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luveline · 1 year

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𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 | 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐭𝐨𝐧

You want to see the floating lights. Steve wants his satchel back. You come to an arrangement that is mutually beneficial… sorta. tangled!au

10k words, reader insert, fem!reader, medieval times (ish!), begrudging allies, fake dating/marriage, lots of changes from tangled movie but it’s got the spirit, I tried to be inclusive of all hair types but it is magical and floor length nonetheless, magical realism, TW for abusive mother + narcissism, mother is awful, steve is gonna show her the world is a good place!! allies to friends to lovers, pining

˗ˋˏ ☆ ˎˊ˗

Steve's hands are bleeding by the time he works his way into the tower, raw from the rough grit of old hewn stone. He hisses with every handhold he finds, adrenaline staving off the worst of the pain as his eyes scrabble for the next ledge.

Five feet, three. His hand slaps into the dark wood of a window ledge and he heaves himself up, the joints of his arms screaming in protest. Were it not for the rumbling of horse hooves like an earthquake outside of the grotto he might've given up, hoped for a soft landing.

The threat of being caught propels him forward.

He lands on the tiled flooring of the main atrium of the tower with an audible plop of fabric, his satchel clunking hard by his hip.

"Stars," he says. He breathes hard, trying and failing to slow his heart now he's found sanctuary.

He lifts his cheek from the mosaic beneath and peers around the room. He gawps.

It's mostly dark, and still he can make out the intricate, masterful artwork decorating the curved wall. Flowers made up of a thousand colours, petals dripping with dew, their anthers heavy with pollen. A field of every flower he's ever seen and a hundred others he's not familiar with. He has really, truly, never seen anything like it. Not even the spectacle of the Palace could hold a candle to what he sees before him. No books he'd read growing up had ever conjured an image as sharply magical as this.

He pushes up onto his elbows. Sunlight drips into the room from the wooden shutters he’d crawled through, illuminating the feet of each cabinet, a washing basin, and the brick oven under a staircase that ascends into the tower. He sniffs and finds the stick of coal dust heavy in the air; somebody lives here.

Steve's quickly proven right when you swing from behind an alcove near the kitchenette.

He startles backward and away from you as you advance, a cast iron pan held aloft in delicate hands and wielded with an intimidating confidence.

"Holy- Wait! Wait, please," he cries, holding his hands palm out in surrender.

Steve doesn't suppose you'd been expecting such a feeble intruder. He'd feel a strike against his dignity if it hadn't worked — you slow in the centre of the room, your breath coming in quick pants as the iron pan in your grip shakes.

You're scared.

You're beautiful.

"What do you want?" you ask, a pleading sort of twist to your question. "I don't have anything. I don't have anything worth taking."

"Please," he says loudly. "I don't want anything. Sanctuary for the night, nothing else."

Your chest rises. Steve feels smarmy, but he finds his eyes drawn to the valley of your chest, the bodice of your dress. A soft and buttery orange sewn with the palest pink and lilac embroidery. It's a gorgeous piece of craftsmanship, lovely enough that he wonders briefly if you're of royal descent, but the dress itself is a peasant's gown.

His eyes rise back to your unhappy face. Your brows are pulled up at the starts, a delicate display that betrays your fear.

You glare at him.

"You can't stay here," you assert.

"One night." Steve pulls his satchel into his lap to procure a small coin purse. He'd love to say it was his coin purse. He cannot. "I have silvers. I can pay you."

He will not be paying you anything. He won't rob you, though. He's not a total miscreant.

"You can't stay," you say again, raising your iron pan higher above your shoulder. He sees a flash of something at your hip. "My mother–"

"Holy stars, is that your hair?"

You seize up, making an almost inaudible sound of dejection. "No."

"Are you sure? It looks very much like hair."

Steve anchors his hand to the floor and leans downward to get a better look. You turn with him, attempting to shield your long hair from view and only helping him along. It sways with your movements, the ends near long enough to dance over the floor.

"You have to leave. Leave!"

Steve bites the inside of his lip. A rainbow of light arcs through the air and caresses your cheek, and the wind chime hanging in the window tinkles softly with a warm summer breeze. The tower echoes with your huffing breath. The pan is too heavy for you to hold any longer and you let it drop with a wrist-tugging defeat.

"I'm not trying to scare you. But I really can't leave. I won't harm a hair on your head," he adds with a smile, eyebrows slightly raised in wait of your laughter.

You don't laugh, nor do you smile.

"My mother, she'll come home any minute now," you say unconvincingly.

He tips his head to one side. "Then I'll speak with your mother and get her permission to stay."

"She won't give it."

You're really too handsome to be frowning as you are. Steve wants to do as he does with all pretty people and make you smile, but the task feels insurmountable. You want him to leave. He can't.

"If I leave, I'll be killed," he says. While it's not a lie in its entirety, neither is it a truth.

Your grip tightens around the handle of your pan. "What?" you ask worriedly.

He feels guilty for garnering your concern though it's exactly what he'd been aiming for, nodding his head gravely.

"I'm being pursued by ruffians. For days now. I only need to hide here for the night while they clear the forest. They'll look for me elsewhere, after."

His storytelling voice is clear. Admittedly much too dramatic and yet you eat it up like a child devours spun sugar. Your hands press to your chest, frying pan held in your palm like the pommel of a sword.

"Ruffians?" you repeat.

He swoops in. "Not to worry. They didn't see me scale the tower, or even enter the valley." He gives you a commending smile. "You're very well hidden."

"Not well enough, clearly."

"I got lucky."

You back away from him. You don't turn your back to him, smart girl, only widen the gap between your two bodies with a fluttering unease.

"I wish I could help you," you whisper urgently, "I wish I could. But my mother, if she finds you here, I- I'm not sure what she'll do."

Steve blinks dazedly. "She would kill me?"

"No! Of course not."

"Then whatever it is will be a kinder fate."

That shatters the very last of your resolve. You visually err on what to do next, how to handle his being here. Steve’s head races with thoughts of the palace guards, of Thomas and Carol, and of you — your skin lit by the sun, and your long, long hair.

"Do you want some water?" you ask quietly.

The relief he conjures is as authentic as it comes. "Yes. More than anything."

—

Your mysterious stranger sits at one end of the table in Mother's seat while you sit across from him, a small clay drinking cup encapsulated by his large hand. You're making no effort to hide how closely you're watching him, though if he's under the impression it's for safety's sake then that's best.

He's very, very fine.

You haven't seen a man in person before, and if they all look like this you might wish you'd ventured out of the tower sooner. He wears a worn brown tunic that shows evidence of numerous careful darnings, its top button popped open to reveal a tiniest hint of curled hair disappearing downward.

The hair on his head and tucked behind his ears is comely as corn silk but much darker. It shines in the descending sunlight now flooding the room. There's a golden tinge to everything at this time that leaves no inch of his person unscathed; his eyes glow with it, his irises a melting brown that reminds you of rare, thick honey.

"The flowers," he says after an aching pause. "Are they painted? They must have been a huge expense."

You follow his gaze, surprised at his question in two ways. That he would ask, and that he would think somebody else did them.

"They're how I spend my summers."

"Looking at them?"

You laugh from the pure joy of the complement he's implying, unused to his awed reaction. Mother usually nods or hums at a new unveiling, and one time you'd earned a, "That's wonderful, darling."

You're not sure she'd actually been looking at the time.

"I painted them myself."

The stranger's jaw drops. "A little thing like you?" he asks.

"I'm hardly little," you deny, neither of stature nor burden.

"You're young, aren't you? You can't be more than twenty summers."

"What a funny way of speaking," you murmur, more to yourself than him. "I'm twenty. I'll be one and twenty, in a few days."

His eyes narrow. "Well, what's wrong with you?"

"What's wrong with me?"

"You aren't married?"

You try not to be offended and fail spectacularly. "Most don't get married until they're nearing five and twenty!"

"Most," he agrees. "But a girl as pretty as you? Who can paint like this? Don't tell me you've been hiding from every man in the kingdom."

You turn your face from him in case he can tell how flustered you are. Two complements in one day is unprecedented. Your heart bump-bump-bumps.

"Are you married?" you ask swiftly, hoping to redirect this line of conversation away from something as treacherous as your own isolation. Any answer would expose you.

"I am, actually. She has the most gorgeous shine to her face, and her laugh is melodic and sweet as anything, a tinkling sound. She's bronze-skinned, a slight thing, but she's worth her weight in gold."

He grins. You can't help but smile in response, infected by his endearing affection.

"What's her name?" you ask, voice near a coo.

"Argento."

You stare at him. His smile gets so big it looks like it could bruise his cheeks.

"You're talking about money."

"She's a brilliant bedfellow, isn't she? She keeps me warm and fed every night. She's a good girl." He sighs and crosses his arms behind his head. His attempt at nonchalance is ruined when he cringes in pain and drops them gracelessly back into his lap.

You cover your mouth and laugh. He's funny. Mother doesn't make half as many jokes.

Mother. As if the mere thought of her is enough to summon her presence, a shrill call echoes from the bottom of the tower.

"Y/N, darling, throw down the rope for your mother!"

You jump to your feet, slippers sliding against the mosaic floor in a hurried scratch. "You have to hide," you whisper harshly.

The stranger pouts at you. "Seriously, let me talk to her, I–"

You shake your head voraciously at his loud volume and press your finger to your lips, eyes begging with him to be quiet.

"Please," you whisper, "hide. I'll hide you 'til tomorrow, when she leaves in the morning."

He doesn't move.

"Y/N? I don't have all day!" The irritation in her voice is obvious.

"Please," you whisper again.

He gets up with a mild eye roll. You rush to the window and look down at your mother where she stands at the bottom, looking impossibly small.

"There you are! What are you waiting for? I'm not very happy with you, darling."

You lick your lips. "Sorry!" you call, turning to the rope spooled to the right of the window. You throw the rope over the hook at the top of the frame, pausing when you see the stranger lingering in your peripheral vision at the top of the stairs.

"What are you doing? Go!" you whisper.

He nods toward your hands. "Couldn't have thrown that down to me, could you?"

You shoo him away, his easy laughter doing nothing to assuage your racing heart as you drop the length of looped rope down to your mother. You wait until she's secured her foot in the loop before you start to walk backwards, lifting her weight.

It doesn't get any less laborious as you grow up. By the time she's reached the top of the tower you can hardly breathe. You cough so hard you feel nauseous.

"Holy stars, you sound ghastly. And it's completely unbecoming to cough like that without covering your mouth. You know that."

"Sorry, mother."

She hums. You can't decipher what it means, but it likely isn't something forgiving.

"I hope you had some time to think about our argument."

You hold your clasped hands behind your back, hair tickling your knuckles. "I did… I'm sorry, mother."

She stares at you for a moment from under dark eyebrows before her face lifts, the wrinkles in her soft forehead appearing more prominently as she says, "Darling, why do you do this? Why do you insist on making me angry?" She raises her hands to your neck, long fingernails weaving seamlessly into the mass of hair she finds there. "You know I'm only trying to protect you."

"I know," you say, tears burning hot behind your eyes. You will them away. Crying will make it worse, it always does.

She toys with your hair, eyes on your shoulder. You have the peculiar feeling that though she's looking at you she isn't truly looking at you, but through you. Her eyes are distant, unfocused.

Her finger wraps into your hair, twisting a strand behind your ear over, and over, and over. You shift uncomfortably at the tugging feeling at the back of your scalp but don't protest to her touches — any touch at all feels like a gift. Mother isn't generous with her affections.

"Maybe I've been too hard on you," she murmurs.

You loose a pained breath as she takes her hand from your hair and brings it to your face instead. She draws a line from the corner of your eye outwards, a kind, soft petting that gives you goosebumps.

"No, mother. I'm grateful for everything I have. I was being unreasonable, I don't need anything else. I… shouldn't have asked about the stars."

"No, you shouldn't have."

She moves from you to hang her robe up on the hanger. You tamp down your frowning because mother hates when you make her feel guilty and try to decide how it is you're going to escape to your bedroom for the night. You have lots of questions you want to ask the stranger.

You spot something out of the corner of your eye as your mother flits to the kitchen. There, on the table, sits two clay cups half empty and at opposite ends. You side eye your mother and find she's distracted herself with putting a wooden log into the oven's belly, grumbling about how you've neglected your afternoon chores.

You throw yourself in front of the table with a thud.

"What are you doing?" Mother asks, disgruntled.

"Nothing! I mean, I'm cleaning up. I forgot to empty these cups of paint after I finished."

"Why doesn't that surprise me?"

The thing about mother is that most of the things she says are neutral. Anybody else might think she was being light-hearted or blasé. She phrases everything so meticulously.

But she is not kind.

You laugh breathily and turn to the cups. Your heart leaps into your throat when you find the cup isn't the worst of what might give you away. Hooked over the back of the chair is the stranger's leather satchel, a ratty old thing sagging with the weight of its contents.

You take it. The zipper snags and the cause of the weight reveals itself in a clinking upheaval, a flash of light across the floor. You throw yourself over the chair to grab for it, a mindless scrambling, silver and gems cool and sharp under your hand. You shove it back in the satchel, no clue what it is. You've never seen anything like it.

"What are you doing?" Mother asks, her voice occluded by the soft bubbling of the cooking pot.

"It's dusty down here!" you call.

"Yes, well… it's to be expected when all you do is paint all day, darling."

"You're right," you say quietly. "Of course you are, mother."

Steve hadn't suspected your room would look as plain as it does. You've a simple bed with a modest quilt and one tired looking pillow, though it's been made with neat folded corners. A stuffed rabbit sits at the bottom, lavender velveteen with a pink button nose. He doesn't touch it, though he'd like to. He's not sure he's ever touched a stuffed animal before.

He can hear you talking to your mother, or rather your mother talking at you. He must say, she doesn't sound like the easiest woman to get along with. But Steve's never had a mother, so maybe that's just what they're like.

You have a small table to one corner covered in small trinkets. Shells, stones, papers loose and bound. He flips open the soft cover of a book and finds it filled with pencil sketches, corner to corner of every page.

You've drawn the most mundane things in remarkable colour and detail. The cooking pot over the stove top, the washing basin, the wooden table. Your slippers, your hair brush. Ordinary things in extraordinary detail, and extraordinary colour.

He pauses at a loose leaf of brown paper tucked toward the end of the book. It's a bird on the window ledge, a fruit dove. The face and beak are in great detail, white feathers made corporeal by the smudge of hard pastel. The wings are rough, white and pale pinks and greens unrendered.

Footsteps sound up the stairs.

Shit, Steve thinks. They're a hurried sound. He's been sussed. He turns on his heel to find a place to hide.

"Shit," he says, climbing the circular platform that holds your bed and collapsing to the floor, wriggling on his back until he's hidden underneath the bed and sheets completely.

He holds his breath as the door creaks open.

"Um… mister… uh, stranger man?"

He waves his hand from under the bed.

"Oh, right. Move over," you say, and then you're getting under the bed to join him.

Steve moves over and suddenly you're there beside him, the two of you pressed arm to arm under your bed. Your smell is impossible to ignore, the fruity fragrance of jasmine and milk-soap. He stares at your face as you settle, your eyelashes fluttering, your subtle smile.

You turn your head to his. The two of you flinch in tandem, eyes flying away from each other to the underside of the bed.

Oh, Steve thinks. Holy stars.

You've painted lanterns on every slat. Purple paper lanterns that glow orange and yellow in their centres, tens of them in different sizes. It's as breathtaking as your field of flowers downstairs despite the major decrease in scale.

"Wow," he says, on impulse, "these are amazing."

You inhale happily. "Thank you. The floating lights are my favourite thing. They always come out-" You cut yourself off with a cough. "Well. I love them."

"'Floating lights,'" he quotes. You're strange.

"I wanted to go see them, but…"

"But mother said no?"

"No," you murmur weakly. He takes it for yes. "She doesn't believe they're not stars."

He can hear each individual breath you take this close and suspects that you can hear his own. It's a funny thing to be this close to you when he doesn't know you beyond your painting and your too-long hair. He can see a lot more of your details, your tiny bumps and fine hairs.

"What's your name?" he asks quietly.

"I'm Y/N." You lay your ear against the wooden floor to look at him. "What's your name?"

"Steven. Steve will do just fine."

"Steve," you say, like you're testing it out. "Steve, you lied to me."

His eyes widen.

"Did I?" he asks, trying to disarm you with a smile and failing yet again.

"You lied," you whisper. "What's in the satchel, Steve?"

"It's not what you think."

"I think it's exactly what I think."

You're giving him a hard stare. He smiles and smiles and smiles, his facade cracking the longer you look at him. His breath all falls out in a rush, blowing the hair from his eyes as he sighs. "Alright, fine. I lied about the ruffians. In my defence, there isn't a big difference between those fools from the palace and true ruffians."

You sit up and wack your head on the bed slats above. Steve reaches out to help though there's nothing to do.

You push his hand away. "Palace guards?" you ask in an urgent whisper, hand held to the top of your head.

"Obviously. They don't just let you walk out of there without a fight… Wait, why are you surprised?" He measures your sheepish face. "You conniving, deceitful gir!"

"I might not know what it is, but I can tell it's not the kind of thing someone like you would have on his person," you say, grumbling at his insults.

His injustice at having been tricked drops away. "You don't know what it is? You've never seen a tiara?”

Your embarrassment is adorable. You change the subject deftly. “You lied to me, let’s not forget. You’re in danger because of the consequences of your own actions. Can’t believe I fell for your sob story. I should tell my mother exactly what kind of man I have hiding under my bed.”

“Who you’re hiding under your bed with.”

You climb out from under the bed with an irritated harrumph. Steve untangles a length of your hair that’s gotten wrapped around one of the beds feet before you can yank your own head back and follows you out.

“Don’t be mad,” he says.

“You’re a criminal,” you say angrily.

“Nobody’s perfect.”

Your furious whispers pause when your mother starts to sing downstairs. Steve can see the debate on your face. Yes, he’s a liar, yes, he’s a criminal, and yes, you should churn him back out into the valley. Send his untrustworthy self on his sorry way and wipe your hands of him entirely.

To do so would mean admitting to your mother that he’s here.

“Just… don’t talk to me. And don’t steal anything.”

He grins. “As you wish, my lady.”

—

“Y/N?” a voice asks in the dark.

It’s impossible to relax with him here. You’re worried he’s going to slit your throat while you sleep. You’re doubly worried he’ll see your unattractive resting face. Warped priorities aside, you can’t make yourself sleep.

“Yeah?” you whisper.

“The floating lights?”

Your eyes fly open. You get the disorienting feeling of blindness and blink in the dark until you can make out the faintest glow of moonlight under the door. “Yeah?”

“Those are called lanterns.”

You swallow a rough breath. “Lanterns.”

“Mm-hm. They’re made of paper. You light them and send them up with the breeze. The ones you’ve been seeing, they’re probably for the lost princess.”

“The lost princess?”

“Yeah. The entire kingdom floods into the town and each person lights a lantern for her. It’s more of a festival these days, but… They're supposed to help her find her way home. If she’s really lost, that is.”

You hum something, an attempt to reply, but you're too distracted to say anything else. Floating paper. A lost princess. You close your eyes and clouds of purple, pink and orange burn against your eyelids.

—

"You want me to what?"

"I want you to take me to see the lanterns."

Steve's back aches from sleeping flat on the floor all night long, and his shoulders scream every time he moves from climbing, and his hands are gross and sore with scabs, and he truthfully doesn't have the patience for this conversation.

"No."

"Fine. Don't take me, and I will keep the tiara as an innkeeper's fee."

"There's usually breakfast at an inn," he says.

You slap a steaming hot bowl of porridge in front of him. You've drizzled the surface with honey and placed red berries over the top to form a smiling face. The heat of the porridge has melted the berries into blobs that break from their skin when he pokes them with a spoon.

"Oh," he says. Nice.

He looks up to find you dressed in a different gown than yesterday, this one made up of a green bodice with white sleeves and a white skirt. The bottom hem is sewn with dainty yellow flowers, the bodice with vines in a darker shade of green. It's a very sweet dress on an otherwise sweet looking girl, if you ignore the formidable twist of your brow.

Fine, he'll bite. Your frown is sweet too.

"I'm not taking you anywhere," he says, about to scoop up a bite of porridge. He's starving.

You pull the bowl away from him, his spoon diving straight into the gnarled wooden table.

"You'll take me, or I'll tell the first palacemen that I find who you are and where you were."

"This isn't how you negotiate."

"Good thing I'm not negotiating."

He tries to intimidate you. Steve is not very intimidating. He frowns and he looks unhappy rather than angry, the worst he dips into is a pestered annoyance. His stomach gurgles in the ensuing silence.

"Why do you need someone to take you? Your mother left just this morning by herself."

You raise your eyebrows.

Steve sighs. "And if I did take you… then what? I suppose you'll want safe passage home, as well?"

You slide his porridge a little bit closer to his outstretched hand.

"You'll be coming back this way anyhow."

Well, yeah. He didn't know you knew that. Steve sighs, the most pained and inconvenienced groan he can muster because everything is awful and he's hurting in six different places. You don’t budge.

"Fine. Fine! I'll take you into the city to see the lanterns, and I'll bring you home. And you will give me back my satchel and my- uh, findings."

You push the porridge toward him. "That was easier than I expected."

Steve wishes he could pretend your smugness wasn't sweet, either. Because he isn't going to make this easy for you, not one bit.

He watches you pack your bag from the table and feels very, very sorry for you. For starters, you don't really have a bag, only a sack for potatoes now emptied. You take two clean dresses down from the clothesline they'd been hanging on and fold them before putting them at the bottom of the sack carefully, and then you're clueless.

"It'll be five or six days," he says, "now I've lost my horse."

Lost isn't the right word. His stolen horse had sprinted off into the forest and left him stranded. Another ailment to add to his list — thrown bodily off of a stallion.

"Do you have any better shoes?"

You look down at your pretty slippers and grimace. "No."

"You don't get out much, do you?"

You ignore him and pull a case of things out from under the small counter in the alcove of your kitchen. You drop a roll of linen bandages into the sack and shove the case back under the counter with your foot as you bring out a block of cheese and a box of matches.

Poor girl, he thinks.

"Don't worry too much about it."

"I'm not worried," you say, topping your provisions off with a punnet of fruit and the last of your fresh flatbread covered in a beeswax wrapping. "This will be fun."

—

You're scared enough to feel tears welling in your eyes.

Steve walks ahead of you, shoes hidden by lush green grass as he makes his way toward the valley's exit. You're not sure he's realised you're not behind him, or maybe he has and he refuses to wait. You've finished bricking the secondary entrance to the tower closed again, and while it seems obviously disturbed you have no choice but to hope mother doesn't steer around the back anytime soon.

Your adrenaline has been pumping ever since you jimmied the tile and unlocked the trap door. Your chest physically aches with anxiety, and your breath has begun to feel short and shallow.

"Are you coming?" Steve calls.

You heave the potato sack over your shoulder and take a step forward.

The earth is soft and hard underfoot, an impossible sensation. You rock your heel back and forth and test the uneven ground for purchase. The temptation to reach down and touch it for the first time is high but Steve's still watching you, so you hurry toward him and try not to fall over. You take a huge, calming breath.

It smells gorgeous out here. Despite keeping the window cracked and the tower clean, there's a lived-in smell that can't be escaped. Out here, you can practically taste the earth. The crisp air burns your nose.

Steve keeps a fast pace and neither of you talk. Your companion isn't happy about his predicament and you can't blame him, you've practically taken him hostage. He isn't a poor sport either, and he hasn't been cruel. Quiet, he parts the ivy covering the valley exit and lets you pass.

The world is even bigger from there.

"Stay close, okay? I don't know what kind of vagrants we'll come across this far from town."

You swallow a lump in your throat. "Uh-huh."

You stay likely too close, your arm gracing his own every now and then. Each time you pull away and each time you end up drifting back toward him. The quiet is impenetrable. You don't know what to say to a man. To anybody. Mother's usually the guiding force of every conversation, and her insistence has left you poorly equipped.

Steve seems content to languish in silence.

You walk. You watch the sun move, heat burning your skin by midday. You're not used to walking such long distances or being so exposed to the elements, and by evening you hurt everywhere. Your face shines with perspiration and your shoes chafe your ankles raw, each step a barb.

As if things couldn't get worse, guilt grabs and holds you. Guilt and fear. What will mother think if she finds out you've left? What would she say? How ridiculously naive, darling. I told you, you aren't to leave the tower. Do you seriously think you know better than I do? Do you think I'm stupid? I'm hurt. I'm hurting that you'd think so low of me.

You try to shake the thoughts away. A shiver rushes down your spine.

Steve holds a hand over his eyes, turning his head to the West where the sun approaches the horizon.

"It'll be dark in a few hours,” he says.

You nibble the inside of your cheek, voice hoarse and throat dry from your lack of conversation. "Will we camp for the night?"

He shakes his head, the sun climbing up his neck to paint his brown hair blonde. "If memory serves, there's an inn not far from here." He smiles. "You'll like it."

"Oh. That's good."

"Yeah."

You kick a small stone. "How do you know where we're going?" You'd been on a dirt path now for an hour or two, or rather two dirt paths, worn by carriage wheels. "Everything looks the same."

"I'm an excellent navigator."

Sure enough, he navigates the two of you toward a pretty little inn snugly hidden between a crop of towering, leafy trees, a shock of beige and brown in an overwhelmingly green landscape.

"Le Vilain Caneton," you read off of the sign, giving him a bright smile. "That sounds nice."

"What did I tell you? You're gonna love this."

—

Steve doesn't feel bad, at first.

He throws open the door. The handle slams hard enough into the wood behind it that he's surprised there isn't a cracking sound. He ushers you inside, finding that the handle hasn't broken a hole in the wall because there's already one there.

It's sleazy, all things considered. Steve has avoided this place pretty much his entire adult life after a trade gone wrong, and while he feels his appearance has changed enough to spare him a skirmish he affects the Steven Harrington manner. Two-timing baby Stevie is nowhere to be seen.

He's still a two-timer. Case in point.

"Isn't it charming?" he murmurs to you, hand held aloft behind your back. Not touching but ready to if you step back.

"Yeah," you say weakly. "Really cute."

Adorable.

Steve takes a step that encourages you forward into the main area of the room. The smell of cheap ale blooms and the floor is sticky with it. He regrets how it will likely ruin your pretty slippers but he isn't a coward, walking you right up to the bar where a scary looking guy stands wiping glasses with a dirty rag.

"Are you the innkeeper?" he asks jovially. "We'd like a room."

Scary guy squints, looks between you and Steve with apprehension.

Steve's trying to scare you, not get caught. He throws his arm over your shoulders. You shrink under his touch. It's too late for him to pull away, guilt softening the grasp he has on your shoulder as he lays down a thick facade.

"My wife's tired as a lamb from walking all day, could we get a hot bath drawn with that?"

Scary guy spits into the cup with a scoff. "Judy?" he calls out gruffly.

Steve beams. You curl into him slowly, a flower turning to the sun, hiding from the cold. You still smell of jasmine milk soap after all these hours of walking, but he doesn't miss how the lengths of your hair have grown dishevelled with sweat and wind. He wonders how long it might take you to brush free the knots and tangles. He wonders if you do it in the bath.

You turn to him with your face shining with a trust he doesn't deserve, like you're seeking his protection.

"Steve, I don't have any money," you whisper.

His hand rests in the nook of your neck. "That's alright. Consider it part of your innkeeper's fee."

"Does this come with breakfast, too?" you ask genuinely.

Judy, a tall, lithely woman who can't be more than thirty takes her station behind the bar and smiles at you before her eyes follow Steve's arm to his body. He freezes at the calculating tilt of her head, the subtle but not invisible squint.

"Breakfast is an additional two silvers."

"And for the room and bath?"

"Ten for the room, five for the bath, two for breakfast." Judy grins. Her hair is like copper, shifting around sharp cheekbones. "Seventeen silvers all together."

Steve frowns but hands over the money.

Judy takes you up the first flight of rickety stairs to your room, and nods toward the bathing room as you pass it. She shows you where you'll be spending the night, a ramshackle room with a bed made of what Steve suspects to be more straw than padding. He's relieved at the thick quilt set and folded at the bottom. It looks clean enough.

"I'll knock when the bath is drawn. Will that be for both of you?"

And so. Steve had feared this, feared the bath in general, and had forgotten to explain this fear to you.

"Both of us," he says, nodding.

You're thankfully smart enough to keep any grievances you have at that to yourself. At least, until the door closes, and you pin him with a look that's a mixture of betrayed and furious. Your eyebrows pinch together.

"Why did you say that?"

"It's what's expected of us."

"By who?" you ask, near belligerent.

He shushes you, a frown of his own taking form. "By everybody. It's what married couples do, they share the water when travelling. And it wouldn't be proper for you to be in the bathing room by yourself, how could your husband protect your honour?"

"You're not my husband."

He shushes you again, this time with a severe expression that finally has you giving pause. Your eyes flash with fear and quickly clear. You take a step back.

He holds a hand out toward you amicably. "Sorry. But it will be much safer for both of us if we can keep our ruse alive. Someone as handsome as you, it isn't right for your reputation to be travelling with me while you're still unmarried, you know? And for me…" He doesn't want to explain the horrible truth to you. If Steve refuses to leave you, to share you, to let men do what men would like to do to you, that might invite a riot.

"I don't have a reputation," you say.

He shrugs. "It is safer for us to be married." He hesitates, remembering why he'd brought you here in the first place. The horrible truth may be unseemly, but it could be enough to get you to bow out. "If we aren't married… Well, it doesn't bear saying."

"What?" you ask, a curious thing. He loves it, and not only because it works to his advantage.

"Men will take anything they find beautiful. And without care."

Your fingers tighten around the mouth of your potato sack bag.

"I see," you say. "Of course. I knew that, mother always says, but."

He winces at the reminder of your cruel mother. He feels cruel himself, suddenly, for scaring you on purpose as your mother likely does, for being another member of the opposition in your life. All you want is to see the Princess' lanterns, so much so you've hidden under your bed and painted their colours painstakingly onto each slat of supporting wood. A hidden wish, and one you'd deigned to share with him. He starts to think, Maybe I should just take her. How much could it possibly cost me?

But Steve's from nothing. He was born from nothing, he grew up with nothing. He is, in the grand scheme of the universe and its many, many stars, nothing. Another orphaned boy destined to waste his life stealing coppers from coin purses and sleeping in doorways.

The sooner he gets that tiara, the better. No more sleeping outside. No more staring up at the wine dark sky and wondering if any of those blistering stars can hear him.

If they can, they aren't listening.

You put your bag down on the floor. It thunks.

"What have you piled in there, sweetness? A mountain?" he asks, momentarily distracted.

"Nothing!" you rush to say, standing in front of your bag like it might hide it from his view.

The door knocks before he can question you further. "The bath!" comes Judy's solid tone.

"Thank you," Steve says, "we'll be right out." He nods at you. "Your change of clothes?"

You search through your bag with your shoulders to him, hunched to shield the mystery.

"You can keep your secrets," he teases lightly. The stars know he keeps his own.

Through the hallway to the bathing room, Judy kicks open the door, points to the bath as though he might not see it otherwise, and then the small weight by the doorway to keep the door closed. There's no steam to the water.

"How conning," Steve mutters, closing the door after Judy's departure.

"What?" you ask, your voice curiously strung.

"The water’s barely hot."

"I've never had a hot bath before."

He looks at you through the corner of his eye. "Never?"

"Sometimes mother would pour warm water through my hair, but no. Does it hurt, when it's too hot?"

He can't help grinning at you. "Some of the time," he concedes. "It's a nice kind of hurting, though, do you know what I mean? You'll feel much better after." He chuckles, sticking his finger into the water. It isn't not hot, but it could be better considering its cost. "Not that this could ever hurt you."

"A nice kind of hurting," you mumble.

"Mm. You should try to be quick, they might want the bath for someone else soon."

You nod, eyes darkening with your remembered predicament. You hug your clean dress to your chest. He thinks, suddenly, that your hair looks very heavy, and that it must hurt your neck.

"I won't look," he says, voice soft with sincerity.

Your shoulders relax.

He sits with his legs stretched out and shoes pressed to the door to stop a potential intruder, listening, trying not to listen, as you peel out of your clothes. Your bare feet sound strange over the wooden floor, a shushing sound. Your dress and corset fall in rustling waves.

You gasp as you step into the water. "Oh," you say, the small sound imbued with a simple, common pleasure.

He feels the tension like fog over the kingdom waters in summer, when the heat is tangible and the nights are short. You look so soft in your clothes. Outside of them, Steve can only imagine.

He tries very hard to push it from his mind, feeling an unwelcome heat rise anyhow. He blames it on the humidity of the room.

You pitter for a moment, in awe of the heat.

"How–" His voice gets caught. He clears his throat, tries a second time, "How do you wash your hair?"

"I lather the soap in my hands and–" You seem to be victim of the same affliction as he is. "Steve, could you pass me my soap? I'm sorry, I've left it on the vanity with my dress."

"If you want me to help you, you need only ask. I've been said to have very hard-working hands."

"I thought you were a thief?"

Steve stands up grudgingly. He usually has much better luck with the ladies, yet all his joking flirtation soars straight over your head. Not that he actually wants it to land, nor does he think he could handle your attention.

He doesn't look at you as he grabs your bar of soap. He unwraps its beeswax covering and hands it to you, looking decidedly at the damp wall opposite. He feels your wet hand touch his. Your skin is so hot it startles him, and the bar of soap slips between your outstretched fingers, slamming and sliding somewhere unknown.

"Shit," he says. "Alright, best cover yourself."

He hears quick movements in the water as he turns to you, throwing his gaze to the floor, only a split flash of your naked skin to be seen. Your soap has rounded the corner of the wooden tub, lying behind your straight back. He kneels to pick it up, scowling at the scum sticking to its underside, and nearly headbutts your forehead as he stands.

He springs back, and he stares. You have water running in rivers down your face, your wet hair framing your shining cheeks, pooling down. It covers the swell of your chest so precisely that Steve bites his tongue, forcing his eyeline back to your waiting face. You have water in your eyes like tears, their lashes turned to triangles, clinging to one another.

You look like one of the women from his storybook. A water nymph. A siren. The room is warm with steam, and his cheeks, hot to begin with, emanate enough heat to warm your tub again as he makes the comparison. Your looks alone might draw him to drowning.

"Steve?" you ask, holding out your hand.

Hair shifts over your body like a dancing shadow, or a beaming light. He isn't sure. There's something about it that feels extraordinary, not just in the length of it.

He passes you your soap. Ridiculous, he thinks. Imbecilic. Your hair is hair and nothing more. While you're achingly pretty and you have a fine hand, that is where your remarkability ends.

"Could you turn around again?" you ask, flustered.

He turns around.

—

"You brought your pan?" Steve asks you, bewildered. He's standing by the small, thin window, metal-wrought panes that filter the last of the sun's rays.

You stand shivering by your potato sack and frown at him, setting the pan on the sheets. "I think we might have a more pressing issue."

"We don't have anything." He seems to appraise your condition. "How do you usually dry your hair?"

"You wouldn't believe me."

"How cryptic! I'm afraid you're destined to freeze here, my heart. Or we could take you home, where you may comfortably perform whatever ritual it is that you perform and dry your hair."

"Wasn't there a fireplace downstairs?"

"We aren't going back down there."

"We aren't," you say in agreement, turning his distaste of the collective pronoun back on him. "I'll go by myself."

"That is a horrible, terrible, awful idea."

"I'm not going home. I want to– I’m going to see the paper lanterns."

Steve sighs. After your bath, he'd taken the smaller basin of clean water and washed up, now standing in front of you in his only change of clothes, a darker, navy tunic buttoned to the throat and simple slacks. His shoes are tightly laced even at this hour. You look down at your bare feet and feel majorly abashed by their new blisters and haphazard bandaging. You can't make yourself put your slippers back on.

He continues his sighing as he crosses the room. He's still grumbling when he opens the door.

"Well?" he asks, holding it open.

You pat his arm gently as you pass. "Thank you."

You trek down the stairs, careful with each footstep that you aren't trodding on a misplaced nail or scary splinter. Wood changes to stone flooring, tiles of a terracotta colour that are large and misshapen. You keep your eyes on them as you cross the room to its only source of heat, a blistering hearth just shy of the room's stage and piano. Somebody sits behind it on the piano bench, though they aren't playing the piano at all, but a great wooden instrument you've never seen.

"What is that?" you ask Steve.

He doesn't bend under your attention. He frowns ever so slightly. "What?"

You point to the instrument as conspicuously as you can.

Steve takes your shoulder into his hand and guides you toward the fireplace without malice. He's prompting you along, as you've stopped in the middle of the room.

"You've never seen one of those?" he asks.

"Not in any of my books."

"I guess they're still new. That's a vihuela. It's a… it's a nice sound."

You nod appreciatively, and feel much happier as Steve pulls a nearby chair as close to the hearth as he can without garnering any disgruntled looks from the other patrons. You sneak a peek at their faces. Most are naturally intimidating; there are men with weathered, unkind faces lining the walls with tankards of ale in hand; there are travellers such as yourselves, though they look hardened, sharper than you ever could, coin purses on tables as if daring you to try lifting them; there are women, sparsely, who are sharper in a different way. They remind you of a summer rose, darkly red, a gorgeous head of petals distracting from a thorny stem.

You sit down in your chair and feel the heat of the fireplace greet your chilled skin, and your soaked back. Your dress has soaked up much of your hairs dripping, the kind of unfortunate happenstance that might spiral into your hypothermic death. Steve puts his chair beside yours and turns his entire body toward yours. You like it. It's like he's hiding you from everybody else, replacing their sneering gazes with his fed-up acceptance. You find extreme comfort in this feeling, as though Steve is the only person in the room with you.

"Turn to me."

"What if my hair catches?"

"You aren't close enough for that."

You turn to Steve completely. You look like lovers, you must, worse when he takes your slippers and holds them on top of one of his thighs. He has wide thighs, and they make you feel a feeling you don't understand. Everything you know about men has come from Mother or books. Mother claims them to be evil in their entirety. Of the few books you have, and fewer that talk of men beyond the factual, none have ever mentioned why their legs look like that, and why it will make you feel like you've swallowed something much too hot.

"I'll make sure your hair doesn't go up in flames," he promises grandly, unnecessarily, "consider it one of my guidely duties."

A shy, pleased smile takes your lips. "Thank you."

"Yeah, you're welcome." He closes his eyes and tips his head back. "Stars, I'm hungry."

"I have–"

"We'll buy dinner. They have hunter's stew here, have you ever tried that?"

"No."

He laughs, crossing his arms across his chest. "Of course not. Alright, this will sound gross, but it's really old stew. Years old, maybe decades. They keep adding and adding to the pot with whatever’s in season."

You don't know everything, or anything, really, but you know that sounds like food poisoning in a bowl. "How doesn't it kill you?"

"They keep it really, really hot, all day long."

You like the way he says it, even if he's maybe making fun. He almost sings each word, a melodic cadence to his pronunciation that endears you further.

"And you've had it? What does it taste like?"

"See, you'd think it tastes a bit muddled, right? But it's good. You'll like it."

He makes no move to get up and get the aforementioned soup. You aren't particularly hungry, leaning back just a little so the brutal heat of the flames can warm your damp shoulder. The wetness of your dress is fading, warmed but still undeniably wet, and you wonder if the heat is hurting your hair. Mother always says to keep your hair as far from the hearth as you can at all times, and gets angry when you sit too close.

The soot, darling. The soot will cling to your hair and ruin it. It is, in Mother's opinion, the most beautiful thing about you.

Mother. She shouldn't be back home for days now, and still you're worrying. Mostly about being caught. But if you're caught, and she knows you left…

You have a strange love for your mother. The kind that makes you feel sick in intensity. You want, at all times, to please her. And you know this isn't something she would approve of, Stars, she'd be so disappointed in you for taking this risk.

You stare up at a wooden beam past Steve's head and try not to tear up. Anxiety eats at you until there's nothing left but your skin, your insides a tangled dark whorl of misery. She must know you've left home. She must know how terribly ungrateful you are for everything she's sacrificed. She must know–

"Are you okay?"

You blink hurriedly and face Steve, hoping this will dispel the quick-welling tears clouding your vision. It doesn't work: blinking can’t erase years of pent up worry. You wipe your eyes before they can roll down your cheeks and humiliate you further.

"I'm okay," you say.

Steve frowns again. He's a frowny guy.

"What's wrong?" He takes your elbow into his hand.

"Nothing. Uh…" You smile through your embarrassment. "We don't light the hearth at home, often, and uh, I think the smoke is irritating my eyes." You nod for emphasis.

Steve does not believe you, clearly, but he squeezes your elbow and nods back.

He looks at your face until you're uneasy.

"I'll go get that stew,” he says, patting your arm.

You feel strange once he’s gone. It's nice to be by yourself for a moment. You've spent the majority of your adult life alone while mother goes here, there, and everywhere. You're never allowed to go with her, too stupid for the outside world and all its challenges.

You look around the room now and wonder if this is really the world she means. Sure, it's foreign, and it's unsettling, and without Steve by your side you might not be left alone as you have been, but you'd expected more. Where are all the insects that make you sick, and the men with cutlasses and shackles?

Your eyes drift to the vihuela player. He's moved to sit at the opposite side of the fire. He strums lackadaisically at his instrument, his shoulders against the wall and a cup of mead at his feet. It's obvious nobody's given him any coin in a while.

Behind him sits the piano, glimmering with the flickering firelight. You've read about them, you've even seen drawings of harpsichords, but never heard one played. You wonder what it sounds like. Any music at all is amazing to you. All you've ever heard is singing. One song.

Steve returns with two bowls of hunter's stew. You're scared to try it but horrified that you might look like a coward in front of him. Again. Your tears had been bad enough.

You swallow a spoonful and your eyes water unbidden. "Oh, wow."

"Good, huh?"

You try not to cough. "It's rich."

"I guess you haven't had stuff like this before, huh?" He forks through his bowl and pulls out a big pale vegetable roughly cubed. "You like potato?"

"Yeah," you say, and before you've finished he's pushing the potato against the lip of your bowl and pulling the tines of his fork free. It falls into your stew with a small splash. "Oh. Thank you."

You try to eat as much of it as you can but start to feel sick somewhere in the middle. You set your bowl aside and Steve, bowl emptied, drops his next to it, wiping his hands together and standing.

You look up, puzzled.

"Come on."

Your hair isn't quite dry, a tugging weight for your neck as Steve slides his hand over your warm shoulder. You worry it might never full dry again, not without a helping hand.

He leads you up the small platform to the piano.

You look to him inquisitively.

"It's alright. I asked them if you could try it. Just try not to play too loudly and disrupt the bard."

"How do you adjust how loud it is?"

He pushes down on your shoulders until you're sitting on the bench. "You play softly. It's going to be a little loud no matter what. Don't smash the keys."

"Are they fragile?" you ask worriedly, holding your tensed fingertips above the white and pitch keys.

"No," he says, laughing without any judgement, "move over, I'll show you."

He sits on the bench beside you. There's not a whole lot of room, and his arm presses hot to yours. He places his hand above the keys like he knows what he's doing, and presses down. He plays a line of notes, the sounds a plinking rising melody that has you gasping in awe.

"Don't," —he presses down a huge chunk of keys, and the sound is awful— "do this."

You look up to see if anybody's glaring. Then you burst into giggles, face pressed to his shoulder on automatic as you try to smother the sound. He laughs warmly near your ear.

You probe curiously at the keys and try to make a song. You don't know how, don't know one note from another, you can't fathom how someone might make this into anything more than the bard's lazy fingerings.

"Do you know anything?" Steve asks.

Do you know anything? Mother demands. Darling, I've told you a million times…

"No. Sorry," you say.

His voice is sincerely sweet, like he's confused you'd ever be sorry, "For what? I can play you something. Choose a song."

"I only know the one."

He blinks at you. You shrink into yourself as he averts his gaze, knowing what he's thinking. How useless you are.

The song starts slowly. Steve taps one key, and then another. It lends and lists into music suddenly, the repetition of a simple melody. He doesn't sing, just speaks the words as he plays.

"She sends me a flower to hold me," he says, an echo of song in his tone. "She sends me a flower to– night." He moves his hands up to a higher sound. "She loves me too much, so she's told me. But if she loved me, oh loved me, she might… Come to see me, oh sweetheart, come to see me, oh lover, come to see me, oh darling." He smiles at you. "Come to see me to– night." He clears his throat, hand stilling. "You'd sing the bridge again, but I think I'll spare your ears."

"Is that yours?" you ask him.

He drops his hand into his lap. "No. Steve Harrington doesn't pen love poems, I'm afraid."

"Only plays them."

His smile turns to a smirk, so sticky it's catching.

"You're not the mouse I'd thought you were," he says.

"Was this realisation before or after I tried to maim you with a cast iron pan?"

He's about to answer, a spark behind his eyes, when the door opens wide enough to split its hinges. The origin of the hole in the wall is clear, and he waltzes in with a band of men behind him, grinning.

"Oh, for Stars’ sake," Steve mutters.

"What?" you ask.

The man at the front of the group of men — or, as they step into the light and reveal themselves, boys — sets his one un-patched eye on you and Steve, smiles like the devil, and croons, "Stevie!"

Steve's smile is gone.

"Eddie," he says tiredly.

"You're back!" Eddie looks you up and down, and his expression turns to one of complete surprise. "With a wife? My, my, we have been busy."

Steve stands, and Eddie, in all his darkness, dark hair and eyes and tunic, his grin turns mean. You hide behind one of Steve's thighs, hesitant. He drops his hand against the top of your head.

"Why's it matter?" Steve asks.

"It doesn't." This Eddie sounds all too cheerful. "What does matter, I'm afraid, is the debt between us."

"I don't owe you anything."

You watch with widened eyes as Eddie unsheathes his sword. The scabbard has a mottling of shiny reds and blacks, and the blade glows silver to white in the light. It's sharp.

Steve pulls a small knife from his hip. You hadn't realised he was carrying a weapon.

Eddie takes a step forward, his shoes like a thunderclap across the wooden floor.

"I'm afraid my Sweetheart here doesn't agree."

˗ˋˏ ☆ ˎˊ˗

eddie isn’t a bad guy he’s just confrontational <3 thank you so much for reading! i hope you enjoyed, and if you did, please consider reblogging i promise it makes a huge difference <3

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington #stranger things x reader #stranger things fic #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fanfiction #stranger things #stranger things 4 #tangled!au

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totothewolff · 7 months

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Season of Love (2/?)

+18 | Toto x reader fem!teamprincipal, romance, comedy, and some good drama.

Summary: One night on a pier in Monaco, while admiring the sea under the night skies, you tell Toto: "I came to the conclusion that love is simply not meant for me." That's the answer to a question you have been asking yourself for the longest time. But what if he proved you wrong? Author's note: This is a multichapter Toto Wolff x team principal reader fic set along a season of F1. It's a very immersive story full of drivers, team dynamics, races, mystery, and smut. You just bought the Williams team, but nobody really knows who you truly are.

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Dances with Wolff Arc Chapter 2: Lights out, and away your feelings go!

Australia By mere luck, Toto had one of those sponsors' events in the afternoon, and he was wearing a Tom Ford tan suit with a white shirt, a classic ensemble, instead of his usual Mercedes kit.

And you, well, you looked so chic wearing a romantic Saint Laurent satin mini dress with an off-the-shoulder neckline paired with ribbon bowtie Jimmy Choo stilettos up to the occasion.

You wave Sam goodbye as she enters the car and returns to the hotel. And then Toto and you stay standing there, not knowing what to do next.

—So, at what time is the reservation? —Toto asks you.

—In two hours, it is downtown.

—Good. We are getting there on time, right?

—Oh yeah, we can go on my c... —You look at the empty space where your Lambo was parked - well, where Michael parked it, now empty and immediately take out your phone, shit! You left it on airplane mode. All messages and missed calls start to appear, red dots everywhere. Your assistant asked if you needed the car or if they had moved it to the hotel hours ago. Later, she sent the chauffeur to pick you up, but he couldn't reach you. He waited for you a long time and left.

—My team took my car, so...

—No worries. I can take us there.

"For sure you can!" you thought. Jesus, why were you so horny lately?

Toto then texts his chauffeur, and on your way, you two go; it was a quiet ride for a bit.

—So...

You both laugh at the back of the car.

—So our minds are connected, huh? —you joke, referring to your tendency to talk at the same time.

—It's becoming a bad habit, yes —Smiles. —I was going to ask you where have you been existing. Everyone close to me seems to know you, but they never mentioned it before; I feel left out; somehow, I have no idea who you are —Toto tells you.

—First of all, I take serious offense that neither Niki nor Sam mentioned me before; how dare they? And to answer your question in Belgium. I met Niki recently and Sam forever ago but she is pretty private so I guess that's why.

—Umh, I thought Sam and I had something special, but I'm calling it quits —Toto says. —She keeps secrets from me —putting on a fake sad face.

—Welcome to da' club. She's all Lewis's now.

Then, at the restaurant.

Toto and you were greeted by a blond supermodel-looking hostess who took you to your booked table. You entered the historical building - big old brown bricked walls, high ceilings with restored wooden beams, and dark marble tile floors - barely lit with just a couple of lights strategically placed reflected on the walls. The tables were small and intimate, and all the furniture was statement pieces - wooden carved and expensive textiles - the silverware and china were spectacular. The place was a printery back in the day, and it ended up in the middle of downtown and has now turned into a Michelin-starred restaurant.

The hostess acted extra caring with Toto, taking all the time to tenderly adjust his blindfold and explain every single step and detail of the dining experience. Since he couldn't see her, she went all handsy, relying on touch a bit much, and for obvious reasons, she tied your blindfold too tight. Really, girl?! Sorority like in where?

—So it's crucial for the experience when you give the food to each other, slowly savor the flavors and then start a conversation about each dish, what it made you feel, what reminded you of, what you thought it was, taking turns —she tells you two as she takes each your hand and makes you feel the space where a single plate full of finger food where to be placed - on top of a marble "lazy susan." —Please let me know if you need me —a lot of emphasis on "need me" and more addressed to Toto than you.

Wait, what?! Give each other the food?! What on earth?! You are so glad Toto isn't able to see you because, for sure, you are tomato red. Then you hear the hostess walk away.

—I frequent high-cuisine restaurants all over the world, yet I haven't dared with this one. It has so many mixed reviews —Toto tells you.

—I met the Chef at an auction gala for charity. He sat at our table and sold us the idea, which sounded exciting and intrigued me, so I told him I would stop by when in Melbourn —you add. He never mentioned that we had to feed each other during the experience.

A moment later, the dish arrived, and the experience began. Your hands were shaking a little bit. Your days went from ignoring Toto's bare existence to placing food into his mouth now.

—By all means, you go first —He offers you. Why did he have to be a gentleman?!

—Sure, thanks —You don't know where to start, so you pick a bite and stay there frozen when Toto notices it softly grabs your hand to guide you to his mouth to avoid you pocking him an eye with the food. Many "Oh god, oh god" fill your mind. You could sense him slowly biting the food from your fingers, his warm breaths on your skin, while hearing soft crunch noises.

He munches. And you wait, hand now resting on the table.

—Soft skin —he says.

—That is what it tasted you like?!

—No, of course not —Toto softly chuckles. —You have soft skin. The bite tasted like, amh, some sort of Gnocchi, but it wasn't. I'm not a big fan of this one and its flavor.

—So you like Italian cuisine?

—Everyone likes Italian cuisine, duh.

—Excuse you? That attitude, Sir! —you flirt, I mean, joke with him.

—Yes! I used to spend the summers in Italy with my family. It is a country that reminds me of my father. Cinque Terre has a special place in my heart.

—You miss your dad —You say before thinking, shit! Now he will assume that Sam and you gossip about him or think you Googled him. Shit! You are supposed to not know anything about him. Lol, if he knew. —It must be hard being away from family all the time with this busy schedule —Smart girl... Good save..?

He looks at you, a bit confused. —Ahm, yes. I miss my dad.

—Okay, it's my turn! —you shift topics quickly and naturally.

Toto picks up a small bite, and you wrap your hand around his wrist, guiding him to your mouth. Your thumb finger could feel his pulse, which weirdly relaxes you. You bite the food slowly, and your lips make a bit of contact, brushing the skin of his fingers.

—What does it taste you like? —he asks you. You try your best not to have dirty thoughts.

—Feet? God, this is awful —you answer while trying to chew the fucker.

Toto almost chokes on his water. Who calls feet a signature Michelin-star dish?

—I'm so hating this! I can't with pretentious places, to be honest. Uptight people are the worst!

—You tell me I live surrounded by those, but you will be fine. Why did you mention the uptight people?

—Send tips. Because there is no way an average person could have come up with this idea and this type of food! What are these flavors, honestly?!

—You are hilarious.

—Aw, thanks. What am I to you, a clown? Well, every circus needs one... I'm glad to help! Why do you keep laughing, stop!

—You are so right; F1 can be a circus! —Toto admits.

—So, what's your job at the F1 circus? No, seriously, don't laugh. TOTO STOP. Do you juggle or what? —You two keep reaching closer over and under the small table, knees now touching.

—Highly accurate! Or I could be that one guy on the tightrope! —He waves his arms.

—So meta. Listen, for us girls being the ones stereotypically called "catfight-ty," you guys...

—You have no idea! And it is just starting...

—Does the drama get too good? You are getting me excited! Don't play with my heart, Torger.

—I won't —Somehow, it sounds more profound and meaningful. Silence.

—Can we go back to the food, please? We are getting distracted from its delicious flavors —you say amidst giggles. —What? Don't you believe me? This dish is so good, "Latifi good".

Chuckles. Then you notice Toto left his right hand on top of yours this whole time.

With your free one, you pick up another portion. —Oh, you are going to love this one. Smells, uhm, so good. Wait for my soft hands to come closer —you tease Toto.

He loses it. People around you start judging you two; you are being "noisy."

—Why suddenly I don't want to open my mouth? I'm not helping you get there anymore. Find your way; if you miss it, then I'm so sorry.

—Oh, don't you worry, "Tots". I can always ask for more of these.

—Oh god, no.

The dining experience ended on the sixth small bite, thank Jesus. You two never walked out of a restaurant that fast, and none of you felt like staying to experience the drinks part, judging by the food.

But were in desperate need of refreshers. The night was now fully set, and the air was fresh. You two walk almost hand in hand on the sidewalk under the clear skies, choosing to explore the city, looking in the surroundings for a pub. You were lured by a very busy one - with live music - three drunk girls burst out of the door in a great mood, and it looked packed; then it must be good!

It was. —Do I ask to pour you a pint, too? Or are you on a diet or something? —Toto offers you on his way to get drinks. A great cover of "Your Love by The Outfield" played in the background. The singer had great vocals, and the guitarist was so talented.

—On a diet? God, no. I'm not that fit! Who gives that excuse? Who's that picky?

—There are people —Toto answers, a bit sad. You wonder if Sussie behaved like that. Of course, you don't dig.

While he goes on his mission, you find the last free table for yourselves. The place was what you pictured when someone said "pub". A classic, extensive wooden bar, tap beer, and tons of bottles on display. Small round tables, bar stools, and many empty frames hanging on the wooden panel walls mixed with art deco posters. It's nothing fancy but eclectic and cool.

As time passed, you two got drunk and the beers, too. You talked and talked and talked about everything. At least what you two wanted to share, obvious subjects were avoided. Toto didn't mention Sussie the whole time, and you chose not to reveal much about your "situation." The two of you formed a bond and had such chemistry none could explain. You were feeling so comfy with each other. He looked so happy and having a blast, and you were, too.

Then, the drinking contest started, and you sent your best knight to battle. You ended up sitting cross-legged on top of the bar with your short dress going up with your every move, surrounded by a group of people watching the spectacle - as well as the other couples of contestants - with Toto on his feet right next to you, resting one of his hands on your thighs. At the same time, you poured the beers directly into his mouth. The first one to finish a row of four pints with no pauses and successfully do "the loaded twirl" - four fast spins - then walk to ring the bell at the end of the counter - without falling - could leave not paying a penny, and win a cool metal medal too.

Toto sounded the bell first. And the place went fucking nuts.

By the end of your night out, you two couldn't even walk straight as you were being playful on the sidewalk on your way to meet your driver. At some point, you lost a heel while dancing, you knew how to move and rhythm was natural to you. Toto carried you around until a good soul gifted you his flip-flops; the poor unknown hero was so into you. Fantastic pubs and guys on flip-flops, thank you, Australia.

While rocking the stranger's flip-flops with your Saint Laurent mini dress, you were singing and throwing some moves on the street at the sound of "Notorious by Duran Duran" - it was the last song you heard the band played before leaving and got stuck in your head - it was around 4 a.m. by then.

Toto had his medal wrapped around his head, looking all stupid and hot. There is no sight of his suit jacket. He must have lost it when you took him to the bathroom - of course, you waited for him outside. He was too drunk to get there alone - or when you two started dancing, burning some of the alcohol in your systems.

There is something about him that makes you feel so many things, and you don't want the night to end. And you wanted to spend more time with him, listening to his voice, hearing his laugh, looking at his eyes, having his body near yours. You find him so attractive.

—I don't remember the last time I had this much fun; it must have been ages ago! —he says, way too loud and drunk.

—Me too! We should do this again! Are you sure it's here? —you reply, looking around. No cars in sight.

—Yes! I'm not that drunk. Here is where the pin marks —he says, looking too closely into his phone. His nose almost touched the screen, looking at the map.

—Let me see.

—Nein —He raises his phone, extending his arm, placing it out of your reach. You jump to grab it, failing miserably. You ended up bumping him instead. Balance isn't a thing for any of you at the moment. And you both get closer. At some point in the night, you two started to behave like magnets, unable to keep away from each other, all handsy. Toto places a hand on your lower back to steady you.

You aren't sure if the sensation you are feeling is the alcohol in your system or the butterflies in your stomach.

—You are so carefree. Zero pretentious. So fun. So captivating, so... —Toto says in such a dangerous voice, staring at your lips with his fingers, placing your hair behind your ear.

You two get closer.

—So..? —You beg him to continue, staring at his lips too. You take the lead and start closing the distance between you.

It's been a while since either of you had sex in your lives.

Or love.

He looks at you with desire and affection but without moving an inch. Then Toto decides to take a step back.

That distance feels like miles, and the car arrives. Ending an almost perfect night.

You feel ashamed since you overstepped and carried yourself away. None of you mentioned what just happened on the ride back to the hotel.

Spending time with you starts to feel like a necessity to him now.

Toto is standing there, left shoulder leaning against the bar wall near where the band is playing, sipping his beer, watching you dance with some strangers, glowing and smiling, and having fun among those girls while he admires your curves and body movements. You have the magic to make him forget about the rest of the world, its people, and its problems. Going out with you tonight felt like healing, like self-care.

After days of being heartbroken, Toto called things off with Sussie, which was not an easy choice. She was the love of his life, or so he thought, and after spending a significant portion of your life with someone, saying goodbye to that person is never easy.

Even if tonight was great and felt like a lucid dream, he couldn't escape reality forever. This Cinderella story had an end.

Of course, he notices the way you look at him. The attention you pay to his every word, your excitement every time you make him smile, or how you lean closer to his touch whenever the two of you make accidental - or not - contact.

But he wasn't ready for you. Of course, he would love to make a move and enjoy the whole of you, explore your every corner, trace your hips with his hands, and feel your body beneath his, making you release sounds he would love to hear. He wanted to fuck you badly, but you weren't just for a one-night stand.

You deserved someone who could fully admire you. That worshiped you. And Toto wasn't able to be that guy at the moment. He felt wounded and needed time for himself.

So, when you had the courage he lacked to make the move, knowing that if he accepted that kiss, you would wake up tangled in his sheets, he stepped back.

Seeing your surprised, embarrassed, and hurt reaction spiraled him into coming days of somber mood and turned into a quiet ride back to the hotel.

Once you reach your destination, the driver opens the car door for you, and you step out of it, praying your balance has returned. After that fiasco ending of the night, all the alcohol in your system seems to have evaporated thanks to that emotional gut punch Toto gave. You glimpse Toto catching your step, walking now as normal as you.

You two may be walking seemly normal now but your looks scream drunks, loud and clear! - messy hair and clothes, not to mention your flip flops, a thing that made you smile as you remembered the now distant memory - as you passed by a floor-to-ceiling mirror on the way to the elevators.

The bellboy pushes the buttons to open the elevator doors for you.

—On which floor is your room? —he asks.

—Oh, no, we aren't...

—Eleven —you answer a little deadpan, interrupting Toto.

—Fourteen —he mumbles.

As you two go up, you start saying goodbye, also wanting to cut the tension a bit. —It was a fun night, "Tots"! My liver may disagree, but we'll see —you smile.

—Yeah, yeah, it was, except for that horrid food —he replies.

—Let's not, let's bury that part.

He nods with a small smile. The door opens on your floor. You smile at him one last time and head out.

Toto wants to say, "Wait!" or follow you down that corridor, inviting himself to your room and bed, but instead, he remains just standing there, and the elevator goes up.

You take your time to walk down the corridor, hoping there is still a chance, till you hear the sound of the elevator's doors closing and following it, total silence, no footsteps, no movement. So you let out a sigh and get inside your room.

You are left facing a feeling of emptiness and solitude as you walk across the empty and dark suite with your surviving heel in hand, and then you toss it across the room on the carpet. You enter the shower and start washing your make-up and body off, letting your mind wander to the idea that the two of you could be there right now.

So, a bit defeated by not having Toto's naked and wet body before you, you send yourself to bed, struggling to fall asleep and shut down your brain; after a while, you feel yourself drifting away in the arms of Morfeo - and sadly not Toto's.

—He thinks I'm captivating and have soft hands —you say while giggling like a teenager, adding sugar to your Chai at the end of the counter. Already in a better mood, trying to look at the bright side of things.

—Soft hands??? —Sam replies, making a silly face and grabbing a napkin.

You two meet on your way to get Starbucks, located two buildings away from the hotel. You are still hungover and need fuel before stepping into the paddock.

—You know, never mind. I don't want to know —Sam adds, biting her bagel.

—Oh, wait. No. Nothing like that happened —you wave your hands in concern.

—Calm down; you know he and Sussie are in the middle of a time-off. Nothing wrong if it had happened. He has been in such awful moods lately that I think he needs it to happen. This time, their breakup seems real.

—Really!?

—Can you at least don't sound that excited? Oh god, you are smiling. I hate love —Sam sips her black coffee, rolling her eyes at you.

—Leave me live my fantasy, alright? —praying sign, you joke.

—Now you will be all weird around him, won't you?

—Nooo, well, maybe a little. What? Like you don't ship us.

—Puff —Sam lets out.

—Oh, you fed me way too many details about him for years and set us up last night just because, huh?

—Okay. Fair. I sold you the idea. Am I clever, or what? Listen, I care about you two a lot, and frankly, I think you are great for each other.

—Ooh, so Sam Dobrev has a heart.

—Shut up! Please don't make me regret it —she replies, all done with life.

—Hi, big guy —Sam pops her head inside Toto's office, simultaneously knocking on the open door.

—You owe me one —Toto answers deadpan. Concentrated, looking straight at his iPad, not bothering to look at her.

—Why?

—That restaurant you made me go to was horrible.

—Well, I didn't pick the place, so no whines to me, but at least the company was fantastic, right?

—Umhju —Toto mutters, still looking at the screen. Then silence.

Sam interprets that answer as I'm not telling you anything else.

—Since you are here trying to gossip. Aren't you busy? If you have free time, you could help me with several things.

—Jeez, that mood. I'm not here to gossip. Here, sign this. Niki needs it.

Toto reads the paper Sam just gave him and picks up his phone. —I need to make a call. Would you mind closing the door on your way out? Thank you.

—Okay —Sam answers slowly and exaggerates the "O" while doing what was asked. Even she knows messing with a somber Toto wasn't a good idea.

Unfortunately for you, no gossip or insights of your night out were obtained from Toto.

It was a Grand Prix victory for Lewis. And a third place for Mick, but since it was his first podium, you guys celebrated as if he had just won the race. Sadly, Millie got pulled out of the track for a technical issue with the car.

You were hoping to chitchat with Toto at the podium ceremony, make him laugh a little, and watch his beautiful smile. Well, you hoped that the entire day, actually. But he was nowhere to be seen.

Until you spotted him in the distance, there was no casual way to start a conversation with him that way, and you didn't want to be perceived as pushy or desperate going straight to him. So you let the idea die. There was no rush.

If something was meant to be, it will happen without forcing things.

Right?

Azerbaijan

On the paddock in Baku, Toto chose to behave the opposite of that night in Melbourne. Serious, professional, and borderline unfriendly - but still polite.

That caught you off guard, and it was so confusing. After spending that great time together, you thought you two were on your path to becoming friends or more if luck was on your side. You didn't get the sudden change, and it was a bit hurtful when you went to say hi to him - all warm and smiling - and he gave the cold shoulder with a blunt "Good morning" and kept on walking.

You stood there looking a bit stupid, wondering if you did something to bother him or if he was acting Austrian. Maybe Toto was feeling really uncomfortable by how you approached him at the end of that night. Damn, drunk you!

But then, a couple of hours later:

"Unknown" is typing...

—Darci told me you left your office to have lunch. But I'm here outside your hospitality and don't see you - Toto.

Your assistant gave him your number. —Hi!!! Yes, I'm here having lunch.

—Where? I'm wearing my good glasses, and I'm sure you are not that bald guy eating a salad.

—Sandro is a very nice guy. Look up, grandpa!

—The rooftop? What are you, a pigeon?

No joke in reply, just an honest: —I like the view from here. It's peaceful! Bonus points for being private. No one bothers me here or intrudes. It's my secret special place. Do you want to join?

Toto finishes climbing the ladder and goes to greet you, kissing you on the cheek. As he does so, a crazy thought crosses your mind: What if you turn your head? Is stealing a kiss considered harassment? But you don't.

You two share your homemade Yakimeshi - you love cooking even if you have a private Chef, and you are damn good at it, well, according to everyone that has eaten your food, so you ask the hotel to get you the fresh ingredients you need - while talking about the day, sharing ideas, throwing shade, and enjoying each other's presence.

—What a diva! —you reply, grabbing a portion with your chopsticks.

—I know. I expected better, but engineers... you know —Toto shrugs.

—Ye! —you agree. Sometimes, they acted, well, a little bit challenging.

Toto was acting so relaxed and casual as you expected him to be, and not what was going on in the morning. You wonder so badly why there is a change in ways, but you don't dare to ask.

"What if he has bipolar disorder?" a question that came to your mind at some desperate point during your day. Not that there was something wrong with that.

The sun is setting, and you two enjoy the view, sitting next to each other - no space in between - He places his arm around you, palm resting next to your left hand, but without making physical contact.

This becomes a routine for you two, lunching together on the rooftop of the W hospitality, away from the rest of the world, in your private little bubble. It becomes your favorite moment of the day. And Toto's, too, even if he swore he would never like routine.

Miami

—Excuse me, excuse me, how did the tire taste you like? —you tease a very solemn Lewis walking past you on the paddock while you pretend to hold an invisible mic at his face, acting like a reporter. An instant smile forms on his lips.

—Roscoe attack! —Lewis commands.

Roscoe stares at him for a second and then wanders to sniff a palm tree, not caring.

—I think your trick didn't work —you get closer to greet him with a hug.

—He is too lazy for that —he tells you while embracing you.

—You are too cute; don't listen to that man! —you say with a silly voice, addressing Roscoe, letting Lewis go, and flexing to pet the dog, rubbing around his ears, which Roscoe seems to enjoy.

It was a Qualy of hell for Mercedes. Lewis's car's back tire flew out into the air before bouncing on a safety barrier at speed, almost hitting him back. Plus, George's car ended up in the gravel after losing power.

In contrast, Williams did great. Mick was one with the car, achieving the day's fastest lap.

—Feeling better, sweetie? —you ask Lewis with honest concern, after seeing the incident unfold and how he made it out of the car really distraught.

Although you must admit that even though that whole thing wasn't funny, the memes were pure gold, so you texted Toto your pick: the one where the tire hit the space station with a photoshopped explosion, the one with Lewis's face photoshopped on a baseball player hitting a home run, but instead of the ball it was the tire and your favorite, the one with photoshopped Toto, Lewis, and George riding the tire to the sky.

—Yeah. I'm good. A positive mindset always helps, thanks.

—I think I just saw you kicking, crying, and screaming in the bathroom, Mr. Positive Mind Set —Sam joins the conversation, teasing him.

—HA HA

—So, what's the plan for tonight-A? —she asks.

—Noone human says tonight like that. Not even Michael Jackson on drugs —you tell Sam.

—We are in Miami, chica! Aren't we clubbing?! —she replies.

—Are you high?

—I will if we go out...

—You realize we are here for work, right? —Lewis asks her.

—Like we haven't done it before. What's the worst that could happen? Toto finding out? You losing the race? Toto, finding out you lost the race because you went out clubbing with us?

—Yes! —you all answer at the same time. —To all of that —you add.

—Well, not if Toto comes with us...

Lewis starts laughing like a madman. —Sam, are you suggesting convincing Toto to go clubbing with us the night before the race so he doesn't get mad if he finds out we went clubbing?

—I got lost, mate —George arrives, earing that last part, trying to figure out what the hell.

—Well, I'll not be convincing him. Y/N is.

—ME?!

—If you really love me, you will —Sam pushes you toward the Mercedes' motorhome.

Gaslighting a bit much?

How am I supposed to do this? I'm going to sound so unprofessional. Although, technically, you two went out pub-ing?? and got drunk the night before the race in Australia. Okay, that made-up word sounds terrible; let's never use it again, so there may be a slight chance to relive that.

At least you needed to practice your words before going in there since "Hi, Toto, wanna go clubbing?" wasn't an option but destiny was a bitch; you two crossed paths before you had the opportunity to rehearse. Toto was on his way back to his office; he left his badge access on his desk. He seemed surprised to see you there; you were far away from the Williams' grounds. So you are forced to improvise.

—Are you looking for Sam?

—No, not really, not this time.

—Oh. Niki?

—Nope.

—Lewis?

—You.

Toto was now standing right before you with his hands in his pockets, all tall and handsome. You liked him even more when he wore his reading glasses.

You start a bit shy; Toto has a powerful presence. —I heard Miami has excellent places, and because last time I made you join me for that awful dining experience, I thought maybe we could go out and have a good time but in a better establishment.

—Tonight?

He sounds slightly judgy. You go on: —I was talking with the guys, and they mentioned "Floyd." It sounds great...

—The guys?

—Sam and Lewis, and George...

—Ooh, they sent you? Sam!

Oh boy.

—The cocktails sound goo...

—I'm not taking my drivers drinking or to a nightclub before the race or allowing it. It's ridiculous —Toto interrupts you again.

You look at him, now slightly nervous and bummed out.

—None of us is going; it's not happening —Toto adds firmly.

Yeah... He was a pro at the top of his game. Of course, he cared about discipline, mindsets, and winning races and titles; what were you thinking?!

You nod apologetically. Your eyes look a bit sad, well, because... You don't need to explain why. Just start turning around to head back and tell them the news.

—Wait! We could go to "Basement", which has a bowling alley and a DJ. But no drinking! Not even a drop for anyone; we must return to the hotel at a reasonable hour. Do you like that? That makes you happy?

—Sounds perfect to me —your smile is big and bright. Did Toto change his mind to please me?

To make things even, you end up bringing Millie and Mick. You wanted to make clear you weren't playing unfair tactics with your opponents. You earnestly desired to spend a good time with the people you began to care about.

The place was all for yourselves. It was a club slash bowling alley with colorful neon lights reflecting on the lanes, varying intensities and colors to the DJ's beats. It was a dope place.

Lewis invites Seb. They two took bowling seriously and had a years-long competition. They show you a list of their scores on Lewis's iPhone going back to the dark ages.

Bono also shows up, and Carlos and Lando, too, God knows how.

Lando starts stretching right in front of you, warming up, and making eye contact with you while doing his poses in a bit too sexual and exaggerated way. Samanta and you start laughing at him for acting all idiot. You two sit on the bowling benches while drinking Coke and eating popcorn.

—Every group needs a slut —you tell Lando.

—I don't think you are impressing her, man —Carlos joins, watching the spectacle, on his feet.

—It reminds me of when little children warm up before jumping into the pool —you kill Lando with your words.

—You have never seen legs like this —he tells you, overconfident. All of you laugh. —But, I will fight for your heart, malady. Is there another knight brave enough to face me in a bowling fight to the death?

—But what's the prize?! —Seb screams across all lanes.

—A NIGHT with the princess —Lando claims.

—Keep dreaming, sweetie —you reply.

—A KISS from the princess —he backtracks.

—Fine! Everyone, write your names here! —Sam takes a Post-it and a pen out of her purse - an assistant's habit - and passes them around.

—WHAT?! What are you doing?

Sam starts folding the papers and mixing them up. —The council calls Sir Hamilton to the pit!! Please choose your horse and weapon for the fight (lane and bowling ball) —Sam reads Lewis's name from the paper she picks up, and then she selects another one. —Warrior Dobrev to the fight! —cheers are heard, and Mick and Carlos pat Millie on the arm and back; Vettel massages her shoulders when she stands by her approach area. —Knight Wolff to the pit! And last but not least, Warrior Bonnington, too! —there were only five lanes. —You all brave souls are to fight buffoon Norris for a kiss of the Lady. Lord Vettel and I will oversee the combat.

—Hey! —Lando complains, pouting. Then, George starts motivating him, and they start making stupid grunts and jumps before the bowling round begins.

—The battle commences now! —Sam calls.

—You really need to stop watching House of the Dragon —you tell her.

—It's official: Bono is the worst player I have seen —Vettel interrupts, watching Bono be the first to get disqualified. —Is it okay if I leave you a second? If I don't go and bother Lewis every time to time, I get anxious —Sebastian sweetly tells you.

—Go, honey —You pat his hand and let him go. You two were watching the competition unfold together.

Lando, Lewis, and Toto were really good at it, but Millie was in a league of her own.

—How can someone so tiny have such a steady grip? —Lewis tells her she was in the lane next to his.

—Lew, I gladly would share with you all my secrets if I wasn't determined to win this —Millie replies.

—So you really want to kiss her? —he is curious, and a little smile forms on his lips.

—Look at Y/N, I wouldn't mind, but I don't want to. I think all five of us here hate losing... or love winning. Well, except for Lando, I believe he truly wants to kiss her.

"Not just him," Lewis thinks, looking in Toto's direction. After years of being teammates, he could read him like a book. It isn't just Sussie who has him shifting moods. Since you appeared, Toto began to act all weird. When Lewis noticed the looks you both exchanged, everything made sense to him.

And another fantastic strike from Lando.

Millie was almost right. Lewis loves winning and hates losing, but not when friends or feelings are in the middle. A lesson Sebastian taught him. So Lewis prepares and throws the worst shot he has ever made. His bowling ball bounces, hits the gutters, and invades the next lane, instantly disqualifying him.

Hisses and laughs fill the room. Lewis turns around, shrugs, smiles, and goes to take a seat. A minute later, he feels a thumb rubs his neck, caressing it. —Sir Hamilton, my good Sir, you sure are an honorable and respectable fellow —Sebastian tells him with his best Shakespearean voice.

—Stop talking like that, please.

—It doesn't please you how this low-grade peasant talks, good Sir?

The face Lewis gives him is priceless. Vettel laughs, and Lewis slides closer to him on the bench.

A loud "AAARGGH" comes from Lando as he dramatically throws himself to the floor. Wooff, what an awful shot.

—Luck next time, Lando! —Sam teases him as Carlos and George pass by, carrying him to the benches, one grabbing him by the legs and the other by the arms. Out of the competition, he was.

Now, it was a Dobrev vs. Wolff clash.

—Make our house name proud, niece! —Sam yells at her.

—You are having too much fun, aren't you? —you tell her.

—Sorry —Sam covers her face with her hands, monkey emoji-like. —Your knight made it to the final. Good for you, girl, but Millie is ruthless, so...

—I know! I can't watch any more. I'm too nervous! I feel like I will puke if Toto wins or if he loses.

—...she misses.

—WHAT?!

Okay, okay, this wasn't happening. Oh God. Sam turns to you and gives you a smile The Grinch will envy.

—Knight Wolff wins the battle! And takes the princess! —Sam announces. You shoot her a dead glare. —...'s kiss

Cheers are heard. Then everyone gets on their feet and starts chatting and bowling. Laughs and mocktails fill the room.

You pass Lando, still lying on the bench, on your way to get a drink. Now you need tequila in your system. —Oh, I'm so wounded! Only a kiss on the lips would heal me —he tries, offering his arms to you. The kid has the material to be an actor.

—Carlos!! Lando needs you!! —you joke back in answer, smiling at him. Lando gets on his feet in less than a second. —All good, I feel better! —he tells you, chuckling.

Toto is there when you reach the bar, sipping a whiskey on the rocks. —Not a drop of alcohol, you said? —you mock him.

—And you are here to ask for a Coke, right? —he teases you.

—A Paloma, please —you ask the bartender. —You could be a professional bowling player —Please let that become a meme, you think, and an image of a Toto in a complete bowling outfit surrounded by a group of senior citizens with white hair comes to mind.

—You picture it; that's why you are smiling.

—Nooo...

He arches an eyebrow.

—Fine. I admit it! —you sit on the bar stool next to him and rest an elbow on the bar counter, smiling like an idiot and gazing at Toto until he notices it and gets on his feet.

—I haven't seen you play, let's go! —he tells you.

—Oh, if this really were the old ages and it was me who had to fight for your hand, consider yourself single for the rest of your life...

You all arrive together at the hotel and walk inside the lobby, making a lot of noise.

—Shuusshh!! Zack doesn't know I'm not in my room! —Lando whispers, looking around.

—Sure, he is hiding behind that plant, Lando. That old fart is so fucking asleep in his bed, mate! Calm down! —Vettel adds.

—Hey! You haven't kissed Toto yet —Lewis recalls and addresses you.

—Right! Give him his prize! —Mick adds.

You feel your cheeks turning red. —Are you all going to stare and make it all weird?

—YES! —everyone answers.

—You guys suck! —you complain, pretending to be annoyed at them.

—Not as much as I would like to. WHO SAID THAT?! —Millie dirty jokes, looking around.

—Millie Alexandria Dobrev! —Sam shouts, shocked. —I can't believe you...

Between giggles and two Croatians fighting in the background, you kiss Toto for the first time.

With your left hand, wrap Toto's bicep and rest your right on his chest as you reach his lips on your tiptoes. The kiss is brief, delicate, more like a brush of lips, but it is enough to make the butterflies in your stomach go wild and to still be on cloud nine when you reach your room.

Monaco

You were so excited to be officially living in Monaco. It was your first week there, and you had never lived on your own before. And since Sam also resided there, you spent lots of time together. You two were enjoying the break and touring the city around.

Miami went terrific, and that kiss still made rounds on your head.

Sam and you were walking in the area close to your new place when you turned the corner and were greeted by this scene: A furious Monegasque girl screaming at the top of her lungs in French words that did not sound nice at all and throwing objects out the window while a man on the street was trying to picking them up and reason with said girl. Some people were staring, and others were rushing to pass by.

—Is that Charles?! —Samanta asks you, stunned, pointing to the guy crouched and picking up what looked like a pair of Jordan's.

Yeah, that was Charles Leclerc. You two look at each other concerned and rush to help.

—Hi —Sam shouts among the screams in French.

—Oh, hey, Sam —Charles looks pretty embarrassed.

You quickly offer him the almost empty tote bag you were carrying and speed walk to grab an open, worn-out cardboard box from the greengrocery next door. The three of you start getting his things inside while avoiding getting hit by the last objects thrown out.

—Thank you —he says to you. —My girlfriend went mental.

All of you hear a loud bang and look up; she shuts the windows dramatically. "More like ex-girlfriend now" you think.

—Merde —you hear Charles say. —My keys and wallet are inside there, fuck!

You can't avoid feeling bad for the guy. He looks so done with life right now.

—Ahm, Charles, if you want to join us, we are grabbing lunch. We can grab some cocktails, too; I'll treat you guys. You seem in desperate need of alcohol and a chat.

—You're right, I need alcohol, thank you. I would love to.

The three of you walk your way to a restaurant Charles loves. It was pricey, but you agreed to let him pick the place since you were spoiling him and trying to lift his spirits.

—Huff, why are all the streets in Monaco inclined? —you complain after climbing the fourth hundred stairs of the day. —On the bright side, tho, I just need to live here to skip leg day at the gym.

Charles laughs. That's good!

The face the hostess makes when you three arrive and place the second-hand cardboard box with Charles's things on the fancy counter - clothes, some books, sneakers, a Funko Pop of Charles himself for some reason, and what looks like Xbox controllers, a man's most prized possession - makes it worth it almost losing your legs to get there.

—Good evening. Table for three? Right this way. Terrace, as usual, Mr. Leclerc? —she asks.

—Yes, please.

You are led to your table. It was a sea-inspired high-cuisine restaurant. The ceiling of the place had a breathtaking art installation: A whale made from bamboo wind chimes. —The waiter is on his way; here is the food and mixology carte —she offers you. It takes you a long time to read the entire selection.

—Ask for whatever you guys want; the check is on me. Don't hold back —you offer them.

—Great, then! It would be two spritzes instead of one, please! —Sam gestures with her fingers at the waiter, who is already taking your order. Sam seems so happy and excited; for someone who grew up that rich, she loves getting stuff for free.

—I would like a Tequila and Tonic with two tequila shots, please —you finally choose.

—A margarita and two shots of tequila for me. To start —Charles orders.

The drinks arrive quickly. At the same time, you hear everything about Charles' toxic relationship, giving him the space to spit it all out; as more alcohol makes it to the table, the more details you get.

After a good couple of hours of free therapy, high cuisine, drinks, relationship advice, and tragic love stories, it got dark.

—Well, it was a damn good chat! I'm glad we were able to help you, my friend. But we better go —Sam says to Charles. —I'm walking you back to your place —she addresses you. —I have to wake up early tomorrow. Toto wants me to join the Mercedes' Zoom call at 7 a.m., and I don't want to see his annoying, angry face at me.

The thought of an angry Toto makes you bite hard the tiny chocolate cake you are eating as dessert.

—Oh, no worries! It's just all the way down the street; I will get there without problems —you say while savoring the remains of your cake.

—Are you sure? —She inquires. You forgot how protective of you Samanta was, even if she was younger than you.

—Yeah, go, go. It's never a good idea to make an Austrian guy angry —You joke.

Charles choked on his drink, laughing. —Sweet Lord.

Sam giggles, hugs you two goodbye and waits for her Uber.

—It's late, I'll walk you. There are plenty of good hotels near your building and the marina; since I'm not going home, I need to book a room —Charles mentions.

—If you don't mind, you can crash at my place; there's not much furniture yet, but you are welcome to stay —you tell Charles. He seems relieved.

Charles sees what you meant with "not much" - just a small table with no chairs, one kitchen counter stool, a mattress in the bedroom, another on the living room floor, and some boxes, making the place look way bigger - as you two enter your apartment.

—I just got the keys —you excuse yourself.

—Oh wow, this view reminds me of my grandparents' apartment view from growing up —He reaches the balcony fast. —Oh, look, you can see the old side of Monaco from here! Good memories! —He ignores your comment, not caring much about the furniture or decor.

He seems in a better mood than before.

—Well, let me know if you need anything. Sleep well! —you say, on your way to your bedroom.

—Thank you, good night!

You hear noises outside your bedroom's open doors a few minutes later. Charles moves his mattress nearer the plug on the wall and connects the charger you lent him to his phone. With that change in the arrangement, you are both placed facing each other in different rooms and with distance in between.

Since none of you seemed able to fall asleep that night, you better keep chatting, each of you resting your back against the wall, relaxing, and him crossing his arms behind his head.

—So you are besties with Sam?

—Yes, she was one of the first people I met when I arrived in Belgium —you answer and look out of your bedroom's massive floor-to-ceiling window to the beautiful sea and the tiny-looking lights of Monaco. He stays silent, waiting for you to continue.

—So, how was growing up here? —You ask him and were sincerely curious but also want to switch the subject of conversation from you to him.

He tells many anecdotes of his childhood and buzz about some of the high society Monegasque families. He seems to enjoy gossip, and you are here for it.

Until you feel your eyes shutting down and fall asleep with the sound of his voice.

Two weeks later, Charles was still staying at your place; there was no furniture yet, however. By the third week, you arrive home, and all of Charles' things are filling the space. He moved "his bed" to one of the guest bedrooms and packed the living room with boxes. His piano starts serving you two at your dining "table." You always ate there, sitting, standing, taking turns: breakfast, Charles, lunch, you, etc.

He is just one box away from officially becoming your roommate. Of course, you don't mind. After many years of feeling alone, you desperately needed a friend and its company.

Charles' wireless speaker is the most significant addition to the apartment; it was never turned off, both of you being obsessive music maniacs, constantly introducing new music and artists to each other.

It is your turn to pick a song, and you want to lift the spirits while unpacking boxes and arranging things, so you turn the volume all up and hit play. Bad Bunny's "Yo perreo sola" started blasting.

You start singing and dancing to the beat, shaking it, and then Charles joins you in the chorus, singing the lyrics perfectly and throwing some great dance moves. You two start twerking.

—You know this song? Wait, you speak Spanish?! —you ask loudly, almost screaming. The music is so loud.

—My mom is Colombian. Didn't I mention that? My dad is the Monegasque one. I know my reggaeton and merengues by heart —he screams back. —I know all the good clubs in the city with this type of music, we should go and dance our asses off.

—Oh, for sure we are!

Another level of friendship is unlocked.

The three of you are inseparable. It is the weekend, and Charles took you and Sam on his boat sailing to an excellent spot to take a swim. Coronas, good music, sun, and fresh water fill your day.

You came up with a competition to see who jumped out of the boat the funniest way because you three were dumb. Charles wins by jumping and agitating his arms and legs like an old cartoon falling or very Gaga at the Super Bowl. Your stomach hurts from laughing, and your face from smiling.

After that, you all lay flat on your stomachs like iguanas under the sun, getting tan atop the boat; you don't remember a day nearby when you felt so happy. You felt at home with those two by your side.

It was around 4 a.m. and pitch black when Charles was suddenly awakened by sorrowful sounds coming from your bedroom.

He rushes and quickly opens the door, not caring to knock. He finds you crying, curled in your bed; you look like a total mess with red eyes, messy hair, and softly shaking, and Charles reacts like a headless chicken, pacing frantically around the room before getting to his senses and starting supporting a very troubled you.

—I got an idea that could help you feel better! —he tells you.

—Yeah?

—You trust me?

You nod.

—Let's go! —he offers you his hand and leads you out.

You take the lift to the basement parking lot, where Charles' Ferrari is all poorly and crocked parked outside lines of your apartment's parking spaces - that man was a great driver but terrible at parking - next to it is his powerful Ducati Panigale black motorbike is waiting for you.

Soon, you two are on his bike, crossing the streets of Monaco at full speed. Getting further away from the city and into the road. You tightly wrap your arms around him as he tells you you are entering the highway, and he begins to speed, pushing the bike's engine.

You could feel the fresh nightly ocean breeze hitting your body and entering your pores, every time more violently as you moved and Charles kept speeding up. You could see the full moon reflecting on the ocean waters. It was a clear night, with no stars in sight.

You love the rush and adrenaline of this speed ride. Charles speeds even more, and you hear the violent roar of the motor, the bike reaching its maximum. Then, in that brief moment, you get why all drivers are passionate about F1. Now you get it. Your sad tears become happy ones. You have never experienced something like this before, and it makes you feel so alive. The air feels so cold and harsh at the speed you are going that you almost feel it cutting your skin. It is a sensational feeling.

Charles then starts to slow down till he parks the bike and turns the engine off, helping you get on your feet, and you two lay on the grass after arriving at the destination.

—What a view! —you let out. The two of you are far away from the city, and you can see Monaco at the distance from the cliff you are on top of.

—This is my secret spot. I have been coming here since I was young when I felt I needed to clear my mind or wanted to escape everything. This view humbles you and calms you down at the same time —Charles confesses.

—Thanks for sharing it with me —you say to him, extremely grateful.

—It's the least I can do.

You can hear the waves hitting the cliff rock below you, and you admire the infinite ocean in front of you. The two of you sat there for a long time.

—Whenever you feel ready to talk about it. To open up about your past, who you are, or why you cried tonight, I will be here to listen —Charles offers you, breaking the comfortable silence. He is a kind and sweet person, a good person. And you aren't used to that.

He places his hand on top of yours just briefly, and you feel so happy to have a friend, to have him, no love feelings, no desire in between, just genuine friendship and honest support.

He deserves the truth, and you want to let him know, but you are afraid of the repercussions. You don't want to get judged or, worse, to lose him.

Charles has been paying attention to you these past weeks and has noticed how you avoid or change subjects whenever your past or private life gets mentioned.

Every day that passes, he gets to know you more. It is just a matter of time before the truth comes out.

To be continued... < Previous chapter | Masterlist | Next chapter >

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kestrelteens · 11 months

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This lot I'm sharing today w you guys is a larger, 'improved' version of this lot some of you asked me about and if I'd like to share it. Well, it does bare some similarities (but I might end up sharing that one also 'cause now I'm seeing they're not really the same thing lmao).🦝

✨ speedbuild of the lot ✨

Anyway! You can check out the speed build video on my YT channel if you'd like! The floor plan is under the cut and also some CC you might need, but if anything flashes blue, please let me know and we will figure it out together! 🐢

Enjoy it & have the best time! ♥

download (sfs) // alt download (mediafire)

CC you might need:

these windows

these fences

these brick walls

this glass roof (use invisible tiles underneath to make it functional)

this fake roof

these lights

these floors

the chimneys

this hedge

ivy

ladder

stairs

also these stairs

these lights

#s2 #s2cc #ts2 #ts2cc #sims 2 #sims 2 lots #sims 2 cc #the sims 2 #kestrellots

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gundersencdabush · 2 years

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Bathroom Paint Alternatives For Your Remodel

Before you decide purchasing your bathrooms walls, you need to take into account the condition in the drywall. You don't want to put anything in addition to drywall that's been rotting on account of moisture collecting over time. If you'll want to replace your walls, then use "green board" bathroom wall panels, that are a moisture-resistant sort of drywall. In extremely wet areas like showers and baths, use moisture-proof backerboard. When you're sure your drywall is very good condition, then you can consider some bathroom paint alternatives. Keep in mind that bathrooms may have problems with moisture, regardless of what form of remodel you are thinking about. Should you opt to go with wallpaper instead of paint, choose the thicker, vinyl-coated paper made exclusively for bathrooms. This will present you with years more useful life before it replacement. There is a large number of colors and styles from which to choose. A wallpaper with stripes is likely to make your living space look taller, and can draw your attention to the ceiling. This is just what you would like for those who have a skylight in the bathroom (which is a very well liked trend in 2010). Another trendy idea is to apply antique bath fixtures, and old-style tubs. In this case, a flowered paper would look good. Many people use tile inside their bathrooms, but not all the way up the wall - that gives it an institutional look. Tiling about 36" high is all about right. Then the rest in the wall could possibly be painted or papered. A wall with tiling halfway up might look good with many stenciling done about the upper wall. Bathroom murals could also be used. If your family features a special hobby, like horses, hunting, boating, hiking... appropriate designs to make use of should be simple enough to find. Instead of tile, you could install tileboard, that is not advised for some family bathrooms. webpage doesn't require much time before it begins to look "fake". But it does work for any guest bathroom. You can put it on the lower half from the wall, using the upper half being wallpapered or painted.

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marsosims · 6 months

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hi, hello! hope you have a wonderful day and lots of fun with the new pack! i was wondering how to decorate/build in the new world to make it realistic bc i want to lean into the whole SEA flair without making too sterotypical i hope you know what i mean lol so some help from someone who's filipino like yourself would mean lots for me!!

Before I answer this question, I'd just like to preface that I am NOT an expert and I'm just sharing my personal thoughts and ideas :)

marsosims' tips to decorating tomarang builds

Use references. I think this is probably the most important tip that I can tell you. Use references, you won't regret it! Whether it's from google earth, Pinterest, or even drawings - you have a TON of reference materials!

Here are some illustrations: Top image is a still from the movie, "Hayop Ka!", Bottom left from Arlo Jhan Bayot, Right from Albert Tan

Here are some pictures - these ones are more or less middle class, but some shared characteristics between most of them are bright walls (usually cement, wood, and the occasional fake brick wall), fenced in yards (if you could call them that), wrought iron, and most importantly, plants.

PLANTS. GO CRAZY. SEA countries are located in the tropics, which means that they have very diverse foliage... SO like go wild if you want to (especially if building in the more rural part of Tomarang). People will also have a lot of potted plants, like:

(Bougainvilleas are usually a favorite - idk if the sims has any like it?)

OPEN LAYOUT FLOORPLANS. Most houses are open concept, and hallways for residential buildings are pretty rare in my opinion.

Another thing to note are dirty kitchens, which are basically outside kitchens that you do all of your cooking so that the smell doesn't stick to your things (this is important because as I said - most houses are open concept). Cooking inside is also pretty unpleasant because SEA COUNTRIES ARE HOTTTT.

Use tiles. With interiors, I'd say that it usually varies but a staple in most homes are tiled floors, because they are cool (not in a fashion way and more a literal way) and are resistant to floods.

I almost never see people have wooden floors unless the house was an ancestral house or the house is on the cheaper side (but even then, I usually see cement or tiled floors). If you do see some wooden floors, my bet is that they're one of those cheap linoleum / vinyl ones (idk what they are exactly)

I also never see people use carpets or rugs - probably a bit too much of a hassle to deal with (but they do exist!).

As for walls, they're usually just left as cement or wood. Wallpapers weren't all that popular until recently during the pandemic when people got bored and started putting up wallpapers ksdhbfsd

Use wooden furniture where possible! Plus points if you use glass somehow. Most things are wooden, and usually do not match with each other. It actually drives me crazy at home because none of the wood tones match, but it's comforting in a way. You can see an example of this on the image above. If things weren't made of wood, they were usually plastic :)

Display those trophies / certificates! Filipinos are VERY proud of their achievements. Feel free to display those trophies, certificates, etc. front and center of your homes, where guests can see them.

These are all the things I can think of! I'm sorry it's a little rambly kscfksdfh I tried my best o7

If you have any questions, feel free to shoot them my way. ALSOO I'd just like to reiterate that these are just based on my personal experiences and thoughts and not everything I say may not necessarily be true for every SEA person (or even Filipino). OK BYE

#marso #a #asks #building tips?#decorating tips?#idk

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hometoursandotherstuff · 7 months

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Here's a 1925 chateau that looks like a castle in Waite Hill, Ohio. 6bds, 10ba, $4.425M.

It has a very castle-like entrance foyer. Like the stone, brick, and wood combo. That display shelf is unusual, too. Very nice.

Unfortunately, the home is empty and the realtor chose to use obviously Photoshopped furniture. But, let's focus on the architectural details like the coffered ceiling and the cool black fireplace in the sitting room. Really, I think it would look better empty.

This is a lovely sunroom that's an extension of the kitchen. The shape and color of the wood, plus the carved details and paned windows make it so attractive. Ignore the stupid modern Photoshopped furniture.

The large kitchen is wonderful- features a gorgeous stove with a stone backsplash and Medieval style hood. Love the huge carved island, light fixtures and detailed ceiling.

Beautiful counters, tile backsplash and gothic style upper doors.

This is nice- dark wood, detailed coffered ceiling, and a stone fireplace that looks like it's made with boulders.

Love that they used different woods in each room. Homes with the same wood throughout get boring and matchy-matchy. This game room is beautiful. Look at the details on the doors.

And, here, we have a large 2 lane bowling alley. Fantastic. And, it's a part of the family room.

Love the black and white ceiling in the huge primary bedroom. There's a sunroom area for sitting and relaxing, plus spiral stairs to a space above.

Here's the sitting area w/o the fake furniture and it looks much better.

Isn't this fabulous? A gorgeous secret hideout in the bedroom. This is so beautiful, it's the top of the tower. Note the details on the stair railing.

Gorgeous marble en-suite with a separate tub room features a copper clawfoot tub.

Castle hardware with amber glass door knobs.

Love the color of the wood and the shape of this hall.

The details in this home are stunning. Beautiful ceiling and railing. Plus, the piece on the left must be a built-in with a marble top.

Beautiful secondary bedroom with a lovely ceiling and large window seat also feature carved doors on the cabinet.

This bedroom is different- it's a more modern style with regular walls, but the ceiling is great and so is the long window seat. It might be part of the guest apt.

Another stunning bedroom. The woodwork in this house is superb. This fireplace wall is just beautiful. Look at the carved frame molding around it.

Every bedroom has something new and beautiful to offer.

Gorgeous marble and wood in this full bath.

Modern family room in the finished attic.

This amazing home is on 14.15 acres and features a pond, but no pool. There is a golf course just beyond the trees. In addition, there's a private ski slope that is already wired for a ski lift, full court basketball court, and guest apt.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/7265-Markell-Rd-Waite-Hill-OH-44094/34501560_zpid/

#chateau #castle home #midnight dreamer home #houses #house tours #home tour

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jeffament · 10 months

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if u like grey laminate floors and fake marble tile and dark gray paint covering what once was an exposed brick wall i frankly think u should die gruesomely. my hatred isn’t just for the people who ruin houses it’s also for the people who like them that way. u have horrible taste and u need to die like right now.

#jeffamentalbreakdown

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freddycartr · 1 year

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i know that a lot of people are complaining about the fact that they used parts from the crooked kingdom, but here is a reminder they didn’t use as much as they could have. there is still a lot of content that they need to get through as well as character development that they need to show. they did use the “i want you to remember” scene but they didn’t have:

“you’ll pay for this, brekker. you’ll pay and keep paying. there will be no end to your suffering.

kaz met pekka’s gaze. suffering is like anything else. live with it long enough, you learn to like the taste.”

he was going to miss that look of surprise.

she smiled then, her eyes red, her cheeks scattered with some kind of dust. it was a smile he thought he might die to earn again.

kaz checked the time. we should go. this isn't over.

he offered her a gloved hand. inej heaved a long shuttering breath, then took it, like smoke from a flame. but she did not let go.

you showed mercy, kaz. you were the better man.

there she went again, seeking decency when there was none to be had. inej, i could only kill pekka’s son once. he pushed the door open with his cane. he can imagine his death a thousand times.

with the bathroom scene they didn’t have kaz kiss inej neck

“she exhaled. go on, she repeated. finish the story.

the barest movement and his lips brushed her skin—warm, smooth, beaded with moisture. desire coursed through him, a thousand images he’d hoarded, barely let himself imagine—the fall of her dark hair freed from its braid, his hand fitted to the lithe of the curve of her waist, her lips parted whispering his name.

all of it there and then gone. he was drowning in the harbour. her limbs were a corpses limbs. her eyes were dead and staring. disguist and longing roiled in his gut. he lurched backward, and a pain shot through his bad leg. his mouth was on fire. the room swayed. he braved himself against the wall, trying to breathe. inej was on her feet, moving toward him, her face concerned. he held up a hand to stop her.

don’t.

she stood in the center of the tile floor, framed by white and gold, like a gilded icon. what happened to you kaz? what happened to your brother?

it doesn’t matter.

tell me. please.

tell her, said a voice inside him. tell her everything. but he didn’t know how or where to begin. and why should he? so she could find another way to absolve him of his crimes? he didn’t want her pity. he didn’t need to explain himself, he needed to find a way to let her go.

you want to know what pekka did to me? his voice was a snarl, reverberating off the walls. how about i tell you what i did when i found the women pretending to be his wife, the girl who pretended to be his daughter? or how about i tell you what happened to the boy who lured us in that first night with his mechanical toy dogs? inej flinched.

that’s right, he went on. the clerks at the bank who turned over our information. the fake attorney. the man who gave me free hot chocolate at hertzoon’s fake office. i destroyed them all, one by one, brick by brick. and rollins will be the last. these things don’t wash away with prayer, wraith. there is no peace waiting for me, no forgiveness, not in this life, not in the next.

inej shook her head. how could she look at him with kindness in her eyes? you don’t ask for forgiveness, kaz. you earn it.”

“he could see the truth even if she couldn’t. inej was stronger than he would ever be. she’d kept her faith, her goodness, even when the world tried to take it from her with greedy hands.

his eyes scanned her face as they always had, closely, hungrily, snatching the details of her like the thief he was—the even set of her dark brows, the rich brown eyes, the tilt of her lips. he didn’t deserve peace and he didn’t deserve forgiveness, but if he was going to die today, maybe the one thing he’d earned was the memory of her—brighter than anything he would have the right to—to take with him to the other side.

kaz strode past inej, took his discarded gloves from the sink, pulled them on. he shrugged into his coat, straightened his tie in the mirror, tucked his cane under his arm. he might as well go to meet his death in style.

when he turned back to her, he was ready. whatever happens to me, survive this city. get your ship, have your vengeance, carve your name into their bones. but survive this mess i’ve gotten us into.

don’t do this, inej said.

if i don’t, it’s all over. there’s no way out. there’s no reward. there’s nothing left.”

“don’t go to the slat, kaz. let us find another way.

step aside, wraith.

kaz—

if you ever cared about me at all, don’t follow.

he pushed past her and strode from the room. he couldn’t think of what might be, of what there was to lose. and inej was wrong about one thing. he knew exactly what he intended to leave behind when he was gone. damage.”

i feel like (if we get a soc spinoff) there going to take what they didn’t use and turn it into something phenomenal so pls stream s&b s2

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rossimclain83 · 1 year

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4 Guidelines To Choose Cladding For Bathrooms

Installing wall panels within the bathroom can help you to produce a beautiful design that may enhance the overall d?�cor. When choosing the panels, you'll want to think of several factors like your financial allowance, ease of cleaning and maintenance, color, design, materials and installation. By following easy guidelines, you can create the design that you require. A� Shop smart You require exact measurements when you go shopping for the cladding. This will help you to find the correct fit. You should also buy extra materials that one could store for future use. This can be very helpful if you should replace damaged panels. Getting the exact design many years later can be extremely difficult and you will may well avoid this headache by having extra panels in storage. A� Good quality You need to make sure that you choose high quality materials which will are a very long time. fake brick out research and focus labels before you buy any products. Make sure that you just buy those that can not discolor if you clean them. You should also make sure that you learn the cleaning detergents which are suited to the panels you choose to buy. A� Maintenance When choosing wall cladding for bathrooms, you need to think of the constant maintenance. While you might want to build a spa like atmosphere by installing wood panels, you need to this is because materials would want more maintenance than the others like vinyl would. There are many low maintenance and affordable products in the market, plus they come in a variety of designs and color. Your budget must decide the most effective products for the bathroom. A� Design needs You should think of your individual preference when choosing the panels. The design you ultimately choose should reflect your personality. Look at all the available materials so that you can determine people who interest you. Do not just pick a design from the magazine without considering whether it really you like. If you have the budget for it, you must select any materials that can help you to produce the special room you are searching for. There are different kinds of cladding materials inside market although some are really simple to install, there are the ones that need professional installation. Some might be installed over existing coverings, while others will be needing the wall being cleared of any other coverings. The type of wall that you just have with your bathroom will determine the most likely panels.

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brogaardlehman32 · 1 year

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GFRC (Glass Fiber Reinforced Concrete) for the Newbie

I had been hearing a whole lot concerning this product, GFRC (Glass Fiber Reinforced Concrete) that's a credit card applicatoin for exterior finishes for homes and businesses. I thought it had been not used to the structure industry but apparently it was only not used to me. It has already been around for many years and I can't believe I haven't found out about it until recently. In California it does not take rage, but it has finally reached Michigan and now we can easily put this device to work with. After seeing the glass fiber reinforced concrete on the web and hearing every one of the amazing reasons for having it I was curious to inspect it for myself. I found a builder making it arrangements to view it personally. I could not believe the number of different designs and colors who's were only available in. go to the website matches any product we already have as well as the GFRC is stronger and more durable. The strength is finer quality than cement which is amazing in itself. It is also flexible so you need not be worried about it cracking. That has been a major problem with the materials were depleting until now. I couldn't believe how good this product really is. Being able to save so much on bills alone is definately a great advantage. This product could literally spend on itself. I know this is a great feature for the product. I knew that when people just told me about GFRC I was a skeptic from the very beginning. I thought these were just blowing their particular horn. If it really is their product naturally they'll say exactly the glowing things about it. But upon inspecting it for myself, I realize that these were just telling the plain truth. They didn't exaggerate as the product actually is that good. To date, I have not ever encountered an item being stronger and much more flexible than cement. I love it. GFRC will revolutionize the industry. We have been expecting a product such as this. It is so more advanced than another methods designed for exterior finishes for homes and businesses who's is unlikely that anyone continues to use them. You literally have to see GFRC to imagine it. I know I did. For everyone on the market. Check it out, it is really worthwhile. You can offer customers guarantees that nobody can as GFRC is stronger and more durable than any of them. There are no cracks for wind to penetrate with no openings for water to go into. It is amazing and I am sure you will employ it once you see how superior it's. Once you have built one of these simple homes and people find it everyone will want one. It sells itself as it really is so unique and price saving. GFRC has other uses including molding pots, outdoor tables and benches and also ornaments. There is nothing this product can't do. So if you need to hear more relating to this amazing product look at: Hope you see it as interesting as I did.

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because-she-goes · 1 year

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nineteen hundred eighty five

warnings: masochism/sh, couch scene, eating raw meat, Nora and Matty as intellectuals, a dash of sub!matty w/ dom!nora, swearing. Enjoy!

They were six months out from the album being released. Of course Nora had heard what they were working on so far and loved the live, organic energy. Her voice even hidden deep under layers of guitars and bass in some tracks. Matty had promised her no one would be able to know which song or hear her, so she agreed. What she didn't plan on, was him asking for her creative input on an interlude he was planning that would separate the “Being Funny” and “Greatest Hits” section of the concert. When he had first brought it up to her they were sipping their morning teas in their cozy California home. A much larger space than their New York and London apartments, especially with their studio spaces. The home wreaked of “art couple”, pictures plastered everywhere, flowers in unique vases sporadically placed on tables and counters, massive his and hers studios next door to each other that they had used two bedrooms for, a sitting room complete with library and sketch pads with markers for jotting down quick ideas for lyrics or paintings, a media room filled with DVDs of movies and vinyls they love, large open kitchen with windows everywhere for beautiful natural light and lastly a cozy yet romantic dining room with candles and fairy lights everywhere. Truly like someone had taken their brains and turned them into interiors. Greenery everywhere, ivy crawling up the white brick cottage’s walls, picket fence, the whole nine yards of a quaint american-english home. Nora was the main planner/buyer of the operation what with Matty being in New York and London every week working in the album with Jack or Jamie, but she made it a point to ensure the home felt warm and lived in - a place where he could come home, dump his shit at the door and relax. Not have to think about work or the band, just be himself, not Truman or Matty. Obviously, she didn't dare touch the home recording studio, all of that being left up to him and George to decide what he’d need. She also let him pick stuff for their bedroom and bathroom since she wanted him to still feel a part of the whole ordeal. This was their forever home so why shouldn’t he have input. He opted for a jade-green tile shower with twin wooden sinks and a block bathtub. For their sleeping situation, he wanted a big platform bed with blackout curtains covering their floor to ceiling windows (“Nike, my jetlag will be terrible coming home from traveling, they’d be so helpful!” He explained one evening over the phone) and two wood bedside tables with artwork. Keeping the space calm, zen and relaxing.

Getting back to the interlude, he had told her that the general idea of it - and tentative title - would be A Depiction of Masculine Romanticism. They had started planning and researching almost immediately, checking out books from their local library that afternoon about performance art and certain ideas Matty had already had: using Bukoswki interviews, The Virgin Suicides and Buffalo ‘66 clips to be playing in the TV sets behind him, discussing how people fake certain aspects of themselves or hypersexualize themselves to appeal to potential partners, as well as the whole ridiculous idea of Matty being a sex symbol in today’s world. Hearing all of this, it made Nora think of Yoko Ono’s Cut Piece where she sat full dressed in front of an audience and on a PA system granted them permission to cut her clothes and take the piece with them - some approached her shyly and cut small pieces out of the hem of her skirt or top while others were bold and began cutting the center of her blouse or chunks of her bra straps. Ono herself describing it as a “give and take” between the participants and her - much like a romantic relationship. There was also the instruction given in her book Grapefruit, Nora remembered, where she instructed a group of individuals to simply touch each other and it was up to each participant how far to go with said message. She brought this up to Matty that evening while in bed, showing him the book and exact message. Glasses slipping down his nose, wild curls in every direction, stubble dotting his jawline as he carefully flipped through it and read each passage.

“This is wonderful stuff, I was already contemplating taking my own shirt off and playing into the whole machismo thing with my tattoos and stuff. Thanks, baby!” He pecked her cheek, continuing to read on.

“Handsome, would you pass me that stack of Bukowski books? I want to highlight some stuff you could post across the TV.” She asks saccharine sweet, and he hands them across the bed sheet.

“Find something you love, let it kill you… I loved you like a man loves a woman he never touches, only writes to, keeps little photographs of…A love like that was a serious illness, an illness from which you never entirely recover.” She mumbles to herself, orange marker inking the pages.

“Nike love, remember that movie Buffalo ‘66 we watched one night, and how the guy is telling the girl to fake being in love with him? To sell the idea of them being married or something? I think that could work right like that bit?” He asks, brown eyes facing hers.

“Yeah, that would be really good! Plus, it would play into the clown character you do in the videos sometimes when you have a love interest like the Change of Heart couple.” She adds, thinking back to hearing him mention the other day on the phone to Jamie how he wanted to reprise the role for a new song off their album. “Plus, if you wanted to use The Virgin Suicides like you mentioned, practically the whole movie is about men exploiting young girls for their bodies and playing with their emotions so that would definitely work.”

“Have I mentioned how much I love you and your brain, Nora Downey?” He sweetly prompts, taking her cheek in his hand and rubbing the apple of it with his thumb.

CONTENT WARNING START: SH, MASOCHISM

“Only a few thousand times, Handsome… and I love you and yours too.” She melts, moving closer to him and tucking herself under his arm, now reading his book about Gina Pane and the use of her body as the vessel for artistic expression - st times even using the act of masochism and how people react to it as the art itself.

“In Unanesthetized Climb (1971) she climbed, barefoot, a ladder with rungs studded with metal protrusions, stopping when she could no longer endure the pain. For the installation series Action Notation she mixed photographs of her previous wounds with objects, such as toys, glass, etc., from her previous actions…” Matty’s hair falls in his face as he speaks, a hand rakes through it combing it back out of his eyes. “The process was controversial since it almost always involved an element of masochism: cutting her tongue or her ear, sticking nails into her forearm, smashing through a glass door, ingesting food to the point of nausea.” An idea sparks, he’ll come back to it later. He yawns. Nora’s eyes trained on his mouth like a hunter waiting for just the right moment to attack. God, how were his lips so pink? “Pane no longer based her approach on direct bodily experience, although the body remained pivotal and retained its symbolic significance through figures (cross, rectangle, circle) and materials (burnt or rusty metal, glass or copper).” Matty continues, breath shaky. He knew this was good, but he himself was not a masochist of this caliber yet, however Truman Black could be. Nora noticed the gears in Matty’s brain start to turn once he stopped reading. Despite the graphic content, she was fascinated with Pane’s work. She could see the clear connections between this physical mutilation and the emotional trauma women endure. One of Pane’s performances making this exact argument, it involved her laying on a mental frame with candles underneath, her body unmoving and unyielding to the slow burn - physically representing the pain some women experienced in their own bedrooms, with a partner or simply during sexual relations. Nora grimaces at the thought, bitterness suddenly soaking her tongue.

CONTENT WARNING END: SH, MASOCHISM

“…Okay! Think that’s enough of that for the night.” Matty swiftly states, ends of the book clapping together. “Do you want some tea or anything before bed, Darling?” He asks, getting up and making his way to the door. Her mind turns. Why has he been making the tea every night? Where did all her sweets go?

“Oh very smart, Matthew! I knew you’d been sneaking the chocolates at night while making the tea!” She gets up, chasing after him as he giggles over his shoulder - face bright red like a thief caught in the act.

“But they’re so good!!” He exclaims, running down the hall.

The following week, Matty is sat up in bed reading. Nora asleep in a heap next to him, snoozing away calmly. Bags under his eyes darker than normal and stubble more pronounced. Unbeknownst to Nora, Matty had spent every night for the past week reading about different performance artists, in an attempt to keep up with Nora during their meetings with Jamie and Patricia every few days. He was tired, but he liked the quiet evenings of studying - missing out on it during the ages where he would normally be at college or uni, as his brother now called it. He’d bring whatever book he was reading with him to the studio with the guys and read while George made the backing tracks.

“Mate, a tour isn’t a thesis essay. We can just have 10 minutes of us talking and the fans would be happy.” The giant points out in his deep voice.

“I am just reading so I don’t seem like a wanker when talking about this stuff to Nora, Mate.”

“Oh her? You’ll never outdo her. She’s got a brain the size of The Shard!” Ross cracks back at him.

“Yeah, Matt. She is like an oxford scholar or something with all the stuff in her head!” Adam chirps.

Matty grumbles something about his friends talking about her head as his nose goes back to his book.

Some months later, Matty has his interlude finalized. Nora hasn’t seen anything about it since those first few weeks, but here she was on opening night of At Their Very Best. Her black outfit matching his all black suit perfectly. The patent leather gleaming in the concert lights. Her brunette hair is worn down, gently caressing the small of her back.

The first half is going great, the fan’s screaming every lyric as if they themselves wrote it. Nora now hears the music she had suggested to Matty for the performance - “Nothin In The World Can Stop Me Worryin Me Bout That Girl” by The Kinks. It was a song from a movie she loved as a kid and it talks about a girl being unfaithful and her partner still loving her despite the pain. Matty, now up on the stage before her does as he told her moons ago, takes off his black button down to the cheers of the crowd. Nora’s stomach sank when he started doing the following action, something they certainly never discussed or something she never got a warning about. He saunters over to a crinkly leather couch, takes some puffs of a cigarette, hollowed cheeks accentuating his lips perfectly. He puts an oxygen mask to his face and continues to do things only Nora has seen when Matty is needy, pleading for her and aching to be touched. He feels his thighs, his own hands drifting everywhere hers wouldnt on those nights where she teases. His breathing goes erratic, chest starts to heave. Nora’s thighs begin to burn and at the apex of them she feels like a flame is being held to her skin. Her leather skirt suddenly feeling too restrictive. She is frozen, mouth agape, eyes unblinking. He simulates things only she has seen while on FaceTime while he toured and missed her. Her mouth drools. She looks at him like someone who has been starved for 6 years and suddenly sees a feast in front of them. Ravenous.

It is then that her Matthew bucks into his hand, head thrown back, jawline sharp enough to cut through glass. Cheers and screams of lust fill the room, it is deafening. She can’t hold it together anymore, sprinting to the side entrance to the stage, flashing her lanyard to security. She halts only when the edge of the spotlight is just about to hit her boots. Surrounded by the guys, Patricia, Sam, Jamie and the band, she is in shock.

He gets up off the couch, takes one final drag of a cigarette and as if he knows she’s there like a radar is in his brain, he fucking looks over his shoulder and winks at her with a devilish grin. Now the music shifts: an instrumental of “You Can’t Always Get What You Want” by the Rolling Stones. He kneels like a disciple in front of the TVs as they flash on. Bukowski’s words flashing across them with the footage of Buffalo ‘66 and The Virgin Suicides. Matty lays his head down in a sort of down-ward dog yoga pose, lanky arms outstretched - his shoulder blades jutting out like a fallen angel’s wings. Music taking over him as his chest heaves even more. He shifts a bit and moves to do push ups. Nora is now like a rabid dog at the side stage. Practically foaming at the mouth. He has her right where he wants her. George has to physically hold her back to keep the girl from running out onto the stage. Her brain analyzing each inch of his marble skin as it squeezes and contracts into the exercise to hold his weight suspended.

He comes to a stop and pivots on his knees. The music crescendos. Mick Jagger’s screaming now being played with the choir and guitars. Piano plays manically. Choir builds. A tomahawk steak is brought out to him, he takes a glance to the audience and to Nora, another wink. The audience goes to a level 10 wild. He devours the raw steak, holding the bone and gnawing down on the flesh. Picking some out his teeth and sucking his fingers clean.

Nora is baffled. All lust and the fact that she is married to the guy aside, it is some of the best performance art she has ever seen. Artistically, she is stunned at the fact that the toxic masculinity radiating off of him was not only being encouraged, but adored by the crowd. He has every single person in the building in the palm of his hand. Wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist, he crawls to the largest TV. Pushing the screen open, he plummets like Alice going down a rabbit hole. The crowd thunders. Nora is out of herself, brain alight. Amazed by his creativity and his ability to make at least 20,000 people feel every emotion he wanted them to, to have all of them at his whim. She is in awe, she knew he was a great performer and someone beloved, but she never knew he had this in him. That her Matty had this power at his disposal to use whenever, that he could switch that power on and off.

He, now out of character, steps to the group and wipes his face with a towel - out of the audience’s view. The sound of the sea of people cheering still consuming the building. She takes one look at him.

“I love you, Healy.” She mouths.

“Love you too, Downey.” He smirks as he gets pulled away to get dressed. All Nora can think is that no-one on the planet will ever come close to him for her, he’s it for her. Her mom always told her he was the one, but she didn’t actually think she’d be alive to see the day Matty fucking Healy was hopelessly in love with her. More than anything though, one thing was true. He was the best thing going for her in her life, and she would always be thankful to whatever angel sent him to her.

Thankful for her Matty. Her husband.

#matty healy #drew’s writing :)#the 1975 #matty x nora #ENJOY GUYS!!#I MISSED THEM!#Spotify #an encounter

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