#'maybe at first but i am different now i love you'

[lulujamesspencer]

I think for sensitivity/authenticity readers you need to approach it like any other outside reader or editor: approach it as you would a therapist and pick one that fits with your style of working, actually reads and likes your genre, and will be able to give their edits/critiques in a way that is accurate AND kind. This is especially important for neurodiverse folks (solidarity fist bump to my RSD neurodiverse folks).

Story: About 10 years ago, I graduated seminary and had an idea for a theological non-fiction book on mulit-faith spirituality, which also strayed into politics and other issues. I wrote an introduction that I thought was good and interesting, so I sent it to someone who I thought would give me good advice on some of the topics, since she had experience in those areas, and maybe point out if I'd gone too far afield with some of the topics.

When I got their comments back, it was devastating and soul crushing. They ripped it to shreds, and, in areas I thought we shared similar opinions they shredded my manuscript as if they put it in a wood chipper then stomped on the mulch. Much of it the shredding was due, I think, to a mininterpretation of my wider neurodivergent thinking, but it may just be that I didn't explain myself right or... well, I just don't know, since it was hard to get past their criticisms and telling me how I was completely stupid and wrong about all of it. Now, if their comments were more like, "I don't think I agree with this statement. Did you mean for it to come off saying XYZ?" of "This doesn't happen in my experience, could you explain what your thought process was here?" I probably would have been fine, but instead they were angry and mean and assumed I didn't have knowledge about certain areas when I actually did have extensive knowledge. It was my first foray into non-fiction and as I said earlier, it was soul crushing. I really wanted to write that book, and still wish I could, but to this day I can't even start writing non-fiction without thinking about that and getting extrememly anxious. (And yes, I go to therapy, etc etc) For my fiction stuff, I'm much more careful about who I let read my early drafts. My Wife is my first reader/listener and she loves scifi and fantasy and she's able to give me feedback that's constructive, but also kind and compassionate. I have a great editor who is also very good at giving me constructive edits and feedback, but is also very kind and compassionate in the way she does it. I have a lot of friends from different experiences in life that I am comfortable asking questions of if I need to check things and I'm also very good at research. This, so far, has worked for me, and now I have 5 books of fantasy and science fiction out.

This is also why I self-publish. The constant rejection of traditional publishing would stop me from writing all together. I still can't write non-fiction in book form and that was from just one person who didn't really think about how their criticism would effect me. I also don't do writing groups, as many writing groups use a model that would absolutely ensure I never write again. So, if you are an editor, beta reader, part of a writing group, or even an agent or publisher, know that your rejections, harsh criticisms, or tough love, doesn't improve most writers, especially neurodivergent writers. Know that a lot of writers DO want to do justice to characters from experiences that they don't have experience in. I've heard stories like mine with really mean sensitivity/beta readers, and a number of those people will never write again, or never write publicly again. Please be aware that you can kill someone's passion and talent, possibly permanently.

And writers, be careful who you ask to read your stuff, and if someone has been mean, know that it's not you or your writing. Try not to give up, or give in to the tapes in your head that tell you you're horrible. Find better people to read your stuff.

On sensitivity readers, weakness, and staying alive.

The other day I was part of a Twitter conversation begun by a fellow-author on the subject of sensitivity readers, in which he said that no serious author would use sensitivity readers, and spoke of work being “sanitized”. The conversation devolved, as it often does on Twitter, but it got me thinking. It must have got someone else thinking too, because a journalist from the Sunday Times got in touch with me the next day, and asked me to share my ideas on the subject. Because I have no control over how my words are used in the Press, or in what context they might appear, here’s more or less what I told her.

I think a lot of people (some of them authors, most of them not) misunderstand the role of a sensitivity reader. That’s probably mostly because they’ve never used one, and are misled by the word “sensitivity”, which, in a world of toxic masculinity, is often mistaken for weakness. To these people, hiring someone to check one’s work for sensitivity purposes implies a surrendering of control, a shift in the balance of power. 

In some ways, I can empathize. Most authors feel a tremendous sense of attachment to their work. Giving it to someone else for comment is often stressful. And yet we do: we hand over our manuscripts to specialists in grammar, spelling or plot construction. We allow them to comment. We take their advice. We call these people editors and copy-editors, and they are a good and necessary part of the process of being an author. Their job is to make an author’s work as accurate and well-polished as possible.

When writing non-fiction, authors sometimes use fact-checkers at the editorial stage, to make sure that no embarrassing factual mistakes make it into print. This fact-checking is a normal part of the writing process. We owe it to our readers to be as accurate as possible. No-one wants to look as if they don’t know what they’re talking about.

That’s why now, increasingly, when writing about the lives and experiences of others, we sometimes use readers with different specialities. That’s because, however great our imagination, however well-travelled we may be and however many books we have read, there will always be gaps in our knowledge of the way other people live, or feel, or experience the world. Without the input of those with first-hand knowledge, there’s always a danger we will slip up. That’s why crime writers often consult detectives when researching their detective fiction, or someone writing a hospital drama might find it useful to talk to a surgeon, or a nurse, or to someone with the medical condition they are planning to use in their narrative. That’s why someone writing about divorce, or disability, or being adopted, or being trans, or being homeless, or being a sex worker, or being of a different ethnicity, or of a different culture – might find it useful to take the advice of someone with more experience.

There are a number of ways to do this. One of my favourites is The Human Library, which allows subscribers to talk to all kinds of people and ask them questions about their lives  (Check them out at https://humanlibrary.org/). The other possibility is to hire a specialist sensitivity reader to go through your manuscript and check it. Both can be a valuable resource, and I doubt many authors would believe that their writing is sanitized, or diluted, or diminished by using these resources.

And yet, the concept of the sensitivity readers – which is basically another version of the specialist editor and fact-checker – continues to cause outrage and panic among those who see their use as political correctness gone mad, or unacceptable wokery, or bowdlerization, or censorship. The Press hasn’t helped. Outrage sells copies, and therefore it isn’t in the interest of the national media to point out the truth behind the ire.

Let’s look at the facts.

First, it isn’t obligatory to use a sensitivity reader. It’s a choice. I’ve used several, both officially and unofficially, for many different reasons, just as I’ve always tried to speak to people with experience when writing characters with disabilities, or from different cultures or ethnic groups. I know that my publisher already sends my work to readers of different ages and from different backgrounds, and I always run my writing past my son, who often has insights that I lack.  

Sensitivity reading is a specialist editorial service. It isn’t a political group, or the woke brigade, or an attempt to overthrow the status quo. It’s simply a writing resource; a means of reaching the widest possible audience by avoiding inaccuracy, clumsiness, or the kind of stereotyping that can alienate or pull the reader out of the story.

Sensitivity readers don’t go around crossing out sections of an author’s work and writing RACIST!!! in the margin. Usually, it’s more on the lines of pointing out details the author might have missed, or failed to consider: avoiding misinformation; suggesting authentic details that only a representative of a particular group would know.

Authors can always refuse advice. That’s their prerogative. If they do, however, and once their book is published, they receive criticism or ridicule because their book was insufficiently researched, or inauthentic, or was perceived as perpetuating harmful or outdated stereotypes, then they need to face and deal with the consequences. With power comes responsibility. We can’t assume one, and ignore the other,

Being more aware of the experiences of others doesn’t mean we have to stop writing problematic characters. Sensitivity reading isn’t about policing bad behaviour in books. It’s perfectly possible to write a thoroughly unpleasant character without suggesting that you’re condoning their behaviour. Sensitivity is about being more authentic, not less.

People noticed bigotry and racism in the past, too. Some people feel that books published a hundred years ago are somehow more pure, or more free, or more representative of the author’s vision than books published now. You often hear people say things like: “If Dickens were around today, he wouldn’t get published.”

But Dickens is still published. We still get to read Oliver Twist, in spite of its anti-Semitism. And those who believe that Dickens’ anti-Semitism was accepted as normal by his contemporaries probably don’t know that not only was he criticized by his peers for his depiction of Fagin, he actually went back and changed the text, removing over 200 references, after receiving criticism by a Jewish reader. And no, it wasn’t “normal” to be anti-Semitic in those days: Wilkie Collins, whose work was as popular as Dickens’ own, managed to write a range of Jewish characters without relying on harmful and inaccurate stereotypes. 

But it isn’t automatic that a book will survive its author. Books all have shelf lives, just as we do, and Dickens’ work has survived in spite of his anti-Semitism, not because of it. The work of many others has not. Books are for readers, and if an author loses touch with their readers - either by clinging to outdated tropes, or using outdated vocabulary, or having an outdated style – then their books will cease to be published, and they will be forgotten. It happens all the time. What one generation loves and admires may be rejected by the next. And the language is always changing. Nowadays, it’s hard to read some books that were popular 100 years ago. Styles have changed, sometimes too much for the reader to tolerate.

Recently, someone on tumblr asked about my use of the word “gypsy” in Chocolat, and whether I meant to have it changed in later editions. (River-gypsies is the term I use in connection with Roux and the river people, who are portrayed in a positive light, although they are often victims of prejudice.) It was an interesting question, and I gave it a lot of thought. When I wrote the book 25 years ago, the word “gypsy” was widely used by the travelling community, and as far as I knew, wasn’t considered offensive. Nowadays, there’s a tendency to regard it as a slur. That’s why I stopped using it in my later Chocolat books. No-one told me to. It was my choice. I don’t feel as if I’ve lost any of my artistic integrity by taking into account the fact that a word has a different resonance now. On the other hand, I don’t feel that at this stage I need to go back and edit the book I wrote. That’s because Chocolat is a moment in time. It uses the language of the moment. Let it stand for as long as it can. 

But I don’t have to stay in one place. I can move on. I can change. Change is how we show the world that we are still alive. That we are still able to feel, and to  learn, and to be aware of others. That’s what “sensitive” means, after all. And it is nothing like weakness. Living, changing, learning – that’s hard. Playing dead is easy.

[dollbrbie]

♡ ⸝⸝ NOT GOOD ENOUGH

cw. fratboy isagi, reader doubting herself & isagi’s relationship, pretty angsty, i don’t love this but oh well, its #foreshadowing :p

after yours and isagi’s first argument, you both decided to swear off parties for a while. before isagi, you would rarely attend any, going on the occasional weekend out with your girls. but since isagi was someone who threw these type of party’s with his frat, it was sort of unavoidable that you got more into it.

but now you both agree it’s getting pretty repetitive, and starting to get to you both. besides, you always had as much fun, if not more, when you guys did typical, boring couple stuff. like staying in and watching a movie, maybe ordering some food and heading to bed early or even just lounging around just simply getting to enjoy each other’s company.

so for the next two months, that’s what you did. having early, quiet nights at your dorm to escape the usual party atmosphere at isagi’s frat brought so much more peace to your relationship, a kind of peace you both hadn’t experienced quite yet. it wasn’t like isagi didn’t give you peace, but it was just different. a good kind of different.

and you could tell how much isagi preferred it when anytime his friends suggested coming to a party, just for tonight, he’d always decline and hit them with, “nah, i’m just gonna chill with my girl.”

it was amazing while it lasted, and you felt like you were in the best place with yours and isagi’s relationship. but after a while, you started noticing his friends giving you strange looks, the kind of looks that definitely rubbed you the wrong way. you didn’t really feel like mentioning it to isagi. after all, they were his friends, they probably just needed to warm up to you.

it started off as little side eyes, something you could ignore and just shrug off. but soon came when you started to hear their whispers behind your back and the words that would soon send you spiralling.

“i honestly think the reason he doesn’t spend time with us is because of her. have you seen how she treats him? she’s definitely turned into some crazy control freak.”

“a girl like her isn’t good enough for isagi. he’s way too nice, so he’ll never put her in her place.

“sure, she’s pretty. but, that attitude? nah.”

“i bet isagi is just scared of her. he’s follows her around like a lost puppy! and he’s too nice to say anything.”

“nah for real, what happened to the party animal isagi used to be? there’s no way it isn’t down to her, they’re together 24/7, she’s definitely controlling him.”

yeah, it was insanely obvious they were talking about you through their hushed whispers, even if they never said your name directly.

you tried not to let it bother you, but since hearing them, it’s like your mind has played them on loop, making you overthink situations where you probably had been a little harsher than you should’ve, or where you begged isagi to stay at your dorm to hang out when his friends called.

but where you really being one of those kind of girlfriends? you did notice isagi hadn’t been at practice as much. granted, he always attended the compulsory ones, but when thinking about it, that just wasn’t like isagi.

and even if they had been jokes, your boyfriend did say you were mean to him. in the moment, it seemed like he didn’t mind, that he was going along with the joke. but, what if he mentioned something to his friends? what if he didn’t actually fuck with that? am i being paranoid?

fuck.

even your boyfriend noticed the solemn, dissociative vibe you had, asking you “are you okay?”, every five seconds.

and each time you’d nod with a small smile, “i’m okay.”

but you weren’t okay. and isagi shouldn’t be okay, he shouldn’t be okay with you. that’s what you had decided.

you felt like you were spiralling, and you had no idea what to do. this wasn’t even just isagi now, it had you so down that you couldn’t focus in your lectures.

and as much as you wanted to avoid it, you knew you had to do something about it. for yours and his sake.

you had to end this relationship.

© dollbrbie | don’t plagiarise or translate any of my work

[sports-on-sundays]

Hello hello, I am back with another request! It's with Oscar again but friends to lovers. Hear me out, the most cliche thing ever. Oscar loves her, she loves him but both too dense to realise it. They are out and about and another dude corners her and tries to make out with her, Oscar saves the day (make him protective and violent pls, make him punch the guy (side note: I would pay money to see Oscar actually punch someone, don't ask me why idk🙈)). So then he comforts her, takes her home and she asks him to stay. I will leave the rest of the convo to you🤗. Let there be a first kiss and cuddle I beg I am the biggest sucker for those bcs Oscar seems like the best guy to have your firsts with.

Holy hell that's a long ass request haha. Thank you for reading all that🤣 have fun with it and feel free to change things up a little bit if you want to!

be / OP81

Summary: Oscar x female!best childhood friend!Australian!reader - You and Oscar are finally forced to realize your feelings for each other.

Warnings: panicking, someone forcing himself onto another person, blood, crying, i did change up the request a little bit 🤏, feeling sick

Requested: Yes! And don't worry about the long request, I really liked it, and thanks so much for requesting! Long requests are better sometimes anyway.

Author's Note: Guys I'm starting to think I seriously need my very own Oscar Piastri....

"It wasn't even that funny-"

"It wasn't even that funny!"

Both you and Oscar look up to who it was mockingly imitating Oscar's friendly teasing, and your eyes set themselves upon Lando Norris, smirking obnoxiously.

"What's your problem?" you demand, crossing your arms, most of the laughter from Oscar's joke that he made fives minutes ago (yes, you were still laughing your head off at it) gone.

"What do you mean? I'm just kidding. It's just funny how your boyfriend can make the most dumb joke, and send you both into a ten minute laughing fit-"

"Boyfriend?" you and Oscar seem to ask incredulously in sink.

The smile falls off of Lando's face this time, and is replaced by a look of surprise and confusion. "Waaaait... So you're trying to tell me you guys aren't dating?"

Oscar blinks a few times in confusion. "Y/n and I are just friends. We always have been."

"Yeah," you add quickly, nodding. "I don't know why everyone thinks differently."

Lando's eyebrows raise in amusement. "Maybe because you guys act like you're mad in love...? Like, all the time? Or maybe the fact that you come to every single one of our races? Or maybe it's the way you look at each other with heart eyes, like the other one is the only one in the room? I mean, I don't know. It could be the way you're always giggling and talking and yapping to each other... But, oh, what do I and everybody else know?"

"Good question," Oscar deadpans. "What do you know?"

Lando shrugs, rollings his eyes, and struts away. As soon as he's gone, Oscar turns back to you with a little shrug and says, "Sorry about that. I guess nobody gets that two people can love each other as friends without feeling romantic feelings..."

You nod, shrugging. It makes sense to you, simply because that's how it's always been with you and Oscar, forever. The two of you practically slept in the same crib (not literally!). You always just assumed he's like a brother or something, and it doesn't pay to consider anything else. So you haven't. Too risky, and besides- that's not worth it to waste your time thinking about. You like things just the way they are, no need to change them.

"-Y/n?"

"Hm?!" you look up, snapping out of your pondering.

Oscar smiles at you, his brown eyes soft, like they always are when he looks at you. You smile back, eyes equally as warm as he says, "Did you hear me?" in amusement.

You chuckle, "No, sorry."

He nods, giving your shoulder a little pat as he stands up. "I've got to go now get ready for the race. First of the season. Wish me luck!"

"Luck isn't needed," you say with a little grin. "You've got enough skill alone to win it."

He grins. "I guess. But luck never hurts, does it?"

"Not at all." You stand up with him and give him a quick half-hug, saying gentler, "Drive safe, and bring it home. I'll be cheering you on."

"Like always?"

"Like always."

"Hey, Y/n?"

You look up from your phone, shutting it off. You're sitting alone, long after the 2025 season opening race, the Australian Grand Prix, has ended. You haven't seen Oscar since the race ended, and have just been sitting around, not wanting to go home until you have a chance to talk with him. And there he is, standing there, back in his regular clothes: a black sweatshirt, sweatpants, and sneakers, looking thoroughly sleepy.

You immediately stand up, smiling, saying simply, "It was a great drive."

"Well, I-"

"Hush. You scored points after what happened, and that's enough, for goodness' sake."

He smiles softly, and though his eyes say a lot more, he just nods and says simply, "Yeah, yeah, you're right. As always."

You nod promptly and say teasingly, "I know!"

He just rolls his eyes and says, already in a better mood just by talking to you, "Mum wanted you over tonight for dinner."

You grin, "She did, did she?"

"You know she always does, whenever I'm around, want me to bring you over. She adores you."

"She's the sweetest," you chuckle. "Well, I wouldn't mind one of your mum's home cooked meals."

Oscar nods, grabbing his coat, and saying, "I agree; that would hit the spot right now. C'mon."

You two make it to the car and get in, before you start heading to Oscar's mother's home. The car ride is mostly silent, but neither of you really mind. It's a comfortable, good kind of silence.

Towards the end of it, though, you ask simply, "So, that's the end of the first race week of the season. How're you feeling?"

Oscar shrugs, thinking for a few moments, before saying, "Hmm... I guess I'd have to say tired, but very hopeful."

You smile. "Good. You just need your beauty rest, huh?"

He glances at you with a cute little smile. "Right."

Dinner is nice. Warm, and reminds you of home, and your childhood, and everything good. And it's perfect for a rainy day like today.

Once he's finished eating, though, Oscar stands up, stretching, from the table, and says, "Well, I should be off to bed..."

"Oh, Oscar, you will give poor Y/n a ride home won't you?" Oscar's mother asks.

He looks over at you with a little smile and nods, saying, "Oh, right, of course."

You walk to the door together, but before Oscar opens the front door to leave, you gently grab his arm and say simply, "Osc."

He looks up from unlocking the door, meeting your eyes. "Hm?" he asks gently.

"You don't need to drive me home. I could get a cab or take the bus or whatever. It's all good. You've had a crazy week, as it is, much crazier than mine-"

"I mean, I was thinking maybe it'd be fine if I didn't drive you home, too, but you don't have to get a cab. I'm sure if I asked, my mum would be fine with you just staying the night or something."

You blink in surprise, but smile at the suggestion. "Oh. Well, I'd hate to bud in-"

He smiles. "You're family, Y/n. Don't worry." He takes your hand, tugging you back towards the dining room, calling, "Mum! Would it be fine if Y/n just stayed the night? We've both had a long day!"

"Oh, of course, honey! Tell her she can make herself just all nice and comfy and at home! Y/n's such a sweetheart, anyways. She's always welcome!"

Oscar smiles, looking at you. "You heard that, right?"

You smile back up at him with a little laugh. "Yeah, I heard that."

He nods, saying, "C'mon, let's go to my room."

The two of you head there, both of you knowing the way to Oscar's childhood bedroom from all the years you used to spend in there together. When you walk in, seeing all the dressers in the same place they always were, and all Oscar's old decorations from his karting days, memories seem to flood back, just like that, and both you and Oscar feel it. You crawl onto his bed, just like you always used to do, flopping down against his pillows, making yourself at home.

Oscar smiles and crawls in next to you. Just like he always used to do, too. "Last time we were both here was..."

"...right after you joined McLaren, right?" you smile at the memory.

"I guess so." He smiles down at you.

"I remember distinctly, one time, you had been gone so, so long, and I asked your mum if I could surprise you when you got home..."

Oscar starts laughing, clearly remembering it to. "Ohhh yeah. I threw open the bedroom door and flopped on my bed, even though you were on it. By the time I saw you and yelped, it was too late."

"Yeah, and I wrapped my arms around you and started tickling you," you say giggling.

He rolls his eyes, grinning. "I remember. By the end of it, I was gasping and near tears. God, Y/n, you know I was tired."

"I know. But I made you laugh and smile, didn't I? And I made you feel better, didn't I?"

"I mean, I was just happy to see you," he says, his gaze comfortably resting on yours.

"I was happy to see you. Do you know how much I missed you those months?"

"You miss me if you don't see me for a week, Y/n, still."

"Why do you think I come to every race that I can?"

"Because I pay for you to?"

You roll your eyes at that, crossing your arms, "I mean, yeah, but that's not the sentiment I was going for!"

He laughs, giving your shoulder a little playful tap. "I know, I know."

You sigh deeply, the sweet silence settling between the two of your for a little while, before murmuring, "And I hope you remember after that tickle attack, when your face was red and you were nearly crying from laughing, I gave you the biggest hug of all time..."

Oscar's face warms at that as he leans a bit closer to you. "Yeah... Yeah, I remember. You wanna know why that moment was special to me?"

"Why?"

"Because that was the moment I realized that there are some people in my life that never truly will leave me. Even if I leave them. And you're one of the best of them. That was when I learned what family is."

You nod slowly, thinking about that for a few moments, before saying, "That's... so sweet. I like it."

Oscar smiles. "Me, too. I like it too. I'm so lucky to have a best friend like you."

"And I so lucky to have a best friend like you."

Oscar smiles at that, nodding, satisfied, before letting out a big yawn, reminding you if a sleepy cat, before folding his hands up into fists and rubbing his watery eyes.

And, as if it's contagious, you let your own yawn, a few moments later.

Oscar smiles, this time more sleepily at you, before slipping his arm over your shoulders and pulling you a little closer to himself. You flop your head to lean against his shoulder, and murmur, "Time for us both to get the much-needed rest our bodies are begging us for?"

"Mmm-hm. Yeah. Whatever you said," Oscar murmurs as he drifts off, the hint of a smile still lingering on his mostly relaxed face.

And you both drift off, surrounded by that perfect warmth and tranquility that feels just like home.

A little under a week later, you're sleeping against Oscar in a very similar position, feeling like you're just as at home in China than you are in Australia, simply because of the person you're resting against, when you're awakened by the painful claims, "I ship it, the mechanics ship it, the other teams' drivers ship it, the fans ship it. My God, even my mum ships it! Literally everyone can see you're mad in love except you and her!"

You stretch, your eyes fluttering open, and murmur before you're even sure it's Lando's unwanted yapping torturing your ears, "Landooo shut uppp..."

Oscar gives your shoulder a squeeze, groaning to Lando in his perfectly alert awake state (contrary to yours), "Look at that, Lando, you made her wake up!"

"Oh, yeah, 'cause you'd hate for her to stop sleeping against y-"

"Lando, stop, it's not like that."

"How come every time a girl and a guy are friends, everyone ships them? I think that's society's problem," you comment as you rub your tired eyes.

Lando snorts, saying, "It's not every time. You guys are just obvious. And oblivious. You just need to admit it to each other."

"There's nothing to admit to each other, Lando," Oscar comments as he watches you slowly lean off of him, slipping his arm off your shoulders.

"Yeah, we're, like, brother and sister."

"Well, I wouldn't say that-" Oscar begins quickly.

"I mean, yeah, like-"

"We're more like just really close friends," Oscar finishes confidently.

"Yes, that's true, I agree," you say quickly, looking up at him. "We're family, but not brother and sister."

"Ah, so you're family, but it's not like siblings. What else could you be other than mad in love but just too dense to realize it?" Lando asks.

You just glare, crossing your arms, and Oscar comments, "I don't know, but it's not like that."

"Maybe it's just not like that simply because you both refuse to admit what you really want."

"Lando, I don't need you of all people being my psychologist. Could you just leave it?" you comment, feeling Oscar's eyes watching you.

Lando sighs (overdramatically), shrugs, and says, "Suit yourself. I'm just saying, you guys have got to get together soon, or else you'll drive yourselves and everyone else insane. We can all tell you guys just need to kiss already." And with that, he once again struts away.

As soon as he's gone, you whine, leaning your head into Oscar's shoulder, "I hate Lando!"

"Don't say that. He's just kidding," Oscar says gently.

You sigh. "I know... it's just..."

"Hm?" Oscar prompts gently.

"I don't want people thinking something that's not true."

"Who cares what they think? We both know how we feel about each other, and that's all that matters." But do we? Oscar's brain echoes.

"Yeah, you're right," you murmur, nodding, comforted by his words, not even picking up the way he stares forward, eyebrows knitted together, deep in thought.

You've heard what you think you want to hear, and that's all that matters to you.

The moment you see Oscar after his podium, after he stood on the first step, winning such a solid race as that, you run into his arms, causing him to laugh as he hugs you back, saying, "Hey, Y/n."

"I'm so proud of you!" you say excitedly. "Amazing drive- amazing!"

"Thank you, Y/n. It means a lot. I'm so happy you were here to cheer me on."

You grin up at him. "Me, too, Oscar. Me too."

He celebrated with his team after the race, you staying in your hotel, since Oscar promised you he'd like to bring you home with him to Monaco, and have a more low key celebration, without as many people. Besides, you'd like it that way better anyway. And this way, you can get some extra sleep and try to avoid some of the jet lag from the long flight to Monaco.

Now you stand in Oscar's bathroom back in Monaco, gazing at yourself in the mirror in your white crop top and silver skirt, knowing that when you step out of the bathroom, all you need is for Oscar to tell you it looks nice, and then all your worries will vanish.

And once you do, of course, he stands up from the living couch and says, "You look really pretty. Ready to go?"

You smile softly, sighing in relief, and nod. "Yes. I'm ready to go celebrate with the winner of the 2025 Chinese Grand Prix." You laugh a bit, and add as you head out to the car, "Oscar, you know I'm so incredibly proud of you."

He grins. "I know, I know." You know he loves your lavishing, even if he wouldn't admit it. He's never gotten enough of it; you're one of the people that appreciate him the most, you think, at least. You appreciate him a whole lot, anyways.

Soon you get to your destination, and the night starts off really fun, you and Oscar just sticking with each other, laughing, singing, drinking, and dancing. But after too long, the air becomes stale, the noise becomes too loud, and the drinks turn bitter. You're tired, and Oscar's off somewhere, swept away with his other friends. You sigh deeply, leaning against the wall, running a hand through your hair.

It's then that you feel a hand on your shoulder, and it makes you flinch. It's unfamiliar.

It's not Oscar's hand.

You look up to see a man around your age with tangled overgrown curly brown hair and dark, cold eyes. He's wearing a gold chain around his neck and a football jersey. It's then that he shows you his unflattering smirk and says in a thick French accent, "I'm Jordan."

You just kind of nod, showing a fake smile and crossing your arms, not really in the mood for any antics with any strange guys.

His eyebrows raise as he says, "Do you have a name, or am I going to have to give you one?"

Your lip immediately curls up as you look at him from the corner of your eye, still not tilting your face directly towards him. "You're not smooth. My name is Y/n."

"Pretty name for a pretty girl. A sassy girl, too, at that. I like that."

You bite your lip, rolling your eyes in utter annoyance at this guy 'Jordan.' "Good for you..." you murmur, trying to send him the message that you really don't want to talk with him.

Jordan just hums and steps closer to you. You glance up at him for the first time, really, feeling a bit sick from how close he is to you. You murmur awkwardly, "Could you please step away?"

"No, I don't think I will. I'm enjoying your reaction too much."

"Please, stop."

He roughly grabs your chin, forcing you to look him in the eyes. You swallow deeply.

"I really like your skirt..." he purrs, leaning in closer to you, completely ignoring your protests. His hand slips onto your thigh and grips it tightly.

"Stop... I don't care-"

"You don't, don't you? Well, what a shame... I reckon there's not much you can do about that..."

"St-"

He lips meet yours in a nasty, rough kiss. Your head pounds and spins as your knees begin to shake, panic of what's happening sinking in, your thoughts raging with anxious thoughts at the same time as your head being completely empty. You push at his chest, but he pushes his whole body up against yours, pinning you to the wall, further into a shadow.

You gasp, the panic sinking in deeper, and hardly register what happens next.

Oscar's familiar voice in all the chaos says in one of the angriest, coldest tones you've ever heard from his mouth, "Get your fucking nasty hands away from her."

Jordan tears his lips away from your mouth as Oscar grabs him, Jordan turning his head to look behind him, but before he has a chance to react, you watch as a fist comes flying across and hits him square across the face. He stumbles back and as blood begins gushing from his nose. For a moment, his eyes meet yours in shock, as if he expects you to help a dog like him, but it's then that you watch Oscar grab him by the collar and murmur in the darkest of tones to him, "I told you to get your nasty hands away from her, and you didn't. That's my girl, and no one dares to touch her like that. You better not think you can go on like this, and I hope this can be a reminder for you not to." And with that, Oscar throws another punch, hitting the guy in his eye. You slowly slip down the wall, still watching in shock as Oscar finishes him off by handing one more punch to him on his bloody jaw, before letting go of his collar, letting him fall to the floor, finishing with a yell, "The pain you're feeling right now is nothing compared to the pain you deserve!"

You watch as Jordan scampers up and, just like that, without even considering a fight, stumbles off, out of sight.

And then, everything hushed, Oscar turns, and his eyes meet yours. His hair is a little sweaty and messed up, falling over his forehead. For a moment, you see that remaining burning anger, but as soon as he takes you in, that vanishes, and is replace by the familiar warmth he seems to always look at you with.

And the moment your eyes lock, the tears start coming, and you break down.

Oscar is immediately by your side, pulling you into his arms, sitting on the floor next to you and holding you in his lap, gently stroking your hair. After a while, you hiccup, slowly leaning away, your body still shaking, and murmur, mopping up your eyes with your hands, "Os- Oscar... That was scary. I'm scared."

He gently takes your hand. "You don't have to be. I'm here. Are you ready to go home?"

You nod slowly, and Oscar helps you up, leading you out back to his car, his arm around your back protectively the entire time.

Once back in the car, as the events of what just happened replay through your head, you hiccup, more tears threatening to flow. Oscar gently takes your hand, murmuring in the dark of the parked car, "Tell me what I can do for you, and I'll do it. I hope you know I'll do anything for you to feel better."

You sigh shakily and just lean into him. He wraps his arms around you, holding you for a few minutes, before you lean away again and murmur, "Let's just get home..."

Oscar nods. "Good idea." He turns the car on and begins driving, and as soon as he does holds his hand that he's not using to drive out to you. You put your hand in his, letting the warmth from it fill you and comfort you.

As he drives, you suddenly say in the empty silence, "'That's my girl.' That's what you said."

Oscar just nods a little. "I know. I did mean to say that, you know."

You swallow, thinking for a few moments, before murmuring the simple question, "Why?"

"Because you've always been mine and I've always been yours, haven't I?"

You swallow. "I don't know what that means."

"Forget what it means. You're the most important girl- the most important person- to me. You're my girl, and I'm not going to let anyone be messing with you."

That feels right to you, and good to you, to hear that. And you're glad, in a way, that he's so confidently figured that out. It frees you to say back, "Well, yeah, then... I guess that makes you my boy, then..."

Oscar smiles very softly, giving your hand a little squeeze as you arrive at his home. Once you're both inside, before you have a chance to start worrying, Oscar says gently, putting a hand on your shoulder, "I want you to be comfortable. What do you need? I could get you something to eat, run a bath for you, get a change of clothes, all three, whatever else you need-"

"Oh, uh, don't worry about it-"

"Hush," Oscar suddenly interrupts, shaking his head. He moves to stand right in front of you, before gazing down into your eyes, and saying in all sincerity, "Look, I want you to be honest. I want to take care of you if that's what you need. I want you to be comfortable."

You swallow, nodding a bit, before murmuring, "A bath and a change of clothes might be nice... I'm not hungry, though."

Oscar nods, putting his hand on your back, leading you to his room. He opens his closet and says, "You can wear whatever you can find. I'm going to go run that bath for you; I'll call you when it's ready. I'll get a towel for you in the bathroom, too."

You nod, find one of his bigger McLaren T-shirts and a pair of black sweatpants, and head to the bathroom just as Oscar is calling for you.

Oscar smiles at you gently when you walk in and say simply, "Anything else you need?"

You shake your head 'no,' saying, "Thank you."

He nods. "Of course. I'll just be in the living room, you can come there when you're done. Call me if you need anything. And take your time, too."

You smile weakly, nodding. "Alright. Thanks, Osc."

He nods, leaving you to have your bath. You peel off your clothes and sink into the water, feeling its warmth surround you like an embrace. You let out a long sigh of relief as the water touches your sore, tense muscles, soothing them. After the night you've had, it feels good to just be. To just experience something genuinely good and calming, knowing Oscar is just in the next room.

Oscar. The way he stood up for you, was so protective of you, and beyond that, has been taking such good care of you... You know Oscar a good man... He was always a really sweet boy, and he's grown up to be a really very upright and sweet man. It was crazy- crazy- to see him go off on that stranger, and beat him up the way he did.

But somehow, it felt right. It was just proving he's good. That he cares so much about and for you, he won't let anyone hurt you without knowing the consequences of it from him.

How much does he really care about me?

The question almost feels good to ask, because you have a feeling the answer is one you like.

And then the way he so confidently called you his girl.

'That's my girl.'

Just looking back on it, for some reason, it makes your heart skip a beat. It's that chest-tightening nervous affectionate feeling you get often when Oscar does or says little things. Although this time, it's not little, and every new thing he does seems to make your stomach flutter a little more. It's a familiar feeling that you're sure you've gotten hundreds of times before with Oscar, but for some reason, you're only realising it now. Why, you have no idea, and what the strange feelings could mean, you have even less of an idea.

Soon, you finish your bath, and after drying yourself put on Oscar soft, comfortable clothes, no matter how over sized they are on you. Besides, you don't care in the slightest about that as soon as you inhale his familiar, comforting scent when you put them on. You go to the living room and see Oscar laying on the couch on his phone, now in a T-shirt and sweatpants, just relaxing. As soon as you walk in, though, he looks up.

"Osc...? Do you have a brush I could use for my hair?"

He nods, hopping up from the couch, and says, "Yeah, I do. Wait here, I'll be right back. Just get yourself comfy."

He leaves, and you shrug, taking his advice, and curl up on the couch, waiting for him to come back. He takes longer than you expect him to, but soon enough, he walks back in and sits next to you, saying, "Why don't you just relax, and I can brush it for you?"

"Seriously? You don't have to," you say immediately, secretly wanting badly for him to brush your hair for you. You love the feeling of other people playing with your hair- and if it's Oscar, even better.

He smiles at you. "I know, but I want to." And with that, to both of your delight apparently, begins gently brushing through your hair. When he's done, he slowly start running his fingers through it, starting from the bottom and going up to the top. You sigh, leaning back into him, and Oscar just simply loves it. After a while he says, softly amused, "You just seem to melt when my hands are in your hair."

You shrug, smiling a little, and say, "What can I say? It feels really good."

He chuckles that low comforting chuckle that feels just like home. "I can tell." After a few more minutes he says, "I found a hair tie I think you must've left here at one point. Do want me to braid your hair or something?"

You smile, glancing back at him, and say, "You can do that? I don't know if I can trust you."

He just smiles back at you. "You should. I'm good at it. Remember, I grew up with three sisters."

You shrug again before saying, "Well, alright..."

He chuckles softly again, before he gently begins braiding your hair, his fingers gently weaving through your locks, slowly, until he finally finishes and ties it on the end. Once he's finished, you turn around to face him.

He smiles at you.

You smile back, taking his hands in both of yours.

"You're beautiful," he suddenly says, looking right into your eyes. "I don't think I've told you that enough. Because I think it all the time, whenever I look at you."

For some reason, your friend saying that makes you blush. There are a few moments of silence, before you look down at your joined hands and murmur, "Crazy that the hands that beat up that guy are the same hands that just gently braided my hair."

Oscar shrugs, smiling a little. "They have different uses in different moments. And I don't regret what I did for a moment, not any of it. I would do the exact same thing if I had to do it all again. In fact, just thinking about it makes me really angry. But what matters most is that you're okay."

You sigh slowly, nodding, your head a bit dizzy at the thought of it all. "I'm just so thankful for you, throughout it all. You, like, saved the day..." you chuckle wryly.

He shrugs, nodding a bit. "I guess." A little laugh.

More silence.

You stare down once more at your joined hands. "But Oscar..." you begin hesitantly.

"Yes?" he prompts gently.

"...I'm sorry."

"Y/n... for what? You did nothing wrong-!" Oscar begins somewhat incredulously.

"It's just... You were celebrating your win..."

"Oh, Y/n..." Oscar begins, his tone softening. "Come on, now. Look up at me, will you?"

You sigh, doing so.

"It's not your fault, what happened," Oscar says. "It's that idiot's fault, and we both know that. What happened happened, and there was no preventing it. And if you're worried about me, don't be. I had a perfectly good time celebrating in China with my team. This was more that I wanted to do something with you, for you. But look at this right now. Here we are, sitting together, anyway. Isn't that what matters the most anyway; isn't that the point? So why don't we just make the most of this moment, right now, hm?"

You sigh again, nodding slowly, before saying, you heart almost feeling like it's being squeezed, "Okay."

"Hey," Oscar murmurs, his hand touching the bottom of your chin. "You're looking down again. Talk to me." He gently raises your chin.

You swallow, and suddenly, words that you hardly knew you even thought start coming from your mouth, and only now as you hear them in your voice do they even begin to make sense: "I guess it's just that... You're so caring and gentle with me, and protective. And we like each other so much and get along so well and we've known each other for years and... I guess sometimes I wonder about us... You know, our relationship, like, what even is it? I mean, I think we'd both readily admit we most definitely love each other, but I guess... well, I don't know..."

Oscar nods slowly, before whispering, as if it's some long kept secret, "You guess you just wonder in what way we love each other?"

You swallow, nodding. "Well, yes, exactly. Because... well, I don't know."

"Can I tell you how I feel about you?"

You study his face for a few moments- his handsome face- and nod.

"I feel about you the most deep feeling I've ever known, deeper than I ever thought I could experience. The love I have for you is beyond anything I could describe in a physical sense- it's beyond a romantic love or and family love or the strongest kind of named love I could think of. All I know is that when I look at you, I see fulfillment, and happiness. I see everything I've ever needed, plus everything I've ever wanted. I see a priceless jewel- the sort of thing that anyone would honor and protect with their life. I see beauty herself, on the inside and out. I see my best friend, my favorite person, the one I would spend any and every moment with, if I could. I see comfort, I see love. I look at you and know the great lengths I would go for you. I know it's all so cliche, but it is a love beyond words. It is. I just..." he trails off, before leaning in and whispering, "Are you crying?"

You sniff, looking away, your heart pounding. "No..."

He smiles gently, his hand leaving yours to reach up and wipe a tear away off your cheek with his thumb, "Don't cry."

"That's just so... sweet... and... everything I exactly feel, too, put into words..."

"Y/n..." he hums gently with a little chuckle. "I don't want you to cry, though."

"Don't worry," you say with a little hiccupy laugh. "They're good tears."

He smiles a bit, grabbing your hand again and giving it a squeeze. "Okay."

You swallow, before daring to ask, "What would the difference be, if you were my boyfriend instead of my best friend?"

Oscar eyes seem to light slightly at the question, and he says simply, "Nothing at all, except for one thing: we would be able to express that deep love for each other in different ways."

You nod slowly, swallowing.

Oscar leans in closer to you. "How does that sound to you?"

"I... I think it could be just what I need."

Oscar smiles softly. "I mean, I feel like... it would be nice to not just have to use my words to tell you how much I love you. You know, to be able to kiss you, or something, instead."

You find yourself smile a little at the words, nodding as pinkness gets to your cheeks. "Yeah... that doesn't sound so bad."

Oscar smiles, just gazing into your eyes. "Yeah?"

"It's just that... with tonight, with what happened..."

"Oh, I wasn't meaning we had to do anything tonight- just to think about. You know...?"

You nod slowly, before muttering, "But maybe... Just maybe tonight is the night to do it." You pause, before continuing, "You know, with all that happened, maybe if we just decided... tonight, let's just take a little step... it would help me to leave that. You know, it wasn't my fault... and I have someone who really does love me."

Oscar smiles. "And I really do."

You smile back, looking back up into his sweet brown eyes.

He slips his hand out of yours and gently brings it to your cheek, muttering, "Well, is it okay if I kiss you? Just a little kiss?"

You smile wider, feeling your stomach flutter at the sincere question. Nodding, you reply, "Yes, I reckon that is okay."

Oscar nods, his thumb stroking your cheek a bit as he leans in, his other hand gently touching your waist. His hand on your cheek shifts to cup the side of your neck, and he whispers, his warm breath on your ear, "You still okay?"

You nod.

And with that, he leans in, and, pulling you closer to himself, kisses you in the most perfect way. His adoration and love for you flows through the kiss, while still keeping it short and gentle. When he leans away, he whispers, "How was that?" with a little adorable smile.

You just sigh shakily and murmur, "I think you should do it again."

And he does without a second more of hesitation. His lips meet yours as he pulls your body closer to himself, lost in the kiss, lost in his emotions. When he pulls away again, he's pulled you onto his lap, but neither of you seem to care, both too swept up in each other's gazing eyes.

"I didn't realize for how long I needed to do that..." he whispers gently.

You smile a little. "I didn't realize how long I needed that from you."

He smiles back. "We'll call that both of our first kisses, okay?"

You nod. "Does this mean I'm your girlfriend now?"

"I like the sound of that."

You smile and throw your arms around him in an embrace. He pulls you closer to him, leaning back so that you can lay your head on him, and rubs your back, whispering, "I love you so much, Y/n. So, so much. To the moon and the stars and all the way back."

You smile up at him. "I don't know about the moon and the stars for me Oscar, but I'll tell you this: I love you enough to want to spend my life with you. I love you enough to want to grow old with you."

At those words, Oscar's arms tighten around you, and he chuckles, "See how sappy we suddenly get as soon as we decide to just give it up and kiss? My God."

You grin into his chest. "Yeahhh... But I don't mind it."

"Oh, trust me, I don't either." He shifts, moving you with him, making you both comfortable, so that you're laying together, cuddling.

"I really like this."

He hums. "Me too."

"You know we'll never hear the end of it from Lando if he finds out."

You feel the vibration of his laugh in his chest. "I guess we'll cross that bridge when we come to it. For now, let's just relax. I just want to be. Be with you."

"I think that sounds like exactly what I was made for. To be with you."

He smiles, and you shut your eyes, content to listen to his heartbeat and just be.

Just be with him.

[musings-ofthe-unamused]

Love and DeepSpace: LIs as Movies

A/N: I've had this idea stuck in my head for a bit. If you want any of these to become AU fics, let me know! Except for Zayne. His is already being written <3

Warnings: N/A

Ask Box: Open

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Xavier: Spirited Away

Okay, hear me out. I know Haku is a water spirit and that fits Rafayel, but the whole movie just screams Xavier to me. Him and Haku have similar personalities (in my opinion).

Xavier doing everything to protect you while succumbing to his fate, but you can't have that and do what you can to help him break free. Maybe you two weren't meant to be together, but you two were destined to meet and save each other.

Rafayel: Your Name

This one would be so fun with Rafayel. Switching bodies with him would be horrible, but he finds it hilarious. You are working to figure out what's going on and who he is. He keeps messing around, but in secret, he's desperately searching for you.

When connection is cut, Rafayel is devastated. And when he finally finds out what happened, he believes that he'll never be able to meet you. He just goes through the motions of life after that. Until one day, he sees a familiar face...

Zayne: Pride and Prejudice

Yes, I am writing this fanfic. It'll be multi chapter and a slow burn. I will spread my Mr. Darcy!Zayne agenda until everyone loves it!! Pride and Prejudice is filled with yearning that is masked by societal roles and what cannot be.

Zayne is so caught up in his yearning for you vs. his duty and title that he comes across as cold and judgmental. The tension between the two of you build and build with every interaction, every misunderstanding, that it all explodes.

Sylus: The Sound of Music

This is a bit of an odd choice, but it works! First, its hilarious and heartwarming to think of Sylus having so many kids. Second, I think the love story in the Sound of Music is very sweet.

Sylus, who's very set in his ways, hires you for help. You're so amusing: stubborn and easily angered. But you're good at what you do. And you remind Sylus what's important in life.

Caleb: The Princess Bride

This is my all time favorite movie. I've watched it hundreds of times and know it by heart. This is so Caleb coded. Westley leaves his beloved Buttercup and comes back a different man. Cocky, flirty, and definitely hiding secrets, Caleb is the perfectly Westley.

Caleb had to stay away. It wasn't safe for him to come back. And once it was, he had to hide his identity and pretend that he was the man that supposedly killed him. And now, he takes you away from your betrothed. You are combatant and fiery, just like he remembers. He can't wait to have you as his again.

[loveln4]

LANDO NORRIS x ARAB!READER

Love me like a desert rose

Hold me like you can't let go

- Lolo Zouaï, Desert Rose

synopsis: the last race of the year; Abu Dhabi, allows Lando to rekindle a relationship with an ex lover.

warnings: vulgar language, flirting, fluff!!

“Yallah, yallah, yallah!” The girl urged the camels forward, “So, fucking slow.” Her english accent strong, gaining attention from tourists.

Her face was covered with a scarf, her eyes being the only visible feature on her face. She was beautiful, sculpted by the ancient Gods of Egypt, an ancient history major had told her back in London. All she had thought was ‘fucking flirt’ as he then asked for her number a few minutes later.

Though he wasn’t lying.

She truly was beautiful. Her skin was glowy as if it was made from the material of the sun, eyes brown like the dirt our first ancestors walked on, hair long and wavy like the oceans explored by travelers and her cheekbones as sharp as a samurai’s blade.

Let’s just say, someone had made a poem about her and it’s been imbedded in her mind due to the amount of times she’s read it.

“Excuse me.” A man had appeared behind her. She turned swiftly, her eyes gaining his attention immediately.

Her breath hitched. Should she take off the scarf? Reveal herself to this foreigner? “Yes?” She asks the man in front of her.

He was stunned. Her eyes were angled like a foxes, the colour soothingly ‘boring’ but so very familiar. “I—uh—the camels, how much for a ride?”

“For you? Maybe too much.” She turns back around watching her older cousin feed the largest camel. Y/n didn’t know whether to walk off, far enough that this guy doesn’t figure out who she is. “Oi! Ali!” She yells after her cousin, “Give me that camel.” She takes the reins and guides it back to the man and his group.

“Did you change your mind?” The guy jokes with her, “Or you figured out who i am?”

At this remark she takes the scarf off, “Still so full of yourself, huh? Things never change do they, Lando?”

A guy behind Lando laughs, “Fucking hell, Y/n!” Max Fewtrell gives her a hug, “Haven’t seen you in 7 years.” He says after releasing her, “This is where you’ve been?”

“Yeah, I suppose.” She turns to Lando, “So, want to have a ride?”

After two hours out in the heat the group had finally all had a turn riding the large mammal. She was thirsty, forgetting her water bottle back with her quad bike.

“Max, give me some.” She urges the curly head boy to hand the water bottle to her.

“Nah, i’m thirsty.” He takes a big swig out of the bottle, “Sod off will you.” Max says as her hand is left hanging, no water bottle in sight.

She kicks sand on his shoes, “Little bitch.” She mutters as she walks away and grabs the reigns of two camels, “Yallah, everyone follow me.”

They walk five minutes to the vendor and she puts the camels back in their stalls. Lando’s group swarms the fruit and drink stand by the exit hoping for a sip of water.

“You look different.” Lando said to y/n. “You look good—but, different.” He took in the sight in front of him.

“Just say i look like a piece of shit.” She responds to him.

“But—you don’t?”

“I know, i was just trying to see if you’d be a little shit and say how awful i look right now.” Y/n jokes. Nostalgia ran through her body, a small smile coming to her lips.

A water bottle appeared in her vision, Lando holding it out to her, “Drink, Habibi.”

Taking it with a laugh, “Gag. Don’t ever say that to me again.”

“You used to like it.” He bites with a large grin on his face.

“That was when you used to say sensually. Now it just seems weird.” She shrugs as she walks off toward the fruit stand, plucking a watermelon slice from behind the vendors back. “Amo, this is good!” (Amo-uncle)

“Little shit.” He grimaced. She continued to eat and snatched another one that he had just chopped, “You owe me enough money, stop stealing from your poor old Amo.”

Lando had leaned against the structure protecting y/n’s uncle from the hot sun, “So, want to watch me race?” He asked her as he accepted a slice of watermelon for her uncle, “Shukran.” He thanked him.

“Wow, okay Arab king.” She joked, earning a laugh not only from Lando but her uncle. “I can’t, I’m busy.”

“Liar.” Her uncle bit toward her, “She’s not busy, she just says she is.” His Arab accent was strong.

Lando laughed at this exchange between the two family members, “Is that a yes, habibi?”

With a roll of her eyes and slight smile, “Yes okay, but you’ve got to promise me the best seats, yeah? And! You need to stop calling me habibi.”

“Deal, Hayati.”

A/N: wanted something short and messy.

REQUESTS ARE OPEN

Please don’t be shy, send them through 🩷

[karlachismylife]

I am a little scared to write characters with different backgrounds, like Russian characters in the CoD franchise, because I'm afraid a Russian person will see it and be like, "What the fuck is this" and laugh at it maybe 😭 So I have to ask, do you ever find yourself judging fics based on how they portray the characters and the language? Like "this doesn't fit well" or "that's not how it works" type of stuff.. Are there any deal breakers, something you despise in fics, or maybe even advice for writing Russian characters... Thank you in advance, have a great day! 🩵

Hey comrade! This is a good question! And I can totally relate; not just to writing non-Russian characters, but even writing Russians from CoD is intimidating, because they are much older than me and witnessed a lot of historical and cultural changes in the country (even a whole another country if we think that at least Nikolai was born in USSR) that I haven't, and trust me, times haven't stopped being crazy here for the last 30 years or even more, so for me not having witnessed the 90s or being a baby in 2000s is a reason to be scared shitless writing for them, cuz fuck if I know how a person that lived through those times thinks.

All that to say, I think it's completely normal to feel awkward writing characters with backgrounds you're not familiar with, and also it's not a big deal if you get stuff wrong sometimes. I mean, isn't there like a whole bunch of fics about task force 141 and the "tapping out" ceremony that seems to exist in USA army only? People still enjoy them and no one was hurt by it. It's fiction and art, and first and foremost we want you to enjoy creating it; moreover, you are doing it and sharing it for free, so every decent person will always be grateful and supportive, and if anyone is coming at you aggressively for getting something wrong, you can tell them идите нахуй and block them. Mocking an artist that put effort and love into a piece of art is one of the worst things one can do.

(sorry this turned out longer than I expected so I'm hiding it under the cut). CW!politics and heavy themes, somewhat of a rant. I tried to summarize in the end and give a few tips so if you want to skip the rant, go down.

So me and my Paris (@nrdmssgs) came togther to make a list of stuff that might catch our eye or turn us off from reading a fic. Keep in mind that these are just opinions of two people! And I know for a fact that some Russians will not agree with me on some of these. So again, my main tip is not to overstress; we are genuinely glad when Russian characters get recognition despite all the negativity often surrounding them.

First, I'll just say, there are a lot of things that irk us in the games themselves. This goes not just for weird Russian accents or sometimes broken Russian altogether; I personally am very displeased with how freely (and wrongly, lol) they use the term "gulag" (ГУЛАГ) there. First of all, it is not a synonym to prison/camp, it's the name of the government agency that was in charge of running labor camps in USSR, so calling the camp itself this word is simply incorrect; second, it's a big tragic page in history, so throwing it around willy-nilly as some oooh scary prison place where characters in a pew pew game are put and can escape just feels insensitive to me. Generations of people whose countless families were hurt by this system are very much alive right now and it is a raw wound unfortunately, and the government is very much refusing to acknowledge this tragedy in its fullness. So there's that. There's also way too good-looking Makarov that spent who knows how much time in solitary confinement (we have people actively dying in solitary right now in much shorter time), there's Milena with a single bank account (show me one Russian oligarch that doesn't have their money shoved in 100 different places, uh-huh), there's Yegor Novak who is Ukrainan, but speaks Russian (yes, considering that he was born in USSR, he most likely speaks both languages, but erasing his identity is still problematic). So you see, there's a lot of shit to combat in canon already, and it's worth spending time looking into some of these things. Now to the fics!

I will say, I do notice of course when a Russian character is written by a non-Russian person that doesn't know much about Russian language/culture/mentality/history/whatever. And while I understand that it's hard and won't throw a fic away for not getting every little thing right, there is stuff that catches my attention.

The most obvious would be the language, of course. Russian is grammatically much more complicated than English and number one giveaway are mistakes in grammatical cases/genders. Even my good comrade here who knows Russian very well and surprises me with impeccable use of complicated constructions that show they understand some nuanced connotations/usage of words, even they often make mistakes with genders of words. And I can't blame them, for a native English speaker it is a new concept! But this, and also just the sentence structures, incorrect word choice (again, connotations are key) are always jarring in text. Usually I just skim over it and forget in the next sentence, sometimes it does make me laugh, but like. I'm not gonna make fun of anyone for making a mistake in a language, I appreciate when people make effort. But I do encourage everyone to send their Russian text to someone who can proofread it (me, for example, DMs and askbox always open). And if you really want to do it on your own, maybe don't just rely on google translate and such and try to do it with a dictionary and some base-level grammar lessons so you can make sure the endings of the words are alright, at least. Then we can talk about the difference between "blyat'", "blyad'", "blya", "blyadina" and "blyadstvo" :D

Another thing I do always have a quick upset sigh about is when people call borsht a Russian soup. No it's not, it's Ukranian. We do eat it a lot, yes, and it's not inherently bad or wrong to write a Russian character eating/cooking it, but it is nice when people do not add to the appropriation of Ukranian culture that's been going on since for-fucking-ever. Same goes for unfortunately many other cultures that Russian imperialism tried swallowing, so it's always better to google it and check. And just food in general, maybe spend a little time looking up what's the difference between pel'meny and varyeniky or what's okroshka. It's always an amazing experience when someone gets such details right! And an even better experience when you don't erase other Slavic or even Eastern European identities, brushing everyone under "Russian" rug. We are definitely nor a homogenous crowd! Moreover, not everyone born in Russia (and especially USSR) will be Russian. Looking into different ethnicities and nationalities that live here is just interesting if nothing else, but also very very important after centuries of opression.

I also have some non-serious beef with this magical "Siberia" western comrades love writing about, I touched on the topic here. An amazing impression is when people use less broad geographical names or look at less overused places. Did you know that Natalia "Raptor" Orlova is from Kamchatka? It's such a rich region with a lot to tell about!

What I do definitely dislike and it can turn me off from finishing the read at all, is insensitive writing of the characters themselves in terms of their background. It's complicated since I myself am not patriotic at all and I couldn't tell you for the life of me what it means "to be Russian", but it just. You can feel when a person thinks in stereotypes, you know? Like somewhere I saw something, I won't give a direct quote, but the main idea was that Russian/Slavic men all 100% have a breeding kink, and it was worded in a way that kinda felt like, hm, like a bit dehumanizing? Making them out to be these ooga booga barbaic cavemen? And yes, there is a lot to be said about Russian men, much of it very not good, and there is NOTHING wrong with writing a Russian character with a breeding kink, but it felt not nice to read that sentence, so just maybe after you write your piece do some introspection to make sure you weren't dipping into that kind of portrayal out of prejudice. If that's the effect you went for storytelling/your personal enjoyment cuz you like them ooga booga? I won't say a thing. Also the whole vodka/balalaika/ushanka/whatever bullshit, not entirely untrue, again, especially the vodka one, but if you write Nikto drinking kvas (which is non-alcoholic, okay, but still) or baltika beer instead of vodka, you'll make me happier, because it's like a signal "hey look I know a bit more about your culture that a James Bond movie intro showed me once". And in the next scene I'll forgive you even him riding a battle bear with vodka and balalaika in hand.

Coming back to the "barbarization" of Russian men in fics, it irks me a little when people lean too much into the whole Russian bandit/mafia stuff, and there are two characters that suffer from it, but each a little differently, the most. First is Nikolai, and while yes, he is a crime lord of sorts and he has that goddamn golden chain (which most Russian people or at least women find absolutely horrid and oh we do not come near men sporting those irl), I think people often write him... not intelligent enough? Too gruff and rough? He's an intellectual. Well-read, well-spoken, cultured. Level-headed. Whenever people write him too much like a 90s bandit, my heart breaks a little. But then again, I know Russian people that lean into the same set of stereotypes when writing him (but those same people have a lot of other uhhh xhenophobic tendencies that show when talking about other characters so I wouldn't rely on their views).

And then there's probably the biggest pet peeve of mine. Vladimir Makarov. Now, here is a big big disclaimer: YOU CAN WRITE WHATEVER YOU WANT IN YOUR FICS!!! We are already romantacizing military men that none of us (I hope) would approach irl; and if you want to write Makarov or Nikolai or whoever else in a certain way because that's what hits the spot for you, just do it. You want yandere Makarov or mummy issues Nikto or whatever else your heart desires? Go for it. I will be the first one defending your right to write it with a crowbar in hand, even if I myself would never read such a fic. So this here is entirely MY PERSONAL ISSUE. Deal? Deal.

I see it a lot here on tumblr (mostly in x reader fics) and it actually bothers me a lot, but when people write Makarov as this edgelord dark mafia boss. It just misses the point so much. He's an ultra-nationalist, a head of a PMC. They are not mafia, I would honestly argue that they're much worse. I get that they cast a very attractive man to play reboot Makarov and honestly the og Makarov too; I get that villains are the hot thing to be attracted to (sorry if I sound bitter, this is a separate problem I have with fandom and it doesn't matter rn), but Wagner (PMC that Konni is heavily based on) is a real life horror that is still existing even though there have been like structural changes. And they killed a lot of people and had enough power to threaten to overthrow the government so very recently. Rusich (another nationalist military group) is still active and doing horrible things and proudly reporting them online. Smaller far-right pigs are out in the streets doing horrible things. And a lot of it is (not so) subtly encouraged by the government. A lot of it is actively used by the government to gain more power, kill more people, instill more fear. It's a reality we live in, and to me seeing Makarov portrayed with none of that nationalism in sight and with all the allure of a dark romance novel mafia boss is... honestly, painful. Feels like a slap in the face, to be honest, and while I understand that this is the kind of nuance you can't just realize out of nowhere if it's not something you live around and that it's all fiction, it just is really, really hard to read for me. He is not just a complete crazy Joker-type freak, he's not a cool sexy mafia boss, he's a fucking nazi terrorist that can and will be paid by certain people in power to do their dirty work.

In the same route, but luckily I haven't seen it anywhere besides a certain group of Russian CoD fans (which is even more terrifying considering the political implications), but anyone who writes Barkov as a hero/in a positive light - fuck you. Just fuck you. He has interesting/attractive traits as a character, yes, I'm not saying you can't write about him, looking into him from different perspectives, simping for him if you want; but again, just spend some time reading up on recent history and politics that inspired the whole Urzikstan situation0 - and do it all with nuance. Or with a disclaimer that you don't support genocide at least, lol, cuz I'm telling you, I've seen people that made me scared.

However, once again, if you really want exactly that - ignore MY PERSONAL opinion and write it. I am just a gorilla on tumblr, my opinion is not the centre of the world. But what I do consider not a taste issue, but a deeper issue, is writing REAL PMCs and the likes of those in positive light. If anyone with a "Wagner OC" sees this post, just know, I would probably spit in your face irl. Making made-up Makarov go kiss kiss uwu or whatever irks me personally, but I can close the tab and let the author be; I'm sure many people have same opinion about Graves whom I write much more affectionately than some would prefer. But the real shit? That's a hard line.

A quick addition, back coming back to the "barbarization", just portraying Slavic characters being oh so very mesmerized by the !!!wonders of western civilization!!! is funny. There are definitely moments like this, but not as much as you think. Believe it or not, we actually don't live in bear caves.

This got way too long and dark, so let's finish on a lighter note. Russian characters celebrating some very non-Russian holidays (like Thanksgiving or catholic Christmas, even though the second one is not as bad) is funny, when it doesn't have much explanation (like them celebrating it with someone who actually does). "Suka blyat'" is funny, because it's often used where a simple "blyat'" would suffice.

Summarizing, here are general semi-short tips how to write Russian characters:

get your Russian proofread by someone who actually speaks it or at least don't fully rely on google translate. check your cases and genders!

especially if you use cusswords. it's an amazing characterization tool if you manage to use it right, so putting effort into it is always worth it

don't lean into stereotypes. they are partially true, but we kinda can tell when you do that intentionally and with nuance and when you don't know anything beyond them

be mindful about characters' identities and spend a little more time to make sure you are not writing someone else's stuff as "Russian". for the lack of better analogy, it's like mixing all Latin American identities together and writing them all as uhhh Mexican. we don't want to claim others' culture and others most definitely do not want to be erased again

be careful about the "barbarization" of your Slavic characters. sure, someone like Maxim "Minotaur" Bale won't strike you as the most intellectual individual (love you Max), but be intentional with it and don't just make every Slavic man go ooga booga but in Russian

didn't touch much on Russian/Slavic women, but be careful around the whole "money-hungry" stereotype

read up on political shit surrounding your characters. whether you like it or not, Russian people have been shaped by a lot of recent/current political happennings, so missing out even on general understanding of what your character witnessed/what their political views are can ruin a lot of characterization

Russia is fucking huge and does not consist just of Moscow and abstract "Siberia". the amount of cultures, confessions, nature stuff etc in the country is insane. not all Russians are orthodox Christians, but also - many of them are. and also - church was under fire in USSR so this is a separate layer of cultural shit you might want to consider

read Russian literature if you really want to write Russian characters a lot, it'll help you catch a feel of some very specific things like our yearning. it's a very specific thing that if you get right will give me a reading orgasm

same goes for Russian songs. also just don't underestimate the role of music in Russian life!

try to look up Russian "pop culture" (it feels kinda wrong to call it that, but I dunno how else to call it). if you can make your Russian character make an appropriate reference to a movie or say a Russian saying we actually use, it'll be amazing. but it's like level impossible i think so don't give yourself a headache over this, this is just that extra spice that will have me scrolling through your profle suspecting you're actually secretly Russian yourself

watch Soviet/Russian movies to get a better understanding of the vibe, not just what Hollywood portrays!

looking into architecture can be an interesting way to approach a character. we went through many different unique architectual styles, so if you're describing a character's home, it'll be a very cool move to specify what kind of apartment building they live in, for example

but most importantly remember: it's art you do for yourself first and foremost. don't take any of it as a strict guide you'll be punished for straying away from! we REALLY appreciate you writing for these characters, and you showed you put more thought into it than some of Russian comrades I know <3

and if you have specific questions, never be afraid to ask me or anyone else you know can help.

I hope I didn't scare you even more with this all, lol, I genuinely do appreciate you coming to me for advice, it means a lot when people show interest and effort. If you feel comfortable enough, send me/tag me in your fics, I'll be glad to read them and share with comrades that will enjoy them! From Russia with love ❤️❤️❤️🦍

[stellactrums]

An Exercise in Trust 🗡️🩸 | AO3

Pairing: Abysswalker Rafayel x Princess MC Summary: The Sea demands a follower. Lemuria demands a sacrifice. Rafayel wonders when it will be his turn to make demands instead. Rating: Explicit 🔞 Words: 7,857 Tags: POV Third Person, POV Rafayel, Unnamed Main Character, AFAB Main Character, MC uses she/her pronouns, Explicit Sexual Content, Explicit Language, PIV Sex, Unprotected Sex, Creampie, Oral Sex, Cunnilingus, Fighting As Foreplay, Knifeplay, Bloodplay (kinda), Under-negotiated Kink (i.e. the aforementioned knife and blood play are not discussed beforehand but they're both little freaks on the same wavelength), Soul Bond, Mildly Dubious Consent (she compels him with the soul bond but make no mistake he wants her lol), Rafayel speaks Lemurian (but it's like four words and i made up three of them lol), Mild Gore (it's a brief line and does not actually happen) Notes: Originally posted to AO3 on March 7, 2025. I have the biggest heart eyes for Abysswalker, so here I am! I probably-maybe-definitely took some accidental liberties with the lore because all the different timelines confuse me, so I interpreted it as best I can. There's also some made-up Lemurian language. I tried my best based on the few phrases we've heard in the game. Endless thanks to my friend Sepia for beta-reading this and for hyping me up ever since this was still just an idea in my brain! And additional thanks to Sepia, Maz, and Belle for all giving me feedback when I was stuck. This fic wouldn't exist without you <3 Lemurian Translations: "Huerte mea" → "My heart" and "Vesta mea" → "My bride"

“I will cut out your heart with a dagger honed, my darling. And in Love’s name, your heart will become my faith. 

Your body will be washed clean, shine like a pearl. 

I will care for your heart. Till we meet again. And you reclaim it for yourself.” 

– Siren’s Ballad, Act III: Muia

The desert winds tonight are punishing, noisily rattling the structure of their tent, and the Princess of Philos shivers as she peers outside. She pulls the blanket draped across her form tighter around her shoulders and cranes her neck, turning her gaze up to the sky. 

Rafayel watches her from the corner of his eye. He has spent the previous half-hour sitting cross-legged on his bedroll, tending to his garb and attempting to mend a tear in the seams. But his fingers now idle, and the leathers are long forgotten across his lap, only half-sewn, as he finds himself too distracted to continue. 

It is, perhaps, the longest Her Highness has ever gone without saying a single word in his presence. Rafayel is accustomed to the sound of her continuous chatter as she flits from subject to subject like a hummingbird searches for nectar, so much so that her sudden silence is a void by comparison. It is almost like she has forgotten he is even there. He wonders what it is that has stolen her attention and has her so captivated.

Even with her back turned toward him, Rafayel still cannot help but stare. His gaze sweeps over her form, following the shape of her hair, held in place with pins made of diamonds and gold. The drab, tattered blanket that surrounds her is unbecoming of a princess, a stark contrast to the rest of her elegance.

He longs to reach out for her and replace the blanket with the warmth of his embrace. To banish whatever thoughts have been keeping her mind so otherwise occupied. It is an old yet familiar twinge of jealousy that has followed him through the ages. He wants to be the sole object of her focus.

But Rafayel stays his hand, tightening his grip on the needle between his fingertips, and desperately tries to silence the yearning in his chest. He cannot allow himself to go down this path—not again, not when he has already strayed too far simply by being here with her in the first place. 

A particularly strong breeze blows through the gap in the tent’s opening, strong enough that Rafayel can feel it from where he sits. The Princess draws in a sharp breath, turning away as the wind hits her face. She shivers again and mutters a low curse beneath her breath, wrinkling her nose in a way that is so unbearably endearing. 

Rafayel lowers his gaze. A faint smile touches his mouth.

“Your Highness should not linger so close to the entrance,” he says, finally breaking the silence.

He hears the sound of fabric rustling as she closes the flap to the tent, then soft footfalls. Her shadow enters his peripheral, morphing with his into a single, exaggerated shape, and Rafayel looks up when she finally stands in front of him. She kneels onto her bedroll that is laid out opposite of his, clutching the blanket close to her chest. 

“I wanted to look at the stars,” she replies. 

Flickering flames from the oil lamp that illuminates their tent cast shadows over her face and dance across her delicate features. The subtle pout of her lip indicates her disappointment, and her eyes shine even in the low light, as if the stars themselves have made their home within. 

A knot forms in the pit of Rafayel’s stomach. He sets his armor aside and sticks the sewing needle into it, marking his place. 

“Your Highness has seen the stars before,” he says.

“Not like these.”

“Are these same stars not visible from the palace?”

“They are much prettier out here than in the city.” Her Highness looks down as another chill runs through her body. She picks at the fraying edges of her blanket. “I wanted to admire them during our last trip out here, but the sandstorm prevented us from doing so.”

Rafayel sighs quietly. Before he can think better of it, he reaches across the short distance between them and covers her hands with his. Her fingers are cool to the touch from the night air, so he brings them to his lips and warms them with his breath.

The Princess’ eyes widen. A soft, surprised sound sticks in her throat. But then, she smiles, and the faint, melodic lilt of her laughter makes the knot in Rafayel’s stomach twist and tighten. 

She leans toward him. The blanket slips from her shoulders, falling to the ground behind her, and Rafayel stares at her over the tops of their hands. The gold embroidery of her tunic glitters in the dim light against lavender and black fabric, forming an endless web of intricate patterns that draw his gaze downward—over the swell of her chest, the dip in her waist, the sloping rise of her hips.

“Won’t you look at the stars with me, Rafayel?” she asks him, breaking his reverie.

Reluctantly, Rafayel releases her with a sudden pang of guilt, wishing so badly to tell her that he would give her the stars if he could. Instead, he pulls back, ignoring the look of disappointment that flashes through her eyes. 

“Your Highness… should retire for the night,” he says.

The Princess lowers her gaze, watching as Rafayel lays his hands across his lap, then looks back into his eyes. 

“But I’m not tired yet,” she says. “Also, you promised we would spar tonight.”

A flush creeps up the back of Rafayel’s neck and warms his ears. He clears his throat and shakes his head, recalling what transpired after their last training session. A repeat of events would not be appropriate.

“It is late, and the wind is too strong,” he says. Raising an eyebrow, he regards her with a look of amusement, unable to resist the urge to tease her. “And someone wanted to stay up to look at the stars.”

Stubborn as ever, the Princess leans in even closer. “But someone else gave me his word.”

“We have a long journey ahead of us come morning. I must ensure Your Highness’ safe return to the city.”

The Princess scowls at him, and Rafayel frowns when she shifts subtly over to her left, her hand twitching. Faster than he expects, she snatches his dagger from its place beside his pillow, clumsily twirling it in her hand before she jabs it in his direction.

Rafayel flinches, eyes widening, and raises his hands in front of him in self-defense. 

“What—”

“One lesson,” she says, interrupting him.

He eyes the dagger, then her. “Your Highness—”

“Your Princess has given you a command.” 

Rafayel blinks in surprise. Then, he laughs—at himself, at her request, and the absurdity of the circumstances he finds himself in. If only Her Highness realized the true power she holds, her words sharper than any blade could ever be. 

“Fine,” he agrees through a sigh. As if he even has the choice. “One lesson. Your Highness must rest after that.” 

Rafayel relaxes his posture and holds out one of his hands, reassuring her with a nod and a practiced, boyish smile. Satisfied, the Princess smiles back, then moves to place the dagger in his palm. 

It is exactly the opening Rafayel needs. Leaning forward, he clasps her wrist and pulls hard, twisting her arm so the dagger’s blade points away from them both. The Princess loses her balance and falls with a gasp, and Rafayel uses the momentum he created to spin her around and yank her down onto his lap. He wraps his arm around her stomach, holding her in place as she tries to squirm away. Once sure that she is suitably restrained, he wrenches the dagger free from her hand. 

“Rafayel!”

The Princess continues to struggle, clawing at his arm and desperately trying to escape his grasp. Rafayel tightens his hold on her and overpowers each attempt to break free. She finally goes completely still, holding her breath, when he presses the flat edge of the dagger against her cheek.

He lowers his lips to her ear, his breath ghosting over the shell of it. He feels her responding shudder against him and holds her even tighter. She winces at the discomfort of his tight grip, but dares not move otherwise.

“Tonight’s lesson,” Rafayel says, soft and quiet, “shall be an exercise in trust.”

Slowly, he moves the dagger down the side of her face. The Princess releases the air from her lungs in a shaky exhale, watching him from the corner of her eye.

“Your Highness has failed the first test,” he goes on. “An assassin must never relinquish their weapon so freely.”

The Princess scoffs. “Then you also failed by letting me take it from you to begin with.”

“A bold assertion.” Rafayel laughs and brings the tip of the blade to her chin, turning her face toward him. “I do not believe Your Highness is in the position to argue.”

It is, of course, a mistake, because without another word, looking straight into his eyes, Her Highness lifts her leg and brings her heel down onto his toes—hard. 

Rafayel clenches his teeth as the pain spreads throughout his foot. When that is not enough to break free, the Princess elbows him in the ribs. Rafayel accepts the blow, doubling over with a grunt, and only then does she manage to slip out of his arms. Panic rises to Rafayel’s chest as he just narrowly avoids slicing her cheek. She falls forward onto her bedroll, crawling on hands and knees, and pulls something out from under her pillow. Whirling around, she unsheaths the simple dagger he gave her weeks prior.

Rafayel jumps to his feet and holds his blade out in front of him. Pleased with herself, the Princess grins.

“And now?” she asks him. Taunts him. 

Narrowing his eyes, Rafayel moves to strike, lunging toward her with his dagger raised above his head. The Princess stumbles backward, but she manages to catch his wrist and block his advance. Rafayel eases off, giving her a moment to reposition.

“Faster,” he growls, and charges at her again.

Her Highness reacts quicker than before. She crosses her arms and catches his wrist between them, trapping him in place with her dagger. When Rafayel does not break free on his own, she releases him.

“Again,” Rafayel says.

The sound of metal cutting through the air and the shallow puffs of their breaths echo throughout the tent as they perform each exercise multiple times. With limited space around them, Rafayel adjusts his maneuvers accordingly, taking care not to lead her too close to the supporting poles of the tent or the dwindling fire of the oil lamp. Their lack of armor poses another challenge. He will have to be especially careful not to injure her.

The air quickly grows warmer within the small space as a result of their spar, and the sound of their breathing grows harsher and more ragged along with it. Sweat glistens along the Princess’ brow, small strands of hair loosening around her temples and clinging to her skin.

“Your Highness is still too slow,” he says. “Each movement must be decisive and swift.”

He changes directions, aiming his dagger lower. The Princess blocks it effortlessly.

“An assassin must never hesitate.” He attacks her again. He nods in approval when she blocks him a second time. “Do not ever show an opponent mercy.” 

“Even you?” the Princess asks.

She said it so casually, her tone light-hearted, but those mere two words make Rafayel’s steps falter as if she just punched the air out of him. 

“Especially me,” he answers quietly.

They repeat the sequence several more times, settling into a familiar rhythm. Rafayel quiets his mind and wills himself to focus. Attack, block, reset. Attack, block, reset. Again and again, around and around. After the last cycle, he backs off, raising his hand to signal his retreat and taking several steps away from her. He wipes his brow with the back of his sleeve, catching his breath.

The Princess maintains their distance, holding her dagger in front of her, ready for anything. 

“Not bad,” Rafayel says. “However, Your Highness still has much to learn in the art of combat.”

He lowers his attack arm, pointing the dagger away from her. 

“A weapon must be a natural extension of one’s self,” he adds. He demonstrates by twirling his dagger, fluid and swift, seamlessly cutting through the air. “Your Highness holds a dagger like it is made of burning coals.”

She immediately tightens her grip around the hilt, wrinkling her nose in response to his teasing, but she remains firmly in place. Rafayel smiles and holds out his free hand.

“Come,” he offers. “Let me remind Your Highness how to wield it properly.”

The Princess does not hesitate: she crosses the distance between them and aims her dagger at his face with a shout. Rafayel quickly brings his own dagger up to block her, and their blades clash with a deafening, metallic clang. His smile stretches into a proper grin. 

“Good,” he says. “Your Highness has passed the second test.”

The Princess snarls, baring her teeth, and attacks him again. There is a lethal edge present in her subsequent movements that was not there before. She is faster, harsher, more decisive, and what she still lacks in finesse and experience she makes up for in sheer tenacity. Rafayel blocks and dodges, over and over, letting her maintain the offensive.

She is quickly backing him into a corner, leading him toward the other end of the tent. Rafayel moves from side to side, even more careful not to disturb their surroundings the more aggressive the Princess becomes.

Anger flashes through Her Highness’ eyes, her mouth twisting into a grimace. 

“You’re holding back,” she accuses him.

She moves to strike him. Rafayel catches both of her wrists, then resets, frowning at her in confusion. 

“Of course I am,” he replies. “This is a spar, not actual combat.”

Her scowl deepens. “I don’t care.”

“Your Highness—”

She does not let him finish, recklessly lunging at him again, her movements sloppy and unrefined. Rafayel lets out a huff as her blade comes down toward his face. He grabs her by the wrists once more and shoves her away. The Princess sways on her feet as she loses balance, but she manages to reorient herself before she falls.

Rafayel’s gaze softens as he regards her with no small amount of concern, fearing he has pushed her too far. 

“You tell me not to hesitate,” she says. “You tell me not to show you any mercy. Yet here you are—hesitating.”

She attacks him again.

“Showing me mercy.”

And again.

“Treating me like a helpless child.”

And again.

“Fight me”—and again—“like you”—and again—“mean it!”

Rafayel ducks as she slashes the dagger over the top of his head, snipping off a small lock of his hair. He sidesteps, barely managing to dodge another swing. 

He needs to put a stop to this.

No longer holding back, Rafayel moves in on her quickly, not giving her even the slightest chance to react. The Princess gasps when he disarms her, forcing her dagger out of her grasp, sending it flying and clattering to the ground. He kicks her leg out from under her, watching as she falls unceremoniously onto her backside, landing on her bedroll. 

With a frustrated growl, Her Highness wraps her legs around his and pulls him forward. Rafayel steadies himself as best as he can on the way down, but there is no use stopping it. He winces as he lands on hands and knees with a grunt, absorbing the impact, hovering over her. 

He sits up and wrestles his arms free from the Princess’ hands after she reaches out to grab him. She is bold, he will give her that, and fast. But he is still faster—and stronger.

He straddles her hips and points his dagger to her throat. The Princess seizes him by his wrists and steadies his blade, holding on so tightly her knuckles turn white. She digs her nails into his skin until it stings, making Rafayel hiss through his teeth. 

“Enough,” he grits out.

Her Highness gazes up at him with a defiant tilt of her chin, clenching her jaw from the effort of keeping him at bay.

“No.”

Despite the circumstances, Rafayel huffs out a laugh. “Even when faced with certain death, Your Highness does not surrender,” he says, each word laced with amusement. He tilts his head, curious. “That is unwise.”

A flicker of recognition crosses her gaze that gives Rafayel pause. She has looked at him that way before, whenever he would sneak into her bedchamber at night and find her with the fishtail beacon clutched tightly between her fingers. She has looked at him that way countless other times, in another life. In many other lives.

She looks at him like she remembers. 

“You would never hurt me,” she replies. “Not really.”

The certainty in her voice pains him, a familiar ache that echoes deep within his chest. Rafayel frowns as fragmented memories of many distant pasts coalesce in his mind like raindrops on glass, some indiscernible from others, overlapping moments across lifetimes. 

The God of the Sea and His bride…

Memories that occupy his dreams and every waking thought. 

…a Lemurian and the fearsome Witch of the Abyssal Rift…

Memories she will never remember. 

…an artist and his bodyguard…

Memories he can never forget. 

Rafayel wants so badly to believe that he will never hurt her, but fate has always been cruel to him, and the universe who wields it even more so. His eyes darken, clouded by the once-raging seas of Lemuria that now only thrash behind his gaze. 

“Would I not?” he asks. He lets out a low chuckle at the way she tightens her fingers around his wrists. “How can Your Highness be so certain? There is no one around to hear Your Highness’ cries for help. Even if there was…”

Rafayel pauses, searching her face, her eyes. He waits for her reaction—something, anything at all. 

“It would be too late.”

The Princess goes to speak, but the words seem to die on her lips, and she promptly snaps her mouth shut. Rafayel smirks, prepared to relish in his victory.  

But then, slowly, she loosens her hold on him, until her hands fall away entirely. 

A prolonged silence wedges uncomfortably between them, surpassed only by the wailing desert winds beyond their tent. 

“Do it, then,” she says. 

Rafayel holds her gaze. He expects her to look smug, but her expression remains deliberately neutral, a carefully constructed mask. 

“Do it,” she repeats. “Kill me.”

Rafayel keeps his hand steady, so steady that his wrist aches in protest. He very well could kill her right here and now, take back his heart, and fulfill his duty to his people—just like that. She does not realize what she is risking by offering herself to him so willingly.

Or perhaps she does.

She knows. She cannot remember, but she knows. 

She knows him. All of him. She has always known, even though she may never come to know it herself. In this moment, as Rafayel stares her down over the curved edge of his dagger, he truly believes that she does. 

He almost forgot what it is like to be known.  

But here they are once again, bound to one another in this life, and the next, and the many others that have come before. Despite everything, that has never changed. Their love is inevitable, their fate intertwined in a prophecy written in blood and stone—a fate he himself doomed them to long, long ago. 

For years beyond his comprehension, he has fought an uphill battle: desire at war with destiny, his pleasure versus his purpose, his love for her perpetually at odds with the love he holds for his people. The Sea demands a follower. Lemuria demands a sacrifice. Rafayel wonders when it will be his turn to make demands instead. 

It would be so, so easy to kill her…

She should be afraid of him.

He will teach her to be afraid.

With a wave of his hand, Rafayel extinguishes the flame in the oil lamp. The Princess lets loose a gasp as they are plunged into darkness. 

“Does Your Highness not remember our previous lessons?” 

His eyes adjust quickly. The outline of her form comes back into view, followed by her face, bathed in shadow. Before she can answer him, Rafayel lazily begins to drag the tip of his dagger down her throat. 

Though she tries to suppress it, he does not miss the subtle shift in the Princess’ expression—the way her eyes widen almost imperceptibly—nor the hitch of her breath. Her body tenses beneath him, but even so, her quiet determination remains, made evident by the firm set of her jaw and the slight crease in her brow. Her resolve will not be broken so easily.

He waits for her to stop him, to beg him to stop, to surrender. The Princess remains silent. 

“An assassin must kill quickly, before they are killed first,” he says. “As Your Highness may recall, that is what makes the throat a favorable choice. One cut…”

Rafayel turns the dagger with a flourish, holding it horizontally against her neck.

“That is all it takes.”

Her throat moves as she swallows. Rafayel watches, transfixed, as the dagger moves along with it.

He blinks. He blinks again. His mind is slipping, thoughts passing like sand through his fingers. Images flash behind his eyes of the Princess laid out beneath him, blood pooling under her body, her heart carved out of her chest yet still beating in the palm of his hand. 

Rafayel shakes his head, pushing the thoughts away, and points the sharp tip of the blade at her throat once more. Though not enough to break skin, he presses down just hard enough to leave a mark. A single line, raised and puffy against her otherwise unblemished complexion, follows his dagger from her throat to the top of her chest. 

If she feels any pain, Her Highness does not show it. Rafayel wonders just how far she will trust him to go.

He recalls a time, long before, when the artist left his mark upon her skin in a similar fashion, with red paint instead of a blade. He wants to leave his mark on her again now. 

It comes to him as easy as breathing. Rafayel turns the dagger carefully and begins to draw a familiar shape into her chest, watching the way her skin reacts the same way as before. For those precious few moments, the world around them falls away. He grows more and more mesmerized at the sight of angry welts forming the shape that mirrors his own mark—the brand on his chest that binds his soul to hers and burns whenever she speaks. 

When he finishes the final line, completing the elegant curve of a Lemurian tail, he flicks the dagger upright and roughly scrapes it against her delicate flesh. This time, he can tell it hurts from the way Her Highness’ eye twitches, but it is the only acknowledgment she deigns to give the pain. Tiny droplets of blood bloom from the small cut, trickling down her chest and disappearing underneath the scooped neckline of her tunic.

She is truly a sight to behold—her skin marked by his blade, her life in his hands. She trusts him implicitly, and it stirs something deep within him, like oil being thrown into a fire, an intense longing the likes of which he has never felt before. Heat rises steadily throughout his entire body, making the flush on his cheeks deepen and his ears burn as he averts his gaze.

Rafayel follows the blood trail with the point of his dagger. The sound of metal dragging against fabric, but not ripping, is nearly deafening. 

“Bone is a troublesome obstacle.”

His voice sounds so far away, unfamiliar even to his own ears, rough and hollow like the sea of golden sand outside blowing in the wind. He moves the dagger between her breasts, then lower, prodding at her sternum for emphasis. He watches the steady rise and fall of her chest as the Princess meticulously measures and counts each breath.

“To reach the heart,” he continues, “one must…”

He angles the dagger upward, notching it between her ribs on her left side, and points it at her heart. 

His heart. 

Rafayel narrows his eyes. He pushes her down harder into the bedroll, but still, she does not react—barely even winces. He feels dizzy and drunk, blood roaring in his ears, as if his mind is no longer his own. No matter what he does, she does not flinch. No matter what he says, she does not answer. 

The silence stretches between them, tormenting him. Mocking him. 

“Does Your Highness truly not fear death?”

Finally, the mask slips. The Princess’ gaze softens. 

“Are you afraid, Rafayel?” she asks him.

For a moment, his grip slackens around the hilt of his dagger. She is trying to disorient him. He chuckles again, a low and bitter sound. 

“There is nothing I fear,” he says. 

She frowns. “You’re lying.”

Rafayel presses the blade against her ribs. Though not strong enough to break skin, she goes tense beneath him once more.

“Everything I have ever feared has already come true.”

He lays his hand over her stomach, pointing the dagger in the direction of her womb.

“The worst nightmares that have ever haunted me, I have experienced firsthand, time and time again,” he continues, recalling every time he has loved her, lost her, never forgotten her. “But Your Highness…”

With a shake of his head, Rafayel grins. 

“Your Highness still has not answered my question.”

Beneath his palm, her heartbeat is strong, growing stronger by the second.

“No,” the Princess says. 

Rafayel looks up. “Your Highness refuses to answer?”

“No,” she repeats firmly. “As in, no, I do not fear death.”

To his surprise, she lifts her hand. He tries not to react as she draws near, but he has always been so helpless against her, and a short gasp escapes him before he can stifle it. She gently lays her hand against his cheek. Her fingers, cool once more, bring a modicum of relief to his flushed skin. Rafayel turns his face into her palm on impulse with a ragged exhale. Her touch is so tender, far more tender than he deserves.

“I do not fear death,” she says, without a single note of uncertainty in her voice, “because I do not fear you.”

There is a sinking feeling in Rafayel’s stomach, heavier than stone. He looks into her eyes, and for that moment, she is no longer a princess; she is a bride, a queen, a witch, a bodyguard, a muse, a lover…

She is everything. She is his, and he is hers. He has always been hers. 

He reaches for her in return, cradling her face so gently, almost reverently. 

“You should,” he says. His voice is quiet, choked with regret. “You really… really should.”

In the span of a single breath, the distance between them closes. Rafayel is not sure who moves first, but in the end, it simply does not matter—not when Her Highness’ lips are so soft and inviting beneath his, and the taste of honey and rosewater lingers on her tongue, and she clings to him like she has been starved, deprived, kissing him so deeply it steals the air from his lungs. 

He groans against her lips as she pulls him closer. Still holding his dagger, his dominant hand remains trapped between their bodies. The other trembles as he slides his fingers into her hair and pulls her forward.

A quiet moan vibrates in her throat. The Princess runs her hands down the length of his back and then up the sides of his shirt. Rafayel presses himself even closer, wanting to feel the entirety of her body molded against his. The single thread of self-control he has left quickly unravels into nothingness, and he struggles to hold onto a solid thought, his mind utterly consumed by her. She is so warm, trapped under his weight the way she is—so close yet still not close enough. He longs to touch her, to feel her skin against his, to watch her come undone so beautifully as he moves within her. 

Rafayel tears his lips away from hers and trails wet kisses down the side of her face instead, then along her jaw. He pulls her head to the side by her hair, groaning softly as she draws in a shaky breath in response. He sucks a greedy bruise over her hammering pulse, every beat of her heart spurring him on more and more.

The Princess’ hands continue to wander. She traces meaningless shapes against his shirt. She bunches the fabric within her grasp. Twists. Pulls. She ventures upward, threading her fingers through his hair and holding him against her, while the other hand lingers in the middle of his back. 

Rafayel pauses once he reaches her chest. The fine hairs on the back of his neck prickle.

“If I truly am to die by your hand,” the Princess says suddenly, and Rafayel shudders at the unmistakable feeling of cold steel pressed against his spine, “your own demise will be just as swift.”

He freezes. Her Highness pushes the tip of an entirely new dagger between his vertebrae. His thighs go tense around her hips, locking them both in place. One wrong move and he will never walk again. 

Perhaps, he realizes, it is still he who should be afraid of her.

He lifts his head and stares at her in disbelief. “When did—”

She cuts him off with her laughter, clear and vibrant, giddy from her victory. Rafayel sputters, completely dumbstruck. He did not even hear her draw the weapon from its sheath, nor does he know where she even could have hidden it. The kiss was a total distraction. He cannot help but feel a little disappointed. 

But her joy is too infectious, and a smirk slowly spreads across Rafayel’s lips. “It seems I have taught Your Highness well.”

She grins back at him, eyes glittering with mischief and starlight even in the surrounding darkness. 

“An assassin must kill quickly,” she says, echoing his previous words, “before they are killed first.”

Rafayel hisses when the small blade scrapes against his skin, tearing through his shirt. Pleasure twists with pain and forces an involuntary groan out of him. 

Her Highness brings the dagger between them. It is tiny, small enough to hide in her boot or tuck into her belt. His blood glimmers at the pointed end, a single drop of crimson dipping onto the rumpled fabric of her tunic. Rafayel follows the droplet with his eyes as it falls. 

The Princess sits up slowly, making him sit up with her. His arms return to his sides, and he allows his own blade to fall from his grasp. 

“Do you trust me?” she asks him. 

The cord of restraint holding him back finally snaps, and something else inside of him withers and dies along with it. Regret. Shame. Guilt. Emotions he cannot even name, all of which no longer matter. 

None of it matters anymore. And all Rafayel can do is laugh.

“My princess,” he whispers, low and rough like gravel. He bows his head. “I am at Your Highness’ mercy.”

She places the tip of her dagger beneath his chin, lifting his gaze back to hers. 

“Rafayel.” Her voice wavers slightly as she speaks his name. “Kiss me.”

Their bond resonates from the depths of his very being, tendrils of agony that spread through his body, constricting him, punishing him for daring to ever deny himself the ecstasy of her touch. But even as he feels himself drawn to her, compelled by her, he does not need it. Not for this. Never for this.

He takes her hand and squeezes, guiding the pitiful little dagger to his chest. The blade harmoniously cuts into his palm and hers, their blood mixing together and trickling down their wrists. The Princess whimpers in pain. Rafayel leans in to kiss her again, deliberate and deep, swallowing down her cries. 

She writhes underneath him and tries to push him off her lap. When he does not budge, she draws his bottom lip in between her teeth and bites down in retaliation, soothing it afterward with her tongue. Rafayel gasps, a broken moan escaping him, pleasure coiling tightly in his gut. Letting go of her hand, he pushes her down against the bedroll once more, bending at the waist and leaning over her. A reawakened hunger flows through him, and his touch becomes frantic as he slips his hands beneath her tunic and lifts it over her head.

The Princess is beautiful. Rafayel stops to look at her, really look at her, his breath catching at the sight of her bare skin—skin that has been marked by his blade and now begs to be savored beneath his lips. He starts at her shoulder first, then moves to her neck, mouthing along the hollow of her throat. He moves lower and lower still, until he finds the trail of blood he left behind before, messily smeared across her chest. He flattens his tongue against her skin and laps up the blood with a moan like it is the sweetest ambrosia, and he relishes the pleasurable sounds that slip past her lips, the breathless way she whispers his name. 

She slides her fingers through his hair and pulls, and Rafayel groans, closing his teeth around the soft mound of her breast. He kneads the other with his hand, ignoring the stinging pain of the cut across his palm as his own blood transfers onto her skin. Her answering moan is so divine, so unguarded, that it goes straight to his cock, and the front of his pants tighten uncomfortably. 

“Rafayel,” she says again, louder than before, arching up into his eager mouth. Rafayel lifts his eyes to watch her. Hot, urgent arousal curls in his stomach at the sight of her already so lost in pleasure, with her head thrown back and hair strewn about. One hand shields her face, her index finger wedged between her teeth, dagger pointed away from her.

He finally moves off of her lap and kneels between her legs, then reaches up to pull the dagger from her grasp. The Princess gasps as Rafayel slides the tip of the blade down her stomach, creating another faint but angry line. He follows it with his lips and soothes it with more kisses.

“Up,” he says, tucking his free hand under the small of her back. 

She complies and lifts her hips. He undresses her quickly, tugging her pants and undergarments down her legs, and then reaches behind his back to pull his own shirt over his head. He lowers himself down onto his elbows and holds her gaze as he trails fleeting kisses past her navel. Her legs fall open for him, and Rafayel moans at the mere sight of her.

One hand comes to rest against the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. Rafayel nuzzles against her and turns to press a kiss there. She continues to play with his hair, pulling gently, nails scratching against his scalp and sending a shiver down his spine. He looks up again and slowly brings the dagger up between her legs. 

“Your Highness tricked me,” he whispers, poking her thigh with the tip of the blade.

The Princess jumps in surprise, but she laughs under her breath, and some of the tension in her body ebbs away. Her eyes soften around the edges, and her smile melts into something more serene—more sincere.

“All you ever do is hold back,” she says. Her gaze flicks between him and the dagger. “I don’t want you to hold back anymore. Not from me.”

Rafayel’s breath catches as her words settle over him. Slowly, he presses the flat edge of the blade into her thigh, then the tip. He draws swirls and shapes as he continues to transform her skin into a masterpiece of his own making. A twist of the wrist, and he guides the sharp edge along her supple skin to create a fine cut. Her Highness hisses through her teeth, muscles twitching.

Setting the dagger aside, Rafayel chases the blood as it trickles down, catching it with his lips. He breathes in the heady scent of her as he noses the wiry curls between her thighs and parts her with his fingertips. He moans at the first taste of her, the mixture of her arousal and the coppery aftertaste of her blood on his tongue nearly driving him to the brink of total oblivion. 

The Princess sighs with pleasure and tightens her fingers through his hair when she begins to move, her back bowing. Rafayel allows her to set their pace and supports her weight with his hands, following each steady, sensual roll of her hips as she chases the heat of his mouth. 

“Oh,” she breathes. “Rafayel…”

He groans when her thighs clamp around him, and he imagines himself sheathed inside her, the urge to take her stronger than before. He pushes his own hips into the bedroll in search of more friction, clinging to any sense of relief he can find, determined to taste her release before he seeks his own. 

It does not take long, wound up as she is. The Princess lets out a sharp cry, hips flexing and thighs trembling as she comes. Whispered pleas tumble from her lips that grow louder and louder as Rafayel works her through her release, licking into her relentlessly, not pulling away until she is whining in protest from the overstimulation.

“My beloved.” His voice is breathy, soft. A whisper against her thigh. “Huerte mea… vesta mea…”

She collapses against the bedroll, her body going lax. Rafayel straightens, wiping the slick off his chin with the back of his hand as he gazes down at her prone form.

He kneels between her still-trembling legs, pushing her knees even further apart, and shoves his pants down just far enough. Taking his cock into his hand, he gives himself one stroke, then another, before he carefully guides himself forward. The heat between her thighs envelops him, welcoming him, and he lets out a reflexive sigh as he sinks deeper. He bites his lip and struggles not to close his eyes, wanting to watch himself disappear into her cunt.

His mind goes blank—whiting out for one long, blissful moment—once he is fully seated. Rafayel holds himself still, so still, even though he is all but coming apart at the seams, muscles twitching restlessly in anticipation, his own need desperate to be sated.

She holds him close, arms and legs wrapped around him in a sacred geometry that makes him feel more worshiped than any other offering or prayer or devotion ever has. Rafayel leans into her, his hips nestled within the cradle of her thighs. So long as he lives, reborn anew as many times as fate demands it, nothing else will ever be able to compare. Lemuria could fall a thousand times more, damning his soul for all eternity. He will do it all over, again and again, if it means coming home to her even just one more time, saving her just one more time—

And he does not know how much longer he will be able to hold back.

Her Highness moves her hands, fingers at his sides. He shudders beneath her touch, gentle and explorative, as she traces the faint, jagged lines of old scars etched into his skin. Rafayel bends to kiss her brow, but the Princess nudges him with her nose and searches for his lips, finding them in another needy kiss.

“Rafayel,” she whimpers. She wriggles her hips beneath him, urging him to move.

He answers her with a languid thrust that has her head lolling back. 

“As my princess wishes,” he says, and then he kisses his way back down, smiling against the side of her neck.

Rafayel gives her time to adjust, moving with short, steady strokes that roll into one another before he settles into a familiar rhythm. When she begins to move with him, he pulls her even closer—lifts her legs higher along his sides so she can cross them at the middle of his back.

The Princess fucks like she fights, breathless and eager, gradually moving with more confidence than she started with. She holds onto him tightly and takes what she needs, works her hips against his with determination as they rock together. Rafayel’s entire body thrums with pleasure, a heartbeat all its own, and he wishes he could spend all of eternity in this moment, drowning in her depths. 

She sucks in air when he nips at the delicate skin below her ear. His mouth gentles in apology, his next few kisses more tender, his tongue tasting the sweat on her skin. Rafayel presses himself closer, pushes himself deeper inside on every thrust. He is unable to resist for long, catching her earlobe between his teeth, biting down once more. Her Highness runs her nails down his back, and he nearly crumbles, pleasure and pain twisting and unwinding, consuming him whole—

“Fuck,” he sighs into her neck, kissing it again. “So soft… so warm…”

Rafayel props himself up on one hand and lowers the other to where they are joined to circle his fingers over her clit. He groans at the responding clench of her cunt, and the moan she gifts him with in return makes his blood run hot as her hips arch upward into his touch. 

“Your Highness always sings so sweetly for me,” he says, an urgent need threaded through every word. “Let me hear it again.”

He gazes down at her, taken with the way her body slides up, up, up against the bedroll with every snap of his hips. Rising to his knees, he settles his free hand at her waist, holding her there as he meets her with another powerful thrust, then draws her down even harder against him.

“Please,” he rasps. “Please let me hear it again—”

The Princess keens, lashes fluttering as her eyes slip shut. Rafayel does it again, driving forward harder than the first time, and then again, determined to hear her cry his name even just one more time. He cannot look away, never wants to look away, utterly hypnotized by the way her body moves, the way the muscles in her stomach flex and flutter. 

Curious, he releases her waist, then lays his palm flat against her lower abdomen and presses down—

“Rafayel!” the Princess cries out, and his name has truly never sounded sweeter. 

He feels it when she reaches her end, wave after wave, bearing down on him and clenching rhythmically around his cock and bringing him to the very precipice of his undoing. His eyes never leave her face, watching the kaleidoscope of emotion playing out across her features as she continues to writhe, as her already bruising grip on him tightens to the point of pain.

Desperation claws at him from within. Rafayel chases after the exquisite pressure low in his belly that grows stronger with each thrust. His rhythm falters as he pushes himself to move harder, faster, no longer able to contain it. He plants his hands back on the ground on either side of her hips for leverage as he drives into her, and gods, he is close, so close, each cry that escapes her bringing him closer, closer, closer—

“Your—Your Highness,” he stammers, voice cracking around the words. He lets out a low whine. “I’m—” 

Helpless against the inevitability of his own completion, Rafayel surrenders to it—a pleasure so intense it nearly pains him, makes his limbs spasm, makes his heartbeat even more erratic. He squeezes his eyes shut and grits his teeth, broken little sounds spilling from his lips as he spills inside her, until he has nothing more left to give.

When he opens his eyes once more, the Princess is smiling. Her gaze is serene, almost dreamlike, and for a moment Rafayel wonders if he is, in fact, dreaming. 

The world falls away. Time stands still. There is only him and her. 

Arms shaking, he nearly collapses as he lies down next to her and curls up at her side. The Princess wraps him up in her embrace and holds him close, and he burrows into the junction between her neck and shoulder. Later, he will clean their bodies and tend to their wounds, then hold her throughout the night as they sleep. But right now, he needs only this.

The softness of her voice soon draws him from his thoughts: “Rafayel?”

“Mm?”

“Do you want to know what I fear?”

Rafayel’s pulse jumps against his throat. He lifts his head from her shoulder, and she reaches for him, gently guiding his gaze to hers with a finger under his chin. She runs her thumb over his bottom lip in a way that is heartbreakingly familiar.

“I fear that one day, I will call for you,” she says, “and you will not answer.”

Guilt runs through him like an arrow to the chest. The knot in his stomach returns, now a noose.

“I fear that I will one day know a life without you in it,” she continues, dropping her voice to a whisper. “That is a fate worse than death.”

He shifts onto his side, pulling her along with him, and touches his forehead to hers. Their noses brush, and Rafayel holds her cheek as he kisses her, even though his throat feels tight and he wants to weep at the mere notion of being without her.

“I have always looked for you,” he whispers back, and though she cannot comprehend the full weight of his words, he wants her to hear them. “And I have always found you.” 

The Princess smiles again, saying nothing. Her touch is gentle against his cheeks as she brings his lips back to hers for another longer, softer kiss.

She knows. She knows, but she does not remember. Cannot remember. And for the first time across his many, many lives, Rafayel wonders if maybe it is for the best. 

But he will. And should a day ever come where he is not able to find her, he will still remember.

It will not be enough, but he will always, always remember.

[nekoashiii]

Can I request high school au with Caleb, where reader and him has been friends since kindergarten and have been pinning over each other for years, to the point all their friends know asides from them, until one day, Caleb asks reader to be his girlfriend and go to prom together?

Meant to Be, Since We Were Three

Note: here you go anon, hope you like this ╰(￣ω￣ｏ)

The first time you met Caleb, you were five years old, sitting alone on the swings at recess. Your tiny hands gripped the chains tightly as your legs kicked at the air, but the swing barely moved. You frowned, frustrated.

“Why isn’t it working?” you muttered under your breath.

“‘Cause you gotta go back and forward,” a voice said beside you.

You turned your head to see a boy standing there, messy brown hair falling over his forehead and bright purple eyes watching you curiously. He had a small gap in his front teeth and dirt smudged on his cheek, like he’d been playing in the sandbox.

You pouted. “I am going back and forward.”

He shook his head, then suddenly climbed onto the swing next to you. “Nah, like this,” he said, pushing off with his feet. His swing moved easily, gliding higher and higher as the wind rushed past him.

You watched him in awe. “Whoa.”

“See?” he said, grinning as he slowed down. “Now you try!”

Biting your lip, you copied him, leaning back and kicking your legs forward. The swing finally lifted, sending you up, and you let out a gasp.

“I’m doing it!” you cheered.

“Told ya,” the boy said proudly.

For the next few minutes, the two of you swung side by side, giggling as you raced to see who could go higher. Eventually, your legs got tired, and you let the swing slow to a stop.

The boy jumped off his swing, landing in the dirt with a small thud. Then, without hesitation, he held out his hand to you.

“I’m Caleb,” he said.

You blinked at him before taking his hand and shaking it firmly. “I’m (Y/N).”

Caleb’s smile widened. “Wanna go build a sandcastle?”

You beamed. “Yeah!”

That was all it took for the two of you to be friends. Within minutes, the two of you were running around the playground together, climbing the monkey bars and pretending the ground was lava. Caleb let you take the last turn on the slide, and you shared your animal crackers with him even though they were your favorite.

And when the school day ended, you really didn’t want to go home.

“Can we stay?” you whispered, standing next to Caleb while the teacher lined everyone up for pick-up.

He looked up at you with the same hesitant frown. “I dunno. My mom will be mad if I don’t go home.”

You sighed, kicking at the ground. “Yeah… me too.”

Still, neither of you wanted to leave. Because in just one day, Caleb had become your best friend.

By the time you reached middle school, your friendship with Caleb was still just as strong. Maybe even stronger.

You always walked to class together, sat next to each other at lunch, and partnered up for every school project. You were a packaged deal—wherever one of you was, the other was close behind.

But at some point, things started changing.

Maybe it was when you noticed how much taller he had gotten, or how his once-messy brown hair looked good in that effortless way. Or maybe it was when you started catching yourself staring at his purple eyes for too long, feeling your heart race when he laughed. His voice had gotten deeper too.

Whatever it was, it was weird. And kind of scary.

But you weren’t the only one going through it.

Caleb was going through it, too.

He didn’t understand why it felt different when you smiled at him now, why his stomach flipped whenever your hands accidentally brushed. He didn’t understand why he got so mad when another guy made you laugh, or why his face burned when Zayne teased him about being in love with you.

Love? No way.

At least, that’s what he told himself.

But all your friends could see the truth.

“Just admit it,” Zayne glanced up from his book to look at caleb one day at lunch, watching Caleb steal glances at you across the cafeteria. “You like them.”

“I don’t,” Caleb muttered, stabbing his food with his fork.

“Then why do you stare at them like a lovesick puppy?”

“I don’t!”

Caleb had no response. He just turned red and focused on his food, ignoring his friend.

But deep down, he was starting to wonder if he was right.

By the time Caleb reached his senior year, his feelings for you were something he could no longer ignore. They had been there for years, buried beneath layers of friendship and habit, but they had grown roots so deep that no amount of denial could erase them.

It wasn’t just a crush. It wasn’t just lingering glances or the occasional stuttering heartbeat when your fingers accidentally brushed.

It was in the way he searched for you in every room without thinking. In the way his day felt off if you weren’t beside him at lunch. It was in the way his name sounded different when you said it, softer, warmer, like something worth treasuring.

Caleb had always been your best friend. He had always been by your side. But somewhere between childhood and now, the simple joy of having you near had twisted into something deeper.

And it terrified him.

Because if he admitted it—if he said it

—there was no going back.

Still, despite his fears, there was one thing he couldn’t ignore.

Prom was coming.

And if he didn’t do something now, someone else would. Why would they not, You looked like an absolute angel.

The thought made his stomach twist. He could already imagine it—someone else holding your hand, standing beside you, making you laugh. Someone else watching the lights reflect in your eyes, dancing with you in the soft glow of the prom room.

It made his hands clench into fists.

It had to be him.

So, one afternoon, with his heart pounding harder than it ever had before, Caleb finally made up his mind. He was going to ask you.

The day he did it, the air was thick with the scent of spring—freshly cut grass, warm pavement, and the faintest trace of cherry blossoms from the trees lining the courtyard. The setting sun cast everything in a golden hue, and for once, Caleb wasn’t thinking about anything else.

Just you.

He found you sitting on the bleachers behind the school, exactly where he expected. It was your usual spot, a place you always ended up after classes—away from the chaos, where you could just exist without the noise of the world pressing in.

You hadn’t noticed him yet.

For a moment, he just stood there, staring, trying to memorize you in this moment—the way the wind toyed with your hair, the way your fingers absently traced patterns on the worn wood of the bleacher.

You were beautiful, And he was hopeless.

Caleb took a deep breath, steeling himself, and then climbed up the steps, taking a seat beside you.

You glanced at him, smiling without hesitation, like you had been waiting for him.

And that was all the encouragement he needed.

So, with every ounce of courage he could gather, Caleb turned to face you fully, his hands tightening into fists against his knees. His heart was trying to beat out of his chest, but he forced himself to speak anyway.

“Go to prom with me.”

You blinked, the weight of his words sinking in like ink seeping into paper.

Prom. With Caleb.

Your best friend since childhood. The boy who had been by your side through everything. The boy with deep purple eyes that always found yours in a crowded room. The boy you had spent years secretly yearning for, too afraid to ask for more and ruin what you had.

And now he was asking you. Not as a joke. Not as a backup plan. Not with the easygoing smirk he used when he teased you.

He was serious.

You could see it in the way his fists clenched against his knees, the way his jaw was set like he was bracing for something, But most of all, you saw it in his eyes.

You had dreamed of this moment, wondered what it would be like—if he would ever look at you the way you looked at him. If you first boyfriend could be caleb, If asking people out was just as romantic as it seemed on shows you watched, And now here he was, sitting inches away, offering you everything you had ever wanted.

And the answer had never been more obvious.

“Yes.”

The word left your lips before you even had time to second-guess it. It was so easy, like breathing.

Caleb’s shoulders relaxed, his hands uncurling, his entire body unwinding like a coil getting released. His lips parted slightly, as if he hadn’t been sure—as if he had doubted himself even a second—that you would say yes.

Instead, you reached out, taking one of his hands in yours, fingers threading together like they had always belonged that way.

“I’ll go to prom with you,” you said again, softer this time, just in case he needed to hear it twice.

Something flickered in his expression, something relieved.

Then, a slow grin broke across his face, the kind that reached his eyes, bright and unguarded, the kind that had always made your chest tighten.

“Good,” he said, squeezing your hand, voice lighter now, steadier. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

And just like that, the space between you shifted, something finally falling into place.

The night of prom arrived faster than either of you expected.

It felt surreal—like a dream that had been unfolding for years but was only now coming into focus. You and Caleb, dressed in beautiful attire, were walking side by side, but it felt different than any other time before. There was a subtle electricity between you, a quiet excitement, as though the entire world had paused to watch the two of you finally cross that invisible line you’d both been dancing around for so long.

You had never seen him like this before. Caleb, always relaxed and carefree, was a little on edge tonight, his usual confident smile a little shakier, his movements a little stiffer. But he looked incredible—his dark hair styled neatly, his purple eyes bright with anticipation, and that navy suit he wore seemed to fit him just a little too perfectly, as if it had been made for this night alone.

And you... You had never felt more gorgeous in your life.

Your dress—deep blue, flowing to your heels and elegant—seemed to shimmer in the light, its fabric catching every movement, every step. Caleb’s eyes never left you as you entered the venue, and you couldn’t help but feel the warmth spread across your cheeks, knowing how different everything felt now.

You and Caleb had always been close. And now there was a deeper understanding between you two that made every shared glance, every soft smile, feel like something more.

He offered you his arm, a playful glint in his eyes, and you took it, letting him guide you through the crowd in the grand hall the prom was being held at.

You both made your way to the dance floor, and as the first slow song began, Caleb hesitated for just a fraction of a second. You could feel his uncertainty in the way he tightened his grip on your hand, but you smiled up at him reassuringly.

“Relax, Caleb,” you whispered, “I’m right here. i wont melt into the ground”

A soft chuckle escaped his lips. “I know.” He stepped closer, his free hand settling on your waist, and for a moment, everything else faded into the background. You rested your head gently against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear.

You could hardly believe this moment was real.

"I always wanted to dance with you," Caleb murmured, his voice low and warm, his breath brushing the top of your head. "But I never thought it would be like this."

You glanced up at him, catching the tenderness in his eyes. "Me neither."

In that moment, everything felt perfect.

The music swirled around you, but it was just the two of you—Caleb and you. Your heart fluttered, every step bringing you closer, both literally and figuratively. You never thought a moment like this could be so simple, yet so profound.

"Caleb," you whispered, your voice barely audible, "I can't believe we're here together."

He grinned, his eyes twinkling with his usual look. "We’ve always been here," he replied softly. "Just had to figure it out."

His hand moved to gently brush a strand of hair behind your ear, his touch lingering on your skin. You closed your eyes at the sensation, the warmth of his fingers on your cheek making your heart race.

And then, just when you thought you couldn’t feel any closer to him, Caleb pulled back slightly, his gaze intense. “I’m so glad you said yes to me,” he confessed, his voice barely a whisper in the music-filled room. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t.”

You smiled, your heart full.

His eyes softened, a mix of relief and happiness painting his face. “We’ve been friends for so long, but this... this is what i always wanted.”

Your heart skipped a beat. You had always known it too, but hearing him say it out loud made it real in a way nothing else could.

“me too,” you whispered back.

The song continued, but in that moment, you didn’t need anything else. The people outside the dance floor didn’t matter. All that mattered was you and Caleb, here together, sharing this perfect night.

And when the music slowed, and the lights dimmed, Caleb leaned down, his lips brushing against yours in the softest kiss.

[kedreeva]

I forget why I followed you (I feel like it was for art reasons but I honestly forget whether or not I've seen you post art recently) but I definitely stuck around for the birds. Any big plans this year you're super excited about?

considering I don't do art I have to believe it wasn't for art! Maybe for writing, or stranger things stuff.

There's actually a lot I'm super excited about!

The MOST exciting is the European violet project. If all things go according to plan (hahahasobs), Earl will produce a handful of european violet hens for me this year! This will be very exciting, as I've dreamed of having EV for years.

Sometime in April, I am hopping a ride with another peafowl keeper that's heading to kansas to pick up birds from a friend of mine. She wanted to go anyway but doesn't like driving, so I'll be driving and she'll be paying the way! It means a chance to see Bill again, and maybe get some photos of certain mutations for the calculator project (particularly the hens, I am missing a lot of Hen colors). I like to see all the different colors in person, and I love hanging out with other peafowl folks.

The calculator project is going.... better than my wildest dreams could have hoped. I'm still a bit dazed and starry eyed it's going at all, but there's a rough UI now, and at least one artist working on the colors (the same artist did the lineart already, it's just a matter of making color layers for all the colors now... "just" i say, like that doesn't take SO much work). I've been working on getting the genetics pages finished on my website so that this can be a part of that section of the site.

The quail are also moving right along.... My goal is wild type celadons, and I'm coming at that problem from 2 different angles to hopefully get it done as thoroughly as possible. I've got roughly 8 more weeks before the second WT line I ordered in will be laying, and then I will be doing crosses with that one and the first one. I've got the WT x Celadon group that's all (currently) rosetta roux birds. That group is producing eggs like you would not believe, and their offspring should have A FEW roux birds in pharaoh pattern. They should produce 25% tibetan (homo EB), 50% rosetta (het EB), and 25% pharaoh (wild type pattern). Of those 25%, only 25% will be full celadons, and only half of those will be hens. So. It will be slow going getting the birds I need from that group, but I'm vibrating with anticipation all the same.

Luckily, summer is a good time for moving babies out! I've got several reptile expos, and several bird swaps. At the end of April there's the first MBGBA swap meet, and I will be staying later than usual in order to attend the association's board meeting, so that I can watch them kick Spicer out answer questions they have about the website, and make suggestions about how to run the club going forward, in order to bring in newer folks that want to get into birds and breeding. I may end up having to take a position on the board if there's no one else to do it, which I don't really want to do BUT I don't want to continue letting that asshole try to run it into the ground on purpose either. The amount of joy it will bring me to see him gone cannot be overstated.

So, it will be a busy year for me, and I will get to work on a bunch of stuff I'm really excited to work on!

[blueishspace]

(Slay The Watcher route 8 p125)

Mumbo: Grian? How do you feel?

Grian: Confused. And secure. And tired. And energetic.

*You make a face, he cringes at his own words*

Grian: ... It's...complicated. Out there, where we were before...I was one with every me that is. Be it a judge, a god or whatever. I tought what they tought, knew what they knew and felt what they felt. Everything at once but still cohesive...but now I feel like me again, these other me are still here but they feel more separate.

Scar: That sounds confusing.

Grian: It is... it wasn't before, when I was one with all of them it felt right. But it's like waking from a dream, now all their thoughts mounting only feels confusing.

Mumbo: Do you want to-

Grian: One of them calls you his king, I can feel loyalty and devotion, I am not sure if It's a royalty universe or a roleswap of Third Life where I'm Ren and you're Martyn... there are many of both...There is one who calls Scar his target, an assassin or maybe a detective? There is one, the creator, I feel him too. He's planning with you a charity event of some kind, whatever that means.

*Scar looks anxious for a moment*

Scar: Do any of them ...hate us?

Grian: Many, there's betrayal and hate and grief and hate has many different shades...

*Scar's expression falls*

Grian: -BUT they are a small minority. Most of them love you in some way.

Mumbo: Some way?

Grian: Sometimes we are best friends and sometimes we are romantic lovers and sometimes we are only phisically intimate and sometimes we are something else entirely that's between the three. In some universes I'm involved with Scar, in others I'm involved with you. Or both. *He laughs* In one we are raising the Grumbots together... In another Grumbot as taken control over Hermitcraft and we are the resistance. But despite everything there is so much love here that It's hard to explain.

Prev Next First

[hansuigen]

8 days, 8 lives - xmh. monologue.

☁️ Pairing : Xu Minghao x afab!Reader ☁️ Genre : supernatural au, angst & romance, friends to lovers. ☁️ Word count : 466. ☁️ Summary : Minghao dies. Over and over again, in different ways, at different moments. One minute, he’s there—alive, laughing, breathing beside you. The next, he’s gone. And just when the loss becomes unbearable, time resets. You wake up eight days before his death, trapped in an endless cycle of grief and helplessness, forced to relive his final moments again and again. At first, it feels like a cruel accident—a cosmic mistake. But as the loops continue, a pattern emerges. His deaths aren’t random. There’s something at work, something lurking beneath the surface of reality itself, and it’s up to you to figure out why. Each reset is a chance to save him, but time is unpredictable. The world stays the same, but little things shift—unspoken words, unfinished arguments, the way Minghao looks at you like he’s starting to remember something too. You try everything: warning him, protecting him, changing your choices. Nothing works. But then, as the loops unravel, so does the truth—of what’s causing the cycle, of what’s tying Minghao to his fate, and of the love neither of you ever had the chance to confess. You have eight days, eight lives, and one last chance to break the cycle. Before time runs out for good. ☁️ Author’s note : hiii, this is not the final fic—which I am hoping will completed by 4th of april. this is a monologue from minghao’s pov. I am very new to tumblr + writing and I hope you would like this and feedbacks + reblogs are much appreciated. thank you!

You don’t remember the first time I lost you.

I do.

It wasn’t like this. It wasn’t a reset, or a loop, or anything that could be undone. It was final. Absolute. The kind of loss that takes up space in your lungs, makes breathing feel like a task instead of something natural.

I remember the weight of it. The feeling of standing in a world that no longer had you in it. I remember thinking—how am I supposed to move forward if the ground is missing beneath me?

So, I didn’t. I searched instead.

I spent days, weeks, months clawing at the edges of reality, looking for a way to bring you back. I don’t know when I stopped being afraid of the impossible, only that by the time I did, I was already too far in. The universe is not kind, but it listens. And when it asked what I was willing to give, I said everything without hesitation.

And now, we are here.

I don’t know if you’ve realized it yet. If the weight of all this is pressing down on you the way it presses down on me. Maybe you’re still lost in the confusion of it, still trying to find the edges of the dream before waking up. Maybe you don’t want to believe it at all.

I don’t blame you.

The truth is, I never wanted this for you. I only ever wanted you to be okay. To be happy. To live. And if I had to be the one to carry the weight of loss, I would have done it a thousand times over if it meant you never had to feel this pain.

But time is cruel in the way it balances its debts. What was once mine became yours. And now, I watch you run in the same endless circles I did, trying to fix something that refuses to be fixed.

You’re tired. I can see it. And I wish—God, I wish I could take that from you.

I wish I could tell you how to stop it. That there was a way to reach across the gap, to pull you from the wreckage before it consumes you again. But this cycle isn’t built on fairness. It doesn’t care how much we hurt. It only moves forward.

And yet—

And yet, if anyone could break it, it would be you.

You, with your stubborn heart. You, who still fights even when the world tells you it’s already over. You, who holds onto hope like it’s a lifeline, even when you pretend you don’t. You, who I have loved in every version of time, in every life, in every way I have ever known how.

I see it. I always have.

And I hope—when you’re ready—you’ll see it, too.

[l0singsdogs]

I currently have a lot on my mind, especially when it comes to fics. But I have one main idea ever since I reread the Arkham Knight comic featuring Jason Todd—because, honestly, it breaks my heart.

That said, here are the projects I have in mind. I think I'll go through my DC ideas first, and then move on to Marvel.

A DickKory fic based on the song Silver Springs. You can probably imagine the vibe of the fic. I think it’ll be short, but I hope to post it soon.

A Batfam fic (a bit fanon, but mostly about Batman showing his fatherly side to the JL). It’s essentially a character study, since I’ll also be including the Arrowfam and Superfam.

A pretty wild idea: Arkham Knight Jason Todd traveling to the Red Hood universe. In this world, Jason Todd is dead, and Red Hood never existed—just a Jason buried in a graveyard. It’s the classic universe swap, second chances, and all that. I need to refine it more.

Seriously considering adding more chapters to my novel When the Mask Falls. It was originally planned for twelve chapters, but I think I could add three more, mainly because I love the reception it has gotten.

An idea about Dick meeting Mar’i Grayson. I know there are plenty of fics like that out there, but I’ll do it my own way. There can always be different versions of the same concept.

Also, obviously, the idea of Jason distancing himself from the Batfam—maybe traveling to Europe. A Red Hood in Europe version. Exploring new places, staying away from everything and Gotham, even if it hurts. Something with original characters and also some European DC characters. But I’m still figuring out how people from that continent would react to the JL or Batman. I feel like Batman is too American for other continents (just a wild idea I have).

I also have drafts for a couple of 5+1 fics with different themes:

One about Jason acting as a caretaker for the Batfam.

Another about Jason Todd doing civilian things—just everyday civilian moments. I initially thought of making it about the Batfam, but that doesn't feel as interesting to me.

if you wanna see more things, you could always follow this blog.

I know it’s a lot of ideas, but I hope to combine some things here and there. I don't think I’d have the inspiration for everything (who am I kidding? Maybe I would), but I’d love to mix some of these concepts.

Lastly, I’d like to mention that I’ll be changing my main blog soon. This one will stay the same, but my main blog will be a different one—though this will remain a sideblog.

I have ideas for Marvel too, but I’ll post those later—because right now, my blog is purely Batfam content.

[berrychaivibe]

When We Meet Again | One Shot

Maybe I’ll see you in another life if this one wasn’t enough – florence + the machine

Summary: Before leaving Paris, you wanted to take in the city one last time, but everything changed when you saw Lewis—someone from your past who somehow exists in the present. His presence feels like an unexpected second chance, bringing back emotions you thought were lost.

Pairing: Lewis Hamilton x Female Reader (Bloom)

Warnings: age gap (lewis mid-30s and reader mid 20s), cursed words, slow burn, flashback of past.

Author note: I am reposting this since I was getting rid of cluttered posts on my blog.

One Shot

Paris, France — 2022

“I’ll be back, Mom!” you shouted as you slammed the door behind you.

You were scrolling through Paris, capturing a few pictures with your phone, trying to take in the beauty of the city.

One thing’s for certain: you never believed Paris was the “City of Love” that everyone claims it to be. Deep down, you never bought into the idea of love at first sight or soulmates.

You stopped by this cute coffee shop and ordered yourself a cup of coffee even though the sun was going down slowly. The coffee shop was charming, with plants filling every corner. As you waited for your drink, you skimmed through a few messages from your cousin Ariel.

Ariel: I can’t believe him!

Ariel: He is a piece of shit! I should of listened to you 🥺

Ariel: Thank you for always being there for me, cousin. I miss you ❤️

“A medium ice Café Glacé.” The woman said with a French accent as she placed the drink on the counter.

You thanked her, took your drink, and walked out the door, sipping it as you continued on your way. You visited the Luxembourg Gardens and were captivated by the stunning flowers that caught your eye.

You take your phone out of your pocket and turn the camera toward the screen, ready to snap a photo. Just as you’re about to click, someone bumps into you. “Oh, shit I’m so sorry.”

You turn around to see who it was, about to reassure them. “No, it’s—” You pause as the person interrupts. “Bloom?”

You blinked for a moment, staring at the person in front of you, his face familiar but still surprising. “Uh… Lewis?”

“Yeah, it’s me,” he said, a small smile playing on his lips as he gazed at you.

You were unsure of what to make of it. His face seemed familiar, like you’d seen it before, but this time felt different.

“Uh…” you hesitated. “Hi.”

Lewis opens his mouth to speak, then pauses, closing it as he carefully thinks about how to phrase his words without sounding awkward. “How long are you staying in Paris?” he asks.

You take a sip of your coffee before responding, “Today’s my last day. I was just visiting my mom for the week.”

He gave a nod. “Oh.”

“Yeah, I'm leaving soon.” You tell him.

He stuffed his hands in his pockets when the two of you heard a voice. “Lew, we are going to be late for dinner.”

You saw the woman holding onto Lewis’s arm as he glanced at her. “Right, uh…” He paused for a moment before looking back at you. “Well, I’d better get going.”

You clear your throat and nod. “It was nice seeing you, Lewis.” He nods in return. “Yeah, you too.” As you turn to walk away, you think you hear his voice again. “But hey, maybe we—” You keep walking, taking a sip of your coffee, and hear faint giggles in the background.

You shake your head as you walk through the garden, lost in thoughts of the “what ifs.” You can’t help but wonder how things might have turned out if the woman he was with hadn’t been there. Each step you take feels like a reminder that maybe you shouldn’t be getting your hopes up and should just keep quiet.

Paris, France – 2025

It’s hard to believe you’ve been living in Paris for a few years now, especially after all those years of traveling back and forth to visit your mom. The friends you’ve made over time and your mom’s joy at having you nearby make it all feel so worth it.

You open the door to your apartment, hoping to get rid of the awful smell, only to find Lewis standing there. “Lewis…hi.”

He stood there, hands in his pockets, staring at you. “Can we talk?”

“Oh… uh,” you muttered, turning around and calling out to your friend Kim, “I’ll be right back, Kim!”

You step out the door, closing it gently behind you, and follow Lewis down the empty hallway. Leaning against the wall with your arms crossed over your chest, you ask, “what’s going on?”

He stood before you and said, “A few years ago, I feel like I should have done better.”

You gave him a puzzled glance. “What do you mean?”

“3 years every time we passed each other I always remember your face. Your face always pops up in my mind.” He said, honestly. “You are always so kind and sweet, bloom.”

You wonder where he was going with this. “But, you were with someone Lew.”

He nods. “Yes, but that doesn’t mean I stopped thinking about you.”

Fuck!

Your heart begins to race as you sense where this conversation is headed.

“And I told you I don’t do love and relationships.” You remind him again.

He clears his throat and steps closer to you. “Well, maybe…” He places his hand on the wall above your head. “You just haven’t found the right one yet—someone who can change that for you.”

“Lewis…” Your voice barely a whisper as his gaze lingered on your lips. “Do you know why I call you Bloom?” He leaned in closer, his nose brushing gently against yours.

“No, I–I don’t.” You murmured, heart racing, a mixture of curiosity and anticipation flooding through your veins.

He smiled, just barely before his lips hovered over yours. “Because like a bloom, you’ve unfolded into something. Beautiful and Wild.” His voice dropped to a hushed, intimidating tone. “And I just can’t stop watching you be your true self.”

His words were tender and sweet. Your eyes fixate on his lips as he leans in, closing the distance between you both. “I am falling in love with you, bloom and I want to give us a try no matter what universe you live in.”

“I—” You tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, all you could do was press your lips to his, your hands tangled in his hair.

In that moment, all that echoed in your mind was, “Fuck it.”

[panchulien]

Long ask incoming, cuz I finally have the brain to put this makanolan idea into words (warning for blood and near death experiences):

Andrei dies. At least that's what Makarov thinks, since he was there when the shard of stray shrapnel tears into his second's throat. He was there as what had been a perfectly planned mission suddenly starts spinning wildly out of control, and now he's got hands wrapped around Andrei's throat and the blood is soaking through his gloves.

Andrei was still fighting for breath when he was forced to leave him or risk capture and all his plans falling apart. Makarov stayed long enough to haphazardly use the man's own belt to try to do something to save him, then press a kiss to his forehead, then give him permission to die.

Years pass. A few, at least. Konni group continues Makarov's plans, but it's... different. Milena has to remain more distant, since 141 got to her last time, and he never trusts another officer the way he did Andrei. He never thought his plans would make him feel... lonely.

Meanwhile, Andrei isn't dead. He doesn't remember how he ended up in custody of the SAS, nor does he know how he managed to disobey his commander's last order and stayed alive after his throat had been torn open. At least he can't give up information as easily anymore. Shredded vocal chords make talking difficult.

But uhhhh yeah. Suddenly 141 has an interesting bargaining chip in their hands to get back at Makarov. They found security camera footage at the weapons factory where they'd found Andrei, so they know he means something to Makarov.

The question is, what is he willing to sacrifice to have his most loyal soldier back at his side? Is he willing to take a deal? Much to have fun with......

Dude. I am tired as hell but when I tell you I literally sat up straight after reading this. I'm SO buzzed rn. This would be so, so good as a long fic but alas all you'll get is my ramblings so. jdjfjf

It's beautiful man. You know Andrei's death would be so heartbreaking, Makarov personally witnessing it. Tries to save him, hold out as much as he can, but in the end he and his plans come first, and he must leave. Maybe it's his efforts that kept Nolan alive, maybe every second counted. But either way, Makarov doesn't know that, and to him, his second in command died right in his hands. Maybe he watched the light leave his eyes, when it was just Andrei passing out from exhaustion and blood loss, maybe Makarov already accepted it. Kissed him goodbye and left him there. That shit would haunt him forever if you believe he even slightly cares about Nolan. (which I do) Makarov watching helplessly as Nolan chokes on his own blood, his hands being soaked with his partners blood...

What's even worse, would be when Makarov finds it out. He's been lonely all these years, right? Accepted Nolan's death. Never trusted anyone again. What he had with Nolan was real, men like him are so rare. Devotion and loyalty like his, it's never to be found again. Makarov mourns his death every single day, he keeps going but the dull ache remains. Even a man as cold as him would mourn such a loss, I think. It's Andrei. The closest man to him, the man he trusted and loved the most. So imagine, after all those years, the moment he learns Andrei is actually alive.

Alive, but at the hands of his enemies. Imagine the shock, the anger, the heartbreak. I honestly can't predict how it would go, what he would do.

He'd be relieved at first, what do you mean he's alive? Then the questions would come flooding in. Is he okay? How'd he survive? What'd they do to him... Then anger, because he probably got the message from 141. They have Andrei, again, he'd be enraged. Then doubt would creep in. It's been so long, what if they got to him? What if Andrei is on their side, what if he's brainwashed? And there's no way to know it, is there?

Maybe he sets up a rescue operation, doesn't care about the cost. Milena tries talking him out of it, as his only remaining "friend" (she hasn't been, since long), Makarov pulls a gun on her. I doubt he'd be thinking straight. Milena tells her it's too much on the line, it's not worth it, Nolan has been dead for years. Even if he's back, he wouldn't be the same. I think this option only works if you consider Makarov has a soft spot for Nolan.

Maybe he agrees with 141 for a deal. Just to see what is up. Makarov swears this is the last time they'll see 141, sets up everything perfectly, everyone is to die except Nolan. If they manage to capture him, great, but if they sense something is wrong they are going to shoot Nolan only on Makarov's orders. I doubt Makarov would go for killing him since he has many questions, but just in case.

It's a whole emotional clusterfuck, man. Would be hard on Nolan too. Imagine the guilt of failing his commander for the second time, "disobeying his commanders last order by staying alive". He'd wish he was dead instead. I fully believe he wouldn't break no matter what 141 tries on him, but even he would change after so many years. I don't know. Maybe he plans an escape, endures everything, plays into their tricks, makes them think he's one of them... idk. He's smart enough to pull it off, but with his throat, things would be different. All I know is that he's being eaten alive by guilt every waking moment.

Price walks in on him trying to hang himself with the shredded sheets and it takes Price and two other soldiers to calm him down. He'd be a mess, I don't know. I think at the end of the day Andrei would stay as a prisoner, rather than an ally, because he is not to be trusted. Not around guns, not around them, precious information and whatnot. He's too loyal.

Their reunion would be... something for sure. I can't tell how it'd go. If Makarov would be happy to have him back or not, or if Andrei is even fit to fight anymore. You never know, Makarov could do anything. 😭

Sorry this got away from me, but yeah, good thoughts brother... I love it. Thank you for sharing it with me. I'll definitely think upon it, a lot. 🙏💗

[starrmarr]

To my muse, my divine, the one I have departed from and will return to and for:

Thinking about you now and of how much I miss you. Thinking about how you transformed my life: how I was waiting to feel, to change, and how you brought me feeling, how you brought me change. I didn’t expect this from you then. I felt so big when I first met you years ago, seeing how you’d chase me, mouth open, panting, tail wagging between your legs after me. That’s all it was then… but I’m thinking about you now.

I’m listening to your words, I’m watching your hands on the steering wheel and I’m forgetting, as we speak, the difference between left and right because I’m spinning while remaining seated. You make my world spin. I’m closing my eyes and caressing the blonde hairs on your face that grow so quickly, upwards from your neck or maybe downwards to your chest, one side bigger than the other. I’m looking at you now, lashes curled, one eye ever-winking, brows almost meeting. Tattoos— names of old lovers, deceased mothers, numbers, numbers, numbers… how they rule your world, how they slip from your hand into the hands of others. I’m taking in your presence as I take in the Caribbean sun, overwhelmed with heat, remembering how you play the fool, the hanged man—so mild, unassuming, handsome, playful, and high—you are a threat hiding in plain sight. You pop your hood open and tighten your own screws when you sense they are loose, lest the highwaymen come inquiring. They’ve got a thing for you and you know it. Perhaps they are like me, imagining you, remembering a time when they held you in their possession, longing for it to happen again— to take you in and let you go. You are the criminal subject of our fantasies. I kissed you when they put you in handcuffs right before me. I saw your smooth talk set you free. I prayed, knowing your alias alone moves mountains.

It’s not enough to say I miss you and it’s only right to say I love even the memory of you, for even the shadow you have cast upon my being is bright and beautiful in a way I did not know shadows could ever be. This is why I can close my eyes and see you now. You have defied my absurd logic. I’m flying to you, I’m on my way, because you have made me light again. I am weightless, empty, so that I might have the space to contain you. You require all of it. I’ll be right there.

[congratufuckyoulations]

Something Sweet🍰

Sanji x reader, sanji x fem reader, idk lol

a/n: Now hear me out. I’m like at the end of punk hazard and they show the library basically. I thought nami was posed all cute and I was like imagine a fanfic where the reader is chillin in the library idk doing sum and like sanji just entertains his girl while she is relaxing. Idk it’s my first fanfic. I was faded writing this. Lowkey still am. Erm reader does smoke cigarettes so igs don’t read if you don’t smoke…… or condone it. ALSO LOWKEY KINDA LONG BUT NOT REALLY IDK IM NEW TO THIS also just pretend the windows can open BTW

Tw- smoking cigarettes , drugs mentioned?? Idk suggestive content

Also I do not promote smoking cigarettes even if I do partake in the Za. Two very different things but also like smoking is like attractive to me since I do as well and there’s HONESTLY NOT ENOUGH fanfics involving my mans cigarettes and like if I was there I would want a puff here and there yk like shit anyways give me a chance💔 anyways I just wanted a fanfic with smoking so I made one RELEASEEE ME

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-when reading also just imagine these fan drawings too. Yummm the shirt. Also obsessed with this dam song like actually delish and I think it’s cutesy with the fanfic. Def not as long as the fanfic reading time but whateves. Enjoy 😛

It’s a bright afternoon in the New World. On these open oceans, the weather always changing so quickly. The straw hats learned to take advantage of the clear weather and cool breezes like today. The sun beams down on The sunny on this hot summer day.

The crew is all finding their way to cope with the intense sun rays beaming on them. The breeze barely being enough help to cool them off. Chopper lays on the deck sprawled out. His little chest rose up and down with the heat. Chopper couldn’t stand the sun and made it known that he was NOT born for the heat. Nami and Robin are not too far away taking advantage of the sunny day to relax and maybe even get a tan. Zoro working out somewhere mumbling something about how the heat makes the “workout” better. Luffy and Usopp doing who knows what. The rest of the crew is off doing what they know best which will probably lead to chaos soon. Most of them trying to relax on a beautiful day without a care in the world. Sanji soon erupts from the kitchen

“NAMI-SWANN, ROBINN-SWANNN I made y’all a refreshing drink for the most refreshing women I know”. His voice is loud and clear and can be heard across the deck. As the blonde comes spinning down the steps until he’s in front of the two lovely ladies. Robin thanked the chef sending him a smile before she looked back at her book in hand. The sudden burst from Sanji had caught the attention of a stray Luffy, Usopp, and Brook to appear. The three planning to get these refreshing drinks whether Sanji likes it or not. Sanji already yelling at the trio about how they can get their own in the kitchen.

“Hey Sanji, can you fetch Y/N she’s been in the library all morning. I wanted to talk about all the clothes we got from Fishman Island. We haven’t had the time with punk hazard and everything.” Nami speaks up. Lifting her sunglasses to look over at Sanji. Now this action usually would’ve sent Sanji into a full nosebleed. With the way, she looked in the sun. Making dead eye contact with him. Her classic teal bikini tied perfectly. Nami's pants were replaced with jean shorts to adjust to the weather. Her orange hair tied back into her signature high ponytail. But Sanji's mind was elsewhere. The thought of you now distracting him. How could he forget about you? Sanji thought back on this morning and how he didn’t see you at breakfast. His mind did not ever think to check the library. Now that he knew where you were thanks to Nami. He just had to go take you the drink. Sanji couldn’t help but let his mind wonder at how you would smile and thank him for the drink. Chills run up and down his spine.

Then he’s off in an instant with a beeline to the library. Ready to get that reaction he imagined. Walking towards the library entrance he smelt the familiar smoke from a cigarette. The smell wafting through the library hatch confirmed you were indeed in fact where Nami said you would be. Realizing that the ladder down to the library was about to make this a whole lot more difficult with the drink in hand. The cook thought to himself about how thirsty you must be. Feeling suddenly determined to deliver the drink. He worked his magic to get down the ladder without a single spill. Once off the ladder on his two feet, he turned around. His mind was quickly distracted from the ladder situation by the excitement of seeing the library lit up by the sunlight pooling through the windows. And you sat at the table in the middle of the room. Sanji felt himself smile and his back straightened out. His stomach doing flips. Sanji didn't even notice his heart rate quicken at the sight of you. Sanji stood by the ladder with the tray in hand admiring the girl in front of him. You had this way of making it hard for him to think straight. You were sat with your back to the door. Your left elbow leaning on the table as your right elbow also rests on the table with your cigarette in hand (like how Nami is sitting in the pic) you had a book opened in front of you with a couple of other ones stacked by you.

There you sat peering down at the book in front of you focused. Leftover smoke floats in the room from the previous cigarettes you smoked. The room was a little too smokey but nothing he couldn’t handle. The smoke danced beautifully in the air. The way it flowed often became a topic of admiration between you and Sanji during smoke sessions. Sanji approaches you after a second of admiring you. He knows it sounds creepy but he enjoyed watching you from afar. When you thought nobody was looking but he always was. Seeing how your face reacts to different situations. Or how you respond when put in random predicaments. He was completely captivated by you. He wanted to learn so much more about you. Even if that meant seeming like a creep for staring

“Mon Amour~, what are you doing in here all alone on such a hot day? Is it not too hot in here for you, my sweet?” Sanji speaks up as he approaches the table slowly. Passing up the books lining the shelves. The smell of the cigarette you hold becomes more intense the closer he approaches, but it’s all too familiar to Sanji for him to care.

At the sound of Sanji's voice, your focus is pulled away from the book in front of you. Your head turns and tilts to look up at Sanji as he stands by the table. Suddenly his heart is picking up again with how gorgeous you are. Now you aren’t all dressed up. This was better for Sanji. He’s seeing you in your relaxing around the boat loungewear. Today’s outfit includes a white tank top and some white and light blue striped shorts. Your slippers that you wore around the boat discarded under the table. Legs cross under the table trying to sit comfortably. It was a joy for Sanji to see the different outfits you wore. He liked to see what you would pull together and casually pull off. His eyes try not to travel anywhere too far. He can’t help but be taken aback by how relaxed you were just reading in the library on this hot day. The smoke in the room does not make the summer heat any more bearable.

“no Sanji I’m okay. I cracked the windows open for the breeze. also because of the smoke in here” you say as you tilt your head back down to the book to look at the poorly drawn picture of a cake in it.

“I see, I made everybody drinks since it’s so hot out today. Here’s yours my sweet~” Sanji coos as he places the tray on the table. Sanji sits down in the chair to the left of you. The way he slouches in the chair like he’s melting due to the heat catches your attention from the corner of your eye. Not wanting to look at him right away as if somebody was around to catch you staring. You instead look up from the book to the drink placed in the center of the table. Examining the drink before bringing it closer and taking a sip of the orange-flavored drink. Now allowing your eyes to travel to the left to see Sanji's head tilted back looking at the ceiling completely relaxed. You wonder if he had a hard day. It was pretty hot today and cooking anything in the heat seems like torture. Maybe not so much a drink but still. You wince at the thought of cooking soup on a hot day and the steam hitting your face. You shake your head clearing the horrid thought. Focusing your eyes back on the cook next to you. It was clear Sanji thought you would’ve been looking at the book instead of at him. The way he just sprawled himself out on the chair was enough to stare. He was sat with no care in the world. Your eyes widen slightly seeing the usually perfect posture chef slouched without a care in the world. It was a sight to see Sanji so relaxed. As if it was only him in the library. And this wasn’t a bad sight for you.

The way his classic blue button-up shirt had 2 buttons undone and his black tie was loose. The sweat dripping down his neck down into his shirt leaving the rest to your imagination. His blonde hair was a little damp. Some pieces sticking to his forehead. Hell Sanji looked a complete mess. But he was a work of art. Sanji from the start was attractive to you. Maybe it was his looks or the charm that came along with him. But You couldn’t place your finger on what it was about the chef. Was it the way he carried himself? Or How he cared for others? You didn’t know and at this moment you still don’t know. But god right now he looked breathtaking even when he was sweating all over the place. This whole interaction was cut short when you spoke up, remembering there was a conversation in place

“Thank you for the drink Sanji. I couldn’t imagine being in a kitchen during this heat. You're our savior~ ”

you tease, still letting the image of soup on a hot day replay in your mind. Sanji lets out a breathy laugh lifting his head to see your attention is still on the book. Not realizing you had just looked away only moments ago. But now you have the straw of the drink in your mouth. And the drink is no longer in the middle of the table. Instead, it’s sitting closer to you. Your attention is glued to the book. He couldn’t help but smile at how cute you looked with the straw in your mouth completely concentrated on whatever you were reading. Enjoying the drink HE made. Being here with you……in silence?

WAIT! What were you reading? What was so important in this book? Sanjis mind was up and quick to see what’s got your attention. His eyes traveled down to the book and leaning over a little closer to see you looking at a cookbook. A cookbook about cakes? Examining the page closer and seeing a recipe for a strawberry shortcake written inside. Sanji recalls the sweet treat being one of your favorite and most requested desserts from him.

He looks up at you with his curly eyebrows raised in confusion. Your head lifts to be met with his confused gaze. You let out a laugh at how confused the chef was. He looked like this was the biggest moment of his life. Like the world is ending if you don’t eat his food. God forbid somebody else cooks for you.

“Don’t worry Sanji I just wanted to learn how to make strawberry shortcake since it’s my favorite. I was writing down the ingredients but I guess I got carried away with other desserts as well. Besides, you know you’re the only chef in my heart~”

You let out a soft laugh taking a quick drag from the cigarette in your right hand. Soon the cigarette appeared closer in Sanji's vision. His eyes shifted down to the cigarette being handed over. A normal occurrence between the two since Y/N has joined the crew. The two bonded during late nights watching over the boat. Having many conversations over shared cigarettes. When times were stressful the two would just stick to their cigarettes. Both use the nicotine-filled sticks as a source of relief. Enjoying the company of somebody else who also smokes was always nice.

You spoke once again. Dragging Sanji away from the memories to the heat of the present day.

“I thought it would be nice to learn how to bake something. I never really took too much interest in cooking growing up so maybe it’s time to learn something” You wanted to learn how to make a strawberry shortcake? That’s why you were down here away from the others. He smiles at the thought of you cooking. The thought of you in his natural element is almost like a fever dream. The two of you sit in comfortable silence. Enjoying the sound of your crew members' laughter flowing through the windows (Probably at something Luffy did)The sunlight hitting your skin perfectly through the windows in the library. The sun shows your damp skin and the sweat dripping down the side of your neck. The drink has dropped halfway with you being dehydrated on such a hot day. Sanji brings the cigarette up to his mouth. Sanjis's heart skips a beat but he can’t show how happy he is to be sharing another one of a hundred indirect kisses with you. Sanji wondered if this wasn’t heaven then it was definitely a close second. As he blew out the smoke he passed the cigarette over. You happily accept taking another drag while looking toward the windows. Letting the smoke crawl its way down to your lungs. Admiring the view of the sea out the window

“Well if you’re so interested I would be honored to teach you princess~” Sanji mentions through the smoke flowing out of his mouth.

Your eyes find their way from the sea to his blue eyes. The two are not much different from each other. You smile as you blow the smoke off to the side. Doing your best to avoid the smoke getting in the blondes face. Not like the chef cares being all too familiar with the smoke.

“And I’d be honored if our amazing cook taught me as well. Honestly, it would be easier than doing it by book” you say taking another hit and standing up from the chair. Sanjis's head quickly tilts up watching your next move. The way you stand up with your left hand closing the book while your right has the cigarette in it. Your right hand is held at the level of your face for an easy hit of the cigarette. You stack the book on top of the others laid out on the table.

(Remember Sanji is sitting on the left chair and you were in namis spot. Use the pic as reference I tried my hardest💔)

You had pushed your chair back with your legs once you stood up. Which allowed you to easily slide by and make your way to the window on the left side of the library. Your hand glides along the back of Sanji's shoulders as you walk by causing the chair to spin. As Sanji spins around in the chair to face you at the window. He sees you looking down at the built-in couches by the window. You sit on the couch by the window. Your legs are tucked under you as you sit on your knees. Your arms cross on the window seal and you lean your head down onto them. You take a moment to look out the window and examine the ocean while it’s calm. Inhaling the smell of the salty ocean and the soft mist from the waves that crash against the sunny.

You glance back at Sanji seeing him still in the chair. Standing up from the cushion you make your way over to Sanji. Sanji tilts his head up as you get closer towering over his slouched frame. Watching you lean over the table to put the cigarette out on the ashtray. His legs spread open lazily as you welcome yourself to step between them. Sanji sits up with how close you get and can’t help his hands from meeting your hips. His face comes close to your chest looking directly into your eyes like you’re a god who blessed him.

Your hands find their way to the sides of his face. Cradling the cook's face and feeling the stubble he’s grown over the past two years. His hands find their way around your torso and soon you’re wrapped in his arms as you stand in front of him. You sit like this for a second. Both of y’all just enjoying each other’s touch. Letting it all sink in. Making sure it hits every bone in your body. Sanji knew this would end soon. Often knowing this might not ever go anywhere. And he was right as you slowly pulled away from the blonde. His arms loosen up and fall. Until you grab both of his hands swiftly and drag him backward to the window.

Oh, you wanted him to sit with you. You wanted him to stay even longer than he ever had. He just didn’t know that yet. Sanji let this gesture go straight to his head. The way you pulled him to stay. It made him feel so valued. The windows were decently small so when you sat on the right side of the couch and he sat on the left there was not much space between y’all.

It would seem so silly if anybody walked in and saw Sanji sitting on his knees with you in the same position. Especially on the built-in couch with both of you looking out the window. But it was also very cute. The two of you sitting so close on the corner of the couch just to look out the same window. Both sitting arms crossed on the window seal with your heads resting on them like y’all are both ready to nap in the odd position. Your head facing the left and his face to the right. Both directly looking at each other just smiling. Like two idiots who just did drugs for the first time

“Love, have I ever told you how breathtaking you are~” Sanji coos like always making you laugh. Of course, that’s what he says after a moment of silence. Never missing a moment to flatter a girl.

“Now I might’ve heard that a couple of times” you spoke pretending you weren’t affected by the comment. It was moments like this when you wanted you and Sanji to quit playing games. Maybe just get together. The two of you laugh at the response as Sanji props himself up on his elbow pulling the pack of cigarettes out from his pocket and pulling one out. It’s like he could read your mind.

You watch as the man next to you places the stick between his lips. Now smoking may not be good but Sanji made it look like the best thing ever. You watched as his left hand came up to cup the cigarette. Blocking the breeze that’s passing by. While he sparked his lighter with his right. The lighter soon caught flame and watching the smoke emerge from the front of the cigarette. As his right-hand drops to stuff the lighter into his pocket. The left pulls the cigarette out of his mouth you stare at him in awe. Such a simple act was captivating to you. You smiled at this side of Sanji. This was full authentic Sanji. Just him enjoying a cigarette. And with a beautiful lady at that.

“You know, I would be okay if I woke up to this,” you say out of the blue. Sanjis's head snaps to you. How is he supposed to react to you saying something like this? You both stare at each other for a second. Sanji was taken aback. Until he finally spoke up

“I would be okay waking up to you too” and with that, the both of you seemed to just go back to looking out the window. Like y’all understood each other completely and no other further explanation was needed. Sanjis's right hand with the cigarette appears in your vision as you stare out the window. Too lazy at the moment to want to grab it. You lean forward and take a drag while he holds it out for you. Pulling away from the cigarette inhaling the smoke and letting it float away to who knows where. You look back at Sanji.

“Would you take me seriously Sanji?”

You ask softly

“What do you mean, my love?”

Sanji questions. Hoping this will lead to something serious and not just some talking point. Of course, he took you seriously, but he prayed you meant this in a relationship way.

“You know like if we tried to give this a shot would I be taken seriously”

You explain. Your gaze back out the window too embarrassed to look him in the eyes. Only looking down at his hand when passing the cigarette back. Sanjis stares at you as you look out the window.

“Mon amour, of course, I will take you seriously. Honestly, this whole time I’ve been serious about being with you. I’ve just been waiting for you to let me take the opportunity” Sanji states taking a long drag after hoping the smoke will somehow drown out the feeling of how nervous he is right now. You turn your head to look at Sanji smiling at him. You take the cigarette back once again looking out the window and taking a hit.

“Well, here's your opportunity Mr. Prince” you tease as you glance to your left at him. You loved the nickname since the chef did act as charming as a prince would (I wonder why) and the nickname from from Alabasta seemed to stick as a tease for you at least. It was well-suited for somebody like Sanji.

He can't help but cheese at the name-calling. It was always so carefree with you and natural. Sanji craved every inch of that. As both of you are now again face to face giggling. His laugh falters as his right-hand finds your cheek and cups it.

“I promise you I will take full advantage of this opportunity and not mess up even once” Sanji declares. You laugh at the seriousness of the cook but you admire how serious somebody is willing to be for you.

“I’d like to see it~” you smile back at him. The two of you leaning in close. Faces only inches apart and you can both smell the cigarette on each other's breath.

“HAVE YOU SERIOUSLY BEEN FLIRTING WITH Y/N THIS WHOLE TIME SANJI” Nami screams as she hits Sanji over the head. A red bump forms on the cook's head. You two had got so carried away with each others company. Sanji forgot why he was even down here in the first place.

“Oh come on nami leave Sanji alone he was just with me” you reply while playfully wiggling your eyes and taking a hit to blow out the window. Sanji leaned over in your lap cradling his head. Recovering from the blow he took to his head.

“Yeah don’t think I’m not PISSED at you too. YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO BE TRYING ON CLOTHES WITH ME THIS WHOLE TIME!” nami burst out her whole face turning bright red again. You swear you see fire in her eyes for a second. You lean back as she points her finger at you.

“Yeah yeah, so can we go try them on now then?”

Namis quick to straighten up her act going back to innocent, can do no harm, Nami.

“Of course Y/N let’s go I bought so many cute clothes from Fish Men Island” Nami squeals in excitement at the thought of a fashion show happening in her room.

“You didn't buy them nami. You scammed Pappug for like a whole store” Usopp corrects as his head pops down from the entrance of the library peeping in. Nami’s head snaps behind her. Soon she is off to chase after the boy who called out her tricks. You laugh at the sight of Nami rushing up the ladder to assault another one of your crewmates. You look back at Sanji who is also coming down from a laugh.

“Besides them. I promise you we will have an official dinner and everything. But for now my dear, you go and have fun with Nami I’ll have everything prepared when you’re done. How does that sound, my love~” Sanji coos once again. You can’t help but burst into a smile as you grab the blonde's face. Giving him a passionate kiss your hands traveling back into his hair pulling him closer. His hands grab your waist to stabilize you. As you practically threw yourself on top of him.

“Sanji, my love how will I refrain from falling in love too fast~” you tease once again while pulling away. Kissing the cook on both of his cheeks before landing a peck on his lips. Pulling away you stand up pulling him up with you.

“It’s always okay if you do, mon amour. I’ll take good care of you”

He says with his hands resting on your waist. Your back was to the table as you both stood facing each other. Remembering the books you laid out have to be put back up. You go to turn back and clean up the mess. But Sanji was there turning you to face the ladder instead. He’s now behind you guiding you to the ladder. His hands find their way to your lower back giving you a gentle push to walk toward the ladder.

“Don’t worry princess I’ll put the books away~” he whispers into your ear from behind. Making you turn around and wrap your arms around his neck. Hugging the blonde before you hang out with your

(girl😏)friends.

“And it’s gonna keep getting better than this? (😛)” you joke pulling away and turning to climb up the ladder

“Yes ma’am, it will all be worth it”

Sanji says from the side of the ladder. Watching you climb up the ladder making sure nothing magically happens to you. Thinking you already walked away. Sanji turned to walk back to the table. His attention on the books you had brought out durning the day: When you lay on your stomach by the hatch. Head leaning down into the hole that leads to the library.

“Bye Sanji~” you say while very obviously waving at him in a flirting manner. Like you had the biggest crush on him. He turns his head, his eyes catching your head leaning down into the hole. He laughs seeing you upside down and raises his hand returning the wave. Even though he was a flirt he couldn’t help but feel beat at his own game.

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The end yay. I wrote this in one night so bear with meeeeee uhm yay. They gave SANJI a cigarette for a reason and imma include it everytimeee