finally see me’, switching from relief to scared to happy to confused all at once. Jimin is reeling and the longer he stands there, frozen in place, the more obvious the struggle is. And for some weird reason, his eyes start tearing up and it’s only making things worse.

“Jimin? Are you okay?” you ask, pushing the door open wider and standing just inches from his face, looking up at him the same way a person would look at a broken clock, staring fixedly to make sure the hands really aren’t moving before being sure. You’ve deduced that yes, Jimin is, in fact, not okay. 

Jimin feels the back of your hand on his forehead, small and cool. “You don’t seem to have a fever. You don’t have any classes today?”

Then Jin’s door opens and all the others, each one of them stepping out and looking at each other like they’ve just stepped out from another dimension. They turn towards you and Jimin, a little taken aback to see you holding a hand up to Jimin’s head. The first thing Jin does is huff a breath through his nose, the kind that makes the hmph sound. So he was right; they aren’t invisible.  

But what the actual fuck is going on?

“Are you all sick?”

It takes him a beat of a second of looking around before Jin answers, “Yes.” To prove a point, he lets out a weak cough only to be met with you crossing your arms over your chest and raising one condescending eyebrow. Then Jin sees Hoseok’s head peeking from behind you and he opens his mouth to say something but Jimin cuts him off.

“Ah, hyung,” Jimin whines with a pout at the sight of the other man behind you. “That’s kind of unfair, isn’t it?”

“Not what you think,” you say, rolling your eyes and pushing past Jimin. You act nonchalant and annoyed but everyone can see the red flaming in your cheeks and how you don’t make eye contact with anyone. Jin gives Hoseok an incredulous look, falling into pace with him as they all pile down the stairs. 

“You move fast,” whispers Jin with a smirk.

“Not what you think,” Hoseok parrots but he struggles to stifle the smile on his face. “Honestly.”

~~~

I can hear the guys talking in low voices behind me but I pretend to be unfazed, keeping my face straight as Jimin walks next to me down to the dining hall. 

I can feel him stealing quick little looks from the corner of his eyes, probably trying to catch anything I’ll let slip. For some reason, I’m feeling nervous and a little shy. It wasn’t a lie when I told them nothing happened because, technically, nothing did. Just a kiss. It had just been a kiss. But to be caught with one of them coming out of my room is…well, kind of embarrassing. 

I catch Jimin looking and I wipe the dorky smile off my face, gripping the bannister as I feel my knees grow a little wobbly at the memory of the lip-lock with Hoseok last night. There’s this burning sensation in the back of my head, the kind you get when you know the people around you are just simmering to ask the one question you’re trying to avoid answering. Talk about timing, Mrs Oliviera rounds the corner of the hallway from the dining room and halts, her jaw dropping.

“What in the…” she mutters, trailing off. 

“Good morning, Ollie!” Jimin chirps cheerfully, twirling circles around the housekeeper before passing by her. 

“Morning,” chimes in Taehyung from behind me. He’s grinning from ear to ear, hurrying to catch up with Jimin. I pause, standing slightly to the side, watching the others pass with a quick greeting to Mrs Oliviera  or just a nod of acknowledgement as they pile into the dining hall. I face the older lady, wondering to myself what in the world has gotten into them. The housekeeper, however, looks like she’s been slapped in the face. 

“Are you okay?” I ask her, touching her arm lightly. She jumps at the touch and slowly turns to look at me. Her eyes are wide like saucers, her mouth hanging open, and it looks like she’s not breathing. “Mrs Oliviera?”

She snaps back, blinking rapidly and gulping air. She starts to rub her chest furiously, muttering something I can’t quite make out under her breath. It didn’t sound like English. Spanish? Are they prayers?

“What are they doing here?” she says once she finally calmed down enough. Her voice sounds strained and slightly pitched. “Why are they not-” she pauses, shakes her head then tries again. “Why are they not…not at work?”

I shrug and laugh. “No idea. Playing hooky, probably.”

Somewhere inside the dining hall, I hear Jungkook shout out, “Do you want butter or jam on your toast, y/n?”

I turn back to the housekeeper. “You sure you’re okay? You can take the day off if you want. We’ll manage.”

She shakes her head weakly. “No…no. I have to… I have to sort the laundry." Then she looks at me, her expression a little weird, incomprehensible. She grabs my wrist.

"What is it?" I ask, alarmed.

She looks like she's about to say something, her fingers squeezing and letting go, squeezing and letting go, pupils dilated with fear and concern. It's starting to creep me out. "What's wrong?"

She finally lets go, almost too quickly. "Nothing. Sorry. I'll go take care of the laundry now.”

I watch her go. She’s unsteady on her feet, wobbling a little as she climbs up the stairs, her pace slower than usual. Jungkook calls for me again, threatening to put on both if I don’t answer. 

I roll my eyes through my smile. “I like both, yes!”

~~~

Hoseok feels like crying.

For the first time in a long, long time, Hoseok scarfs down his breakfast almost without pause, the flavours of the French omelette bursting on his tongue. He has no fucking clue what is happening or why it’s happening but he’s not one to look a gift horse in the mouth because damn, he misses breakfast food.

When was the last time they had had breakfast? Too fucking long ago that Namjoon swears that the butter is saltier now that he remembers it, swallowing a piece of toast tightly. He’s holding one already bitten toast with butter spread on it and another with strawberry jam in the other hand. He takes a bite of that one, too, sighing loudly.

Breakfast is usually a one-person event but when Jean came out from the kitchen to check on you (he usually does this, secretly peeping to see if you like the food he makes or not), he had stumbled into a heap on the floor, shocked to see the seven of them. But it didn’t take him long to recover, running back into the kitchen to prepare their food, the mental note that he keeps of their usual breakfast preferences easily coming back to him; an English breakfast for Jungkook, toasts for Namjoon and Jin, omelettes for Hoseok and Taehyung, scrambled eggs with sausages for Jimin and a simple cereal for Yoongi. While they dug in, he whipped up stacks of pancakes, strips of crispy bacon, a plate of waffles and took out all the cereals they had stocked up in the pantry. 

To say that Jean is happy would be an understatement. The man lives to cook and he loves nothing more than being able to cater to a big group. You don’t eat a lot and that usually limits his creativity, as he told Mr Chang. But now, he can go wild, as Mr Chang said to him. He’s already planning the lunch and dinner menu for today, the cordless phone in his hand because he thinks he needs more groceries delivered. There’ll be a feast for dinner, he promises! 

You walk into the dining room at the same time Jean places down the plates of pancakes and waffles and bacon strips, wide-eyed and staring at the big buffet that had never been offered before. You ate whatever that was served and if you had known you could have asked for the things you’d like, you would have put in the order. You pout, feeling a little slighted.

Taehyung, upon seeing you, pulls out your chair by leaning over his own seat. “If you don’t hurry, Jungkook will finish everything.”

Jungkook looks up at you innocently, his cheeks puffed up with food, chewing with his eyebrows knitting together. He relaxes his face and points with his fork. “Fhry za pancakes. Jean makes jem fhuffeh,” he says through a full mouth. He swallows excitedly. “The omelettes are good, too! And the bacon strips are so crispy!”

Jin pats his shoulder. “Okay, okay. The food isn’t going anywhere. Slow down, kid.”

Jungkook, after swallowing again, disagreed. “They are. Into my tummy.” He grins at Jin who turns around unamused, raising an eyebrow at you in a get-a-load-of-him look.

~~~

I sit back in my chair, the buttered toast on my plate, untouched, with a bit of jam haphazardly added on top, like Jungkook had been too distracted or too rushed to even care about it anymore. I can see why, I think as I watch him, unable to hide my smile. He’s like a child at Christmas dinner. 

I’m not hungry, not anymore after watching the seven of them attack the food like they’ve been starved a week. They usually talk, exchanging little mundane topics they can bounce around with each other, but not this morning. Jimin spears a sausage and takes a huge chunk of bite, his cheek bulging in a suspicious shape with the fork still at his lips. He catches my eyes and I can't dismiss the bad thoughts in my head, looking away with a chuckle. 

“Is this what they mean when they say wolfing down food?” I ask absentmindedly to the room, not expecting any answer. All I receive are just blank, confused stares. Even Yoongi has pulled out another plate and filled it with pancakes, eyeing the maple syrup as he still hasn’t finished his bowl of cornflakes.

I’m getting this warm fuzzy feeling from the pit of my stomach, the kind you get when you’ve done something good or when you’re watching something lovely like a puppy playing with a kitten, and I can’t really explain why. Watching each of their faces, the little creases along their foreheads, their furious chewing as they keep stuffing their faces, the silence, especially the silence, makes me feel somewhat content, like there was nowhere else I’d rather be or nothing else I’d rather look at. 

Then Jimin leans over to wipe at Taehyung’s mouth with a napkin and I’m hit again with the realisation that none of these men are for me. I look away, fiddling with my own napkin. I shouldn’t be upset or disappointed or like I’ve been rejected but I do and it’s pathetic. No, I shouldn’t feel this way. These people are my guests, friends at most. I shouldn’t take advantage of my position over them. 

I shake my head to clear away the unwanted thoughts and decide to go for a pancake. Jungkook perks up, pushing over the maple syrup to me and some chocolate chips. He doesn’t say anything, can’t because his mouth is still full, but smiles by scrunching up his nose. 

Cute. Just like that, my appetite is back. 

~~~

Jin paces the living room, mostly to think, subconsciously trying to work off all the food he ate at breakfast. He ate too much but nothing he regrets. 

“I don’t get it,” Namjoon speaks up. He has his hand right in front of his face, looking at it the same way one might study a rare finding. “What is going on? Why are we…visible?”

Jin slowly shakes his head. Upstairs, you’re in one of your online classes. He had seen the pout on your face as you trudged back upstairs while they remained here, fighting the urge to call you back so they could all hang out. But he understood the importance of your classes, so he didn’t. 

Visibility only comes when some parts of the former you are awakened, but strong enough to invoke long forgotten emotions. It comes when you’ve realised your true feelings. Now, here’s the tricky part; feelings, deep ones, don’t usually come easily and all at once for seven different people, they emerge slowly one by one. In the past, it was common for them to appear one by one, depending on who you fell in love with first, but never all seven at the same time. You can’t love seven people all at once. Wait, can you?

Jin stops his pacing. “Did anything happen last night?” He turns to look at each one of them and they all shake their heads. All except one; Hoseok. Then he remembers seeing the man coming out from your room this morning and he zones in on Hoseok who is trying to not make eye contact. “Yah, did something happen last night?”

Hoseok is trying not to smile, shaking his head. “No. Nothing. Really.”

Taehyung nudges him with a shoulder. “Come on, hyung. Spill.”

Even Namjoon is waiting expectantly, a cheeky smile on his lips that matches Jimin’s. Yoongi just watches calmly from the sofa, waiting, the small smile only subtly visible to anyone who knows him. 

Hoseok laughs nervously. “Seriously, nothing happened. Just…”

The others lean in and he can’t help the laughter bubbling out of his lips, holding his stomach as he falls sideways to laugh. He just couldn’t hold himself back, the happiness growing like a balloon filling up with hot air inside him, carrying him higher and higher. “It was just a kiss,” he mumbles as quietly as he can, almost shyly. 

But the others heard him just fine. A collective, “What?!” resounded throughout the hallway, so loud that even in the kitchen, Jean paused to look up from his peering into the oven, the cake rising beautifully as he expected. Then he chuckles to himself, enjoying the knowledge that this old manor doesn’t feel so desolate anymore. It’s coming alive.

The questions come in waves, the guys scrambling to get as much information as they can drag out from Hoseok, excitement swirling in between the six. Taehyung has Hoseok in a loose chokehold while Jungkook is grabbing both of Hoseok’s shoulders. The reactions are overexaggerated of course and in good humour, but none of them can deny the twang of jealousy in their chests, like a pin digging just beneath their skins, nothing painful yet uncomfortable enough to acknowledge that it’s there. 

As they listen to Hoseok recounting the event from last night to them in absolute, hyper detail, upstairs, you are suffering through a class you have no interest in with only the cat as your companion, a cat that you’ve finally decided a name for. 

~~~

“Karma.”

The cat returns my gaze with a cool, lazy blink, sitting on all four paws, the twin-tails swishing behind him in tandem; left, right, left, right. It’s sort of mesmerising to watch, but not as much as his dual-toned eyes. Sometimes, I find myself in a sort of trance the longer I stare into his blue-yellow eyes. I could swear that sometimes those eyes somewhat shimmer but it could be the spots dancing in my corneas. Hard to really tell because the moment I blink the shimmering stops. 

“Well, that’s decided,” I muse, running my hand through his fur. “Karma it is.”

He purrs then places his head on top of his front paws, closing his eyes, looking like someone who’s relaxing after getting a job done. 

I turn back to the screen, sighing, wanting nothing than to be a part of the downstairs people. Even Jimin, Taehyung and Jungkook aren’t attending any classes today from what I heard. 

My mind wanders back to last night, mostly about the kiss. Remnants of the dream last night resurface occasionally, but I can’t really piece them together, never mind remember what it was about. All I can recall is sitting in someone’s lap, someone I know and have known for a very long time. I had woken up screaming, terrified of something but can’t remember if anything scary had happened in the dream. However, I do remember feeling a kind of sadness that sits heavy on my chest, the kind of sadness that hurts so much I didn’t want to go through again. 

The more I wrack my brain, the more of it fades away, slipping through my fingers like water. I’m starting to get a dull headache and the lecture online seems never ending. Karma purrs louder, nuzzling the side of my leg and going back to sleep pressing up against my side. The headache subsides a little but it’s not something of note, not until a couple of minutes later when I realise it’s completely gone. 

Right when the last class finishes around two o’clock, there’s a knock on the door. I answered it to find Taehyung standing there. “Want to go to the beach?”

~~~

Jin finds himself greatly relaxing when he sees you enter the living room area, like his whole being is relieved that you’re there, that he can see you, feel your presence in the same room. He catches himself feeling his chest open up and suddenly breathing feels easier, lighter. 

“You’re finished with class?” Namjoon asks, sitting up in the corner armchair. You look at him, pauses, blinks a few times as if you don’t understand his question before nodding.

“Uh, yeah,” you say, hesitantly. But then you plop down onto the three-seater sofa next to Yoongi. “I can’t believe you guys played truant today. You don’t even look sick.”

You pout, hugging a cushion to your chest. Yoongi barely turns your way, looking at Jin instead. He can’t wait to tease the older man for that fond smile on Jin’s face as he watches you, completely oblivious that he’s being watched in turn. Jin’s form of affection has always been humour, making everyone laugh and comfortable when the situation calls for it. But with you, Yoongi has always noticed how Jin sort of softens up, using a much more gentle voice when he’s talking with you and his body language just screams in love in the most subtle yet loudest way. 

Now, Yoongi watches as Jin says to you, “We’re not sick but sometimes it’s good to give your body and brain a break.”

You give him an incredulous look. “By skipping work?” You turn to Jimin. “And class?”

Jimin reaches over to pat your knee. “Aegi-ah. Don’t be jealous. Let’s go to the beach.”

You laugh, playfully swiping his hand off. “The beach in May? Isn’t it too cold?”

Jin stands up, resting his fists on his hips. “You, young lady, ask too many questions. Life must be lived. We’re going to the beach in May!”

“We probably need two cars,” Yoongi points out. “The Impala can only take five at most.”

“Jimin can go in the trunk,” Jin announces, laughing. “If we fold him right, we can-”

“I don’t want to hear anymore of your nonsense, hyung,” Taehyung says, getting up with his hands over his ears. Jin still tries to talk, putting his arm around Taehyung’s neck as they walk out of the room, bantering. 

Hoseok makes sure you follow behind Yoongi before herding the rest of the others from the room and out towards the garage. He had talked to Chang earlier today about using the other cars and the groundskeeper had been delighted to hand over the keys he had been holding onto for safekeeping. “Finally, those babies can get some fresh air,” he had said.

Hoseok puts his hand into his pocket, fingers wrapping around the keys. 

~~~

I stare at the DB5 parked in the garage next to the red Impala, my jaw unhinge, hanging open loosely.

Another vintage car, an Aston Martin to boot; anyone can recognise the silver pair of wings on the front of the car. It reminds me of a James Bond movie, only this one is dark-coloured. A thin layer of dust covers the roof of the car but other than that, it looks well-maintained. Just like the Impala. 

Hoseok pulls something out of his pocket and hands it over to Jin who goes over to the driver’s side. He opens the door, his face lighting up, eyes pooling with emotions I can’t quite understand. A question pops in my head but before I can ask it, Hoseok says, “I told Chang about our plans of going to the beach. He told us we could take the cars.”

“These aren’t cars,” I mutter under my breath, still in amazement. “These are beautiful beasts. What the hell…”

Was this one hers, my grandaunt’s? The Impala had been a friend of Mr Chang’s father as explained to me but this one, who does this belong to? When I was looking up Soon-hee, nothing about her tells me she was a car person. Hell, nothing told me that she even had a car, much less one so popular as a 1965 Aston Martin. If she did, then the deed must be somewhere in the house. Dread fills me as I think about the possibility of it being in one of the cluttered rooms on the third floor. 

The engine turns and roars to life, startling me from my thoughts. Jin is in the driver’s seat, hands on the wheel, looking a little misty-eyed. The others are circling around the car, talking in hushed tones with each other, putting their heads together as they talk. 

Upon closer look at Jin inside the car, it reminds me of something from last night when I ran into Yoongi at the mall parking lot. 

Last night at the mall…

“Hi.”

Yoongi hefted the litter bag that he caught from me, carrying it like a child. He looked a little embarrassed like he had been caught doing something he shouldn’t. Or for being somewhere he shouldn’t. I looked around the parking lot, trying to locate if the others were with him. “What are you doing here? Are the others here, too?”

“Uh, no. Just me,” he simply said. “You look like you need help.”

He loaded the car with my purchased items in silence, organising them in the backseat. I was making sure that the cat was okay in his carrier, squatting down by the passenger side when Yoongi came behind me. “You bought a lot,” he stated matter-of-factly.

I turned around and stood up. “Yeah,” I said with a grin. “Had to buy everything since the house isn’t exactly prepped for a pet. I just bought the basics, actually.”

He glanced over my shoulder into the car, looking at one of the bags. “One whole bag just for toys? I think you got more than just the basics.” He was smiling so I knew he was teasing. I rolled my eyes at him.

“You didn’t answer my question, though,” I said and immediately I could see the guilt on his face. He shifted from foot to foot, scratching the back of his neck. “What are you doing here?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Then he shrugged. “I, uh, wanted to get dinner.”

“Here?”

He nodded.

“But there’ll be dinner at home,” I reminded him. “And the others won’t mind you bailing on dinner time?”

He paused, actually thinking about it. His eyebrows screwed together as he looked down to the ground. When he finally looked up again, his face had the usual impassive look. “They’ll be fine. I don't think they'll mind us having dinner outside.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Wait, you haven’t had dinner? Did you just arrive?”

He nodded again. “You could say that.”

It was an odd answer that made me chuckle. I winded down the window of the passenger side door and closed it. “So,” I said, eyeing Yoongi’s face. “Are you asking me out to dinner or what?”

He grinned sheepishly, nodding. He turned towards the mall behind him. “They have a seafood place. Have you tried?” I shook my head. He gestured with a thumb. “Want to?”

It was a chain seafood restaurant, offering a variety of food revolving around seafood. We both decided on pasta and it was a pleasant dinner. We didn’t talk much - he’s not much of a talker, more of a listener - so it was more of me rambling about this or that and him patiently nodding along or asking appropriate follow up questions. When I was worried that I might be talking his ear off, I got silent, but Yoongi managed to get me talking again by asking on a different topic. Whenever I slowed down, he would urge me on with either more questions or just a simple opinion. It almost felt like he wanted me to keep talking. 

But he was a damn good listener. I can’t remember the last time I talked to a guy who actually was interested without forcing his own thoughts into the subject. Yoongi knows a lot of things, I realised but not once did he try to mansplain to me or talk me down. Sometimes when I was busy talking and looking down at my plate, I would glance up to find him already looking at me. It would take him a second before he looked away, a blink, before he would casually reach out for his drink or refocus on his food. 

I kind of understand why he wanted to have dinner outside of the house. When you’re sitting at a table with six or seven others, the table can be loud or murmuring with multiple different stories exchanged at once. He had always been the quiet one and I had always chalk that up to him not being all that interested to talk but just to eat. I was wrong. Instead of contributing to a topic at the dinner table, he was the one listening to each and every one of the others. He’ll respond when he’s addressed directly but otherwise, he’ll remain discreet. 

We headed back to the car and after making sure the cat was okay, I asked him, “Did you take the bus here?”

He looked a little confused at the question. “Huh?”

“When you got here,” I reiterated, “was it by bus? Taxi? I’d say train but there’s no station nearby.”

“Oh,” he said. “Uh, bus. Yeah.”

“Okay, get in,” I instructed, waving towards the passenger seat. I rounded the front of the car and got in behind the wheel. Yoongi was looking around the interior of the car, one hand running along the top of the dashboard. “It’s nice, isn’t it?”

He nodded quietly and I watched his face closely, wanting to understand what he was feeling because he looked kind of…sad? No, not sad. But definitely emotional. From the dashboard, he ran his fingers over the edge of the leather seat before looking up, eyes wet. He blinked and looked away, inspecting the door. When he turned back around, I was convinced the wet eyes had been my imagination.

“Do you want to drive us home?” I blurted out suddenly.

The way his eyes shone made me unable to take back my words. “You sure?”

I shrugged. “If you have a licence, yeah. Go for it.”

I unbuckled myself and we switched places. Yoongi had gotten in, put on the seatbelt and placed both hands on the wheel, looking around again. Most people who see a car they like would act more excited, energy bursting as they bounce in their seats. But this was different. It wasn’t excitement. It was melancholy. 

Curiosity was bubbling inside me but for some weird reason, I didn’t want to ask. It felt like I already knew something, something my brain wasn’t completely comprehending, but my heart did. 

Now…

Looking at Jin now, that was exactly how Yoongi looked the night he drove us home in the Impala. And if I’m honest, I’m having the same exact feeling in my chest, of knowing something but not sure what it is. It’s all very frustratingly confusing, like having a word at the tip of your tongue but for the love of god, can’t spit it out.

“You okay?” 

Namjoon peers down at me with concern in his eyes. When I look up at him, he smiles softly. “Where did you go off to?”

“So who’s going into which car?” Jimin asks loudly over the sound of the car engine. 

I look around and can’t find Yoongi. It’s a few seconds later when I see the red car pull out of the garage slowly and carefully. A part of me is a little irritated that he did that without asking but another part of me is suddenly hit with a strong emotion that I can’t put a word on as my eyes catch him in the driver’s seat, one elbow leaning against the fully-opened window. He has a pair of shades on, something I’ve never seen him worn before. Then I realised what I’m feeling; it’s deja-vu.

~~~

Well, ain’t that deja-vu, Namjoon thinks as he watches Yoongi in the Impala, driving out of the garage. He looks exactly like he did the day he brought the damn car home.

Namjoon wanted to make fun of the tacky shades Yoongi had on but one look at your face stops the words from ever leaving his lips. You’re staring at Yoongi so intensely it scares him. You look like you’re in shock. Hell, you look like you’d seen a ghost or your worst nightmare. For a moment, your eyes look far away, looking at Yoongi but seeing something else completely. It takes awhile for Namjoon to finally understand the look in your eyes; it’s recognition.

It’s not just a simple recognition but more of a recall. There’s a glimmer of a memory replaying in your mind, something Namjoon can very well see in your eyes but wonders if you remember when it’s from. Not where. When. The emotion is clear on your face but whether it clicks in your brain or not, he’s not too sure. And just as Namjoon’s hope is about to balloon out bigger, you blink and the moment is erased. Your eyes look normal as they are, the emotions cut off. You look a little confused but you shrug, turning back to him as if surprised to see him there.

“Sorry, did you say something?”

Namjoon smiles at you but shakes his head. He looks back towards Yoongi, fiddling with the analogue radio, trying to find a frequency that works. Jimin walks over to where you are, a serious look on his face. “I have an important question to ask,” he says with a frown.

“What is it?”

“Would you prefer the  silver carriage or the red one, my lady?” he asks jokingly, maintaining a very deep voice.

Namjoon watches you turn your head, slowly, towards the Impala and then once more towards the Aston Martin. The choice is hard to make, apparently, so Namjoon decides to help. “Well, according to my size, I’ll go with the Impala. I’m guessing you’re going with Jin hyung?”

Jimin nods excitedly. “Yes. Might try to make him let me drive.”

Again, confusion clouds your face and Namjoon shoots Jimin a warning look. Jimin, flustered, adds, “‘cuz you know, he’s behind the wheel now. He won’t give it up from the looks of it.”

You peer around Jimin to look and then nod. “He looks like he belongs.”

Namjoon wonders if that was simply an observation or, like with Yoongi just now, a recognition. The DB5 belongs to Jin, yes, bought a couple of years after the Impala. The sixties back then had been booming with the production of muscle cars and fast cars that they couldn’t help but be a part of, even if the cars ended up barely used when Soon-hee had the Squire that could take all of them at once. But these two were good for date nights, for sure.

Namjoon looks towards the other side of the garage, the one on the far left that hasn’t been opened. Does Chang maintain the station wagon just as much as he did with these two? And what about the superbike? He hopes so as he walks over to the third garage door. But then Hoseok calls out for him.

“Joon-ah. We’re leaving now!”

He stops with his hand midair towards the garage handle. Hoseok is looking at him, silently telling him that no, today we’ll take the two cars. Namjoon wonders why but he doesn’t argue, walking back and heading for the Impala. You’re already in the passenger seat, having already made up your mind. 

He walks over to the back door on your side. They don’t make a lot of the four-door Impala, knowing full-well why Yoongi had chosen this model over the two-door. When he passes by your opened window, you flash him a pretty smile. “I’ll go in the other car on the way back,” you say as if explaining something. Namjoon just chuckles.

“Whatever you want, baby,” he mumbles a reply that he knows you can’t hear. Hoseok gets in next to him, talking about how he can’t wait to see how much the youngest three will drive Jin insane on the way to the beach. They will not stop harping about having a turn behind the wheel. 

“They’re like little kids,” you giggle, looking over Yoongi to see into the car that’s starting to move out of the garage, too, stopping side by side with the Impala. 

“All set?” Jin calls out. 

Everybody nods, excitement buzzing in between the eight of you. Namjoon is only slightly leaning forward in his seat, enough to be able to see your face in the reflection of the side mirror. You look happy. 

“To the beach!” Taehyung announces from the passenger side next to Jin, pumping his fist out the window. He sends a cheeky wink to you.

The cars glide forward with the Impala taking lead, heading down the path towards the front gate. From there, the cars will veer left and it will be a long, straight road towards the coastal side with nothing but lush trees on either of them. The road will be empty - it’s a weekday after all - and the sealine will be visible in less than an hour. 

Namjoon watches you look out the window, the song on the radio merely a background noise. Yoongi is complaining about not being able to find his favourite radio station and you are telling him that you’ve never heard of that station before. 

“WCFL?” You scrunch up your nose as you think. “Isn’t that, like, a Christian radio or something?”

Yoongi frowns. “No, it played songs from bands like The Beatles and The Beach Boys and stuff. Just a normal radio”. 

“What’s the frequency?” You look at the radio, trying to figure out the analogue needle. 

“1000.”

You point to the radio. “This is 1000.”

Yoongi shakes his head. “No, this is FM. I’ve looked on the AM dial but nothing so I just settled for this one.”

“You must be mistaken,” you say, turning around to gaze back outside. “No one uses AM anymore. Not the mainstream radios, at least.”

Yoongi catches Hoseok’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “Yeah, maybe I got confused.” After a few minutes, he grumbles, “I wish they played better music.”

In the car behind them, Taehyung is trying to match the waves that you are drawing out the window with your hand gliding through the wind. He glances behind him at Jungkook through the side mirror and flashes the man a toothy smile.

Jungkook laughs before turning around to check the secret item they had snuck into the car earlier today, a surprise planned during your class. He puts one hand over it, making sure that at every turn that it wouldn’t budge, not that he needed to worry. It’s a straight road ahead and the boys have only one motive. Operation Make Her Fall In Love: commence!

He does think he needs to shorten that mission title though. 

a/n: I honestly dont know if tumblr is okay now. I'm mostly demotivated from updating because of it but I do hope you guys can and will enjoy this chapter. Lmk what you think about this chapter in the comments or ask! :)

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[yukimisouzou-kim]

Prologue. Welcome to The World of Villains!

Part 2. Into The New Kind of Wonderland!

Yuu could’ve sworn that he slept on the hard floor of his old room, so why did he feel like floating? He opened his eyes, and blinked, his mind was in a haze. He looked around, an empty dark room he was in… Is this even his room anymore? Yuu dazedly looked in front of him, there was a mirror. The glass was swirling with dim light, and he heard someone saying something…

“Ah… My dear beloved…”

Beloved? Who is this…? Yuu asked in his mind, walking slowly toward the mirror. The voice… Came from the mirror…?

“A lovely… And noble flower of evil… Truly, you are the most beautiful of all…”

Yuu didn’t like the evil part, but somehow… The voice was so… Enchanting… Yuu couldn’t resist the urge… To touch…

“Mirror, oh mirror on the wall… Tell me... Who is the…”

Who is the… What…? Yuu asked, then he heard… Horse’s hooves, and carriage? His eyes saw a blurry image of a dark forest...and he was in a black carriage… They were… Going somewhere?

“Those who are guided by the Dark Mirror… As long as your heart desires… Take the hand that appears in the mirror…”

The voice commanded, and a big hand reached out from the mirror. It lured the boy to come close, and so Yuu stepped closer, and closer, then held the strange hand, without any second thoughts.

“For me. For them. For you.”

“We are all running out of time…”

Out of time? For what… Yuu thought, and he felt he entered the mirror. Soon, he felt smooth fabric against his skin… Unlike his wet jacket… And he felt like he was laying on something soft, and the place he laid was a bit narrow.

“No matter what… Never let go of that hand.”

.

.

.

Rattle… Rattle rattle…

Yuu heard noises from outside, and slowly opened his eyes, only to meet darkness, ‘-What’s that noise…?’ he thought sleepily. “Crap-... People are coming. Gotta get a uniform while…” Yuu heard a voice, a bit high pitched, different from the one from his dream. He then heard what sounded like claws scratching something, “Grrr!! Huff… The lid… Is too heavy dazo…” The voice stopped for a moment, it seemed like they were catching their breath for a second then, “If it’s like this… Time for my secret move!” Suddenly, Yuu could feel something- “Fffuuuunnngggaaaahh~~~ There!”

BLAST

Suddenly, blue light blinded his eyes. “Ugh-!” Yuu shielded his eyes, and when his eyes adjusted, he was shocked, “B-Blue f-fire-!?!?” he exclaimed, seeing the fire soon subdued. “Now, now. Gotta get-... TeGYAAAAA!!!” the voice screamed, Yuu looked to see a room full with floating coffins, but what surprised him more was-...

“Why are you already up!?”

A blue raccoon-cat like creature suddenly spoke to Yuu, he looked down, seeing the creature standing on its two feet. “A-A talking r-r-raccoon!?!?” Yuu asked in bewilderment, but his question seemed to offend the creature. “JUST WHO ARE YOU CALLING A RACCOON!!!” it screamed, “I am the Great Grim dazo!!” the creature, Grim, claimed angrily. “Well- whatever. Hey, human! Hurry and give me those clothes,” he demanded, pointing at Yuu’s clothes. Yuu looked at his own clothes, and was shocked to see that he no longer wore his old wet jacket or ripped jeans, instead he wore a set of beautiful black robes, with golden embroidery patterns. ‘Huh- Since when did I wear this-...’

“Otherwise…” Grim grinned maliciously at Yuu, then blew a spit of blue fire under him, “I’ll roast ya!” he threatened. Yuu was confused, but he’s not going to get roasted by a raccoon or cat-like creature! He wanted to seek help, but instead, from his mouth came out, “Dreaming about getting roasted by a raccoon… That’s a new one, for sure!!” “I said! I’m not a freaking raccoon dazo!!” Yuu took this chance to run away, hardly opened the door of the room, and ran all over the place, trying to get away from the creature.

‘A dream… This is a dream-! It has to be!! What was that-!? Where am I?!’ Yuu thought, running wildly around the empty place. He then ran into a hall with seven mirrors, he needed to hide, but where… Yuu eyed a mirror with a thorn sculpture, and on top of it was a logo with a dragon on it, ‘Screw this-!!’ Yuu hastily walked into the mirror, and magically, he went in! He opened his eyes, and now he was at a place with a castle in the distance. ‘Oh- great… A haunted castle!!’ Yuu thought, sarcastically. However, he sighed, rubbing his head, and tried to get his mind clear. ‘Where was I… Right, right… I should’ve slept in my old room… Where is this- How did I get here…’ Yuu grumbled deeply, and frustratedly…

“Hmph… Again, they didn’t invite him...” Suddenly a voice with a gentle tone came from the castle road, Yuu turned around, and saw two figures, one was short, the other one was taller. The boy quickly hid near the mirror, hoping that they wouldn’t notice him. “Haah… You stay here in case if he comes back, I shall head to the Mirror Chamber to check” another voice sighed. “... Still I feel like they did it on purpose…” the first voice said. “Now now, don’t be like that,” the second voice replied, and Yuu heard footsteps closing in, so he held his breath.

“...-Oh? What do we have here?” Yuu’s breath stopped, and turned around to see a small figure, with red eyes looking at him. The boy was already tense, and in such a strange world, he thought he was going to get killed or something. So, quickly he dashed toward the mirror, but the figure was somehow faster than him, and grabbed his hand making Yuu fall on his chin. 

“Agh-!!” Yuu was immediately apprehended by the smaller figure, and their strength wasn’t something to be underestimated. “What’s this? If you’re here to spy, you should’ve done your hiding job better,” the figure snickered, but Yuu’s mind was still clouded by the fear of getting killed. He was honestly scared to death, and couldn't help but let out tears, “Please… Don’t kill me…” Yuu eyed the dark figure, unknowingly to him, his eyes glowed gold. The figure blinked, staring at Yuu’s eyes. Seeing the figure unmoved, the boy quickly struggled, kicking the figure away, and entered the mirror once again.

Now, he was back to the hall of mirrors. He quickly dashed out, not wanting to deal with anything. His sense of direction was clouded by terror. He ran, ran, and ran so fast, until he stopped to catch his breath. The sky was still dark, and the place in front of him was written as, the ‘library’? Yuu entered it, and saw a dark room, but there were green lights on each pillar. Yuu saw books floating lightly, but didn’t want to think about it, ‘I could hide here at least… Until this dream ends…’ Yuu thought, sitting on a table. “Where the hell am I…?” he wondered loudly, but oh how he wished he didn’t.

FWOOSH

Suddenly, a blue fire came shooting at him. Yuu immediately ducked, and saw the creature again. “Did you think you’d get away from my nose? You dumb human!” ‘Oh, so he’s a dog now!?’ Yuu thought, feeling cornered. “Well! If you don’t wanna get roast, hand over those clo-...” WHIP “... -Hiyah!?” a whip sound ringing through the library, Yuu looked at the creature on its knees, holding its pain. “Ow! What’s with this rope?” Grim questioned, then Yuu’s eyes landed on the black string on Grim’s back.

“This is no rope. It is the Whip of Love!”

A figure, a man, with black bird mask, black tophat, black vest, and cape with black feathers, appeared from the library door. He then looked at Yuu, and the boy stepped back a bit, “Aah… Found you at last,” he said, approaching Yuu, ‘F-Found me...what for?-...’ “Aren’t you one of the new students?” the man asked. Yuu blinked at him, then let out a confused, “P-Pardon?” The man sighed, “You shouldn’t do things like that. Leaving the Gate on your own!” he crossed his arms, as if he was upset at Yuu. “Not only that,” he then looked at Grim, “You have yet to tame your familiar, which has broken a number of school rules,” the man scolded, Yuu only nodded dumbly.

“Agh!! Let me go! I’m not his freaking familiar dazo-!” “Sure sure, the rebellious ones always say things like that. Just quiet down for a moment,” the man pulled out a black handkerchief, and gagged Grim, “Mmmghmmm!!”

“My goodness. It’s unprecedented for a new student to leave the Gate on their own,” the man stated, then sighed, “... Just how impatient can you be?” he asked. Yuu blinked at him again, feeling confused and dumb, ‘What is this person talking about… Am I not going to get killed…?’ “Now now, the entrance ceremony is already well underway. Let’s head to the Mirror Chamber,” the man suggested. Yuu then asked, “... New student…? Gate…? Where is… Mirror Chamber…?” he tilted his head. “It’s the room you woke up in, with all of the doors. All students who wish to attend this academy, must pass through one of those doors to arrive here,” the man explained.

“Normally, students wake up only after the door is opened with a special key, but…” he then looked at Yuu, “... The raccoon’s fire must have blown the lid off…” Yuu silently said, but looks like the man heard Yuu’s murmur, and caught the boys glance at the monster. “So, in the end the culprit appears to be this familiar,” he eyed Grim, or more like glaring at him. “If you’re going to bring it with you, you have to take responsibility and properly take care of it,” the man scolded him, and Yuu could only tilt his head in confusion.

“... -Oh my! Now isn’t the time to be long winded… If we’re not hurry now, the entrance ceremony will soon come to a close. Come come, let’s get a move on,” the man said, with his whip he dragged Grim, and took Yuu’s hand by his hand, and walked out of the library. “W-Wait!” Yuu said, stopping the man, “Just… Who are you, exactly…?” Yuu asked. The man wondered, “What’s this? Are you still in a daze?” he asked, tapping his chin with a clawed gloved hand. “Hmm… It appears that the teleportation magic has left you disoriented…” ‘Teleportation magic…?’ Yuu thought. “Well, it’s fine. It happens often enough. Then I shall give you an explanation as we make our way there. For, I am gracious,” the man smiled. Yuu could only follow the man in silence, ‘Maybe… I won’t get killed…’ he thought, relieved, hoping the dream will end soon.

While they were walking, the man cleared his throat, “Ahem. This is Night Raven College,” the man started, “Those magicians blessed with a unique aptitude for magic gathered from all over the world, here, at the most prestigious magical academy in Twisted Wonderland,” the man said, walking with Yuu through a garden-like area. “And I am the headmaster, appointed to take care of this academy by the board chairman, Dire Crowley,” the man introduced himself. ‘Dire… Crowley… What a weird name,’ Yuu thought, then blinked and looked at him, confused, “Ma… Magicians…?” “Only those magicians seen as worthy by the Dark Mirror can attend this school, chosen ones use the Gate, and are summoned here from around the world.” Yuu then silently thought, ‘But… I can’t use magic… Right? What is this dream about anyway… So strange…’

“At your place, there should have been an Ebony Carriage carrying a Gate, to pick you up,” Crowley stated. Yuu then vaguely remembered, the horse’s hooves, the dark forest, was that- “I think… I remember-... Horses… With terrifying faces…” Yuu said, weakly. “The Ebony Carriage goes to welcome new students chosen by the Dark Mirror. They are special carriages that carry the doors to the academy.”

“The market decided long ago that carriages are used to welcome people on special days, wasn’t it?” Crowley said, and Yuu’s eyes went wide, “So… You’re saying that carriage just brought me here on its own!?” What a scary thing to think. Grim was still struggling against the handkerchief gag, and the whip, while Crowley just ignored the boy’s question. “Come, let’s go to the entrance ceremony.”

#disney twst #disney twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland #twisted oc #twst oc #fanfic